Deimos
Dare we know the halo's hanging low
Boredom, at least in his life, also never seemed imminent. Even in peaceful times, Deimos always had something to do. Halo, much like himself, wouldn’t be worn into an air of complacency; intentions broad and vast, defensive and offensive, with the turn of seasons and opportunities. Safeguards and abilities were one of the many proportions the region had to share with its citizens. Colt would find she’d have to do much the same, likely for years on end, to ensure that desert could do more than hover ominously over its foundational efforts. Stopping the sled again once they’d reached a smaller home, nestled amongst market stalls and various kiosks, he snorted. “I did hear, but not all the information reaches us so readily.” Sometimes success was measured in other countenances, or letters were lost amongst fowl meant to deliver. Snagging at another bundle of wood, he arched his brow. “I wonder if you could make some homes from the wood there,” though obviously not the sort that unfurled more potent and pernicious plumes of poison. “Give you a little more structure and protection.” Because as she’d said, tents couldn’t abide too much. The heat and monsters were a larger issue.
