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 had little to no expectations along this wake. Had Talyson been a recruit, a soldier, already trained (and his eyes reeled back to the others whooping and hollering at the top of the climbing wall), there might’ve been a lecture amidst the reminder. But where the courier lacked significant experience, there were no hard edges drawn, no rancor in the foolishness. The mistake had been a part of the learning curve, a moment of growth and renewal, starting points in the fledgling lines.
He said nothing more, permitting it all to unfurl and unveil – in better, far more inclined circumstances. The move was sufficient, blocking one, while marking the other. The second flickered and faltered in a dramatic death spiral, because it amused him, until it hit the ground.
At the affirmation, he snorted, piercing gaze inclined back to the target that had only been clipped. “Might as well finish it off.” And it spiraled towards the Natural again, clearly wounded and marred by its earlier strike, but itching to continue the fight.
He said nothing more, permitting it all to unfurl and unveil – in better, far more inclined circumstances. The move was sufficient, blocking one, while marking the other. The second flickered and faltered in a dramatic death spiral, because it amused him, until it hit the ground.
At the affirmation, he snorted, piercing gaze inclined back to the target that had only been clipped. “Might as well finish it off.” And it spiraled towards the Natural again, clearly wounded and marred by its earlier strike, but itching to continue the fight.
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead
The rising of the horns, ahead
