Emberwood mr. blue sky

The creator did not show a slight hint of pity as his ange déchu wept;
the false god rather ignored the sight, leaving lonely, purposeless, desolate. What could a man without airfoils to cradle him atop the raving gusts of the sky?
What is he meant to do?
Weep and wallow for eternity?

Fleeing the sight of his melancholy, the chestnut washed scout bore the winter in utter dprivement of feeling, perhaps the grappling cold would freeze his pumping blood and provide him strangled feeling. Then a call — and was it too him? 

No, but the ranger would assess the stranger at his border, grateful for purpose and an occupation to waste away the slow moving time of the near ending day. Hidden delight feuled his senses, but any onlooker could not tell the man help a gay disposition at the time. 

His aching pads guided him to a crisp colored male, his amber eyes striking the newcomer, the ange déchu snapped up from the undergrowth. "State you purpose at my border," as if it was truly his, a daunting hiss of false annoyance tainted his speak, investigating the body before him in wonder.