I look, and something always sees me…images of gothic life abound the rooftops. All various sins abject me, dwarfed by my wingspread engulfing thine city. Vainglorious, they bask thither their gold found afore hind ambition…ne’er more clever in their wealth.
*Sighs, still looking down his spire*
I glide above the streets flickering in my existence, where against a pressuring darkness I hear I’m worshiped. The foraging lost pray shivering, gilded in ice has sought that baleful winter. Nearer my kin I hear the gale, and thence our presence is known the daywatchers.
I tip my wings aground, silent for the longing whispers.
The eternal gust bitters while I extend; a proud arm to rise I gather.
Sleeping with the others amends to me, giving unto them of our stone
