[se] in the armory of your soul

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame Deimos had not seen Noah pressing in, not quite to the point of gauging potential threats while he built and constructed, back turned to the majority of passersby. Placing finishing touches upon the outer proportions, where the wall curved inward, allowing for some manner of shielding from the sides, the voice called out, carried over the wind. Head turning, twisting, over his shoulder, he likely would’ve been the victim of a sudden attack, had the Warden not set foot into those proportions. The Sword only had a singular moment to laugh into the midst as the snowball melted into nothing but pockets of air and vapor – not bothering to stifle it as Morgan’s warning came over the boundaries. A nod of respect followed through, and a very cheeky, Cheshire grin came behind it, piercing stare flickering back and forth between the pair. Only then did he consider and weigh his options, justified in the way a snowball manifested, and lifted, high into the reaches of his incantations, widening, widening, widening, until it hovered over Noah’s head. It'd been bold for Noah to attempt an assault without a proportion of his own defenses; permitting, allowing, for other multitudes to flicker in. “You do seem to be lacking protection.” Perhaps the only warning the hunter would receive, before he subsequently launched the sphere downward. master of nothing place; of recoil and grace