DEIMOS
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head
The thunder of the drums dictates
The thunder of the drums dictates
The mare accepted the affection, leaning into the touches, asking for scratches as she tilted her head, offering her ears. There was little else she could provide beside the ways of distraction and deterrents, her capabilities ill-reaching from the spirits of the shrines.
Deimos leaned forward, elbows on the table, eventually lifting the glass, sipping slowly, taking it all in, absorbing the answer. Her punishment was ironic, given the climate they lived in, and he eased a sigh building and brewing behind his lungs. It explained the hearth, the fire rising and roaring, the heat flickering everywhere, encompassing, comfortable, and warming amidst the stones. Just not for her. “Did you do something to anger them?” A light bit of humor, seeing if he could provoke, instigate, jibe, irritate, annoy her into a temper – if that would coax the inferno likely still remaining, existing within her being. He tucked the smile behind the glass, taking another swallow before continuing, setting the drink down. Uncertain how the curses intermingled, what vengeance lingered in those depths, what inspired the parameters of cruel exposition, he persisted. “Or do you know how long it is supposed to last?” Perhaps they were all furtive measures; the unknown creeping and crawling, like in so many other notions and motions in this world.
Deimos leaned forward, elbows on the table, eventually lifting the glass, sipping slowly, taking it all in, absorbing the answer. Her punishment was ironic, given the climate they lived in, and he eased a sigh building and brewing behind his lungs. It explained the hearth, the fire rising and roaring, the heat flickering everywhere, encompassing, comfortable, and warming amidst the stones. Just not for her. “Did you do something to anger them?” A light bit of humor, seeing if he could provoke, instigate, jibe, irritate, annoy her into a temper – if that would coax the inferno likely still remaining, existing within her being. He tucked the smile behind the glass, taking another swallow before continuing, setting the drink down. Uncertain how the curses intermingled, what vengeance lingered in those depths, what inspired the parameters of cruel exposition, he persisted. “Or do you know how long it is supposed to last?” Perhaps they were all furtive measures; the unknown creeping and crawling, like in so many other notions and motions in this world.
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead
The rising of the horns, ahead
