DEIMOS
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head
The thunder of the drums dictates
The thunder of the drums dictates
The Sword took great efforts to not sink into the mire of the darkness, into the residual effects of caverns, into how many times he’d been rooted into their miseries (visions of ice; Peter and Adam frozen solid, desperation clinging to the wild and wicked damnation near the Greatwood, times where he nearly died just trying to ensure another didn’t). His eyes went to the soft glow of antler-light, nodding his head in the luxere’s direction, understanding, comprehending, the potential dire consequences of the situation, and striving to loosen the breath suddenly choking over his lungs. It was tiring, when every action seemed to hold a ripple effect from another, when memories had become smothering, clawing, asphyxiating turns, instead of brighter aspects.
Do better his mind said in between the strains. He knew their hold on him, and overcoming the barrage would be a long, arduous process.
To the right, wandering further and further in, while the twists looped around, endless darkness marching on. Diligent and forthright and quiet, the beast continued onward, begging for something out of the daunting void. A clue. A sign. An indication this was worth anything at all. His head yearned to hang again, out over the loam and soil, and Zuriel’s muzzle bumped into his free hand, senses reeling back to the voice in his head; the statement stirring some other machination. Like cobwebs, he attempted to shake them out, from the dust, from the ashes, from the aspects of illness still clinging to them. “Have you heard of The Order?”
Do better his mind said in between the strains. He knew their hold on him, and overcoming the barrage would be a long, arduous process.
To the right, wandering further and further in, while the twists looped around, endless darkness marching on. Diligent and forthright and quiet, the beast continued onward, begging for something out of the daunting void. A clue. A sign. An indication this was worth anything at all. His head yearned to hang again, out over the loam and soil, and Zuriel’s muzzle bumped into his free hand, senses reeling back to the voice in his head; the statement stirring some other machination. Like cobwebs, he attempted to shake them out, from the dust, from the ashes, from the aspects of illness still clinging to them. “Have you heard of The Order?”
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead
The rising of the horns, ahead
