DEIMOS
the resurrected sword
He smirked; given the response, she wasn’t wholly out of sorts – and with the mentions of food, he was already rolling out of bed himself. The intention had already been there for partaking in getting things started, figuring she’d want to shower and dress before coming down. Laughing, he found his own robe and tied off the ends; he could shower after. Erebos wasn’t quite awake, by his companions’ assortment in the nearby room, so they had a few spare minutes to hasten things onward. “Sure.” Concocting a plan for breakfast – omelets and whatever assorted fillings they had left in the cupboards and fridge, he rumbled towards her as she disappeared behind the door. “Be thinking what we should do for the region this season,” while she was in there, melting in the heat – his mind was already melding towards soldier formations and trainings again.
Heading down the stairs, he snagged at the necessary pans and ingredients, cracking a few eggs and listening for the sounds of any toddler or Raeling feet. When no one appeared yet, he persisted, grabbing bits of ham and cheese, and vegetarian sides for Amhran.
While waiting though, he figured he could multi-task, and while things were cooking (turning them all over at the appropriate intervals), he began creating the robes necessary for the upcoming masquerade, ushering them along and in between his palms until they unfurled along the counter – black, Stygian, a little plain but adorned in several other details to ensure one would know who they belonged to.
Heading down the stairs, he snagged at the necessary pans and ingredients, cracking a few eggs and listening for the sounds of any toddler or Raeling feet. When no one appeared yet, he persisted, grabbing bits of ham and cheese, and vegetarian sides for Amhran.
While waiting though, he figured he could multi-task, and while things were cooking (turning them all over at the appropriate intervals), he began creating the robes necessary for the upcoming masquerade, ushering them along and in between his palms until they unfurled along the counter – black, Stygian, a little plain but adorned in several other details to ensure one would know who they belonged to.
under the bludgeonings of chance
my head is bloody, but unbowed
my head is bloody, but unbowed
