DEIMOS
No rapt reply to the endless possibilities, and so he lingered in wait, between fragments of movement, wings bolstering, undulating, power and precision coursing through the wakes of their plumage. They soared over the body of water, along the sea, everything else potent beneath or above. He wasn’t fearful or apprehensive of it, born beside both, but certain in the press of its danger, of its bounty, of its eternal truth – they would never be grander or greater than it, just fortunate enough to peer into the brim of its depths, into the surface of its veneer; ashes and dust, figments and fragments.The Sword expected the foundation of mischief to generate some response though, and wasn’t wholly bothered to hear the screech of surprise, the rapt curl and coil of her talons against his frame. An intangible snort flickered through, and he rose up from below her, intentionally striving to catch or snag at her form along his back, content to tease and taunt while they still had these instances, when the world wasn’t being set ablaze around them. Been a bit busy, distracted with weddings and things, and for a lengthy time he paused, as if that was the only information she’d receive; without his human form he couldn’t properly convey his snickers, his smirks, his laughter. Instead he’d let it reign in bounds and coils along the bond.
Then Deimos swooped downward, prone to pretenses of evasion, the chase, the melee, the rampage, skimming along the surface of the waves and currents, an intertwining of swift descents and cheeky maneuvers; drawing out the provoking, goading gambles. He had half an inclination to make her guess, predict, estimate the potentials. His gaze slipped to the angle of the sun, some time before he could properly show and divulge, Cheshire fixtures and noncompliance corresponding with Amalia’s impatient squawks and demands. Best seen at night.
"who's gonna let you?"
they asked. i said
"who's gonna stop me?"
