DEIMOS
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head
The thunder of the drums dictates
The thunder of the drums dictates
In truth, Deimos had always prepared for the worst. This course of meticulous planning and steadfast determination could be followed by the nearly the entire course of his multiple lives, and by how he conducted, and involved himself, in various, dangerous activities. He understood not everyone delved headfirst into treacherous notions, battle, warfare, skirmishes, and hunting; however, he’d also seen the most innocent of lives ripped apart at something as simplistic as festivals. At how things could alter and change within an instant. How something mundane became anything but.
So he was essentially floored when she persisted in not having much knowledge, thought behind it, or the need for one’s own preservation. The Sword took a few moments to shake his head and blink again, torn between uttering one of the deepest sighs he could muster, or merely forging onward, once he trudged through his disbelief.
At least she had evasion as a tactic, worthwhile in any field. “Yes. You could.” The counter measure would always be a what if scenario, but the lecture was already across his tongue and barreling behind his teeth.
Fighting an eye-twitch at the way she gingerly held the shield, he snagged it back, and began running through demonstrations. “In front of your vital organs,” using the strap, and showing her the mechanics of it as he maneuvered it before his chest, “Or somewhere near your head.” She struck him as someone who would probably instinctually duck, so he utilized it overhead, where his skill was protected from whatever onslaught threatened.
Then he handed it back to her. “Try.”
So he was essentially floored when she persisted in not having much knowledge, thought behind it, or the need for one’s own preservation. The Sword took a few moments to shake his head and blink again, torn between uttering one of the deepest sighs he could muster, or merely forging onward, once he trudged through his disbelief.
At least she had evasion as a tactic, worthwhile in any field. “Yes. You could.” The counter measure would always be a what if scenario, but the lecture was already across his tongue and barreling behind his teeth.
Fighting an eye-twitch at the way she gingerly held the shield, he snagged it back, and began running through demonstrations. “In front of your vital organs,” using the strap, and showing her the mechanics of it as he maneuvered it before his chest, “Or somewhere near your head.” She struck him as someone who would probably instinctually duck, so he utilized it overhead, where his skill was protected from whatever onslaught threatened.
Then he handed it back to her. “Try.”
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead
The rising of the horns, ahead
