DEIMOS
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head
The thunder of the drums dictates
The thunder of the drums dictates
Placing the remnants into the brazier, listening to the snap and crackle of the fibers melding and unfurled away, he glanced upwards to watch the crowd of onlookers. They seemed to have taken the liberty of filtering and flickering away, maneuvering back to what they were doing – perhaps expecting a snap of orders and commands. But without the title, he left them to their own devices, surveying the way things had altered or changed in his absence and exile.
Attention dissipated back to Tal, mildly surprised he’d been followed, but not with the words that came. There was a snort embedded in his chest, from age-old animosity and rancor, at the first few words. Neron had the innate ability to enrage the general public, and still somehow manage to remain - save for now. An insufferable charlatan, his actions haunted and loomed throughout the citizens, and one could hope that eventually such notions would fade.
But not with death and demise, he supposed. The Sword knew that well. Voice persisting in his usual rumble, he snagged a few more pieces and tossed them into the flames. “It is a shame how much Neron’s influence persists.” Deimos hadn’t heard a tale where anything had been beneficial from the man’s reign. “Sorry for your loss.” His gaze landed elsewhere, on the climbing wall perhaps, so the youth had an opportunity to recover some of that former reticence. “No, I would not have been able to meet him. I was in the Grounds at that time.” Enduring LongNight and its perils.
Attention dissipated back to Tal, mildly surprised he’d been followed, but not with the words that came. There was a snort embedded in his chest, from age-old animosity and rancor, at the first few words. Neron had the innate ability to enrage the general public, and still somehow manage to remain - save for now. An insufferable charlatan, his actions haunted and loomed throughout the citizens, and one could hope that eventually such notions would fade.
But not with death and demise, he supposed. The Sword knew that well. Voice persisting in his usual rumble, he snagged a few more pieces and tossed them into the flames. “It is a shame how much Neron’s influence persists.” Deimos hadn’t heard a tale where anything had been beneficial from the man’s reign. “Sorry for your loss.” His gaze landed elsewhere, on the climbing wall perhaps, so the youth had an opportunity to recover some of that former reticence. “No, I would not have been able to meet him. I was in the Grounds at that time.” Enduring LongNight and its perils.
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead
The rising of the horns, ahead
