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Foolish, fluttering, a deluge of feathers. They think themselves royal. Cunning. Wise.
But they are vain. Small, chattering imitations of her. Mere shreds of her elegance, swarming like flies, not shadows. Stupid creatures. Unbalanced, not clever. Shuddering, clawing, flapping. They fight against bats. Battles of sticks and leaves.
How can they be so close to her will? Noisy, cackling. It is no wonder they were kicked out. Cast aside. Their power is wasted. Wasted, wasted, dribbling out where it could be used. All they do is talk. Screech. Talons clutching at tiny, foolish treasures. Shiny, twinkling, a rusted gleam.
What strange creatures. Idiots. They deserve nothing, they are nothing. I do not fear them. They are whispers of her, slipped through cracks, gleaned from filth and reveling in it. There is no terror in their laughing eyes. Just blackness. Shining, glimmering blackness.
Such imitations are easily distracted. Selfish, foolish. Knights of feathers instead of blades. Dull beaked. Blunted talons. They sail the canvas of her Oblivion, so close. If only they would help us reach such heights. But all they do is laugh, and laugh, and laugh. Cackling, politicking.
So much power lost inside. Would she not want us to take it for ourselves?