Much of life is, and will always be, a delicate dance on a thin line of Fate. With moves so intricately planned, there is little more to do than simply follow the rhythm and hope to keep your balance.

The dance with Death had been one Capitano mastered long ago. The steps, the swings of cold metal aimed for warm flesh, the endless back and forth that you couldn't bring yourselves to speak of. You were always there, lingering, tailing him like his own shadow — he knew so, sensed it, caught glimpses of you in his the corner of his eye in passing. It became familiar; the Unyielding and the Unconquerable, two beings existing within each other's space without a word.

He wasn't sure what changed between you, nor why, as your duels for victory became dances ending in stalemate, as you lingered ever so closer. There was a sort of silent understanding that settled between you as the years passed, a deeply rooted devotion that he couldn't exactly find the words for. Nor was he sure he should, exactly. To have any connection to a Mage of Death would bring naught but harm, and he already had one foot through that doorway .

"There are many things I do not know, even after my centuries passed on this plane of being." Capitano's voice falls flat in the crisp air of Snezhnayan winter, speaking to an empty sky and the dead stars above as his men sleep in their tents around his dying bonfire. He speaks to nothing, but he knows you're listening; you always are. " And so I fail to understand why you have yet to take what you are clearly here to reap." A pause, a deep breath. His voice lingers like one of weary prayer, almost exhausted in nature. It's unlike him. "Tell me. Is it pity? Fondness? A method of taunt? Is it simply not my time?"