This world was full of stories and legends: he appreciated it, in a small, subtle way, because Isilme had been the same. Their tales had been ripe with dragons and warfare, hatred and venom, vehemence and hostility, acrimony and vigilance. It’d been family against family, race against race, hatred spread and the source forgotten – too long in the reaches of folds and tapestries. Here, beyond the shadows of other moments, there seemed to be fixtures on animals and their abilities – he’d been intrigued by the luxere and their glow (for none had been in Isilme), and now, rumors of the Spark Bird held his attention.
But he’d always been drawn to fire, since the moment his father first showed him the might and dominion of an inferno; the embers had twinkled in his piercing eyes, and he’d been illuminated, beguiled, allured.
The perch had already been constructed. He stared at it, tilted his head, and then grew closer to study its build, structure, and capability. They’d worked hard, deep holes embedded in the ground, long, tall beams meant for a massive bird to settle. But apparently it’d been years since the flying beast had managed to land amidst its believers and brethren; so was it mere rumor, happenstance, or a myth, whittled along through the ages by word of mouth and chicanery? Some part of him yearned for it to be grounded in reality, for what a sight it would’ve been (brawn and strength, lit by combustion and flames).
So Deimos intended to do his part, and lifted the sack he carried off his shoulders, sat it on the ground while he poured through the contents. He hadn’t been exactly sure what fire birds liked, so he’d managed to garner little bits and pieces of everything: a few berries, smaller portions of deer meat, and a couple of ivory stones that had been cast alight in the glimpse of the moon. His hands pried each of these items from his satchel, and laid them carefully below the perch, intending to assist in enticing the fabled bird to appear.
