@ycungtrust
It’s near dusk. There’s a sort of stillness to the air -- a peace that balances on the knife-edge of night’s falling, just waiting for the darkness to break in a chorus of soft wind-sighs and the rustlings of nocturnal animals. For now, though, it’s a brief respite in an in-between world, neither day nor night, light nor dark.
Anduin Lothar is mostly ignorant of the serenity of it all. There’s a sheen of sweat glistening on his neck and arms, his muscles taut along the lines of his bones. His sword cuts through the silence without resistance, carving it up into little pockets with the faint hiss of its passing.
He doesn’t ordinarily train alone -- pointless, really, given the nature of his profession, as far as a one-man job as there is. Sometimes, though it’s less for body -- for form or function -- and more for mind.
He slows, stills. He’s a touch breathless, and he leans on his sword as he fies a calculating gaze on the young mage he’s only just noticed.
“Looking for a fight?” he quips. Something meant for a smile tugs one corner of his mouth upward, clear eyes teasing. He nods towards a rack of training weapons, weighted but blunt. “If you think you can lift one, go ahead.”
