DEIMOS
Wasn’t that the point of wandering – to have no basis, no sense of direction, no pretenses, just deterrents and distractions? He had nothing to say or go off of; a world that might’ve been familiar, expanded and ensconced in figments he couldn’t unravel or imagine until they were too late. Dragons hiding in caves. Cannibals gnawing on flesh. Realms brandished in endless tombs of white. I do not think so he muttered in response; wouldn’t know where to go or what to do otherwise, lost in those parallels of loss, dismay, and irritation. There were other notions to muse upon anyways, the quietude of Halo perhaps somewhat of a blessing after tragic circumstances; the theme of the Hollowed Grounds. He hovered and glided, only ascending, flapping once, upon the notions of Zariah. What has she been up to now? Better off knowing, most likely, given her inclinations towards tyranny, pondering if it was destined to reach his home once more. General predilections, machinations, and calculations; perhaps a more soothing, familiar departure, instead of trailing and traversing through the muck and mire of his abyss.
Quiet, as far as serving as Rexanna’s militia. Far better, far more peaceful, than any day he’d reigned in the same stead in Helovia. There were other traumatic, despairing things to keep him occupied anyways. We have been training. Offering his services in either arms or attuned movements, ensuring strength and prowess, individuals growing from the roots. The concern following thereafter though, for Amalia, pulsed and pervaded, shorn along the breadth of his control. His beak clicked together, talons clenched. She is healed physically. But not emotionally; none of them really were. It will take time. And maybe no designation of hours, days, or decades would matter; the hurt and weight still there.
"who's gonna let you?"
they asked. i said
"who's gonna stop me?"
