DEIMOS
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head
The thunder of the drums dictates
The thunder of the drums dictates
Pleased and content with the work, he managed one grin and patted the table. “I can make you maps later, if you want,” he offered to the Forsaken, figuring an update was an order from any old, remaining ones anyway, what with the transformations to the land after the war.
With the door and windows taken care of, he surveyed the rest of the facility, missing his own barracks back in Halo and pondering over the state of the ones he’d once created. They’d be left to the Grounds again and again, but hopefully somehow, someway, keep up their strength and rigor.
With Fox dusting and tending to the fire, the Sword set about dusting with a nearby rag, removing the filaments from shelving, doorframes, and any other setting, ensuring it was hastened outward as well by careful and meticulous notions of his Air magic.
--
Deimos dusts!
With the door and windows taken care of, he surveyed the rest of the facility, missing his own barracks back in Halo and pondering over the state of the ones he’d once created. They’d be left to the Grounds again and again, but hopefully somehow, someway, keep up their strength and rigor.
With Fox dusting and tending to the fire, the Sword set about dusting with a nearby rag, removing the filaments from shelving, doorframes, and any other setting, ensuring it was hastened outward as well by careful and meticulous notions of his Air magic.
--
Deimos dusts!
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead
The rising of the horns, ahead
