DEIMOS
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head
The thunder of the drums dictates
The thunder of the drums dictates
Maybe it’d been foolish, but Deimos had always been cautionary just the same. “Not an animal,” he declared before Morgan proceeded – given nothing in the interim of Attuned responses and gestures. Which meant the alternative in human, in cannibal proportions –
And as he followed dutifully, the wayward press of the ominous, overwhelming smell flooded through his nares (and he couldn’t resist a cough here, snorting and choking down the bile, attempting to muffle it through his chest as best he could), the sharp, pungent array, and the disturbing way in which bodies were displayed – frozen and disassembled in the fringes of light and fire. Emotions were a rampant plunge, memories conjured of a cave, mired just the same, and his spine grew taut, backbone ramrod straight. Prepared, as always, for something inevitable and treacherous.
But not for the voice, creaking in like an ill wind and bitter breeze, ushering them onward. For the first time, perhaps, he could understand why Sunjata had ripped apart the remaining man in that dragon’s cave – by the pulse of his sunken eyes, by the residual mire coating, suffusing, suffocating the building. And he would move no further, standing outside of the clattering beams. His features went to Morgan, to Neron, narrowed and suspicious; uncertain of how they wanted to proceed.
And as he followed dutifully, the wayward press of the ominous, overwhelming smell flooded through his nares (and he couldn’t resist a cough here, snorting and choking down the bile, attempting to muffle it through his chest as best he could), the sharp, pungent array, and the disturbing way in which bodies were displayed – frozen and disassembled in the fringes of light and fire. Emotions were a rampant plunge, memories conjured of a cave, mired just the same, and his spine grew taut, backbone ramrod straight. Prepared, as always, for something inevitable and treacherous.
But not for the voice, creaking in like an ill wind and bitter breeze, ushering them onward. For the first time, perhaps, he could understand why Sunjata had ripped apart the remaining man in that dragon’s cave – by the pulse of his sunken eyes, by the residual mire coating, suffusing, suffocating the building. And he would move no further, standing outside of the clattering beams. His features went to Morgan, to Neron, narrowed and suspicious; uncertain of how they wanted to proceed.
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead
The rising of the horns, ahead
