DEIMOS
After the acceptance of onslaught and combat, there was nothing else. His mind wasn’t riddled with the aspects of Zariah and change, or other things she wouldn’t be able to grasp. It wasn’t poised on frustration or anger for the things he couldn’t control. Battle was familiar, a forsaken notion by so many others, and a grasping, gnawing sentiment he grasped hold of when everything else seemed too overwhelming.There was no excitement, no surprise, no apprehension – just the raw, unfiltered motions of movement, barely a sound stretched between his ascent and feathers, rising, rising, rising above the goose, never a part of the heavens, but provoking their clarity. Primordial, primeval, notions and carvings that had shaped him from long ago, no matter what form he possessed, bound and struck against his wake. Habitual, routine, to embark straight into militant marches and desecration, finessed by irreverence, poised in pernicious precision.
Then he descended, blinding and brilliant, cascading downwards in a hell-bound state, talons reaching, grating, fluidly attempting to reach, to notch and knock against, upon, the summoner.
"who's gonna let you?"
they asked. i said
"who's gonna stop me?"
