Deimos
Dare we know the halo's hanging low
“Gods no,” he shook as head as Amhran approached, granting a warm and deep laugh. Deimos’ form of decorating was especially Spartan, and Evie had done more than enough to make the house cozy, rather than grim, bare, and stark. Wrangling Erebos to the floor as well, as the youth giggled and tried reaching for his beard, the Sword swept a dark green hue across the bottom of the baby’s foot. Another amused screech filled the area, and he snorted in response. “I thought we could do some painting for Evie. As gifts.” He then planted Erebos’ foot at the bottom of the paper, and lifted it away, leaving an imprint of the infant’s limb, while the babe kicked and splattered some other remnants and drops upon the newspaper. Shrugging, figuring it was a start to the idea he'd concocted, he didn’t intend to encourage the same for Amhran, who already neglected shoes at the best of times. “If you want – and you can use the brushes,” already trying to bar the attempt. “You could make her anything that comes to mind. We all have birthdays in this season anyway.”
