The Art of Trading Punches (-Serrif-)

[Ishara Dossari]

When: The 68th Day of Fall, Year 512 AV
Where: The Beaches Just Beyond Sanctuary



Dawn kissed the horizon, and sent a blush across the sky's rosy cheeks. The warm pallette of colors above was misleading, however. Autumn had honed the morning air to a sharp chill. The cold snap had frosted vegetation and earth alike, turning the world into a silvery, gleaming landscape. Unfortunately, the magic of the frosted landscape was lost on Ishara. All she saw before her was the feather of her breath as it twisted from her lips, the rhythm of her breathing harsh and yet steady as she ran. The sand slipped beneath her bare feet and reminded her strongly of home. It called to her, this sensation of the earth sliding beneath her every step, shifting and ever changing. It was moments like these during which the deserts of home felt close to her heart.

She'd been running since just before dawn. Originally, it was a habit she had gleaned from Serrif in the midst of all their training together. They'd often met out on the beach and loped alongside one another, their steps matching as they raced along the shoreline. The silence that stretched between them as the sun peeked over the horizon was often as balming on Ishara's soul as meditation.

Lately, however, her morning sprints along the beach had become anything but balming. Instead, they'd turned into a new way of channeling her excess anxiety and distress. And, always during the most unlikely time of pre-dawn, for she was determined not to encounter Serrif then. She desperately needed the solitude of this run, now. And the harder she ran, the easier it was not to think of him ,either...

You're avoiding him. She accused herself sternly, and unconsciously her pace increased, the tempo of her steps pounding faster across the sand. A grim sort of reluctance assailed her every nerve as she admitted this to herself. Of course I'm avoiding him. The last thing I want to see is-- Ishara sighed and shook her head, scowling into the stiff, salty wind that kicked sea spray off the waves as they tumbled into shore. Thoughts of Gianne in Serrif's company, their easy friendship with one another, the way his hand reached out to...

With an exasperated growl, Ishara cursed her detailed imagination and kicked up the pace, feeling the burn in the muscles of her thighs as she picked her feet up higher and kicked herself forward harder. The sand flew from beneath her feet in a wet spray. The salty air stung her eyes, and she felt the cooling effect of tears as they were pulled across her cheeks. Gianne would be good for him. This was the hardest thing of all to admit to herself, because the bitter thought stung her throat. No, it was her lungs...her lungs were on fire.

Finally she could not sprint another step. Her reserves diminished, Ishara sank to her knees in the damp sand, rocking with the rhythm of her diaphragm as it contracted desperately for air. For several minutes, all she could do was breathe, and gradually the ragged gasping slowed into something resembling normalcy. Vaguely, Ishara recognized the negative effects this was having on her body. She knew better than to stop after such a run. But she'd left herself with nothing left to walk out and recover with...Even now, her legs trembled in protest when she considered getting up, and Ishara resigned herself to sitting there for the time being.

I care about him. That is all. Yes, this was it! Of course. She 'cared' about him, his well-being, his health, his sound mind and body...Curses on his sound body! her temper threw back, and her rebelious mind conjured the image of Gianne turning her appreciative smile on Serrif. This further stirred the couldron of mixed emotions brewing in Ishara's chest. This was all so difficult to swallow...for she really liked Gianne. Genuinely. She could not develop a single excuse to dislike her...

Except...!

Except for her minor involvement with Serrif. Which wasn't really fair to Gianne, now, was it? After all, they lived at the same place. Of course they are going to be spending time together. With a sigh, Ishara subjected herself to another round of Why should it even petching matter?!

The cold air tugged at Ishara's dark hair, stung her cheeks, and crept cruelly beneath her navy cotton tunic and pants, which was now flecked in sand and sea spray...It was the motion of running that kept Ishara reasonably warm during her morning routine. A wind like this swirling about her in such a stagnant state brought the cold down to her very bones, and as she began to tremble Ishara cursed the fool she had been and lurched unsteadily to her feet...She had to warm up. Though his attendence had been patchy as of late, Serrif could still choose to attend their usual training session. She did not wish to be caught frozen to the sand. Despite her reluctance to see him, Ishara found herself hopeful that Serrif would show. If there was ever a day she needed to hit something...today was that day.