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Entry tags:
CLOSED | head-on
WHO: Wren + Gwen
The location is secluded enough; with so few to occupy these halls, it hasn't been difficult to ensure this stretch of space (once a classroom, perhaps, for its size) temporarily unoccupied. The battered furniture has been dragged aside, some marks sketched on the floor and walls in chalk.
She's arrived early, a set of basic trousers laid out beside an unaccented dagger. The latter is quality steel, for all its stark appearance; the former — well. If some small concessions have been made to quality, they are unlikely anything that Gwen will notice. Finer than might be strictly proper to requisition is still. You know. Peasant shit.
No purpose to armor here: Her own clothing's loose, plain. If there's an edge about her today, it's been deliberately pressed flat. She waits, and rehearses, and breathes,
It isn't the first time she's trained an insolent harpy. It probably won't be the last.
Just, usually they already know how to throw a punch.
WHAT: Training montage but like, no one's happy about it.
WHEN: Earlyish this month.
WHERE: Gallows.
NOTES: Language, probably.
WHEN: Earlyish this month.
WHERE: Gallows.
NOTES: Language, probably.
The location is secluded enough; with so few to occupy these halls, it hasn't been difficult to ensure this stretch of space (once a classroom, perhaps, for its size) temporarily unoccupied. The battered furniture has been dragged aside, some marks sketched on the floor and walls in chalk.
She's arrived early, a set of basic trousers laid out beside an unaccented dagger. The latter is quality steel, for all its stark appearance; the former — well. If some small concessions have been made to quality, they are unlikely anything that Gwen will notice. Finer than might be strictly proper to requisition is still. You know. Peasant shit.
No purpose to armor here: Her own clothing's loose, plain. If there's an edge about her today, it's been deliberately pressed flat. She waits, and rehearses, and breathes,
It isn't the first time she's trained an insolent harpy. It probably won't be the last.
Just, usually they already know how to throw a punch.
no subject
Cullen's voice, in the back of her mind; a reassurance she'd meant to coax out of him and an exchange that had had much less dignity than she'd planned in the end. A reassurance, all the same, tangled up in all her embarrassment. An exchange that means saying she's never asked for anything is a splitting hairs--
No one will make you fight.
They will leave her, and she will have no choice--
No one will make you fight.
She picks up the knife, and in anger she holds it no less reluctantly; her grip is no tighter, no more confident. There will be a day when this is more dangerous, when the coiled thing inside her looks for outlet and finds it, but today she looks down at it and the anger drains from her as color from her face, leaving only something small and sick behind.
She's the only thing she's ever wanted to destroy.
no subject
Nothing that she has a way to enforce; Wren's hardly about to shake down her maid to such purpose. (As if the girl would even listen —)
"Your gestures with the mark, we shall go through them next —"
Let the literal handwaving commence.