[h2][color=6ecff6]Argleif Donchie[/color][/h2]
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	His eyes opened slowly as the vast sun loomed over the desert horizon, casting bright patterns onto his marked pupils. As the gears in his mind slowly accelerated, he yawned contently and wiped the sand in his eyes left by playful Landvættir of the eastern deserts. Looking around, he noticed that he had fallen asleep sitting on a boulder a few dozen metres from the outskirts of the encampment. As he stood, he felt a familiar rush fill his veins as his eyes pulsed once or twice. Due to his regenerative speeds, he often awoke anxiously brimming with new magic that flooded his spirit as he slept. With a burst of wind he found himself on his feet, stretching his arms and hands as small bursts of wind strayed from his fingertips, blasting sand from the ground as they made contact.

	Holding his hand an arms length from his eye, he saw the sun was only four fingers above the horizon, indicating it was still quite early in the morning. Looking back towards the campsite, his eyes widened as he saw sever thin plums of smoke, and with a magically assisted leap he had returned to the encampment, kicking sand onto each of the fires still pluming smoke into the sky.

[color=6ecff6]"These fools could've brought orcs to our doorstep before they had time to draw their own swords."[/color]
	He murmured to himself as kicked out the last of the smoldering wood. Looking back to the sky, he began to slowly swirl wind above him, scattering the smoke until it disappeared into the morning sky. With a shake of his head, he leaped to the area they had all gathered, landing just in time to see the young Commander have his consciousness knocked from his skull. His eyes turned to the red clad warrior who had delivered the powerful blow, raising his hood as the man took control of the 100 man army.
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	After about an hour, he stood with the group he was to battle with, his eyes flaring blue with anticipation as wind swirled around his hands and ankles; A peaceful, but concentrated look on his face.