DEIMOS
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head
The thunder of the drums dictates
The thunder of the drums dictates
Perhaps it was a shame; but as someone eternally bound to protecting others, it didn’t surprise him. Between the number of creatures who wandered into the world – such as the LongNight monsters – who only seemed to crave destruction of the people around, they’d had to find some way to combat the issue. “That can still be true,” he shrugged, the roll of his shoulders fighting off any restlessness. “But I have seen great violence from some upon the innocent,” like the festival, the mud monster, and the absolute catastrophe that followed. Demons made from the Voice, allowed to roam for no other reason except her own whims. Banshees and daemons who mourned their losses by craving another’s misery – were their places to puncture and pierce the weak? Was it some method of survival of the fittest? He couldn’t say.
He just tried to save who he could.
Granting her a small smile at the indulgence in return, he took his journal back, and eyes flicked back to her own book of scribes and studies. “I can remove the water from it,” he offered immediately, feeling the damp quality, wondering how much had already been ruined. “If you want,” came again, pondering if such things mattered to her. But then he carefully opened the book, prying apart some wet, sodden pages to reveal copious amounts of notes and details from her travels. Curiosity and ideas struck, in his usual machinations, but his quiet rumble persisted without the edge of those notions. “How many places have you been?”
He just tried to save who he could.
Granting her a small smile at the indulgence in return, he took his journal back, and eyes flicked back to her own book of scribes and studies. “I can remove the water from it,” he offered immediately, feeling the damp quality, wondering how much had already been ruined. “If you want,” came again, pondering if such things mattered to her. But then he carefully opened the book, prying apart some wet, sodden pages to reveal copious amounts of notes and details from her travels. Curiosity and ideas struck, in his usual machinations, but his quiet rumble persisted without the edge of those notions. “How many places have you been?”
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead
The rising of the horns, ahead
