(Untitled)

[unwraith]

The cold weather didn't deter Michael from going outside. He had some excess energy to work off

Comments

[unwraith]

Np. Michaelinmyhead is just sorta going "...penguins?" And he'll be back inside later tonight-ish/tomorrow. Am trying to set up for something else. *resists curiosity about whether anyone else is feeling chatty, shrugs*))

[randomsbastard]

We'll be honest, here. Martin, the bastard son of Random, is never going to match his uncles in the art of war. He wasn't let out into the wide, wide Shadows without being less than hopeless, but the kid (he's sixty) isn't a legendary type in the making.

Which doesn't mean that he's not better than just good, either. When you're evaluating yourself against people with tens of thousands of years of experience you're bound to come off looking like shit.

So the bitter green eyes that watch the alien know what they're looking at. That would account for the small smile on his lips.

[unwraith]

War, or hunting/culling, was Michael's world, or a large portion thereof. The Wraith are fiercely competitive, for survival's sake. They're also not prone to giving a damn about reputations or legends.
If one's skills allow one to live, or to accomplish the needed purpose, that is what counts.
It doesn't mean he doesn't enjoy sharpening his skills, or acquiring new ones.

He notices Martin after a moment, pauses, and lowers his blade but doesn't set it aside yet.
"Hello."

He

[randomsbastard]

"Hello." His lips quirk just that much farther up, "New to sword work, how's it feel?" Introductions are...something he doesn't forget. He just ignores them often.

[unwraith]

"Slow, but gaining," Michael replies. He's not too worried about formalities.