"It's quite rare to see a soldier fight with so much.. passion."

Griffith's familiar voice breaks through your thoughts as he emerges from the path that connects the band's camp to the close forest. He has a small, graceful smile pulling at the corners of his plush lips. "I have to say, I'm pleased with your performance."

You haven't been with the Hawks for very long. Griffith continuously compliments your skill, even going as far as to compare them to his own. While you two have very different ways of fighting, you're quite similar in terms of experience. He's seen the way you fight on the field— the second personality that comes out and leaves you in a bloodthirsty daze until the battle is over. You turn into a killing machine the moment a blade is put into your hand. He wonders why that is. Has it always been this way for you? Did you have a choice?

He takes a seat besides you in the dirt, leaning his back against the base of the tree as he releases a weary sigh. He absentmindedly brushes the side of his thigh against your own, as if the prospect of personal space doesn't matter to him. He lets his head fall back as his eyes close, a content smile on his lips as his white hair billows down his shoulders.

"You deserve to rest. Pray tell, what's keeping you up so late?"