DEIMOS
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head
The thunder of the drums dictates
The thunder of the drums dictates
He looked up and up and up now – not caring where he went, frame once so controlled, contained, and composed suddenly like a gangly figure, uncertain of where his feet were. His attention was entirely on the floating orbs twisting around the domiciles and market stalls around them, following flickering notions, recognizing sins and iniquities, smoking fumes and plumes of the past – and he would’ve reached, would’ve chased, had a voice not called him back.
Piercing, confused gaze slid back to the Warden, and then a very impish, boyish, juvenile sort of grin spread over his features. It spoke of mischief, of triumph, of urchin qualities, lowering his voice to a whisper, to a conspiracy he’d conspired in the midst of moments. “I escaped her.” Very proud of his accomplishments, and continuing to ignore the blood spiraling down his face, staining the collar of his tunic, he wrinkled his nose, disapproving of the next notion. “She will find me soon though.” And then he’d be in trouble.
Morgan’s efforts didn’t completely unravel; distracted again by the waterskin, hands wrapping around the object, partially dragged along to a bench, and sitting compliantly, trying to decipher if he wanted the water or not.
Piercing, confused gaze slid back to the Warden, and then a very impish, boyish, juvenile sort of grin spread over his features. It spoke of mischief, of triumph, of urchin qualities, lowering his voice to a whisper, to a conspiracy he’d conspired in the midst of moments. “I escaped her.” Very proud of his accomplishments, and continuing to ignore the blood spiraling down his face, staining the collar of his tunic, he wrinkled his nose, disapproving of the next notion. “She will find me soon though.” And then he’d be in trouble.
Morgan’s efforts didn’t completely unravel; distracted again by the waterskin, hands wrapping around the object, partially dragged along to a bench, and sitting compliantly, trying to decipher if he wanted the water or not.
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead
The rising of the horns, ahead
