#* torsten

Familiarity began to bleed into his peripherals, the longer he remained. It was a feeling that he wished to let go of when he'd reached the Lake of Sighs, and sworn the oath that might mold him into something more than a street urchin but perhaps even a different life couldn't scourge the memory of like for like. He'd changed, indefinitely, just as the younger man before him had. It was only now, beyond the realms of the road they'd taken, that Arkyn's mind formed the memory of where he'd seen the other. It wasn't obvious, nor nearly clear enough - too caught up in the survival and protection of all those who walked the path, but now, as he watched the man move, attempting some stretch of training, that Arkyn recognized the movement. He'd been little more than a boy, barely able to take care of himself and yet, if his memory served him rightly and this was indeed the boy he'd seen arrested, he'd survived all this time. Twenty years and one missing limb later, "Have you always favored your right knee?" Arkyn was nothing even close to a warrior - a soldier, but he'd mastered the art of observation, even before becoming a Nightingale. He remembered the boy balking in the face of soldiers, his right knee holding is weight in a way that did him a disservice. It would twist, leave him incapacitated for a short moment before it would offer any resilience or speed.