Fluid movements sliced through the air, the gentle rush of whistling steel dancing in blue patterns. Muscles contracting in memory, flex and extend, manipulating the blade as it cut its path through the shadows. Her abdomen was exposed as her body was adorned in its usual training garb, the black material hugging closely to her body to insure no disruption to her movements. Flickering across her bare flesh danced several tendrils of black, as though someone had bewitched ink and splashed it across her body. It was well contained, slim wisps wiggling as though the shadows of a moving forest. Phedre’s lashes met as her eyes were pushed to a tight close, causing her to rely on her other senses to direct the blade in perfect pattern. The daily routine was a flawless habit, practiced to perfection to allow swift and deadly kills on the battlefield. Each motion flashed rhythmically as though to cause little dispatch of energy… until there was a stumble. The blade flattened and wobbled slightly in the air, naught but a trained eye could see the minute tremble that crept its way up her arm to break the ease of her routine.

Phedre’s hand opened, the blade tumbling to the forest floor where it landed with a deep thud. Both hands moved to clutch at her stomach as she folded over, the pain stabbing as though imaginary knives ate at her from the inside. The pain dissipated as rapidly as its onset, and before long, the assassin’s stance was again upright. Beads of cold sweat danced upon her brow as she wavered slightly, steadying herself. Her eyes traveled back to her sword which lay dormant on the ground. Slowly shuffling forward she returned to her hunched position with intentions of clutching her weapon and continuing on with her routine, but again she was overcome with discomfort. One hand returned to its place of comfort against her abdomen while the other groped blindly around her for a support. Stumbling a few steps forward, her hand met the callus touch of bark, just as her knees quivered in a silent revolt of overuse. There was a brief moment of silent, a single bead of sweat sliding down a face contorted with pain, before her stomach lurched and the contents of her early morning meal reappeared amongst the forest floor.

Several gasping inhales brought life back to the quivering assassin, whose body hadn’t shown such rejection since she was a young child. Each breath drew pain from her body, until her fingers released their grip on her torso, and slid limply to her side. Thankfully, her waves of raven hair were tied securely behind her with a thin strap of leather, without such there would have been much more regret than simply eating cold porridge for breakfast.

Another slow exhale brought Phedre’s hand to her lips, wiping away what contents hadn’t met its rest upon the dying leaves at her feet. Rising to stand upright once more, she rotated her shoulders, feeling the blood return to her face and extremities. With a low curse, she turned her head and spat the remenence of the vile solution, her face left in a grimace simply from distaste. Slowly, she returned to her blade and swept it into her hand in her usual fluid motion. All sign of ailment has disappeared. Her muscles twitched with memory, preparing for the continuation of the task which was rather brutally interrupted. And so the patterns resumed, flashes of steel humming between the trunks of ageless trees, and the assassin continued as though uninterrupted.