Troublesome [Windy] [Blitz]

Training. It is a salve for the mind. It is a cleansing for the soul. It is a preparation for the inevitable. The Games. Someday. For now, I'll continue to work harder, get stronger, become smarter. There is no other path for me, not now. This is what I have been and this is what I am and this is what I will be, until the world burns cold and the ice sears across Panem.

My life has routine. It has routine that I control, that I dictate, that I decide. I don't like when it is disrupted. When my routine is disrupted, my world is off balance. I work very hard to maintain harmony in my life, from appeasing my family with plastered grins, acing tests on pointless studies in school, to training. Training is the easiest to work with. I fight and win. That is how it works. That is how it has worked for a long time. As I see it, that is how it will work in the Games. I am rarely wrong. When I am, it is usually a stupid riddle or trick that Harper Libertine conjures to throw me off balance. It works.

Like any other day, I arrive at the Training Center at precisely nine o'clock in the morning and speak with one of the trainers about my regimen. Bows. I need the practice more than any other weapon. Swords and spears are weapons of brute force and sweeping gestures. Bows are about precision and patience and calm. It is a balance of traits I am no used to, despite the years of training. Just as I go to pick up the bow, there is a presence behind me. A shapely eyebrow raises questioningly as I turn, my face a set mask of indifference and steel.

"May I help you, or do you just feel the need to hover for some reason?"

My eyebrow remained raised, my eyes carefully surveying the other before me. There was something familiar about him, something in the way he breathed and blinked and lived. It was not a trait by taking, but that was given, something that was so ingrained in him that his skin would never forget it. The memory of it would live forever in his cells and secrete it to the world. Family. There is something there. There is a resemblence I cannot place, but there is something.


I have wasted one minute and twenty five seconds in his presence by now, a careful ticking in my head telling me to move on. Now is not the time to play detective, Leandros. You are here to train your body, not your mind. The logic in me wins out and I lean down to grab the bow and it's arrows with a sweep of my arm. My eyes are still trained on the other though as I step aside, a small smirk creeping across my face as I let him through.

"Perhaps you could have moved two steps to your right and we would have avoided this whole situation to begin with..."

There's a spark in his eye, an indignant gleam of reproach. It dims quickly, his face becoming impassive as he moves to grab a bow for himself. I can see he's on edge though, the way his body moves in hard lines to do fluid motions, the way his fingers grip the bow a little bit harder. The smirk on my face drops however at his suggestion, the Career in me grasping at the chance to win. Of all things, archery.

I don't even grace him with a response before stepping away to the shooting line. I pull at my bowstring slowly, testing it's strength and give, smoothing it with my fingers before pulling it taut again. I take another moment before settling an arrow in my hands and pulling it back. I don't shoot, just test the hold of the bow and how it moves. It is then that I turn back around, face a blank slate as I stare at the boy.

"Are you going to begin or not?" I question, an icy edge to my words cutting quick through the air. He has already thrown my schedule off balance. The quicker this little game is over, the quicker I can get back to my tasks.

His hit is alright, but not a bulls eye. It wouldn't slow someone down enough in the arena, wouldn't send them reeling, wouldn't take them out of the competition. My own probably won't do much better. I'll stick to swordfare in the arena. I can cut a person to the quick with a single swipe, but my archery skills are below par, even in controlled environments. Take into account wind speed and direction and I might as well be shooting up at the sky, trying to spear a cloud. Now, however, my eyes are focused on the dummy in the distance. A headshot would be nice, or a shot to his chest. If only I could be that lucky.

I pull back again, raising my arms and lower my back elbow, settling my breathing and then, with a final breath, let the arrow fly.

[dice=200+4000]
YOU HAD ONE JOB ANDROS, BUT YOU MISS

Quietly, I blink at where the arrow shattered against the wall behind the dummies, staring at the head embedded within it. Miss. Of course it is a miss, just to the left of his head, a foot off of target.

I watch as his lips lift in a small smirk, regarding him cooly. My visage does not change for even a moment, my eyes as dull as dirt and calm as the beating of my heart. It is a slow rhythm, a low tempo of tranquility. It is one I have carefully timed over the years, internal metronome keeping me in check and settling any emotions that dare rise from the depths of my soul. I do not feel emotions, should not, at least. Not when I am so unfeeling to the world as it is.

Again, with the same practiced movements, I lift my bow up. The arrow is snug in my hand and then it is resting gently against the bow as I draw back. My heart gives a little leap of anxiety, my mouth splitting open and tongue reaching out to swipe across my lips to soothe the buzzing that muddles my mind. It is a constant drone, a continuous noise that both distracts me from my task and pushes me harder to complete it. For a moment, it is all I hear and my hand shakes, bowstring unsteady. Then I remember who I am again, drawing my arm back with a precise glide and letting go. Somewhere, deep inside, a voice chants please.

[dice=200+4000]
All I do is miss you, bb.

He's laughing at me. I'm laughing at me too. Pathetic. Two misses. The second shot farther off, shattering against the wall and clattering to the floor. I stare at it for a moment, eyes blinking silently with calm composure. My lungs are burning, my breath held within me for a moment, before I left it out in a quiet huff. I turn slowly to look at the boy beside me, his careless movements sparking recognition within me. There was a boy, several years ago now, who had his life. Their spirit is similar, thrumming underneath their skin and bubbling out in waves of wit and fire. Storstrand, the boy with the inability to catch a simple rabbit. A flicker of amusement crosses my face, smirk lifting to my lips again as the boy goes to shoot.

And misses.

"It appears you're doing just fine, Storshand," I drawl, my smirk dropping to a polite grin. It is sarcastic at best and cruel at worst, but no matter, it is mocking. My hands itch to move on, to grab a knife and imbed it easily in the chest of the dummy before me. Instead, I pull up my bow, draw back my arrow, and shoot. It is strange, hoping that it will hit the target. I don't hope, not ever. Hoping means feeling and I don't feel. Never.

[dice=200+4000]
YOU MOTHER MISSER

It seems I've hit him right on. A Strostrand, then. His face goes red and he turns to focus on his next shot instead. My my my, another miss. Archery was perhaps not the best of competitions to be held between the two of us. It is not an accurate representation of either of our skills. If this boy is anything like his brother, he's got plenty of skills to show. Perhaps not trapping, either. It would be an unfair advantage in my favor. No, something like hand to hand combat would be interesting. He looks like more of a brawler, especially with his wit and temper.

He's frustrated now. I can see it in the way he grips his bow, the way he fires and misses again. Anger can either lead to renewed purpose or crumbling stability. It seems like the latter, at this point. It is pleasing, my chest expanding in an easier breathing. Pushing your opponent off kilter can mean the difference of winning and losing a battle.

My breathing evens out even further, my arms pulling my bow taut and letting it snap the arrow forward.

[dice=200+4000]
Shallow Cut on Chest -- 4.0