The evening was crisp, cool; but inviting, enticing, all the same. It could be said for both of them, as Deimos marched through the snowy portions, then alternated towards the greenery, his son close behind. On the promise of helping, Erebos had been easily convinced and persuaded into more layers, and despite the temptation to whine or carry on in all the ways of youth, he didn’t seem to mind one bit as they continued traversing. The Sword kept his focus bounding between multitudes; but Belial helped overheard, and Zuriel in between, so they had enough on hand if things became treacherous.
But on a singular breath he watched the warm puffs of air gather into murky little clouds, head tilting to listen for the babble of the stream. The twilight was a stark brilliance on these horizons, and before long they found the watery edges, where constellations could be tucked in between nestled rivulets. “Here looks good,” he offered in a quiet rumble, letting his son work his way over to his side, and the Sword crouched, beginning to grab containers.
But on a singular breath he watched the warm puffs of air gather into murky little clouds, head tilting to listen for the babble of the stream. The twilight was a stark brilliance on these horizons, and before long they found the watery edges, where constellations could be tucked in between nestled rivulets. “Here looks good,” he offered in a quiet rumble, letting his son work his way over to his side, and the Sword crouched, beginning to grab containers.
deimos
Never let them drain the river of your soul
