DEIMOS
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head
The thunder of the drums dictates
The thunder of the drums dictates
They walked, and Deimos kept his eyes on anything and everything, tracking the echo of their voices, the resounding, reverberating angles, the footfalls of their feet, and particulars of other nuances in between. Zuriel followed dutifully behind, unbothered, while Belial hovered, and he listened to the proceedings – permitting the slightest of smiles at the humor laced within Morgan’s statements, and Neron’s ruminations. “Perhaps Ludo and Mort have already taken the lost souls,” and not much more could be done for those left during LongNight’s wake – though he wasn’t certain how far it had stretched here, or what poor infidels would’ve strung along the frozen wares.
But instead of teasing and taunting Neron in return, he volleyed his mischievous sentiments back in the Glacier’s direction – only arching a brow in some goading, instigating measure towards the Ascended, a preamble to joining in, maybe. “A non-believer?” The Sword had his own fair share of ghosts and demons, most rankled and tethered right to his spine, to his shoulders, to mind; but none of them had been of the malicious kind – just blame, circumstances, and guilt. The monolith snorted, before rendering a lift of his chin, seditious and defiant for juvenile purposes, and then they were rounding along a bend of buildings.
Any of the amusements faded, brows furrowing on the sudden smell – one wholly familiar to any soldier. The door swung and more of the scent wafted, confirming the inevitable. “Recent, then?” He did well to not wrinkle his nose, but dared to walk in, turning over his palm so the fire blazed within his hand and no further; casting light where there’d been shadow.
But instead of teasing and taunting Neron in return, he volleyed his mischievous sentiments back in the Glacier’s direction – only arching a brow in some goading, instigating measure towards the Ascended, a preamble to joining in, maybe. “A non-believer?” The Sword had his own fair share of ghosts and demons, most rankled and tethered right to his spine, to his shoulders, to mind; but none of them had been of the malicious kind – just blame, circumstances, and guilt. The monolith snorted, before rendering a lift of his chin, seditious and defiant for juvenile purposes, and then they were rounding along a bend of buildings.
Any of the amusements faded, brows furrowing on the sudden smell – one wholly familiar to any soldier. The door swung and more of the scent wafted, confirming the inevitable. “Recent, then?” He did well to not wrinkle his nose, but dared to walk in, turning over his palm so the fire blazed within his hand and no further; casting light where there’d been shadow.
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead
The rising of the horns, ahead
