mighty knights || D'Arcy x Tsiuri

The sword was so heavy in D'Arcy's hands. She tried to lift the harsh metal from its stand like she had seen with others; one handed, effortless, like it was nothing more than a toy. She hated how the hilt felt rough in her hands, a sandpapery hold for hands used to softness. She had chosen her stronger arm, her right, and found her muscles trembling under the weight of the brutal weapon. She could lift it, sure, but any tries to get it upright and in a position of use required both hands. She had no choice but to concede, acknowledge that she wasn't as strong as others were, and try with the best she could.

Two hands now on the hilt and the sword could now sway around in a position that could pass for a defensive hold. At least, D'Arcy hoped it passed for something more than just keeping the sword held right. She felt the weight still pulling her into the weapon more than she was pulling it into her. It took a lot of effort not to lose her footing as the sword leaned to the right, then to the left. She knew now it had been a mistake to even try this station out; the weapon was half her height long, dense and dangerous and not for children. But there was no turning back now - she could sense one or two pairs of eyes already on her, sizing up what the youngest tribute might be able to do.

She poised herself to face the training dummy. She tried to remember what the trainer had been telling her before about posture and swing and how to not look weak (in different words, but that's how D'Arcy had interpreted them). The rising heat of embarrassment was making it hard to think and remember, and the trainer was off with another tribute now. She just had to try her best to remember, aim, and strike.

D'Arcy gathered her whole strength into her arms as she raised the sword into a swing towards the big, unmoving, synthetic enemy in front of her. Momentum took over some of the work as the blade sliced closer and closer, at first helping her and then carrying her along with it. The momentum was too much; D'Arcy's balance was thrown off, and with a stumble the blade turned from sharp to flat as it clattered against the side of the training dummy. She loses her grip on the sword and the clang echoes as it meets the floor. D'Arcy falls along with it, momentum finally releasing her from its grip.

She wasn't built for this. She was never meant for this. Perhaps it was all futile to even try. Her hands stung from the twist of the sword, then the landing palms first on the hard floor, and she could only hope they'd be back to feeling fine by the evening. They were learning to use deadly weapons and here she was, near tears for some sore hands. Well, sore hands and the overwhelming terror that she was dying in a few days' time.

She hears a pair of feet walk up to the sword, hears the metal leave the floor, and hears a voice call out to her. Not the trainer, but one she hadn't heard yet. Another tribute. Probably here to come take over the station from her, seeing how clearly it was a waste of time for D'Arcy to continue any further.

"Sorry, you can use the sword if you'd like. I'm all done with it." D'Arcy starts as she raises her head to see who she was speaking to. To her surprise, the girl from Eleven was there and holding the sword back out for her to take. Words clearly on the tip of her tongue. All D'Arcy could do was stare up with wide eyes, like an animal of prey waiting stone still to see if the hunter maybe hadn't spotted them in the foliage.