Deimos
Dare we know the halo's hanging low
He'd begun to visibly retreat into himself – piece by piece, layer by layer – instilling the old foundations, the familiar ramparts, the walls upon walls upon walls, the quiet, residual silence taking over. It’d been a long time since he’d had to, for the Sword had been permitted his moments of vulnerability by friends and family – had come to find himself safe, instead of locked down. And had the subtle apology, the airing of regret, the stirring of ignorance, not settled into the air, he likely would’ve continued to press into those ancient, arcane wakes, where nothing could touch and wound and mar him. Not stone. Not steel. Not iron. The grin didn’t make a reappearance, nor a subtle smile. The only breaking of the impassive, nonchalant mold was the vague tilting of his head, the inclination of canine, feline, and further predator attributes, surveying the table and cake, the mugs, rather than the merriment surrounding them. That already felt lost, and he wasn’t certain how to get it back. “You are forgiven,” came on hushed rumbles, though he didn’t glance back at masks. Deimos had long since understood the rancor – but nothing had ever been handed to him. Any and all efforts had been on determination and fire and brimstone.
He shouldn’t expected the inquiry, given how many others had sought his experience lately – perhaps with the war looming, the curiosity compelled, even from those who’d yet to be in a deity’s presence. Eventually, hands wrapped around his mug as if the enamel was a lifeline, his eyes pierced back to the shaman’s. “What do you want to know?”
