[se] in the armory of your soul

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame Deimos presented another juvenile, boyish grin as the assaults seemed to conjure a ceasefire, a surrender, from the hunter. He’d take it as a childish victory, shaking his head to rid himself of the flakes cast into his beard and hair. “A truce then,” he muttered, arching a brow at Morgan’s indication – and the notions sounded far more pleasant after contenting themselves with foolishness. “Until next time,” he warned with Cheshire intentions and a seditious, cheeky angle to his jaw, as if these demeanors weren’t going to be altered by time, space, politics, and a series of molten consequences. “Sure,” he accepted thereafter, glancing back to Noah, waiting for him to join, before they could saunter off towards the Kraai; simpler measures for simpler times. {FIN} master of nothing place; of recoil and grace