Deimos
Dare we know the halo's hanging low
He could picture the Maverick clambering about from parlors, lounges, or bars, opting to inflict some psychological paranoia or damage upon his enemies – but certainly never wholly at random, or because the world forced him to. “Agreed.” The spite and pettiness should’ve echoed for intentional motivations and rationales. Deimos could think of scores of his own to settle, and he had no doubt that Dantalion was much the same. He laughed at the last portions though. “And then they can pay their respects?” An arch to his brow followed, to signify his tease.As for ice sculptures in Halo, he shook his head. “Doubtful. All the funerals I have attended have been on pyres.” Or sky burials, but he’d never been witness to it – only discussions about past lives lost amidst the wintry world. So they’d be returned to either the sky or the earth, in some shape of form, ash and bracken and gone. He didn’t dwell on it much, having died in previous lands, gone over to icy caverns and bones laden where worlds no longer existed.
At the acceptance of the bag bestowal though, he grinned, content with the arrangement. He had no doubts on Danta’s preclusion on filling the bag – just with what, the Sword purposefully didn’t ask. “Mm. Let me know if you need anything else. And we do have a new hot springs in Halo.”
