Deimos
Dare we know the halo's hanging low
It had taken time to no longer see the shadows of those they’d lost. And even then, sometimes it curled along the edges of his eyes, or amidst his soldiers, finding themselves uttering a friend’s name that had been bombarded upon the wall. Banshee claws and dragon onslaughts had worked their way into their hearts and minds for years to come – but when more arrived and the rest thrived, taken to the pride of carrying their comrade’s memories upon their shoulders or amidst their ribcage, persistence and perseverance remained key.And so the Deepfrost Shields trained and the Warden served as leader and general and sovereign to wakes of individuals who’d forgotten what it meant to give in.
In the usual avoidance of his office, Deimos’ long strides kept him circumventing the training grounds, pinpointing instructions, offering maneuvers, or rumbling notes of encouragement as the rest of warriors dueled one another. Sharp clashes of swords, of spears, of staffs resounded, harmonious chords for those who survived and lived and breathed all over again.
