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 was on the hunt.
Not for a drink; he could always make his own and he hadn’t touched any liquor in some months. Not when there were a multitude of things to do and duties, commitments, movements, motions, and machinations.
Instead, it was for one of his soldiers who’d yet to show for sentinel assignments - again. Weak excuses had been wrought the first time, and on the second offense, the General had gone looking for the guard, given some parameters and possibilities from fellow warriors.
Wandering into the Kraai, he was surprised to find it so packed. Furrowing his brow, parting his way through the crowd, and angling his form around many usually wasn’t an issue, given his size and prowess; today there were a few more hearty hellos and glasses lifted in his direction. By the time he’d made it to the outer perimeter of the nearest table, the wayward rogue could’ve been anywhere.
Taking opportunity where he had it, he bent his head towards the closest individual, an older woman he didn’t recognize. “Excuse me,” and she did look a little worn, a little frail – there might’ve been an inward wince there. “Have you seen a man about this tall,” indicating with his hand slightly below his own shoulders, “with black hair?” Another rumble pierced through the makeshift hubbub of the crowd. “He missed his patrol duty.”
Not for a drink; he could always make his own and he hadn’t touched any liquor in some months. Not when there were a multitude of things to do and duties, commitments, movements, motions, and machinations.
Instead, it was for one of his soldiers who’d yet to show for sentinel assignments - again. Weak excuses had been wrought the first time, and on the second offense, the General had gone looking for the guard, given some parameters and possibilities from fellow warriors.
Wandering into the Kraai, he was surprised to find it so packed. Furrowing his brow, parting his way through the crowd, and angling his form around many usually wasn’t an issue, given his size and prowess; today there were a few more hearty hellos and glasses lifted in his direction. By the time he’d made it to the outer perimeter of the nearest table, the wayward rogue could’ve been anywhere.
Taking opportunity where he had it, he bent his head towards the closest individual, an older woman he didn’t recognize. “Excuse me,” and she did look a little worn, a little frail – there might’ve been an inward wince there. “Have you seen a man about this tall,” indicating with his hand slightly below his own shoulders, “with black hair?” Another rumble pierced through the makeshift hubbub of the crowd. “He missed his patrol duty.”
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead
The rising of the horns, ahead
