“Hey-ho, Away we go, into the darkness into the black, with nothing but the wind at our back,” Iliad’s voice echoes off the empty nothing of the vast expanse of the sky. “Oh fuck what is the next verse. Oooh-aah.. Fuck.. Can’t remember it.” He says and stares down at the ground beneath him. He ponders for a moment, debating if he wishes to onward skyward but he can feel the ache starting in his wings. His eyes shut and he takes a moment to feel the wind caress his skin, toss the tendrils of his hair about across his neck before he starts violent descent. Iliad tucks his wings in close and makes a near nose dive towards the ground before masterfully catching himself and hitting the ground with a firm thud. A shock wave of pain travels upwards from the force and he grimaces, stifling a pained groan. He lifts his left front leg, stretching out the joint before he starts trotting. The afternoon air is mild, teetering the line of frigid and comfortably warm. Around him the air is clear, sun shining with no clouds tainting the sky with a gentle breeze blustering through on an occasion.
Iliad shifts his tail, hair dragging through the grass and he lets his eyes drift over the meadow. The solitude almost grates at him. No one can listen to his godawful attempts at remember that gosh darn song. “Good golly miss molly what is that sweet jam I can’t remember,” Iliad murmurs and gently tugs at the strap to his instrument to let it hang. He strums cords using his telekinesis, listening to the soft melody as he repeats the lyrics he sang during flight. “Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck,” Iliad sings the vulgarity, as he lifts his head. “Oh sweet memory of mine, quit being filled with slime so I can remember that sweet rhyme.” Certainly not his best composition, but, he can’t help but chuckle at his own joke. He decides to keep strumming his banjo as he stands in the middle of the meadow. It isn’t long before he starts carelessly dancing to his own tune, wings moving about in a dramatic movement as he steps in rhythm to the song, humming along to the tune, even without an audience he can at the very least entertain himself.
Iliad
Let me not then die ingloriously and without a struggle,
but let me first do some great thing that shall be told among men hereafter.
