Deimos
Dare we know the halo's hanging low
His grin grew wider with each passing nuance, watching as she gathered all the paints together, and struggling not to offer a rebuttal to her statements. Because some days he wasn’t incredible and strived to rise above nefarious, vehement reprisals; but he was also learning the value of self-worth, and that it was all right to accept the sentiments. Difficult, and sometimes grating against every sentiment he’d ever been taught, yet, perhaps, not impossible to stifle any longer. “Thank you,” came on half a laugh and a shake of his head, locks still sticking together from waylaid egg. “And you are welcome.” Responses unyielding in weight; she was welcome to the incantations laid before her.So he followed suit on several canvases in turn, three – a stark white on several different builds and sizes, starting with the smallest, perhaps like a modest picture frame, appearing in between calloused palms used to honing weaponry and refining the art of bloodshed. Then a medium to follow, and a larger after that, so she’d have some options when opting to revitalize her techniques and skills. He passed those over in turn too, absent and empty amidst the paints, perhaps a bit of encouraging to fill them with whatever suited. “There you are,” was a brief announcement, dusting his hands off when they were finished and complete.
