to forge

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame The early afternoon haze snagged along the spires of the watchtower, enough to catch glints and rays of light. He’d yet to wander up the steps since they’d created its proportions – too busy staking out patrols along the Citadel walls, and casting others to remain in the responsibilities of gazing out across the expanse. But he’d take over the role for the next several hours, while conjuring another level of defense for the mountainous region. Taking plans and sketches made days ago, he rolled them in his gloved hands, and took to the stairs, rising along, gazing out the windows as he did so. It was an awe-inspiring view once he reached the top, barely winded, much like the images he snagged in flight, and he nodded towards the soldier on the current vigil, granting them the ability to leave as he worked. Snagging at the chair and table nearby, he contemplated and studied the diagrams already laid out. More magic utilized meant more abilities, more potential, and so Deimos removed the gloves, and began constructing, palms gilded and glowing. master of nothing place; of recoil and grace