DEIMOS
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head
The thunder of the drums dictates
The thunder of the drums dictates
A staring match began, between the Sword and the unicorn. The mare looked greatly perturbed in her ilk, a furrowed brow, pinned ears, and anger lacquered from her form in waves; he could see them, cast in crimson tides, angled over his ghosts until they rippled across and sunk into his chest. For his part, he attempted to look contrite and ashamed, but the equine bought none of it, and angled towards Morgan, striving to see just what Deimos had gotten himself into.
The Warden had done well, and the patient sat otherwise very still while the world burned and seethed against his skin. His breathing felt hoarse and unrefined, chest heaving to fight off onslaughts of delirium, eyes skimming over the ramparts, the town he’d come to understand and know, and saw none of it. The streets held no meaning. The walls were closing in, and he was about to let them.
Her voice kept cutting through though, and he shifted in her hold, confused eyes piercing back on her. “Yes. And cold.” No amount of heat seemed to be enough, and he was tempted to start a damned fire to curl up before, to be left to his own devices in the middle of cobblestones. “I do not think I want water.” And he went to hand the untouched canteen to her, because the very notion sickened him further.
The Warden had done well, and the patient sat otherwise very still while the world burned and seethed against his skin. His breathing felt hoarse and unrefined, chest heaving to fight off onslaughts of delirium, eyes skimming over the ramparts, the town he’d come to understand and know, and saw none of it. The streets held no meaning. The walls were closing in, and he was about to let them.
Her voice kept cutting through though, and he shifted in her hold, confused eyes piercing back on her. “Yes. And cold.” No amount of heat seemed to be enough, and he was tempted to start a damned fire to curl up before, to be left to his own devices in the middle of cobblestones. “I do not think I want water.” And he went to hand the untouched canteen to her, because the very notion sickened him further.
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead
The rising of the horns, ahead
