DEIMOS
The Fangs were eternally an intriguing portion of the landscape, and had gone through their own trials and errors over the years. Initially housing a portal to ensure the masses could get to Halo, though consecrated by the Voice, eventually losing that, to holding their springs, opening itself up to the world on alterations and changes, before the Family could demolish their healing portions. Halovians were the type to endure; they’d forged along and fixed the onslaught the parasitic creatures had left behind, but Deimos still rounded along on patrol there, always a little more on guard in the proximity. Today though there only seemed to be jagged edges, the glow of some mushrooms nestled in absent-minded corners, and the stillness of freezing water and melted ice. His eyes still swept across the scenery more than once, the soldier intentions never quite leaving him no matter how many wars he’d survived. Arching a brow towards Iskra though, his rumble persisted again. “What did you need to do for this training?” Deimos hadn’t gone to the barracks because he’d known he would have to use some all-encompassing incantations, and he didn’t want to have to repair so many burnt edges in the warriors’ thresholds (again). But that might not have been the case for the other Abandoned.
He was something solid
to lean against
violent and fierce and unmoving
