He would have it no other way, even now as he took the time to check and then recheck his position. Thin fingers tested one of the carabineers. It clung tight in its rock-face perch - a reflection in miniature of its owner. Both had been forged in great heat and pain. Both had been made stronger. Both were now edging up against their limits. The grain of his own steel threatened and creaked, but he only snorted in response and made a lunge for the nearest outcropping. The muscles would obey. Trimmed, cut, carved. They slinked out then snapped together again, and his form scrambled up another meter.
So agonizingly exact in every movement. Clockworks.
A rolling swale of wind tumbled across the sheer stone, but seemed to divide around him - like an island in the stream. He escaped untouched. It wasn’t so unusual. Only his dark hair fluttered a little - puffing up gently, then coolly settling back as he sprung forward once again.
Edited by Antilla, 03 March 2010 - 10:38 AM.