DEIMOS
Fellow avian creatures billowed and flickered, and he’d paid the unfamiliar plumage no mind until the familiar voice flickered against his senses, with a greeting he would’ve preferred not to have heard. He withheld the sigh, the hiss, the growl, a clear intonation of restraint, the fringes of frustration, the embittered shackles of self-loathing, and only resounded with a deepened modicum of vocals across their expanse. Temporary Warden. A reminder; this world would not stay his and he wanted it that way; hadn’t asked for this role. Had preferred the protection, the angles, of the arches of swords and blades, rather than the mantle, for however short of a time it pressed against his frame. Then the other bird landed, and Deimos released the slightest of breaths, his eyes sharpening, focused on the assemblage below. The inquiry could’ve been tied to any number of things, figments, fractures, and fragments as of late: Kiada’s resurrection being the largest topic, and the other flickerings, cinders, and ongoings just other pieces of massive puzzles. He had half an inclination to dive forward into the former, to unveil that the Harpy’s misgivings and apprehensions had been simply that and naught more; but maybe it was soon to ask. Perhaps it’d be treading too far, too soon, the uncertainty volleying back and forth with the new season, with everything else circumventing.
So it was easier to gaze down upon the crowd and wonder, rather than circle the thoughts in his own head. Some sort of tree. And since the people were laughing, full of mercurial, bizarre whimsy around it, the Sword hadn’t flown down yet and attempted to rip it out of the ground; seemingly no new, overbearing threat, no singular omen rising over the horizon.
"who's gonna let you?"
they asked. i said
"who's gonna stop me?"
