Deimos
Dare we know the halo's hanging low
A vague huff of laughter left his lips, before distractions occurred in being next in line – eyes glancing at the availability and options, snagging at a mint and chocolate concoction, paying his respects to the worker, and sliding out of the way for Chaele to make their selection. Content with the mug in his hands, he arched his brow, pondering a multitude of things in his habitual silence, though he hadn’t expected the torrent of facetiousness to snag and sneer at the festivities.Once they were out of earshot, and he’d had a moment to sip at his drink, the General considered the notions. “It may be one of the last few events people can enjoy.” The ominous declaration of two years was almost up, and the horizon was daunting, dimming, for those who’d be forced to face the escalation of war. Some wouldn’t participate. Some would heal. Some would gather and strive and try, and many may yet die.
Recalling Fiat Lux, he began moving again, nose to the air again. “You do not have to stay.” Since the shaman didn’t seem to enjoy it – given the statements. Deimos wasn’t going to steal away anyone’s joviality this evening. As an afterthought, or way of explanation in the swift movement of his limbs, he added another rumble. “I am going to find a funnel cake.”
