Baby It's a Wild World{Indrik}

No! You're doing it wrong! Light grip! Light grip, you're not trying to kill the javelin, you're trying to throw it! Indrik's impatience was evident as the fool in front of him, only a year younger than him, was making an absolute pigs ear of javelin technique. His hand ran through his hair, exasperated, waiting not-so-patiently for his turn to throw, and this idiot was not only taking an age to throw his set, but throwing them poorly. It was infuriating. He strode next to him, much to the younger teen's surprise, and he prised his fingers from the javelin, leaving only thumb and forefinger actually gripping. That's all you need. None of this ham-fisted nonsense you were doing before. The motion has to be fluent. Smooth. Or you might as well beat them over the head with the blunt end.

He stepped back, and watched the youth struggle against the desire to clench his fist around the javelin, before throwing. Miserably. Indrik groaned loudly. What was that! I've seen five-year olds throw better than that! He muttered something about him normally being able to hit the target when he does it his way. Furious Indrik grabbed a brace of javelin, gesturing at him with one. The instructor looked on, amused. Oh? You mean, you can do this? His eyes snapped to the target, his arm cocked back, fingers holding the javelin loosely, before he hurled it, with a guttural shout, sailing through the air before slamming into the target. Moments later, a second joined it, then a third, in a densely packed triangle.

His face was stern, suppressing his irritation as he lined up his last two. His fourth javelin cocked back again, before again, it whistled on to the target, slamming square between the eyes of the target. He turned to face the now gawping youth, feeling little but irritation for him ruining this masterful weapon by massacring the technique. You can do that can you? No? Then change your technique. Because I refuse to stand and watch inept wretches like you ruin throwing such an elegant, balanced weapon any longer. He slammed the final javelin into the youths chest, before storming off, instructor chuckling to himself. He continued to simmer as he queued up for another station. This time, archery.

A few minutes later, it was his turn. His annoyance had abated somewhat, as he drew back his first arrow. A thwip to his right distracted him momentarily, and he eased off a little, before drawing the arrow back, bowstring pressing into his lip slightly. His left eye closed, his right eye focussed. Thwip. A brief sigh of frustration, as he eased off again. The girl to his right was clearly much faster, and probably better at this than him, archery being probably, next to the blowguns, his weakest combat form. Still able to hit a target. But he took forever to shoot. Once again, the bowstring touched his lips again, and he sighted. He corrected for the distance, and his fingers released the string. The arrow slammed into the target, three inches below the throat, one inch left of centre. He nodded. He was getting closer to actually hitting the throat. He nocked another arrow, as the thwip next to him echoed. He drew back, and yet another thwip sounded, this one annoying him slightly.

There is no way on this earth you aimed that. The girl didn't seem all that familiar, and frankly, Indrik couldn't care less. He wanted to finish this set. There was, thankfully, no queue behind him any more. After his display at the javelin range, people seemed to want to avoid him for the time being. Good. More time spent here. Again, he drew back, sighted, and let fly. Closer. Maybe half an inch higher than before, just right of centre. A small smile, and he nocked his third arrow. He was so slow at this...

Thunk. He fired another arrow down the range, watching as it careened into the throat of the target. A smirk, and another arrow in his hand. Then she spoke. Nice voice. He didn't look at her, simply drawing back. Then she spoke again. He let the arrow slide forward, before removing it from the string, dropping it into the floor mounted holder, turning to face her. The look on his face was stormy as ever, not mollified at all by the sight of a pretty teenage girl. He made a sort of 'harumph' noise, before setting the bow down. If it was real, I wouldn't be firing these poxy little things at it. I'd be using something far more to my personal tastes. But it can't hurt to familiarise myself with more weapons. Since invariably I'll be in possession in most of them from the very beginning. His smirk was vicious, fully confident in the fact that at the bloodbath, he would be one of the victors.

After all, he, like this girl, was born and bred for combat. He was the son of a line of Career potentials. He was from what his more uptight relatives called 'good breeding stock'. He was fast. he was strong. He was skilled. And he was bloody minded when he needed to be. Put a weapon in his hand, and he was a ruthless machine, with the only purpose being to survive at any cost. Including the death of any and all in his way. Bows are not exactly suited to me. I'm more of a direct kinda guy. Besides, with a bow, they get close to you, you have to switch weapon. Spears and javelins though... You can kill someone up close, and at range. It's the perfect weapon. He smirked at his appraisal of the spear. It was, in his eyes, the perfect blend of utility and deadliness. It required skill, speed and strength to use effectively.

He looked at her target spread. A miss, but three closely packed hits. Near the bull. Why she shot blindly he could guess. Perfectionism. In some ways, he was the same. Except he instead relentless tried to make amends for the mistakes, rather than losing his cool. He was always told that you lose your cool, you lose your life. He nodded at the arrow embedded in the wall. Say it lived through the first three. You'd be dead as well.

He continued to smirk as she gave her own assessment. Knives were, after spears probably one of his favourite weapons. Perhaps not his best. That would have to go to pole-axes and other polearm weapons. They were basically heavier versions of the spear in most cases, or at least could be handled similarly. They were just a lot less precise. Simply aimed at removing body parts. You couldn't jab with a poleaxe for example. Maybe with a lighter glaive... But certainly, most of them were weighty enough to make them utterly impractical for anything but huge, sweeping arcs. Knives on the other hand, were very much finesse based. But they lacked the range he was comfortable with. And defensively, you might as well use your hands for all the additional protection you gained. He said nothing as she looked at her feet however, and simply watched as she went to retrieve the arrow. Which proved to be just out of reach.

He set the bow back on the rack, sauntering over behind her, leaning against the target, watching her struggle to reach the arrow. He allowed her to struggle for a little bit, before shaking her head, tapping her on the arm, and stepping back. You know these things move right? He placed one finger, and with exaggerated ease, moved the target across the rail, before moving forward, and pulling the arrow out of the wall, twiddling it in his fingers. You do like to make things hard for yourself don't you? He smirked at her, continuing to roll the projectile deftly through his digits, eyes never leaving her, before flicking it into the air, catching it, and presenting it in a somewhat regal fashion, much like one would if they were presenting a sword of great import or something of that ilk.

Indrik couldn't help but grin as the other teen seemed to reflexively go defensive. He did enjoy it when he got a reaction. It just wasn't fun when you didn't after all. He considered her point about ease, and could see where she was coming from. It was, after all, why he tried to expand his repertoire of weapons, to provide something more challenging for him to do. Keep him on his toes so to speak. He nodded, before noting her slightly shaken reaction to his gaze, smirking at her again, before leaning against the target. I'd say the easy route works when appropriate. The Hunger Games for example. I'd rather just stab someone than say... Try and dance them to death? He had no doubt if he put his mind to it, he could kill someone by dancing. And look good doing it.

Even so, as his gaze had shaken her, her laugh slightly shook him. It was, in a way, beautiful. Music to his ears. He gave a slight bow to her equally regal response, before noting that, as confirmed by her, that he had not given his name. He put on a faux dramatic expression of shock, before speaking once again. My apologies miss, most remiss of me. Indrik. Indrik Pantheon. Or 'the spear guy'. Or Mr Priss if you ask some of the more macho guys. They're jealous of my good looks and possession of proper manners. He grinned at her, before seizing his own arrows, pulling them gently from the target, holding them in his fist, before beginning to meander back to the range. Yourself miss?

An idea seized his thoughts as he came back to the range. He looked over to the free practice range, and, strangely, it was abandoned. Must be a day for the close combatants. He smirked, before turning to the teenage girl again. Tell you what. You teach me some more knife work. And I'll give you some, ahem, pointers for using a spear? He smirked at his pathetic pun, that was, frankly unintentional until he was in the middle of saying it. He didn't wait for an answer, before he bounded over to the range. With a measure of reverence, he ran his hand across the row of javelins, before lovingly caressing a particular favourite of his, a triple blade headed spear, that was so well suited to his particular brand of spear combat. Elegant, flowing, inspired by the art of sōjutsu, modified to the rigours of arena combat, blending innovation with thousands of years of expertise.

He almost completely tuned Vic out as he gazed, almost lovingly at the spear, holding it, before hearing her take one up, a simple winged spear, finally acknowledging her actually speaking. He blinked, somewhat dumbly as she spoke, before blinking again, cocking his arm back, and hurling the spear with such force it burst through the backside of the stomach of the target. He smirked at her, as he turned to face her. Something like that huh? Well, contrary to popular belief, the spear isn't a brutes weapon, irrespective of the way Kilbey uses it. He almost spat the name, remembering his somewhat dishonourable conduct that he held while using his weapon. He snatched up the spear, before finding the balance point, with unerring speed, holding it deftly by a single finger, looking at Victory as it sat there, unmoving.

True mastery of the spear comes from speed, grace and precision. Any brute can decapitate with an axe, or lop limbs off with a sword. He moved the spear to balance upon two fingers, letting it rest there for a moment. But when the true killing area is but the finest point on the end of a haft, that requires something more than just brute force. A flick of the fingers, and the spear was back in his grip, over the balance point once again. He set the spear, haft planted into the ground, grinning at her. That requires skill. Luckily, you're talking to the right guy to teach you.

He lifted the spear up, resting it on his shoulder, before swiveling it in his hand, assuming a pre-throw position. Most important thing that's almost always overlooked is posture. Form is everything with spears. Bad form equals bad technique. Bad technique is imprecise, slower and less powerful. He brought the spear up in line with his eye, pointed at the target. Slow your breathing, focus on the target. Fixate where you want to hit in your mind. Stay limber, don't tense up. Don't try to over-exert. The last part is the most crucial.

He demonstrated, slowly moving through the throw without releasing, his entire body rotating, from his lead foot, through his torso, his guiding arm swinging out, his throwing arm extending, grip lightening on the spear, holding it between finger and thumb. Your power comes from your rotation. If you start a rotation badly, your end product is bad. Think about dancing. If you don't get the right rotation speed, you'll never finish your spin, no matter how hard you force it. He reset himself, before glancing at Victory, nodding once. He sighted the target, before in one sweeping, elegant, deadly motion, hurled the spear again, releasing it, the spear making it's mark next to the other.

Minimal effort can get a spear to fly down a range. It's more important to hit your target and it stick, than to miss with a throw that could split a tree in half. That comes later. First, you have to be accurate. And you have to do it right. He smiled slightly at Vic, before taking her by the arm, getting her to stand by the line denoting the throw mark. He began to arrange her arms and her feet, his own somewhat domineering frame stood directly behind her, guiding her physically through the motions, oblivious to the rather intimate nature of what he was actually doing. For often, you forget everything when you get engrossed in something you enjoy.

[OOC: Post-a-thon count starts here]