DEIMOS
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head
The thunder of the drums dictates
The thunder of the drums dictates
Companions had been common-place in Helovia and Isilme; the inner workings and factions had trickled down in sagacity, education, and experiences. While he hadn’t acquired any soul connected to him along Basin lines, here he’d managed to snag Zuriel, and all the bizarre intervals that came along with it. Sometimes wonderful. Sometimes painstakingly raw. Sometimes everything was the same, and they flooded and collided, breathed in unison, clambered together to make reality tangible, corporeal, and livable. Chulane had worlds to encompass and embody now, and it might be a different notion altogether, where Auni had already lived amidst Kiada’s ichor and thoughts and soul.
So he watched, listened, the relief centering him, the pathworks of the Harpy still alive and well; within the luxure, within pieces and portions that he could recall and reclaim, that Chulane would be able to see, know, and understand. “Good.” For breathing, for determination, for the fire still lingering in the bones of the little beast. “Did Kiada ever tell you how she acquired him?” Because that was a tale itself.
The conversation shifted back to him though, and his brows furrowed; an immediate notion of fumbling, clawing backwards, yearning to slide behind walls and fortifications, brilliant, blistering barricades, to hide, to scatter away, away, away.
Because it was painful, torturous, to continue reliving.
He did manage to wander further off, into the kitchen, along the table, where his eyes fell upon the final scene of Kiada’s imminent departure, only a few things laid out. “Said she needed to learn who she was. And be okay with it.” His body nearly shrugged, as if it was nothing, when it burned down the inside of his heart and crushed it underneath shields. “Just not with me there.” It’d been a jumble of emotions, and it sunk and simmered now, his mind still trying to process being alone again.
Always seemed to be that way, in the end, the circumstances altered and changed, and intermingling the same.
So he watched, listened, the relief centering him, the pathworks of the Harpy still alive and well; within the luxure, within pieces and portions that he could recall and reclaim, that Chulane would be able to see, know, and understand. “Good.” For breathing, for determination, for the fire still lingering in the bones of the little beast. “Did Kiada ever tell you how she acquired him?” Because that was a tale itself.
The conversation shifted back to him though, and his brows furrowed; an immediate notion of fumbling, clawing backwards, yearning to slide behind walls and fortifications, brilliant, blistering barricades, to hide, to scatter away, away, away.
Because it was painful, torturous, to continue reliving.
He did manage to wander further off, into the kitchen, along the table, where his eyes fell upon the final scene of Kiada’s imminent departure, only a few things laid out. “Said she needed to learn who she was. And be okay with it.” His body nearly shrugged, as if it was nothing, when it burned down the inside of his heart and crushed it underneath shields. “Just not with me there.” It’d been a jumble of emotions, and it sunk and simmered now, his mind still trying to process being alone again.
Always seemed to be that way, in the end, the circumstances altered and changed, and intermingling the same.
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead
The rising of the horns, ahead
