DEIMOS
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head
The thunder of the drums dictates
The thunder of the drums dictates
The dagger pinpointed at him meant nothing; he’d stared down far more dangerous things. For that, the stranger received nothing more than reticent, impassive features, or the careful precision of his piercing stare. Perhaps they were desolate – for why else would someone be hunting a lava wyrm? Perhaps they were discomforted by his, or Belial’s appearance. The silent inquisition could’ve lasted more than a few seconds between his calculating airs and the strung-together silence, but then the unfamiliar being rose from the crouch.
The surrounding noises echoing behind the skull reminded him very briefly of those he knew in the Basin, and it almost made him laugh. But the Sword was eternally careful and cautious, only breaking the mold of his nonchalance by arching a brow at the inquiries. “No.” To both, really, he hadn’t known them to be lethal unless taunted, irked, and annoyed, like most creatures. He couldn’t fathom them being sacred to anyone but Tanau or Frey perhaps, and even then, what would be the measure and point? “Not much meat to them.” Pragmatic to a fault, his strides began to linger elsewhere, moving across the obsidian canvas, and towards a strand, a path, away from that particular cavern. “You would be more apt to try a gore crow,” though there was always risk there – as they were an unrelenting foe, “or one of the blind rats.”
The surrounding noises echoing behind the skull reminded him very briefly of those he knew in the Basin, and it almost made him laugh. But the Sword was eternally careful and cautious, only breaking the mold of his nonchalance by arching a brow at the inquiries. “No.” To both, really, he hadn’t known them to be lethal unless taunted, irked, and annoyed, like most creatures. He couldn’t fathom them being sacred to anyone but Tanau or Frey perhaps, and even then, what would be the measure and point? “Not much meat to them.” Pragmatic to a fault, his strides began to linger elsewhere, moving across the obsidian canvas, and towards a strand, a path, away from that particular cavern. “You would be more apt to try a gore crow,” though there was always risk there – as they were an unrelenting foe, “or one of the blind rats.”
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead
The rising of the horns, ahead
