[ Camp Dragonhead's armory presents Zephirin with a sizeable selection of swords and axes, lances and halberds. One after the other, he tests their fit, but his forgotten life remains out of reach. Each weapon's haft ill suits his hands — or is it the weight of each blade? The shield he soon discards?
When he has no options left to turn to, Zephirin steps back, quiet. A slight crease upon his brow, he presses his fingertips to his forehead, giving chase as another distant something flits past the outskirts of his mind. ]
I—
[ His frown deepens. His body's apparent complaint strikes him as ridiculous. ]
Mayhap these blades are lighter than I once preferred...
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When he has no options left to turn to, Zephirin steps back, quiet. A slight crease upon his brow, he presses his fingertips to his forehead, giving chase as another distant something flits past the outskirts of his mind. ]
I—
[ His frown deepens. His body's apparent complaint strikes him as ridiculous. ]
Mayhap these blades are lighter than I once preferred...