Nyx flipped the singular wooden dagger that hung loosely upon his grip, typical limitation given to those deemed unworthy to wield a name. Recollection and an ocean of memories of the initiation of his journey within the glaive flooding the brain of the war hero. One flip, two flips, and a last one before his grip latched on to the hilt of the wooden dagger that mocked his actual weapons with a death grip. Haste had to be made back home, for his kingdom, for his king, he was in charge of the safety of princess Lunafreya, bride to be of the heir of the throne Noctis — wherever he and his kngsmen might be at the moment. Anger was fleeting, rage bubbled minimally at the distasteful thought that he and his kingsmen were oblivious to the unfolding of Insomnia. How the lands outside of the wall were simply handed over and then soon followed its downfall. “That’s no way to think Nyx.” Forehead was tapped with some force twice. Noctis held a future, a brighter one be it seen now or not.
To allow this place the pleasantry of having his abilities to rust would not be something Nyx would allow, so without further ado, with the judgement of the soldier and war hero that he was, he pin pointed another — wooden dagger pointed at him to earn his undivided attention.
“You. You look like someone who appreciates a good fight.” The man’s presence screamed warrior. “Not sure how long I’ll be here but in the meantime I can’t slack off,” if only he knew, “spar with me please.” A request not a demand for manners were things Nyx grew up with. He had a kingdom and king to save and a brave hearted princess to look after even if she was an occasional pain to look after with her actions from time to time but he silently admired that of her persona. Not everybody can jump off an airship without thinking it over twice after all.
He finds himself unable to sit alone for long, such allowed too much thought and presently there were too many questions that would go unanswered; so he sees no reason to ponder them when no explanation would come. A task easier spoken about than actually done, but he excelled in discipline and found momentary peace in the open spaces provided by sector six. A peace broken a while later when he’s spontaneously challenged, but it isn’t necessarily unwelcome.
“Is it normal where you hail from to challenge a stranger in such a way?” He asks with a gesture towards the wooden blade directed at him. His own cheap imitation of Gáe Dearg rests across his shoulder, how he misses the heavy weight of the crimson spear. Wood had its uses in training, as a boy he recalls breaking numerous wooden replicas but it had no place in the hands of a skilled warrior. Still, those truly adept could make anything work. Though his words may have seemed offended coming from another’s lips, but from his they appeared spirited at the thought of such spontaneity and boldness. “You sound like a man duty bound,” that much was clear from what he said, “but your judgement is correct; little else eases my heart than a worthy opponent,” and such an adversary had not been met since his battles with Saber. “So then gladly I would accept, but first your name; where I am from it is considered honourable to at least know that much from your challenger,” taking to his feet; a keen grin forming. “Lancer was my moniker but I see no need to use it here, Diarmuid is my birth name,” he introduces proudly, glad to be rid of the need for secrecy that the holy grail war required.
