Deimos
Dare we know the halo's hanging low
And then it was decided – Deimos sparing another modest laugh as Evie cut straight through the middle, the designations of no more cookies set. In that case, he shook his head and then indulged, taking a larger portion to feast upon. His answers only seemed to spawn further inquiries, but these ones he didn’t mind – the pictures in his mind never quite doing the responses and statements justice though. “I was born beside the ocean. The Moonlit Tides, in Isilme.” An entirely different world, but only in some matters; still war, still heartache, still loss and triumph, still kingdoms fighting and gods converging, sovereigns combative and tenuous. For times and measures though, it had been his to rampage through, and even leagues and lives torn away couldn’t take those measures out of his soul – carving him, especially in the quieter moments.
“Probably not,” in regards to her favoritism for lamb. “Any animals farmed are the ones who can still tolerate constant winter.” Or the tougher, stronger, stubborn owners who had the means to feed the livestock – maybe the greenhouse aided in that. “You could always try at the butchers though.” Uncertain if value in trade had heightened over time and abilities.
Savoring another feast of dough, he had to chuckle, the deeper rumble echoing along the small kitchen as he glanced back at the cooling cookies. “That can be built up,” with a cheeky indulgence to his features, but certainly not insinuating she should. A choice of consumption in all things. The Sword hadn’t known the Evergreen was making her own liquor though, so he tilted his head a little further back in surprise, tapping the spoon against his lips. He shouldn’t have been surprised, however, considering her occupation. “Might go over well here.” He paused, considering. “Favorite season?”
