breathing has gotten unbelievably difficult. uneven, rough, almost forced in a way. it was such a fright, unexpected in a thousand years, to see someone who so closely resembles the DEMON KING appear before him, within his tent, the camp. truly, it makes him worry a bit for how unguarded the camp might be. ( or, he will worry. after this. )
so obviously panicked & deviating far from the idea of a hero, the only steady part of him is the sword, kept pointed to the man. if there’s anything he, or those that fight alongside him, can count on… it’s his sword.
he watches as the hand turns, & time seems to SLOW. how slow it goes, too… as that hand turns, & an all too familiar symbol catches his eyes. his heart stills for a moment, gaze locked upon that gentle glow, knowing full well WHERE that triangle is placed. it’s not in the position of wisdom, not even power — but of courage.
with that realization, he takes a step back.
the step backwards is enough for him to relax his own stance. his hands lower, slowly again, and he subtly moves the edge of his cloak to expose the traditional gerudo clothes he wears beneath and the empty scabbard at his hip. no weapons. not even a dagger or a bow or a shield. it’s just him in his clothes, and he hopes that provides a bit of comfort.
“I know this is likely a shock to you, because I look like... him. But you have my word that I’m not.”
in a gesture and as a simple test, he offers his hand and nods to the master sword. if he were the calamity, even touching the hilt would cause him pain. it has been years since he’s wielded the weapon, but even now, it looks so familiar to him. it always seems odd to him when he sees someone else wielding it, as if he has some sort of attachment to it. like someone wearing his shoes instead of their own.
“At least put it away, please. I’d like to speak with you.”
yousharknotpass
izzy806
titsay
janainaart
germansingergirl
