DEIMOS
we've all got blood on our hands
something somewhere had to die
so we could stay alive
For as young as Belial was, he’d clearly seen some things in the midsts of Halo. At Loki’s approach, his spine grew tauter, straighter, rigid, unbending, a hallmark of Deimos’ initial guards and defenses – but the deer only had memories of draconic entities. Of much larger foes. So while she spiraled to investigate and engage, the carnivorous youth hissed and bellowed, fangs conveyed, hackles raised. Zuriel, half-inclined to watch the proceedings between the Wraith and General, only lifted her head to roll her eyes at the flying companions.The Sword didn’t embody or exude Belial’s stance, but the reticence remained clear and distinct, the impassivity, the thresholds of walls up and up and up. And while he’d been advised against the ramparts, the fortifications, he doubted he would ever truly dissipate defenses around Wessex. He didn’t trust her. Any of those notions from years ago had long since been removed in the parting of ways, in the directions they’d both maneuvered towards, old and new gods, and everything else scattered in between.
He waited, and wasn’t surprised to find she gave nothing but his name. A few steps and then naught more; causing his eyes to narrow in suspicion, and then give way to an arched brow, a sullen sigh coiled in his chest once more. It exuded on a very slow, withering breath, before he began. “I do not hate you,” which she seemed to have perceived by the irate cataclysms she’d exuded within Halo’s barracks, bombarding and barraging upon him because he’d wanted her to use a damned item. “But I worry about your decisions and the lives effected by them.” Those considered his family, his friends.
