[Training] renewed blades

DEIMOS And in your darkest hour, I hold secrets flame Perhaps this was why he always hunted familiar routes and roots, built up fortifications around things he knew and understood, why he chased the void from his savage lairs in the Basin, why he ran his tempestuous eaves through the crossfire of accustomed sanctuaries. There were eternal benefits to knowing the layout of one’s land – and he merely hadn’t had the opportunity to adapt. So while he rampaged with his speed, with his precision, the odds still weren’t stacked in his favor. Which he’d understood plainly already, but still coursed through, still presided, still amused and benefitted from the chase, the reel, the opportunity to unfurl and unleash, without too much pain, or anguish. A different mode and style of training, and he might’ve enjoyed it even further if – Morgan hadn’t consequently launched from a greater height, and crashed into his hellhound form. With no time to defend against it, with naught to prepare but swiftness, she caught his hindquarters, and sent him spiraling into the cobblestones. The impact left his breath reeling, one sharpened bark (the pain and shock, from years upon years of battle, settled and scorched inwardly) left his chest, and then sides began to heave, striving for extra air; the wind knocked out of his sails. It’d been a bewildering enterprise to his already recovering frame, but an effective tag. For an instant, he made no motion to move, save for ribs and lungs inhaling, exhaling, at a rapid pace. master of nothing place; of recoil and grace