Mini EP...

[wedobones]

More than anything, Gideon just feels like she needs to work off some nervous energy. She misses her two-hander like a limb, like a part of her. She misses her rapier and her gauntlett which, thouh they hadn't ever loved her like her two-hander had, they'd been fine.

(These are not, an insidious little voice reminds her in the back of her head. The only things you miss. She chooses not to listen to that voice).

There's gym equipment set up in the park and, of all of it, Gideon appreciates the heavy hanging bag the best. She'd bought herself some gloves that reminded her in fit and heft of her gauntlet and now she's doing her level best to knock the shit out of it. In the absence of a warm and willing body and a sword in her hand, it's probably the best next thing.

It stops her thinking, anyway.

Comments

[shieldmaiden_rohan]

Eowyn had two wooden practice swords, which she treasured nearly as much as the steel sword that had been made for her by the swordsmith of Edoras. They had been made by a craftswoman here, and Eowyn had ensured in their design and creation that they were weighted carefully. There were those here who chose to "re-enact" times before their own, and so the skill of creating wooden swords had not been lost. Glad was she that this was so.

She had just taken the swords to be sanded and oiled and was returning with them to her home when saw she Gideon in the park. The swords she carried in scabbards across her back, and the weight of them reminded her of the tasks that would be set to her by the swordmaster.

"Well met," she greeted the other warrior.

[wedobones]

Gideon likes Eowyn a lot, even if she does make her feet coarse and uncouth and all of those things. There's something graceful about her that always makes Gideon feel like she's dragging her knuckles along the floor; the difference between a brawler's two-hander and a Cav's rapier. She smiles when she sees her, though, steeping back from the bag, her chest heaving, hands dropping to her sides.

"Hi."

[shieldmaiden_rohan]

Gideon fought the heavy weight in front of her, and perhaps also fought a heavy weight on top of her. Eowyn knew such a feeling, if it was so, but she would not ask in this moment.

"Does your practice prosper this day?"

[wedobones]

As usual, when she's talking to Eowyn, it takes Gideon a few moments to figure out what Eowyn has just said to her. Finally, she nods, sweaty red hair slipping into her eyes.

"Not bad," she says. "Working up a sweat, anyway."

[shieldmaiden_rohan]

Eowyn nodded.

"Such practice clears the mind as well as tiring the body, I think, and is well for all who would be prepared for the unknown."

There were many unknown things here, and of course all might depart for their own lands at any hour.

[complexfemalecharacter]

"Remind me not to piss you off," Maeve comments as she gets closer, her hands pushed into the pockets of her coat, head tilted as she watches Gideon punch and punch. While Maeve likes to think she's relatively good at taking care of herself, all she has in her arsenal is a good solid kick to the balls if anyone pisses her off.

Not Gideon. She looks like she could really take someone out. Probably with ease.

[wedobones]

"It's actually way more difficult than you'd think it piss me off," says Gideon, landing one more solid punch to the bag before she steps back, sweat sheening the skin left bare by her t-shirt - collarbones and forearms, her biceps. "And I'm way better with a sword in my hand, but...yeah. Here we are."

[complexfemalecharacter]

"That's too bad, I was sort of hoping I could start aiming you at people who piss me off," Maeve answers with a grin. She wouldn't. That'd be too much like using a friend and for all Maeve's sharp edges, she's really not the sort. She's a good friend, better than most people expect her to be.

"A lot of people piss me off," she warns. "Before you agree to something like that just because we're friends."

[wedobones]

"It's like you read my fucking mind," says Gideon, grinning. The longer she knows Maeve, the less Maeve reminds her of Ianthe, which is a blessing, to be honest.

"Want me to show you some things?"

[sir_samuel]

Vimes has never considered what Carrot Ironfoundersson would look like as a woman, but now, watching this giantess pummel her punching bag six ways to Octeday, he thinks he might have found his answer. Vimes is sitting on a park bench not far away from the little outdoor gym, and he finds his gaze pulled towards the sound of fists thumping leather as he eats his sandwich. Once he's done, he tosses the wrapper away, and then wanders over to her with his hands in his pockets.

"What the hell did that thing ever do to you?"

[wedobones]

"It talked shit about my mom. Obviously."

If that had been all it took, there wouldn't have been a single acolyte of the Locked Tomb left unpunched. Gideon lifts one arm, bending it king her head and stretching, her fingers grazing between her shoulder blades.

[sir_samuel]

"Well, in that case. Can't have punching bags goin' around talking shit about your mum."

He takes out a cigar as the young woman pummels the bag within an inch of its not-actually-life. There are people who would call Vimes a good fighter. He'll concede that he knows how to get himself out of trouble, but that's the whole point--you go in, you do as much damage as you can muster, and then you run the hell away. The 'run away' part had always been a pretty significant aspect of Sam Vimes' brawling strategy.

Now this woman, she's a fighter. And she's not one of those fancy types, either. None of that Marquis of Fantailler crap here, no siree. Vimes liked her already.

[wedobones]

"I know, right?"

Gideon repeats the motion, stretching out her other shoulder, and then she pushes one hand back through her copper hair. She's almost there, almost tired enough to be able to sleep without thinking. "My name's Gideon. Nav."

She's trying to get better about remembering to introduce herself, now she's not somewhere were everyone knows her name.

[daughterofawolf]

Eponine's having a serious think about going to look at some motorcycles -- cutting through the park to give herself time to ponder how much saved-up money she can devote to being spontaneous, and how much, reasonably, she'll be saving regularly by living with Ellie -- when she spots Gideon, knocking the hell out of a hanging punching bag.

Eponine doesn't practice her fighting in public, herself, much, though she's also not a cavalier. She's been practicing at all more than usual, since Anne's started teaching her some ways to improve. It's not a bad idea, though she can admit that when she stops and watches there's a bit of it that's simply impressed and not pragmatic.

"Remind me to find you the next time something awful shows up in town," she teases, wandering over to the tree and leaning on it. She's not sure Gideon has ever seen her fight, so it's got a different connotation to her, perhaps, and that's fine. Between her with her knives and pure scrap, Ellie's aim with a gun, and Gideon's sheer strength, they'd actually be a hell of a team, but it works as a benignly flirty joke.

"Is the bag a stand-in, or did you just need to get out?"

[wedobones]

"Why not both?" says Gideon, landing a final, solid punch (thinking of Cytherea, yeah, but also of Palamades gone supernova, of Ianthe Tridentarius' drawl, of Harrowhark Nonagesimus' pinched, pointed, awful little face) before she steps back, sweat sheening exposed skin at collarbones, forearms, biceps. She gives Eponine a shy sort of smile. "Fuck. I'd love something to fight right about now."

[daughterofawolf]

Eponine lifts an eyebrow in a sort of fair gesture, the many, many things she's fought or wishes she had the opportunity or guts to have fought during her life flitting through her head.

"Well, Darrow's likely to bring you something sooner rather than later," she says with a wry smile. "Have you been here for a Fight Club? It's been a while. Sometimes those crop up, where people can fight each other in someone's basement or a cleared out field, or something. Last time it was a little..." She purses her lips. "Light on the rules. And checking weapons." She lifts a shoulder. Back in Paris any sort of fight -- street, or betting ring -- would've been a bit take what you get, too.

"I could fight you," she says, with a little mischievous grin, "but not like that, not evenly," she nods at the bag. "I'm no boxer. Just a scrapper. Knives, and nails, and a lot of rolling around on the ground." It might be a fun challenge, though, moving quick enough that Gideon didn't just pick her up and hold her at arm's length.

[wedobones]

Gideon hasn't but, fuck, she likes the sound of that. Light, of a sort, flares in her golden eyes. That sounds like the kind of thing she'd dreamed of, back on the Ninth, but then she thinks about that gym where the cavaliers had trained, and that just makes her think of Jeannemary and Magnus and all the hopeless lost.

"I don't have a sword," she says, smirking at Eponine, one eyebrow raised. "But I still think I'd have an unfair advantage, maybe."

[pylades_drunk]

It's been two full months now since Edgar's disappearance: a few weeks less since the world spectacularly failed to end. (Some sort of joke about a whole baby that could've been conceived and born since Neil left, more or less a week or two.)

It seems like nothing, like it happened yesterday, and it seems like it should have been years.

So far, Grantaire has employed, in the interest of not just sitting in the dark loathing life for its turns and himself for not bearing them, a few of his old means of getting out of his head: drinking; painting [destroying the paintings, regretting destroying the paintings]; the occasional party drug; sitting with friends and listening to them. He's left a few to the side -- fucking and fighting. The former because it likely wouldn't work and it'd feel even worse if it did, and the latter, because there hasn't been an opportunity to fight a person and it hasn't been nice enough to practice outside.

Today it is, though, and in a fit of restfulness, he brings his canne out to the park. If nothing else, he can get his stances back in shape.

He's not expecting to see the fiery-haired young person -- woman, he figures out after a moment of watching her, but from behind it takes him a moment -- giving a punching bag a run for its money that would impress Bahorel.

"Nice form," he calls out, leaning on his canne. He can't repress a small smile.

[wedobones]

Gideon lands one last solid punch and turns, pushing one taped hand back through her sweaty hair. "Thanks," she says. "I think." It had been painfully obvious to Naberius Tern that she wasn't a trained Cavalier the moment that he'd fought her. Gideon Nav was a brawler, sure, but she was the best damn brawler the Ninth House had ever seen.

[pylades_drunk]

"I meant it," he says, and then realizes a moment later that she might have meant, also, that it could have been an entendre. Well, it wasn't, and explaining that it wasn't would just make it sound like it was. "Perhaps not elegant, but it wasn't supposed to be. I think," he adds, his smirk curling just a touch deeper at one side as he mimics her cadence.

"You don't fight with staves, do you?" he asks, allowing a wistful tone to enter his voice. "The way I fight, it's called savate, it's a sort of --" What do they call it here. "Kick-boxing, but it uses these." He lifts the one he's holding and spins it idly; his other, older one slung in the long bag over his shoulder along with tape and pads and a few first aid items that he has no intent, at the moment, of making use of. "Or want to learn? I can show you the ropes, even. I'm hard pressed for a sparring partner."

[wedobones]

"I fight with swords," she says, tilting her head to one side as she studies him, sizing him up for a fellow fighter. "How different is it?"

[diabolicalcunt]

A park is the perfect place for shady dealings - a time-honored tradition like brown paper bags over bottles at bodegas. Butcher's business dealings are all over the fucking place. When he gave his name to the shadiest cunts in Darrow and told them to spread the word, he expected a certain amount of excitement. It happens occasionally - he's broken a couple bones and stopped a few hearts - but moving furniture for co-eds wasn't what he had in mind. Most of the time, he has not one fucking clue what he will be getting himself into when a meeting is set up. MM would say this leaves a wide margin for error, something that guarantees he's going to fuck it up. Butcher says it's a chance to get creative. If he fucks it up along the way, even better. That makes it so much more satisfying when he makes it out unscathed.

Today's random encounter happens to be a drug deal. This is 100% not Billy's speed, and he's beyond irritated that someone would even ask. He solves problems, not creates them, and looking for a fix does not call for a fixer. If the lad wants him to break some fucker's legs, sure, but he draws the line at selling or moving drugs. His qualm isn't moral, it's practical.

The bloke he's meeting isn't well pleased that Butcher doesn't have the kind of goods he was hoping for. In fact, old boy is talking mad shite, hopping around like a fucked up little cricket. Emphasis on little. This lad's gotta be around 5 foot even.

Billy tried to walk away. He really did. What pleasure is there in fighting someone that's knee-high to a Hemsworth and tweaking out of his skin? Even when the little pocket junkie starts swinging, Butcher just set out a hand and held his little head back at arm's length. Poor fucker's twisting around and calling him all kinds of names. It's loud. People are looking. Butcher sighs --

-- and knocks the sad little fucker out cold with just a punch. It's just embarrassing. Not for Butcher, who has not yet found one fuck to give in the whole place. For this teaspoon of a lad.

Well, look at him: getting sentimental.

Since that was entirely unsatisfying, Butcher starts looking for the next thing. It is, apparently, a structural beam of a person wailing on a bag like it took something from her. He offers himself a pleased little smirk, a cock of his head. Thank fuck. Something to do.

"Oi," Butcher calls, lumbering toward her. "Get off boxin' floppy bollocks, do ya?" He leans against the bag, stilling it with the most obnoxious curl of his lips. "Course not. Poor substitute for the real thing, ain't it?"

[wedobones]

Gideon lands one more solid punch, used to focusing on whatever she's doing while someone talks at her in the background and then she steps back, sweat sheening pale skin. There's an ache in her upper left arm that speaks of a bone still healing, but she feels strong. It'll hold.

Once she realises she's being talked to, she then realises that she doesn't understand a word that he's just said to her. It's impenetrable, and this from a girl who grew up with all kinds of arcane nonsense.

She raises both copper eyebrows.

"What?"

[diabolicalcunt]

The final punch lands just to the left of Butcher's shoulder. He inspects the stroke with barely-passing interest. He can't quite understand the idea of punching things that can't punch back. Surely he went through basic with the SAS, he had to have trained with Army Black Ops, but that was a significant amount of time ago. One doesn't have to look hard to find something with a beating heart worth punching.

Something like himself.

"You a bit slow?" Butcher asks, amused by the prospect. Lots of bruisers are slow. This one's tall, she can throw a punch, but she's got all kinds of acuity behind the eyes. Maybe she's the kind of person that would bristle at being called dumb. He certainly hopes so.

"Maybe your hearin's shite," he concedes. His fingers are itching to light up a cigarette, but he's hoping they will be otherwise occupied soon enough.

It's a self-fulfilling prophecy. He punches her square in the jaw. It's a provoking strike, meant to start something and not to finish it.

He grins.

[wedobones]

He punches her, but it's more of an introduction that anything -- enough to rock her head back on her neck, but not quite enough to make her stagger back more than a step. She comes up working her jaw, checking the sudden bloom of soreness. Her heartbeat is speeding up and, in the back of her head, she hears Harrow, her best bottom of the ocean tones.

Nav, show him what the Ninth House does.

She turns her head and spits, then squares her shoulders, stretching her neck from one side to the other. Her grin is deeply uncharacteristic and unbecoming of the Cavalier of the Ninth House. It is, however, perfectly at home on the face of Gideon Nav.

"You feeling lucky, dickhead?"

And then she swings, hard, fast aiming for the side of his head. She might know the sword but, in her heart of hearts, she's always been a brawler.