DEIMOS
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head
The thunder of the drums dictates
The thunder of the drums dictates
The Sword was not an individual to wander without purpose – whether it was a liberation of movement and motion, political nuances, amusements, training exercises, or guild business. Today was the latter, flying over with Belial, a bag in his talons, and a faint notion of other flora and fauna to sketch and outline amidst the journals hastened by other monster hunters.
Shifting and landing, conducting some routes to memory from ventures with Kiada and other moments scattered amidst the embedded lands, he immediately began pulling his hair back off his neck, into some makeshift bun, from the blast of heat surrounding and pervading. While he would never be remiss of fire, it was still an entirely different climate from Halo, and would take more than a few moments to settle into.
Taking out the notes from the journals, he turned to a specific page and gestured silently to Belial, who soared off and on ahead amidst the Burrows. Striving not to roll his eyes at the peryton’s antics, his long strides persisted and pursued, until he could hear the residual hoot and holler of the beast.
Which meant he’d found something.
Turned out it was a person along the turn of a cavern’s midst, at which Belial gave a mighty bellowing screech in some foolish greeting – and Deimos inwardly grimaced. “Apologies,” he offered in a deep rumble thereafter, glaring at the back of the companion’s head.
Shifting and landing, conducting some routes to memory from ventures with Kiada and other moments scattered amidst the embedded lands, he immediately began pulling his hair back off his neck, into some makeshift bun, from the blast of heat surrounding and pervading. While he would never be remiss of fire, it was still an entirely different climate from Halo, and would take more than a few moments to settle into.
Taking out the notes from the journals, he turned to a specific page and gestured silently to Belial, who soared off and on ahead amidst the Burrows. Striving not to roll his eyes at the peryton’s antics, his long strides persisted and pursued, until he could hear the residual hoot and holler of the beast.
Which meant he’d found something.
Turned out it was a person along the turn of a cavern’s midst, at which Belial gave a mighty bellowing screech in some foolish greeting – and Deimos inwardly grimaced. “Apologies,” he offered in a deep rumble thereafter, glaring at the back of the companion’s head.
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead
The rising of the horns, ahead
