Damien
the urge to disappear into the forest
and become local folklore
and become local folklore
The elbow cracked down sharp across Damien’s back, driving a grunt out of him and forcing his spine to bow under the blow. Pain flared like a hot wire, cutting through the momentum he’d been leaning on, but he didn’t let go. If anything, it only made his grip tighten, his boots gouging trenches into the sand as he staggered forward a step under the impact.
The hit had the intended effect. It slowed him, bent his drive off-kilter, made him stumble just enough to break the clean line of his push. But Damien wasn’t above taking a stumble and turning it into leverage. Instead of trying to square up again, he let the falter roll through his legs and dropped his weight suddenly, dragging at Iskra’s balance as he went.
One arm hooked low, aiming to snag behind Iskra’s knee as he collapsed down into the sand. Not graceful, not clever, just the kind of dirty scrabble-move you learned when the choice was between eating snow or making sure the other guy did first. If it landed, the whole mess of them would go down together in a spray of black grit and cold air, a tangle of limbs and grit-teeth effort.
The hit had the intended effect. It slowed him, bent his drive off-kilter, made him stumble just enough to break the clean line of his push. But Damien wasn’t above taking a stumble and turning it into leverage. Instead of trying to square up again, he let the falter roll through his legs and dropped his weight suddenly, dragging at Iskra’s balance as he went.
One arm hooked low, aiming to snag behind Iskra’s knee as he collapsed down into the sand. Not graceful, not clever, just the kind of dirty scrabble-move you learned when the choice was between eating snow or making sure the other guy did first. If it landed, the whole mess of them would go down together in a spray of black grit and cold air, a tangle of limbs and grit-teeth effort.
(Training 3/4)
