Moments of Pride

[Magni Prime]

This is a bit out of the norm. Just for the hell of it, I am making a thread that is not specifically a RP, but something that should be worth looking at. We all have posts and work that we are intensely proud of. Sometimes you just get in the writing groove, and what comes out is a post that you really are happy with. For me, that usually involves about an hour of time or more and some tunes. Thus, in order to show off both my works and encourage others to do the same, I am making a bragging thread here.

As long as it doesn't breach Gaia ToS, post whatever you want. More context can be added if you want, or not. That is up to you. If you have a piece you are particularly happy with, feel free to share it with the group. We all should take pride in our efforts. biggrin  

[Magni Prime]

Little miss pretty in pink didn’t argue to his statements. He had put up a good front. His parts to play in this deception was a good little servant to her and her alone. That meant he had to make sure none would doubt his loyalty to Renesmee. A small part of him wondered if she caught onto his deception- but the majority of him didn’t care. He was in a lion’s den. To step out of line was to be mauled by the beast that was this society. As such, he was the perfect servant to her in public. In private? He was far more relaxed. He heard her movements to the suggestion he spar with her, as she started. She really hadn’t thought of him that way? Hell- she had even offered to let him physically abuse her to let him take out his anger and frustration of the La Roux. No matter. He led her unerringly back to their twin rooms and prepared the area. It seemed that she was on a similar thought process as he, for she helped to blockade themselves into the room. He also noted that she was closing off access to outside light. He knew she was putting out the possibility of being viewed easily, but a small part of him recognized that the area was darker and had more to draw upon with his hidden talent. He didn’t use it in any capacity where he would be seen. And yet she was setting the stage. Curious. As he put the finishing touches on the blockades, she began to strip. A brief moment had his heart skip as he thought she might battle quite literally in the nude. It would prevent anything from getting in her way. It was also not the first time the image of her alabaster skin crossed his mind. She discarded her shirt and stopped there, and he was both glad and disappointed. The fact that he recognized the disappointment was only part of how awkward this was likely to become over time. He never denied her allure, only his ability to take her. Even offered, he had not done as his more base instincts wanted. For now, as always, he shoved it forcibly out of his mind. He is here to fight her, not ogle.

She openly invited him to spar with her, and he noted she was unarmed. That made him immediately question if he was being insulted. Was he not worth a weapon to defend herself from? His eyes narrowed as he eyed her up. A moment later he realized that she was giving him a chance to warm up. Most fights were not that courteous. Still, he would not ignore the opportunity. It was not as much warming up muscles as stretching them in preparation. He would pull on arm across his chest and put pressure with the opposite to pull at his back and shoulders, then the other. Stretching out a single leg to the side and squatting down with the other to compress one leg while extending the other, then mirroring it. It had been a while since he ‘practiced.’ Normally fights were improvised and spur of the moment. He really didn’t know all that he was able to do to prepare. She watched him, and he was keenly aware of her patient gaze. When she spoke and he finished what he could think of, she said that she wanted him to initiate the attacks. Again, not his style, but he was very aware that attacks are constant. The initial move is not that much to ask. She wanted to start slow. Fine. He walked up to her and noted her posture. An A stance to her legs, providing good balance and support. Arms loose and relaxed at her sides. She was calm and collected as he approached, and began. It was not big. A restrained punch at her upper chest- easily deflected with the back of an arm. A left hook knocked upward and harmlessly away. A right elbow at her face. That was not fast enough to do any real damage, but still she did more to parry with a sidestep and moving behind him. She stared hard at him, reading him as he went through the motions of many openers he had seen. That initial strike can say a lot about the tactics of a person. What targets they favor, how practiced they were in fighting. He was a brawler, a tumbler, one that used no real style other than moving and misdirection while rolling around. She was a trained fighter. Strong and upright. They were diametrically opposed.

She began moving around him, trying to evaluate his defenses from different angles. The speed of the strikes began to slowly increase, but not by design. Instead, he was falling into the rhythm of it. She began to throw her own strikes at him with the same restrained motivation, but he was easily able to evade. She parried- he simply was not there when the strike was finished. He saw her skin ripple as muscles began to work, the seriousness on her face as she began to try and hit him in earnest. The strikes were powerful, but not enough to incapacitate, just like his. It might leave a bruise, but both were quite practiced at their own styles. She was trained with parries and counters. Her style seemed to focus on redirection of energy and taking advantage of missteps. His was more opportunistic and relied on his agility and keen eyes to find openings. They were the same, but opposite. Both were serious and the dance became more intense as they moved in and around each other. Neither seemed willing to leave the center of the room as their conversation became heavy breaths and an occasional grunt of effort. Slaps were rare, and usually were the result of a parry. He could read her as much as she him, and he knew she was holding back. It wasn’t the lack of a weapon, it was her trying to know him again. Constantly trying to pry into his mind, trying to learn her servant while he resisted with everything he had. She knew next to nothing of him, only that he was smarter than he let on and now she knew he truly was capable. Where her eyes went hard and wide, his narrowed and focused. Their faces told stories in and of themselves. Her practiced youth poured into the steely gaze that was determination personified. Whatever she was going for, she would have because of her indomitable will. His world of deception and subtlety that gave away nothing. What little he had learned and hoarded carefully guarded and never shared without a fight. She would have it, he would not give. That was their dance, only now it was in a mock battle as they traded attempts to hit one another with measured strikes. Neither landing a solid blow, neither retreating.

After some time, she held up a hand, her command to stop. Lucian paused in mid-strike- willing himself to freeze in place. The princess offered a compliment, and he slowly relaxed to a standing pose not unlike hers at the beginning. He was not going to strike without warning, but he was more sure than ever that he cannot allow himself to relax and not be on his guard around her. He was begrudgingly giving her respect as he eyed her form. Glistening from the workout and candlelight, it was almost like a fighters date replete with romantic lighting. He watched her body move as she stepped away from the center of the room. Now even more aware of the way she moved in a more frantic situation, he quietly admired her form. She was indeed something else. Renesmee went to her table of weapons and picked up a knife. He heard her say a compliment, and he bowed slightly, closing his eyes as he did so. That cost him the view of a blade spinning in the air and the following surprise. He didn’t see her technique, only the sensation of something flying past his ear with incredulous speed. That made his eyes pop back open wide and a sudden jerk of his head to look at her hard. She was armed and coming at him. She was a lioness, albeit a young one. She was no longer playing- Renesmee was hunting and he was the only prey here. His features morphed from surprise to a furrowed brow with an intense gaze. She was not done yet, and neither was he. She stopped somewhere just beyond arm’s reach, but still in range of her weapons. She waited just long enough for him to realize this was not a threat or practice anymore. She wasn’t even angry . . . the ante simply had been raised. At least, for him. She was armed and he was not.

Renesmee lurched in with her blades leading. One was straightforward and would pierce his skin easily, but he was very well aware of the feint. She wanted him to concentrate on the leading arm while the trailing could go for his side or arm. Lucian sneered as he sidestepped the leading blade, turning away from her other arm and grabbed her wrist tightly. Using her momentum, he yanked hard to try and pull her off balance. If he could get her on the ground, he could disarm at least one hand. Instead, she was ready and raised the corresponding knee to his gut. The first solid hit of the spar. It made him grunt as he released her wrist and dove behind her. His body’s reaction to curl up and absorb the strike combined with his skill let him tumble and roll out of the way. Rising quickly, she was on him again. Blades leading as he went into a more serious fighting mindset. Somewhere in his head, he knew she wouldn’t kill him. And yet, two facts reminded him to be careful. One, she could do it and get away with it. Two, she didn’t have to kill him- she offered to let him beat her as long as the wounds did not show publicly. There was an edge of danger here he felt keenly. She was fast, a great deal faster than he thought she would be. Worse yet, as he began to struggle to keep up with her, he looked at her face and saw a smile. A malicious smile that only added to his trepidation. She was serious and even enjoying putting him on his heels. Before he had the option of a glancing blow, but he saw her flip her blade in her left hand to make the edge go down along her forearm. A clear sign of a defensive side. As she left the right pointed outward, it kept her balanced and ready for a more serious fight. Every instinct and sign he could hear screamed that this was no longer a spar. This was more real.

His movements also began to change. Before he was agile and lithe. Just as she was becoming faster and more maneuverable, he was becoming more fluid and evasive. Almost serpentine in his ability to avoid her strikes. He moved like water around every slash and stab she offered, giving no counterattacks. Over and over again, she came at him with a growing ferocity. He had no idea what she was going for, but he saw the determination in her face. That smile. She was winning whatever battle she was fighting- or at least so she thought. They had been fighting for so long that he had lost track of time, and he was beginning to become desperate. The shirt he was wearing began to feel more airy as slashes found the cloth. He never felt the cut, but the shirt was ruined. She was getting closer with each strike, and despite himself, he was falling behind her assault. Finally, it came to a head as a strike came in and he tried to counter- only to meet her defensive blade instead. She didn’t stab with it, only did a forearm strike on his arm. The blade made the difference and a line of red was appearing on his right forearm. The sudden addition of pain made him finally speak. An almost feral growl escaped his mouth as he said “No.” Without warning, he recoiled his arm from the weapon and pain, and like a coiled snake exploded forward, a burst of darkness coming from his feet. The shadows there gave silent explosions as they propelled him further and faster. He was her equal for a split moment in the enhanced speed and his rush was led by his brawling experience. The hardest bone in the body is the top of the head, and he lowered his head for a split moment to strike hard again at her sternum. The impact was like a car crash to her body, sending the pink girl flying a few feet backward, stealing her breath. As she flew, so did he, his arms a blur of motion slapping her left out wide, and literally punching her right wrist. By the time she landed, her arms were spread wide, chest struggling to breathe, and he was upon her. His shins pinning her thighs to the cold hard floor, the clatter of weapons sounded as her blades went wide.

His hands became almost like nightmares, encased in black with long points for fingers. Sharp ones. He had grasped her shoulders, the thumb going under to her armpits, his fingers along the upper part of her shoulder’s joint. His eyes were rage and teeth bared like a wild animal. She could feel the sting of eight paper-thin cuts in her skin on her shoulders. Those fingers were blades, and the sweat made them sting terribly. He stared hard into her eyes for that moment he was a beast of rage and shadow. His eyes seemed darker. Not just pulled back from lack of sleep and stress, but a darker aspect to them overall. They weren’t blacked out, but even in the lamplight, he seemed feral and dangerous.

And then it was gone.

The bladelike hands were just human again, and his shadows were nothing more than dancing light from the lamps. The pain of his body’s pressure on her thighs and shoulders lessened considerably as he shifted his weight and dove forward to tumble beyond her. He ended in a kneeling position away from her but didn’t move. She was disarmed, and he was trying to calm down. He closed his eyes as he forcibly reminded himself this was not a battle for his life. He needed to not be a beast. He needed to breathe. Behind him, he knew Renesmee was still on the floor- he hadn’t heard her rise or pad away. He heard no metal sliding on a surface to show she was rearming. He didn’t even realize the tiger stripes he had just given her on her shoulders. He didn’t yet see the scratches and 10 indents in the floor around her shoulders like knifepoints that pierced the stone. All he knew was that he was not going to go into a feral rampage- because he would not allow himself to. In his mind, the ferocity of that attack played out in slow motion. The crossing of his arms to disarm her, the breaking of that X to grasp her shoulders. The desire to rip out her throat with fangs he physically did not possess. The momentum of weight that pulled his a** from center to the slight side as if something heavy was swung attached to his hindquarters. The pull of something, or somethings on his back as he launched himself at her. Breathing was heavy and forcibly slowing as he calmed down with every ounce of willpower he had.

Renesmee wanted a peek at what he was capable of, and even if he didn’t realize that was her goal, she got a glimpse of something not afraid to strike. Or maybe even kill.