DEIMOS
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head
The thunder of the drums dictates
The thunder of the drums dictates
More action, more movement, his own act of repose, peace in the aftermath of calamity and ruin. Fallen apart targets and their remnants were pulled across to a pile along the corner of the field, edged upon the perimeter for pending circumstances (likely burning – ashes to turn into something else fertile; and he struggled not to flinch at the implication that some weren’t able to resurrect). The act carried on for a time, where he didn’t have to think, brood, or brim over in rage that had nowhere to go; until ultimately the newest fragments had been sent to wait for their upcoming pyre.
He’d managed to parse through the others only needing minimal repairs, had grabbed one target to stitch up the top portion where some stuffing and snow moss threatened to escape, when the sounds of another approaching caused his head to shift upwards. The Sword’s expectations were bent towards someone seeking training, or to utilize the arena, despite its poor composition at the moment. It hadn’t been Morgan.
The monolith displayed none of his surprise though, no widening of his eyes, no flicking away of the veneer. His habitual nonchalance remained chained and chiseled over his features, not bending, not breaking, even when he nodded his head, respectful of her recently gained position, of the shifting changes in the world – still striving to catch up with the piles of debris and rubble around his entity. The last time they’d discussed anything had been when they were in similar roles, and Rexanna had been alive.
He swallowed down the sorrow, magical contortions of creation prowess molding through the target in his hands, giving him something to do other than grieve or choke. Her words were tactful, meaningful, and not too much; no faltering apart at the seams. “Thank you. May I give the same for the loss of Weaver.” Another thing he hadn’t fully grasped yet; too many friends gone in too short of a time. Eventually they’d blend together and lacerate him whole, become more ghosts, more figments, in the ether of his hollowed out memories. “And congratulations on your new role.”
The beast’s eyes went back to the completed efforts of his enchantments, and he walked across the sodden soil to place the goal amongst others of its brethren, picking up another to replicate the process. Curiosity compelled, and he dreaded the possibility of politics. “What brings you to the Grounds?”
He’d managed to parse through the others only needing minimal repairs, had grabbed one target to stitch up the top portion where some stuffing and snow moss threatened to escape, when the sounds of another approaching caused his head to shift upwards. The Sword’s expectations were bent towards someone seeking training, or to utilize the arena, despite its poor composition at the moment. It hadn’t been Morgan.
The monolith displayed none of his surprise though, no widening of his eyes, no flicking away of the veneer. His habitual nonchalance remained chained and chiseled over his features, not bending, not breaking, even when he nodded his head, respectful of her recently gained position, of the shifting changes in the world – still striving to catch up with the piles of debris and rubble around his entity. The last time they’d discussed anything had been when they were in similar roles, and Rexanna had been alive.
He swallowed down the sorrow, magical contortions of creation prowess molding through the target in his hands, giving him something to do other than grieve or choke. Her words were tactful, meaningful, and not too much; no faltering apart at the seams. “Thank you. May I give the same for the loss of Weaver.” Another thing he hadn’t fully grasped yet; too many friends gone in too short of a time. Eventually they’d blend together and lacerate him whole, become more ghosts, more figments, in the ether of his hollowed out memories. “And congratulations on your new role.”
The beast’s eyes went back to the completed efforts of his enchantments, and he walked across the sodden soil to place the goal amongst others of its brethren, picking up another to replicate the process. Curiosity compelled, and he dreaded the possibility of politics. “What brings you to the Grounds?”
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead
The rising of the horns, ahead
