The stance Don's adopted is casual, a hand in his pocket and the other at his side. Fingers twitching as he works. He'd started small with magic, peeling off his silhouette and passing hours honing its edges or pitting it with holes. Other shadow users have fashioned vast bulwarks, but his strength is fine control: his shadow's seeping into the ice in front of him, worrying at the cracks. It's patient, draining work. Sweat's begun to bead on his forehead and he can feel his magic, too, getting slippery when there's a movement beside him.

His fingers splay. The shadow disintegrates. His step backward turns to a stumble and he reaches out to grip the other man's arm. His hand clamps down as he regains his balance. Stays flat on Roland's arm another heartbeat. “Shit--excuse me.” He's stepping away when he gets a look at Roland; something slams down behind his eyes.

He's never met the man, never wanted to since seeing him on the network assuring Odin anyone who disagreed with war would be dealt with. Since hearing lunatic certainty in his voice. “Sorry about that. It's obviously time for a break.” His smile's pinched, his words are stiff, but maybe that's exhaustion.