Winter-45th-515 AV
She bit back tears as she lunged forward, the tip of her spear wibbling through the air as clumsy arms attempted to weild it. Even an imaginary enemy could dodge such an attack, it was no wonder she had been injured, no wonder Shahar had been lost.
She gritted her teeth, the small space behind the pavilion already trampled by her heavy steps. She brought her spear back up, a barrier between her and invisible foes. She checked her grip, her fore hand turned upwards, her back nearly the opposite, it was nearly all she knew, the brief lesons with Arundel having given her very little to go on, but enough to start. She couldn't stop the tears as she worked, her steps revealing the mud that hadn't quite dried from the rain.
She moved, thrusting the spear forward aiming for points she new as weakneses from her work with a dagger. Her attack felt weak, the jabbing motion seeming to have no power as she did it. She was mising too much information.
She snaled at the imaginary pirates, using the grip she had on the spear to swing it up around her head to gain strength as it arced around and down towards the head of her opponent. It took all the strength in her arms to stop the spear as it decended, the strange stretch and angle working unfamiliar muscles. Her spear tip dropped, jumping back into position as she adjusted.
She screamed again, a sound of anger and sorrow, the frustration of having such little ability to defend not only herself but her loved ones only adding to the strain she already felt. She swung the spear again, repeating the motion unti her arms began to ache, but she kept the determination in each movement careful even in her anger to keep the tip in the correct spot after each swing.
Fighting was one thing that still made sense. One more motion she could fall into to forget the past and focus on the moment. She tensed her core, keeping the muscles there tight as she moved, each swing moving her forward a step, her body forcing weight into the spear's attack.
Tight core, straight back, she swung the spear until her breath came in pants and her legs grew weak from the imposed squat of the lunging attack.
She fell into the dirt, limbs shaking with effort, hands crying out as the rough wood opened some of the deeper wounds that has yet to heal. The puncture in her arm ached, her legs added all sorts of protests of their own. She gasped for breath, waiting for the aches to fade back behind the pain of her grief.
