DEIMOS
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head
The thunder of the drums dictates
The thunder of the drums dictates
The statement made him snort, if not lift the corners of his mouth into a casual grin. It’d been a long time since he’d mauled for a purpose beyond hunting, training, or vigilance – vehemence for vehemence, blood for blood, had been tokens of memories and the diligence of ghosts. Archaic and age-old, driven into the wake of his bones and the slate of his existence. He wouldn’t ask why a simple wrym had signified something else, permitting the stranger to have her dues and reasons beyond, behind, masks and pretenses.
His footfalls would have echoed, then eventually receded without much more preamble, had the tones not given him pause – the residual arch to his brow following, head turning to glance over his shoulder. A predator through and through, the casual inspection of his stare relaying some other scrutiny as the piercing slate narrowed again – Belial watching too, until both seemed mirror images of perplexed and quiet inquiry. But they remained, quiet and still, waiting to alter movement in either direction.
The dagger might have disappeared, but his keen vigilance did not. Eyes fell to the exposed arms, to runes and cuts and scars, not uncommon – he had his own marks upon flesh and muscle, but none of them had been self-inflicted; wounds taken and survival sketched, outlined, in a number of tales and battles. But as always, the prying mannerisms didn’t linger within him, and instead, the direction altered towards her statement – one the Sword hadn’t expected. “I am Deimos,” by way of introduction in the low rumble of his tones, so they didn’t continue volleying utterances without some wake of introductions. “Are you looking for the portal, or Halo?”
His footfalls would have echoed, then eventually receded without much more preamble, had the tones not given him pause – the residual arch to his brow following, head turning to glance over his shoulder. A predator through and through, the casual inspection of his stare relaying some other scrutiny as the piercing slate narrowed again – Belial watching too, until both seemed mirror images of perplexed and quiet inquiry. But they remained, quiet and still, waiting to alter movement in either direction.
The dagger might have disappeared, but his keen vigilance did not. Eyes fell to the exposed arms, to runes and cuts and scars, not uncommon – he had his own marks upon flesh and muscle, but none of them had been self-inflicted; wounds taken and survival sketched, outlined, in a number of tales and battles. But as always, the prying mannerisms didn’t linger within him, and instead, the direction altered towards her statement – one the Sword hadn’t expected. “I am Deimos,” by way of introduction in the low rumble of his tones, so they didn’t continue volleying utterances without some wake of introductions. “Are you looking for the portal, or Halo?”
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead
The rising of the horns, ahead
