On the Edge of Something

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame In truth, there was more to Deimos than mere magic; he’d handled weapons since he was very young, and even more so when it came to training, brutality, and wars. Though Ronin wouldn’t have seen any of it, due to spears, axes, and blades having very little nuance and use when battling a multitude of monsters at a distant range. In those arenas, the Warden had been blunt force and ferocity in different aspects, calling to elements rather than metal. So he snorted, obliging the Supernova with a rough bob of his head, granting Ronin and himself with wooden swords created and crafted immediately – incantations pooling around his palms. He'd forgo the use of real steel for this exchange, considering the relative inexperience of one. Arching his brow throughout the exchange and notes of the Dragoons, Deimos had rarely imparted a lack of eyesight in his recruits, but then again, when facing ursurs, dragons, and the like, losing a key sense didn’t bode well. Settling the lightweight blade into his calloused palm, he gave no other indication or nuance save for a brief acceptance and shift of his frame, nodding at Zavien. “When you are ready then.” master of nothing place; of recoil and grace