Deimos
you can be a comet tearing open the sky if you want
never say of course; never let them drain the river of your soul
For what it was worth, Idalia made no stir at the sound of her name, either too new, the stranger not bothering her, or a sentiment for the future where’d she a toddler not unlike a dog used to ignoring its owner calling it. She blinked again, still with wide glances, and taking everything again, before closing her eyes once more. never say of course; never let them drain the river of your soul
Deimos kept an inward snort smothered down, his eyes flickering over the variety of means at Astaroth’s current disposal. Knife handles, chimes to catch the wind, and a myriad of other notions and creations that had found a purpose carved out of bones and the like. An understandable and pragmatic approach, and given who Ancients were, he figured most had been free for the taking, liberated after their own needs to be sated. Amused, his head tilted, gaze catching said ring holder. “Fair enough. That part of the season will be here before we know it.” At least that was how it usually went – too consumed by so many other notions and necessities for the winter deluge that the end of Deepfrost loomed with all its LongNight veneer. Deimos imagined, much like Kiada and Fox, that these edges and fringes of said phase weren't the Ancient's favorite. Hence the braziers. “Do you want any help?”
As for his own successes, he gave a short grin. “I was. Ursur pelts are in high commodity come Deepfrost. Easy bartering,” and his monster hunters and himself usually gladly partook in assuring none reached Halo’s Citadel.
