[se] in the armory of your soul

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame Nothing but the wiles and action of childishness exuded from his form, a liberation away from the dirges, from the dregs, from the laments of yesteryears. Given over to antics and juvenile tendencies, a lapse in calculations, pervaded and surrounded by humor and stupidity, freely exuded in attuned armaments and ties and tethers of laughter. It echoed when he was hit once more from the shaken snow, rising out of the clumps bearing down upon him, in the way his gut hurt from the exuberance of chuckles bearing against his ribs, in the breathless wake of his exertions. Before he could exact some measure of siege back upon Noah, flakes began to fall down upon his head. Glancing upwards, for he’d somehow forgotten Morgan in the crossfire, the Sword arched a brow, following the patterns of the sudden weather alteration, to see her incantations taking hold and shape. All she’d receive in response was a cheeky, boyish grin, and a volley of Air enchantments right back at her, intending to billow the elements in a rush, in a gale. Now, for Noah’s comeuppance, the beast orchestrated another massive snowball – readying, volleying, and then hurling it towards the hunter’s proportion of shelter – intending to damage it beyond repair. master of nothing place; of recoil and grace