[PQ] if the sun never shows its face again

DEIMOS

The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head
The thunder of the drums dictates

Notices and changes, familiar and strange all at the same time; nuances he understood, and some he couldn’t yet comprehend. If this was to be where he healed, where he recovered, and where he started anew (bizarre, really, to think of the patterns that had led him here, reflective pieces of another life and time), then the Sword thought to forge onward. A quick check of the Notice Board indicated where to go and the physical labor required (the man had dug many a trench in many a war), and after a swig of springs water to ensure he wouldn’t lose himself amidst the work, the monolith trudged on. It might be a release, a quiet, cathartic movement and motion, to merely lose himself in motion and action, rather than fall apart within his own mind.

The Citadel, always an impressive sight, unfurled before him, and his gaze went instantly to the alterations already made, marks and curves, ropes and flags, likely indicators of where they needed to dig. A steady nod was extended to Morgan, a shovel snagged from his supplies already in his grasp. “Here to help,” was a rumbling proclamation, to start towards rebuilding proportions and contortions to his life, and to contribute to those who’d offered him an opportunity. Zuriel accompanied, mostly to watch (as she stood nearby, sniffing over portions of ground), but there in case anything went terribly awry.

The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead