Deimos
He adhered to her partialities and inclinations, waiting until they’d been cooked properly, the yolk still soft and runny, before grabbing a plate and maneuvering it onto the surface – placing some bread Amalia had left there too, and then handing it off to her while grabbing another batch of eggs. He cracked them, and began resuming his task, preferring scrambled to over easy, listening despite his intense focus on food.
Flying was fun, but more than that. It was a relishing, savoring experience, deliverance and providence all at once, things he hadn’t had before, things he wouldn’t have dreamed of until now. It was the control of his own wings, the manifestation of his own power and prestige, the machinations of twisting, turning, and gliding, going wherever the hell he wanted or craved; an expression of faith in himself, rather than on outside worlds, weapons, or munitions. It was all contained in his frame, in his essence, and something to grab, snag, and ensnare for a lifetime. “Yes,” came with a warm smile, and not all the modicums he’d previously attached; she’d already know, far more experienced in this venue than himself. It was odd, to think of being some sort of fledgling, when all along his skills and understandings had kept him upright – fresh and foreign and ignorant again, but willing to learn.
At the mention of Safrin, the Sword recalled the blackened areas, the way she’d been see through, as if she wasn’t entirely there, not at full strength, a deity possessed too by legions of diseases and terrors. “Still blighted,” he intoned, narrowing his eyes as he stirred his eggs. Would she be better now, with everyone else no longer seething and disastrous, diabolical and ravenous? Did it take longer for a deity to recover? Wasn’t it bizarre, after all, with their omniscient and divine properties, to succumb to such a thing anyway? Did that mean the Voice’s reign was stronger –
His thoughts reeled and swam; mind curling and coiling with its modicums and Machiavellian designs, nearly jumping out of his skin at her sudden laughter. Glancing back over his shoulder, and rolling his eyes at her pride at being larger than him, at least in avian forms, he snorted. “Congratulations.” Like it’s some sort of prize. “Just means I am faster.” He returned to his eggs, shrugging with his calm, composed demeanor, taking the pan off the stove when he’d completed his efforts, following the same pattern with plating and bread. Her visit to Ludo, however, seemed to breech into another topic, and so he tilted his head as he retrieved two forks, handing one to her, attentive. “And?” He’d made an attempt with Ludo too, earlier, for research purposes over this damned blight, her sneaking up behind him; to no avail, the usual protocol for his efforts.
Flying was fun, but more than that. It was a relishing, savoring experience, deliverance and providence all at once, things he hadn’t had before, things he wouldn’t have dreamed of until now. It was the control of his own wings, the manifestation of his own power and prestige, the machinations of twisting, turning, and gliding, going wherever the hell he wanted or craved; an expression of faith in himself, rather than on outside worlds, weapons, or munitions. It was all contained in his frame, in his essence, and something to grab, snag, and ensnare for a lifetime. “Yes,” came with a warm smile, and not all the modicums he’d previously attached; she’d already know, far more experienced in this venue than himself. It was odd, to think of being some sort of fledgling, when all along his skills and understandings had kept him upright – fresh and foreign and ignorant again, but willing to learn.
At the mention of Safrin, the Sword recalled the blackened areas, the way she’d been see through, as if she wasn’t entirely there, not at full strength, a deity possessed too by legions of diseases and terrors. “Still blighted,” he intoned, narrowing his eyes as he stirred his eggs. Would she be better now, with everyone else no longer seething and disastrous, diabolical and ravenous? Did it take longer for a deity to recover? Wasn’t it bizarre, after all, with their omniscient and divine properties, to succumb to such a thing anyway? Did that mean the Voice’s reign was stronger –
His thoughts reeled and swam; mind curling and coiling with its modicums and Machiavellian designs, nearly jumping out of his skin at her sudden laughter. Glancing back over his shoulder, and rolling his eyes at her pride at being larger than him, at least in avian forms, he snorted. “Congratulations.” Like it’s some sort of prize. “Just means I am faster.” He returned to his eggs, shrugging with his calm, composed demeanor, taking the pan off the stove when he’d completed his efforts, following the same pattern with plating and bread. Her visit to Ludo, however, seemed to breech into another topic, and so he tilted his head as he retrieved two forks, handing one to her, attentive. “And?” He’d made an attempt with Ludo too, earlier, for research purposes over this damned blight, her sneaking up behind him; to no avail, the usual protocol for his efforts.
i rule the stars, not the other way around
