Much against his will - though he was too dazed to argue - Enigma had been dragged off by Blackmore for some "training". From what he gathered thereof, it consisted of being brought to a secluded patch of barren land, where he was blindfolded and instructed to hit a floating orb with his Starsword. Deathwatch, ever the masterful combatant, surveyed the lad's training with a scrutionous glare.
"No, no," the skeletal mentor griped in his hollow voice, "You must become one with the sword! Think, feel and act as one with your blade!"
"This all seems very Star Wars to me," Enigma said, swinging his sword haphazardly under the blindfold, "You're not gonna show me how to use The Force, are you?"
"Enough talking," snapped Deathwatch, "Resume your training!"
Blackmore, perched atop a small spire of brownish-red stone a few feet away, peered over the book in his hand and grinned at the young man. "We'll make a fine hero out of you yet, yessir."