DEIMOS
He’d never met anything else at a shrine except for the heralds called – being ignored or denied had left laughter in the midst, but nothing bounding, no spirits erupting, no wakes of others harkening to the forefront. Augusta, of nothing special shrine spirits, was an intriguing measure, and he shook his head idlely, attention deviating to take care of the ningo passed over to him. He’d leave her to the rest of the feathers, as he removed unnecessary proportions, filling the silence beyond the crackling fire with his deep intonations, inquiries, piercing gaze not yet lifting from the bird or the hunting knife carving its way through the fowl. “Who did you hope to meet?”Then the Sword placed the spit through both birds, maneuvering before the fire, crouching low, bestial in its heat, to place the metal stick and its birds along and above the flames, in its designated contortion. Thereafter he motioned towards the rotating sanction, turning it on occasion as the inferno began to sidle and slink over the ningos, eyes drawn into the conflagration, reminded of too many things all at once.
He was something solid
to lean against
violent and fierce and unmoving
