As they fled- Brande Ashbell and the woman they would no doubt later refer to as his 'accomplice'- the world seemed to grind, and slow, as though it were passing through invisible waters, choking its movements to the point of near stillness. Brande began to wonder how long it had been since he'd been so giddy.
From the instant he'd pierced his matchbox with the tip of his blade, he'd felt a strange, tense sensation spreading from his chest: his breath had felt shorter, his eyes sharper, and his pulse far more fierce. It was familiar, albeit distant, a feeling he remembered but not vividly enough to recall the circumstances at the time.
At first, he'd assumed it to be fear, panic: because only a mad man would have felt anything else, after willingly picking a fight with every Orc in a three mile radius. Was he reliving his ill-footed retreat from Serafina Heights, stumbling- at least in spirit- through the midnight moors, all over again?
But as he'd continued to run, it had dawned on him that he could hear something strange, in this new, slower world. A repeated syllable, long and coming from very, [i]very[/i] nearby...
He was laughing, and he hadn't even realised.

Because it wasn't fear. He knew now, it was [i]excitement.[/i] He thrilled to the chase, a sharp-toothed mouse in a house of ragged cats, and recognised that this excitement was the same he'd felt when he'd first locked swords with his father, so many years ago. He'd become intoxicated by a cocktail of danger and overconfidence. His father had once supposed it was because he had too much of his mother and her wild-child ways in him.
And it felt [i]good.[/i] It was only as he and Zanna- in great, slow strides, in his mind's eye- pelted down the street that he realised he'd had it too easy, for the last few years. A simple fight dulled the senses, but in this excitement Brande seemed to be sharper than he'd felt in a long time. He felt like the protagonist in a tale of true love and high adventure - today would not bring with it the final, glorifying battle he sought, but it had nonetheless turned into a great adventure.

Brande reached back with his unoccupied hand, and pulled the hood of his cloak up over his golden hair, to obscure its glint from sight. Then he heard Zanna, at around the same time he'd clocked the academy - just like the dream had told him. Had this been destiny, all along?
[i]"We- we have to hide!"[/i]
And right she was.
Brande became aware, as he began to once again perceive the speed of his own footfalls, that this probably wasn't half as thrilling as it was terrifying for his unwilling new companion. She didn't have the fine eye of a practiced swordsman, so no doubt, to her, the world was moving all too quickly, and it was [i]chaos.[/i]
For an instant, he'd pictured himself carving their way to freedom- it wouldn't have been the first time he'd walked a sword's finer edge to cross the valley of death- but Zanna was afraid. He could feel it in her skin: clammy, sticky, cold. She didn't share his spark, the electricity in his own sweat. It was unfair of him to assume she'd come along for so dangerous a ride, no matter how fun he supposed it might be - no great swordsman put a civilian at that sort of risk.

Further down the street, he clocked a pair of orcs, and back in real-time, Brande pulled Zanna around a corner, running past The Academy.
That was when he spotted the shack that flanked it, as they ran by. He supposed they might just disappear, if they got there fast enough, and as it flanked The Academy, it was a two-birds, one-stone scenario.
"[color=DC381F]You're right, amica,[/color]" he told her, in a sort of loud, harsh whisper, lest his accent- with the distinctive foreign influences of his family's distant homeland- give him away at any other volume, "[color=DC381F]This way![/color]"
He pulled her at last across the street and past the academy, as fast as he could manage, and as they approached, he saw the shack was covered in healthy green arteries of ivy and moss, but surrounded by autumnal leafs, all gold and crimson. He thought, for an instant, that in an abstract sort of way these shades of autumn almost looked like a fire had surrounded the place, a wreath of flames lit to smoke the shack's inhabitants out. He tactfully chose not to actually tell Zanna this. 
He elbowed the door open- "[color=DC381F][i]Ouch![/i][/color]" - before he shepherded Zanna through it. He had whispered something along the lines of "[color=DC381F]Ladies first, amica,[/color]", but the implied chivalry was token at best given he'd essentially just shoved her into an ill-lit shed.
He stepped in after her, closed the door, and drew his sword, albeit more for his own comfort than hers.

Then he licked his lips- he could taste the familiar metallic tinge of copper- and let go of Zanna's wrist, wiping his own forehead with the back of his hand. 
Then he smiled at her, brightly, breathing heavily but otherwise in good spirits, "[color=DC381F]Believe it or not, I've made worse introductions,[/color]" he jested, as though they [i]hadn't[/i] just become fugitives. Then he bowed, politely, as if he hadn't quite yet had all of the nobility beaten out of him, "[color=DC381F]My name is Brande Ashbell, last of the Ashbells. What's yours?[/color]"