Eye of the Day spins to one side, as if dodging a blow. The arm holding her new and improved staff extends from the spin and raps against her frequent sparring companion, the support bar in her quarters. The perfect lines of her limbs (shown to her, she assumes, by some forgotten teacher) ache for a satisfying surge of Essence. A simple flood of power, and her blows could be unrelenting. Her own form could be untouchable.
She resists the urge. That is not the purpose of this exercise. Instead of making her the formidable warrior, the infusion of Essence breaks the skillfully-formed lines of her body. Her shoulders tilt a few degrees, and her recovery is off-balance. The staff returns to a two-handed position, as if she is adopting a defensive posture, but her elbows are bent a little too much, the weapon held a little too close to her body.
"Pretend to be more than you are, and you will find it hard to follow through." Are the words in her head the advice of a forgotten friend, or is it her own mind telling her what she needs to know in this perilous time? "Pretend to be less, and you will have the perfect disguise."
She goes in for another assault on the bar, but this time the awkwardness of the approach smashes her knuckles. Ordinarily she would shrug off all but the most intense pain, but this time she feigns surprise and discomfort. Perfect.
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