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 felt labored too; the particular pull of exhaustion, of a weakness borne from the damned sickness, compelled at his sides, contorted down his ribs. It was an ineffectual, inept designation, and he instantly loathed it; he hadn’t felt so physically pathetic in a long while, and the glowing abyss ahead, with the sheen of crimson playing upon the walls, only indicated there was more to come. Torture, musings, or both, went unsaid, feral in the unknown. Instead, a low grumble emerged from his chest, and if he’d noticed Loren flagging too, he didn’t say anything about it. “I need a break,” and there wasn’t any of the shame embedded throughout his vocals, only sticking to the inward vices and iniquities, reaching into his satchel to grab hold of some canteens. It hinted too, that the healing process wasn’t complete, wasn’t over, and their time was sorely limited in the aspects of normalcy; a dread to flicker and follow.
The monolith, feeling more like a crumbling tower than any upstanding structure, leaned against the closest wall and slowly slid down it, using it as a support until he reached the ground. Zuriel marched her way over, waiting for some notion that he needed healing, and he stayed still, other than to extend one of the waterskins towards the lion, hand already gilded with a bowl in his palm.
Loren hadn’t heard of the Order though, and the notion of snagging at any further details was gone – his features rendered impassive again, save for the subtle arch of his brow in the darkness. “According to Sunjata,” and he left that statement there, indicative of information passed from the Flood holding its own warning signs, “They are an organization that comes from where the Voice originated.” Wherever that might’ve been – when a human opted to become powerful and potent, not unlike themselves, until she couldn’t be contained any longer. “They are supposedly targeting demigods, or those to become demigods, to ramp up for some war against the Voice.” The Firebrand would be able to draw his own lines and conclusions from there.
The monolith, feeling more like a crumbling tower than any upstanding structure, leaned against the closest wall and slowly slid down it, using it as a support until he reached the ground. Zuriel marched her way over, waiting for some notion that he needed healing, and he stayed still, other than to extend one of the waterskins towards the lion, hand already gilded with a bowl in his palm.
Loren hadn’t heard of the Order though, and the notion of snagging at any further details was gone – his features rendered impassive again, save for the subtle arch of his brow in the darkness. “According to Sunjata,” and he left that statement there, indicative of information passed from the Flood holding its own warning signs, “They are an organization that comes from where the Voice originated.” Wherever that might’ve been – when a human opted to become powerful and potent, not unlike themselves, until she couldn’t be contained any longer. “They are supposedly targeting demigods, or those to become demigods, to ramp up for some war against the Voice.” The Firebrand would be able to draw his own lines and conclusions from there.
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead
The rising of the horns, ahead
