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belle of the brawl
Feb. 11th, 2013 02:58 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
xiii_legionFirst things first: nothing will ever compare to the feel of going up against a real opponent, the feel of his fists smacking into another man's face, the taste of blood in his mouth as perpetually battered teeth loosen again with a ringing blow. That being said, cumbersome though these gloves are, he likes working up a good rhythm against the 'bag', venting frustrations and landing punch after punch on a target that won't fall over when he's just getting warmed up.
Proserpina had been the one to introduce him to this 'boxing' thing - on one of his first days at the palace the goddess had all but read his mind, leading him to one of the strange mirrored rooms with oddly springy floors and showing him around the equipment. Eager to please her, he hadn't even complained much when she pointed out that the gods frowned upon the wholesale slaughter of other residents, so all endeavours would have to be blunted and gloved (and yet without providing any chickens, sheep or doves they were making it seriously hard for a man to make a decent sacrifice). She had been suitably impressed with his showing, and so he made it a priority to come 'work out' every day - well, every day he wasn't too hung over or otherwise indisposed. So, most days.
Today they're up on the second floor of the palace, where the room is bigger and there's a roped-off area the goddess calls a 'ring', which seems to be something like a tiny arena for two men to fight in. He's eyeing it hopefully, but he knows better than to ask the goddess to join him there. Just like he knows better than to ask her to join him in his bed, though the urge is damn hard to fight, most nights. With such distracting thoughts in his head it's no surprise when he misses the bag, swinging himself round with the force of the blow until he's facing the other way entirely, a sheepish look on his face. Get a hold of yourself man. Concentrate!
---
The sparring rooms are easily the place Mystique clocks the most time outside of her bedroom, and she sure as hell has more fun in them. Most of the time, anyway-- watching Pullo go to town on that sandbag in all his big brutish glory is almost painful; she understands innately that as long as she's playing goddess, there are certain activities she really happens to enjoy that are verboten, and beating the tar out of her disciple (or worse, her disciple figuring out he can beat the tar out of her) is one of them. So she's just a spectator today, occupying three of the audience seats like a chaise lounge and watching Pullo through the lens of her communicator's camera, because all of this is precious and so very baby's first boxing match, giving him a firm thumbs up the first time he almost knocks the bag off the chain.
"Atta boy," she calls, pleased, entertained, but deeply pining for more first-hand violence. Just then, she hears footsteps behind her, and from the look on Pullo's face, he's as enthusiastic as she is at the prospect of a real skirmish.
[Tag one or both - be spectator or contender! The choice... is yours!]
Proserpina had been the one to introduce him to this 'boxing' thing - on one of his first days at the palace the goddess had all but read his mind, leading him to one of the strange mirrored rooms with oddly springy floors and showing him around the equipment. Eager to please her, he hadn't even complained much when she pointed out that the gods frowned upon the wholesale slaughter of other residents, so all endeavours would have to be blunted and gloved (and yet without providing any chickens, sheep or doves they were making it seriously hard for a man to make a decent sacrifice). She had been suitably impressed with his showing, and so he made it a priority to come 'work out' every day - well, every day he wasn't too hung over or otherwise indisposed. So, most days.
Today they're up on the second floor of the palace, where the room is bigger and there's a roped-off area the goddess calls a 'ring', which seems to be something like a tiny arena for two men to fight in. He's eyeing it hopefully, but he knows better than to ask the goddess to join him there. Just like he knows better than to ask her to join him in his bed, though the urge is damn hard to fight, most nights. With such distracting thoughts in his head it's no surprise when he misses the bag, swinging himself round with the force of the blow until he's facing the other way entirely, a sheepish look on his face. Get a hold of yourself man. Concentrate!
---
The sparring rooms are easily the place Mystique clocks the most time outside of her bedroom, and she sure as hell has more fun in them. Most of the time, anyway-- watching Pullo go to town on that sandbag in all his big brutish glory is almost painful; she understands innately that as long as she's playing goddess, there are certain activities she really happens to enjoy that are verboten, and beating the tar out of her disciple (or worse, her disciple figuring out he can beat the tar out of her) is one of them. So she's just a spectator today, occupying three of the audience seats like a chaise lounge and watching Pullo through the lens of her communicator's camera, because all of this is precious and so very baby's first boxing match, giving him a firm thumbs up the first time he almost knocks the bag off the chain.
"Atta boy," she calls, pleased, entertained, but deeply pining for more first-hand violence. Just then, she hears footsteps behind her, and from the look on Pullo's face, he's as enthusiastic as she is at the prospect of a real skirmish.
[Tag one or both - be spectator or contender! The choice... is yours!]