DEIMOS
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head
The thunder of the drums dictates
The thunder of the drums dictates
A manifestation of emotions: irritation, exasperation, frustration, brewing over the cauldrons of grief, was enough to earn another clenched jaw, a feral sigh, as he stared at the objects around them. He wasn’t even certain if this area had been worth the sojourn, the exhaustion, or the fatigue, besides the shine, the sheen, the glimmer. What was the purpose? Why was it there? Speculations turned and churned over the rest of the acrimony, and perhaps that was far more, far better, than the other machinations beginning to sear at flesh and blood. “Have you been anywhere else?” Found anything? Maybe it’d be impossible to tell, to know, in delirious wanderings. Gods knew he couldn’t make heads or tails of half the things he’d done or wandered amidst.
He crouched down, further surveying a larger piece – hints of green in its sanction – eyes narrowing, before opting to try something. Earthen incantations unfurled, intending to coax, to hone, to sharpen, to bend, to warp, around the item, until it could be taken out of the wall, plucked from the sanction.
He crouched down, further surveying a larger piece – hints of green in its sanction – eyes narrowing, before opting to try something. Earthen incantations unfurled, intending to coax, to hone, to sharpen, to bend, to warp, around the item, until it could be taken out of the wall, plucked from the sanction.
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead
The rising of the horns, ahead
