DEIMOS
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head
The thunder of the drums dictates
The thunder of the drums dictates
Ah, based on Kiada’s insinuations, there’d been more complaining. All over a rock. All over the implications that Deimos apparently survived onslaught after onslaught only to serve those like Nate – their hands out, palms upward, waiting to drain the world before they mustered any attempts for themselves. He snorted, regarding the moment thereafter as the right choice made – and the instant persisted in a raw, exuberant laugh at the notion that she’d stabbed the demigod with a knife. “Well done.” Perhaps she’d still been practicing after all, and it allowed for a juvenile grin to form along his mouth, very much a mischievous boy underneath layers of hardship and armor.
Then he nodded at her final statement, considering the way he’d often so easily concocted creations and watched as the majority disappeared, content with their wares, and he content in their absence, in their departure. “I do not exist to be everyone’s artisan.” And if the Sword said it enough, echoed, reverberated, resounded it in the beats of his heart and the carvings of his soul, then perhaps it would sink deeper; become known, become habitual, become routine. The monolith shrugged, trying to keep it light, striving not to manifest into the thresholds of darkness and damnation.
But there still, remained the underlying thread.
So he pulled and tugged on it a little, giving an opening line that it so desperately required. “I initially went to Safrin to ask how to help destroy the Voice.” Not Kiada, not the Ascended, but the Goddess in general – and he waited, piercing gaze solely locked on hers, for everything else to segment together.
Then he nodded at her final statement, considering the way he’d often so easily concocted creations and watched as the majority disappeared, content with their wares, and he content in their absence, in their departure. “I do not exist to be everyone’s artisan.” And if the Sword said it enough, echoed, reverberated, resounded it in the beats of his heart and the carvings of his soul, then perhaps it would sink deeper; become known, become habitual, become routine. The monolith shrugged, trying to keep it light, striving not to manifest into the thresholds of darkness and damnation.
But there still, remained the underlying thread.
So he pulled and tugged on it a little, giving an opening line that it so desperately required. “I initially went to Safrin to ask how to help destroy the Voice.” Not Kiada, not the Ascended, but the Goddess in general – and he waited, piercing gaze solely locked on hers, for everything else to segment together.
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead
The rising of the horns, ahead
