is the cake all a lie {arc} {blitz}
Dec 24, 2015 5:40:26 GMT -5
Post by Lyn𝛿is on Dec 24, 2015 5:40:26 GMT -5
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A sword thunks against the training dummy's leg, the sound echoing through the empty hall. False flesh tears as stuffing spills on the mat - no good, she scowls. Not clean enough; the sword was stuck halfway inside one of the dummy's "bones", and it remained, unfortunately, standing.
She was losing her touch, she worried. Sixteen and with two more years of training left and she still couldn't consistently sever a limb with one blow. They gossiped of those in the training center, the ones who almost made it, but "almost" just meant "didn't", just like second place in the Games was still losing.
With a grunt, Gladys jerks the sword out of the dummy, planting it tip down in front of her. At least she wasn't like those idiot newbies who charged at everyone, trying to stab them in the chest. No, a fight was a thing of beauty and finesse, a series of precise observations and intricate maneuvers until the killing blow was reached. The closer an opponent thought they were to victory, the sweeter their look of betrayal when they realized they had been outwitted - for that was what each battle came down to, in the end.
Her ears perk up as the door creaks, and she turns, seeing the silhouette of another student against the corridor. Tossing her hair over her shoulder, Gladys smirks.
"Well, well," she says to the boy, "Who do we have here?"
A sword thunks against the training dummy's leg, the sound echoing through the empty hall. False flesh tears as stuffing spills on the mat - no good, she scowls. Not clean enough; the sword was stuck halfway inside one of the dummy's "bones", and it remained, unfortunately, standing.
She was losing her touch, she worried. Sixteen and with two more years of training left and she still couldn't consistently sever a limb with one blow. They gossiped of those in the training center, the ones who almost made it, but "almost" just meant "didn't", just like second place in the Games was still losing.
With a grunt, Gladys jerks the sword out of the dummy, planting it tip down in front of her. At least she wasn't like those idiot newbies who charged at everyone, trying to stab them in the chest. No, a fight was a thing of beauty and finesse, a series of precise observations and intricate maneuvers until the killing blow was reached. The closer an opponent thought they were to victory, the sweeter their look of betrayal when they realized they had been outwitted - for that was what each battle came down to, in the end.
Her ears perk up as the door creaks, and she turns, seeing the silhouette of another student against the corridor. Tossing her hair over her shoulder, Gladys smirks.
"Well, well," she says to the boy, "Who do we have here?"
