DEIMOS
ache first, but then let the cuts close
spit out the blood
spit out the blood
Out of the office for the initial part of the day, patrolling with the rest of the Shields had filled a better portion of the morning, and before long he’d developed a routine with Erebos to practice his walking. The infant would toddle along for a few steps, giggle with glee, then topple unceremoniously into the snow with such illustrious laughter than all Deimos could do was chuckle in return. The youth was getting far better at picking himself up and maneuvering along with only a few wobbles, all made more difficult by his large snowsuit.
Then the broadcast from Vox came through, and sent the Warden into that primordial trepidation that warred down through his spine. Though he’d been cross with Flora over her latest actions, he’d never wished her ill will; and he could only imagine the upheaval ensuing beyond their reach of Halo. Putting it out of his mind was no easy task either, because clenched jaws and impassive features racing towards the Barracks, to letters and parchment, weren’t going to make the ramparts any easier.
Gods, and then there was Ru…
Loosening a long, slow breath, and already half-coordinating a draft in his head, he scooped Erebos up in his arms and began the slow march towards another route within Snowcloak. Trying not to embody the apprehension welling in his chest, for his son and the world around them at large, he settled into listening. The hubbub of passersby didn’t seem too drastic or panicked about the situation, perhaps they too had put it aside, but an unfamiliar call rang through his ears.
Tilting his head vaguely, eyes narrowing, he heard a stranger calling, hoping to snag someone with her wares. Given that he hadn’t seen her before, and his overly cautious, protective notions, he began to approach, Erebos waving with his overly-large mittens as they made their way over. “Hello,” he offered in his residual, low rumble. Always intrigued by crafting and smithwork, given the nature of his creation magic, he glanced over her wares and trinkets. A distraction, a deterrent from the framework of machinations spiraling through his mind. “What is your finest piece?”
Then the broadcast from Vox came through, and sent the Warden into that primordial trepidation that warred down through his spine. Though he’d been cross with Flora over her latest actions, he’d never wished her ill will; and he could only imagine the upheaval ensuing beyond their reach of Halo. Putting it out of his mind was no easy task either, because clenched jaws and impassive features racing towards the Barracks, to letters and parchment, weren’t going to make the ramparts any easier.
Gods, and then there was Ru…
Loosening a long, slow breath, and already half-coordinating a draft in his head, he scooped Erebos up in his arms and began the slow march towards another route within Snowcloak. Trying not to embody the apprehension welling in his chest, for his son and the world around them at large, he settled into listening. The hubbub of passersby didn’t seem too drastic or panicked about the situation, perhaps they too had put it aside, but an unfamiliar call rang through his ears.
Tilting his head vaguely, eyes narrowing, he heard a stranger calling, hoping to snag someone with her wares. Given that he hadn’t seen her before, and his overly cautious, protective notions, he began to approach, Erebos waving with his overly-large mittens as they made their way over. “Hello,” he offered in his residual, low rumble. Always intrigued by crafting and smithwork, given the nature of his creation magic, he glanced over her wares and trinkets. A distraction, a deterrent from the framework of machinations spiraling through his mind. “What is your finest piece?”
watch your body pull itself back together
then let your soul do the same
then let your soul do the same
