flying kites in a blizzard

DEIMOS

The Sword hadn’t expected any outright attention from anyone else; blending back into the confines, studying the people, the perimeters, of a world not his own (none of them were, really, not anymore). A large bird might’ve been comfortable anywhere along these regions, and he’d given no thought to drawing consideration or contemplation at his appearance; typically skulking and searching the shadows, sketched in its embrace, unfolded and unraveled in its darker adornments. The croon of another, a boy, caused him to snap his head over, a predator’s keen eyes, watching, scrutinizing: one more stranger in a series and cycle of unknown properties. He considered ignoring him entirely, flying off to the next interval and waiting for something else to happen, to occur, or to remain a part of the listless, languid backdrop, breathing in the winter, mountain air, pretending for a moment that he’d been a part of this earth. He considered brandishing his massive wingspan, the sharp talons, in order to warn the lad off, to appear more menacing, malicious, tendencies of upheaval and anarchy in the wake of whatever form he chose. He considered shifting back into his human form and watching the youth blink back surprise, bewilderment, or shock.

But then the temptation of the carnivore ambitions stoked inside him, and he reached forward, quickly, efficiently, to grab the jerky from outstretched hands; reeling back just as swiftly to avoid any other repercussions. Just to be a caustic, unrelenting imp, he maneuvered along the wall too, as if to snag and then escape, attempting to evade further debacles.

gatekeeper of an endless war

where lines between right and wrong

don't exist anymore