weak clash [griffin]

A sinister grin falls across my features and pulls at the corners of my lips. Oh, she is amusing alright. I don't know everyone here, half the so-called 'careers' here aren't worth the piss on my boots, but I definitely haven't seen her face before. Fresh-faced and new but she's far too old to be a new trainee. She talks back with sass and fires the arrow, it lands an inch from the bulls-eye and I'm impressed. I expected her to miss the target altogether.

“Anxiety. It’s the anxiety getting in the way of my concentration. Just like you’re getting in the way of matters that don’t concern you, boy.”

Laughter escapes my lips.

"Anxiety makes you weak," I tell her, not letting my gaze or smile drop. I look her up and down, a hungry thought forming in the back of my mind. I step forwards, gripping the bow just above her hand and coiling my hand around it in a death grip. "And just so you know, everything here concerns me, girl."

I let go.

This sass, if it was any other day I would've put my fist in her nose by now.

I'm not not in the mood.

Besides, if I threw her on the ground and slammed by boot into her nose, I would miss sights like this. Her loading another arrow but frustration taking her arrow and it missing the bullseye by a larger margin and definitely with less flare than before. I can't help but allow myself another amused chuckle, how I love watching people squirm. “If you’re so critical about my position then why don’t you try it, huh? I’d like to see you miss a feet away."

I take the bow from the air, playing with it in my hands for a little bit.

"Bows and arrows are for weaklings," I declare, setting in on the side. No, I have a much greater toy.

I take a spear from the rack, a javelin and twirl with it in my hands, eyeing the target hungrily.

And I throw, the javelin piercing it's neck with an audible thump!

I turn to her, toothy grin reappearing.

"As I said, show weakness and people like me will come and tear your throat out."

She's not used to this and it's as clear as day. The way she holds herself and conducts herself; even the way she stands screams mantras of openings and insecurities. Five foot six, less built and not the most skills, I'd question if she even has it in her to put something sharp through my eye in seething rage.

But when you press the right buttons, anyone can become a ticking time bomb.

“I am not w e a k.” She kneels, tending to well something I'm guessing. “My five feet six body doesn’t—,

She picks something up in her hands and when she stands there's an axe gripped so tightly in her hands I can see scarlet. “Define me!”

It goes at breakneck speeds, right past me and right past her target and it sinks into the wall with such a tenacity even I can't help but be impressed.

"I sure hope you weren't aiming for me or any dummies," I say, almost too calm in the face of a brewing hurricane. I am the storm after all. "Nothing more a killing blow that never hits the target."

I gesture to her arrows narrowly missing the bulls-eye and her axe in the wall.

She turns her attention from anger to breathing, a classic technique to bring calm to a thunderous heart -- how fucking boring. I am the storm, not a calm wave and there's a inherit weakness in the calmness she brings. It'll only last so long, until the next fucker comes and provokes her. If she was smart, she would've put her arrow through my gut the moment I made her miss her first shot.

No one would fuck with her again.

Oh well, missed opportunities. The Amazons do not hurt men, even if some of them are w r e t c h e d and h o s t i l e. If I were permitted to harm you—and trust me, I do—I would’ve done it sooner than this.” Empty threats, held back by some kind of code I have no knowledge of, as if I give a fuck about any kind of moral compass.

"And how's that rule working out for you? Hollow threats won't make you feared."

She continues. “What is your purpose here? Only to wreak havoc? I’ll have you know—it’s a very cliché thing and it has lost its flair quite a while ago.”

I shrug my shoulders, pressing my fingers to the back of my neck and sighing.

"Just some entertainment, you looked vulnerable," I tell her, letting my hands fall to my side. "And if you weren't vulnerable, then I could've gotten a good fight in so it's really a win-win situation here."

I look her up and down.

"Who are you anyway?

I raise my eyebrows, giving her another inquisitive look. "Fear and respect don't have to be mutually exclusive." I tell her matter-of-factly, when people fear your strength, they tend to respect it too; else they wouldn't fear it. That's why when I've pounded someone's face into the ground and people see it, they don't try anything themselves. Respect comes from the appropriate dose of fear.

“It wasn’t vulnerability you saw—it was confusion. We don’t have bows that are so … synthetic such as that one,” So she is a usual shot, might've been a bit hard to tell based off that showing. Granted, I did worm my way into her head. “—on our island. And I am a great fighter, for your information.”

She steps forwards, showered sunlight, she removes her cloak. Revealing what can only be described as a warrior's attire. “You haven’t heard of the Amazons? I’m Asteria, and we are a division of female warriors. We live on an island near district four—it’s … quaint there.”

Huh.

"Why the fuck would I have heard of a buncha warriors on some kind of far away island with primitive weapons?" I question almost lazily. "Anyway, I'm Alexandre Voclain; I'm not from any fancy warrior island, I just enjoy watching people break."

“Because we are the characters in every child’s fable. I take it that you weren’t very big on bedtime stories when you were a child.”

She locks her arms and I can't help but smile.

"I was sent to bed with a tender back, not children's stories."

Children's stories were too good for me and my father made it clear what becoming the perfect some would entail. He'd beat the good out of me, one way or another. And he sure as hell did, with a whip and his fists -- a gift I'd happily pass onto others without so much as a second thought. I plant my fists in stomachs and watch bruises bloom; I am the storm.

She repeats my name until she can say it, not that it's very complicated -- dumb bitch.

She tilts her head, judgement falling from her tongue as if the storm cares about the opinion of the people it drowns. “Watching people break … are you what they call a sadist? You do look like one and acts like one.”

I shrug my shoulder nonchalantly. "I never really cared for labels, maybe I am," I crack my neck, stuffing my hands in my pockets. "Are you what they'd call a self-righteous bitch? You sure look like one and act like one." I say, repeating her tone in a mocking manner with a wide grin.