[se] in the armory of your soul

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame A very loud snort followed through on Noah’s proclamation – a flimsy excuse at best – adding more to his juvenile nods of discretion at Morgan’s agreement. Deimos had gone through multitudes of misadventures, trials, and tribulations in his multiple lives; a snowball hazard was something of a novelty at this point. The crash of the silent-spun vestiges upon the hunter was well received anyway; a warm round of laughter bounding from him, exuberant and wild, before permitting both of them an opportunity to find or manifest their shelters. At least a valid attempt, as he pondered over the best way to barrage. “Fine. Let me know when you are ready.” He began to angle himself behind the fortifications anyway, building up a bounty of snowballs, rounding out the edges of snow and water, pooling them into collected formations, at the ready, at his beck and call, when needed. Once they’d all seemed to have angled into their positions, the monolith crouched down. At a disadvantage due to his height, he’d ensured the fortification walls had been enough so that he wasn’t bending too far; and he stretched along the outer proportions, attempting to decipher where the Warden had hidden herself. With no other shelter or sanctuary coiled beyond, save for Noah’s, the General presumed she’d found some angle within his massive, glacial refuge. He quietly stalked the outer reaches, narrowing his eyes, utilizing proportions of attuned bombardments; hound ears appearing along the top of his head, swiveling back and forth, catching any residual sounds. When he thought there was some whisper of movement on the other side of the wall, he conjured his Air proportions, sending the snowballs over the enclosure, and hopefully falling right upon the Warden. Noah wasn’t to be forgotten either, and he mustered the same accord with the projectiles, hurtling them rather blindly from his defensive measures, attempting to fire them at whatever the hunter had mustered. master of nothing place; of recoil and grace