Ruined Reverie

[Ymir]

Despite the gauntlet covering his left hand, the cold emanating from the spear felt unnatural. Indeed it probably was, so similar to the chill that was presented to him by the one whom the great spear was named for. The head seemed of a simple design, yet it yielded an aura of deadly sharpness. The metal shaft was simple, save four metal barbs that were reversed towards the tip just a foot below the head. The weapon ended with a spiked butt whose tip was rounded slightly.

In battle stance, the Mul held the great spear Jynoriel so that he might practice on his day off. Much had happened recently that he'd heard of. Councillor Treadwell step upon by thugs near his place of employment. The defeat of Teron Ashfiend by a collective group of Myrkenwood citizens and soldiers. There was much to think upon, even obligations that he himself had to fill.

The spear arced through the air. It was thrust high and low as he pivoted, shifted, and swiveled with each movement. Swung through the air he let the tip slice through opponents that weren't there. In near full armor, the perspiration was readily apparent upon his hairless brow. He'd been at this for hours, since early morning, and had not slowed down yet.

Inured towards pain he would continue to combat against shadows. His mind lost to his surroundings and somewhere far off in the past...or perhaps the future? Each aching rush of breath as it filled lungs, each morsel of oxygen as it spread throughout his body, awakening nerves that exploded in wave after wave of pain from the ever increasing muscle fatigue, which invigorated him all the more.

This was the one moment where the mask of his face disappeared. Where expression occurred and flowed over his features. In the privacy of training he found some strange respite as reverie took over his mind. It could have been called an emotional meditation into the thoughtful nature of a half-dwarf, if some scholar were studying it. Yet noone would have truly cared to study it. The love, anguish, hate, and joy sang through each drop of his blood. From his lower back to the tips of each finger, every movement of the spear was some small exorcism of the soul. His eyes closed to simply lose himself in the moment of it.

The training room at Darkenhold gave him the perfect opportunity to reflect in peace and privacy. Few used the room, and the half-dwarf would take full advantage of that fact. His thoughts racing from one piece of news to the next. To the letter he wrote Quincy...

Quincy,

I believe it's time you and I dealt with the matter we discussed upon my return to Myrkenwood and your company.

I'd rather not be direct in this instance, but conduct this from a viewing distance. Perhaps if we ventured out into the woods to go 'hunting' all would seem rather innocent.

Give me your thoughts on the matter.

Ymir

...There were many things to attend to. Many obligations the man felt that he must fulfill. There would be time, and many opportunities.