Pity For Those That Dye Your Blade Red

Both Tilmiel and Alintair turned to look to the side, a clear ripple spreading throughout the suspended village and its surroundings, the huntress frowning with unclear emotion as she turned back to face the undead, her stare oddly calm and composed as she began walking to the side, right eye still bright, ignoring the wooden mask split into two laying upon the sand, blade reflecting whatever rays of light reached it at the nightbird.

"What did you mean by that?" asked Alintair, gazing deep into the dark hollows that were Tilmiel's eyes, perhaps trying to find a hint of something hidden within.

The corvid's blade held low, tip sometimes toppling sand, pushing it to the side as she walked parallel to her opponent, moving into a circle, Tilmiel stayed silent for a few moments, hair and feathers fluttering in the warm winds.

Alintair's small cut was already drying, feathers were falling from the sky, much less than in the village.