DEIMOS
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head
The thunder of the drums dictates
The thunder of the drums dictates
Oh, he’d certainly had a hand in the chaos; but a moderate amount, given how much they regularly met, saw, and chafed against. The underlying fumes, vestiges, and tension had only heightened – and now there were other assortments and things on the loose, incapable of making heads or tails of them until other information came to light. It was mentally exhausting on the heels of everything else coming into fruition and play; exactly why he and Amalia intended to slip away, quietly strive to recover before the next wave of bedlam. He took her apologies with a brief, gruff nod, elbow leaning on the catapult, a sigh heaved from his chest.
The fact that her considerations had gone the way of his in a similar ilk wasn’t lost on the Sword; though he meant to make his smaller, a blade, wielded and serrated, intended for monsters lurking during LongNight. “I am not certain,” because it was the truth – torn between the need for preparation, and the fine line between animosity, acrimony, and pledges of guilt. A powerful component, a weapon in the art of concoctions and incantations, meant to obliterate an enemy wasn’t lost on Deimos; they’d done the very same in the Basin. But here, lives were different, arrangements not constantly on the annals of war – even though they could all feel something simmering. “One would have to be committed to the end results.” To know and understand the possibility of those brutal demises, to the decimation of that race, and despite his anglings of swords, and the actions leading up to now, he hadn’t been. Would the Warden be?
The fact that her considerations had gone the way of his in a similar ilk wasn’t lost on the Sword; though he meant to make his smaller, a blade, wielded and serrated, intended for monsters lurking during LongNight. “I am not certain,” because it was the truth – torn between the need for preparation, and the fine line between animosity, acrimony, and pledges of guilt. A powerful component, a weapon in the art of concoctions and incantations, meant to obliterate an enemy wasn’t lost on Deimos; they’d done the very same in the Basin. But here, lives were different, arrangements not constantly on the annals of war – even though they could all feel something simmering. “One would have to be committed to the end results.” To know and understand the possibility of those brutal demises, to the decimation of that race, and despite his anglings of swords, and the actions leading up to now, he hadn’t been. Would the Warden be?
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead
The rising of the horns, ahead
