DEIMOS
It became familiar, routine, to drift downwards, to plummet, to sink his talons and grab hold of scales, refracting in the depths of light, in the shudder of winter’s haunting brush. Rinse and repeat, diving low enough to practice precision in dropping the fish in the basket, then ascending again, breathing in the essence of fluid predator persistence.
Except, this time, there was another lingering beside his clutch; scavenging, hunting something they hadn’t gained or obtained on their own. How many times had he met such individuals? How many times had he attempted to thwart them? Thieves and swindlers; not one of his own (cloaks and daggers, rampaging for information, for future assailments). Avian eyes narrowed, and were he some other beast, he would’ve growled, would’ve grated, would’ve uttered some other form of warning. In the Basin, he’d ensued singular signs, alerts, and signals – then unleashed unholy machinations. As an eagle, he could’ve screeched or exalted some bellowing, tempestuous torrent from his mouth.
But Deimos didn’t believe this one warranted impending doom.
Swift, keen, and measured, constant calculations bombarding his soul (he might’ve been a bird, but he was still the Sword, still the Reaper), he descended again, a vicious, mighty force sinking through the air. Talons outstretched, uncoiling, unfurling from their tucked intervals, skimming over the surface of his basket, he intended to pluck the snake from its sanction, and toss it aside, through the chilling ether.
Except, this time, there was another lingering beside his clutch; scavenging, hunting something they hadn’t gained or obtained on their own. How many times had he met such individuals? How many times had he attempted to thwart them? Thieves and swindlers; not one of his own (cloaks and daggers, rampaging for information, for future assailments). Avian eyes narrowed, and were he some other beast, he would’ve growled, would’ve grated, would’ve uttered some other form of warning. In the Basin, he’d ensued singular signs, alerts, and signals – then unleashed unholy machinations. As an eagle, he could’ve screeched or exalted some bellowing, tempestuous torrent from his mouth.
But Deimos didn’t believe this one warranted impending doom.
Swift, keen, and measured, constant calculations bombarding his soul (he might’ve been a bird, but he was still the Sword, still the Reaper), he descended again, a vicious, mighty force sinking through the air. Talons outstretched, uncoiling, unfurling from their tucked intervals, skimming over the surface of his basket, he intended to pluck the snake from its sanction, and toss it aside, through the chilling ether.
gatekeeper of an endless war
where lines between right and wrong
don't exist anymore
