DEIMOS
the resurrected sword
Slowly and stealthily, snakes, felines in the grass, serpentine gestures meant to bend and sway them towards roosting turkeys, making little noise in the brush. It should’ve been instinctive, to undulate, ripple, and slither along the grounds, soft and hollowed, carnivorous and rapacious, inching and itching for the predatory notions of disaster and calamity. He breathed in the embodiment of feral forms, waiting, waiting, waiting, until they were crouched before the flock. The Sword was like a ghost, a wraith, a phantom in the eaves, in the grass, dropping down into the ether, the soil, the ground, scrutinizing between reeds and blades of sod, turf, and terrain. He examined Oliver too, watched, listened, to the alterations the other cat made; a dignified nod passing through, and then naught more.
No. Which would’ve followed the arch of a brow, had tiger dispositions been made for such catty endeavors; instead his eyes went back to the rustling forms, dark plumage attempting to blend into the veils of darkness, would’ve, had it not been for their feline eyes. You study them. Pick a weaker one. Maybe older, maybe younger, maybe no longer as gifted in movement or flight, maybe not as bright as the rest, maybe not paying attention, drawn away from inherent instincts. Which seems appealing? There were a vast range before them – and Deimos wanted to Oliver’s aims and attempts, where they’d be headed when chaos and bedlam sprung loose from their hunting contortions.
No. Which would’ve followed the arch of a brow, had tiger dispositions been made for such catty endeavors; instead his eyes went back to the rustling forms, dark plumage attempting to blend into the veils of darkness, would’ve, had it not been for their feline eyes. You study them. Pick a weaker one. Maybe older, maybe younger, maybe no longer as gifted in movement or flight, maybe not as bright as the rest, maybe not paying attention, drawn away from inherent instincts. Which seems appealing? There were a vast range before them – and Deimos wanted to Oliver’s aims and attempts, where they’d be headed when chaos and bedlam sprung loose from their hunting contortions.
still standing
not because you can
but because you have to
