DEIMOS
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head
The thunder of the drums dictates
The thunder of the drums dictates
Wandering and wandering still, casual explorations until the deeper fathoms glowed and glistened in the same hues. It would’ve been far more pleasant had his mind not been riddled with every other nuance of sorrow draining down its sanction, threatening to be consumed, devoured, by the petulant designs of grief. He sought to occupy the favored machinations with something other than despair and anguish, filling it to the brim with the possibilities of the crystals, the caves, and not the haunting fixtures sliding over his skin, threatening to return to the corners of his eyes.
That Loren might have advice caused an arch to his brow, and perhaps desperation, uncertainty, and the inability to see beyond the current status of melancholy made him seek out the wisdom – he had nothing more to snag upon. “Go ahead.” Maybe it would be worthwhile – something he could hold onto instead of immediately reject. His fingers continued to scratch along the luxere’s ears, habitual from days of Kiada and Auni, and then striving to curve away that feeling too.
Because they always ended up returning to ghosts.
The Sword followed the movements and motions of the lion, proceeding to stare up at the ceiling, at the flecks of hues, the potential for something else brewing from within. To the floor too, where they rested and shown, lodged in rocks and surfaces for who knew how long. “No.” He didn’t know; crystals had never been in his realm of expertise. A notion flickered against him, and he presented the offer. “I can try to snag one with my Earth magic?” Whether or not it would work, be effective at all, or even matter would remain to be seen.
That Loren might have advice caused an arch to his brow, and perhaps desperation, uncertainty, and the inability to see beyond the current status of melancholy made him seek out the wisdom – he had nothing more to snag upon. “Go ahead.” Maybe it would be worthwhile – something he could hold onto instead of immediately reject. His fingers continued to scratch along the luxere’s ears, habitual from days of Kiada and Auni, and then striving to curve away that feeling too.
Because they always ended up returning to ghosts.
The Sword followed the movements and motions of the lion, proceeding to stare up at the ceiling, at the flecks of hues, the potential for something else brewing from within. To the floor too, where they rested and shown, lodged in rocks and surfaces for who knew how long. “No.” He didn’t know; crystals had never been in his realm of expertise. A notion flickered against him, and he presented the offer. “I can try to snag one with my Earth magic?” Whether or not it would work, be effective at all, or even matter would remain to be seen.
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead
The rising of the horns, ahead
