DEIMOS
Where the relinquished condemnations, the fiendish incantations, had been with him since his birth, a venomous, toxic rapture in his veins, the eagle was foreign, was new.
It didn’t bear cold malevolence, it didn’t carry the inveigling iniquities, it wasn’t so ruthlessly fixated on rampant decadence and argent domination. Instead, it was purely rapacious and predatory, a carnivore inclination, unburdened by the fettering, antagonistic pose and prose of man. It was instinctual and daring, potent puissance and precision because that was how animals lived and breathed and died, devouring what they could, when they could; no need for hedonistic elations, no outcry for treachery, no need for unholy possession. It was carnage and demolition in simpler forms, a spread of wings, a cry of barbarity, or a silent, smoldering promise, hushed brushstrokes of the inevitable.
Except, combined with Deimos the Reaper, Deimos the Sword, the natures were overwhelmed, stained, and noble, bearing temptation and contemplation in reticence, in sinking rapiers –
Enticed by the few, remaining brave (or stupid) fish clinging to shorelines and shallow gulleys not iced over, he sought to test, to examine, properties, balances, and capabilities of the beast he now inhabited, he presently was, things spiraled from his own wake, not the outside walls, not the swords, not the daggers, not the knives. These were his own weapons.
He drifted down, wings spread, a sable ghost in the morning air, extending his talons to linger over the veneer, over the surface, as if briefly walking on its chilling pinnacles. Then he reached, reached, reached, intending to pluck at scales, to grab hold of a future meal.
Except, then there was nothing in his grasp, and he had to pulse, flap plumage and feathers, ascend again. He’d missed.
A feral first try. He repeated the ventures, sailing in on the wind, attempting to grab shimmering skin beneath racing currents, to clench and stab into a being not yet spooked by his previous endeavors. His talons, his claws, sunk further, a piercing, searing fervor, persistence in a monster of animosity and callousness. Movement, a panicking venture, useless in its prey clarity, in his snatching motions, sang the meticulous bounty of success. Tightening claws like daggers, further and further into his grip as he swept along chilling winds, ensured the fish met its demise, sent to the gallows quickly, efficiently, sudden and swift.
Then, he dropped it in the bucket he’d left along the shore, intending to return and repeat the hunt.
It didn’t bear cold malevolence, it didn’t carry the inveigling iniquities, it wasn’t so ruthlessly fixated on rampant decadence and argent domination. Instead, it was purely rapacious and predatory, a carnivore inclination, unburdened by the fettering, antagonistic pose and prose of man. It was instinctual and daring, potent puissance and precision because that was how animals lived and breathed and died, devouring what they could, when they could; no need for hedonistic elations, no outcry for treachery, no need for unholy possession. It was carnage and demolition in simpler forms, a spread of wings, a cry of barbarity, or a silent, smoldering promise, hushed brushstrokes of the inevitable.
Except, combined with Deimos the Reaper, Deimos the Sword, the natures were overwhelmed, stained, and noble, bearing temptation and contemplation in reticence, in sinking rapiers –
Enticed by the few, remaining brave (or stupid) fish clinging to shorelines and shallow gulleys not iced over, he sought to test, to examine, properties, balances, and capabilities of the beast he now inhabited, he presently was, things spiraled from his own wake, not the outside walls, not the swords, not the daggers, not the knives. These were his own weapons.
He drifted down, wings spread, a sable ghost in the morning air, extending his talons to linger over the veneer, over the surface, as if briefly walking on its chilling pinnacles. Then he reached, reached, reached, intending to pluck at scales, to grab hold of a future meal.
Except, then there was nothing in his grasp, and he had to pulse, flap plumage and feathers, ascend again. He’d missed.
A feral first try. He repeated the ventures, sailing in on the wind, attempting to grab shimmering skin beneath racing currents, to clench and stab into a being not yet spooked by his previous endeavors. His talons, his claws, sunk further, a piercing, searing fervor, persistence in a monster of animosity and callousness. Movement, a panicking venture, useless in its prey clarity, in his snatching motions, sang the meticulous bounty of success. Tightening claws like daggers, further and further into his grip as he swept along chilling winds, ensured the fish met its demise, sent to the gallows quickly, efficiently, sudden and swift.
Then, he dropped it in the bucket he’d left along the shore, intending to return and repeat the hunt.
gatekeeper of an endless war
where lines between right and wrong
don't exist anymore
