and then we mend again

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame Summer storms weren’t anything out of the ordinary in Halo. For a formidable climate, it rarely altered course in its denizens – so much that seasons persisted in much the same way. So it was no surprise when Deimos arrived at the guild hall to find portions of its roof blown off – likely from strong gales, rapacious edges of ice, and anything in between. Rolling up his sleeves and sighing, he knew full well it would take several hours out of his day to repair the building – and it couldn’t be left to sit there until he was done with other duties. By then, the wear and tear could be detrimental. Withholding another long breath, he puffed out his cheeks, and instead of miring in irritation, opted to begin with inspecting the damage. It only took moments to shift from eagle to glide over to the roof, and man again, lingering on the edges, surveying the depth of holes and where shingles had peeled away. His eyes flickered upon the dashed ones some yards off into the snow, black and overt against the outcropping of ivory. Forming a mental checklist, he kneeled and crouched along the flatter portions, gloves hands grasping on one of the shingles left barely holding on, and tugging it free, intending to start anew. master of nothing place; of recoil and grace