Board Thread:Roleplay/@comment-25808351-20180615005427/@comment-30014014-20180903202543

The sound of nothing fills the gap between strike and pose. So does the old one stand, posing with his prisoner. So does the gap, emptied by nothingness.

One of them goes forth, the latter, mired by his non-presence. Still. A Drifter. It crosses its phantom-like blades, gazing from the folds of this realm as it feet stampede in noiseless feats. The strike is sudden, as it is present, a cut surging for the old one's sword arm. The other, a simulated puncture projectile for the opposite shoulder.

Soundless attacks only now phasing into real space, pungent with the lack of smell. They roam the distance in no fancy fashion, but gleaming a negative shade, its beloning overwritting the current space.

The gap is filled, with initiative strokes. Their noiseless sceeches fill the tranquility of the old one's speech, as they lock to his very being...