Deimos
Dare we know the halo's hanging low
Deimos made good on his promise of flower crowns – and was content to remember he’d instilled layers in his outfit. The moment they’d arrived within the humid, airy Oerwoud, he peeled away the portions of anything fur-lined, stuffing the navy mantle directly into his bag and forgoing it entirely until they made their way home. The rest of his outfit coincided well, the tunic rich and blue, pants accompanying not stained in blood, and the wreath of blossoms alternating in orange and cobalt hues; complementary, as they were arranged over hair pulled away from his neck in a messy bun. He offered Evie a crown as well, in case she hadn’t concocted her own, and was half-tempted to steer them directly to the feast and its tables, though the meadow and its flattened expanse, earned a wrinkle of his nose and a teasing air. Lowering his voice to a whisper along the outside of her ear, he resorted to mischief, perhaps to ease any apprehension when it came to festivities – no matter how many years had passed. “Did you proposition me to dance at the masquerade?”
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{se} solar flares Ghilio Offering
{se} live for the fight Outfit Making
