Deimos
Dare we know the halo's hanging low
The turn of conversation, into more personal affects, caused a vague tilt of his head. He hadn’t thought the shaman willing to share such information – more accustomed to the masked derision, to the veiled bitterness, to the lofty heights of other influences. He permitted the smile along his mouth to remain, the amusements tucked behind his mug, swallowing down another sip while they discussed. The notions were uncanny, and a laugh flickered through, a low rumble settling around his lungs and ribs. “My mother was very similar.” Not without her own brand of compassion, but certainly stern. Perhaps she had good reason to be, given everything, and the way their lives had unfolded. “Though I like to think I gave her a challenge.” The smile grew a little more juvenile, a peek of boyish mischief and indulgence; a childhood borne of unwinding along the sea and chasing gulls, brazen and wild and bold. Comfortable again, he snagged at the remains of the funnel cake, an arch to his brow at the considerations thereafter. “Maybe,” was another utterance after swallowing down the last bits of cinnamon, brushing his hands off from powdered sugar. But he’d never be one to even begin to explain Safrin’s motivations – wouldn’t think himself qualified to do so. Deimos had his and his alone.
Drawn to silence for a moment, he only persisted in prying because Chaele had done the same, and turnabout was fair play. “And what are your goals?” Beyond staying out of it, away from even the areas of neutrality.
