9th of Ashan, Arc 718
"You are a mountain," he yelled out, no breath falling into his words. Unlike a man who spoke amidst running, a Lich had no gasping, painting whisper lingering between their vowels. They spoke the same whilst running and standing still. "You are a cliff rising high into the sky, bursting through the clouds. You're infallible, ineffable; you are the rival of the sunset, the one all fall keen to," he continued, elbows rising back and forth, cyclically. His legs were dead, but muscular. He was maintained to look and feel as he did the exact moment he died. Damien never changed.
Alistair jogged behind him. While he was alive, and Damien was dead, their endurance was similar. Alistair could run for breaks upon breaks. The goal of this exercise was to make breaks become trials. If he had to run for a whole fortnight, he wanted to be able to. Perhaps it meant nothing, but if anything, it was important to extend upon his balance and speed.
"That's what I used to tell myself," Damien said. "I am infinite, I am skilled. I'm worth something," he said.
"You're also surprisingly arrogant," Alistair remarked, smirking as his breath ran into his words, feet risen from the floor amidst his long steps. He tried to control his breath.
"I am," Damien nodded. "Always have been. The life of a Lich suits me," he nodded, turning and stopping, facing the mage.
Alistair stopped, nearly skidding on his feet as he bent down to hold his knees, exhaling and inhaling at a more upbeat pace than normal. Running seemed to play really well into endurance - it was teaching him to breathe evenly, something he'd forgotten the importance of. Breath. Breath. Breath. Breath. Paced. Breathing was an art of symmetry. Now that he was standing still, he could focus on that, and ramp up his breaths to ensure that his pacing was equal the moment he began to run.
"You should follow my words, Alistair," Damien advised. "Compliment yourself. Feel the power in your movements. Humility is a powerful tool but so is pride. The two of them are not incompatible, as the simple-minded monks may tell you. Humility is for when you don't want to be known, or seen, or confronted. Pride is for when you want to fight, to impress, to rule. You are the mountain, Alistair. The cliff. The sky and the seas. Only you. Think it. Know it," he nodded his head back, before turning around and running once more. Alistair followed after, running into a sprint at first so that he could catch Damien.
The mountain. The cliff. It all seemed so comical to think, but he repeated the words in his mind, focusing on nothing but the landscape before him. Even Damien faded out for a moment, as Alistair's mind attempted to frame into view; seeing himself, running, seeing his impressive shape and physique whipping through the wind. His boots crushing rocks and dirt as he ran. There was power in his body, and his mind. Maybe with courage he could tap into it.
"You are a mountain," he yelled out, no breath falling into his words. Unlike a man who spoke amidst running, a Lich had no gasping, painting whisper lingering between their vowels. They spoke the same whilst running and standing still. "You are a cliff rising high into the sky, bursting through the clouds. You're infallible, ineffable; you are the rival of the sunset, the one all fall keen to," he continued, elbows rising back and forth, cyclically. His legs were dead, but muscular. He was maintained to look and feel as he did the exact moment he died. Damien never changed.
Alistair jogged behind him. While he was alive, and Damien was dead, their endurance was similar. Alistair could run for breaks upon breaks. The goal of this exercise was to make breaks become trials. If he had to run for a whole fortnight, he wanted to be able to. Perhaps it meant nothing, but if anything, it was important to extend upon his balance and speed.
"That's what I used to tell myself," Damien said. "I am infinite, I am skilled. I'm worth something," he said.
"You're also surprisingly arrogant," Alistair remarked, smirking as his breath ran into his words, feet risen from the floor amidst his long steps. He tried to control his breath.
"I am," Damien nodded. "Always have been. The life of a Lich suits me," he nodded, turning and stopping, facing the mage.
Alistair stopped, nearly skidding on his feet as he bent down to hold his knees, exhaling and inhaling at a more upbeat pace than normal. Running seemed to play really well into endurance - it was teaching him to breathe evenly, something he'd forgotten the importance of. Breath. Breath. Breath. Breath. Paced. Breathing was an art of symmetry. Now that he was standing still, he could focus on that, and ramp up his breaths to ensure that his pacing was equal the moment he began to run.
"You should follow my words, Alistair," Damien advised. "Compliment yourself. Feel the power in your movements. Humility is a powerful tool but so is pride. The two of them are not incompatible, as the simple-minded monks may tell you. Humility is for when you don't want to be known, or seen, or confronted. Pride is for when you want to fight, to impress, to rule. You are the mountain, Alistair. The cliff. The sky and the seas. Only you. Think it. Know it," he nodded his head back, before turning around and running once more. Alistair followed after, running into a sprint at first so that he could catch Damien.
The mountain. The cliff. It all seemed so comical to think, but he repeated the words in his mind, focusing on nothing but the landscape before him. Even Damien faded out for a moment, as Alistair's mind attempted to frame into view; seeing himself, running, seeing his impressive shape and physique whipping through the wind. His boots crushing rocks and dirt as he ran. There was power in his body, and his mind. Maybe with courage he could tap into it.
