DEIMOS
The familiarity of blades had always struck him as routine, habitual, an instinctual rush into mettle and metal. Magic had always been readily available too – a wellspring of disaster and mayhem at his beck and call. He’d leaned heavily on it throughout his days in Helovia and Isilme, and certainly amidst Caido – but the former lands hadn’t designated him with attuned forms either. He’d taken to eagle tactics nonetheless, chasing Roana in the forest, or hunting after Kiada when she was blighted, and plummeting from the Spire with the Harpy and Adam – but never a formal bout amidst talons and vitriol.
A part of him wasn’t in it – the glasses attached to their legs, the notion of catching the sun; everything else hanging precariously over his shoulders, just waiting for the next thing to drop, to assault, to maim.
And another portion to him knew he required it, some other outlet between desperately combing for leaves, bones, or soil, and restlessly wandering from barracks, infirmary, guildhalls, and back.
The depths of his eyes glanced across to the ivory raven, clicking his beak into place. A single nod of his head was given, before extending his wings, lower limbs crouching, then pushing off from the fencing – ascending straight into the sky.
A part of him wasn’t in it – the glasses attached to their legs, the notion of catching the sun; everything else hanging precariously over his shoulders, just waiting for the next thing to drop, to assault, to maim.
And another portion to him knew he required it, some other outlet between desperately combing for leaves, bones, or soil, and restlessly wandering from barracks, infirmary, guildhalls, and back.
The depths of his eyes glanced across to the ivory raven, clicking his beak into place. A single nod of his head was given, before extending his wings, lower limbs crouching, then pushing off from the fencing – ascending straight into the sky.
gatekeeper of an endless war
where lines between right and wrong
don't exist anymore
