Deimos
Dare we know the halo's hanging low
“Tyrants do not have the most innovative minds,” he remarked, snorting again, some bout of normalcy returning for the sheer mentions of spite – for they were often paranoid, eager to exploit their power, and grappling with how to obtain more. While the rest of the world reared away from their steads, formed rebellions and revolutions beneath their noses; just as they’d done in the bakery’s basement. It was too bad Zariah’s fringes had even made it to Halo and committed such damage; but, to the mountains’ credit, Deimos hoped all of that had been salvaged in the years thereafter. “As long as everyone is successful,” to which he nodded, the statement meant to encompass Ru, the Academy, and any students within.Her stance ensured his protective, guarded, watchful one didn’t alter or change; eyes occasionally drifting over the line of field and grass, checking in on the kits who’d seemed to have found shelter in a boulder’s shadow and drifted off to sleep, Zuriel grazing, Belial curled in his own makeshift quarters, and the babbling stream before them. The kiss to his forearm was met with a silent motion of air incantations bringing back the idle piece of bread nearby, and placing it discretely along another thread of crimson hair.
The Sword had seen the phallic symbols too, chosen to ignore them for the sake of not diving too deep into teenage routes; so he muffled a laugh and chose another drifting passerby. “Turtle with horns.”
