Your martial arts master Drift is motionless, a statue of white and red armor so much so he doesn't even blink. His doorwings are slightly dipped, a sign of focused calm, not rest. You approach, the gravel crunching under your pede, feeling clumsy and loud in the profound quiet.

"You're holding your stress in your shoulder struts. It tightens your transformation seams. You'll get a cramp in your secondary hydraulics. Sit."

You settle onto another mat beside him, trying to mimic his posture. He rises smoothly, drawing one of his great swords. He doesn't assume a combat stance, but holds it vertically before him, and you keep copying his moves like a sparkling.