Damien
the urge to disappear into the forest
and become local folklore
and become local folklore
The redirection jolted Damien’s shoulder off its line, his weight sliding harder into the sand than he’d meant. Before he could reset, the jab caught him square in the side, a blunt shock that stole half his breath and twisted a grimace across his face. The hit was solid. Iskra had found his opening cleanly enough.
But pain, Damien knew, wasn’t the end of a fight—it was a reminder you were in one. He let the force roll through him instead of bracing against it, turning with the blow so the momentum carried him around. His boots dug into the gritty black sand, carving a groove as he twisted his torso back into balance.
The next move wasn’t clean or textbook. He ducked his head and drove in low, shoulder angled toward Iskra’s midsection in an attempt to quite literally bull him back, to close the distance before the other man could reset for another strike. Sand scattered underfoot as he pressed the attack, more brute force than form, the kind of move born of scuffles where there was no ring, no rules, just the instinct to take ground and keep it.
But pain, Damien knew, wasn’t the end of a fight—it was a reminder you were in one. He let the force roll through him instead of bracing against it, turning with the blow so the momentum carried him around. His boots dug into the gritty black sand, carving a groove as he twisted his torso back into balance.
The next move wasn’t clean or textbook. He ducked his head and drove in low, shoulder angled toward Iskra’s midsection in an attempt to quite literally bull him back, to close the distance before the other man could reset for another strike. Sand scattered underfoot as he pressed the attack, more brute force than form, the kind of move born of scuffles where there was no ring, no rules, just the instinct to take ground and keep it.
(Training 2/4)
