Deimos
suns for bones and constellations for eyes
He watched her casually, striving to snag a reaction to the ideas presented. It didn’t take long to register the shock with his own residual snort, used to extending gifts and bestowals to those who deserved them. And though he was known to be mischievous, the Sword wouldn’t promise generosity without the tangible reality behind it. “Really,” he followed on a small smile, launching the last lingering pile of logs onto a neighbor’s stoop, dragging the sled along as they turned another familiar corner.They were steps anyway – a gradual process, reclaiming lost things and setting them to rights; like happiness and contentment. A bigger house with familiar and personal affects, rather than the hollowed, Spartan-esque structure. Another rumble contorted through his chest, muscles in his arms ensuring she was safely ensconced as they drifted their way along Citadel streets.
And perhaps he should’ve foreseen her own question, but the surprise gave him away, eyes widening slightly. Still not quite used to thinking about his own needs or wants, for old habits died hard, it took him a moment to calculate, mull, and muse over conditions and yearnings. “Maybe a workshop,” and he shrugged his shoulders, pondering, nose wrinkling. “Or a small armory.” Places to create and contort, practice and perfect, in the comfort and sanctuary of their home.
