prepare as we will \\ JackFrost
Feb 2, 2014 9:38:13 GMT -5
Post by анзие (Anz) on Feb 2, 2014 9:38:13 GMT -5
nʌθ.ɪŋ lɛft stæn.dɪŋ
district 2 | 17 | female | Anna Arendshorst
district 2 | 17 | female | Anna Arendshorst
[presto]
This would be a record for her, except Astra is concerned about what Loptr might be planning (and worries if it's planning to kill someone she cares for).
She spends her time in the training center pounding on the punching bag, getting up early and going home late to avoid meeting her brother's dubious gaze, ducking past mum's concerned and worried expression, avoiding contact at all costs. The punching bag is her outlet for all the worry and fear gnawing at her stomach (and reducing the space she has for food; she's lost weight, she checked and that makes her worry even more).
The bag is patient. It lets her channel her emotions into her strikes, takes all the hits with gentle swings from left to right, front to back, giving her an almost soothing rhythm to follow. So follow she does.
The sound of her fists striking the bag is a caricature of flesh meeting flesh in a game of pure, calculated fury. There's no need for knives; a well-placed fist can make her fight, and she needs to find the rhythm, the ease with which she used to win back when she wasn't fighting for the sake of survival.
The desire to win. That's what makes a career great, her coach used to tell her. Back when she had one. Astra was a career once, and she'll be one again.
If someone could help me again- Except no one will. With a frustrated yell Astra delivers a kick to the bag and it jerks away, flying up but trapped by the chain to try getting her back.
But she's already gone, stalking to where she left her bottle and towel. The bag is left to swing desolately on its own.
Her unhealed injuries flare as she sits. Slinging the towel around her neck, Astra takes a swig of water before placing it back down and peeling her sweat-soaked shirt up to check on her bandages. Still looks good to go.
[/presto]She spends her time in the training center pounding on the punching bag, getting up early and going home late to avoid meeting her brother's dubious gaze, ducking past mum's concerned and worried expression, avoiding contact at all costs. The punching bag is her outlet for all the worry and fear gnawing at her stomach (and reducing the space she has for food; she's lost weight, she checked and that makes her worry even more).
The bag is patient. It lets her channel her emotions into her strikes, takes all the hits with gentle swings from left to right, front to back, giving her an almost soothing rhythm to follow. So follow she does.
The sound of her fists striking the bag is a caricature of flesh meeting flesh in a game of pure, calculated fury. There's no need for knives; a well-placed fist can make her fight, and she needs to find the rhythm, the ease with which she used to win back when she wasn't fighting for the sake of survival.
The desire to win. That's what makes a career great, her coach used to tell her. Back when she had one. Astra was a career once, and she'll be one again.
If someone could help me again- Except no one will. With a frustrated yell Astra delivers a kick to the bag and it jerks away, flying up but trapped by the chain to try getting her back.
But she's already gone, stalking to where she left her bottle and towel. The bag is left to swing desolately on its own.
Her unhealed injuries flare as she sits. Slinging the towel around her neck, Astra takes a swig of water before placing it back down and peeling her sweat-soaked shirt up to check on her bandages. Still looks good to go.
