DEIMOS
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head
The thunder of the drums dictates
The thunder of the drums dictates
Instincts told him to decimate, eradicate, obliterate. It’d be easy – a twist and turn of incantations, a seeking of life draining capabilities, and the creature wouldn’t attack again. Could’ve given chase, sought out the angles of murky abyss and mauled, broke apart, savaged. Then the equine would falter and flicker down below the depths, to sink and become part of the churning scavengers below the brink of mist and fog. Would keen and wail and then nothing. He’d seen it all, time and time before.
But there were other matters at hand, and for once, he didn’t feel like punishing the predator for doing exactly as it was made to do – maybe they were all tangled in those woven strands of nature and adversity. So instead of persecuting the beast until it could do naught more than wither and die, the edges of his magic persisted, keeping it held away, while Belial harassed with fangs and wings.
Eventually, it took the hint; diving below, leaving behind only scarce bubbles on the surface, and some inspiring abhorrence. The Sword snorted, half-irritated, half-relieved, shaking his head as the peryton came gliding back over the range of haze, and Zuriel’s hooves could be heard, echoing from behind them.
Only then did he turn his attention to the potential victim of circumstances and ignorance, arching his brow, the distinct rumble filtering through as his gaze ran over her in brief examination. He knew better than most though; a lack of blood didn’t assure a lack of damage. “You all right?”
But there were other matters at hand, and for once, he didn’t feel like punishing the predator for doing exactly as it was made to do – maybe they were all tangled in those woven strands of nature and adversity. So instead of persecuting the beast until it could do naught more than wither and die, the edges of his magic persisted, keeping it held away, while Belial harassed with fangs and wings.
Eventually, it took the hint; diving below, leaving behind only scarce bubbles on the surface, and some inspiring abhorrence. The Sword snorted, half-irritated, half-relieved, shaking his head as the peryton came gliding back over the range of haze, and Zuriel’s hooves could be heard, echoing from behind them.
Only then did he turn his attention to the potential victim of circumstances and ignorance, arching his brow, the distinct rumble filtering through as his gaze ran over her in brief examination. He knew better than most though; a lack of blood didn’t assure a lack of damage. “You all right?”
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead
The rising of the horns, ahead
