DEIMOS
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head
The thunder of the drums dictates
The thunder of the drums dictates
He detected something in the quip of her words, but uncertain which proportions they derived from, he could only follow the patterns and themes of how he’d lived in this world. “So that I may have more power and strength.” To protect, to shield, to defend, time and time again, and perhaps one of the few moments he’d ever asked for anything for himself. Not a single bout of shame lingered in his soul for the decision, and he carried himself a little higher then – spine straightening, demeanor solid and balanced. “It does not.” No limitations, no stifling, just an unfurling of dominion and predacious whims – flickering and flowing through the beat of his pulse. “Some of my shifts have their own.” The great hound’s fiery paws, or the thunderbird’s crackling finesse.
Belial’s exuberance became more enervated as they reached the aperture – the wind, bellowing and howling outside the obsidian walls was the first hint, and then the stark contrast of endless ivory appearing on the other side. Blinding at first, and then the length of the cold scoring across the edges of warmth, combining into a bizarre essence along the entryway. With a small grin lacquered along the edges of his mouth, only a light, teasing air meandered from the rumble of his tones. “A starting point, perhaps?” Then, with a shrug of his shoulders, he maneuvered into far more familiarity, a monolith of the mountains, by pressing immediately into the snow, rounding the corner, and pulling out the sled he’d left behind.
Thereafter, he dragged it further into the entrance until the runners gave too many protests, piling his gore crow haul into its open back, and pulling out the furs from his bag, preparing for the thresholds of winter, rather than the molten area. Belial happily jumped within, throwing his own prey around until more feathers fell and flew. While the Sword roped some proportions down, and shooed the peryton off, he turned his head back over his shoulder, glancing between masks and the unknown. “Are you continuing on to Halo?”
Belial’s exuberance became more enervated as they reached the aperture – the wind, bellowing and howling outside the obsidian walls was the first hint, and then the stark contrast of endless ivory appearing on the other side. Blinding at first, and then the length of the cold scoring across the edges of warmth, combining into a bizarre essence along the entryway. With a small grin lacquered along the edges of his mouth, only a light, teasing air meandered from the rumble of his tones. “A starting point, perhaps?” Then, with a shrug of his shoulders, he maneuvered into far more familiarity, a monolith of the mountains, by pressing immediately into the snow, rounding the corner, and pulling out the sled he’d left behind.
Thereafter, he dragged it further into the entrance until the runners gave too many protests, piling his gore crow haul into its open back, and pulling out the furs from his bag, preparing for the thresholds of winter, rather than the molten area. Belial happily jumped within, throwing his own prey around until more feathers fell and flew. While the Sword roped some proportions down, and shooed the peryton off, he turned his head back over his shoulder, glancing between masks and the unknown. “Are you continuing on to Halo?”
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead
The rising of the horns, ahead
