To run headlong into things was neither a forte or a battle strategy Auron was very fond of, but desperate times called for desperate measures, and he was more than willing to go beyond certain expectations and moral grounds if it brought him closer to reaching his goal. While his body was, indeed, still in tact, it would not last forever. Time was limited, and he would not waste a second of it. He would move, and he would do so quickly.
There was a certain irregular thrumming that reverberated within his chest; a thumping disquiet that caused him to shift in discomfort and quietly gasp from behind the tall, belted collar. It was as if a particular organ unbeknownst to him had lodged itself within the cavity of his chest; a rhythm whose silence he had grown accustomed to. The rapid thudding that occurred within his chest had, indeed, been of great surprise, for he had gone to accept its absence. But would that make his ambitions--his goals any different? Such thoughts plagued him as he delved into the heart of the Overgrowth where the very air hung thickly and stuck in his throat. It was suffocating--immobilizing in every sense of the word, but it was aught the warrior would withstand considering the lack of humanity he possessed.
Or so he believed, anyway.
It was not fear he battled against, nor was it the debilitating shroud that smothered all that entered into the Overgrowth, but a question drawn from misunderstanding; from a sudden aimless existence that desired to simply rest, but survive all the same.
The pads of the former-guardian's calloused fingers drummed against his sword's hilt once in deliberation, but it was only once they settled that said digits gripped the weapon firmly, listening to his surroundings as he pressed forth through the haze.
