Deimos
Dare we know the halo's hanging low
With the dogs distracted by their kibble, Deimos regained his standing position, watching the skies vaguely as Belial continued to hover in his petulant mood. Patting Zuriel on the muzzle, and with the unicorn lowering her head to grant further access for scratches under her forelock, the Sword was adequately distracted until the notions of frost giants and the guild returned. “I intend to. When I have the time…” and he gestured vaguely at everything in the direction of the Citadel itself – unfurling a long sigh, trying not to contemplate the level of work necessary to ensure the safety of the people. It was as if Morgan hadn’t cared at all. “I have some things to retrieve from Torchline,” but then thereafter – given opportunities, he could probably open the hall again.Nodding thoughtfully at the creatures’ description, he pondered some more. “Are they quick to anger?” Not knowing, fundamentally, if they were temperamental things to be avoided at all costs, like the dragons lurking in the Fangs, or something dim, slow, and could be merely a case of happenstance if they came across such a beast.
At the semblances of racing though, his grin grew again. “Four.”
