DEIMOS
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head
The thunder of the drums dictates
The thunder of the drums dictates
The Voice and her remnants, failed experiments and voids gone awry, no messes cleaned up, and the rest of the Grounds meant to suffer for that week. He couldn’t fathom how they’d done it for hundreds of years, listening to the claws, to the wails, to the screams – he’d only existed there for three, and each one had been more conniving, and anguishing, than the last. “Yes. And they torture you physically and mentally.” He wouldn’t share the horrors, the memories, the way they tainted and contorted voices of loved ones, trying to lure and draw them out into death and desecration – the nightmares had been real, tangible, and fluid; knotted and adorned with thorns and scars. “I can train you for the former, but not the latter.” The beast didn’t doubt Chulane; but it was easy to promise, to pledge, when one hadn’t experienced the weight of such travesties.
When he hadn’t been in the midst, waiting for hell to take him.
Only a nod was given towards the other words, spoken with innocent resilience, to a man who’d survived time after time after time but was so damn tired and exhausted. Who would fight until the ends of the earth, but even still needed rest, a break, from the near-constant torment. Peace just didn’t seem to exist anymore.
When he hadn’t been in the midst, waiting for hell to take him.
Only a nod was given towards the other words, spoken with innocent resilience, to a man who’d survived time after time after time but was so damn tired and exhausted. Who would fight until the ends of the earth, but even still needed rest, a break, from the near-constant torment. Peace just didn’t seem to exist anymore.
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead
The rising of the horns, ahead
