NOAH
The barracks had its usual hum of activity. Steel rang against steel, punctuated by the bark of orders and the dull thud of boots against packed snow. The fires that lined the training grounds gave off their steady glow, heat wavering into the chill of Halo’s air, bolstered up higher and more potent now as Deepfrost began to cling to the already frozen land; but, beyond their reach the wind still bit sharp and cold even with the protective dome over them. Noah stood just past the edge of the covered section, where the snow crusted firm underfoot and the air could frost the lungs with every breath.
He let it fill him, grounding him as his glacier eyes swept the yard. It had been a long season of fighting—but now, there were hints of laughter and jest that laced through the clanging steel and thrown elements. There were a few attuned, too, he could see as claws came with swinging partially shifted arms. He lifted a brow. Shifting came easy to him, as natural as drawing breath, but battle was more than instinct. It demanded control. Precision. Awareness of what his body could do in every shape, and what it cost him to push further. It demanded someone to push against. It had been a long time since he had focused solely on what his body could do in a shift against an opponent, offered them the ability to fight against something that might find them on the tundra in the safest, most controlled way.
He pulled his fur-lined Sentinel’s coat tighter and stepped further into the grounds, the crunch of snow underfoot steady and deliberate. When he stopped, it was in the center of the yard, with a group of men and women gathered. He recognized almost all of them, save for a few younger fellows who looked just old enough to leave the safety of their childhood homes.
“Anyone willing to spar against me in one of my shifts?” He asked the shields and hunters gathered. He stood waiting, arms loose at his sides, the restless energy in him coiled but contained—ready for whoever would step forward first.
He let it fill him, grounding him as his glacier eyes swept the yard. It had been a long season of fighting—but now, there were hints of laughter and jest that laced through the clanging steel and thrown elements. There were a few attuned, too, he could see as claws came with swinging partially shifted arms. He lifted a brow. Shifting came easy to him, as natural as drawing breath, but battle was more than instinct. It demanded control. Precision. Awareness of what his body could do in every shape, and what it cost him to push further. It demanded someone to push against. It had been a long time since he had focused solely on what his body could do in a shift against an opponent, offered them the ability to fight against something that might find them on the tundra in the safest, most controlled way.
He pulled his fur-lined Sentinel’s coat tighter and stepped further into the grounds, the crunch of snow underfoot steady and deliberate. When he stopped, it was in the center of the yard, with a group of men and women gathered. He recognized almost all of them, save for a few younger fellows who looked just old enough to leave the safety of their childhood homes.
“Anyone willing to spar against me in one of my shifts?” He asked the shields and hunters gathered. He stood waiting, arms loose at his sides, the restless energy in him coiled but contained—ready for whoever would step forward first.
Sun is up, hold on to what is yours
Take up your spade and break ground
Take up your spade and break ground
