Deimos
Dare we know the halo's hanging low
His attention wandered; keen, piercing eyes scrutinizing individuals or stalls nearby, an observer since childhood – taking in sights, sounds, analyzing them for the threat level. He’d learned that even festivities such as these could become lethal and deadly, and more than once his gaze shifted to the outskirts, to the folds of darkness, beyond gaiety and merriment, and to what could linger in the shadows.Or nearby, beckoning his name across the line.
His head tilted, following the decibels of brief familiarity, withholding any reaction until he could glance over his shoulder. Several others did the same, nosey and inquiring, but he ignored them, arch of his brow defining over the rest of the reticent features. “Chaele,” the Sword acknowledged with a nod, before moving forward, noticing his place in the queue had shortened.
Maybe they were both surprised to see one another – he wouldn’t have taken the masked (though that had changed too) shaman for a participant in such events. She seemed much more the type to thrive on the wilderness, fringes of civilization, than meander straight into its den – amidst the lights and splendor.
As for what he was doing? With a particular effect of boyish innocence, mouth lifting into a slight grin, he inclined his cranium towards the stand, gesturing in the direction of the stand. “Getting hot cocoa.” A pause, giving nothing else away, before following with the distinctive rumble of his tones again. “And yourself?”
