fisherman or warrior? [nan/garrison]

N A N E T T E   Ψ   C A R T E R

The spear between my fingers reminded me of home.

Closing my eyes for a moment I imagined that the ocean lapped at my ankles, that the salt kissed breeze whipped through my golden hair. I imagined that the sounds around me were the sounds of families along the coast, the clashing of steel knives and forks as children demanded their parents to open the picnic basket, to fill their hungry bellies.

It was almost believable until some idiot to my left cries out, no doubt burning his finger on some pathetic fire he had tried to build. Releasing a breath I turn to face the target before, my fingers running along the shaft of the spear, almost caressing. 'A weapon is an extension of your limbs, treat it with the respect you demand to be treated with', my trainer liked to constantly remind me. Smiling I take my fighters stand, holding the spear between myself and the target.

'Always be aware of your surroundings, Nanette,' he would call moments before swinging a large staff towards he ankles, an attempt to trip me over. An exhale of breath and I move like a feline, stalking its prey. Silent, deadly, after years upon years of training. Scars litter the skin of my knuckles, white marks paint my fingers. I strike, the tip of my spear moving as fast as an adder. 'Quicker,' he would demand, teeth snagging my lower lip I strike again.

Still not fast enough, grunting I lung, bringing the spear in a wide arc to slice across the targets ankles. Had it of been a tribute, they would have collapsed, the Achilles tendon severed, eliminating the use of their feet.

'That's better.'

I smile.