Deimos
Deimos had a brief moment where Belial reached out in a sudden influx of their bond; the approach of another, causing all of their heads to lift accordingly from their respective wanderings around the room. His calloused hands left the lantern on the mantle, a long, slow breath filtering through his lungs, steel and iron forged within the notches of his spine. The voice thereafter ricocheted and resounded instantly – but with touches and fringes of familiarity that had the Sword turning, glancing, over his shoulder, eyes narrowing. Too much of a predator to be apprehensive about the multitudes, but too experienced in the justification of the world around him to not be wary just the same. “Darkeye?”
He then turned one hand over, casting a long, drawn flame to light the room further; an interplay of embers against obsidian and furnished stone. “It is Deimos.” Belial shifted near his ankles, while Zuriel snorted – waiting, perhaps, for some inevitability.
He then turned one hand over, casting a long, drawn flame to light the room further; an interplay of embers against obsidian and furnished stone. “It is Deimos.” Belial shifted near his ankles, while Zuriel snorted – waiting, perhaps, for some inevitability.
you're all bronze and bite
all venom and fistfight
all venom and fistfight
