Amalia;
Attack. Defend. Repeat.
It is a simple drill, one she knows well, muscle memory making the work easy and light. Strike. Jab. Block. Sweep. Her feet move fluidly, leopard paws latching into the ground. She has been trying out different form combinations, giving herself more versatility, more skill, trying always to improve. The leopard's teeth, the owl's talon: every form offers another tool, another weapon in an arsenal to wield against her foes. The staff is red light in her hands, red as her anger, red as her blood.
Today she has chosen the leopard, because it is the one she feels most comfortable in, the one she knows the best. A tail offers balance, clawed feet finding purchase on the dusty ground. She is dressed simply, her long hair pulled into a plait, a tight green shirt and spun brown leggings showing off the wry muscles that mark her dancer's form. But the clearest mark of her intent is buried in her face: fire and steel, flint and embers, a stubborn line drawn by her clenched jaw.
Amalia is not a fighter. She was taught to defend, to keep her strength, to find solace in the comfort of routine. She has never had an enemy before, as such, never had a place to direct her anger. But now that there is someone to be angry with she finds she has a wealth of rage, deep untapped pools of fury running like rivers through her veins. So she practices, and practices, the same motions repeated until they are second nature, as familiar as taking breath. Strike. Jab. Block. Sweep.
Attack. Defend. Repeat.
It is a simple drill, one she knows well, muscle memory making the work easy and light. Strike. Jab. Block. Sweep. Her feet move fluidly, leopard paws latching into the ground. She has been trying out different form combinations, giving herself more versatility, more skill, trying always to improve. The leopard's teeth, the owl's talon: every form offers another tool, another weapon in an arsenal to wield against her foes. The staff is red light in her hands, red as her anger, red as her blood.
Today she has chosen the leopard, because it is the one she feels most comfortable in, the one she knows the best. A tail offers balance, clawed feet finding purchase on the dusty ground. She is dressed simply, her long hair pulled into a plait, a tight green shirt and spun brown leggings showing off the wry muscles that mark her dancer's form. But the clearest mark of her intent is buried in her face: fire and steel, flint and embers, a stubborn line drawn by her clenched jaw.
Amalia is not a fighter. She was taught to defend, to keep her strength, to find solace in the comfort of routine. She has never had an enemy before, as such, never had a place to direct her anger. But now that there is someone to be angry with she finds she has a wealth of rage, deep untapped pools of fury running like rivers through her veins. So she practices, and practices, the same motions repeated until they are second nature, as familiar as taking breath. Strike. Jab. Block. Sweep.
Attack. Defend. Repeat.
dry your smoke-stung eyes
you can see the light
you can see the light
