Amalia;
For an Outlander. Lines, again- they are drawn so easily, and Amalia is just as guilty as anyone else, the mentality of us and them ingrained in her bones. But if this is to work, if they are going to build a functional world out of the dust, they need to start by erasing those lines. There cannot be an underlying contention of Outlander versus Natural; they cannot treat the people who want to help them as though they don't belong. But she does not say that now, only chews her lip, deep in thought, worried, worried, always worried.
It is easy to slip into the safety of action, to let the world fall away so she is only the staff and the sky. Let her body lead instead of her mind: muscles make simpler decisions, without the agony of second guessing, the anxiety of what if. Her blow lands as she expected, striking the stick with a resounding clang, wood on wood a comforting echo in the quiet between their breaths. How long is it since she drilled with another? Years, she thinks. Not since the days her mother tried to train her, dragging her out and into the cold air, forbidding her from wasting the hours after dawn. Amalia had resented her, then, whined and complained and bitched and moaned.
She wishes she could take it back. We always do, when it's too late.
The staff withdraws, defending, the movement a little awkward when performed in conjunction with someone else. Especially someone as slow as Nate. Accustomed to being the lesser competitor, Amalia is not entirely sure how to adjust herself to his speed, his inexperience. It makes her movements abnormally clunky, a little uncertain as she tries to match his pace. She still blocks his strike easily enough, the slow blow well translated by her larger opponent. Responding in kind, she too steps to the left, trying to keep him in front of her, to avoid being caught unawares. After blocking his downstrike she flicks the right side of the staff up, trying to upset his grip, to test how easily he'll stumble away. If he gives her an opening she'll swing for his shins, angling the left side of the staff to the right of him while taking a step closer, her feet still steady, her movements measured.
It is easy to slip into the safety of action, to let the world fall away so she is only the staff and the sky. Let her body lead instead of her mind: muscles make simpler decisions, without the agony of second guessing, the anxiety of what if. Her blow lands as she expected, striking the stick with a resounding clang, wood on wood a comforting echo in the quiet between their breaths. How long is it since she drilled with another? Years, she thinks. Not since the days her mother tried to train her, dragging her out and into the cold air, forbidding her from wasting the hours after dawn. Amalia had resented her, then, whined and complained and bitched and moaned.
She wishes she could take it back. We always do, when it's too late.
The staff withdraws, defending, the movement a little awkward when performed in conjunction with someone else. Especially someone as slow as Nate. Accustomed to being the lesser competitor, Amalia is not entirely sure how to adjust herself to his speed, his inexperience. It makes her movements abnormally clunky, a little uncertain as she tries to match his pace. She still blocks his strike easily enough, the slow blow well translated by her larger opponent. Responding in kind, she too steps to the left, trying to keep him in front of her, to avoid being caught unawares. After blocking his downstrike she flicks the right side of the staff up, trying to upset his grip, to test how easily he'll stumble away. If he gives her an opening she'll swing for his shins, angling the left side of the staff to the right of him while taking a step closer, her feet still steady, her movements measured.
dry your smoke-stung eyes
you can see the light
you can see the light
