DEIMOS
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head
The thunder of the drums dictates
The thunder of the drums dictates
“I apologize for not bringing my unicorn,” he murmured; brow furrowing as he located the bandages, passing them over to her to staunch and press against the wound. Zuriel, content and unaware of any doom as she likely laid nestled next to her favored hearth, would likely be irritated and annoyed with him when he returned just for this very reason. “She would have healed this with little trouble.” For now, the gauze and compression would have to do, and he paused for a moment, waiting to see if it was enough. The beast could always create more.
Restless with the considerations, and annoyed at some decisions, he tilted his head, listening all the while as he moved towards the still, prone birds. “I had not seen it like that before,” regarding life drain visibly conducting itself, pulsing and pervading, tied like a vicious, vile noose. His sunk, took, stole, and manifested in a nefarious, intricate maneuver – hers had it written in plain sight.
As for his, the Sword shrugged, creating a rope between his hands, and then beginning to circle it over the corvid’s feet, figuring it’d be easy to string them along and pack them over his shoulder. “I have had it for a long time. Strength of one’s magic seems to grow here.” Not stagnant, but flowing, flickering, with practice, with ease, with confidence, with renewal – he had no other way to explain the phenomenon.
Belial, content with his own meal, audibly crunched down on a bone, and Deimos glanced at him in a brief snort, before his eyes went back to the blood on the floor, and the start of a frown. “Do you need more?” Uncertain if she had the capability of storing or freezing – or if the one would suffice.
Restless with the considerations, and annoyed at some decisions, he tilted his head, listening all the while as he moved towards the still, prone birds. “I had not seen it like that before,” regarding life drain visibly conducting itself, pulsing and pervading, tied like a vicious, vile noose. His sunk, took, stole, and manifested in a nefarious, intricate maneuver – hers had it written in plain sight.
As for his, the Sword shrugged, creating a rope between his hands, and then beginning to circle it over the corvid’s feet, figuring it’d be easy to string them along and pack them over his shoulder. “I have had it for a long time. Strength of one’s magic seems to grow here.” Not stagnant, but flowing, flickering, with practice, with ease, with confidence, with renewal – he had no other way to explain the phenomenon.
Belial, content with his own meal, audibly crunched down on a bone, and Deimos glanced at him in a brief snort, before his eyes went back to the blood on the floor, and the start of a frown. “Do you need more?” Uncertain if she had the capability of storing or freezing – or if the one would suffice.
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead
The rising of the horns, ahead
