[ CLOSED ] I swell without a scar to end the time, a shell without a star at the end of time...
Who: swordofthenorth and thenobledie
Where: The ruins
When: This evening
Format: Action
What: Discussions between dead people.
Warnings: TBD
[ Parrying left, twisting his wrist so that the edge of his blade remains facing his opponent, and the flat side faces himself, Isley brings the hilt of his sword down to his hip in a controlled, smooth motion. He wastes no energy, and the weapon is kept close enough to his half-bared body that he does not leave himself open to attacks. ]
[ Next, stepping gracefully to his right, the silver-haired man shifts his weight from his left leg to the other. His sword lifts in a clean motion from the waist, upwards to the right side of his head, the pommel just above eye level, and the tip of the sword completing a small circle of motion before it points steadily at his invisible opponent; it remains balanced in such a way that it nary strays a hair to the left or right upon his exhale. ]
[ He has been out here practicing sword forms for hours, the Mist swirling thinly in veiled patches around him, obscuring what lurks in the distance, and in some instances what has dared to venture closer to him. No creature dares to disturb him, however. He is left alone, undisturbed by the hungry denizens of the ruins, the monster at the top of their food chain, even though he does not live amongst them-has always prided himself on having better taste than that. ]
[ And this silence? This time to himself? ]
[ It has allowed him the necessary time to clear his mind of burdens and troubles, of plans to rupture the existing harmony between the Natives and the Scorched, as well as that which lingers (however precariously) between the Abyssal Ones and the rest of the townspeople. For these few hours he has been able to exist in a state as natural as possible without registering upon the Richter scale, a state that does not send Abyssal Ones or warriors racing to combat him. ]
Where: The ruins
When: This evening
Format: Action
What: Discussions between dead people.
Warnings: TBD
[ Parrying left, twisting his wrist so that the edge of his blade remains facing his opponent, and the flat side faces himself, Isley brings the hilt of his sword down to his hip in a controlled, smooth motion. He wastes no energy, and the weapon is kept close enough to his half-bared body that he does not leave himself open to attacks. ]
[ Next, stepping gracefully to his right, the silver-haired man shifts his weight from his left leg to the other. His sword lifts in a clean motion from the waist, upwards to the right side of his head, the pommel just above eye level, and the tip of the sword completing a small circle of motion before it points steadily at his invisible opponent; it remains balanced in such a way that it nary strays a hair to the left or right upon his exhale. ]
[ He has been out here practicing sword forms for hours, the Mist swirling thinly in veiled patches around him, obscuring what lurks in the distance, and in some instances what has dared to venture closer to him. No creature dares to disturb him, however. He is left alone, undisturbed by the hungry denizens of the ruins, the monster at the top of their food chain, even though he does not live amongst them-has always prided himself on having better taste than that. ]
[ And this silence? This time to himself? ]
[ It has allowed him the necessary time to clear his mind of burdens and troubles, of plans to rupture the existing harmony between the Natives and the Scorched, as well as that which lingers (however precariously) between the Abyssal Ones and the rest of the townspeople. For these few hours he has been able to exist in a state as natural as possible without registering upon the Richter scale, a state that does not send Abyssal Ones or warriors racing to combat him. ]