Eyes Like Winter (Stark)

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Jimmeh!
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Eyes Like Winter (Stark) Mar 28, 2012 13:53:45 GMT -5

Post by Jimmeh! on Mar 28, 2012 13:53:45 GMT -5

Stark was one of those people that Indrik couldn't quite get the measure of. Talented. Capable. Beautiful. But completely closed off from so many. So hostile. Frigid. Like the arctic hue of her eyes. He still had yet to figure out why, which frankly didn't surprise him, being as the few words they had spoken to each other had been a brief introduction, his correction of her technique, and her response. And what a cold response it had been. Along the lines of jumping in the sack with himself. Naturally, of course, he had simply laughed, waved it off and was on his way. And naturally of course, it wasn't going to stop him saying something like it again. For the moment however, he stood, as usual, next to the javelin rack. He stepped up to the plate, following a somewhat disappointing display from one of the younger careers in front of him. He gave a couple of pointers, mostly about following the arm through further, before he readied his brace of three javelins.

First one's going neck, next one sternum, last one stomach. He smirked briefly, before his face set into one of determination and focus, standing sideways, snapping his head to face the target, before tossing a javelin up into the air, catching it at the balance point, cocking his arm back, and unleashing the missile with deadly force, with lethal precision. It shook as it careened towards the target, before slamming violently into the neck area of the target, slightly left of the larynx. A kill. His next was equally as powerful, piercing just above the centre of the sternum. The throw would be enough to completely shatter it, and was almost guaranteed to tear them off their feet, the fixed target shaking slightly at the impact being testament.

His last was more powerful than either of the other two. He used a slight run up this time, and swiveled his hips, torso and arms in perfect synchronicity with his final step, the javelin hurtling forward, as he slammed his opposite foot down to stop him from falling over. A loud thunk marked the impact, penetrating two inches to the right of centre. The hafts of all three javelins rippled and swayed from the lingering forces generated from the tremendous impacts. A feral smirk, and he was pulling the javelin's from the targets. Silence behind him. As always. He smirked, before looking to the right.

And there she was. The girl like winter. She was at the sword-play station. A sudden idea popped into his head, as he smiled, placing the javelins back into the rack, ruffling the hair of the kid he had condescended earlier, who looked at him with awe and disdain, before jogging over to where Stark was currently honing her evidently considerable skills. He leaned against the rack, watching her. She was good. Poised, balanced, economical. It was a pleasure to watch. He cleared his throat a little. Stark isn't it? We spoke briefly a couple of weeks ago. Indrik. His smirk was irrepressible, waiting for the icy response that was inevitable.

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Eyes Like Winter (Stark) Mar 28, 2012 15:39:23 GMT -5

Post by aya on Mar 28, 2012 15:39:23 GMT -5

And he said,
"I am not allowed much danger
Keep in line you're an old friend stranger.
You'll burn me in effigy
and I'll burn you in effigy."

Stark Harper —

[/i][/color]

For the most part, Stark Harper preferred to train by herself. She had a favorite wall — an old wooden warehouse, not abandoned but seldom used — that had become her target when she honed her knife throwing skills. After a whole life spent training, every close combat skill she'd learned, relearned, practiced, and mastered was now not second nature but first, and she got in fights so often that it seemed redundant to spend any additional time sharpening her brawling tactics. Target practice, however, was something that required frequent attention, even for the blonde girl; taking a mere week or so off caused her aim to drift off to the right, usually, though such breaks from practicing were rare occasions, particularly since the disbandment of her former gang.

Some days, however, she simply wasn't in the mood to throw. So she told herself, so she told her brother on the few times he asked what her agenda was. These days coincided interestingly with the work schedule of her favorite warehouse, which suited her well. No reason to hang around if those piggish men were going to be lurking about all day. On such days, Stark instead headed to one of the district's training centers, which were home to perhaps the most famous clandestine operations in all of Panem. It was in these gyms that the future victors — and future corpses — of District One were molded into ruthless killing machines (or, in Stark's case, heartless killing machines.) While it meant being around people — and of all people, careers her own age, whom she found to be quite an insufferable lot — it was often worth it for the access to the top-of-the-line training equipment that was housed there. Only the best for One's little willing lambs.

Luckily, on this particular day, there were some sections of the gym that were absent of trainers and trainees alike, much to Stark's pleasant surprise. There was no company that suited her better than her own thoughts, so she selected a small copes of dummies in the far corner of the gym, took an imposing bastard sword from the rack, and set to work. Actual contact with the dummies was frowned upon with the real weapons, of course; the careers were encouraged to use the wooden ones, so as to make the padded mannequins last, but Stark paid no mind to rules. Judging by the collections of holes in the dummies she was working with, it seemed that this was a mindset adopted by several of her peers before her.

She busied herself with a series of spinning, slashing maneuvers that she hadn't practiced in awhile, using her left hand instead of her right so as to maintain the strength and coordination she'd already worked up in her non-dominant hand. Anyone needed only look at Avon Lightwood — not that Stark had much respect for their 60th Games female tribute — to see how dire circumstances could force the use of a different appendage than what would be preferred. It never hurt to be prepared for such things, even though she was Stark Harper of all people, and when she was reaped, she would leave the arena with hardly a scratch on her.

A good half hour into her workout, Stark was approached by one of the career guys who'd been hurling javelins. She personally didn't care much for spears — instead, she preferred bladed weapons for their multifaceted slicing edges — but knew of their deadly power in the right hands. That in itself wasn't saying much; knitting needles were even deadly in the right hands. Still, despite the rivalries (friendly or otherwise) that often developed between users of different weapons, she wasn't going to hold herself superior to him simply because of the weapon he used — there were plenty of other reasons why she was superior to any given person, many that were less petty than weapon of choice.

Though she was aware of his presence, the blonde girl didn't deign to acknowledge it until he addressed her, leaning against the weapon rack, in a display of what she perceived out of the corner of her eye to be arrogance. Honestly, the way most careers were, there were implications of arrogance in the simple act of breathing. She was no exception to this, of course. "Stark isn't it?" he asked. Again, she ignored him, setting herself up for a kill stroke on the dummy nearest to the voice. "We spoke briefly a couple of weeks ago. Indrik." While the name was largely unhelpful, the fact that they'd spoken a few weeks ago did clue Stark in as to who this might be. She didn't speak to many people if she could help it, and especially not her peers, whom she did not think very highly of as a rule.

Stark wound up the bastard sword in both arms, and, with a grunt, cleanly sliced halfway through one dummy's neck, until the blade was stopped with a metallic clang by the frame buried inside the foam. The reverberations made her arms tingle as she hefted her weapon out of the mannequin, where it had become lodged. She turned her ice blue gaze on Indrik, an eyebrow raised in bemusement. "You might not want to lean on those," she told him bluntly, nodding at the rack of swords. "They're pointy." She lifted up her own weapon and, for effect, examined its edge. She decided against examining the point, as her word choice would suggest, as it was out of reach; the hand-and-a-half sword was four feet in length and six-foot blonde wasn't a fan of looking up at things.

She redirected her stare at the spear-wielding boy, trying to determine what exactly he had come over for. Certainly couldn't have been to chat; Stark was notoriously avoidant of conversation. If he was watching her fight, then why did he interrupt her? "So can I help you with something?" Though her tone was cool, she did all that she could to keep the trademark sneer from her voice, as she was worn out from training and, for once, not in the mood to end the day fighting.

ooc — sorry this came out so long, I meant to cut myself off like four hundred words ago Dx ah well, I've got all the muse for her right now^^[/blockquote][/size][/justify]

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Jimmeh!
Merchant

[M:-600]

188 POSTS
last seen Feb 9, 2024 17:36:57 GMT -5

Eyes Like Winter (Stark) Mar 28, 2012 19:28:55 GMT -5

Post by Jimmeh! on Mar 28, 2012 19:28:55 GMT -5

Not quite an arctic gale, but it certainly had a bite to it. He looked at the rack, then back at her. Really? Hadn't noticed. What with all the decapitation of training dummies and all. Sarcasm dripped from his voice, but still he grinned at her, as he almost always seemed to grin. He flicked the tip of one of the greatswords, considering how gigantic one would have to be to possibly wield it efficiently. He then noted the sizable blade that she had been using. His half-smirk was a light sign of approval. It wasn't every day after all that you saw a pretty teenager swinging a bastard sword around. And not least, actually doing a pretty good job of it. Again, her curt words tumbled from her lips. Always so short... He gestured to the javelin range, before folding his arms together.

Just taking a break. Besides, showing everyone up over there gets a little dull after a while. He grinned a little, stretching his arms above his head, before looking at Stark again, noting her body language. He couldn't help but smirk at her slightly. She really was an ice queen. He had actually intended to try and strike up a conversation. But, by the sounds of things, she didn't particularly want to talk. No surprise there. Time for plan B then. He strode to one of the other racks, lifting a mid-length spear from the rack, before leaning on the haft, looking at her. Thought I might get some work with live weapons. Nothing quite like using a real spear after all.

Again, he smirked at her, before sauntering confidently next to her, jabbing the tip of the spear into the mat, cracking his fingers, rolling his shoulders and then cracking his neck. He hoped she was competitive enough to take up his offer, not least because the idea of sparring with someone using a bastard sword. He started stretching off the rest of his body, already preempting her response. He smiled at her a little. Why ain't you with the others out of interest? He had an idea why, but was trying to simply strike up something resembling conversation before they started impaling the hapless targets.

(OOC: Not quite the same leviathan of a post but yeah, here it is ^^)