There's a grace to grappling, she thinks. Skill required that you might not find throwing punches. Insight lost in closed fists. Burning hips and knees. Fever grabs her wrist and by doing so apportions apart of herself; loses and gains; opens herself to being grabbed, but could just as easily do the grabbing. That's the risk in hand to hand combat.
She could dance like this all day— locked an arms length away, circling and making no progress— but she won't. Her tastes are aggressive. Her eyes are set on the woman across the mat.
She'll need to get in close.
Carolina's palm drops from nape to shoulder blade. Her grip is bruising. She leads with her head and oppresses the distance that might have been used to wrench away from her. Let's Fever keep the wrist— she doesn't need it.
(And tucked beneath skin and tendon, a racing heartbeat.)
Being at a disadvantage from the start makes one swallow their pride. It stings, but it's a stinging Fever's used to at this point. She didn't set her mind to understanding a sword by refusing to recognize when she's being overtaken, when she needs to move. Innately, she wants to push back, and crushes the spark in her mind that would summon electricity to her skin and fight on her behalf.
She's too close now, the distance that could have been utilized to wriggle free quickly vanished. So she has to make a new plan. And the challenge of it is enough to sink her teeth in.
Free hand to elbow, fingertips pressing in at the soft interior of the joint, trying to force Carolina's arm to bend and let go, to move away from her so that there's more of a gap. But the other arm has to be kept off of her too - she knows it will not be idle, and her grip on Carolina's wrist shifts, trying to force it into flexion to keep it occupied.
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There's a grace to grappling, she thinks. Skill required that you might not find throwing punches. Insight lost in closed fists. Burning hips and knees. Fever grabs her wrist and by doing so apportions apart of herself; loses and gains; opens herself to being grabbed, but could just as easily do the grabbing. That's the risk in hand to hand combat.
She could dance like this all day— locked an arms length away, circling and making no progress— but she won't. Her tastes are aggressive. Her eyes are set on the woman across the mat.
She'll need to get in close.
Carolina's palm drops from nape to shoulder blade. Her grip is bruising. She leads with her head and oppresses the distance that might have been used to wrench away from her. Let's Fever keep the wrist— she doesn't need it.
(And tucked beneath skin and tendon, a racing heartbeat.)
meanwhile back on the island
She's too close now, the distance that could have been utilized to wriggle free quickly vanished. So she has to make a new plan. And the challenge of it is enough to sink her teeth in.
Free hand to elbow, fingertips pressing in at the soft interior of the joint, trying to force Carolina's arm to bend and let go, to move away from her so that there's more of a gap. But the other arm has to be kept off of her too - she knows it will not be idle, and her grip on Carolina's wrist shifts, trying to force it into flexion to keep it occupied.