driftfleet | (no subject)

Entry tags:

coil lenn,
syeira

(no subject)

Who: Coil Lenn
Broadcast: Text (and not anonymous, for once)
Action: Iskaulit, in the gym
When: Morning

[it is a rare day indeed that Coil sends out a message with his identification attached to it, but he figures it's probably hard to convince someone to fight with you when they don't know who's asking. and he takes time to write the thing up properly, like putting an ad in the paper.]

Looking for sparring partner-- hand-to-hand or melee weapons. Experienced combatants only. Iskaulit Gym.

[and he just tosses the communicator off to the side for a bit, after that. he'll return to check his messages after he's beaten the shit out of a sandbag for a while.

and whether or not they've caught his message, anyone can find him haunting the gym--either moping around like he doesn't know why he's there, or whirling a quarterstaff around and clobbering a sandbag with single-minded focus. just a combat-oriented teenager in a bad mood.]

(ooc: and for anyone who isn't really into tagging fight threads, but still wants to spar with him, we can handwave or gloss over some things.)

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[She doesn't bother responding to the text. Just shows up in the gym, dressed like she's ready to go. Doesn't even take her all that long--she was already on the Iskaulit, going through her near-daily set of warmups and meditations in her studio. So, no need for warmups or stretching, really, which just means they can go.

She's pretty sure the kid's not so far gone he's totally oblivious, but she still intentionally makes her footsteps heard as she steps in, heading straight for the makeshift boxing ring Barnes has set up and waiting in the center, hands loose at her sides. If he looks over, all her gets is a motion with her chin. come on, already. Let's go.]

[with how much frustration he's been venting on the dummies on and off throughout the day, he's definitely warmed up and ready to go by the time she shows up. and with how unsatisfying it is to hit something that doesn't hit back, he is more than ready to jump into the ring with her. there isn't a hesitation once he spots her and sees that look. he heads right over.

and if she's not bringing a weapon, he'll leave his behind as well. even the wraps on his hands won't help him here, with how they cover his palms instead of his knuckles or fingers.

once he's in the ring, he gives her a short little nod--his subtle version of acknowledgement and thanks. he's ready to move as soon as she does.]

[She only waits long enough for him to hop into the ring, thankfully without the staff. While she can manage an opponent with a handheld weapon like that, it isn't what she came here for. This is something a little more visceral. Nothing less than fists on flesh would make the loss easier to bear. It might not work either, but hadn't she told Syeira she'd try?

She moves without preamble at his nod, closing the distance between them with her arms raised into a guarded position, not bothering with the slow, easy lunges and reaches she might normally start a fight like this with. She's seen him fight before. For him, she doesn't pull her punches, only aims a series of swift blows towards his torso, a right jab towards his jaw.

Her one concession is she does, so far at least, not come at him from his blind side.]

[she doesn't reach and test, and he doesn't bob around on his feet like a boxer or dueling martial artist. he steps lightly and is ready to move fast, but he moves in smoothly and deliberately, like someone does when trained more to end a fight quickly from the shadows than prolong it face-to-face. but he's pretty sure he doesn't have to pretend to be something he's not, with her. so, he doesn't bother.

and he starts out strong. he's been well-primed with anger and adrenaline; he falls eagerly into the rhythm of trading blows in rapid succession. he absorbs and blocks what she throws at him, and then returns similar strikes fast in her direction. but, he's not going at this to practice or improve; he's aiming to burn himself out.

he won't be able to keep up the ferocity forever, but at least he's starting well.]

[It's only the two of them here, and they've fought together before. He has at least some idea of what she's capable of, and vice versa. No need for either of them to pretend. This isn't a game, this isn't training or gathering intel or even sparring, not really. This is lancing a boil, this is draining poison from a wound. She knows how it is, to need that.]

[It's almost like a dance, after a moment or two, albeit a vicious one that's going to leave both of them sore after. She's hitting hard enough to leave bruises, though not hard enough to break or seriously damage anything. So far, he's done her the same courtesy. Every blow has a block to match it, though at least one glancing hit to her ribs makes it through. She counters with a kick, ducking back and aiming a swift one-two towards his midsection.]

[kicking goes right for a weak point of his. trapped on these ships, he's only faced off with Zhas for the majority of the time spent here, and that man kicks more like an oncoming train than anything that snaps.

so, though he sets up to block, it comes much too late, and he takes most of it right to the ribs. there's a whoof of breath and a delay as he bends with it, but he comes back fast.

he doesn't want to hang back for the breath or two that he should probably take--and would have if this had been a fight with a different goal. instead, he redoubles his efforts, pressing forward.

he still hits for the nerves and joints and soft things that he usually does, throwing in a few fast kicks now that she's reminded him of it, but he's skipping the grappling. any grabbing and twisting of arms that he's trying for is only to redirect momentum and not immobilize. this isn't a competition that he's trying to win.]

[If she knew that, she'd understand. Maybe even make a joke about those boots of Zhas' being chosen for their stomping sounds and not for ability to move quickly. As it is, she just sets herself up, waits for the counter-attack that comes faster than she's expecting. He doesn't take any time to breathe, just keeps going for nerve clusters, joints she really doesn't want to damage. One lock he manages to get on her wrist overextends her arm and she turns into it in a risky move, driving her free elbow back and into his core before extracting herself with a quick twist that might have dislocated a less flexible opponent's shoulder. It would have been easier to throw him at that point to break the hold, but she doesn't go for any of the throws or grapples she might otherwise. It would ruin the flow of this, slow their momentum, and that would be almost as bad right now as stopping.]

[even the twist that he'd normally follow her with--flipping his whole body to follow his shoulder around so she doesn't keep as much of an advantage--would have slowed things down too much. he doesn't care that it hurts, this time. he lets his shoulder wrench around, leaves himself open to a throw that mercifully doesn't happen, so he can step into another strike the very first moment he can.

he whips around to throw back an elbow to try and catch her before she can act after her little twist. it's a wild move, riskier than he would have normally tried, snapping it back from his blind side.

whether it connects well or not, it feels good. almost spiteful. the anger is inching its way out.]

[The elbow glances off her ribs this time, and while she doesn't feel anything break it does drive the breath from her lungs, and she knows there's going to be a bruise there tomorrow. Both of them are going to be bruised, probably dealing with small cuts--even the best fighters can split the skin over their knuckles during a fight like this--but that's part of the catharsis of the thing.

He didn't take a moment to recover, and neither does she, only backing up just a step to move with the blow and countering with a whirling kick, a block, and a punch aimed at his jaw. Sweat begins to bead along her hairline, and her hits have a particular viciousness to them, though she's still controlling the momentum of her blows. Not hard enough to stop this. That's all.]

[something he'd learned quickly when he'd first started to spar with his skullfaced partner-- if you don't walk away with bruises or blood, you didn't try hard enough. it just comes with the territory. it's one of those things you don't really even notice until later, after the adrenaline crash.

so, he takes his licks, (especially the shot to the jaw, botching his guess at depth perception with only one eye,) and uses it as fuel to continue forward with as little pause as he can get away with. the meaner she gets, the more he gives in return.

he uses the knife-edge of his hand and hard, jutting knuckles like surgical tools; he's going for strikes that weaken and hurt. striking between muscles along the bone of her upper arm, snapping a shin at the outer muscles of her thigh. even aiming for her throat, once or twice. anything to provoke her further.]

[Normally, she tries to end a fight quickly, if it's for real. Quick, efficient, vicious. He's the same, she's seen it. And normally when she's sparring, practicing a new technique, the blows are light enough that they rarely even bruise, at least not enough to last more than a day or two. But this is different. They both know it.

He uses strikes she's familiar with, blows that might be crippling against a less skilled opponent. Nerves and muscle groups, bone near the surface of the skin. A few aimed at her throat. Those at least she solidly blocks and deflects, moving with each strike to lessen its impact, but the blow to her thigh drops her to one knee. It's a vulnerable position and she knows it, quickly going for an upward kick aimed at his solar plexus that turns into a roll backwards over one shoulder as she pops back to her feet. There's a little distance between them now, but she can feel this match--fight, whatever it is--quickly beginning to spin out of control. This time she doesn't close in, just waits, eyes gone narrow and cold.]

[he catches most of that kick to the gut, and it does its job in winding him. he has to wait for a beat or two, whether he likes it or not, to drag in a breath and recenter himself. and in that time, she draws up and waits.

as he's recovering, he's automatically set up to defend against another attack, so there's an uncertain hesitation on his part when it doesn't happen.

so, then. there is a pause-- a perfect moment to back off and end the match, or at least scale it down a bit. he's tired, he can tell that he's probably a little dinged up. the smartest thing would be to stop.

but, that thought strikes him with a pang of desperation. he's not done. they can't be done yet.

whether it's a smart idea or not, once he's able to, he suddenly darts forward to make another lunge for her.]

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