DEIMOS
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head
The thunder of the drums dictates
The thunder of the drums dictates
Maybe his warnings and foreboding wouldn’t matter – he suspected Morgan could hold her own – but it was mere experience scraping down the edges of his spine. Zariah had habit of unwinding away from the problems she’d caused, and ultimately finding new ones to infiltrate, to infect, to sow sedition. The Sword nodded at her insinuations, and let it be – casting his attentions back upon the catapult.
She seemed experienced with the machine, which made him wonder if Halo had their own outfitted somewhere on the desolate tundra and plains, forgoing the notions of his old mountains unwinding through memories – eyes narrowed as he studied, listened, to the whirl of wooden pieces. He lifted his head from where he’d been crouching along one of the gears, the most minute of mischief curling over his mouth. “Want to test it?” He rose and towered above the device again, giving it a pat along one of the ridges, before maneuvering towards the targets previously assembled. If he had to clean them up again, it’d be worth it – a distraction from any other emotions contorting their way through his blood. The monolith was better adept for violence, for vehemence.
While he staged some of the dummies into position, the beast continued listening, a shrug to his shoulders on the situational aspects with Ludo. He’d seen the herald work those similar actions before, while they all meandered and amused themselves along Torchline, but nothing to the extent, nor seemingly as deadly, as the monsters during LongNight. “Some are still deceived.” Some still went out. Some still wandered into the bleakness. Some still didn’t heed the warnings. Some still, like himself, thought they could overcome portions, protect, guard, and shelter, when they really made things worse.
He’d heard a mockery of Amalia outside those walls – screams, shouts, cries and pleas for help, and had known, through machinations, cunning, and familiarity, that they weren’t her. But it hadn’t hurt, scarred, or brutalized any less.
She seemed experienced with the machine, which made him wonder if Halo had their own outfitted somewhere on the desolate tundra and plains, forgoing the notions of his old mountains unwinding through memories – eyes narrowed as he studied, listened, to the whirl of wooden pieces. He lifted his head from where he’d been crouching along one of the gears, the most minute of mischief curling over his mouth. “Want to test it?” He rose and towered above the device again, giving it a pat along one of the ridges, before maneuvering towards the targets previously assembled. If he had to clean them up again, it’d be worth it – a distraction from any other emotions contorting their way through his blood. The monolith was better adept for violence, for vehemence.
While he staged some of the dummies into position, the beast continued listening, a shrug to his shoulders on the situational aspects with Ludo. He’d seen the herald work those similar actions before, while they all meandered and amused themselves along Torchline, but nothing to the extent, nor seemingly as deadly, as the monsters during LongNight. “Some are still deceived.” Some still went out. Some still wandered into the bleakness. Some still didn’t heed the warnings. Some still, like himself, thought they could overcome portions, protect, guard, and shelter, when they really made things worse.
He’d heard a mockery of Amalia outside those walls – screams, shouts, cries and pleas for help, and had known, through machinations, cunning, and familiarity, that they weren’t her. But it hadn’t hurt, scarred, or brutalized any less.
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead
The rising of the horns, ahead
