Deimos
Dare we know the halo's hanging low
Deimos gave a sage nod, as if he’d experienced the sacrilege of ice cream cake without the special chocolate crunchies; especially as a personal affront. "We will make certain," he noted with every degree of seriousness, finishing off a touch of black to the tip of Micah’s nose, before moving the paintbrush down the makeshift jaguar’s spine. Juggling and jostling the chatty Erebos made the painting go much slower, but he couldn’t up but snort as the child leaned on his knee and stared up at Amhran, deep in rational conversation. The youth gave some sort of answer in return, but most of it was in small strings of incomprehensible nuances – though quite animated, given the way the youth shook the rattle. “And yet, a small one he will be getting.” He lowered his head purposefully over the infant’s, careful not to actually bear any weight. “Keep it up, and it will only be a cupcake.”
Dipping his brush into more of the Stygian hues, the wondering made him laugh. “We could certainly try.” He wasn't going to argue over a fair amount of dessert every day.
