DEIMOS
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head
The thunder of the drums dictates
The thunder of the drums dictates
Deimos heard the solemnity loud and clear, and was half-tempted to drift back into his habitual reticence. Whether he would’ve been liked or not caused a gradual arch of the brow, because the Sword, nor Reaper, had ever cared about those notions. "Halo has had many good soldiers." And some, unfortunately lost, due to the idiocy of its sovereigns.
Weaponry, however, was a far better topic. “Some. My preferences are usually with blades, bows, or the staff.” His eyes roamed over to the armory, where there were clearly an amount still remaining from those he’d crafted some time ago. “Though I did have someone show me the spear recently,” and he gave a half-grin, slightly boyish, as if the semblances of more armaments at his beck and call was all the more amusing. “Do you have experience with them?” And he jutted his jaw towards the aforementioned cleavers.
Weaponry, however, was a far better topic. “Some. My preferences are usually with blades, bows, or the staff.” His eyes roamed over to the armory, where there were clearly an amount still remaining from those he’d crafted some time ago. “Though I did have someone show me the spear recently,” and he gave a half-grin, slightly boyish, as if the semblances of more armaments at his beck and call was all the more amusing. “Do you have experience with them?” And he jutted his jaw towards the aforementioned cleavers.
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead
The rising of the horns, ahead
