DEIMOS
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head
The thunder of the drums dictates
The thunder of the drums dictates
A poised look of absolute indifference and apathy remained on his features – well-practiced, well-versed, from days of Reaper indentations. They aligned now, in the straight, rigid maneuvers of his spine, remembering, recalling, diplomacy and his contempt towards it. Now he reflected no emotion whatsoever, a chiseled slate of scars and countenance, facing the Wraith with precision, might, and quiet speculation over the wiles and weapons sought. Zuriel slid her way over, near his side, and he had no thought or nuance as to why – though her stare seemed far more pinpointed on Wessex now.
Rendered back into silent musings, the beast arched one brow – cannons and fire nets, invisible catapults, and then onto mobility. True, it would likely be difficult to transport such devises from place to place, and quickly along the Hollowed Grounds – and speed was something they’d require in the midst of battle. “I can make a quiver that does the same.” Whether or not the Ascended would be able to handle the material, or not become immersed in friendly fire, was something else to consider – but if that was what she and the others wanted…
He didn’t shrug. Instead, he grabbed hold of a piece of paper nearby, charcoal pencil following through, as he began to orchestrate a sketch – the positions of the crossbow, the angles necessary, the lines dictated. When he’d completed it, he handed the canvas over to her for inspection. “Suitable?”
Rendered back into silent musings, the beast arched one brow – cannons and fire nets, invisible catapults, and then onto mobility. True, it would likely be difficult to transport such devises from place to place, and quickly along the Hollowed Grounds – and speed was something they’d require in the midst of battle. “I can make a quiver that does the same.” Whether or not the Ascended would be able to handle the material, or not become immersed in friendly fire, was something else to consider – but if that was what she and the others wanted…
He didn’t shrug. Instead, he grabbed hold of a piece of paper nearby, charcoal pencil following through, as he began to orchestrate a sketch – the positions of the crossbow, the angles necessary, the lines dictated. When he’d completed it, he handed the canvas over to her for inspection. “Suitable?”
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead
The rising of the horns, ahead
