Deimos
Dare we know the halo's hanging low
Deimos knew multitudes about protection – he lived and breathed it every day. From defenses, safeguards, shielding, the leaps and bounds of assaults and sieges, weaponry, arsenals, and warfare, his whole life had been a mantle of fortresses and barricades. So when Safrin called for him to use an unconventional means of utilizing his armor for protection, it took a little more machinations than ones honed from muscle memory.But the Sword was anything but complacent; and off he and Erebos went towards the Greenwing, settling in amongst the blooming plants and gentle springs running rivulets amidst ice and snow. The toddler giggled and squealed his way through the emerging flowers, while Deimos snorted, watching Belial drift above and listening to the snorts of Zuriel behind them, as they zigged and zagged at the child’s behest.
Armor slung over his shoulder, carting it around until they found the necessary means and measures amidst his intentions, his eyes flickered back to Erebos, as he grasped hold of some blossoms. “Your mother would know that one,” and Amhran too; instead the Warden went to plucking it out of the youth’s fingers as it was wrenched haphazardly towards his mouth. Snorting, they maneuvered onward, more towards frozen patches of earth. “We can go over there,” with a lure of snacks and mischief on the horizon.
