Some of the newer recruits feared Nayrs' apprentice. They always found something unsettling in how his detached, milky eyes would never quite meet their gaze; yet he always knew they were there. He knew they were coming before they even knew he was in the building. Some more na´ve soldiers (usually younger men, barely more than boys, eager to prove themselves in the Asorlin army) would try walking around with their eyes shut to try and train themselves in the youngest officers specialised form of perception, but that never usually got them more than stubbed toes and bumped elbows.
Recca never really understood their fascination and fear of him. Physically, the Thiefling was little challenge to any well trained man or woman, and to him…lack of sight was just the norm; although, to call him lacking in any way would be a great misjudgement.
Recca CAN, in some respects, see. In fact, his understanding of his surroundings is actually far superior to that of most of his fellow soldiers, including the higher ranking officers. When questioned on his logic to this conclusion, the pyromancer would simply smile, his ever-staring eyes wide and glassy, and say…
"Your eyes are getting in the way."
In his favourite training spot, Recca always went bare pawed. His roughened pads would gently grip the marble floor with greater precision than any leather sole would; feeling every little groove and deviation in its surface that even the finest of architects' would never notice.
Taking stance, he lifts himself onto his toes, letting his hocks rise to a more recognisable position, allowing the sensitive hair on the back trace the patterns of the breeze, predicting wind changes before they even occur.
With slow and deep breaths through his mouth, he tastes the air; testing the moisture in the air and adjusting his grip on the floor accordingly for where his temperature impervious skin cannot predict the condensation around him.
Taking short, sharp sucks of air through his nose, he smells the air for intruders. The scent of humans, elves, dwarves and other beastfolk beyond the stone walls of his private hall doesn't concern him. There is a bird in the support beams of the raised ceiling but he can ignore it. He catches the unmistakable smell of death that Skully drags around with him like a whore on each arm but tries not to let it disgruntle him; the undead may be as frightening to him as he is to most others (albeit for totally different reasons), but he must never forget that he is an ally, not a demon to be feared or mistrusted.
With a flick of his long, elf like ears, he checks what he knows to be true, his ears finding the faint footsteps of each man and tracing them to the scent. The sounds reverberating throughout the walls, lighting them up and everything they touch like torchlight. It's this echo-location that gives Recca the real assurance he needs in his inky black world. He follows the scent and traces the echo of his masters deep voice, until he finds him; in the courtyard, 200 metres away and through 3 giant sets of closed oak doors. He's talking with… (Another set of sniffs and a slight adjustment to the tilt of his pointed ears) Fentar. The exact words are lost on him but he can feel from the intense vibrations that it's a heated discussion; probably another disagreement on tactics.
Finally, he double-checks with a loud click of his tongue. The sound pulses similarly to a shockwaves around the enclose room, the pitch perfect for him to look around the entire room without the vibrating wave passing through the walls or doors. The sound frightens the bird from earlier into leaving through the only hole in the room; a small glassless window several metres above Recca in the heightened ceiling.
Perfect. This assures Recca totally that he is alone; and all without moving a centimetre from his spot, with neck tilted down, arms by his sides, paws shoulder width apart, tail relaxed by slighted raised to stop it dragging on the floor. But the room is just as dark to him as when he first walked in.
He begins his training. Trusting his sightless senses, he envelops himself in his flames. The start spontaneously in seeming random places but spread quickly and cleanly over his skin, serving to not only settle the young man into a calm place of familiarity but to also effectively 'blind' him to the World.
The sound of lapping flames fills his ears and distorts the vibrations until they are unreadable.
The heat burns all traces of particles and scents in the air to nothingness.
The moisture around him totally evaporates, testing his grip.
The fire creates its own form of 'apparent wind', testing Recca's sense of direction.
The flames even generate a weak form of 'left' about his person, making him fractionally lighter, reducing the grip his paws have on the ground even further.
Still he stands as tall as his lithe frame will allow and begins his exercises. He keeps calm however and moves with grace and fluidity, his feet, arms and pulse never missing a beat. He trusts his instincts and doesn't allow the fear to overtake him. The same fear that each and every soldier feels when faced with the Thiefling; the fear of the unknown.
It's a wonder that Recca doesn't understand their apprehension…when it's THEIR fear he faces almost daily. Fighting it for them, to make them all stronger.
Playing his part.
A lonely teammate.
A dedicated soldier.
(Recca never noticed Re'Darth enter the room. He asks him not to tell anyone that he screamed with fright…)