OPEN | see, the thing is,

[poleaxed]

WHO: jone poleaxed & YOU.
WHAT: It's time to play tennis, whether you want to or not.
WHEN: Mid-late Cloudreach.
WHERE: Gallows, training grounds.
NOTES: Currently G-rated tennis, will update if this changes.

If you're one to keep track of things, you may have noticed the Gallows were relatively Jone free for the past few weeks. Frequently seen at the training grounds with varying levels of volume, at six feet Jone is hard to miss, for all meanings of the word.

And now, she is back.

You might notice her early in the day, when she's (a) stringing a bit of waist-high netting across a corner of the training yard. There are some rackets on an unused crate, along with some balls.

"Oi, help me with this, would you." She waves you over.

Or you might be caught, when the game is rolling. Of course, it's not really a game with no opponents. (b) You hear a shout, possibly a warning, and a ball comes soaring toward you. Do you catch it? Throw it back?

Or are you hit? Oops.

(c) Of course, there are polite options, like when the six foot woman hands you a racket out of the blue, shoving it into your hands if you're not amenable. "C'mon, agility training."

(wildcard) Or perhaps it's something else entirely.

Comments

[poleaxed]

"We'll start doing more of it, then. It is for combat." Jone returns the ball a little further, with the intention of making him move faster to send it back. "Endurance. Speed. Getting off your arse for something you enjoy, like. Might make you push yourself a bit harder, I reckon."

[altusimperius]

"Am I not pushing myself hard enough?

It's asked both in teasing and in earnest: Bene has begun to feel as though the task before him is fathomless and unsurmountable, that no amount of effort and growth will ever be enough.

He's not thinking too hard about it in the moment, however, dipping to send the ball back and looking very pleased with himself when he does.

[poleaxed]

"Nobody ever is," Jone says. "S'why training's hard. Either it's too much, or not enough."

Jone continues to return the serves with increasing speed and length, trying to make Ben really run for it.

[altusimperius]

This he does, finding more and more that he's struggling to catch up with the ball, though he hits it more than half the time.
Being a ranged combatant means aim has to count for something, after all. He also has the benefit of long limbs, albeit not as long as Jone's. Somehow.

"So when... do you know it's working...?" he asks between whacks, clearly beginning to lose his breath.

[poleaxed]

Jone studies this, trying now to hit the ball just at his comfort level. She's never trained anybody in the Imperial Sport before, so it's a bit of a learning curve for her as well.

"Think it's different for everybody. For me, when I realized I could bloody the pricks used to beat on me when I were small."

[altusimperius]

That's a reasonable enough answer. Bene appreciates that she's slowing down, taking a moment to rest his hands on his thighs as he holds the ball in one and the racket in the other, catching his breath.

"Hard to imagine anyone beating on you," he admits with a little smirk, but there's a tenderness in it: he hasn't forgotten what she told him about her old life, and knows it hasn't been easy.

[poleaxed]

"Used to be-" she hovers her hand about two feet off the ground- "and ill-fed for it. Nothing to do, me cousins and brothers, except play knights and Orlesians."

[altusimperius]

A little pang of guilt strikes in his heart-- he never knew hunger in his life, until the past few years-- but knowing full well Jone would hate to see it, Benedict distracts himself by serving the ball again.

"Makes sense."

He realizes in the moment that what's actually more difficult to imagine is simply having had playmates as a child.