Of Divas and Death Dealers [nofo (Phena)]

Knife throwing was not a skill that Indrik particularly enjoyed. It lacked the same grace, the same style, the same joy that his work with spears and javelins gave him. Sure, he was competent with a knife. He could slit a throat. He could hit a target. But by no means was he anything like good enough to use it as a main weapon. It all just felt... Wrong. Not enough reach. Not enough weight. An unusual wrist-flicking motion for throwing. So much emphasis on wrist motion, compared to the elegant fullness, completeness of movement, that was throwing a javelin. And yet he persevered. Not strictly to actually become better with a knife. But simply to prove a point to his instructors that he wasn't simply riding on his laurels. Pride. That was what this was about. Pride. He would not be told that he was a 'mediocre student' by anyone. Ever. Thus far, he had made good that pledge.

A whistling, then a dull thump as the knife he hurled embedded itself into the thick of the thigh. He grimaced. If that had been a javelin, he would have been furious with himself. With a knife, hitting the target in a reasonably vital area was sufficient. His next whistled into the shoulder. Another grimace, before he stepped to his left, and hurled another one, which to his delight, hit the target square in the stomach. He nodded once, now satisfied with the set. Quick, long and confident strides carried him to the target, before he extricated the deadly blades from the target, returning them to their sheathes on the rack, taking his place in the queue again, for fourteenth time this session. He hadn't moved from this station for nearly an hour. But slowly, it was paying off.

A couple of minutes later, and again, by his hand, a knife slammed home, just below the right lung. The next thundered above the sternum, in the hollow spot where the collarbones met. His third, most spectacularly, buried itself, following a grunt of exertion, down to the hilt, square over where the heart would be. A fierce smirk lit up Indrik's face, as he strode a little more slowly, hefting the knives from their places in the target. Fifteen attempts, and finally, he was hitting consistently. He slotted the knives home, before heading to the water fountains, drinking deeply, refreshing himself, before looking up at the snooty, if somewhat familiar face of Phena. He grinned before bowing elaborately.

Your grace. I'm afraid I forgot to bring the red carpet. He just couldn't help himself. Nor could he help the slight chuckle, before he continued to drink. Oh he knew well of who Phena was. He knew enough people who'd been pricked by the thorns of her seemingly unbound knowledge of virtually everything that went on. She'd even managed to grab a half-secret of his. His romantic interest some two months ago. By the time word had spread, she had spurned him. Yes. It was that quick.

What news from District One's very own living rumour mill and gossip girl? Or is today actually just a training day? In some ways, Indrik disliked her. She was spoilt. She was haughty. She had the perception everything would be easy. And most aggravating to Indrik, she thought in the same way about the games. Where people like Indrik, or Kilbey, were actively training almost constantly, only pausing to allow their bodies to recover, spoiled brats like Phena were believing that they were automatically Tribute material, and Victor material. Perhaps people like Phena were to blame for the recent disastrous performances District One had produced over the past few years.

On the other hand, unlike some, Phena at least had the motivation to bother training. And she was, though he would never say it to her face, pretty good. Lithe, agile and fast, she would certainly be able to hold her own in the Arena. He just had concerns as to whether she would break down and cry over a split nail and stamp her feet when she didn't receive a parachute containing make-up. Condescending? Yes, yes he was.