Deimos
Dare we know the halo's hanging low
It was no secret that he thought very little of himself – deeds, liberations, deliverances, and shielding included – and the protest contorted rapidly over his tongue. He didn’t want to be thought of in such manners because in his notions, they weren’t true, and while playful offense might have swept over his features, the sentiments behind them still stung and clustered together. Amidst the weight of all his other actions, he lingered in quiet, eyes narrowing, uncertain how to even respond without another objection. “That is quite a pedestal,” he finally offered, voice subdued, certain he’d already fallen from it lives before; peeling away another portion of bun to halfheartedly launch in a pocket of crimson locks.He didn’t take a bite as the subject altered and changed, watching the kits roam around freely, no burdens or thoughts intertwined; just bursts of movement and joy. Alterations in Torchline’s attempts at tourism beneath the waves made him snort; for a year or so before he hadn’t been welcome at Chrys’ beckoning, had lingered at the shrine below the depths, and went home. “Did you get a chance to go?”
