Drift (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
sword_redemption) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
re_alignment_logs2013-01-03 10:36 am
sword_redemption) wrote in re_alignment_logs2013-01-03 10:36 am
Entry tags:
I felt like destroying something beautiful
Who: Drift and open
What: Catharsis
When Nowish
Where Outside Vector's place
Warnings Damage to harmless innocent geology and if you look slantwise, suicidal tendencies maybe?
It's morning--or what passes for it here. And there's a sharp, ringing sound, of metal on stone, and then another. They keep coming, sometimes a quick flurry, sometimes one, or two at a time, like the blows are calculated.
Drift's standing in a rough circle, blades drawn, in a loose version of an old Decepticon training ring. On the main vectors of the circle, at the perimeter stand rough pillars of stone: crystal and schist, nodules of manganese and pyrite.
Fool's gold. It's fitting.
There are sparks, as the metal of Drift's blades strike flint in the sedimentary stones, or larger sparks, as he slices into the strange quartz of this place. His style isn't like Wing's--Wing's bladework is elegant, almost dancer-like: Drift's is sharp and explosive, honed less on a pretty, underground practice floor than in the thick of combat.
He's fighting something here. Not enemies, but himself.
After a moment, he throws the two short blades aside, their blades ringing on the stone, and draws the Great Sword. There's a blaze of light, like sunlight or flame, from the golden gem in its hilt, and bright energy skitters down the blade, filling the glyphs like liquid light, as he moves to attack one of the mindless chunks of stone again, his face set and resolute.
What: Catharsis
When Nowish
Where Outside Vector's place
Warnings Damage to harmless innocent geology and if you look slantwise, suicidal tendencies maybe?
It's morning--or what passes for it here. And there's a sharp, ringing sound, of metal on stone, and then another. They keep coming, sometimes a quick flurry, sometimes one, or two at a time, like the blows are calculated.
Drift's standing in a rough circle, blades drawn, in a loose version of an old Decepticon training ring. On the main vectors of the circle, at the perimeter stand rough pillars of stone: crystal and schist, nodules of manganese and pyrite.
Fool's gold. It's fitting.
There are sparks, as the metal of Drift's blades strike flint in the sedimentary stones, or larger sparks, as he slices into the strange quartz of this place. His style isn't like Wing's--Wing's bladework is elegant, almost dancer-like: Drift's is sharp and explosive, honed less on a pretty, underground practice floor than in the thick of combat.
He's fighting something here. Not enemies, but himself.
After a moment, he throws the two short blades aside, their blades ringing on the stone, and draws the Great Sword. There's a blaze of light, like sunlight or flame, from the golden gem in its hilt, and bright energy skitters down the blade, filling the glyphs like liquid light, as he moves to attack one of the mindless chunks of stone again, his face set and resolute.
no subject
"You remind me of stories I heard back home from Alpha Trion. Well, bots in the stories I mean. They were some of the greatest warriors from what he told me," he mused, finally inching closer.
no subject
He pauses, looking around the circle, as if noticing the damage for the first time.
"The great warriors, though, are the Knights of Cybertron. They probably don't need to do this." He bends down, scooping up his short blades with one hand.
no subject
"I bet even they needed to blow off steam at times too," he said with a slight shrug, peering over at the short blade the other had picked up. It made him wish he had more than just a blaster to use; made him wish he had something unique in some way.
"How long did you train for?"
no subject
Drift sheathes the other blade. "I've had them for a while. Uh. No formal training." OJT, maybe.
no subject
Hesitantly reaching out, Smokescreen takes ahold of the hilt, eyeing it with a sort of wonder in his optics, carefully catching the blade with his other hand as he studies it. The sword really is a thing of beauty, Smokescreen turning it over just to look at every inch of it, unable to tear his gaze away to look at Drift when the other speaks.
"Really? You're pretty slaggin' good for no formal training. I'm jealous," he murmured and he really was. Natural talent like that? It was impressive.
no subject
"I'm sure you've got your own skills," he said, quietly.
no subject
There was something to be said about the fact that libraries felt like home to him.
"I'm Smokescreen, by the way."
no subject
He gives a sheepish shrug. He's still not good at the social niceties. "Drift." He tilts his head, then decides. Might as well be honest, at any rate. "I used to be a Decepticon."
no subject
That's a heck of an intro there, Drift.
"Really?" he asks, hand dropping slowly. "...What made you change?" He probably should be put off or something but, instead, he's just curious now.
no subject
"Someone woke me up to what I was doing, letting my goal rule out over the means. You can't win a war by becoming a monster. You may defeat your enemy, but then what have you turned yourself into to do that and how can you turn to peace?"