Two centuries to her, only a couple of months to Martin. At night, the imagery of the Oblivion Crisis plays itself in his nightmares as if he were still in Tamriel, right in front of Mehrunes Dagon and his hordes.

Wielding a conjured gladius wasn't as optimal as its steel, tangible counterpart, the magicka drain an inconvenience that Martin would consider not worth the trouble if he were in the battlefield. But this is not a war, just an (ex?) Emperor sparring with an (ex?) Blade.

Martin dashes forward, the speed of his strike betraying the modest, unassuming persona he's been playing at. The sword descends towards Delphine in a graceful, relaxed manner, the handiwork of a seasoned legionnaire, not some lowly priest.