Deimos
Dare we know the halo's hanging low
Evie churned in like a whirlwind, enough so that he blinked multiple times while leaning over the counter, hand holding a makeshift snowflake mold. He scrutinized in short order, recognizing eye bags, haphazard wakes, and with a routine arch to his brow, there were probably a thousand inquiries lingering on his features or behind his teeth that remained unvoiced. “Hello,” he snorted, permitting after a moment, before reaching for the kettle as it began to whistle. “I can only imagine,” the Sword rumbled in response as he snagged at two mugs and tea, a silent gesture in asking if she wanted any, barely avoiding Belial again as the peryton made no measure to move from the middle of the kitchen floor. Unfortunately used to hearing of friends hurt, marred, wounded, or dead, initial trepidation started along the vestiges of the smile. Seeing as how she was very much alive, the apprehension didn’t need to coil down the length of his spine or around his ribcage, but his eyes were narrowed, sharp, as if waiting for something to fall to pieces again. Still, he tilted his head, pondering the framework before finally permitting the question. “What happened?”
