You don't have to shout or leap about

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame The Sword liked to observe everything – eternally a scrutinizing force. From years of battlefield prowess and war-torn assemblages, snagging at casual observations and chaotic circumstances both had aided and provided in assisting in next maneuvers. Machinations were always a stirring nuance in his mind, and even the most normal of moments often spun calculations in accordance with information and precision. So while he was at Stormbreak’s skyport, waiting for another with detailed notes about the latest void creature dramatics, his eyes flickered over the scene. It had a much broader representation of boats than Halo’s – which made sense, given pragmatics, and a far earlier construction – and his gaze roamed over galleons and sails, seafaring vessels made entirely for the broad expanse of clouds and air. People too, milling about, coming and going with boats depositing them from other trips, or being cast away to someplace else. Nothing in particular stood out to him, and so he waited a bit longer, taking in the sights and surroundings, standing along the appointed meeting spot. When no such arrival came, he remained the nonchalant Warden, but could feel the wasting of time growing – and with so many things to do back at home, he didn’t want this to be a felled effort, or something misplaced. Glancing at a younger woman nearby, clearly on the move, his voice rumbled from across a few yards, note with the tracker’s name still in his hand. “Excuse me, would you happen to know the location of Dominic Sands?” master of nothing place; of recoil and grace