DEIMOS
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head
The thunder of the drums dictates
The thunder of the drums dictates
The warrior grinned, content with wandering up to see their multitudes of damage done, before another took their place along the second catapult. “Best get in line,” the Sword warned Talyson with a juvenile grin – for this was always the favored part of the day. He did much the same, settling purposefully in front of the courier simply to get a rise out of him.
One by one they filed along, supporting and helping one another in turns and movements, levers pulled, mechanics in gear, the sounds of armaments in motion descending amidst the walls. Warriors positioned to spot along the barrier gave orders of positions, to turn or twist in range, before the onslaught of stones hit the marked Sunjata or Neron. Belial pouted, but flew overhead, occasionally chasing down the stones.
Eventually, Deimos took his mark, placing the stones amidst the basket, listening to the direct order of the soldiers in place, waiting for the go-ahead with an indulgent snicker. Demolition and desecration, even in the most minor of practices, always hummed a little under his skin, and when he pulled the lever, the impending crash and boom of a struck Flood face ensured contentment and satisfaction. Thereafter, he stepped aside, inclining his head towards the next catapult and Talyson. “You are up.”
One by one they filed along, supporting and helping one another in turns and movements, levers pulled, mechanics in gear, the sounds of armaments in motion descending amidst the walls. Warriors positioned to spot along the barrier gave orders of positions, to turn or twist in range, before the onslaught of stones hit the marked Sunjata or Neron. Belial pouted, but flew overhead, occasionally chasing down the stones.
Eventually, Deimos took his mark, placing the stones amidst the basket, listening to the direct order of the soldiers in place, waiting for the go-ahead with an indulgent snicker. Demolition and desecration, even in the most minor of practices, always hummed a little under his skin, and when he pulled the lever, the impending crash and boom of a struck Flood face ensured contentment and satisfaction. Thereafter, he stepped aside, inclining his head towards the next catapult and Talyson. “You are up.”
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead
The rising of the horns, ahead
