A Scarred Titan
The palm dummy splintered under an assault of fists, kicks, elbows and knees as the titan-blood woman went through a variety of strikes, forms and combinations, wholly focused, her facial expression a strange mixture of pain and relief. Such was the morning ritual of Belle Gull, fist-fighting with some of her personal demons. The Tantur woman, a true titan, towering over 8 feet in height, moved through another combination with the fencing dummy, seeming unbothered from striking the solid palm wood with her flesh and bone. A swift left hook, her right arm blocking the wooden peg meant for avoidance training, though she merely pinned it, using her raw strength to lift the dummy off the rotational base it was attached to. Her knee came up, striking what would have been gut or groin level, cracking some of the wood further, as her left hand came up, grasping the post up where the throat would have been, as she shifted her right hand to grip further up the peg, where in her mind a wrist or forearm would have been. Lifting the dummy clear, she pivoted, slamming it down onto the cobblestone floor on what would have been its skull, splintering the top of the target brutally. She let out a sigh, releasing her tension and closing the door on the dark memories of her past affiliations and the memories of a dead friend. It was another part of her past she could not fully remove but could at least move on from.
She then moved to where she'd left her soft brown and blue button up vest. It was a deep oak color, with silver buttons and sky blue trim, and she put it back on over her simple sandy sleeveless tunic, buttoning it up, but leaving the top two unbuttoned for comfort. Her knuckles and feet showed all the signs of a fist-fighter, for that was what she was, a brawler of sorts. A brawler turned mercenary, a most unusual trait. She moved her head from one side to the other, tossing a bit of her mossy green hair out of her face. Her face was scarred, her nose kinked to the left and splayed a little bit, having obviously been broken but never set properly. She had a friendly smile, though two of her teeth were clearly fake, being made of silver, and another two or three were crooked or out of line, obviously from punches to the face. Her face showed many scars; on her lips, above her eyes, on her cheeks and jaw, a clear indication of her willingness to fight. Her arms and hands were equally as scarred as well.
Belle moved to the back corner of the training room, seeing a couple other of her fellow Sickles coming down for their morning routines. She was often the earliest riser, up even before the sun, but such was her nature. She always preferred to get her workout in whilst the cool of the night was still lingering, but fading, increasing the tempo of her activities with the rising temperature. She hadn't toweled all the way off, clearly somewhat unconcerned, but she did do so with her face and forearms, as well as under her arms, using the mango and honey infused water the guild provided, dabbing some around her neck and under her arms, more as a courtesy for those she would be breaking her fast with than anything else. Once this was done, she took a seat on one of the benches, taking up the thin cream colored silk wrap she wore over her left arm to cover the scarred and slashed brand, the removal of her past. She wrapped it slowly, and let her mind wander back a little, just a bit, letting herself process but a memory or two of her past with post workout and fight clarity, the time she felt most able to deal with such things.
She remembered the day Giselle had come to her, clearly worried about something. Giselle had explained to her that their boss at the time, Robert Timbers, had ordered her to throw her next fight. If she did, he claimed she'd be rich. The only problem was, Giselle knew her next opponent, a man known as Anders the Hammer, was well known for crippling his opposition before letting them fall for the count when in the sand circle. She did not know how she could throw the fight safely, and didn't trust Timbers to mean 'never have a worry for the rest of your life' rich, especially since Giselle had a toddler to care for, a gift from her prostitution days, who's father she didn't know.
Belle sighed, remembering how talented Giselle had been. The woman had only been in the sand circles for a year at that point, but in that time had gone eleven and zero, and won every fight convincingly. Belle white knuckled a bit, fighting back tears as she fought with the memory. She'd told Giselle to simply win the fight, knowing she was more than capable, given she had been privy to Giselle's secret. Giselle had been born with the Touch, having a talent for inflicting brain fog, confusion and crippling indecision upon people. Anders was big, a tantur like her, whereas Giselle was but a human woman in her late thirties. But though Anders was big, tough and strong, he was not fast, nor was he known as a man of great discipline or mental fortitude, relying much less on training and skill and more on the sheer bulk and natural strength to break opponents. To this day Belle believed it was why Timbers had never been willing to let her fight the man. Deep down Timbers knew she'd have cleaned the sand circle with him.
Belle had given that advice from a position of privilege, a lesson she learned the hard way. For she had refused to throw fights in the past, and though Timbers had been angry, he'd never done much to her, besides with-hold part of the purse, or maybe order her to submit to a few lashes across her back, scars she bore proudly. She didn't always refuse of course, but a few times he'd asked her to throw fights against opponents where the margins for betting were small, the difference in profit small, the fighters seen as equals, and she simply could not. She was a competitor, despite her ties at the time to the Blood Oak Syndicate, the criminal group in the city of Venix she'd grown up running with. She had tossed all three of her fights against really lesser opponents, selling them convincingly, at different times to simply help insure better moneymaking odds for a big bout she would have a week or two later. However her status as the top of the pile, the money-maker, the quasi untouchable crown jewel of Timbers 'sponsored' fighters, well it had hidden potential consequences from her. She hadn't understood the possible outcomes of the advice she gave....
Not until she was left holding her best friend's broken and ravaged body. She still did not know why Giselle winning that fight, after five turns of the glass and a brutal back and forth, bothered him so. As far as she had heard the purses that cleared from that fight were substantial, and Timbers' bookies had made a great deal of coin off all those who'd bet on Anders, a reasonable bet to be sure, if you didn't know about Giselle's unique abilities. Yet furious he had been, so much so that he'd had three of his enforcers tie her up, break both her ankles and wrists, and then beat her to death. According to the first of them Belle had killed, Timbers had ordered them "To beat her like a pinata. I want sweetmeats to pop out of the fat bitch."
Belle allowed herself a few silent tears, as she processed the image of her friend's broken and battered body. They'd hit her everywhere, likely even after she'd lost consciousness. Her own child would not have recognized her, though they'd slit his throat too, much to Belle's horror and disgust. It took Belle a few moments to collect herself, as she sat with that image, the two bodies, and the abject horror of it, breathing deeply, focusing, coming to terms with it all. She had a lot of working through to still do, even though it had been months since she'd left Venix and her home country of Kang-Chorath and ended up in northern Susma, more than a thousand miles away. But every day she was healing a little more, every day she was working through the memories and the sorrow a little more.
After a few minutes of focusing, processing, she let the memory fade, bringing her focus back to her present, feeling her stomach grumbling. She rose quietly, moving to the southern side of the training hall, out the door and into the sun, making for the largest of the four buildings, the Commons, to join some of her fellow Sickles in breaking their fast.
She then moved to where she'd left her soft brown and blue button up vest. It was a deep oak color, with silver buttons and sky blue trim, and she put it back on over her simple sandy sleeveless tunic, buttoning it up, but leaving the top two unbuttoned for comfort. Her knuckles and feet showed all the signs of a fist-fighter, for that was what she was, a brawler of sorts. A brawler turned mercenary, a most unusual trait. She moved her head from one side to the other, tossing a bit of her mossy green hair out of her face. Her face was scarred, her nose kinked to the left and splayed a little bit, having obviously been broken but never set properly. She had a friendly smile, though two of her teeth were clearly fake, being made of silver, and another two or three were crooked or out of line, obviously from punches to the face. Her face showed many scars; on her lips, above her eyes, on her cheeks and jaw, a clear indication of her willingness to fight. Her arms and hands were equally as scarred as well.
Belle moved to the back corner of the training room, seeing a couple other of her fellow Sickles coming down for their morning routines. She was often the earliest riser, up even before the sun, but such was her nature. She always preferred to get her workout in whilst the cool of the night was still lingering, but fading, increasing the tempo of her activities with the rising temperature. She hadn't toweled all the way off, clearly somewhat unconcerned, but she did do so with her face and forearms, as well as under her arms, using the mango and honey infused water the guild provided, dabbing some around her neck and under her arms, more as a courtesy for those she would be breaking her fast with than anything else. Once this was done, she took a seat on one of the benches, taking up the thin cream colored silk wrap she wore over her left arm to cover the scarred and slashed brand, the removal of her past. She wrapped it slowly, and let her mind wander back a little, just a bit, letting herself process but a memory or two of her past with post workout and fight clarity, the time she felt most able to deal with such things.
She remembered the day Giselle had come to her, clearly worried about something. Giselle had explained to her that their boss at the time, Robert Timbers, had ordered her to throw her next fight. If she did, he claimed she'd be rich. The only problem was, Giselle knew her next opponent, a man known as Anders the Hammer, was well known for crippling his opposition before letting them fall for the count when in the sand circle. She did not know how she could throw the fight safely, and didn't trust Timbers to mean 'never have a worry for the rest of your life' rich, especially since Giselle had a toddler to care for, a gift from her prostitution days, who's father she didn't know.
Belle sighed, remembering how talented Giselle had been. The woman had only been in the sand circles for a year at that point, but in that time had gone eleven and zero, and won every fight convincingly. Belle white knuckled a bit, fighting back tears as she fought with the memory. She'd told Giselle to simply win the fight, knowing she was more than capable, given she had been privy to Giselle's secret. Giselle had been born with the Touch, having a talent for inflicting brain fog, confusion and crippling indecision upon people. Anders was big, a tantur like her, whereas Giselle was but a human woman in her late thirties. But though Anders was big, tough and strong, he was not fast, nor was he known as a man of great discipline or mental fortitude, relying much less on training and skill and more on the sheer bulk and natural strength to break opponents. To this day Belle believed it was why Timbers had never been willing to let her fight the man. Deep down Timbers knew she'd have cleaned the sand circle with him.
Belle had given that advice from a position of privilege, a lesson she learned the hard way. For she had refused to throw fights in the past, and though Timbers had been angry, he'd never done much to her, besides with-hold part of the purse, or maybe order her to submit to a few lashes across her back, scars she bore proudly. She didn't always refuse of course, but a few times he'd asked her to throw fights against opponents where the margins for betting were small, the difference in profit small, the fighters seen as equals, and she simply could not. She was a competitor, despite her ties at the time to the Blood Oak Syndicate, the criminal group in the city of Venix she'd grown up running with. She had tossed all three of her fights against really lesser opponents, selling them convincingly, at different times to simply help insure better moneymaking odds for a big bout she would have a week or two later. However her status as the top of the pile, the money-maker, the quasi untouchable crown jewel of Timbers 'sponsored' fighters, well it had hidden potential consequences from her. She hadn't understood the possible outcomes of the advice she gave....
Not until she was left holding her best friend's broken and ravaged body. She still did not know why Giselle winning that fight, after five turns of the glass and a brutal back and forth, bothered him so. As far as she had heard the purses that cleared from that fight were substantial, and Timbers' bookies had made a great deal of coin off all those who'd bet on Anders, a reasonable bet to be sure, if you didn't know about Giselle's unique abilities. Yet furious he had been, so much so that he'd had three of his enforcers tie her up, break both her ankles and wrists, and then beat her to death. According to the first of them Belle had killed, Timbers had ordered them "To beat her like a pinata. I want sweetmeats to pop out of the fat bitch."
Belle allowed herself a few silent tears, as she processed the image of her friend's broken and battered body. They'd hit her everywhere, likely even after she'd lost consciousness. Her own child would not have recognized her, though they'd slit his throat too, much to Belle's horror and disgust. It took Belle a few moments to collect herself, as she sat with that image, the two bodies, and the abject horror of it, breathing deeply, focusing, coming to terms with it all. She had a lot of working through to still do, even though it had been months since she'd left Venix and her home country of Kang-Chorath and ended up in northern Susma, more than a thousand miles away. But every day she was healing a little more, every day she was working through the memories and the sorrow a little more.
After a few minutes of focusing, processing, she let the memory fade, bringing her focus back to her present, feeling her stomach grumbling. She rose quietly, moving to the southern side of the training hall, out the door and into the sun, making for the largest of the four buildings, the Commons, to join some of her fellow Sickles in breaking their fast.
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