DEIMOS
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head
The thunder of the drums dictates
The thunder of the drums dictates
He was likely stepping on a landmine, ready to burst and billow and blister in his direction, a barrage of his own making; but there was some portion of his mind that failed to understand the circumstances. That failed to comprehend how an individual of her strength, fortitude, and caliber simply fell, diminished within an instant. That failed to connect how everything had gone so horribly awry, when all they were doing was exploring. She should’ve been able to come home.
She should’ve been able to live. To survive. Just as she’d always done.
The Sword cringed, but kept on fortifying, kept on walking towards those lines, those extremes, the haunting thorns he’d readily impale in between his ribs and lungs. “Because I cannot fathom how it happened.” Did he want the mental images? Did he want the disturbing nuances, another thing to corrupt and contort? Amalia had told him before, and he still couldn't grasp the situation - how she could be gone. How she was no longer there. How she didn't even have her mother with her. How souls were dispatched and lacquered into Mort's realm and he had no chance, no opportunity, to see her any longer until he'd departed (again) too. He should've. He knew he should've. He'd walked amongst death so many times it seemed like an old friend.
Realizing the Attuned proportions were alive and well, he shut down the emotions – grave and serious and sinister and deprived; arcane reticence driven in onslaughts and walls upon walls. Deimos glanced upward, and nowhere near Loren, stifling down sharp inhales, catching at the glitter up ahead, twisting and turning himself into knots.
She should’ve been able to live. To survive. Just as she’d always done.
The Sword cringed, but kept on fortifying, kept on walking towards those lines, those extremes, the haunting thorns he’d readily impale in between his ribs and lungs. “Because I cannot fathom how it happened.” Did he want the mental images? Did he want the disturbing nuances, another thing to corrupt and contort? Amalia had told him before, and he still couldn't grasp the situation - how she could be gone. How she was no longer there. How she didn't even have her mother with her. How souls were dispatched and lacquered into Mort's realm and he had no chance, no opportunity, to see her any longer until he'd departed (again) too. He should've. He knew he should've. He'd walked amongst death so many times it seemed like an old friend.
Realizing the Attuned proportions were alive and well, he shut down the emotions – grave and serious and sinister and deprived; arcane reticence driven in onslaughts and walls upon walls. Deimos glanced upward, and nowhere near Loren, stifling down sharp inhales, catching at the glitter up ahead, twisting and turning himself into knots.
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead
The rising of the horns, ahead
