DEIMOS
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head
The thunder of the drums dictates
The thunder of the drums dictates
Dusk fell, and with its inkling of darkness, Deimos took it as a sign to traverse home. Away from the Council Hall, away from the noise and cacophony of a position he didn’t want, and towards the barracks, to a place where clanging metal and stinging steel sounded like sanctums and sanctuaries. Upon entering, he found the training venue quiet – most of the guards had returned to either their duties or elsewhere. Only a few remained behind, working on techniques with bows, staffs, or blades, and he bid them hushed nods as he wandered through. The Sword hastened back to the front parlor, greeting Zuriel with a tired grin, glancing at the fire in the hearth, raising it with little effort to new, grander heights, watching as the unicorn curled further into its midst.
From there, he could sit down, process a few other nuances and notions he craved to coordinate. Ideally, designing or implementing some sort of artifact Kiada would want to take with her, now that the telling of LongNight was clear. The monolith tried to ease a breath from his lungs at the thought; striving to consolidate, to push it all aside, to not let the sentiments, the ruminations, brim and overwhelm, rush into another drowning interval. But the dread, consternation, and apprehension were real, and struggled to be denied.
No sooner had he sat down at the long table, with its vast, empty space, suitable for meetings that wouldn’t likely take place this season, then there was a knock at the door. No one who had business with the barracks on a regular basis rapped their knuckles against the wood; it was commonplace for many to thread their way through, passing along halls and threading through to get to their own portion of apartments, the armory, or clash, duel, and skirmish in the appropriate venue.
He tilted his head and rose, opening the door wide, to see Wessex.
An expected visitor – some eventuality. Which meant time was beginning to erode and claw far more than any other nettles, and he stepped aside, granting her room to enter. “Wessex,” he nodded, indicating seats available nearby. The temporary Warden could feel Zuriel’s eyes on him, and he didn’t maneuver his head or incline towards her, muffling a harsh intake of breath as he steeled the resolve all over again. A stoic endeavor settled across his features, utterly impassive, devoid of the multitude of emotions warring across bones and veins. “I take it you have decided on an item.”
From there, he could sit down, process a few other nuances and notions he craved to coordinate. Ideally, designing or implementing some sort of artifact Kiada would want to take with her, now that the telling of LongNight was clear. The monolith tried to ease a breath from his lungs at the thought; striving to consolidate, to push it all aside, to not let the sentiments, the ruminations, brim and overwhelm, rush into another drowning interval. But the dread, consternation, and apprehension were real, and struggled to be denied.
No sooner had he sat down at the long table, with its vast, empty space, suitable for meetings that wouldn’t likely take place this season, then there was a knock at the door. No one who had business with the barracks on a regular basis rapped their knuckles against the wood; it was commonplace for many to thread their way through, passing along halls and threading through to get to their own portion of apartments, the armory, or clash, duel, and skirmish in the appropriate venue.
He tilted his head and rose, opening the door wide, to see Wessex.
An expected visitor – some eventuality. Which meant time was beginning to erode and claw far more than any other nettles, and he stepped aside, granting her room to enter. “Wessex,” he nodded, indicating seats available nearby. The temporary Warden could feel Zuriel’s eyes on him, and he didn’t maneuver his head or incline towards her, muffling a harsh intake of breath as he steeled the resolve all over again. A stoic endeavor settled across his features, utterly impassive, devoid of the multitude of emotions warring across bones and veins. “I take it you have decided on an item.”
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead
The rising of the horns, ahead
