DEIMOS
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head
The thunder of the drums dictates
The thunder of the drums dictates
There was no argument found in the back of his throat or in the push of his mind. The mettle and grit slowly dissipated, and in its place was a mental fatigue, a worn, drawn blade exhausted by remaining on guard for so long. For trying to find roots when there was no place for his, gathered up in acrimony and festering away along ribcages and walls. There were no other answers either, the beckoning of who knows and information he’d already noted from their meeting transpiring – the Ascended incapable of being healed by the water, and their own time limited.
So what now? What next? There has to be something else. Or they were all damned again.
The cavern itself, perhaps – a transfixing thing when he finally righted his senses, when something other than listlessness or rage could fill it. They had managed to center themselves directly into some formation of glass or gem-designs, and for a second he could only stare – reminded of things from the past, of kaleidoscope fixtures pressed into stone, either gifted from gods or transpiring from those who’d come before. His eyes attempted to take in every measure, every machination, every press of color flickering from the corners of his gaze. Eventually he grabbed hold of his satchel, removing a pad of paper and charcoal, sketching out a rudimentary map of their travels, in case it was necessary for later, or merely to depart. A few arches and maneuvers of the tunnel, and he placed both in a back pocket, raising the lantern light as he advanced around the room. Zuriel wisely stayed put within the center, a unicorn brow arched.
Then Deimos maneuvered closer, along the sides, calloused fingers drawn to sparkle of blueish hues, running over the edges. It does not seem to be glass.
So what now? What next? There has to be something else. Or they were all damned again.
The cavern itself, perhaps – a transfixing thing when he finally righted his senses, when something other than listlessness or rage could fill it. They had managed to center themselves directly into some formation of glass or gem-designs, and for a second he could only stare – reminded of things from the past, of kaleidoscope fixtures pressed into stone, either gifted from gods or transpiring from those who’d come before. His eyes attempted to take in every measure, every machination, every press of color flickering from the corners of his gaze. Eventually he grabbed hold of his satchel, removing a pad of paper and charcoal, sketching out a rudimentary map of their travels, in case it was necessary for later, or merely to depart. A few arches and maneuvers of the tunnel, and he placed both in a back pocket, raising the lantern light as he advanced around the room. Zuriel wisely stayed put within the center, a unicorn brow arched.
Then Deimos maneuvered closer, along the sides, calloused fingers drawn to sparkle of blueish hues, running over the edges. It does not seem to be glass.
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead
The rising of the horns, ahead
