DEIMOS
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head
The thunder of the drums dictates
The thunder of the drums dictates
Another series of office hours completed, and no one murdered amidst their petty arguments; Deimos considered it successful, and marked it down as an interval he wouldn’t have to repeat. The middle of the season approached, which spelled out different angles of plotting, ruses, schemes, and the signal of the ending due to approach without much more preamble. He’d once thought, initially, they wouldn’t have to deal with the nuances of LongNight – and now, by stretch, by measures of Kiada and Elide’s impending departure into the framework of hell, he’d spent a multitude of time sketching out diagrams of weaponry for both. Between that, and attempting to not grow into a restless, monolithic beacon striking out against the cobblestones, the Sword had kept himself busy.
A return into the barracks was met with an opening of the door, sliding inside, transitioning from cold to warmth, with the roaring fire, the clamor of the hearth. Normally it was the first thing he went towards, drawing and contorting the flames to a brighter, bestial crescendo, feeding its adornments to ensure the rest of the halls and walls were to working order. Instead, as he pulled his gloves off, placing them on his desk nearby, his eyes went to the figure in his usual brooding spot.
“Aisha,” he announced, over the roar of the fire, and the incoming greeting of Zuriel, who’d been somewhere intertwined in the midst. His eyes narrowed, speculating, considering, because this wasn’t where he normally found her. Ordinarily, she’d be off in the midst of the training grounds, instigating, agitating, rankling fellow Guards until they all volleyed and rallied. “Are you pouting?” Perhaps something else had occurred – one more trial and tribulation, and automatically, after his rumbling tones attempted to exude some amusement, he wandered over to the cabinets – in search of alcohol.
A return into the barracks was met with an opening of the door, sliding inside, transitioning from cold to warmth, with the roaring fire, the clamor of the hearth. Normally it was the first thing he went towards, drawing and contorting the flames to a brighter, bestial crescendo, feeding its adornments to ensure the rest of the halls and walls were to working order. Instead, as he pulled his gloves off, placing them on his desk nearby, his eyes went to the figure in his usual brooding spot.
“Aisha,” he announced, over the roar of the fire, and the incoming greeting of Zuriel, who’d been somewhere intertwined in the midst. His eyes narrowed, speculating, considering, because this wasn’t where he normally found her. Ordinarily, she’d be off in the midst of the training grounds, instigating, agitating, rankling fellow Guards until they all volleyed and rallied. “Are you pouting?” Perhaps something else had occurred – one more trial and tribulation, and automatically, after his rumbling tones attempted to exude some amusement, he wandered over to the cabinets – in search of alcohol.
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead
The rising of the horns, ahead
