The coldest blood runs through my veins
Maea considered, then nodded. Rather than drawing a weapon, however, she undid the belt that held her chakram, shrugged her coat off the shoulders and folded it into a neat bundle. "I have no interest in dying again, nor do I want to kill you, whether intentionally or by accident," she replied, as she began to roll up dark sleeves, "You can fight however you wish; I'll settle for these," Holding up her fists, she was faintly aware of someone sniggering behind her. Was it old-school, sentimental and potentially life-threatening when facing an opponent like Thalassa? Sure. Letting 'fists do the talking' sounded like something out of a spaghetti western, all manly and gruff... but considering the deeply personal nature of their dispute, something told Maea it might do more to ease the tension than fancy tricks or comparing shifts like it was a simple dick-measuring contest.
Steeling herself for a gruelling and unfun battle, she cast a look around to get her bearings, noting any coils of rope, lines, tripping hazards or other obstacles to avoid. Ready to begin, she turned to face the captain, her most sincerely treasured and sorely mistreated friend, and put her fists up in a boxer's stance to accept her feelings, from the most trivial upset to the deepest of soul-crushing wound.
Steeling herself for a gruelling and unfun battle, she cast a look around to get her bearings, noting any coils of rope, lines, tripping hazards or other obstacles to avoid. Ready to begin, she turned to face the captain, her most sincerely treasured and sorely mistreated friend, and put her fists up in a boxer's stance to accept her feelings, from the most trivial upset to the deepest of soul-crushing wound.
You know my name
Table by Skylark
