DEIMOS
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head
The thunder of the drums dictates
The thunder of the drums dictates
The Sword gave nothing away, save for an arch of a brow once more, as Tal tended to the next siege. “Hopefully you will not have to,” but they knew how far optimism got them – and there was never anything wrong in preparation. “But you should still know how.” Or at least the bare minimum of the possibility; understanding how he’d react, even if they were just pieces of wood and fabric careening around. Better to comprehend and rely on the nuances of harmless training, rather than in the full brunt of chaos, bedlam, and death.
Memories pierced and pulsed vaguely in the back of his mind, and he breathed them away, stuffed them back into lungs, ribs, and bones. “Remember your backhand strike.” He lifted his axe, demonstrating the motion in another sense of renewal. “That can defend you from one side, while you are attacking from the other.”
Deimos chose smaller barbs in the shards of broken, flying remains. “Try again,” and he nodded, instigating the air to whirl towards Tal – sending the portions back to the courier the same way he’d done before.
Memories pierced and pulsed vaguely in the back of his mind, and he breathed them away, stuffed them back into lungs, ribs, and bones. “Remember your backhand strike.” He lifted his axe, demonstrating the motion in another sense of renewal. “That can defend you from one side, while you are attacking from the other.”
Deimos chose smaller barbs in the shards of broken, flying remains. “Try again,” and he nodded, instigating the air to whirl towards Tal – sending the portions back to the courier the same way he’d done before.
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead
The rising of the horns, ahead
