DEIMOS
Zuriel was content with Astra; though gave half a warning when the antlers became a little too close with a brief snort, before shuffling and lowering herself back down at the boulder’s side, tucked, safe, secure, and out of the billowing wind as it stretched by. The monolith arched a brow at Loren’s insinuations of what Tanau liked; the elemental factions and figures had only been a rough estimate at best – as someone who also preferred flames. Fire and metal. Brimstone and lacquer, and he nodded, a shrug following through.Then his skull dipped again, restoring the magic gilded in between his palms, conforming over the bottom half of the lantern, granting and giving it tangibility as the molding, the sculpting, began to churn, never losing its luster. But his head tilted, listening all the while, capable of riveting the attention amongst and amidst other keen notes.
Like the ones Loren seemed to hint, insinuate, between blurry lines and meandering of straps. The General paused, lifting his piercing gaze back to the healer, the arch of his brow remaining. Deimos, not privy or drawn into the thick of dramatics, theatrics, and everything else that coincided within the Citadel recently (busy snagging at lilies, or drowning away the angles of afflictions with the springs’ water), had no predilections towards the occurrences, or why Loren would be drawn back into the threshold of the Grounds. “Something wrong?” An assumption towards either some other multitudes of crisis in the Hollowed sanction, or anything else. Given the state of this earth in a constant, never-ending flux of chaos, despair, and every other damned faction in between, it was a likely speculation.
He was something solid
to lean against
violent and fierce and unmoving
