Deimos
Dare we know the halo's hanging low
Pretenses were vital – though any of their diabolical means were shortened the moment she objected and he snorted, watching as she replaced and returned the section. Erebos kicked and flailed his legs for another juncture, and Deimos shook his head, content and peaceful, amidst soft, muted lights, and the expanse of family, of things they’d all grown and nurtured and strived for, surrounding the surface of these small, precious moments. Which he then turned into quiet bouts of gossip and intrigue, because he knew she loved it, and it amused him to see her eyes narrow into something raptorial; the bait and lure and traps set. How she often few directly into the snare, and seemed to yearn for it all the more. He laughed again, creating another sanction of the bulbs, more green than amber this time, head tilting vaguely as if trying to recall or recollect the moment. He wouldn’t have to; he’d remember it regardless, but it was in effort of the tease, the thrill of her chase. “He approached me during the tournament, to ask for my blessing. He plans to ask Kiada for her hand in marriage.” From there, a wry little grin appeared in the corners of his mouth, and his gaze landed upon her, intending to gauge the reaction.
