DEIMOS
Zuriel’s nares closed to narrow slits and ears pinned directly to the back of her head at the stallion’s still-far-too close presence, and Deimos muffled the sigh flickering through his lungs. Belial was usually the obnoxious one, though the peryton had now settled near his feet, curling over boots. His attention drifted to other pertinent information, hands still occupied and glowing all the while, continuing to disperse new portions of gauze. Brows furrowing lightly, he tilted his head, uncertain of the measure behind Noah’s words. “What do you mean?” While he might regard Danta as somewhat foolish, and bizarre, his conversations with the Ancient had never been unproductive, at least. Even the picture of annoyance rankling along Noah’s features didn’t particularly highlight anything of value or worth, unless it was that they simply irked one another. At that, they’d have to tread lightly too – unfortunate in the realm of political maneuverings.
Heaving another long and slow breath, he listened to the other notions of the Hollowed Grounds. It seemed to be as Kiada had described as well – and he nodded. “Did they need help with anything?”
He probably should have waited, for no sooner had he asked the question than another messenger came prowling down the streets, handing him a letter from Dantalion himself. Brows furrowing once more, he abandoned the creation for a moment for opening the message, before a look of confusion crossed his face. Showing it to Noah, the Sword's eyes narrowed. "Do you know what this is about?" While he gave the Forsaken a moment to look, he snagged a piece of paper and charcoal out of his bag, already beginning to pen down initial thoughts.
He was something solid
to lean against
violent and fierce and unmoving
