DEIMOS
Falling, falling, falling, nothing to catch them in the wind except themselves. Perhaps that’s what made it so inherently risky. A wound deep enough, piercing enough, could send them straight to the ground, to the slaughter, without time to puncture or rival the course. But all the same, it was preparation, it was a vital contortion to possible future events – where claws and feline habits couldn’t reach, but talons and plumage could.Not enough to knock the goose out of the sky though.
The assault didn’t send the fellow bird anywhere the Sword had intended, and the wing-sweep thereafter was bizarre, but made him catch himself, pull back, to avoid being knocked asunder. Becoming out of balance could render him completely useless, and he had no predilections towards the latter.
So he rose, he rose, he rose, up into the vestiges, the ether once more, gathering distance, before plummeting, descending, on a tucked, tightened spiral, ignoring the loosened feathers from attacks ago, attempts at plunging straight for the goose’s back unfurling, unleashing, in rapid accord.
"who's gonna let you?"
they asked. i said
"who's gonna stop me?"
