I don't know what Jone figures she's doing, [ she's crafty. it's something. ] But I'm not breaking a hand on you for nothing. None of this — one free hit shite.
Vance waits under the orange, swinging light of a lantern; still, eyes cast strange to the dirt. His shoulder curls as a startled cat — doesn't uncoil. He stands frozen, with no alarm in sight.
No healers, either. Thank fuck. Seems there's still some turnover on the night shift (or just fewer brawls in the middle of it). They've a little time, at least, before being nagged into their graves. ]
An hour is enough time for Ellis to consider again that this is likely not a long term solution. But it's enough of a solution to be worth pursuing right now, particularly when the alternative is further conversation.
No armor, no mace. Ellis shucks off his coat as he approaches, expression shuttered.
"Ready?"
And to think, not so long ago he'd been agreeing with Jone about how little use things like this were.
Doesn't matter if it even connects — a barrel run below the chest — some things you just gotta start before you got a chance to stop them. To think, or freeze up. Cool down,
Same thing. Bad odds, anyway: Eighteen inches between them and Ellis ever the fucking anvil. Bad odds if you want anything other than a break.
(Needs one. Conversations get heavy on two heads.)
Dodging isn't impossible, but it's not a habit Ellis has cultivated. And he doesn't bother now. He weathers the blow, the immediate collision, because that's what they're here for, because this isn't a training exercise and it doesn't matter about form or instinct or anything other than what's owed.
Vance didn't want this to be easy. That doesn't mean Ellis has to make it any more difficult than necessary.
He swings back. There's almost nowhere to aim at but Vance's head, which isn't as straightforward a benefit as it should be. It's easy to miss when habit is swinging up at something taller and bigger.
Impact rocks the breath from him, then again: Sends Ellis' fist glancing off his jaw. There's blood in his ears, in his teeth, but nothing's cracked loose —
A friend of mine, The yard is quiet. It fucking hurt,
Somewhere above, the first soppy flakes of snow drift down to cap the walls, the grounds; their discarded sleeves. Vance's foot slips. It drives him forward again, lower now, stomping for an instep. Pivoted, an elbow for a hip. Trying to turn him, to tear some of that weight down. Like pulling at a tower stone.
(Pointless. The great grey shadow of her, the damp earth.)
Pain jolts up his leg, staggering him. The second blow swings wide.
There's no satisfaction in this, Ellis knows. Not for him. But that's not the point of the exercise, just as it doesn't matter if being caught off balance leaves him at a disadvantage.
He swings again. It's not calculated. Ellis fights in one manner: straight-forward, dogged, and unbothered by what the approach nets him in return.
For a time. Not a long one, not so long as you'd think. Longer still than anything real. Maybe that's what finally stalls him, fingers dug into Ellis' side and gripping for air. Comes a time you can't pretend what's holding you up.
He starts to make a noise. Maybe it sounds a little like sorry, but it sounds a lot more like a cough. Wet, ugly. Look it in the mouth and you'd call it a sob,
To his credit, Ellis doesn't flinch back from that sound.
But he doesn't know what to do for it either, hands fluttering indecisively before one catches at Vance's shoulder. Light, then fingers dug in, pressure meant to steady without fumbling over any kind of vocal assurances.
It's alright is a lie, so Ellis doesn't bother. Just waits for Vance to gather his composure, decide how they'll part ways this time.
Maybe there's more to say. Maybe. But it's not worth saying: I don't know what to do with a future where I'm dead, well. That's all of them. You don't know what to do with one where you aren't,
His hand straightens, flattens; becomes a palm to thump once across Ellis' chest. He's good. They're done here.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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Aye, perhaps not. And you think this will settle it, for you? Or should we give it a go and see, and consider other options in the event this fails?
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[ like. other than literally ]
You think it's gonna settle it for you?
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[ a great, infuriating thing to say right after asking someone to meet you in the pit. ]
You know who I am. I can't fault you for it.
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[ ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ ]
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[ (╯°□°）╯︵ ┻━┻ ]
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1/2
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spongebob voice: one hour later
Vance waits under the orange, swinging light of a lantern; still, eyes cast strange to the dirt. His shoulder curls as a startled cat — doesn't uncoil. He stands frozen, with no alarm in sight.
No healers, either. Thank fuck. Seems there's still some turnover on the night shift (or just fewer brawls in the middle of it). They've a little time, at least, before being nagged into their graves. ]
https://i.imgur.com/PiaEEWR.jpg
No armor, no mace. Ellis shucks off his coat as he approaches, expression shuttered.
"Ready?"
And to think, not so long ago he'd been agreeing with Jone about how little use things like this were.
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Doesn't matter if it even connects — a barrel run below the chest — some things you just gotta start before you got a chance to stop them. To think, or freeze up. Cool down,
Same thing. Bad odds, anyway: Eighteen inches between them and Ellis ever the fucking anvil. Bad odds if you want anything other than a break.
(Needs one. Conversations get heavy on two heads.)
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Vance didn't want this to be easy. That doesn't mean Ellis has to make it any more difficult than necessary.
He swings back. There's almost nowhere to aim at but Vance's head, which isn't as straightforward a benefit as it should be. It's easy to miss when habit is swinging up at something taller and bigger.
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A friend of mine, The yard is quiet. It fucking hurt,
Somewhere above, the first soppy flakes of snow drift down to cap the walls, the grounds; their discarded sleeves. Vance's foot slips. It drives him forward again, lower now, stomping for an instep. Pivoted, an elbow for a hip. Trying to turn him, to tear some of that weight down. Like pulling at a tower stone.
(Pointless. The great grey shadow of her, the damp earth.)
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There's no satisfaction in this, Ellis knows. Not for him. But that's not the point of the exercise, just as it doesn't matter if being caught off balance leaves him at a disadvantage.
He swings again. It's not calculated. Ellis fights in one manner: straight-forward, dogged, and unbothered by what the approach nets him in return.
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For a time. Not a long one, not so long as you'd think. Longer still than anything real. Maybe that's what finally stalls him, fingers dug into Ellis' side and gripping for air. Comes a time you can't pretend what's holding you up.
He starts to make a noise. Maybe it sounds a little like sorry, but it sounds a lot more like a cough. Wet, ugly. Look it in the mouth and you'd call it a sob,
So he shuts it. Quick enough to be true.
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But he doesn't know what to do for it either, hands fluttering indecisively before one catches at Vance's shoulder. Light, then fingers dug in, pressure meant to steady without fumbling over any kind of vocal assurances.
It's alright is a lie, so Ellis doesn't bother. Just waits for Vance to gather his composure, decide how they'll part ways this time.
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His hand straightens, flattens; becomes a palm to thump once across Ellis' chest. He's good. They're done here.