Deimos
Dare we know the halo's hanging low
The juxtaposition between Halo and the Climb was always jarring; but where he found the desert most unappealing, the hellhound ventures in his soul seemed to rather enjoy the mixture of fire and lava. So he looked particularly unbothered, even if he’d already swept up strands of his long hair into a makeshift bun, snorting at Zavien’s initial statement. “You are welcome.” Deimos was curious to see more of the haze anyway; the only place he’d frequented here lately had been Frey’s Breath – perhaps it was comforting, knowing that some thresholds stayed the same resilient conflagrations.So he stood guard as Zavien went to dip the armament in the molten mixture, gaze sweeping along the cavern and pits as a predator would; searching for any aspects out of the norm, or wayward gore crows eager to make their mark. The only thing deterring him from full focus upon the walls and the scenery was the Dragoon’s inquiry, to which he could give a grin. “We are well, busy, but that is not out of the norm.” Pausing, his mind went over any recent circumstances. “Erebos is attempting to walk,” which granted a very proud and dignified father expression, before wrinkling his nose.
Head tilting, because he never craved yielding attention to himself, he placed it back upon the Accepted. “And you? How is Stormbreak doing?”
