DEIMOS
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head
The thunder of the drums dictates
The thunder of the drums dictates
The Sword’s eyes narrowed considerably at Jigano’s first comment, attempting to gauge if it was a joke, or something he should be taking offense at. His stony fixtures might not have given away any of his discontent, but the notion wasn’t well received in the back of his mind, the twist and turn of ravenous, rapacious claws. As if he were being goaded into something. As if there was a challenge in the air, and any rebuttal would be met with a callous interlude. Just another reminder, another recollection, of failures in the past, of Sages and Harpies wandering out into the midst, naught accomplished. Of broken, whittled bodies. Of fire burning all around them. He wisely bit down on any number of responses.
Because he wasn’t god-dazzled. Because he wasn’t chosen. Because he didn’t fall to his knees and plead fealty to any deity. Because it wasn’t his place.
But he listened.
“I have already decided to guard the door and brood.” Dry tones behind his empty mug, placed down on the table on a dull echo to fill in the rest of the void. Perhaps someone did need to be there, a guard, a sentinel, a monolith, so no one opened the aperture, so history didn’t repeat, so the compelling, insinuating throngs didn’t echo over their ears, bound their hands to grasp at handles and knobs. “We will see how it goes. Maybe I will change my mind.” A shrug to his shoulders, predilections of the restlessness that would most certainly gnaw at his bones, the urgency, the insistence, of protection at every angle and shroud. He was likely one of the few caught amidst the in-between – most were bound and determined to stay inside, or amidst the deity-oriented, already instructed in their duties for the week. The others would drift to Torchline, or stare in remorse and rancor like him.
Because he wasn’t god-dazzled. Because he wasn’t chosen. Because he didn’t fall to his knees and plead fealty to any deity. Because it wasn’t his place.
But he listened.
“I have already decided to guard the door and brood.” Dry tones behind his empty mug, placed down on the table on a dull echo to fill in the rest of the void. Perhaps someone did need to be there, a guard, a sentinel, a monolith, so no one opened the aperture, so history didn’t repeat, so the compelling, insinuating throngs didn’t echo over their ears, bound their hands to grasp at handles and knobs. “We will see how it goes. Maybe I will change my mind.” A shrug to his shoulders, predilections of the restlessness that would most certainly gnaw at his bones, the urgency, the insistence, of protection at every angle and shroud. He was likely one of the few caught amidst the in-between – most were bound and determined to stay inside, or amidst the deity-oriented, already instructed in their duties for the week. The others would drift to Torchline, or stare in remorse and rancor like him.
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead
The rising of the horns, ahead
