Dillon gives a small, sheepish wave. The absense of the Darkness's oppressive and capitalized effects is neatly suspended in area closest to him, a wholesome circle swept out as though by a supernatural squeegee within a ten foot radius of his feet.

"Hey, Warsman." He waves, a little sheepishly. His field doesn't actively repel monsters, though he doubts they much like it; but coincidence takes care of him. It usually does, even if he has to nudge it a bit.

"I guess you're...keeping busy." The euphemism sounds silly, and he makes a face at himself as soon as he says it.