See I'm a Different Kind of Knight
Who: Eliot and Angel
Where: An Armoury/trainning area in W&H
When: A short time after the meeting
What: Eliot and Angel talk.
Status: Closed
This was, finally, more of something in Eliot's element. He was in a place surrounded by racks of weapons and plenty of targets and dummies. This was a place of combat, even if the weapons were a little more archaic and specialized than he was used to. He knew what to do here and he had a pretty good certainty that the only people who'd interupt him here knew better than to do so needlessly.
Picking up a kattana Eliot gave a experimental swing. It felt good in his hand. Strong, well balanced, heavy enough for it's use but not cumbersom... You could hack through plenty with this.
An experimental swing turned into a series. It had been four years since he spent a decent amount of time in Japan, and that had been mostly with Yakuza and knives (and he had meant what he said about cutting through "Like Eight Yakuza in four seconds"). He'd need plenty of practice. It took a long time to get as good as he was.
And they'd called him because he was as good as he was. And he'd try to do this for the same reason he tried to be better than he was. For them. For the team.
He let himself fall into the old pattern of training, losing himself in the movements and rhythms he knew better than the beat of his own heart. The mantra that he was finally starting to let himself admit (even just in the private of his own mind).
Just two words.
Protect them.
Where: An Armoury/trainning area in W&H
When: A short time after the meeting
What: Eliot and Angel talk.
Status: Closed
This was, finally, more of something in Eliot's element. He was in a place surrounded by racks of weapons and plenty of targets and dummies. This was a place of combat, even if the weapons were a little more archaic and specialized than he was used to. He knew what to do here and he had a pretty good certainty that the only people who'd interupt him here knew better than to do so needlessly.
Picking up a kattana Eliot gave a experimental swing. It felt good in his hand. Strong, well balanced, heavy enough for it's use but not cumbersom... You could hack through plenty with this.
An experimental swing turned into a series. It had been four years since he spent a decent amount of time in Japan, and that had been mostly with Yakuza and knives (and he had meant what he said about cutting through "Like Eight Yakuza in four seconds"). He'd need plenty of practice. It took a long time to get as good as he was.
And they'd called him because he was as good as he was. And he'd try to do this for the same reason he tried to be better than he was. For them. For the team.
He let himself fall into the old pattern of training, losing himself in the movements and rhythms he knew better than the beat of his own heart. The mantra that he was finally starting to let himself admit (even just in the private of his own mind).
Just two words.
Protect them.