DEIMOS
the resurrected sword
The frustration from the creature was a palpable, tangible thing, ricocheting and resounding along his chest – flightless, no longer conformed to the skies. For a being who’d only recently understood the value of soaring beyond distances and depths, he understood how much it would hurt, rip, and tear to suddenly lose it altogether.
Maybe he could ease the pain, somewhat, if only for a few moments.
He might not have been able to create the capacity for true flight, but perhaps enough for it to glide, pretend, or feel the comfort of something manifesting as plumes and feathers along its sides. Between his palms he constructed a pliable frame, meant to bob and float across the water, a circular fixture along the bottom, something the beast would be able to slide its body in and out of. Adjoining the structure were wings, a flimsier material, etched and sketched as if they were real feathers and plumes. It likely wouldn’t signify what the animal once had – not enough, not enough, not enough, but perhaps it would be better than naught at all.
While Deimos worked, Zuriel, a being of forests and fronds, sent out soothing calls, striving to impart her wisdom, her strength, her solidity as a presence of calm fortitude; assuaging tones echoing, bounding across the ripples and pool.
When he finished, the General shifted to his eagle form, snatching the frame and its wings within his talons, and flew over the L’ma’s figure, dropping it nearby. He couldn’t talk to it, but maybe it would comprehend the measures of the adornments.
--
Deimos creates a frame with wings – with a circular fixture at the bottom for the L’ma to slide through. He then flies over as an eagle to drop it beside the creature. Zuriel tries to calm it down.
Maybe he could ease the pain, somewhat, if only for a few moments.
He might not have been able to create the capacity for true flight, but perhaps enough for it to glide, pretend, or feel the comfort of something manifesting as plumes and feathers along its sides. Between his palms he constructed a pliable frame, meant to bob and float across the water, a circular fixture along the bottom, something the beast would be able to slide its body in and out of. Adjoining the structure were wings, a flimsier material, etched and sketched as if they were real feathers and plumes. It likely wouldn’t signify what the animal once had – not enough, not enough, not enough, but perhaps it would be better than naught at all.
While Deimos worked, Zuriel, a being of forests and fronds, sent out soothing calls, striving to impart her wisdom, her strength, her solidity as a presence of calm fortitude; assuaging tones echoing, bounding across the ripples and pool.
When he finished, the General shifted to his eagle form, snatching the frame and its wings within his talons, and flew over the L’ma’s figure, dropping it nearby. He couldn’t talk to it, but maybe it would comprehend the measures of the adornments.
--
Deimos creates a frame with wings – with a circular fixture at the bottom for the L’ma to slide through. He then flies over as an eagle to drop it beside the creature. Zuriel tries to calm it down.
under the bludgeonings of chance
my head is bloody, but unbowed
my head is bloody, but unbowed
