Deimos
Dare we know the halo's hanging low
Barely withholding the snicker beginning to slide its way along his mouth at the first response, he curbed his concentration into creating a few more molds: all rather cheeky, some blending and fusing into landsharks, banshees, and small, makeshift ningos. He’d prefer the playfulness and mischief well over any other serious adornments; they’d already had enough traumatic, instigating moments in their lives. Solace was difficult to come by in the world of Caido, and carving and sculpting it out for themselves might’ve taken more hours and attempts than dissolving into the perils and pitfalls of the lands surrounding them. Deimos had always learned to take what he could get – though this wasn’t with avaricious claws or predacious urgings. Just repose. Maybe it was easier to crave when the occasions were so rare. Turning over his shoulder for a second to regard her with his boyish grin, especially at the image of friendly banshees, he tilted his head back when the solemnity started in. “All right. I will not invite you to the next hunt then.” A pause, pondering over the juvenility of the situation, before diving headlong into it anyway. “Who knows what you would do with blind swamp rats.”
No words on fighting though; there were enough of them across the void driven and immersed into measures of bloodshed and ruin. Violence and vehemence had been chiseled into him since he was young – and though he trained the willing, he’d certainly never push anyone into conflict. “You know you do not have to be. Go with what you want. What you find suitable.” And if it was to be healing, or other ventures, then so be it.
Eyes lifting from his small cookie cutter projects, making another in the shape of an ursur, they widened only slightly at the prospects of massive teeth. They’d snagged a few from their own carcasses in the desert, but enough had to be left behind when Sah was injured. His first notions were of a weapon, because of who he was, but remembering and recalling Evie’s roles, the machinations began spinning. “Could be a shield or armor of some sort?”
Glancing back down at his collection though, narrowing his gaze at cute, his nose wrinkled once more. “Oven is already on. Sugar cookies sound all right?” Thereafter, he dropped the last form and moved towards the cupboards, removing everything they’d need: flour, baking soda and powder, butter, sugar, an egg, and some portion of vanilla that he’d had to haggle and quibble over for a while, along with bowls, spoons, and cups.
