DEIMOS
Deepfrost loomed; a time for mountainous creatures and cretins, a spread of moments in which he’d otherwise thrive, used to the chilling, stark ruminations in his bones, used to the compelling, cold wind blowing through his feathers. Except now the blight plunged and bit, and Long Night pressed, and everything seemed to combine into harrowing efforts, courting, calling for strength, conviction, and persistence – some he had in spades, some he had in miniscule tandems. But the Greatwood, the shrine, called to them, ink black and dying, a reflection of the diseased inhabitants, choking, cloaking, smothering, and suffocating, and he flew into the asphyxiating stretch with talons outstretched, with eagle claws and ambitions. Noble, blistering, part abandoned, part attuned, all stalwart and staunch, he landed along snow and rime, tucking plumage against himself to inspect.
Roses; flowers that otherwise wouldn’t signify anything to him at all, except they were blood-red, gilded thorns, and he could see others roaming, looming closer, hackles raised with their scalding intentions. Take them the void called, and without questioning the intentions, the reasons, his talons grabbed hold of three, ensuring they were taut, rigid, clutched in his grasp, before taking flight, striving to fulfill a purpose.
"who's gonna let you?"
they asked. i said
"who's gonna stop me?"
