Deimos
Dare we know the halo's hanging low
No one should ever mistake Deimos’ nonchalance for disregard; his senses were heightened, his magic taut underneath the surface of his skin, and his abilities measured, strong, and potent. Nothing reckless, nothing emboldened, but certainty in his stride, a belief in all the wakes of power and prowess constantly coiled and tethered within his soul. He knew himself and his capabilities well, and he’d lead the way because of the possibilities they might encounter down the lines and caverns. “Thank you,” he offered by way of a quieter rumble, listening all the while as things continued to drift soundlessly away.His eyes narrowed slightly at Zavien’s suggestion, pondering the semblances and notions as they reeled around his mind. “Past diseases here have been like that. Seemed to poison everything – especially one’s awareness.” The Sword, and many others infected with the second blight, had been quite literally out of their senses. The first had multitudes attacking their brethren. And though those had been Voice impacted; it wouldn’t surprise the Warden at all that this was another signature illness. Eliminating the “source” would take a lot; and given where they were now…likely to be the next step. “Potentially. Hence why we need more of the flowers. Much to garden,” he wrinkled his nose at the quip, but meant it just the same. “I think it would take cleansing the whole…area.” Starfall, essentially.
