whole and apart and in-between

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame Death spirals and throngs; there was no way the bird in his clutches would make it, but Deimos enjoyed the lancing movement and motion of unrelenting freefall, reminded of better, more foolish days, when a score of them launched from the top of the Spire. There was no end in sight until the ground came closer, closer, closer, and only then did he launch his plumage out of the treacherous warp, landing neatly, like some feral demon, near the badger. His eyes went toward the pile, and then added the remnants of what they’d accumulated. It was a distinct amount, enough to feed some of Halos’ families and citizens, and the only thing the Sword required was a singular wishbone. Rather than tear into it with his beak and carve out ample meat that could be utilized for something else, he shifted back to human towers and figures, grabbing hold of the birds, carrying them along cobblestones, back to where they could properly butcher them. “What else have you been up to?” Besides assisting him in hunting down unintelligent fowl; an inquiry towards Loren, over his shoulder, expecting the other man, animal, to follow – after sicknesses, after afflictions, Deimos had bent his head down and gotten to work along the barracks, not requiring the aid of the infirmary for those scattered moments. master of nothing place; of recoil and grace