Don't shout at me like I'm across the room when I'm right here, when you're right this time
Deimos may be making two lanterns, but he isn’t the only one. No, in fact Glas has spent the last season throwing himself into work, becoming that hermit everyone had seemed to know and avoid. It made things easier to no longer have to explain anything that was going on with him. It made it easier now to not have to explain with the subject of his parents and last Deepfrost’s demise, when the cultists had attacked and his home had been wrecked, his parents living within it.
It was heartbreaking, over and over and over again, but there wasn’t anything else for the young man to do aside from continue on. So he’s returning down the paths of the Citadel, items in hand to make the lanterns in the comfort of his own home, when he passes by the barracks and spies Deimos beside a table. And he’s alone, aside from the unicorn, some amount of surprise found with it. He plans on walking past, but he doesn’t. Instead, his steps slow, his attention not meeting Deimos’ face but instead looking away from the man’s eyes, somewhere around his chest or his shoulders, teeth worrying at the edge of a scarred lip that spans halfway along his jaw from the cannibal that had left its mark so many years ago.
“A-are you m-making lanterns?” He asks, internally chiding himself for the stutter that hasn’t gone away yet. So he doesn’t speak again, instead shuffling his own materials in front of him as if to explain that was his plan too. Perhaps they wouldn’t have to be alone.
It was heartbreaking, over and over and over again, but there wasn’t anything else for the young man to do aside from continue on. So he’s returning down the paths of the Citadel, items in hand to make the lanterns in the comfort of his own home, when he passes by the barracks and spies Deimos beside a table. And he’s alone, aside from the unicorn, some amount of surprise found with it. He plans on walking past, but he doesn’t. Instead, his steps slow, his attention not meeting Deimos’ face but instead looking away from the man’s eyes, somewhere around his chest or his shoulders, teeth worrying at the edge of a scarred lip that spans halfway along his jaw from the cannibal that had left its mark so many years ago.
“A-are you m-making lanterns?” He asks, internally chiding himself for the stutter that hasn’t gone away yet. So he doesn’t speak again, instead shuffling his own materials in front of him as if to explain that was his plan too. Perhaps they wouldn’t have to be alone.
GLAS
