Of Swords and Siblings [Luna]

Of Swords and Siblings [Luna] Jul 30, 2010 0:03:33 GMT -5

Post by Matt on Jul 30, 2010 0:03:33 GMT -5

Will this change everything? Will my training be disrupted by this unborn baby in my stomach? How long should I wait before telling anyone? These thoughts circulated in poor Anya Crider's head. They had been in there a lot lately, worrying about the safety of her unborn child. Why me? Well there was an extremely common little sucker. That thought is what Anya had never stopped thinking. Why did she have to be the drunk party-goer? Why was she the one who had to get knocked up after a one night stand? Why did she have to be that girl whose friends aren't truly friends; they are just popularity sucking leaches. Anya was certain of this fact to be true-- Somehow, this messed up girl became the social hub of high school. How did it happen, exactly? Anya reached back to her distant memories, back to the start. Obviously she had pulled the right strings, hung out with the right people, then dropped them strategically. Of course, this was back then when Anya actually could think of clever strategies, before her life became so hectic she had to drop caring about school all together. Back in the simpler times.

Anya's thoughts were cut short as she arrived at the large double doors leading to one of the main reasons her life was so whacked up; The Training House. Coming here every day since she was 6, Anya was pushed over her limits by her overly protective father. He says it's just for her protection, which may be true, but every freaking day of every freaking week of every freaking month of every freaking year. God, how she resented this place. But, her father was running errands all day so he left Anya to train Patch on his first day her at this Hell on Earth. As if she didn't have a lot to do as it is. She loved Patch, don't get her wrong. Sometimes, she thinks he's the only reason she gets up every morning. But she didn't feel like training at all today, much less training someone else who has never touched a weapon in his young life. She had thrown up again this morning- an obvious sign of her pregnancy. Her body was weak, her mind was off focus...she just didn't think she could handle it. Nevertheless, she knew she had to suck it up for Patch's sake. He might have been looking forward to this day for weeks! She wasn't going to let her little brother down because she didn't feel good, no way. She was going to do this.

"You ready?" Anya asked her brother, who was standing right next to her. She reached into her pocket, pulling out her favorite training gloves: you know, those kinds with the open fingers? Yeah, they made her look like a bad ass. She tossed a pair to Patch, instructing him to put them on as they entered the Training House. She reached into the other pocket of her pink shorts, pulling out a scrunchy which she used to pull her hair up into a ponytail. "Okay Patch, we're going to stretch first." Anya taught her baby brother tips to master each stretch, like pulling your left arm behind your back and try to touch your right armpit. "You think this is hard? Try doing it every day" Anya said whilst doing neck rolls. After making sure Patch was all stretched out, Anya walked over to one of the many weapon containers and pulled out a starter sword. "Let's start of with a sword, shall we? I wanna see what you can do first. Go ahead and lunge at one of the dummies." Anya said, pointing at the array training dummies lined up in a row. Something deep down inside Anya told her this would be a very long day.

Of Swords and Siblings [Luna] Jul 30, 2010 14:40:49 GMT -5

Post by Prince Inigo on Jul 30, 2010 14:40:49 GMT -5

Patch Crider

Such tiny eyes blinked tiredly yet tinged with a drop of excitement. Patch had only to take one peek at the spilling sunlight through the blinds to mutter a "Darn it!" and hop out of bed, not without the repercussion of a short blackout first. Hurriedly the young lad stripped off his night clothes for the gear Father handed him the day before, slipping on the loose but firm fabric over a small, frail body. The radiating warmth of the kingly sun contrasted greatly to the overwhelming coldness Patch felt every moment of his life, and he had not time to figure out if he welcomed the heat or not.

Rushing into the bathroom, ignoring the call of Mother, Patch was being too hasty in his actions, almost choking on a worn-out toothbrush as it hit the back of his mouth. Having done all the necessaries, the boy proceeded to come down the stairs with rapid feet, getting the concerned tone of the lady, which the boy replied that he was fine. Just late for the meeting. Getting the shake of the head from the man, the son was gasping by the time he got to the kitchen area. He snatched a piece of toast slathered with butter and nibbled on the end while downing some milk.

The need for fastness was over. Patch slowed down immensely walking out the door to the back of the house. The Training House, the place where Father invested most time and finances in. Brown orbs surveyed the structure, blinking, anxious. A small hand gripped the fabric of the left chest area; his throat tried to swallow the loud beating within. Both excitement and nervousness encompassed his heart, more or less. Not a breeze was to be felt today under Emperor Sun's reign, his superior ego desiring to melt ice cubes and burn cotton fields. The taste of salty sweat permeated through the atmosphere. The field workers did their jobs early in the morning, harvesting and milling about.

Yawn. Patch rubbed his eyes rough. He was already experiencing energy being sapped from his tiny body. The great desire to fall back into bed, powerful. Ungodly powerful. The boy smacked his lips as an emphasis of the tiredness. His posture was sluggish; and, if he was carrying a weapon, it would not be handled well, dragging at his feet.

One sight renewed his spirits: Anya, beloved blond sister. Smiling grandly, the nine-year old ventured on over to her side, getting a question of assurance and a pair of open-finger gloves immediately. A notion on how style could easily change the mood or one's opinion on a simple pair of gloves: open-finger, cool; full-hand, casual. Hearing the double doors of the Training House creek open, his pair were slipped on, initiating the first day of training. He had nodded once in case lovely 'An' did not see his diminishing determination.

The odor was horrendous, to him. Sweat, tears, and blood thrown into a blender, so the smell was distinguished for the boy. Patch's eyes were naked to the location. Somehow the air bore weight on him as his vision was set on the dummies and vastness. Everything was in eternal silence unless the siblings were to start throwing punches right now. The collective acridness almost made him vomit. Light gushing into their petty fighting center in comparison to the Capitol's never-relenting Arena sprayed the quality of 'good nature' all over the floor, the purification salt of yore.

Older sister withdrew a scrunchy from her shorts' pocket and started off with stretching the muscles. Patch gladly complied and followed suite, though he was having a difficulty touching the right armpit with his left arm as she could easily perform. Nodding to her comment about thinking it was hard, the boy made mental note on the passed-down techniques of stretching. Whatever she spoke had to be of great importance, he reasoned. The face grew a light shade of red from effort.

The brunette ceased the exercise in replacement for a new command. "Okay, Anya... I'll try..." Taking the practice sword, the biting cold of the grip shook him. The glint off the blade ensured refined sharpness, the equivalent of a myriad of arrows. Gulp. A nervous Patch took the blade by both hands, pretending droplets perspired already. A rich set of browns stole a glance at the dummies, which he imagined were frowning, crying even.

Though shaking heavily, Patch propelled towards the fake persons, making sure not to excite himself greatly. Feet pounding, heart beating, short-living adrenaline pumping, the short one rushed at the sad beings and attempted to swing. Neither his aim or intention was true for the boy only got to scratch the surface near the wrist. The damage was not even detrimental enough to dig deep into the faux skin. In fact, it looked like he did nothing to it.

A discouraged Patch shifted to look at Anya, the tip of the metal now kissing the earth. The boy seriously frowned. "That was horrible..." His eyes rolled to the floor, ashamed, shrinking away. Loosely the training sword was held in his hands, like playing with it rather than fighting.

(Yay, finished first Patch post.)