DEIMOS
This evening wasn’t ignited for weaponry checks, for staff inspections, or for billowing discussions about upcoming Long Night preparations. Instead, it was for routine, for habits formed deep in the cluster of caves, mountains, and valleys, when he’d been savage predilection and glorified violence, a designated pattern of nefarious qualities and enigmatic disasters. He’d guarded there, in the Basin, beneath its brilliant lights and aurora shards, a wraith, a phantom, taking to the wintry expanse with its chilling, frigid endeavors, with its haunting exploits, with its powerful fundamentals, and orchestrating them as a haunting machine, a broken, dispatched weapon.Here though, he had no territory to protect, no citizens to secure, no adversaries to conquer, destroy, and remove. It was only the rose nearby, tucked in the conglomeration of rocks and shoreline, precious and a quandary in its own right, his frame, figure, and mind indebted to its efforts, to its survival, without a reason or motivation behind it. As if compelled, drawn to its thorns, to its petals, he hovered nearby, tucked in a tree, his blue eyes narrowed, a predator’s, avian complexion, absolute fortitude and certainty in his role. He was a defender – intending to launch from the branch with outstretched talons, with ferocious intervals, if the merest chance of another blighted individual loomed nearby. Even now, after the last planting disaster at the Spire, he kept a piece of a broken, thorned stalk in his clutches, tucked into his grasp as he blended into surroundings, as he forged guardianship of a flower in the middle of midnight oils and frigid, unwavering chills – alive and irreverent, waiting, waiting, waiting.
"who's gonna let you?"
they asked. i said
"who's gonna stop me?"
