Deimos
Dare we know the halo's hanging low
Deimos and Zuriel exchanged a series of glances as the dragon snagged the courier – mostly of the awareness that they were seeing the same thing, and choosing to ignore the bizarre interplay. Perhaps it was something they committed to on a regular basis, some version of amusements – the Sword could only inwardly shrug and carry on with the conversation. He didn’t expect it to turn to Zariah.
And for all his abilities at masking his emotions, that famed reticence, that iron and steel detachment, he couldn’t help the look of disgust flickering over his features at her name. Nose wrinkled, lips curling into a tangible sneer, his experiences with the woman were rendered into an obvious loathing at best. “I heard you all suffered from her hand as well.” In combination with her obnoxious relative in Neron – why and how she’d managed to ever come into power was beyond his scope of reasoning – she’d been a disaster immediately. Being an inspiration for various coups and rebellions shouldn’t have been on anyone’s resume.
Striving to ensure the manifested contempt was stolen away for better proportions, he unfurled a sigh, pondering the answer. “I only took it over in the previous season, but we fought a daemon in King’s End.” He’d seen far more monsters within his own actions and adventures; when he only had himself to risk.
