[Training] Stronger, Faster, Harder, Smarter

"Good!" Roana praised with a bright grin as the girl recovered and pivoted, leg outstretched to kick at her ribs. She probably could have dodged it, or at least caught her leg, but Roana decided against it. Instead, she let the girl's foot connect with her ribs. Sometimes the best method of instruction was lecturing. Sometimes it was making the student practice the movement. Other times it was better to show by example, which was the next method she employed.

The hit sent Roana's weight sideways, which she stepped into with great ease. Her knee bent, bringing her to a crouch as she spun, at the last second sticking out a leg to connect with Melita's ankle; her sole point of connection with the ground. Should she hit, Melita would likely tumble to the ground, and Roana would be quick to put herself over her, pinning her to the ground. If she managed to stay on her feet - which Roana would be incredibly impressed by - she would rise back up with a step forward, an uppercut punch aimed for Melita's stomach. Regardless, neither blow was sent with enough force to cause serious damage or pain, just enough discomfort to remember by. This was just training after all.

Roana

You don't own me
Don't try to change me in any way
You don't own me
Don't tie me down cause I'd never stay

 

M E L I T A

---

There was an instant of praise, of success pooling into her movements, her motions, the impact ricocheting along her limbs. She didn’t smile, she didn’t grin, but inwardly, she was glowing, confident, radiant, given one feral opus of hums and assurances, before the rest of the moments carried on, waves of instruction blistering against her small triumph. There wouldn’t be time for celebrations.

A sudden pain twisted along her ankle, Roana’s spinning sending the volley of anguish into her bones, and she sank straight onto her back with a rush of air, a widening of her eyes.

She’d been on the ground before, staring straight into an enemy’s eyes, the glowing ivories, the raised hackles, the promise of death looming over her. Her howls, her screams, her outcries wouldn’t matter here like they had there; alarm shifting on a predator’s face when it came to witness her alteration, hands in the dirt and sand, throwing, tossing, kicking out –

She wouldn’t be a sitting duck here either.

Gods, if she’d had a dagger she could’ve plunged it straight into an artery and been done with the entire thing – but this wasn’t life or death, knives or blades. The youth ignored all the other possibilities and influences, automatically rolling, swiftly, quickly, across the stones and soil, desperate to cling onto an instant where she could regain her composure, her stature, when her ankle would stop languishing its onslaught. She wouldn’t stop and give in, wouldn’t allow herself to be pinned into the earth, fighting, fighting, fighting, vicious and vehement even if the end seemed near, close, strangling and suffocating.

With her good leg, she attempted to kick straight up at Roana’s limbs, perhaps to connect with her kneecap, with her calf, anything to give her opportunity to stand again – thereafter, curling onto all fours, the clenching, tightening pain in her ankle not holding her weight well. Get up, she told herself, wild and savage, digging into her might and acrimony, standing once more, but rather unwieldly; much like a fawn, a newly sprung deer.

Roana

Roana saw as the glaze of pain frosted over Melita's eyes. The former captain couldn't help the small wince as she watched her fall to her back. She did feel a little bad, that kind of a hit did really hurt, and she probably would end up with quite the colorful bruise from it. And yet, Melita continued to fight. There was a fire in her soul that simply couldn't be doused and it made Roana grinned.

As the girl rolled away, the former captain righted herself. Melita struck out again with another kick, but she was off balance due to her babying her other ankle, and so Roana simply side stepped it. "Alright, alright, let's stop for a second. How is your ankle?" she asked. This was training after all, not an actual fight.

Roana

You don't own me
Don't try to change me in any way
You don't own me
Don't tie me down cause I'd never stay

 

M E L I T A

---

“It’s fine.” It was a ridiculous lie, embedded and stuck behind her clenched teeth, her features incapable of hiding the torment clawing its way through her senses. Her hackles raised and she stared at the ground, at her wound already bruising, visibly coloring, more vexed and irritated with herself than anything else. She’d endured far more than this ridiculous, asinine development; she’d been a makeshift shield for her sister, lanced and lacerated by electric waves cutting into her back like a knife. She’d been dragged through the muck and mire, she’d been a rampaging little bastion at the front of the lines, she’d been choked by the hands of her own mother’s ghost – and this was going to do her in?

Not likely.

Melita was an unrelenting, ferocious foe to others and her own damned soul. Part of her trials and tribulations would always be the impulsive, impetuous nature of her designs, incapable of plotting out embroiled machinations, eternally ready for the next reel of movements and motions, but not the broader plan. All she wanted to do was fight. All she wanted to do was train. All she wanted to do was become better, a vicious, terrible onslaught for her enemies to shudder and quiver upon. “I’m fine,” came the next falsehood, invented on a rash, rough inhale, bending back upwards from where she’d been inspecting the flash of colors sizzling and blooming along her skin. “We can keep going.” Her nod was tenacious and defiant, every essence of her existence, her gilded eyes a dazzling array of persistence, an emblem of her being, foot splayed out at an angle deemed comfortable for the moment.

Roana

Roana's expression dropped a little when Melita insisted she was fine, that she could continue on. It reminded her so much of herself, but she also knew the pitfalls of such an attitude; how the lack of discipline could lead to a lack of respect and careless mistakes. "I appreciate your dedication but this isn't a real fight. This is training, and continuing to push yourself on an injury is foolhardy." she said sternly, in a tone that almost resemebled motherly disappointment.

"You have natural talent and drive, a fire and need to win. It's a rare combination." the former captain said, crossing her arms and considering her. "But you lack discipline, and discipline is what separates the warrior from the barroom brawler." Roana fell silent for a moment. Melita really did have a lot of promise, if only she could reign that wildfire in and focus it; she would he incredibly formidable. "If you are willing to put the work in, I would be happy to take you in as my apprentice of sorts. I can teach you the skills you need to make quite the name for yourself." she said, then grinned a bit. "But I have very high expectations for my students, know that." It was a very serious offer, one Roana did not make lightly. If Melita chose to accept, she would have found herself a very dedicated, if exacting, teacher.

Roana

You don't own me
Don't try to change me in any way
You don't own me
Don't tie me down cause I'd never stay

 

M E L I T A

---

Foolhardy. You lack discipline. The phrases stung, cut deep in her heart, and she thought about roaring back, a defiant little speck of dirt and ash, resembling exactly what Roana had just made of her. The howl receded in the back of her throat, died off as she hung her head, as she repeated the rest of the chords in her head, as the residual pain throbbed and bellowed. Her drive was what made her, what ensured her existence, her continued survival on the rocky, pebbled, marred path to this point – bloody, scarred, and bewildering, clawing her way into a world that wanted to do nothing but spit her back out. “I’m always willing to put the work in,” she uttered, a scarce whisper, all the seditious splendor cut out of her lungs and splintering at her seams.

But Roana wasn’t going to be the only one teaching her – the girl had ambition amongst and alongside those spitfire tendencies. She was fervent, she was greedy, she was covetous because these opportunities, these instances, these occasions were something she’d never had before – the hollowed grounds of the Rift had been an unrelenting swarm of treachery, cultivating nothing but live or die in her drumming mind. Caido kept proffering guidance, and she grabbed hold of them as if they were lifelines (and in some way they were; helping mold her, helping sketch her further and further, away from that little, terrified, irreverent girl tucked in the shadows, waiting for the monsters to creep in). Her stare flickered away from the ground, and back to the warrior woman. “But you won’t be my only teacher. Vai and Wessex have also offered to train me.” I’m going to learn everything, her thoughts uttered, shook, and presided, the acquisitive, ravenous, insatiable declaration keen and fervent in her gaze. Perhaps it was a hint of her inabilities, her ignorance, her frailties, that so many were willing to support her. Maybe it was a hint of her capability, of the right motives and calculations to achieve her goals. She didn’t know – and another inquiry took its place. “Is that all right?” Because she wouldn’t be limited to just one role, to just one world, to just one view – Melita would embody every essence, every sensation, every spellbinding tactic to gain her power, her prestige, and her might.

Roana

Roana smiled a little at her. "If you are as willing as you say then you'll go far, that much is certain." she said with a smile. But the quietness of her voice, the way she held herself, it was fairly clear that her pride had been bruised. She reached out and patted the girl on the shoulder. "Come now, don't get down on yourself. You'll get there. Some things are about winning. Some things are about learning. This is the latter." she said encouragingly, hoping to bolster her spirits back up again.

But at the mention of other teachers, Wessex specifically...her expression clearly dropped; not quite a glare but certainly stormy. Her hand instinctively gripped the hilt of the blade on her hip a bit more firmly. "I can't decide for you who to and not to learn from." Roana said slowly at length. "But based on my experiences with Wessex, I would be careful with her. I am not certain she is worthy of your trust." she said as a warning.

Roana

You don't own me
Don't try to change me in any way
You don't own me
Don't tie me down cause I'd never stay

 

M E L I T A

---

Truth be told, the girl had always known she couldn’t win at everything. Even from a very young age, that much had been certain: instigating games and fights that only ended with her marred or affronted, tables turned so quickly, so swiftly, that she’d hardly had time to blink before the rest of the world had dissolved her advantages. She’d pretended to be a monster in the waves, roaring and howling, splashing and cavorting, before older boys had opted to vanquish her. She’d growled into caves and then sputtered at the howl echoing back at her. She’d hissed at ghosts and hurled insults at spectral gods, and bore their affront, the root of her defiance, straight back at her form. But it didn’t mean she still didn’t strive, still didn’t try. She just didn’t have much success. “I can learn,” she nodded, brazen, gilded gaze flicking back at Roana, struggling not to feel the aches and pains of her latest education.

Thereafter though, the girl hadn’t expected a mercurial, tempestuous change to the other woman’s expression – she watched it and the reactions following, a hand on her blade, and Melita wondered if she was about to strike her for her insolence, for her sedition, for the vitriol marked in both stares. But it wasn’t about her, but Wessex, to which the youth held back the mutinous snort. She only had her own experiences to embark upon when it came to the Ascended: but she’d never felt in danger. Discarded, cast aside, perhaps, when the flames of Natural vitriol had sparked along the Spire’s horizons, but any other time Melita had sputtered back, flared and gathered insurgency, full of spirit and will and damned resolve. Wessex had never threatened her. Wessex had never bludgeoned her. She’d thought her unworthy, certainly, but the honeybee child had every ambition of showing Wessex, Roana, and everyone else on the earth exactly what she was made of (fire and destruction, havoc and might, power and potential and potency sprung upon ferocious ambitions - watch me). If something erred, altered her, doomed her, Melita would only have herself to blame. “I’ll keep that in mind.” Her smile was another seditious one, full of insubordination and claws; tucking the information away because she wasn’t completely insipid and stupid, but relied more on her own knowledge and occurrences. If it backfired, Roana could always have a nice I told you so proclamation.

But now, with her ankle still swelling and aching, the adrenaline wearing off, the sagacity passed – she probably ought to stop wasting Roana’s time and limp her way out. “Thank you for taking the time to teach me,” she bowed her head, flaming locks falling over her face. “I appreciate your wisdom.”

Roana