Deimos
Dare we know the halo's hanging low
Missing the grins and hidden amusements, the General occupied himself with the pieces of funnel cake; content to let the powdered sugar fall in displaced proportions along the table – some making it inevitably to his nose. Head tilting vaguely at the other ways in which to enrich the treat – honey, apparently – his eyes scanned the booth they’d just left, but not seeing any. “Next time, then,” he muttered amusedly, the juvenile grin matching.Chaele’s presumptions of being nothing more than an ant caused the slightest raise of his brow, but nothing more. He could surmise, imagine, many felt that way – untouched, out of the scope and range, trying their best to duck their heads down and survive. Deimos had never been such an individual; raised on battlefields, knowing his efforts would be worth something, even if it was a mere motion, a ripple effect.
Not giving consideration into dipping the dough into his cocoa, the flavors would be a bizarre combination, he sipped at the warm drink as the shaman talked, allowing his silence to pervade for moments longer. “Darkeye and Sunjata have spoken about a neutral area,” and while Deimos couldn’t offer much more than a ‘good luck’ proclamation to the former and sneer to the latter, it would benefit many. “Understandable,” given the Abandoned blood, and any past experiences. Years before, the Sword would’ve been the same – not bothering to acknowledge a tempest between gods and deities, allowing that to filter and flicker away.
Except, now, being who he was, altered and bound and changed just as much as the rest of the world, his place was once more with a blade in hand. Hunting down relics. Garnering defenses for mountains. Arming, strengthening, trying to ensure those in his world persevered. “With the Old Gods,” he acknowledged behind his mug – as raptorial and predacious as any bird.
