Deimos
Dare we know the halo's hanging low
There was another level of irritation set along that obnoxious peryton’s brow – mostly because the dragon didn’t rise to his gallivanting or goading. Turning his hackles up in a rather childish display of fangs and stupefying youth, he pouted and frowned, circling overhead, as though she’d relinquished her title in the skies and he could remain resolute. The resulting reaction from the courier caused another bout of laughter from the Sword, and an ensuing smirk to accompany it, reaching into the corners of his mouth in a widening grin. “Ah. Too late.” Ru had probably seen a welcome opportunity, and took it for every ample degree and moment. “The only way is to bully her in return.” A hallmark of Deimos and the Valkyrie’s usual system of events, anyway – sibling stupidity as they rounded and volleyed shots off one another. Contemplating for a moment, his eyes snagged at the horizon, watching the ice barely shift. “Catching her unawares is the best method. My favorite is throwing things at her.” Mud. Snowballs. Preferably at the back of her head.
At the appreciation for incantations, or the appeals of Safrin’s image, the General snorted. He’d let it remain anyway, for the goddess herself, or any other confused passerby. “Do you have any preference towards the gods?” New or Old, he supposed, getting that sanction and section out of the way.
