Deimos
Dare we know the halo's hanging low
He waited in the quiet, could almost hear her processing the semblances one by one. A small smile settled along his mouth, and when the colors became a certainty, he nodded. “All right, give me a moment.” And from there, the space between his palms began to glow – manifestations of thoughts and hues and blends blurring together from experiences, conjuring, creating, in neat, adorned pools. Bold designations followed suit, compelled and coiled and controlled by his power and might. Yellow, like the morning rays bleeding over the horizon, red, like the crimson pools amongst the falls within the Greatwood, blue, like ocean waves and tidal currents. Orange might’ve been trickier given the pigment, but concentration didn’t wane, especially for one she considered favored, sunsets sparking and sizzling over otherwise stark plains.
Thereafter came ivory, tundra outlines and mountains crisp and cold, and black, hollowed out and empty. Each with their own container, small but sufficient, and as they settled upon the counter one by one, he nudged them over to the healer for inspection. When they seemed finished, he unfurled a long and slow breath, methodically glancing over them one last time, before his gaze went to hers again – looking for something. Approval, probably, before he started on canvases. “Will these do?”
