Deimos
Dare we know the halo's hanging low
Committing the name to memory, he glanced out over the designated grounds once more – amused by the antics off to the right. The puff of air near the kiosk had become prevalent, so much so that it seemed to be whipping near the parrot. The bird’s feathers went askew, eyes narrowing, perhaps caught, found out, and –A hand reached up, grabbing it firmly. ”Got ya!” segmented from one of the seekers, chortling, laughing wildly, as the avian squawked indignantly. Thereafter, they shifted once out the perpetrator’s grasp, shuffling over to sit on the sidelines with a resolute pout. Deimos snorted, but made note, amused at the unraveling and unfurling of powers, machinations, and proportions.
At Beryl’s ambivalence, the General tilted his head a fraction. “Depends on your abilities.” Considering even the smallest contributions could go a long way, especially in games and tactical measures, he wasn’t about to let someone feel as though their capacities and potentials were without prowess.
Though the compliment wasn’t expected – given the briefest widening of his eyes, and then the rogue smirk intertwining, probably to cover up the surprise. A self-deprecating notion began to settle behind his teeth, but he’d been working on worth and acceptance, so he bowed his head a little instead. “Thank you.”
