[se] echoes of ancients

Soleil

It's not the long flowing dress that you're in
Or the light coming off of your skin

Envisioning a bungee jumping company of sorts in Halo brings a businesslike gleam to Soleil's amber eyes. "I mean, the Palace is still pretty empty, and huge," she points out, innocence plainly easy to see through but affected nonetheless. Certainly there were taller spires and eaves there than anything the Barracks' climbing wall or the Citadel's gates could provide.

Enchanted as always by the sight of him working his magic in such physical ways, Soleil leans her elbows on the table and plainly stares in delight as Deimos crafts beautiful wrought iron flowers from seemingly nothing. Taking them delicately - despite how sturdy each flower is - Soleil turns them one by one to watch the play of light over the colors in each petal. "They're perfect. Thank you, Deimos." Perhaps it is the 'next generation' that he had mused on before, or maybe it's simply that she remembers so little of her mothers, but Soleil doesn't lapse into silent melancholy as she holds these mementos in her hands. "Is there anything else I can do before I go? Dad's brain will explode if I'm too much later," she remarks with an unrepentant grin. Sol would do it all over again given the chance, and surely her father will forgive his only daughter.

It's the fragile heart you protected for so long
The mercy in your sense of right and wrong