In my stomach is butterflies

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame He arched a brow, permitted the slightest of smirks again at her insistence. “We will always take more.” Of those formidable, capable sort; who didn’t shy away from the cold, who bolstered strength with conviction, not so easily led astray. There’d been many like her – some stayed, some strayed, and then the ones who remained above all else. How Halo, and Caido, would treat her would come with time. “Have you explored much of the Citadel yet?” On the contrary, Deimos hadn’t been raised in Halo at all – that depiction went to Isilme, the stretch of sand amongst the Moonlit Tides, and the echo of gulls fleeting over dunes. Long since gone, like the lands thereafter, but deeply entrenched in his being; of ocean and waves well before ice and swords. So the question bewildered him for a moment, even if he didn’t show it, only giving the lightest arch of his brow, head tilting. “No. I came here of my own volition.” Perhaps that was a rarity still – but in the threads of heartache, fever, delirium, and nothing much else, the mountains had called him home – out of Hollowed Grounds and mired dreams. “I am an Outlander,” to keep the record clear – a known fact throughout the majority of Caido. “But Torchline is a good spot for a vacation.” Which, to the workaholic Wardens, was usually a day or two before flying home. Last time had been for a tournament – which Deimos would reckon as not exactly restful. “Is that where you are from?” master of nothing place; of recoil and grace