To long

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame It had been some time since letters had flickered and flown towards the cleric; long enough for Deimos to presume he’d become busy in the interim, or managed to get himself involved in some other life-threatening tasks. So it was only a minor surprise when there was a knock on the door, and perhaps more baffling that he was home, snagging enough time in between his own responsibilities to snag lunch. The noise sent Belial streaking across the kitchen, and for the Sword to place his food down for an instant, brows furrowed, until he opened the aperture and his piercing eyes landed upon the familiar blacksmith. “Darkeye,” permitting the man to step through, head tilted vaguely. “How have you been?” A brief pause contorted along his mouth, but certainly not his mind, shutting the wooden entrance behind them. “And the Grounds?” master of nothing place; of recoil and grace