Gym - Fueling the Fire

Posted April 22, 2019, 4:51 p.m. by Civilian Isaria zh’Thavos (Head of Education and Culture) (Trinity Fister)

OOC:This is open, if you’d like to have your character join in with learning/practicing some (perhaps wacky) martial arts.
IC:

Smack!

Another hit slammed against the punching bag, sending it back by its force. No matter how many times she had driven her fist into the innocent face of her immobile opponent, it did not satiate the fire in her core; it fueled the flames, like gasoline to a lit match. “Just.” Smack. “More.” Smack. ‘Hit!” Smack! Thavos grunted, pulling back her hand, knuckles tainted a deeper blue, their sting numbed by her unfocused mind. Catching the bag, she pressed her forehead to its front, antennae folding back in resignation. Her breath ragged, chest heaving from the exertion, she stood there staring at the back of her eyelids. A soft sigh escaped her lips, releasing the tension that had begun to build up in her shoulders. Her physiology did not grant her the stamina to run off raw energy for long periods of time, a high metabolism depleting her strength quicker than salt dissolved in water.

Thavos knew more than the brutality of blunt, meager hits, but the memories were faded and often returned only in the midst of a fight-or-flight scenario. It wasn’t as though Thavos were in any particular danger, her immense size for a woman enough to scare most from their pursuit. Although, it was not the people of Oed she feared–if fear was even the right word. Rather, the people off of it. Since her meeting with Corinthos, she could not deny the nagging feeling that someone was after her hide. His enigmatic phrases and cryptic details set off a bomb inside of her, its fallout yet to diminish weeks after he had escaped her grasp. He was hiding something, a pivotal detail that was the key to her past. If only she had realised that when she had her hands wrapped around his neck, threatening to rip away his scheme.

Something was missing, that much she knew. It was an open wound, no knowledge of hers strong enough to cauterize. There it hung, just within her reach, but every time she drew one step closer, some force pushed her two steps back. It was a no-win scenario, but Thavos did not have the humility to accept defeat. Pushing the palm of her left hand against the punching bag, the other left to stabilise its motion, Thavos rose her head. She wasn’t going to get anywhere standing around like some schoolgirl incapable of standing up to her own bullies. If she was going to figure this out, she had to take her pride back from a bully she could not see. Isaria had to find a better way. Punching a bag just wouldn’t do.

Isaria whipped the towel from behind her neck, slapping it against her leg. Curling it around her fingers, she straightened it out, walking directly for her gym back. It was small but large enough to harbor room for an extra pair of socks, a bottle of water, a yoga mat and elastics for tying her hear. For a moment, she knelt by it, sipping from her water bottle, her icy gaze scanning the room where several Oedians busied themselves with a series of exercises–treadmills, weights, pilates–nothing that looked remotely enjoyable to her. It was in catching the eye of a man practicing Hatha that a thought bloomed into her mind.. martial arts. She wasn’t sure what kind nor from where, but she knew she had training. Training that would need some (or a lot) touching up, her inability to recall the last time she used it a flag of concern, but nonetheless training.

Plopping herself on the ground, Isaria tugged her shoes from her feet, setting them to the side. She had no idea what she was capable of, if anything at all, but she had to start somewhere.

Isaria Thavos,
The Amnesiac


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