DEIMOS
Combat experience in eagle form had unfortunately come at costs: the blight scaled and rankled, and he’d bled from Kiada’s talons, taking hits and falls while struggling, while striving, to get her to maintain some semblance of sense. The same had happened by the Spire – though Jigano likely didn’t remember it – defense and assaults, sieges as they waged war over roses, thorns, and thousands of other unsaid things.
It carried him to the here and now, to raptorial predilections, contorting, coiling, coordinating in his mind: not bothering to either seethe or grumble displeasure in missing again. That had been the point of it; to misdirect, to apply himself in fiercer, stronger, quicker corridors. He watched as the raven flew seemingly backwards, somersaults the larger bird had yet to perfect (or try, really); then gusts of wind, series of movements, alerted him to another incoming melee.
The beast turned his head to see an ivory manifestation barreling towards him; and his eyes narrowed, shifting to the left, quickly, rapidly, attempting to stay out of range. Jigano instead snagged at one of his feathers rather than the glass; the slightest snippet of pain amongst the nerves grated, a mark on plumage, an incessant warning to be better.
On an inclination of speed then, on swifter tails and turns, he intended to hasten right back, descending alongside, talons reaching for the dangling spheres and baubles, the representation of suns.
It carried him to the here and now, to raptorial predilections, contorting, coiling, coordinating in his mind: not bothering to either seethe or grumble displeasure in missing again. That had been the point of it; to misdirect, to apply himself in fiercer, stronger, quicker corridors. He watched as the raven flew seemingly backwards, somersaults the larger bird had yet to perfect (or try, really); then gusts of wind, series of movements, alerted him to another incoming melee.
The beast turned his head to see an ivory manifestation barreling towards him; and his eyes narrowed, shifting to the left, quickly, rapidly, attempting to stay out of range. Jigano instead snagged at one of his feathers rather than the glass; the slightest snippet of pain amongst the nerves grated, a mark on plumage, an incessant warning to be better.
On an inclination of speed then, on swifter tails and turns, he intended to hasten right back, descending alongside, talons reaching for the dangling spheres and baubles, the representation of suns.
gatekeeper of an endless war
where lines between right and wrong
don't exist anymore
