Timir's first training was to take place with Master Vargas.
He had an appointed time, and place, and he was arriving a little early.
He stretched, and sniffed around, getting an idea of the lay of the land, here. The ridges and cliffs were steep; there were bones everywhere, shattered or cracked gemstones gleaming dully from beneath a coating of dust. The whole place looked... sad, to him. Not dead, exactly, despite the bones; just miserably empty, a lament for lives that had been, a long time ago. Now, forgotten. And they were; he doubted anyone remembered the people who had died here.
And that was enough deep thoughts, for now. Timir turned away, not particularly bothered past that brief contemplation. He was a little nervous about this training. Vargas was huge. Would it be brutal? Would he be really hurt? Some part of him, that little monster nestled in his Oilstone, seethed for such battle. The more common-sense part of his brain really didn't want to break a bunch of bones today.
Or ever, thank you.
@Vargas (for myself, for later)