Fight Scene

Faker

As they walk Demille thought about the man's conflicting ability. He had been acting as if he could control the wind, yet created a knife like a build-type. Her mind flipped through their fight until she fixated on a strange detail. While she had been in the air she had felt string-like movements in the wind that she believed to be pinpoints of Egill's ability. What if they were actual strings?
They ducked down to the side of the building, but Demille kept her grip on the man's arm. Even though she had been more than willing to save him, the last thing she needed was to help him escape. She looked him over and noticed that his breathing was slower now, more controlled, though he was still visibly shaken. Hair was strewn over his face in tangled locks, and he batted them over his shoulder with his free arm. He muttered under his breath again, panic spilling over into frustration.
"It's always the wind weavers, það er bara heppni mín." (A.N: that's just my luck) He jerked his arm backward in an attempt to break Demille's grip but she pulled back, keeping him beside her. He shot her a glare, still refusing to look her in the eyes, and huffed.
"I told you we're not friends or anything," Demille said. She peeked her head around the corner to try and spot the person controlling the winds- the wind weaver as Egill called it- but couldn't make anyone out. She turned back to the man. "If you don't like air-types, why pretend to be one?" She shoots, trying to stall for time. She could hold him there forever if abilities weren't involved, but she had to admit that she was weaker than him in that area.
He deflected, asking her a question instead. "What did you mean when you said you're a late bloomer?" She shook her head, annoyed.
"I asked first."
"So what?"
"It's rude to ignore someone like that."
"We're not friends, remember? Why would I care if I'm being rude?" Demille's mind screamed at her to punch him, but she settled for a tight squeeze on his arm that produced a small wince. She studied Egill's features once again, thinking that she might find something new now that he was showing more emotion. He didn't seem to notice, or care, as he turned his head to face the building, worrying at his lip. After a moment of tense silence, the only sound being the rushing wind and the fading sound of fire in the distance, he spoke up.
"The raid on my town, Straumar, happened when I was barely a teen." Demille snapped to attention, noting the glazed look in his eyes as he remembered an event from years ago. "I was one of the few builders, or build-type as people call it. Which is stupid, by the way. We should just have single words for abilities, rather than pointless types. It's much faster that way" He glanced at her in frustration, but began to don his calm mask again. "I wasn't taught properly, and when the raid happened I couldn't control my ability... I destroyed more than I saved trying to make shelters and weapons." He swallowed hard and flexed his hand, reliving the moment. Demille couldn't help but be thrown back into her own memories, hiding in the crevice of her family's tree in the yard and watching as her beloved town was literally ripped apart. She shook her head, as if that could dispel the thought. "I ended up being taken away after I passed out from exhaustion. I was crowded into a building with other people my age, from all other kinds of towns, and we were locked into these weird concrete rooms. I lied about my ability, and the others believed me because they didn't know me well enough to argue." He let out a dark chuckle, lifting his flat palm and creating thin lines of thread that whipped in the backlash of the wind blowing from past the corner. "There's not much else I could pretend to be other than a windweaver." Demille was hanging off his every word, rapt in his story.
"So... Why do you still pretend?" She asked. Not only was she more curious than ever about the man, but she also locked away the information to use in her pursuit of raider organizations. He looked at her as if she had asked the most obvious question in the world, but kept on talking anyway. The words spilled out of him like a river freed from a dam, as if he had been holding them back for years and would never get another chance to share his experiences. Maybe that was true.