Board Thread:Roleplay/@comment-28920015-20190121205415/@comment-27661770-20190201131943

...There. An alleyway.

Survival, they name is darkness; stealth, thy face shadow; death, thy hand of night; the fugitive's respite, thine cloak of inky black; where the eyes fail the hunter, the hunted reverse their roles. Ysmael sped for it.

He was used to the dark, be it the dark of alleys and dim-lit streets in cities of looming building (of brick and steel and cement and asphalt, or of carapace and vine and glass and perhaps even flesh), or the dark of caves, treacherous shadows everywhere in a maze of stone and water and some places dirt which provided assailants a nightmare of eternal turning everywhere, and crags to conceal oneself in.

The apparent would-be murderers were not much different than trolls to Ysmael thus far.

The only differences being Alternia wasn't that much of a thing to him anymore, and they had a chance of not being trolls.

Not that knives know the difference, and not that it makes one to him.