Deimos
Dare we know the halo's hanging low
Deimos wouldn’t deny the ease settling over his shoulders. Perhaps it shouldn’t have been there; he was far too used to coiling amidst the trepidation and restlessness, forging onward without ceasing or stopping, no pause, no intervals to breath. But for these quiet moments, after tournaments, after near-deaths and demises, after pain and onslaught, after no forthcoming information, after births and renewals…he could release some of the burden away.Maybe he was becoming more adept at it, or simply had a place to revel in the comforts, the sanctity, the sanctuary they’d carved and built for themselves. Gone were the days where he would drift alone and suffer in the immense pressure of his own making – and so there they were, loved and cherished and not lost.
Erebos had already been in the makeshift bouncer once or twice before, and he couldn’t help but laugh as the youth kicked his legs about, leaving the multitudes to rattle, Belial to hover, and Deimos on the floor beside the baby, long legs outstretched, beginning to create facets of Deepfrost décor. He’d already started on one set of lights, combining elements, hues, and colors to give them a softer ambience, a signature glow, for future footholds either around the house (out of a baby’s grasp) or amidst the outside. “I will leave you to the decorating,” he surmised, with a mischievous glance towards the Evergreen; since they knew full well his aspects were Spartan at best.
