so are the cannibals still a thing or

DEIMOS

The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head
The thunder of the drums dictates

The sharpened nature of his avian eyes glanced downward at the outset of huts. Drifting in and out, hovering as if searching for a meal, the beast lingered, tracing the lines, the drawn quarters, the backdrop of isolated and desolate exteriors. For all it might’ve once boasted, the world appeared to be an uninhabited vestige, abandoned, left to dust, decay, or freeze over into a midst of nullity. More than once he dropped down onto wooden roofs, talons clicking against the siding, listening for more than the mice lingering underneath snow, noble head tilting, striving to catch any movement, any nuance, any noise. A few times he passed by windows without glass, and only the darkness dwelling within. If any still persisted and prevailed here, they hid their whereabouts well – no fires burnt in hearths or along outskirts.

So the journey back was swift and keen, tracing back along where he’d left the pair, descending quickly, landing and shifting thereafter, on the opposite side of Morgan, extending an answer with a shake of his head. “No.” For all intents and purposes, it seemed entirely deserted and forsaken. The monolith shrugged his shoulders, gaze going back and forth between the pair. “What do you want to do with it?” The temptation to set everything alight was there – but this wasn’t his decision or choice. Did the Warden have intentions to segment it into something else, or let it lie in its ruins and remains?

The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead