DEIMOS
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head
The thunder of the drums dictates
The thunder of the drums dictates
The Sword never quite knew what to expect with the Wraith – other than fighting endeavors, which they had in common. It certainly wasn’t the admiration or esteem in her gaze, when he finally met hers. Uncertain what to do with it, he merely arched a brow, and then resettled back into his countenance, the barest form of a smile lingering in the corner of his mouth. “Thank you.” And a nod for her acknowledgments, before tilting his head at the following ventures.
That Morgan was checking up on him was either a sign of distrust or extension of amiability. Given how irritated and cross he’d been before she left for the Grounds, and he’d been placed (forced) into a role he hadn’t ever wanted again, Deimos opted for the latter. He could, at the very least, assure her he hadn’t yet run her kingdom into the ground. “I will write a note.” There were some other nuances to share anyway – and he tampered, quelled, the brimming semblance of indignation bearing its weight in his chest once more. He maneuvered around the table and towards his desk, standing, bending only slightly to apply his pen to the paper left there – when he raised his head at the other notion.
A crystal from Remi – it must have been made ages before. Some unwinding nuance of nostalgia for yesteryears tightened over him, before that too was gone, for he’d been trying to live in the present. He snorted at the indication of being capable of burning down a building; LongNight history still clear and present as ever in the back of his mind. “I can.” He finished off a portion of his writing, and lifted a hand out to take the device. His bare bones knowledge of what they were going to do (little, if anything, beyond maiming monsters and trying to survive) instigated the slightest arch of his brow. “How are plans going?”
That Morgan was checking up on him was either a sign of distrust or extension of amiability. Given how irritated and cross he’d been before she left for the Grounds, and he’d been placed (forced) into a role he hadn’t ever wanted again, Deimos opted for the latter. He could, at the very least, assure her he hadn’t yet run her kingdom into the ground. “I will write a note.” There were some other nuances to share anyway – and he tampered, quelled, the brimming semblance of indignation bearing its weight in his chest once more. He maneuvered around the table and towards his desk, standing, bending only slightly to apply his pen to the paper left there – when he raised his head at the other notion.
A crystal from Remi – it must have been made ages before. Some unwinding nuance of nostalgia for yesteryears tightened over him, before that too was gone, for he’d been trying to live in the present. He snorted at the indication of being capable of burning down a building; LongNight history still clear and present as ever in the back of his mind. “I can.” He finished off a portion of his writing, and lifted a hand out to take the device. His bare bones knowledge of what they were going to do (little, if anything, beyond maiming monsters and trying to survive) instigated the slightest arch of his brow. “How are plans going?”
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead
The rising of the horns, ahead
