DEIMOS
Gone and vacant, a vessel promising bloodshed rendered obsolete. The hellhound grew very still, waiting, watching, for some other trial or tribulation to conquer over the ice, to roar across the horizon, but then everything was yielding, and he was merely a beast once more. Noah’s voice in his head echoed and bounded, but his eyes didn’t leave the ursurs, calculating, pondering, wondering, tilting his cranium to indicate he was listening. He had no inclination or predilection towards the bear meat, potential pelts, or tusks; the preference had been in naught but the twist and turn of hunting, of learning, of experiencing. The only alteration in the situation would be getting them home, and he had some ideas already forming in his mind, when Noah’s movements grew abrupt and far more morbid. Stumbles, fumbles, the adrenaline of the stalking, attacking, and assaulting likely wearing off, and the wounds beginning to show their marks. He shifted immediately, for he could only do so much in the wake of a canine, summoning Zuriel to the hunter’s side before the inquiry was truly prompted. “Yes.”
And with a commanding sweep of his head, the unicorn advanced, a proud, dignified, haughty creature, noble Queen of some woodland she’d left behind to stay with the Sword. Her horn dipped toward the injuries, intending to infuse healing, to stitch, to mend, to obliterate the pain, the torment, of their latest endeavors. She’d done this many, many times for Deimos, and for others, in the midst of demolition, destruction, and disaster; the nuances accustomed, natural, inherent, the process quick, swift, and there.
Meanwhile, Deimos kept himself busy too. Never capable of doing anything more than heathenous sieges, he didn’t tend to the healing process. Instead, he opted for constructing, creating, outfitting a massive sled, intending to utilize its proportions and capabilities for hauling the newfound prey back to the Citadel.
He was something solid
to lean against
violent and fierce and unmoving
