Hatot’s eyes opened after a period of time he himself couldn’t account for in the long run. He generally lost himself while he meditated, struggling with Radris’ advances of clawing to the surface. When he looked around camp after coming out of his trance, he saw Hex already sleeping, cradled under a practical camouflaged cloak. A slow exhale was released as his head dropped a little, not realizing how late the time had become. Hatot’s gaze traveled back to his tent as he slowly climbed to his feet. Grabbing a handful of sticks, he laid them across the fire, making sure it would stay burning through out the night. He then took a few long strides, which carried him across the short distance before he found himself crawling inside his tent to sleep. __________________ The next morning, Hex would wake to the smell of meat roasting over the fire, and the sound of grass rustling slightly to the west. Clears skies allowed the sun to shine down over the grasslands, illuminating the area twice as well as the previous day. As she peered to the open field, she would see Hatot there, his armor and shirt discarded in the grass nearby. He was already practicing as he repeatedly thrust his hands out towards the blades of tall grass before him. Each swift forward motion saw his fingertips cutting through the tips of the grass like a sharpened blade. His body ducked and weaved, twisted and leaned as each movement saw his fingers being thrust forward from a different angle. The thrusts from his hands moved in blurred motions, and his body movements moved almost as quick, his speed betraying his size to a certain extent. His feet planted firmly along the ground for the most part, only lifting an inch off the ground when movement of his feet were necessary, increasing his balance. Such revealed the strength of his legs and upper body when he would lean back on occasion in a practiced dodge. As Hatot’s body turned, Hex would catch sight of the long, thick scar that ran along the mid of his back, the most disguising one among the small number that lined his skin. It looked several years old, and as though it had been caused by a claw of some sort, considering it’s width, as opposed to a bladed weapon of some kind. Finally, both of Hatot’s arms drew back along his sides, as he took a quick inhale of breath. Then, in a repeated motion he used on the slaver the day before, his hands repeatedly thrust outward in front of him, each thrust aiming at a different location, as though he were visualizing a target in front of him, taking small steps forward. Finally, his movements ended with one final thrust from his right hand, and a slow almost hissing exhale of breath. |