DEIMOS
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head
The thunder of the drums dictates
The thunder of the drums dictates
Silence bound, and then there were only footfalls for a moment, hooves, boots, and soles, echoing off the chamber walls. Incapable of reading her features due to the mask, he only glanced onward, winding along another bend, memory working in familiarity with the press of the caverns. Only thereafter was an inquiry about the other one bonded to his soul, the inklings of another smile reaching his mouth. The tones thereafter were delved in fondness, of a quiet reverence, for a being who had never left him (one of the few). “She is my other companion. Zuriel.” While the peryton meandered in front of them, ripping off another slew of feathers, the scale of the first held much broader implications.
When he’d been bloodied and broken and beaten down from failure, lungs exhaling poison, and glancing upward only to see a predator honing in on its prey. “She was being chased by a landshark.” And the Sword, because at the bare minimum he was a protector, a shield, a piece of moving, breathing weaponry, had ignored Kiada and his own wounds. “So I intervened. The landshark was killed, I nearly lost my arm, and she must have believed me worthy of her diligence.” He shrugged his shoulders, but the grin remained; trying to parse away the notions of value and notions deserved. “She has saved many.” To give credit where credit was due – and that the mare had reason to be haughty, proud, and spoiled.
Shifting the prey along his shoulders, his piercing gaze went elsewhere, remaining tied to the routes they traversed, turning left on a sweeping edge, ensuring they were back where they’d started, and then continuing onward, towards the hallowed reaches of Halo. “There are herds in King’s End.” Should the shaman find herself in need.
Unaware of being watched – but used to the disposition, considering how often he scrutinized another’s movements and motions (right down to predictability; always waiting to see if there was a siege coming in his direction), he forged onward, listening with that subtle tilt of his head. His grin wove into more of a teasing depth, though he understood her implications. All of his scars were reminders too; even if some of the same mistakes had been repeated. “To not be caught off-guard by a gore crow?”
When he’d been bloodied and broken and beaten down from failure, lungs exhaling poison, and glancing upward only to see a predator honing in on its prey. “She was being chased by a landshark.” And the Sword, because at the bare minimum he was a protector, a shield, a piece of moving, breathing weaponry, had ignored Kiada and his own wounds. “So I intervened. The landshark was killed, I nearly lost my arm, and she must have believed me worthy of her diligence.” He shrugged his shoulders, but the grin remained; trying to parse away the notions of value and notions deserved. “She has saved many.” To give credit where credit was due – and that the mare had reason to be haughty, proud, and spoiled.
Shifting the prey along his shoulders, his piercing gaze went elsewhere, remaining tied to the routes they traversed, turning left on a sweeping edge, ensuring they were back where they’d started, and then continuing onward, towards the hallowed reaches of Halo. “There are herds in King’s End.” Should the shaman find herself in need.
Unaware of being watched – but used to the disposition, considering how often he scrutinized another’s movements and motions (right down to predictability; always waiting to see if there was a siege coming in his direction), he forged onward, listening with that subtle tilt of his head. His grin wove into more of a teasing depth, though he understood her implications. All of his scars were reminders too; even if some of the same mistakes had been repeated. “To not be caught off-guard by a gore crow?”
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead
The rising of the horns, ahead
