DEIMOS
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head
The thunder of the drums dictates
The thunder of the drums dictates
“He will likely be pleased by whatever he hears,” by way of another wry grin, settling just in one corner; eyes watching, scrutinizing as ever, until it appeared she had everything adjusted and ready. Then he began to move once more, strides entirely certain, seeking out the ferocity of the wind billowing from outside cavern walls. Belial bound upwards once more, chirping, though it was somewhat muffled by the crow in his mouth, launching into another ebullient display.
Nothing is written indeed; and the snort was muffled within his chest, very quiet, and not enough to echo off the chambers. He often wondered if the vagueness was merely a way to say everything was up to inferences and analysis at later junctures; a safekeeping of accuracy and definition in case other details went awry. “Not I,” he admitted; considering any time before, when he’d begged and pleaded and kneeled in front of altars with his head bowed and his soul tearing out of his chest, had been in acts of desperation. When things were no longer in his control. When he’d craved for another to become well, or when one of his own had been lost.
But the Sword hadn’t done that then – not when he’d stood in front of Safrin’s shrine and asked for more strength. “And not until I wanted to Attune.” There was a shrug of his shoulders, and then a jutting of his jawline towards another bend. “We should be at the end just around the corner.” In case she yearned to snag anything else in the interim.
Nothing is written indeed; and the snort was muffled within his chest, very quiet, and not enough to echo off the chambers. He often wondered if the vagueness was merely a way to say everything was up to inferences and analysis at later junctures; a safekeeping of accuracy and definition in case other details went awry. “Not I,” he admitted; considering any time before, when he’d begged and pleaded and kneeled in front of altars with his head bowed and his soul tearing out of his chest, had been in acts of desperation. When things were no longer in his control. When he’d craved for another to become well, or when one of his own had been lost.
But the Sword hadn’t done that then – not when he’d stood in front of Safrin’s shrine and asked for more strength. “And not until I wanted to Attune.” There was a shrug of his shoulders, and then a jutting of his jawline towards another bend. “We should be at the end just around the corner.” In case she yearned to snag anything else in the interim.
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead
The rising of the horns, ahead
