[Unintentional Video]
[There's a light rain falling in the Southern District when the video starts; one of those cool fall showers. It pings off the metal of the Cybertronian plaza it's falling over, giving everything a sheen to suggest that it's been coming down for long enough to soak in. Wing doesn't seem bothered by it, though. Nor does he seem to care that Nautilus is filming, if he even notices at all. He steps into frame as he moves towards the center of the plaza, the blades of his knives sizzling faintly in the rain before he shuts them off and returns them to their clips against his back. In lieu of them, he reaches back and pulls free the long Great Sword that's always been a near constant presence between his shoulders.]
[He pauses at the plaza center, murmuring something that's lost between distance and the sound of rain, and then he's moving again, transitioning into a hard swing of his blade as if it were as natural as putting one foot in front of the other. The motions as he goes through them are so different from the short, quick strikes that come with his knives; these are long, sweeping arcs of a blade meant to cleave rather than slice. Power instead of speed.]
[His feet are firm and sure as they move steadily across the wet plating below them, each step measured precisely to be exactly where he needed it when he shifted the weight of the great blade around him. It's cathartic- the burn of unused energy and the comfort of motions he's gone through countless times before- but more than that, it's a personal brace against whatever might come in the future. An assurance that he can still fight; still defend.]
[The rain mists around the Great Sword as the blade sweeps through it, collecting along the trailing edge and leaving a line behind it. And Wing continues- will keep continuing until he's worn himself out- unaware or uncaring of Nautilus' eye on him.]
[He pauses at the plaza center, murmuring something that's lost between distance and the sound of rain, and then he's moving again, transitioning into a hard swing of his blade as if it were as natural as putting one foot in front of the other. The motions as he goes through them are so different from the short, quick strikes that come with his knives; these are long, sweeping arcs of a blade meant to cleave rather than slice. Power instead of speed.]
[His feet are firm and sure as they move steadily across the wet plating below them, each step measured precisely to be exactly where he needed it when he shifted the weight of the great blade around him. It's cathartic- the burn of unused energy and the comfort of motions he's gone through countless times before- but more than that, it's a personal brace against whatever might come in the future. An assurance that he can still fight; still defend.]
[The rain mists around the Great Sword as the blade sweeps through it, collecting along the trailing edge and leaving a line behind it. And Wing continues- will keep continuing until he's worn himself out- unaware or uncaring of Nautilus' eye on him.]