He looked at his hands, for the first time, the power he cultivated couldn't be felt flooding through his veins, instead–he felt the stale air's gripping dread encircling him, listening to those daunting footsteps beyond the wall he sat, stalking him.
Catching his eye, he saw an heirloom blade hung on the back wall as a decoration of sorts, prompting him to smile just slightly.
"...If I was nothing without magic, then who the hell would I be?" He muttered to himself, "If I talked all of that talk, putting myself with the best of them, only to cower away when my weapons were snatched from my fingers–I wouldn't be able to show my face to them anymore."
Bringing himself to his feet, he didn't take care to mask his footsteps as he walked over across the creaking floorboards, reaching out and grabbing onto the light-brown handle of the longsword.
