Post by Deleted on May 6, 2015 21:55:10 GMT -8
Her right arm ached deep in the muscles, but Citlal held her aloft position, arm horizontal, sword puncturing the air in a long extension from her tight grip. The rapier was not delicate—she had witnessed its bite before and bore its scar on her torso—but it was to be wielded with the delicacy of an artist's paint strokes. It was designed as a piece of art, as well, appearing to her as a beautiful steel weapon with a complex, twisting hilt that shielded her hand on most sides—even the pommel was beautiful. It had been forged for thrusting and dueling; the exertion of her body to make such a forward gesture with enough force to harm compromised her, and so she was careful. She spent her time shifting weight carefully between her feet, always aware of where her body was (and truly, this was the only time when that was a case), whipping the rapier with furious precision that would've shamed any cowboy in a western gunfight.
The poor dummy that had been gifted to her never stood a chance. As it was, she'd already rid it of one of its arms.
When the tension of her arm begged for mercy, Citlal finally relented. She tossed the rapier, snagged it out of the air with her left hand, and began again, this time with even more finesse than before. Being left-handed had several distinct advantages, and this was one.
Sweat pooled under the line of her hair, which had been sloppily tied back for the workout. This was the only place she dared look disheveled, and pink strands of hair hung rather aggravatingly in her face. Her breathing was ragged and quick, inhaling, exhaling, greedily sucking in air for the next attack. Her gut panged with enough force to almost coax her into leaving, but she ignored the sensation. Amused, she imagined the dummy with dark, thick locks of hair that curled around the ears and grinned. Ascribing the dummy with the jaunty smirk of a conquistador was always enough to breath second winds into her lungs.
She lunged. Her rapier cut, quick and deep, through the dummy. With a couple expert twists of her wrists, she rid the dummy of its second arm, watching the cloth limb fall pathetically to the floor while she drew in another shaky inhale.
Her sword longed for a partner to match it. Her experience found that those who wielded rapiers were those who were not sympathetic to her origins; her pride demanded that she practice alone instead of yielding to the disdain and condescension of someone who saw her as one of the natives, accompanied with a sneer. I wouldn't have picked this weapon either, she thought with a grunt, shifting on her feet to strike forward again. But if it is in my hand, then I will master it, and that is final.
Still, a rapier was, again, for thrusting and dueling. The dummy, hanging before her in the mopey manner of a spurned teenager, couldn't provide her practice for the second half.
A thick Nahuatl swear word escaped her, heavy in both accent and in emphasis. She took a swipe at the dummy out of impatience, though that was less effective, and turned away, trying to catch her breath. She jogged a few paces away, faced the dummy, and advanced furiously, jutting and stabbing until the left leg was dangling by only a few swinging threads. If her people could see her, would they be proud of her for making the best of her situation, or would they scorn her for adapting to the weapon of an enemy? She wasn't sure. She huffed and cut the last few strings so that the leg joined its fallen companions on the floor.
"You're pathetic," she said to the dummy with dry amusement, quirking her lips upward. Her left arm didn't have nearly the same throbbing ache that her right arm did, and the dummy's teardrop torso wasn't in tatters yet. Pathetic would have to do. She raised her rapier again, positioned herself, and lunged like a beast before prey.
The poor dummy that had been gifted to her never stood a chance. As it was, she'd already rid it of one of its arms.
When the tension of her arm begged for mercy, Citlal finally relented. She tossed the rapier, snagged it out of the air with her left hand, and began again, this time with even more finesse than before. Being left-handed had several distinct advantages, and this was one.
Sweat pooled under the line of her hair, which had been sloppily tied back for the workout. This was the only place she dared look disheveled, and pink strands of hair hung rather aggravatingly in her face. Her breathing was ragged and quick, inhaling, exhaling, greedily sucking in air for the next attack. Her gut panged with enough force to almost coax her into leaving, but she ignored the sensation. Amused, she imagined the dummy with dark, thick locks of hair that curled around the ears and grinned. Ascribing the dummy with the jaunty smirk of a conquistador was always enough to breath second winds into her lungs.
She lunged. Her rapier cut, quick and deep, through the dummy. With a couple expert twists of her wrists, she rid the dummy of its second arm, watching the cloth limb fall pathetically to the floor while she drew in another shaky inhale.
Her sword longed for a partner to match it. Her experience found that those who wielded rapiers were those who were not sympathetic to her origins; her pride demanded that she practice alone instead of yielding to the disdain and condescension of someone who saw her as one of the natives, accompanied with a sneer. I wouldn't have picked this weapon either, she thought with a grunt, shifting on her feet to strike forward again. But if it is in my hand, then I will master it, and that is final.
Still, a rapier was, again, for thrusting and dueling. The dummy, hanging before her in the mopey manner of a spurned teenager, couldn't provide her practice for the second half.
A thick Nahuatl swear word escaped her, heavy in both accent and in emphasis. She took a swipe at the dummy out of impatience, though that was less effective, and turned away, trying to catch her breath. She jogged a few paces away, faced the dummy, and advanced furiously, jutting and stabbing until the left leg was dangling by only a few swinging threads. If her people could see her, would they be proud of her for making the best of her situation, or would they scorn her for adapting to the weapon of an enemy? She wasn't sure. She huffed and cut the last few strings so that the leg joined its fallen companions on the floor.
"You're pathetic," she said to the dummy with dry amusement, quirking her lips upward. Her left arm didn't have nearly the same throbbing ache that her right arm did, and the dummy's teardrop torso wasn't in tatters yet. Pathetic would have to do. She raised her rapier again, positioned herself, and lunged like a beast before prey.