[se] in the armory of your soul

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame An afternoon for shenanigans; rather than the condemning weight already storming, ambling, through the back of his mind. With trainings complete, minor paperwork finished, and an another day of avoiding his office entirely, the General set off further down the road. He maneuvered the consuming thoughts and notions out of his way, as if passing within a storm, and strode out along the outer reaches of the Citadel walls, where he’d last set up the sledding party in the cold, darkened winter. Visible by the gates, along the main pathways – an excellent place to instigate rounds of mischief, and catch anyone wandering by off-guard. Whether citizens expected antics and bemusements from the Sword by now wasn’t really in his parameters. Instead, the monolith set to work involving his incantations, water, earth, and creation, to begin adorning a makeshift snow-fort. It rose along waves, cresting within ridges, until he could freeze it again and again, solidifying the aspects. Its height was decent, enough for him to duck down and not have to crawl along the rest of the earth in the potential for heavy fire – fully expecting another to come along, and he could entice them into some range of juvenile foolery before dusk. master of nothing place; of recoil and grace