Deimos
Dare we know the halo's hanging low
The statement elicited a sharp crack of laughter, whipping through the kitchen on a single echo before dissipating – enough for Belial to raise his head and hoot something in return. Deimos had never carried the air of innocence well, not with mischief and menace embedded too deeply in his features. But still, he tried, his voice a perfected rumble as his smile deepened at her threat. “I do not understand your meaning,” save for all the other individuals scattered amongst his life who’d wanted to do the same. A roguish tilt to his head exemplified the same faux harmlessness, which probably only escalated the notions of devilry. Her whisper caused some proportions of his boyish juvenility to diminish, but not by much, instigating the arch of his brow as her expression altered very swiftly. Maybe too quickly, because he’d known how to avoid things too, but instead of prying, he let it settle. They could meander and wade through monster distinctions if she wanted, but he could feel his own measure of evasion storming its way through his chest. “It was a thing. By the falls in the Climb. When we were all sick and trying to find a cure,” and he couldn’t, wouldn’t, refused to bend and bow his head to the Voice’s restoratives. “It is still there, I imagine.” He doubted she’d be the type to go looking for it – but there was a cautious narrowing of his eyes thereafter – probably a warning. The Sword made sure not to mention the hordes of others he’d faced: sea panthers, Krakens larger than Remi, a basilisk that could turn others to stone…
Purposefully guiding the discussion back to cookies and maintaining his irritating presence, his eyes went to the bowl. “Are you done mixing-,” though he never finished the inquiry, because there was an egg cracked above his head, slowly slinking down, down, down. The only reaction was another wrinkle to his nose, because the sensation of it had been cold. “All right. Deserved that,” he could admit, before bluntly calculating another maneuver.
She could have her laughter; pitches of it resounding along the parlor. He’d just get his too.
Content with the notions, the silent decree of his Air and Water machinations unfurled – both taking the main portions of egg goo out of his hair (though the tresses would have to be washed soon; no way to alleviate that notion) and flinging it upon hers. Purposefully avoiding the flour, the counter, or the bowl.
