DEIMOS
The sound of iron shots is stuck in my head
The thunder of the drums dictates
The thunder of the drums dictates
His eyes went to her paper, the writing and notes dictated alongside, head tilted in a fraction that was both predator-born and insatiably inquiring. Analytical to a fault, a creature of scholarly intentions and musing calculations, he grabbed his own document, snatching a piece of bread as he worked, sketching out a large fireplace, a massive hearth much like theirs (comfortable, a place of gathering, even in here it was meant for war plans, defenses, and sieges). Vacancies in the Citadel meant some limitations, and he shrugged his shoulders as he continued with the details of her planned, formulated outlines. “There could be some across from the council hall?” A place of business, politics, diplomacy, and other matters, and not so intimidating as the icy palace nearby. People strolled by often, either to launch their complaints, needs, or wants. “Or maybe near the market.” Where their eyes slipped from kiosk to kiosk, from stall to stall, yearning for wares, and crossing similar paths.
At the mention of cozy, the beast merely smiled, slipping in a few large armchairs before the flames, cabinets full of goods, storage facilities where they could keep books, and notes. “What about a library?” A place of documentation, collected and stored further into the main parlor and room. If he could recall, while doing repairs for the old one, there’d been nooks and crannies piled with trophies laden, portraits hanging, detailing those they’d hunted, regaled, or missed. Wanted posters, with marks and dates chiseled, with missions entailed and meant to enthrall. Deimos added them into the scene, merely as ornamental illustration, as ideas she might enjoy, before sliding it back over to her.
At the mention of cozy, the beast merely smiled, slipping in a few large armchairs before the flames, cabinets full of goods, storage facilities where they could keep books, and notes. “What about a library?” A place of documentation, collected and stored further into the main parlor and room. If he could recall, while doing repairs for the old one, there’d been nooks and crannies piled with trophies laden, portraits hanging, detailing those they’d hunted, regaled, or missed. Wanted posters, with marks and dates chiseled, with missions entailed and meant to enthrall. Deimos added them into the scene, merely as ornamental illustration, as ideas she might enjoy, before sliding it back over to her.
The rhythm of the falls, the number of dead
The rising of the horns, ahead
The rising of the horns, ahead
