DEIMOS
There were no questions. There were no inquiries. There were no stunned proclamations, no passing exclamations. There was just the beckoning sky, the stardust, the glow of mythical properties, the Shield, and the slide of the evening’s tranquility, as if moments before he hadn’t been dropped into its twilight expanse. So Deimos breathed, talons gripping on bark and timber, the weight of the world passing over his shoulders, over his feathers, over his plumage. A pattern of silence flickered and followed, as he waited, as he watched, as luxere strived to shift away in his presence (even Attuned, he was still a touch of darkness, long since succumbed to shadows and strife, the Sword painted in Stygian values). But he had no song for them, no drunken stanzas, no inebriated refrains. The ocean stare resided on her, pressing, insistent, almost yearning for attention; and she must’ve known, along the crackle of mischief, the ether of amusement. He might’ve rolled his eyes in human form, smirked or snickered, joined in on the banter, but his beak didn’t hold the same features. The humor though plucked across sienna and sable (colors he’d never worn, hues he’d never portrayed), ruffled slightly in the evening breeze, heart rapacious, at the pinnacles and warmth of her laughter. The whisper in the dark didn’t convey carnal desires or wanton dreams – there were other ambitions and aspirations holstered there, as his eyes narrowed, as Mr. Shade prepared, bunching and coiling together, a mass of movement eager, ready to explode, a piston, a pistol, a blade, a Reaper, a Sword suddenly intent on horizons instead of battlefields –
Gilded shrouds and veils vanished, morphing and shifting, swifter than his, more skillful, used to the transformation, the alterations, the way human became beast. He followed, on keen, quick accords, wings extended, legs pushing off of stumps, grateful to leave the world behind, behind, behind. The eagle said naught to Zuriel, to Jyoti, to anyone or anything – breathing in the cold void, relishing in the sanctity of deliverance, freedom, and providence, earned by his own accord (a strange, strange notion). He beckoned and dove and ascended in starlight thresholds, another home, like nestled mountains or spiraling currents of the sea, eyes watching ivory and wisdom, sagacity and alabaster.
"who's gonna let you?"
they asked. i said
"who's gonna stop me?"
