Deimos
Dare we know the halo's hanging low
The silent call out was painstakingly accurate, as there he was, resorting portions of the armory. The shelving hadn’t been quite up to his standard, and so he’d taken a few more moments to straighten the proportions out, then place the armor and weapons back in place. The footsteps echoing across the ring were unmistakable anyway, and he only had to spare a glance over his shoulder as he put the remaining staff back into its holder. Responding in a telltale snort, before brushing his hands together and wiping the remaining debris off. “Who said you were my favorite?” Giving an unmistakable, brotherly, irritating gesture of a tilted head and a devilish smirk, he stepped forward, listening, then instilling a table for these predetermined efforts.When the information was truly forthcoming about his part in the proceedings (for he really couldn’t lose, not with the way he’d already calculated), the grin grew wider. There might’ve been some manner of boyish, mischievous vengeance in the look – no need to hide behind stoicism for this endeavor.
The Sword purposefully took his time, because he thought it’d be funny and put her a little on edge, while he carefully crafted weapons before her. Silently, he laid down five: a crossbow, a staff, a sword, a spear, and a dagger (perhaps just to give her a fair shot). Each had identical, wooden hilts, deliberately constructed to make her think, rather than rely on habitual lines. “Ready,” came on a deeper rumble, before he stealthily moved somewhere behind her, intentionally out of range.
