Deimos
Dare we know the halo's hanging low
The Sword made no mention of how many he worried for – but it might’ve been there, in the furrowing of his brows. Written in the lines of otherwise impassive features, experience drawn just as often as his blade; the nature of impending falls and stumbles, desecration and demise. Maybe that was why he’d spent his time ensuring his own knew the weight of armaments, the tactics of covert operations, or hastened towards defenses amongst Citadel walls. The conversation could've been disjointed over warm mugs of hot cocoa, but unavoidable now, even along steaming plumes ghosting into the evening, or in throngs of people. “And where will you stand?” Among the larvae? The birds? Deimos could hazard his own estimations on Chaele’s stance, however, there would be no need if the answer was readily given.
The promises of funnel cake kept him from conforming to an unyielding, unbending monolith again – content, with some manner of bemused grin – when the exchange was made, and he could snag at the confection. Perusing the booths nearby, he doused the layers of fried dough and powdered sugar with a necessary lacquer of cinnamon, before proceeding to a table. Plates were conjured for both of their benefits – if Chaele wanted to try any, an open invitation – before he sat with drink and food, tearing away portions and sharing the dessert.
Glancing upwards at the proclamation, his head swung to the left, jaw jutting towards the direction. “Saw some over there, next to the games.”
