DEIMOS
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head
The thunder of the drums dictates
The thunder of the drums dictates
The gem dropped into his hand, and prospered nothing. No sensations. No movement. No motion. No figments of sagacity suddenly, instantly, rampaging through his mind. Wasted efforts and pursuits, naught to show for their wandering and exploration, save for the object in between calloused digits. He was sorely enticed to punt it off the wall in frustration, to watch it zig and zag between stone and mire and maybe hit something as it bounded and ricocheted. Perhaps it’d be satisfying, but only a for a moment, a second, an instance; which even now, seemed rare and brief. Instead, the Sword marched over to where he’d left his bag, the markings and etchings of the map still on the paper, placing the stone within. “I took one of them,” and he held it out for Loren to see and inspect – but that likely hardly mattered either. Another dead end.
He waited for the Firebrand to complete his sojourn around the room, head hanging low again as another sigh traced its way through his lungs and out into the vestiges. His gaze only flickered back to the lion upon his statement – waterfalls, with Wessex – and then the teleportation, the nuances that it could signify emptiness too. “Did you find anything there?”
He waited for the Firebrand to complete his sojourn around the room, head hanging low again as another sigh traced its way through his lungs and out into the vestiges. His gaze only flickered back to the lion upon his statement – waterfalls, with Wessex – and then the teleportation, the nuances that it could signify emptiness too. “Did you find anything there?”
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead
The rising of the horns, ahead
