DEIMOS
Left to mull in their perspectives and experiences, the beast watched the horizon once more. Consistently, constantly on guard, the eagle witnessed passersby glorify in the sapling, or give it a great berth. Figments of Frey, of another god’s devices and instruments below their feet – though why remained a mystery. He took the enigmatic facets as customary rote when dealing with any celestial being, and thought little else, content with the silence, still and stoic on his branch. Only when the soft reply came again did he take notice, the piercing eyes once more downward, spying on falling snow. Yes. A pause, considerations in their usual state of nuances. And Isilme. Where he’d been born and raised, beside the sea, with the salt on the wind and animosity coiled beyond their regions, where glory was in strength, in persistence, in the tether and lines of his bones, sometimes called to the siren swell of the ocean, sometimes chiseled and marked by the mountains instead. Alternating elements, but they made, sculpted, and carved him out of their follies and might.
His avian cranium tilted a fraction at Chulane’s proclamation; at the semblances of returning to a shrine, at the potential for more disaster. Who do you seek, and what would you ask? For it to be of worth, of merit, of putting himself on the line again.
"who's gonna let you?"
they asked. i said
"who's gonna stop me?"
