DEIMOS
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head
The thunder of the drums dictates
The thunder of the drums dictates
“Have you found ways to heal yourself?” Head bowed in his work, but the levels of an inquiry, notched over the obvious trails of scars and marks, purposefully leading her to other segues and subjects. He’d had a similar conversation in the Grounds, where Vai had strived to mend a burn across his shoulder, and the fellow mage’s abilities hadn’t been capable.
With the rope firmly established, checking over the ties he’d constructed, he packed the corvids directly over his shoulder, opposite the one carrying the bag. He listened all the while, instinctually turning them back the way they’d come, beckoning Belial in silent connections and bonds as he drifted, the peryton content to have the meal remaining in his mouth.
Speculations spiraled as the Sword listened to Chaele’s experiences though – of ties to darkness, of manifestations brought to the surface, ritualistic words scattered on wind or established into the air, symbolic gestures he’d never bothered to strive for. Wouldn’t have known, or likely understood. “Do you conduct that for all the magic you have?” Presuming, much like himself, that there were more veins and rivulets of incantations running through a mage’s pulse.
The question she asked thereafter made him snort. He’d had swords in his hands, pressed and woven into callouses from an early age because he knew what it meant to fight. He’d had daggers at his throat, spears plunged into his sides, cascades and ripples of treachery and lethality pressed into his skin and he’d bled, bled, bled for his friends, allies, and loved ones. He’d had magic in his grasp and unraveled it to save those he cherished the most – even as they became naught more than ghosts on the edges of his mind. War had been his advisor, confidant, and guide. “No. I had the battlefield.”
With the rope firmly established, checking over the ties he’d constructed, he packed the corvids directly over his shoulder, opposite the one carrying the bag. He listened all the while, instinctually turning them back the way they’d come, beckoning Belial in silent connections and bonds as he drifted, the peryton content to have the meal remaining in his mouth.
Speculations spiraled as the Sword listened to Chaele’s experiences though – of ties to darkness, of manifestations brought to the surface, ritualistic words scattered on wind or established into the air, symbolic gestures he’d never bothered to strive for. Wouldn’t have known, or likely understood. “Do you conduct that for all the magic you have?” Presuming, much like himself, that there were more veins and rivulets of incantations running through a mage’s pulse.
The question she asked thereafter made him snort. He’d had swords in his hands, pressed and woven into callouses from an early age because he knew what it meant to fight. He’d had daggers at his throat, spears plunged into his sides, cascades and ripples of treachery and lethality pressed into his skin and he’d bled, bled, bled for his friends, allies, and loved ones. He’d had magic in his grasp and unraveled it to save those he cherished the most – even as they became naught more than ghosts on the edges of his mind. War had been his advisor, confidant, and guide. “No. I had the battlefield.”
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead
The rising of the horns, ahead
