Another Grindstone come, gone, and coming again. Yet, as John walk out of Uld'ah Nala gate, he was unsure about attending this coming one. He may his way to the huge stone, not paying attention to the men practicing near the water's edge. His glove hand was laid on the stone, looking up to where Sir Warren had stood during the last meet. He had so many questions, why put themselves through the fight? Was it just for the gil...or something else. He step back, pulling the glove off his right hand, and reach out to touch the stone before him.
John stop just an inch from the stone's surface, feeling the energy just dancing out of reach of his touch, and his ears laying flat against his head. He close his hand in a fist, pulling away from the stone before he could touch it, and shove the glove back onto his hand. Turning away from the stone, he rest his back against it, and slide down it's face to sit on the stand. "No," he whisper, "I won't get the answers that way."
Yes, the waking dreams wouldn't answer the true question...why he had cheer himself at the fights? Needless bloodshed and he had gotten thrill at it. His tail lashed the sand in anger. He should have been sicken by the display but he wasn't. He came to his feet, rob swirling around him, and stop in the middle of the sands. An awkward punch was thrown, follow by another punch, and another. While that was going on, questions needle in his head.
He hit the ground, panting, and stagger to his feet. The 'dagger' play was even worst then his punches, tripping up on the edge of the rob and his knees digging into the ground. His ears clamp down along the side of his head to try and keep out the laughter of the others training. 'Lance' in hand, no power behind the awkward jabs, and his mind burning with thoughts about how some of the moment had look like a deadly dance and that he should be comparing it to that. 'Axe' in hand, his movement look more like he was doing a horrible job and chopping firewood, he should have felt disdain for the lot that were fighting not thrill at the battles themselves.
John's eyes froze on his arm movement, his batter brain realizing that he was moving as if he held a 'sword'. He stumble over his robs and found himself face first in the sand. Exhaust, he push himself enough to flip onto his back, and began to gulp air into his lungs. He wants to scream out, Why...but doesn't have to energy to do more then whisper, eyes close to the glare of the sun, "why did you....turn to the sword....Tanya....what's wrong....with me?"
John stop just an inch from the stone's surface, feeling the energy just dancing out of reach of his touch, and his ears laying flat against his head. He close his hand in a fist, pulling away from the stone before he could touch it, and shove the glove back onto his hand. Turning away from the stone, he rest his back against it, and slide down it's face to sit on the stand. "No," he whisper, "I won't get the answers that way."
Yes, the waking dreams wouldn't answer the true question...why he had cheer himself at the fights? Needless bloodshed and he had gotten thrill at it. His tail lashed the sand in anger. He should have been sicken by the display but he wasn't. He came to his feet, rob swirling around him, and stop in the middle of the sands. An awkward punch was thrown, follow by another punch, and another. While that was going on, questions needle in his head.
He hit the ground, panting, and stagger to his feet. The 'dagger' play was even worst then his punches, tripping up on the edge of the rob and his knees digging into the ground. His ears clamp down along the side of his head to try and keep out the laughter of the others training. 'Lance' in hand, no power behind the awkward jabs, and his mind burning with thoughts about how some of the moment had look like a deadly dance and that he should be comparing it to that. 'Axe' in hand, his movement look more like he was doing a horrible job and chopping firewood, he should have felt disdain for the lot that were fighting not thrill at the battles themselves.
John's eyes froze on his arm movement, his batter brain realizing that he was moving as if he held a 'sword'. He stumble over his robs and found himself face first in the sand. Exhaust, he push himself enough to flip onto his back, and began to gulp air into his lungs. He wants to scream out, Why...but doesn't have to energy to do more then whisper, eyes close to the glare of the sun, "why did you....turn to the sword....Tanya....what's wrong....with me?"
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