DEIMOS
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head
The thunder of the drums dictates
The thunder of the drums dictates
Comfort where he didn’t think he deserved any was bizarre and strange to him, but he breathed sharpened inhales, flickered through long exhales, until the sentiments seemed bridged, could filter away for a second, for a moment. Sorry. For what he wasn’t certain – the maddening rush of the cold fury, that he couldn’t do anything on his own to combat it, or his control seemed to vary widely after the sickness had pummeled him straight into the ground.
He hadn’t mused on the notion that Hotaru might’ve become ill, and his brows furrowed at the evidence of contracting the wasting proportions. Is that how everyone became sick? From something here? And then spread it from there? How did they know they weren’t becoming massive contagions? Why hadn’t the rest of them gotten ill – like those of Chulane, who seemed to be constantly observing, watching, and guarding the invalids?
Should he go look for her? Would he have time, before he became infested again? Would it all be for naught?
He was so tired of this; all of it.
Attention deviated from the morosity at the suggestion of the gleaming light. I have no idea. But he increased his pace and stride, reaching forward, forward, forward until they seemed to arrive at a wide, glittering opus. He ceased in his tracks entirely at the mouth of the cavern, head twisting, turning, gaze shifting in every angle and degree, to even strive to understand the coating of hues, blends, and colors.
He hadn’t mused on the notion that Hotaru might’ve become ill, and his brows furrowed at the evidence of contracting the wasting proportions. Is that how everyone became sick? From something here? And then spread it from there? How did they know they weren’t becoming massive contagions? Why hadn’t the rest of them gotten ill – like those of Chulane, who seemed to be constantly observing, watching, and guarding the invalids?
Should he go look for her? Would he have time, before he became infested again? Would it all be for naught?
He was so tired of this; all of it.
Attention deviated from the morosity at the suggestion of the gleaming light. I have no idea. But he increased his pace and stride, reaching forward, forward, forward until they seemed to arrive at a wide, glittering opus. He ceased in his tracks entirely at the mouth of the cavern, head twisting, turning, gaze shifting in every angle and degree, to even strive to understand the coating of hues, blends, and colors.
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead
The rising of the horns, ahead
