daydream about me, and i know that you hate the nights without me
He offers his instruction and moves behind the lighter punching bag, hands braced out for it for when it swings back. And she takes to it easily, surprisingly so, alternating hands even. “Good.” He comments offhandedly, watching her with a studious narrowing of his gaze to follow her form, to make sure she was extending as she needed to and not overextending or underextending. “Keep your footing flat and rooted.” He offers the help quietly, waiting a few more paces. “Elbows tight.” Another quiet help, until she’s managed to get the hang of it.
The five minutes go by quickly, though, and he steps back from the bag with a smile casting down to her. “Go ahead and grab a bit more water. It’s my turn.” He flashes a wink her way, moving over to the larger, heavier punching bag, pausing to make sure his wraps are in place and not ready to slip off. And he waits a few more moments, steadying himself, because boxing had always been a way for him to work through his issues if he wasn’t otherwise occupied. A therapy of sorts. A meditation, as it were.
So once he’s exhaled a long and slow exhale, he focuses on his bag, realizing that he’d be showing her just how much he’d toned it all down to help train her – because he’s light on his feet, a constant movement. A strike and withdraw, a dance backwards before darting forward to hit the bag with his elbow, swinging it toward the left where he strikes out with that hand for a punch and sends the bag spiraling again, but already he’s moved backwards, sand kicked up as he continues to move and wait for the bag to even out a fraction before he heads toward it again.
The five minutes go by quickly, though, and he steps back from the bag with a smile casting down to her. “Go ahead and grab a bit more water. It’s my turn.” He flashes a wink her way, moving over to the larger, heavier punching bag, pausing to make sure his wraps are in place and not ready to slip off. And he waits a few more moments, steadying himself, because boxing had always been a way for him to work through his issues if he wasn’t otherwise occupied. A therapy of sorts. A meditation, as it were.
So once he’s exhaled a long and slow exhale, he focuses on his bag, realizing that he’d be showing her just how much he’d toned it all down to help train her – because he’s light on his feet, a constant movement. A strike and withdraw, a dance backwards before darting forward to hit the bag with his elbow, swinging it toward the left where he strikes out with that hand for a punch and sends the bag spiraling again, but already he’s moved backwards, sand kicked up as he continues to move and wait for the bag to even out a fraction before he heads toward it again.
SUNJATA
Feel free to use magic/force on Sunjata, without killing him <3
Sunjata speaks with an Australian accent and has a passive magic that makes him produce a subtle scent that matches exactly to whatever those around him most desire him to smell like.
