DAMIEN
I know it's been a long time coming
I'm angry and I know that's weak
I'm angry and I know that's weak
The trail curves through a bed of frost-slick ferns, where the prints of a hare—fresh, light, quick—disappear into shadow. Damien crouches low, gloved fingers brushing the edge of the tracks. Still warm enough for the pads to leave definition. He shifts his weight slowly, listening to the hush of the forest and the faint, dry snap of branches under some distant step.
Not a rabbit, then. Something larger.
He straightens and moves on, careful as the snowmelt seeping down from the higher ridges. The Greenwing holds sound like a secret. Every motion echoes faintly beneath the trees, and the cold works its way through even the thickest coat if you let yourself sit still too long. Not that he minds. The silence is familiar. Honest.
He means to check the traps he’d already set earlier in the week (simple lines strung near one of the smaller streams) but the sound ahead pulls him off-course. Hooves. Sled runners. Something heavy threading through the undergrowth, deliberate and slow.
Damien pauses at the edge of a rise, dark eyes narrowing beneath his hood.
It isn’t a herd or a wild boar. He could see the peryton’s shadow skimming the treetops and the unmistakable gleam of a horn where a unicorn moved between the brush. A sled behind them. And ahead—Deimos. The Warden.
He exhales, not quite a sigh. Halo’s Sword in the forest. Not something you see every day.
Damien steps out from behind a pine as the group moves closer, slow and deliberate, palms empty and nonthreatening. No sudden movements. Just enough to be seen.
“Didn’t expect company in this part of the Greenwing,” he says, voice low, even.
He gives a nod of recognition. A fellow hunter, for the moment.
“I’ve got traps near the stream down that way,” he adds with a tilt of his head, "if you're scouting for fresh game. Snow's light enough the scent trails haven’t gone to rot yet."
He doesn’t explain what he's doing here because he doesn't think he needs to. Men like him move where the land requires. But if Deimos invites him to walk with them, Damien won't say no.
Not a rabbit, then. Something larger.
He straightens and moves on, careful as the snowmelt seeping down from the higher ridges. The Greenwing holds sound like a secret. Every motion echoes faintly beneath the trees, and the cold works its way through even the thickest coat if you let yourself sit still too long. Not that he minds. The silence is familiar. Honest.
He means to check the traps he’d already set earlier in the week (simple lines strung near one of the smaller streams) but the sound ahead pulls him off-course. Hooves. Sled runners. Something heavy threading through the undergrowth, deliberate and slow.
Damien pauses at the edge of a rise, dark eyes narrowing beneath his hood.
It isn’t a herd or a wild boar. He could see the peryton’s shadow skimming the treetops and the unmistakable gleam of a horn where a unicorn moved between the brush. A sled behind them. And ahead—Deimos. The Warden.
He exhales, not quite a sigh. Halo’s Sword in the forest. Not something you see every day.
Damien steps out from behind a pine as the group moves closer, slow and deliberate, palms empty and nonthreatening. No sudden movements. Just enough to be seen.
“Didn’t expect company in this part of the Greenwing,” he says, voice low, even.
He gives a nod of recognition. A fellow hunter, for the moment.
“I’ve got traps near the stream down that way,” he adds with a tilt of his head, "if you're scouting for fresh game. Snow's light enough the scent trails haven’t gone to rot yet."
He doesn’t explain what he's doing here because he doesn't think he needs to. Men like him move where the land requires. But if Deimos invites him to walk with them, Damien won't say no.
And I'm longing out that open window
For whatever it is I seek
For whatever it is I seek
