[Training] renewed blades

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame His mind had begun to map out routes, much like he’d done in the Grounds, steps repeating them if necessary to obtain the desired effect of understanding, of knowing where streets branched and avenues twisted, turned, where surroundings mauled together. It was different from the Sanctuary, where the worn cobblestones, the alleyways, had been learned rapidly – especially when there hadn’t been other worlds to venture towards until barriers fell. These were simpler machinations, but necessary, given his choices both when sick and the current, not succumbing to the illness still residing, still waiting, still lingering and lurking under the surface. The Sword didn’t think he’d hear his name called on the wind, and arched a brow at the familiar voice as it whipped toward him, rapidly churning down the paths, gaze glancing over his shoulder, following her motions until the Warden was at his side. He managed a snort at her question – already thinking it was an improbable situation; his endurance and fortitude knocked down a few pegs by the sickness, by the weakness snagged at his bones, by the lack of nutrients when he’d refused water or food for so long. He’d taken opportunities frequently to replenish what he’d lost, especially with the notion that he would eventually succumb again. Except it was tempting, the thought of just racing off. No calculations required. No moments of strategy. No melancholy strangling, gripping, and taking hold. He’d been fairly decent at speed, even with his powerful, massive figure – Even more enticing, was the tracing of paws in snow. “Sure.” And then, perhaps because he was comfortable here, perhaps because the mischief lodged within was desperate to do something out of all the convictions immersed in misery – he prospered a challenge. “We can make it more interesting though.” A shrug to his shoulders, gaze sweeping back to the Palace imposing a fair distance away; enough opportunities to gain platitudes and rankle their dual, serious natures. His hand reached out to tap lightly across the top of her head. “Tag!” Then he instantly shifted into a hellhound – a ripple of might and power, massive paws to launch over streets and stones, a loud bark following, as his towering fortitude leapt into the street. master of nothing place; of recoil and grace