Deimos
Dare we know the halo's hanging low
He'd heard that word before (always), and it hadn’t lasted. Dissipated, in the wake of demise and loss and alterations he still didn’t think he understood – so he swallowed down something instantly coating his throat. Jaw clenched, feathering through flesh, until his eyes turned downward. Trust was a hard-earned concept for someone who’d known the potent weight of loss, and how people chose to leave him behind. So he took another breath and stopped the tightening in his chest, nodding, choosing to place hope and faith in another for the moment – because maybe that was better than eternally expecting the worst. He didn’t have any words for her, save that same coloring of his cheeks, granting a nod, solidifying the notions with a glance back her way, and easier thoughts.Like…why so many tried to make him go on vacations.
“Not sure I can abandon the place for an entire day,” stare going out the window, to the surrounding world of ice and rime, thinking over the antics of some of his constituents. Glancing back towards her, he resigned a slight sigh, extending his larger hand with all its callouses and scars in a shake. “Half. Maybe.”
His gaze narrowed though, vaguely suspicious, as she named other places amongst the desert. He hadn’t been to any caravans or oasis – just the sulfur, the boneyard, and the endless god damned wasteland. “I must have missed those,” with another earnest wrinkle to his nose.
Unaware of her thought process and imagery of him in swim trunks (easily done) or flip flops (would not be caught dead in them), he hastened a brief snort at the available targets. The following revelation was enough to send him into another Cheshire grin though, biting down on his cookie, picturing Evie with all her tucked away romance novels. “Hid them under your bed and everything?” A wink of indulgence and another low rumble of laughter, content, distracted, diverted. "I used to steal my mother's pies out the window while they cooled," if they were sharing mischievous, childish acts. “What did you paint?”
Deimos never thought himself as artsy – despite how many times someone had asked if he’d branched into those skills. “Only things I have created. Or the sketches in the guild journals.”
