There is only so much practice can gain him. He remembers how to move perfectly. The steps, the care taken. What he's been taught, what he's learned now.

Until he's out there, shooting down the faces of who had once been allies, it matters little to him.

The drell follows the forms of many. Smoothly, he transitions, from the arts he'd learned in his childhood, tactical practices of the turians, what he'd learned from practicing with Anon those years ago--

Then he stops. Slowly, he sits, folding his hands together.

Then turns his head.

"Skyfire," he says impersonally, politely.