DEIMOS
The banter rolled and failed to rankle – snorts and light chuckles, the sensation of amusement peeking over frost and rime. He had nothing to say after it; because maybe it wasn’t and he’d just dreamed up the notion – enough experience with the wings, with the feathers, with the plumage after some brief tutelage with Amalia (where he’d attempted to dive into water and it hadn’t ended quite the way he thought it would), to feel as if it wasn’t entirely foreign, or brand new, like some feeble, teetering fledgling. He glanced up at her shadow, would’ve arched a brow at the attempts of taking his lead, pushing and gliding again, increasing the keen swiftness, narrowing his avian gaze. At her inclination though, his head tilted, clearly listening, processing, first with a light tease. That is unfortunate. Perhaps we will have to leave you behind. As if she were not still a creature of the snow and ice and rime – they all were, a portion of the mountains they’d been raised within, sheltered, sanctified, and consecrated in those haughty contortions and devilish accommodations. You do not have other forms? Wasn’t that something that happened to the Attuned, when they became stronger? Like how he had gained magic, never before touched or scorched along his palms, not until here, not until now?
"who's gonna let you?"
they asked. i said
"who's gonna stop me?"
