DEIMOS
Eagle talons clutched at roof shingles as he gazed out over the horizon, dusk falling, countering the landscape with its residual glows. Out of habit, out of some forlorn memories, he still half-expected them to burn into a flurry and fury of blending, unwinding hues, facets of other worlds he’d once haunted. They didn’t – flickering apart the same as normal, the same as the evening before, and the one before that, stark, cold reminders that mountains were not always similar. Not always his.Except for this season – which sent him into another grumble and brood of distaste, a bitter, acrid frustration coiling its way over plumage, where shoulders would normally be. Where the pressure was felt, no matter which shift he occupied. Even if this was meant to be easygoing, far more repose-filled than the Basin, he could feel himself reverting automatically, the habitual inclination to watch, to stalk, to cling to the shadows, ensure his overbearing, shielding mettle was there and forthright.
So the Sword took a breath, and settled along eaves, staring down at some gathering down below. It didn’t appear threatening, a gaggle of onlookers over something centered along the Citadel’s cobblestones – laughter, chuckling, exuding from movement and motions. Another evening where the trepidation, apprehension, couldn’t fully take hold.
"who's gonna let you?"
they asked. i said
"who's gonna stop me?"
