to forge

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame Company seemed to expand within an instant, conjured on talons and feet, a prediction and calculation the General wouldn’t have been able to surmise prior. He snorted at the familiarity of Boreal and the clear hankering for treats, even if Talyson’s warning came shortly thereafter, he ceased movements of enchantments with enough time to slip fingers into pockets and pull out a secret treat to the lizard. Recognizing Soleil by her appearance (from skating rinks and something distinctly Sah-like about her nature and presence), he snorted, trying not to immediately question why she was wandering about the Citadel, alone. Simplifying the answer, for her and others’ benefit, he permitted a stage-whisper to follow suit, hand gliding to ruffle at his papers and show her the outline. “A pair of talking devices. So you can speak into it, and someone far away can hear and answer.” He arched a brow at the courier nearby, but didn’t say anything else to the nature of the subject – presuming the Accepted would be able to parse through the hows and whys. Turning back to Sol, he tilted his head, distinctly patient. “Do you know how to draw a snowflake?” Producing a piece of charcoal and paper from another pocket, it’d allow for some distraction while he worked. Beginning again, the golden glow of his palms burst forth and created the foundations of those very devices, in an contour reminiscent of those elements they saw each and every day, conspiring, contorting, in arrays of creative magic. master of nothing place; of recoil and grace