Damien
"I never see you at the club!"
Okay? I never see you at the creek
Okay? I never see you at the creek
The sweep laid him flat, no denying it. Damien hit the icy ground hard enough to rattle bone, breath scraping out of his chest. He lay there a second, the sting in his shins buzzing sharp, before a rough chuckle cracked out of him. It wasn’t defeat, not yet—just the acknowledgment of pain and lesson both.
“Alright,” he muttered as he rolled back up, planting his boots solid. “Keep myself covered, or get knocked on my ass. Got it.”
This time he set himself tighter, staff angled across his body, not leaving that same open line. With a sharp move forward, he suddenly pivoted and brought the quarterstaff in hard; a driving strike aimed for Deimos’s ribs. It wasn’t polished form, but all weight and stubborn rhythm, the grit of a man chopping wood or breaking ice.
“Alright,” he muttered as he rolled back up, planting his boots solid. “Keep myself covered, or get knocked on my ass. Got it.”
This time he set himself tighter, staff angled across his body, not leaving that same open line. With a sharp move forward, he suddenly pivoted and brought the quarterstaff in hard; a driving strike aimed for Deimos’s ribs. It wasn’t polished form, but all weight and stubborn rhythm, the grit of a man chopping wood or breaking ice.
(Training 4/4)
