DEIMOS
He’d never been one for song; the only art he’d ever truly commenced had been across the battlefield, in streaks of red. But he tried and persisted, silent unless he was orchestrating, breathing deeply amongst and amidst the refrains, a warrior mind striving to bend and reshape expressions beyond vehemence and violence. Listening, listening, listening, to strains meant for ladies of light and constellations, pondering how on earth he’d convey anything beyond simplistic strands. On the airs and wings of song, he attempted to add to Kiada’s, deep tones rumbling through an eagle’s chest, intending to rest in the sparks of the Harpy’s amusement. Powerful and mighty, never burdened with a shroud, some wince or a shrug conveyed through bird-like imitations, snorting at the grandeurs and granules of ridiculous overtures. But he continued, barreling on, nothing left to salvage now. And our heads are bowed."who's gonna let you?"
they asked. i said
"who's gonna stop me?"
