DEIMOS
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head
The thunder of the drums dictates
The thunder of the drums dictates
He listened while he worked, a tendency of attention and evaluation, as ropes were gathered and bags, prey, tied down along the sled’s parameters. The ambivalence caused him to snort, mostly because he was rarely a being immersed in vagueness and indecision, making an offering as he so casually, easily, did with many a stranger or familiar. “Well, I can take you through the tundra,” one hand patting over the sled, while he adjusted and flagged out one more tether and line for the front, to be dragged along the snow. She could either make camp along the way, in between pockets of ivory, amongst the Fangs, or within the Citadel itself. Whitebrim could offer some way of solace, if only because the cannibals were gone.
The wind howled and whipped around the entryway, and out of habit he lifted his gaze, his head, to its ferocity, enjoying the beat and pulse of its icy contortions, before pondering the topic further, nodding at her insinuation. “Deepfrost will have us cut off from using the portal.” Not that he yearned to any longer, not when his wings could stretch and unfurl and grant illustrious liberation, freedom; but the option remained for many other individuals. An almost teasing grin curled along the fringes of his mouth, somewhat Cheshire and juvenile, maybe in challenge, in jest, or to see just how far she’d wandered. “Have you ever been to the Draig?” With all its draconic reaches and dangerous, lethal dominions?
The wind howled and whipped around the entryway, and out of habit he lifted his gaze, his head, to its ferocity, enjoying the beat and pulse of its icy contortions, before pondering the topic further, nodding at her insinuation. “Deepfrost will have us cut off from using the portal.” Not that he yearned to any longer, not when his wings could stretch and unfurl and grant illustrious liberation, freedom; but the option remained for many other individuals. An almost teasing grin curled along the fringes of his mouth, somewhat Cheshire and juvenile, maybe in challenge, in jest, or to see just how far she’d wandered. “Have you ever been to the Draig?” With all its draconic reaches and dangerous, lethal dominions?
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead
The rising of the horns, ahead
