DEIMOS
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head
The thunder of the drums dictates
The thunder of the drums dictates
Catching at the words as they crawled across obsidian, he only slowed his steps when he was certain she was following along, and even then his strides were still massive and unwinding in their resolve. Nomadic tendencies unfurled, and considering his own recent bout with the fluidity of changing terrains, climates, depending on motives, reasons, and goals, he couldn’t begrudge the semblance. The why didn’t matter to him – so he remained aloof and aware all at once, vigilance and power beneath the roaming wiles.
His head tilted to snag at the other notions under masks and skulls, a soft smile bridging the lines and corners of his mouth at the suggestion. “Of course.” Maybe it’d been meant to be rhetorical, but the ideas were readily understood regardless – lately his skills had been marked and measured in hunting parties anyway.
Preferred methods lent to the pervading emblems in his blood and bones; a pulse of a knife ever persistent, eternally there, brooding and brewing below the surface of his skin. “Magic.” Weaponry in its own archaic state – and though he’d lunge with a sword in hand at many an adversary, sometimes the incantations were best. “Yours?” Best to know, perhaps, before they delved into rampage and ruin, pondering over the dagger he’d seen earlier.
Though there was a sound, like a talon clicking against the stone, that gave him pause, that stilled his frame. “Could be gore crows,” he flickered into a whisper, brows furrowing in concentration. Without the telltale outcry of meat though, it was difficult to parse through. He nodded for Belial to move forward, to which the peryton responded with obvious glee, and the rustle of wings barely sifted along the boundaries, his shadowed figure blending precariously against the walls – a lookout and spy for a feral thread.
His head tilted to snag at the other notions under masks and skulls, a soft smile bridging the lines and corners of his mouth at the suggestion. “Of course.” Maybe it’d been meant to be rhetorical, but the ideas were readily understood regardless – lately his skills had been marked and measured in hunting parties anyway.
Preferred methods lent to the pervading emblems in his blood and bones; a pulse of a knife ever persistent, eternally there, brooding and brewing below the surface of his skin. “Magic.” Weaponry in its own archaic state – and though he’d lunge with a sword in hand at many an adversary, sometimes the incantations were best. “Yours?” Best to know, perhaps, before they delved into rampage and ruin, pondering over the dagger he’d seen earlier.
Though there was a sound, like a talon clicking against the stone, that gave him pause, that stilled his frame. “Could be gore crows,” he flickered into a whisper, brows furrowing in concentration. Without the telltale outcry of meat though, it was difficult to parse through. He nodded for Belial to move forward, to which the peryton responded with obvious glee, and the rustle of wings barely sifted along the boundaries, his shadowed figure blending precariously against the walls – a lookout and spy for a feral thread.
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead
The rising of the horns, ahead
