DEIMOS
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head
The thunder of the drums dictates
The thunder of the drums dictates
Deimos was an analytical creature to a fault. He’s studied individuals on the battlefield, across from war tables, and between volleys of machinations and schemes. But what occasionally threw him were depths of depravity he’d never quite experienced – and so it took more than a few moments to comprehend exactly what he was hearing and seeing. The nonchalant features slipped for a second – baffled, perplexed, bewildered, eyes rounding, widening, brows rising, before they returned to their residual reticence at the layer of skin tossed at their feet.
“Enough,” echoed from his chest, and his Mastered Air incantations conjured, volleyed, rapidly contorted from his entity – intending to pick up the cannibal on gales and wind, hopefully tossing the knife aside – and attempt to place the heathen amidst the wall of arms, limbs, and other appendages. From there, he opted to strive placing it along a hook, nestled along the back of its clothing, and sighed.
Only then did he turn to Morgan and Neron, a low whisper exalting while his enchantments remained in place. “What do you want to do?” There were options, viable, certain, and likely more than what he could avail at the current debacle, but he saw no advantage in entertaining the antics of a madman. “We could try to get information,” and here he glanced pointedly at the Ascended, presuming he’d like to continue working some array of skill. “We could search the premises.” For more individuals, trappings, snares, or whatever lurked further into these corridors. And the other option, putting it out of its misery, was left unsaid, but there just the same, in the justified manner of the bloodied hovel.
“Enough,” echoed from his chest, and his Mastered Air incantations conjured, volleyed, rapidly contorted from his entity – intending to pick up the cannibal on gales and wind, hopefully tossing the knife aside – and attempt to place the heathen amidst the wall of arms, limbs, and other appendages. From there, he opted to strive placing it along a hook, nestled along the back of its clothing, and sighed.
Only then did he turn to Morgan and Neron, a low whisper exalting while his enchantments remained in place. “What do you want to do?” There were options, viable, certain, and likely more than what he could avail at the current debacle, but he saw no advantage in entertaining the antics of a madman. “We could try to get information,” and here he glanced pointedly at the Ascended, presuming he’d like to continue working some array of skill. “We could search the premises.” For more individuals, trappings, snares, or whatever lurked further into these corridors. And the other option, putting it out of its misery, was left unsaid, but there just the same, in the justified manner of the bloodied hovel.
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead
The rising of the horns, ahead
