DEIMOS
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head
The thunder of the drums dictates
The thunder of the drums dictates
He nodded, listening as they walked, Belial embarking further ahead, a little Stygian outline against pale boughs, unsettled from their expanse with the pockets of snow. Zuriel tread lightly behind, and his senses coursed, pondering, wondering, head held high as he glanced over different timber, glancing briefly and scanning proportions of things and facets that might’ve been unfamiliar. His eyes narrowed only briefly while she described the Wicker Woman – this unpredictable menace of a tree apparently – wondering if he could just set it ablaze and call it good.
Much of it sounded circumstantial and only rendered on luck; which wasn’t his favorite tactic. “All right. What is your preferred method? Are there any distinct characteristics?” Other than just random chance – he didn’t particularly care for the nuance of dubious and capricious, especially if his companions could be rendered in danger. Were there any particular outlines to look for? Any more obvious bouts of movement or motion?
Much of it sounded circumstantial and only rendered on luck; which wasn’t his favorite tactic. “All right. What is your preferred method? Are there any distinct characteristics?” Other than just random chance – he didn’t particularly care for the nuance of dubious and capricious, especially if his companions could be rendered in danger. Were there any particular outlines to look for? Any more obvious bouts of movement or motion?
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead
The rising of the horns, ahead
