DEIMOS
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head
The thunder of the drums dictates
The thunder of the drums dictates
Eternities might have stretched out before him and he would’ve still plunged onward; content with the swiftness, the sureness, the steadiness of the ground below claws and paws, head and limbs outstretched to take hold of the wind and the snow and everything else in between. Notched and nestled with his prowess, with his potential, Deimos was merely a Stygian formation, easily shifting through the semblances of the tundra, unfurling before its wake. The spires and turrets and walls beckoned, but so did the rest of the plains, the mountains, the summits, pulling him together and apart with memories and lives – of bones nestled in caverns, of wars fought on a different countryside, of the way things faded and remained all at once.
However, then there were beckoning words, and it took him a moment to register the phrases for what they truly meant – the Citadel not far away, a few minutes easily. Pondering, leaving the inquiries lodged behind fangs, his movements began to slow. The strides not elongated, not striving, driving, until eventually he ceased altogether – a mighty heave of his sides as he took a long, slow breath. Not labored, but catching at the multitudes anyway, muscles keen and ready and eager for another bout.
The rope dropped from his mouth, and his gaze swung to the world around them – places one would hide and tuck themselves away. Thereafter, he shifted back, remaining still an instant longer as senses adjusted from hound to human, the arch of his brow defining the Sword’s key features once more – stoicism bound to curiosity and inquiry, waiting for her to decide and decipher. The only remaining question he’d bother to ask was about the arm – figuring she could get it doctored up either by his unicorn or a healer in Halo’s fold. “And your arm?”
However, then there were beckoning words, and it took him a moment to register the phrases for what they truly meant – the Citadel not far away, a few minutes easily. Pondering, leaving the inquiries lodged behind fangs, his movements began to slow. The strides not elongated, not striving, driving, until eventually he ceased altogether – a mighty heave of his sides as he took a long, slow breath. Not labored, but catching at the multitudes anyway, muscles keen and ready and eager for another bout.
The rope dropped from his mouth, and his gaze swung to the world around them – places one would hide and tuck themselves away. Thereafter, he shifted back, remaining still an instant longer as senses adjusted from hound to human, the arch of his brow defining the Sword’s key features once more – stoicism bound to curiosity and inquiry, waiting for her to decide and decipher. The only remaining question he’d bother to ask was about the arm – figuring she could get it doctored up either by his unicorn or a healer in Halo’s fold. “And your arm?”
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead
The rising of the horns, ahead
