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 listened – quiet, composed, and shrewd – but he had no other leads or alternatives to provide. It sounded foolish, dangerous, and like some measure of impending doom. One false step, one plan gone awry, and any number of them could be destroyed. How would one weaker Ascended be paired with a stronger, if the others were set to run ahead and be lures? Where were they to go, once Wessex had set herself as a target? The anomalies coiled through his head, attempting an image, a picture, of the debacle. “What will you do if the monsters figure it out?” What were the alternatives? Was there a secondary plan? Or would it all erupt, careen, and unfurl into complete chaos, a measure of bedlam where many could be lost?
Like Kiada. Like Bastien. Like Azrael. Like Elide. Like Morgan. The list could’ve gone on and on and on, mentally ticking off compatriots, brethren, kin, and family. His jaw clenched, and his eyes flickered back to the crystal in his hand, the frustration building and brewing. He could feel it rising over the cold, glacial aspect of his lungs; age-old Reaper undulations conspiring, wanting to lay out an unrelenting siege –
And the notions became no better once she confessed whose magic remained nestled in his palm, on the reasons nestled and torn. The threat of a growl hastened in his chest, burrowing and segmenting – not released, not relished, not savored, but defiant and irritated nonetheless. She’d kept it contained. She’d had ample opportunities to utilize it – when Amalia had been above ground, risking her life, trying to direct a herd of unicorns to reaches of safety. When they’d all been staring into the void, uncertain of how or when to cross. Before he’d had to dig them all into the guttural expanse, and hardly get anywhere at all. The Sword bit back an oath, measured, calculating eyes on the Wraith, a shake of his head following. “So now it will go to waste instead. When you could have used it to some benefit.”
Hotaru had granted, given, her those enchantments and incantations. And now they were going to disappear; flickering beams of power and light, gone.
A part of him might’ve told her what he’d learned. That Hotaru was alive. That neither Ludo nor Mort led her into the realm of death. That she had lingered in typical Ru habits; sequestering herself somewhere until she saw fit to meander again.
But vexed by Wessex’s decisions, and wondering how many damned times something similar had occurred, the beast placed the artifact down on his desk. For half a moment, he said naught more, scrawling out the rest of his message to Morgan, puncturing and piercing a few words a little deeper, a little bolder, and then folding it over, tucking it under his hand. Only then did he pick the crystal back up, a warning in his narrowed, hardened gaze, none of his magic extended into it, not yet, not until he heard the words conveyed, assured. “I want this used. Not kept. Not hoarded. Used.”
So that those caught in this hellhole might survive to see another season.
Like Kiada. Like Bastien. Like Azrael. Like Elide. Like Morgan. The list could’ve gone on and on and on, mentally ticking off compatriots, brethren, kin, and family. His jaw clenched, and his eyes flickered back to the crystal in his hand, the frustration building and brewing. He could feel it rising over the cold, glacial aspect of his lungs; age-old Reaper undulations conspiring, wanting to lay out an unrelenting siege –
And the notions became no better once she confessed whose magic remained nestled in his palm, on the reasons nestled and torn. The threat of a growl hastened in his chest, burrowing and segmenting – not released, not relished, not savored, but defiant and irritated nonetheless. She’d kept it contained. She’d had ample opportunities to utilize it – when Amalia had been above ground, risking her life, trying to direct a herd of unicorns to reaches of safety. When they’d all been staring into the void, uncertain of how or when to cross. Before he’d had to dig them all into the guttural expanse, and hardly get anywhere at all. The Sword bit back an oath, measured, calculating eyes on the Wraith, a shake of his head following. “So now it will go to waste instead. When you could have used it to some benefit.”
Hotaru had granted, given, her those enchantments and incantations. And now they were going to disappear; flickering beams of power and light, gone.
A part of him might’ve told her what he’d learned. That Hotaru was alive. That neither Ludo nor Mort led her into the realm of death. That she had lingered in typical Ru habits; sequestering herself somewhere until she saw fit to meander again.
But vexed by Wessex’s decisions, and wondering how many damned times something similar had occurred, the beast placed the artifact down on his desk. For half a moment, he said naught more, scrawling out the rest of his message to Morgan, puncturing and piercing a few words a little deeper, a little bolder, and then folding it over, tucking it under his hand. Only then did he pick the crystal back up, a warning in his narrowed, hardened gaze, none of his magic extended into it, not yet, not until he heard the words conveyed, assured. “I want this used. Not kept. Not hoarded. Used.”
So that those caught in this hellhole might survive to see another season.
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead
The rising of the horns, ahead
