WEAVER
She is still willing to get up early, particularly on mornings when she hadn’t been at the Kraai until the ass crack of dawn. Weaver never kicks anyone out. There is no ‘closing time’. Either the place empties out or eventually she finds she has to cut them off, but the time of the evening always varies. Still, though they were all trapped inside, during the weeks there were jobs to attend to, shops to open, and the nights were not so long.
So she heads over to the training halls with Korbin early, because she does try to avoid bringing outsiders into the Academy too often (though when she was alone, she’d simply go train there, the rooms usually far more empty and designed to withstand her magic anyway). The anticipation already sings her veins, for the fight is the dance. The cuts, the bruises, the possibility of pain always brings her to life. She finds beauty in the clash of steel on steel, fists against flesh.
Korbin stays with her today, and she goes through the usual warm up drills, pleased to see him not disappearing from her side. She grins as he lets her pick the fight, and she pulls out the little notepad and pen she’s taken to keeping with her. One rule. Can’t use your right arm, she writes, showing him the paper and removing the scythe from her back. She couldn’t wield that without both hands, but there were plenty of other choices.
Weaver grabs two straps and helps Korbin wrap one around him to hold his right arm in place before allowing him to help her as well (infinitely more awkward since he’s already down to one arm). When they are done, she pulls a dagger from the belt at her waist, getting into a fighting stance and nodding to him to take the first move when he’s ready. She’ll give him that small advantage, at least.
So she heads over to the training halls with Korbin early, because she does try to avoid bringing outsiders into the Academy too often (though when she was alone, she’d simply go train there, the rooms usually far more empty and designed to withstand her magic anyway). The anticipation already sings her veins, for the fight is the dance. The cuts, the bruises, the possibility of pain always brings her to life. She finds beauty in the clash of steel on steel, fists against flesh.
Korbin stays with her today, and she goes through the usual warm up drills, pleased to see him not disappearing from her side. She grins as he lets her pick the fight, and she pulls out the little notepad and pen she’s taken to keeping with her. One rule. Can’t use your right arm, she writes, showing him the paper and removing the scythe from her back. She couldn’t wield that without both hands, but there were plenty of other choices.
Weaver grabs two straps and helps Korbin wrap one around him to hold his right arm in place before allowing him to help her as well (infinitely more awkward since he’s already down to one arm). When they are done, she pulls a dagger from the belt at her waist, getting into a fighting stance and nodding to him to take the first move when he’s ready. She’ll give him that small advantage, at least.
I was made to be wild, wicked, and free
