It's taken a lifetime to lose my way
All the wasted time on my hands turns to sand
A nod was extended towards Noah, the quieted form of greeting, memories very brief and sparse of the man who’d sought to give him some relief in the middle of his afflictions. It was another check in his figments, fractions, and factions, to give back to the other individual in some wit and measure; before marching forward, collecting himself in the intertwining measures of one more cavern.
Eventually, they came upon a bombardment of the usual order; only the obstacle was amplified not by a sudden menace, or devastating onslaught, but by the small path and their far larger sizes, and even Deimos, in his most minute form, would likely have to bend and twist amidst incapable notions. Zuriel snorted at the implications, and he fought off an eye roll in her direction.
Instead, he adhered to Loren’s request with a nod – earthen incantations immediately beginning their maneuvers, intending to widen, alter the path, and restructure along as they went – he’d been in far too many near collapses to not give it ample forethought.
While he worked, the Sword’s deepened vocals echoed, bounded, and resounded along the chasms. “Who are these cultists?” Had they been the threat Kiada mentioned in letters, last year, when the Halo portals were locked away, and the winter isolation had amplified, bombarded, in an entirely different way? As General, he should’ve known of the ominous beacons, of the potential for upcoming dominions.
Eventually, they came upon a bombardment of the usual order; only the obstacle was amplified not by a sudden menace, or devastating onslaught, but by the small path and their far larger sizes, and even Deimos, in his most minute form, would likely have to bend and twist amidst incapable notions. Zuriel snorted at the implications, and he fought off an eye roll in her direction.
Instead, he adhered to Loren’s request with a nod – earthen incantations immediately beginning their maneuvers, intending to widen, alter the path, and restructure along as they went – he’d been in far too many near collapses to not give it ample forethought.
While he worked, the Sword’s deepened vocals echoed, bounded, and resounded along the chasms. “Who are these cultists?” Had they been the threat Kiada mentioned in letters, last year, when the Halo portals were locked away, and the winter isolation had amplified, bombarded, in an entirely different way? As General, he should’ve known of the ominous beacons, of the potential for upcoming dominions.
I'm fine in the fire
I feed on the friction
