DEIMOS
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head
The thunder of the drums dictates
The thunder of the drums dictates
Deimos could understand the temptation of wanting to give chase to enemies. How many times had he defended, shielded, and protected, but because of his unyielding, unwavering stance over those fallen, he couldn’t rampage after the true adversaries? Sometimes the opportunity came later. Sometimes he carved the occasion himself, calculating and ruthless, bellowing and howling into the void to strike it down. Picking and choosing the right moment, the right meaning, the right weapon, the right regard; lofty, weighted decisions that had plagued his mind as soldier, General, Lord, and then warrior again.
The aspects of refugees had him nodding – watching as she altered out of the rancor for a moment, as she didn’t give into the chafing, endless cold. And the ending statement, the puncturing trace, had his eyes falling to the table, piercing gaze contemplating as it ran over the wooden surface, along the entanglements of knots and gnarls. “They do not.” For all their actions, the results still might not come out in their favor. One could have the most compassionate regard in their minds, and still, the instant might have gone unnoticed, hastening no fortune; only the feral platitudes of something else gone awry.
He took a swallow of the alcohol, let it burn along his mouth, down his throat, the essence of warmth sliding down, gaze finally lifting back up to hers. “So what happened instead?”
The aspects of refugees had him nodding – watching as she altered out of the rancor for a moment, as she didn’t give into the chafing, endless cold. And the ending statement, the puncturing trace, had his eyes falling to the table, piercing gaze contemplating as it ran over the wooden surface, along the entanglements of knots and gnarls. “They do not.” For all their actions, the results still might not come out in their favor. One could have the most compassionate regard in their minds, and still, the instant might have gone unnoticed, hastening no fortune; only the feral platitudes of something else gone awry.
He took a swallow of the alcohol, let it burn along his mouth, down his throat, the essence of warmth sliding down, gaze finally lifting back up to hers. “So what happened instead?”
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead
The rising of the horns, ahead
