DEIMOS
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head
The thunder of the drums dictates
The thunder of the drums dictates
A nod of understanding followed, defensive means and measures first and foremost, to be able to have a world of shelter, sanctuary, and security of one’s people. His mountains had always been the foretold dilemma, incapable of assaulting them without coming up the singular trail, for no fools had tried up cliffs and ramparts; the impending doom laying inside – him, and the rest of his citizens. The Grounds, and Halo, are entirely different matters and territories, and he’d been concocting plans, ideas, and orchestrations of his own for ways to instill structure and stability. There’d just been no time in between trials, tribulations, LongNights, recoveries, festivals, and then everything else following suit. “No harm in having both.” He shrugged, a man of assaults and sieges, of fortifications and disasters. But he needed to pause, to reflect, on the choices he’d made in those maelstroms too – jaw clenching automatically at the notions spiraling back.
He still couldn’t help the satisfied smirk as the catapult worked to some of its bestial capacity, slinging the rocks in ferocious ease, watching as the dummy was pummeled in the brief storm. The General accepted the compliment for its worth, patting at the contraption. “I can always make some for Halo,” an offer, arching a brow to see if she’d accept. “As a thank you to housing the Grounders during Deepfrost.”
The subject matter following at hand though left a bitter, rancorous edge to his mouth, gazing out over the horizon, far beyond the mauled targets, along the fields, plains, and forests, stretching out a long-held sigh before finally answering. “I cannot say for sure.” They were all resting on knife edges, poised in the serrated fringes; waiting for the next move, the next strike, the next opportunity for either justice, perseverance, or tucking their heads further into the sand. “We had the blight, and the incident with the Fae at the Mathair. But afterwards, they seemed to have gone to opening portals.” Unless there was more to it, to permitting power of the Voice to escalate, unless they were merely biding their time, and his fingers wrapped around piece of the catapult’s surface, steadying in its defiance. “However, with recent events, I would expect some sort of repercussion.” Because he’d been carved and sculpted from a world that did exactly that – constantly avenging, marring, maiming, taking, and scraping away from one kingdom to the next, fueled by their hate, by their vitriol. Perhaps Caido wasn’t like that, but he couldn’t help feel the instinctual pull of a tempest brewing; he’d been layered and resurrected in too many storms. “Best to be prepared, no matter what.”
He still couldn’t help the satisfied smirk as the catapult worked to some of its bestial capacity, slinging the rocks in ferocious ease, watching as the dummy was pummeled in the brief storm. The General accepted the compliment for its worth, patting at the contraption. “I can always make some for Halo,” an offer, arching a brow to see if she’d accept. “As a thank you to housing the Grounders during Deepfrost.”
The subject matter following at hand though left a bitter, rancorous edge to his mouth, gazing out over the horizon, far beyond the mauled targets, along the fields, plains, and forests, stretching out a long-held sigh before finally answering. “I cannot say for sure.” They were all resting on knife edges, poised in the serrated fringes; waiting for the next move, the next strike, the next opportunity for either justice, perseverance, or tucking their heads further into the sand. “We had the blight, and the incident with the Fae at the Mathair. But afterwards, they seemed to have gone to opening portals.” Unless there was more to it, to permitting power of the Voice to escalate, unless they were merely biding their time, and his fingers wrapped around piece of the catapult’s surface, steadying in its defiance. “However, with recent events, I would expect some sort of repercussion.” Because he’d been carved and sculpted from a world that did exactly that – constantly avenging, marring, maiming, taking, and scraping away from one kingdom to the next, fueled by their hate, by their vitriol. Perhaps Caido wasn’t like that, but he couldn’t help feel the instinctual pull of a tempest brewing; he’d been layered and resurrected in too many storms. “Best to be prepared, no matter what.”
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead
The rising of the horns, ahead
