Jael'li stood in the middle of an empty room; his place to think and train, though it was mostly the latter. He specifically request the room of the house not to be touched, fearing someone may attempt to find a use for it what with the constant redecorating the house got.
The sand bag suspended at waist high claimed his attention. He checked the rope one last time to make sure it was secure, dipping his head back to stare at the bolt in the ceiling, watching how it never budged as he applied a full weighted tug.
Good.
The martial artist set his shoulders, then twisted in the opposite direction. His elbow snapped around and hit the bag. Sand puffed with the stinging blow.
  "Very good." He whispered. He would've grinned at his minor accomplishment had his mind not been abuzz with concerning thoughts. But he was here to rid himself of just that.
Jael'li jabbed the bag with his left fist, rotating his arm so the top of the clenched hand was horizontal to his target as it struck. As his fist snapped back to guard his face, he leaned back, bringing his right hip over. His leg followed, smashing into the bag like an iron ball on a swinging flail.
The Miqo'te assaulted the defenseless bag with a flurry of kicks, punches, flying elbows, and knees. Though the kicks seemed lazy and the punches seemed casual, the bag popped with each strike.
The simplest forms were the most illusive, requiring the greatest subtlety and muscle coordination to achieve surprising power; it was a truism he always strove to keep in mind.
Sweat ran across the stylized markings inked across the dark skin of his chest and back, but the drops sizzled and steamed away as he went on. He relaxed into his forms, his body moving even smoother, more circular movements. His mind followed, dissolving into the exertion. His focus was nearly complete, but a sliver of anxiety still persisted.
He couldn't get the images of their latest events out of his head. For the hundredth time his mind floated back to the time where his body betrayed him, allowing his emotions to take control and grant the creature sustenance.
His focus wavered.Â
Snapping out with two straights and following through with a string of roundhouses, alternating between head and chest high, he never slowed.
The Miqo'te used his expert dexterity to make for precise hits, swiveling around the swinging back and striking out with a knuckle nukite, imagining the protruding joint of his forefinger striking between the ribs of his foe.
Â
'Rest assured, I will never let you die...'
Those words he remembered clearly. Every thing that poured from the creature's mouth froze his joints and that overwhelming fear gripped at his spine, causing him to seize up.Â
All his work had been for nothing.
Frustration and anger claimed him. He lashed at the sand-filled sack with a kick so vicious the hemp tether snapped. The sand-filled sack slammed into the wall, spilling its contents across the floor. His hands bit at the insides of his palms and he snapped his head this way and that, stricken with the urge to break something vital.Â
A sudden knock on the door made him jump. The sound of tiny knuckles rapping across the wooden surface was a clear indication of who it was, and suddenly both anger and frustration had bled away.Â
"I'll be out in a moment," he called out after clearing his throat, his voice still sounding strained. Yellow eyes glanced at the fallen sandbag, as if staring down at his fallen foe. He sniffed loudly and departed, leaving those thoughts behind.
The sand bag suspended at waist high claimed his attention. He checked the rope one last time to make sure it was secure, dipping his head back to stare at the bolt in the ceiling, watching how it never budged as he applied a full weighted tug.
Good.
The martial artist set his shoulders, then twisted in the opposite direction. His elbow snapped around and hit the bag. Sand puffed with the stinging blow.
  "Very good." He whispered. He would've grinned at his minor accomplishment had his mind not been abuzz with concerning thoughts. But he was here to rid himself of just that.
Jael'li jabbed the bag with his left fist, rotating his arm so the top of the clenched hand was horizontal to his target as it struck. As his fist snapped back to guard his face, he leaned back, bringing his right hip over. His leg followed, smashing into the bag like an iron ball on a swinging flail.
The Miqo'te assaulted the defenseless bag with a flurry of kicks, punches, flying elbows, and knees. Though the kicks seemed lazy and the punches seemed casual, the bag popped with each strike.
The simplest forms were the most illusive, requiring the greatest subtlety and muscle coordination to achieve surprising power; it was a truism he always strove to keep in mind.
Sweat ran across the stylized markings inked across the dark skin of his chest and back, but the drops sizzled and steamed away as he went on. He relaxed into his forms, his body moving even smoother, more circular movements. His mind followed, dissolving into the exertion. His focus was nearly complete, but a sliver of anxiety still persisted.
He couldn't get the images of their latest events out of his head. For the hundredth time his mind floated back to the time where his body betrayed him, allowing his emotions to take control and grant the creature sustenance.
His focus wavered.Â
Snapping out with two straights and following through with a string of roundhouses, alternating between head and chest high, he never slowed.
The Miqo'te used his expert dexterity to make for precise hits, swiveling around the swinging back and striking out with a knuckle nukite, imagining the protruding joint of his forefinger striking between the ribs of his foe.
Â
'Rest assured, I will never let you die...'
Those words he remembered clearly. Every thing that poured from the creature's mouth froze his joints and that overwhelming fear gripped at his spine, causing him to seize up.Â
All his work had been for nothing.
Frustration and anger claimed him. He lashed at the sand-filled sack with a kick so vicious the hemp tether snapped. The sand-filled sack slammed into the wall, spilling its contents across the floor. His hands bit at the insides of his palms and he snapped his head this way and that, stricken with the urge to break something vital.Â
A sudden knock on the door made him jump. The sound of tiny knuckles rapping across the wooden surface was a clear indication of who it was, and suddenly both anger and frustration had bled away.Â
"I'll be out in a moment," he called out after clearing his throat, his voice still sounding strained. Yellow eyes glanced at the fallen sandbag, as if staring down at his fallen foe. He sniffed loudly and departed, leaving those thoughts behind.
