The night is a time where I feel most proud and free. Moonlight illuminates me from the top and keeps me obscured from the bottom. I soar above the great cities that are built in this foreign land, the colorful, twinkling lights below me slowly fading as I ascend into the clouds. My kind cannot be shown so blatantly outside of our home, so we hide ourselves, disguise ourselves as one of them. Many find it revolting, a suppression of expression.
I, however, am one of the lucky ones.
As I soar, the visuals below me shift from large clusters of boxes, to stretches of desert and grasslands in no time at all. Instead of the tons of flickering colorful lights, I see the occasional glisten of a predator’s eyes, gazing up at the moon for Their guidance.
I was born in a skin like that of a human.
The feathers atop my membranous wings lend me some warmth on nights as cold as this. They shimmer brilliantly, but lack an audience to captivate. I flutter and soar amongst the clouds and dark, grey sky, like a great dragon emerging from their rest.
Earthly colors come rarely to my kind.
The topography below me shifts once more, from the bushes of the deserts to the shimmering beaches. I am above water now, so, steadily, I descend. The open waters are far too dangerous at night for the boats, so it is safe for me to admire them up close. I lean in to glide my fingers along the waves, feeling the water lap at my fingertips. I gaze down upon a luminescent world different from that of the common man, one that is ruthless, yet beautiful.
I wonder if Father will ever come to understand me.
Stretch of water beyond the horizon, seemingly void of all life. No one but me and the occasional whale that breeches above the water’s horizon, the lost seabird flying aimlessly to find their home, the scant flotsam and jetsam rising from shipwrecks past. Minutes count to hours, yet the movements stay the same. Rise with the wind, flap to keep altitude, soar among the clouds. Rinse, repeat.
The younger generation has adapted better than their parents.
The sweet saltiness of the ocean waters finally hit, as the wind picks back up. I rise as I approach my destination, maneuvering around small islands and wreckages alike. Sooner or later, a large rock breaks through the horizon, then several more follow suit around it.
It is my home, the place humans call Tartarus, but we Daemon call Dust.
Home.
Home is a mountainous place with a huge, otherworldly valley placed in the dead center of it. We call this formation Typhon’s Teeth, after the Great Dragon that broke through the island center long ago. Legends say that Their escape caused a massive eruption, which decimated tens of thousands of homes in the mountains that sat above Their cage. The sable-and-bronze mountains peak and dip like a normal range would, but as you near the wyrm-made canyon you can see a distinct, pale rim edging the giant, coffee-stained cliffs that fall off into this hole. Some of the woods have managed to regrow in the ghostly-white Pit of the Beast, and where Typhon once laid, a large lake emerged, hot and bubbling.
Amongst the steep cliffs you see buildings, homes that incorporate the mountainous rock into its design. Some have rivers and waterfalls streaking through it, some are entirely underground save a small, flat roof that you can see from above. Windows peek through the sides of cliffs and mountains, and large shards of crystalline energy support the many balconies and pavilions that are commonplace in the most regal abodes of Daemonic design.
I happen to live in one of them.
Dospi Kimeno is a network of housing units that jut out from the mountains, typically reserved for the elite Daemon and their families. Some of the elites possess human concubines-- a statement that tells everyone that they rule supreme over all sentient beings-- but I can say with certainty that my home-- Skyhome Upper Stratum-- owns no such beings. Father says that those who live with us do so by their own will.
I descend as I reach home, a two-story home with backwoods and a river running right through it. Towers jut up from the far corners of the building, and within sit guards that manage the skies. The guards patrolling the perimeter almost blend in with the night from here, save their eyes that glisten as they look up at me.
Between the towers scatter a bunch of axillary buildings: a garrison for the soldiers, pastures for the shepherds, acreage for the farmhands. The flat, shingled roofs of these buildings are a muted blue, to compliment the bronze-tinted rock that juts up from the cliffside. The wind calms as I land atop the roof of my home, the clinking of foot on shingle alerting those inside-- and outside-- that I have arrived.
I climb down the roof and land squarely on the balcony it overhangs, and as I brush off my clothing, I sheath my wings. I open the door and am immediately greeted with warm, dry air. A nymph greets me with a bow, her gold-capped horns piercing through her voluminous, white hair. “Lith U’thar is awaiting your return, Kimbat,” she tells me, patting a green hand on my shoulder. I take out my flat shoes and offer them for her to wear, and she graciously accepts them. “You are very kind. I expect great things when you accept the Title, Kimbat.”
Nymphs are our loyal servants. They get paid well and live comfortably in our own home, but it bothers me so that Father leaves them roaming around in the nude. The stout stature of Nymphs does allow them to retain heat better than the other Daemon subspecies, but the floors oft are too cold for them to walk on bare. At least they are allowed to wear protective gear for cooking and things of that sort. I wonder if that’s why they often keep busy.
I descend the stairs and head towards Father’s chambers. Nymph after nymph servant bows as I pass them, giving me greetings and giving me a rundown on the home’s status. The bathrooms have been cleaned, the clothing has been sorted, dinner has been prepared, and so on. Each of them do so with such high formalities, I wonder if their tongues tire from it. It is a far different life than the one I live when I visit the human civilizations, by far.
A few flights of stairs later and I hit the basement floor, where Father lives. In contrast with the bright openness the other floors have, the basement floor has no windows, and the only light there is to see is the decorative crystalline columns that elegantly frame Father’s bedroom door. The sable-haired twins that stand outside Father’s room bow, adjusting their cuffs and pointing their upturned, crimson hands in the direction of the door. I give both of them a deep bow and head inside. The deep thrums reverberate throughout my body as I open the door, and when I open the door a rush of warmth slams into me.
Father’s room has kept most of its natural charm, stalagmites rounding out the corners as they jut up from the floor in an attempt to touch the stalactites above them. Grooves in the walls are filled with many lit candles, and although there are no windows, curtains hang behind the canopy bed that They are currently sitting atop. Father’s linens are all the same cream color as the outfit They are wearing. When I shut the door behind me, They rise from the bed.
Father is one of the many leaders that counsel Typhon’s Teeth, though one would find Them an imposing figure regardless of that information. Two pairs of golden horns jutting back from a mop of long, white hair. Sharp, thick fangs curving up into a flat, smooth face. Piercing, slitted red eyes that could cut anyone down in a single swoop. Broad, sable shoulders rippling with muscles. Wings that always tower behind Them, the dark-flecked, kite-like feathering making it appear as though a train descends from shoulder to shoulder. A silken, semi-opaque gown that obscures the silhouette from the waist down. A mountain of a Daemon if anyone has ever seen one.
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