Deimos
Dare we know the halo's hanging low
The images being brought to life, at least momentarily under Amhran’s touch, conjured a small smile from the Sword. But then he left the youth alone, as Erebos sank in between his legs and continued gnawing on the rattle, and Deimos could work on his own. The charcoal drifted across the paper smoothly, in wisps and tufts and curls, until ultimately the vision of Micah was complete, and he went about selecting a paintbrush, before dipping into brighter hues to match the tide jaguar’s fur. “Yes,” he rumbled once more, eyes on the parchment while he slid a dark Stygian over paws and claws at the bottom. “Some enjoy being around crowds of people.” Deimos clearly wasn’t one of them – social niceties having grown over the years due to political machinations or simply gaining friends, but it took a massive amount of effort to maintain any graces around meetings and congregations. Especially in the wake of so many things going wrong; gods, just testing magic out on an orb had sent Amhran and others sprawling across the sand.
Too much endured and too much at stake, he simply tried to negate the rest of those confounding thoughts with better, easier topics. “True. So I suppose the better question would be what kind of cake you would like.”
