DEIMOS
The Sword lifted his features to the dry, bitter, howling wind, chilling even in the midst of summer’s eaves, grateful and moderately content as the rest of the breeze flickered against his coat and furs. Visions of another time, another place, always sharpened and honed here, along the corner of his eyes and in the figments of yesteryear’s memories, where lives merged and combined. Not ghosts or wraiths, but filaments of a similar path, bearing weight along the ice as if he’d traversed it for eternities. But he wasn’t alone, and so didn’t fall into the wake of recollections, turning his head over his shoulder to watch the others – dragging the sled behind him, filled with the necessary tools for carving and cutting into the ice. Zuriel snorted at a few offerings left near the glassy baubles of the shrine before moving on in sleek, nimble strides, and Belial scouted overhead, pervading what should’ve been quiet endeavors into a boisterous hoot. Jutting his jawline towards the trail ahead, Deimos’ voice carried over the wind towards fellow Halovians and compatriots. “We can start over here,” along a corner not flanked by the sea.
He was something solid
to lean against
violent and fierce and unmoving
