Diarmuid had never spent much time among the winged knights of his birthplace. They held high status, higher than a common-born soldier such as he even once elevated to knighthood. They were specially trained and drilled. A highly specialized, highly trained strike force that could move more swiftly than any of the King's other weapons. Deadly and graceful. He had watched them from afar for years. In turn, he had studied tactics for defeating them from the ground, for anticipating how they would react.
This young warrior was not perhaps a prime example of a winged warrior.
His cries had called the early rising warrior from his roaming, drawing him to the sea cliffs. He stood some distance away from the target perched on the edge, watching the... whatever it was. Humor quirked his lips, smile made crooked by scars. His head turned slightly so he could track the youth's progress with his good eye. From his vantage it seemed like the dark colt might make his strike. His muscles tense, straining as though he too pulls for the success of the dive if only because so much effort seems to have been put into it.
The scarred grey winces in sympathy as the strike missed, skimming just the top of the target and sending the boy tumbling. Heavy black hooves pick up a quick trot, at first concerned that he may be hurt. But by the time Diarmuid reaches him he is already moving, picking himself up. He slows and stops a short distance away, lowering his head to nudge one of the broken roof tiles. He shakes his head.
"Slow first, to make sure of your strike. Once you learn to strike accurately, then you learn to strike fast." He lifts his head, voice gentle with humor. "Are you alright?"
He doesn't notice the pink kirin also nearby- the wind carries the scent away from him, and his blind eye is turned towards him, milky white and unseeing.
@Damascus @Jude
