Deimos
Dare we know the halo's hanging low
Deimos had already heard information about the life after, from Naturals, from those who had long since been educated on the subject matter. As an individual who didn’t fear death, and certainly had experienced it enough times before, he only inclined his head, ready to listen to whatever Sah had snagged and witnessed, heard and enforced, for himself. The notions of Mort arriving was another matter altogether, and his brows went upward in some impressed platitude. “Congratulations.” Pondering over the complexities of sharing the notions, the Sword shrugged. “Many Naturals have commented on going to Mort after we have passed.” But it was good to hear the Thunder had found some satisfaction in the sentiments expressed, rather than any further displeasure over deities. And Safrin caused another arch of his brow, and keen edge to his smile. “What sort of armor? I had her assistance with some recently too.”
Capable of withstanding much in the way of discussion or antics, the Warden continued to pull the sled along, until they came to the ursur. Dead. Emptied. His eyes narrowed, speculations grown wild again. “I have seen this several times. I do not understand the cause. And with war on the horizon, that has been my main focus…,” and a sigh followed, a slight wrinkle to his nose on something else they’d have to address in the meantime. But he nodded, and the peryton swept off into the air, intending to search out the perimeter.
