Deimos
Dare we know the halo's hanging low
Deimos hadn’t considered a war of attrition; at least, not in Halo. But he’d been crafting his own from incantations, and so found it all the more amusing when the pangs and curses settled in. He hadn’t thought to glance up – not yet – for Belial was still there, eating eggs, providing insight whether he realized it or not.“Does that mean you are conced-,” he nearly managed to shout out, save for the rumble of the branches overhead. Snorting, he moved to guard over Erebos, who, again, remained wholly and delightfully oblivious as he swung his fists out and moved snow almost nowhere. The boughs lost their collected pockets of frozen crystals as they descended upon Deimos, at least, who hadn’t bothered to cover himself with anything.
He laughed though, as it struck and clung to his jacket, shaking his head much like a dog in the aftermath. Just for that, he sprung back into the fold, grabbing at magic and offering a whole sheet worth of snow to hover, and slowly make its way towards the Dragoon’s fortification, intending to place it downward in a looming, hovering shadow, until it could contort and cover everything in a fine layer of dust and cold.
