Tis the Season
[Those of you walking the halls of Paradisa, you might see a curious sight - feathers. Golden feathers, and lots of them. They formed a trail, like a wedding aisle scattered with roses. Down the halls and down the stairs, glimmering in the sunlight and equally bright in the shadows. And like a trail of breadcrumbs they eventually lead to the source - in this case, Bishamon.
Why yes, Paradisa, it is molting season for Bishamon. Not his favorite time of year, but even demons go through them, especially birds. Some of the natural order of things was worked into their DNA, and this did include replacing old, damaged feathers with new. The older one got, the more golden the feathers and the larger the wings. Unpleasant and even a bit humiliating, but necessary.
So for the moment Bishamon is out in the gardens, all twelve of his wings out and slowly dropping feathers around him like a golden snow, the pile steadily building as he flipped through a series of pages, his brows slightly scrunched as his fingers ran over the indented lines of text and raised bumps.
Care to bother him?]
Why yes, Paradisa, it is molting season for Bishamon. Not his favorite time of year, but even demons go through them, especially birds. Some of the natural order of things was worked into their DNA, and this did include replacing old, damaged feathers with new. The older one got, the more golden the feathers and the larger the wings. Unpleasant and even a bit humiliating, but necessary.
So for the moment Bishamon is out in the gardens, all twelve of his wings out and slowly dropping feathers around him like a golden snow, the pile steadily building as he flipped through a series of pages, his brows slightly scrunched as his fingers ran over the indented lines of text and raised bumps.
Care to bother him?]