66th, Summer, 518 AV
Sanabael's face was still bruised from her fight at the Pig's Foot a few days prior; the bridge of her nose, while not broken, was bruised, as was the underneath of her eye, her cheekbone still swollen. Her ribs were still sore as well.
If she was smarter than she was stubborn, she would have laid up in her apartment until she was feeling less battered. However, probably unfortunately for her health, Sanabael was exceedingly stubborn.
So she left the Sunset Quarters, and meandered down through the strees to the Seaside Market. The tide was out, though the ground was still damp beneath her boots as Sanabael perused the stalls, looking for something specific; finally, she found what she was looking for.
At one of the stalls, a worn and clearly beaten punching bag rested behind the counter. It was a quick exchange of Mizas to purchase it, and then Sanabael hefted the bag into her arms.
She grunted slightly as she did, resting the worn leather against her chest, leaning back slightly to try and balance it; the punching bag was heavier than she'd expected, and her ribs complained as she picked it up, but she ignored them, gritting her teeth.
With her new purchase in her arms, Sanabael left the Market, not needing anything else. She could lug it all the way back to her apartment and set it up there, but that seemed a waste when there were so many abandoned buildings around the Quarters with much more space. So Sanabael headed back to the Sunset Quarters, where it didn't take her too long to find an abandoned building she deemed suitable.
At least in the unclaimed territory among the housing area of the city, she knew she would be safe from any gangs. Mostly. Sanabael listened outside of the front door, and content that nobody else was using the building, swung the door open. The hinges creaked, and the door hung open, refusing to swing shut again.
That suited Sanabael well enough; while she wanted privacy, it would let in some fresh air (as fresh as it could get in a place like Sunberth) and some of the afternoon light. The windows were too grimy to be much help.
The space was small, but more than big enough for her purposes. A frankly disgusting cot in one corner with tattered blankets that looked more like rags suggested it had been recently used as someone's house, but whoever they were, they weren't present at the moment. A few rickety chairs and an old table filled the other corner.
It took a few tries, but Sanabael managed to set the punching bag up, using the rope attached to it and throwing it up over one of the beams in the low ceiling, then tying it securely in place. She gave the bag a push, watching it swing; the beam creaked slightly, but everything held, so she called it a win.
Sanabael took off her cloak, her gloves following. She eyed the pale, thin scars on her palms as she folded her gloves and coin purse into her cloak, then tucked the bundle onto one of the chairs in the far corner. As an afterthought, her gladius, still in its sheath, was set on top of the bundle. It would only get in the way, and hopefully she wouldn't need it; as long as nobody disturbed her she wouldn't, anyway.
Rolling the sleeves of her maroon shirt up to her elbows, Sanabael reached up to tie her hair into a knot at the top of her head, keeping it out of her face. She'd planned ahead enough to wear her leggings rather than her leather pants. Blowing out a breath, she rolled her shoulders, then her neck, stretching up onto her toes.
The fight a few days before had been, quite frankly, embarrassing. She had no idea how to throw a punch; while she'd learnt some things about weak spots on an enemy thanks to her impromptu teacher, the knowledge wouldn't be any good if she couldn't hit someone properly.
Sanabael eyed the punching bag in front of her, still swaying slightly in the air, then looked down at her hands. Was there a proper way to do this? She had no idea. Curling her hands into fists as she would if she was angry, thumb outside of her closed fingers, she examined her hands once again. It felt natural, and how else would one make a fist anyway?
Shaking her arms out, Sanabael faced the punching bag, bringing her arms up, hands still in fists, and jabbed her right hand out. Her knuckles collided with the leather of the bag and sent it spinning. A twang shot through her side where her ribs were bruised, but it wasn't debilitating pain, so Sanabael sucked in a breath and tried to push it out of her mind.
When it came back, she repeated the motion with her other hand, this time sending it back at an angle. It felt too easy, too simple; enough that Sanabael could tell she was missing something, or doing something wrong, and despite being alone she felt embarrassed.
Word Count: 863
If she was smarter than she was stubborn, she would have laid up in her apartment until she was feeling less battered. However, probably unfortunately for her health, Sanabael was exceedingly stubborn.
So she left the Sunset Quarters, and meandered down through the strees to the Seaside Market. The tide was out, though the ground was still damp beneath her boots as Sanabael perused the stalls, looking for something specific; finally, she found what she was looking for.
At one of the stalls, a worn and clearly beaten punching bag rested behind the counter. It was a quick exchange of Mizas to purchase it, and then Sanabael hefted the bag into her arms.
She grunted slightly as she did, resting the worn leather against her chest, leaning back slightly to try and balance it; the punching bag was heavier than she'd expected, and her ribs complained as she picked it up, but she ignored them, gritting her teeth.
With her new purchase in her arms, Sanabael left the Market, not needing anything else. She could lug it all the way back to her apartment and set it up there, but that seemed a waste when there were so many abandoned buildings around the Quarters with much more space. So Sanabael headed back to the Sunset Quarters, where it didn't take her too long to find an abandoned building she deemed suitable.
At least in the unclaimed territory among the housing area of the city, she knew she would be safe from any gangs. Mostly. Sanabael listened outside of the front door, and content that nobody else was using the building, swung the door open. The hinges creaked, and the door hung open, refusing to swing shut again.
That suited Sanabael well enough; while she wanted privacy, it would let in some fresh air (as fresh as it could get in a place like Sunberth) and some of the afternoon light. The windows were too grimy to be much help.
The space was small, but more than big enough for her purposes. A frankly disgusting cot in one corner with tattered blankets that looked more like rags suggested it had been recently used as someone's house, but whoever they were, they weren't present at the moment. A few rickety chairs and an old table filled the other corner.
It took a few tries, but Sanabael managed to set the punching bag up, using the rope attached to it and throwing it up over one of the beams in the low ceiling, then tying it securely in place. She gave the bag a push, watching it swing; the beam creaked slightly, but everything held, so she called it a win.
Sanabael took off her cloak, her gloves following. She eyed the pale, thin scars on her palms as she folded her gloves and coin purse into her cloak, then tucked the bundle onto one of the chairs in the far corner. As an afterthought, her gladius, still in its sheath, was set on top of the bundle. It would only get in the way, and hopefully she wouldn't need it; as long as nobody disturbed her she wouldn't, anyway.
Rolling the sleeves of her maroon shirt up to her elbows, Sanabael reached up to tie her hair into a knot at the top of her head, keeping it out of her face. She'd planned ahead enough to wear her leggings rather than her leather pants. Blowing out a breath, she rolled her shoulders, then her neck, stretching up onto her toes.
The fight a few days before had been, quite frankly, embarrassing. She had no idea how to throw a punch; while she'd learnt some things about weak spots on an enemy thanks to her impromptu teacher, the knowledge wouldn't be any good if she couldn't hit someone properly.
Sanabael eyed the punching bag in front of her, still swaying slightly in the air, then looked down at her hands. Was there a proper way to do this? She had no idea. Curling her hands into fists as she would if she was angry, thumb outside of her closed fingers, she examined her hands once again. It felt natural, and how else would one make a fist anyway?
Shaking her arms out, Sanabael faced the punching bag, bringing her arms up, hands still in fists, and jabbed her right hand out. Her knuckles collided with the leather of the bag and sent it spinning. A twang shot through her side where her ribs were bruised, but it wasn't debilitating pain, so Sanabael sucked in a breath and tried to push it out of her mind.
When it came back, she repeated the motion with her other hand, this time sending it back at an angle. It felt too easy, too simple; enough that Sanabael could tell she was missing something, or doing something wrong, and despite being alone she felt embarrassed.
Ledger :
Word Count: 863
