57th Zi'da, 723
.
His mind was dead set on vengeance. Revenge filled the capsule that contained his emotions to the very brim. He was enraged, yet completely at peace, if that made any sense what with being a paradox. He knew what he needed to do and had planned everything out. The man was going to learn how to fight. Whilst revenge was on the precipice of his intention, he simply (and strongly) wanted to defend himself so that such a night as of last would never happen again.
His hair was ratty, worn and greasy looking. His were eyes dark, the bags that rested underneath them heavy and ugly. His entire body ached as he walked. He still had that sad black shadow tinting his left eye, something he would never forget even as it healed. There was still justice to be had and whilst he couldn’t obtain it in the moment, he could construct himself into the perfect creature that was able to render it.
He continued to walk, eyes never wavering from the invisible line he used to place each of his feet on. He didn't traipse, he didn't jog, he simply casually strode with justified purpose.
No thoughts collided against any other inside his mind. He knew what he was going to do and he knew how he was going to do it. The young man had brought money and he was able to bargain somewhat from the time he asked for a discount on blueberries. Okay, maybe blueberries and assistance with unarmed combat training fell on two sides of the spectrum but still...
The young man was going to learn how to fight. He wanted to acquire the knowledge on how to react to being taken off guard. He had dabbled puerilely in his backyard and living room, but hadn’t actually attributed much dedication to the concept of personal safeguard. Maybe it was the space, the time or the motivation, he didn't know.
What he did know, however, was that he didn't want to be taken advantage of any longer. The man was ready to be in control of how his body remediated his fragile existence. Kotton wanted to not only protect himself but those he loved- those that necessitated protection.
With a face as stoic and hard as rock, he proceeded to broaden his knowledge in the arts of self defense.
----
He woke up not to the sound of birds like many would, but to the annoying brightness of a sun that couldn't understand its radiance. He couldn’t recall how he wound up in his bed, for his memory fled when it was needed most. It didn’t bother him a whole lot, though. It was often this way. It wasn’t like his past was creeping up on him, malevolent claws extended, grimaces wider than ever.
He made sure he was able to move. This was his first fear- not being able to move, alternatively becoming paralyzed. The first question that popped into his head echoed against the resounding walls in his brain: what happened last night? Oh, such a commonality in his alcoholic life.
Kotton felt dirty, like he was a perversion of a woman. Images of prostitutes trampled throughout his mind, rejecting anything positive or optimistic in their wake. Eventually, though, his memories were no longer fleeting. Instead, they retreated back into his brain, stunning his heart with the command to skip a beat.
Had he tried to seduce a woman? No, that wasn’t like him. It was very much him to stop a perverted man from interacting too strongly with a woman instead. The end result? A fist hammering directly into his face- jaw, nose and everything cartilaginous in between.
Kotton touched his face with tender fingers and quickly retracted them when a stinging sensation spread across his cheeks. He squinted, tears igniting themselves towards his waterline. They readied themselves to flow over the barrier, but the half-blood resisted with all too many blinks.
He wouldn’t dare look at how bad his injury was and chose to pretend like nothing had ever happened instead. No mirror would pan in his direction. Sitting up, he went to grab his coat when deep brown eyes met his. They were wide and glistening, concern bubbling up within them the threat to spill out in the form of salty drops all too obvious.
Imogen held an expression of worry he had never before come across.
Kotton sighed and brushed his hair behind his ears, thus, revealing even more damaged skin. Bruises coated his face like a mask meant to heal clogged pores. His nose must have looked deformed, distorted, bloody and broken even; his lip must have been slit, cut, maybe even ripped in two or more places. But he offered was a soft sigh, mind still reminisce of a past he could not forget.
Finally he came clean, biting his lip before accepting the pain that shot across the top of his mouth and boy did it reverberate 'cross his tongue and into the cavities of his teeth.
“I got myself into some twouble,” he admitted to his companion. He fumbled at picking at the dead skin of his fingers. They too were a little damaged. But he was unable to remember when he had lost a nail or why one was so bloody. That was a plus, right?
“Last night I went out. I was walking, detewmined to enjoy myself. You see, I wanted to have a pewsonal night, one whewe I could feel young again. I wanted to have a few dwinks...”
As Kotton told his story, he began to feel foolish. His entire tale- all of it- was diluted and he wasn’t about to amuse himself or someone else with the utmost fallible. He was a man of truth and justice- no matter how ridiculous it may have seemed.
Apparently, talking to his cat was cathartic or else he would have stopped his ramblings a long time ago. “I saw a bonfiwe off in the distance. I had hewrd of the pawties happening around this time. So I went. It wasn’t until I met this man that things began to tuwn for the wowse.”
Imogen mewed and pounced forward until her soft, feline body was just underneath him. Kotton couldn’t not keep himself from scratching the tender spot behind her ears. “I am going to this place called the Decked Halls to twy to be bettew at self defense,” he admitted after spending a moment tending to his pet cat.
And so here he was, his mind set maybe not on vengeance or revenge, emotions probably heightened with aggravation and distaste, but with the purpose of becoming more adept at learning how to defend himself against those brazen enough to counter the just and thus offend the partisan culprits.
Within less than an hour he had wound himself through town, passing random strangers, lost newcomers and busy locals, all with the desire of education at the forefront of his perpetually yearning mind. Kotton had ventured down pathway after pathway, street after street, before locating the easily amiss advertisement of the Decked Halls. Perhaps it wasn’t something that was often talked about and more a passage of secretive admission.
Regardless, he had heard about it from various whispers and gossiping mouths. He also knew that it was off-season for the fighting crew. Cylus and Ashan were the common seasons, and the young man hoped with all his strength that they would be accepting of him in the now.
As he walked closer, he noticed the building that held the training grounds underneath. As he descended the stairs into the main lobby, it was apparent the multiple dummies of different sizes that littered the floor. Intimidating face glowered at him, somehow daring him to move in the wrong direction.
In a day of his memory, Kotton could recall having read the lips of passersby, claiming membership to the club that was delegated by an individual’s ability to fight ten other club members. The young man wasn’t sure he was able to do that- he just wanted to learn some basic techniques of unarmed combat.
He bit his lip and pondered. Maybe he was in the wrong place. Doubt crept in, sending him backtracking up the stairs. Fear latched itself onto his inability to perform well against an entourage of trained men.
Once he had emerged out from the barracks of a suicide club, a middle aged man approached him with a contemptuous expression.
“Too much for you?” he asked almost mockingly.
Kotton didn't care for his jest. “I have no plans to fight ten men,” he announced, stifling a gasp that had been delayed by dread.
“Perfectly understandable.” The man’s approach changed drastically. He folded his hands and peered up at Kotton with intrigue. “I teach those in the interim.”
“Yes,” Kotton pleaded without thought.
The man smiled, offering the name of ‘Stanz’. “Step over here for a second,” he requested, brandishing his arms in a wide girth.
Kotton obliged as instructed.
Stanz didn’t walk far before facing Kotton again. He held out his hand, smile dropping for a split second. Kotton knew exactly what he wanted. He was demanding penance in exchange for his teaching and Kotton wasn’t against giving him what he wanted.
“Tell me,” Stanz began, his breath smelling like rubbish, or horse feces.
“Tell you what?” he asked, perplexed.
“Tell me what you wish to learn and I shall try my best to teach you,” he said laconically, placing his hand on his hip, patience draining from his disposition.
“I wish to leawn the ways of unawmed combat, so that I can protect myself and othews. You know how?”
Kotton felt overwhelmed with effrontery. Of course he knew how to fight, for why else would he be working outside the grounds of a respected establishment of combat?
Something sinister was hidden in the depths of his pupils. It was revolting and disgusting, screaming for release. It wanted to be drained in thick waves of dark cruelty. It was festering inside him, feeding on the only things that were still holding him together, keeping him sane.
“Why do you seek this information?”
Kotton was drawn to the random dummy Stanz pulled out from behind him. It stared at him without eyes, without a face.
“I was in a fight,” he admitted, refraining from looking to the dead skin of his fingers for comfort.
“Then I suggest you show me how you fight,” Stanz declared, taking a step to the side with the nonverbal announcement of the dummy standing directly behind him.
Kotton paused for a millisecond before catapulting himself towards the dummy, knuckles ablaze with earnest.
“That’s what you call a punch?” Stanz drawled, stifling a laugh that managed not be stifled at all. Kotton’s face heated up; he felt like a despondent wench.
He was acting foolish. Of course he knew how to punch. He had some knowledge in the areas of unarmed combat and knew what the basic techniques were and how to use them to his advantage. So why was he acting like such a newcomer? He was better than this, wasn’t he?
“You’we wight,” Kotton said with apology. He straightened himself and went back to a basic stance.
He placed his right foot in front and his left foot in back. He bent his right knee and straightened his back leg. He placed his left hand, curled tightly into a fist, on his waist line so that it was facing upwards like he had seen someone do before. Then he let it fly off his belt and into the dummy.
It wasn’t as soft as he had expected, but it was a punch nonetheless. It hurt his hand a little bit as he hit it, but nothing like the feeling of being slammed in the face.
“Not bad,” said his instructor.
“You have the proper form down, but it’s basic. I will teach you a few more advanced techniques. They will be easy enough for a novice to do as what I assumed you were.”
Kotton nodded bashfully.
“Watch me,” Stanz instructed, demonstrating a new stance.
He applied more pressure to his left foot which was placed behind his right. He was leaning backwards, his front knee bent at a ninety degree angle. He held up his hands so that they were open, his fingers squeezing together to prevent any breakage.
Kotton copied his movements, watched him out of the corner of his eye and perform the same technique as he witnessed. He placed his left foot backward, because his left was more dominant than his right, and put his right In front, making sure to bend it slightly so that it matched Stanz’s.
He put his hands up but forgot to open them. He held them as fists, a scowl already tainting his usually elated mood.
“No,” Stanz gruffed, coming over to adjust his pupil’s position. He forced Kotton’s back leg to part from his front a little. His stance was widened and ensured to be corrected via his hands. He opened his fists so that his palms were parallel to his body.
“This is so you can have full range of motion. If you need to close them, you can close them, but if you need to slap someone or grab something, they are open for you to do so.”
It was incredible how much Kotton understood what he was saying. Having been only able to formulate sense from lip formation, he was doing extremely well.
"But I also want you to keep your thumb out of your hand hold. If you keep it folded under your fingers, you'll surely break it. So don't."
Kotton took a second to deliberation, nodding his head as though in sync with a melodic beat.
“Now I want you to kick.”
“Kick?”
“I want you to kick that dummy as hard as you can and as high as you can without losing your balance. If you cannot maintain your balance on one leg, then you need to practice until you can.”
Kotton’s eyes grew wide. he knew something about balance and he most certainly didn’t want to practice on having balance alone. Hastily and with an eye targeted on the dummy, he put more pressure on his back foot and raised his front.
He stretched out his leg until it almost made a snapping sound from the way his pants struck his flesh. The ball of his foot made contact with the dummy, a solid sound reverberating up his calf.
“That was alright,” Stanz acknowledged with mild sincerity. “I think you have this technique down.”
“What is this technique?” Kotton questioned.
“I like to call the horse stance and sidekick,” Stanz avowed, face brilliantly beaming with brilliance, smile pinned to his lips.
“I’d like to learn more,” Kotton pressed.
“Another time,” Stanz decided. “So long as I get my money.”
His hair was ratty, worn and greasy looking. His were eyes dark, the bags that rested underneath them heavy and ugly. His entire body ached as he walked. He still had that sad black shadow tinting his left eye, something he would never forget even as it healed. There was still justice to be had and whilst he couldn’t obtain it in the moment, he could construct himself into the perfect creature that was able to render it.
He continued to walk, eyes never wavering from the invisible line he used to place each of his feet on. He didn't traipse, he didn't jog, he simply casually strode with justified purpose.
No thoughts collided against any other inside his mind. He knew what he was going to do and he knew how he was going to do it. The young man had brought money and he was able to bargain somewhat from the time he asked for a discount on blueberries. Okay, maybe blueberries and assistance with unarmed combat training fell on two sides of the spectrum but still...
The young man was going to learn how to fight. He wanted to acquire the knowledge on how to react to being taken off guard. He had dabbled puerilely in his backyard and living room, but hadn’t actually attributed much dedication to the concept of personal safeguard. Maybe it was the space, the time or the motivation, he didn't know.
What he did know, however, was that he didn't want to be taken advantage of any longer. The man was ready to be in control of how his body remediated his fragile existence. Kotton wanted to not only protect himself but those he loved- those that necessitated protection.
With a face as stoic and hard as rock, he proceeded to broaden his knowledge in the arts of self defense.
----
He woke up not to the sound of birds like many would, but to the annoying brightness of a sun that couldn't understand its radiance. He couldn’t recall how he wound up in his bed, for his memory fled when it was needed most. It didn’t bother him a whole lot, though. It was often this way. It wasn’t like his past was creeping up on him, malevolent claws extended, grimaces wider than ever.
He made sure he was able to move. This was his first fear- not being able to move, alternatively becoming paralyzed. The first question that popped into his head echoed against the resounding walls in his brain: what happened last night? Oh, such a commonality in his alcoholic life.
Kotton felt dirty, like he was a perversion of a woman. Images of prostitutes trampled throughout his mind, rejecting anything positive or optimistic in their wake. Eventually, though, his memories were no longer fleeting. Instead, they retreated back into his brain, stunning his heart with the command to skip a beat.
Had he tried to seduce a woman? No, that wasn’t like him. It was very much him to stop a perverted man from interacting too strongly with a woman instead. The end result? A fist hammering directly into his face- jaw, nose and everything cartilaginous in between.
Kotton touched his face with tender fingers and quickly retracted them when a stinging sensation spread across his cheeks. He squinted, tears igniting themselves towards his waterline. They readied themselves to flow over the barrier, but the half-blood resisted with all too many blinks.
He wouldn’t dare look at how bad his injury was and chose to pretend like nothing had ever happened instead. No mirror would pan in his direction. Sitting up, he went to grab his coat when deep brown eyes met his. They were wide and glistening, concern bubbling up within them the threat to spill out in the form of salty drops all too obvious.
Imogen held an expression of worry he had never before come across.
Kotton sighed and brushed his hair behind his ears, thus, revealing even more damaged skin. Bruises coated his face like a mask meant to heal clogged pores. His nose must have looked deformed, distorted, bloody and broken even; his lip must have been slit, cut, maybe even ripped in two or more places. But he offered was a soft sigh, mind still reminisce of a past he could not forget.
Finally he came clean, biting his lip before accepting the pain that shot across the top of his mouth and boy did it reverberate 'cross his tongue and into the cavities of his teeth.
“I got myself into some twouble,” he admitted to his companion. He fumbled at picking at the dead skin of his fingers. They too were a little damaged. But he was unable to remember when he had lost a nail or why one was so bloody. That was a plus, right?
“Last night I went out. I was walking, detewmined to enjoy myself. You see, I wanted to have a pewsonal night, one whewe I could feel young again. I wanted to have a few dwinks...”
As Kotton told his story, he began to feel foolish. His entire tale- all of it- was diluted and he wasn’t about to amuse himself or someone else with the utmost fallible. He was a man of truth and justice- no matter how ridiculous it may have seemed.
Apparently, talking to his cat was cathartic or else he would have stopped his ramblings a long time ago. “I saw a bonfiwe off in the distance. I had hewrd of the pawties happening around this time. So I went. It wasn’t until I met this man that things began to tuwn for the wowse.”
Imogen mewed and pounced forward until her soft, feline body was just underneath him. Kotton couldn’t not keep himself from scratching the tender spot behind her ears. “I am going to this place called the Decked Halls to twy to be bettew at self defense,” he admitted after spending a moment tending to his pet cat.
And so here he was, his mind set maybe not on vengeance or revenge, emotions probably heightened with aggravation and distaste, but with the purpose of becoming more adept at learning how to defend himself against those brazen enough to counter the just and thus offend the partisan culprits.
Within less than an hour he had wound himself through town, passing random strangers, lost newcomers and busy locals, all with the desire of education at the forefront of his perpetually yearning mind. Kotton had ventured down pathway after pathway, street after street, before locating the easily amiss advertisement of the Decked Halls. Perhaps it wasn’t something that was often talked about and more a passage of secretive admission.
Regardless, he had heard about it from various whispers and gossiping mouths. He also knew that it was off-season for the fighting crew. Cylus and Ashan were the common seasons, and the young man hoped with all his strength that they would be accepting of him in the now.
As he walked closer, he noticed the building that held the training grounds underneath. As he descended the stairs into the main lobby, it was apparent the multiple dummies of different sizes that littered the floor. Intimidating face glowered at him, somehow daring him to move in the wrong direction.
In a day of his memory, Kotton could recall having read the lips of passersby, claiming membership to the club that was delegated by an individual’s ability to fight ten other club members. The young man wasn’t sure he was able to do that- he just wanted to learn some basic techniques of unarmed combat.
He bit his lip and pondered. Maybe he was in the wrong place. Doubt crept in, sending him backtracking up the stairs. Fear latched itself onto his inability to perform well against an entourage of trained men.
Once he had emerged out from the barracks of a suicide club, a middle aged man approached him with a contemptuous expression.
“Too much for you?” he asked almost mockingly.
Kotton didn't care for his jest. “I have no plans to fight ten men,” he announced, stifling a gasp that had been delayed by dread.
“Perfectly understandable.” The man’s approach changed drastically. He folded his hands and peered up at Kotton with intrigue. “I teach those in the interim.”
“Yes,” Kotton pleaded without thought.
The man smiled, offering the name of ‘Stanz’. “Step over here for a second,” he requested, brandishing his arms in a wide girth.
Kotton obliged as instructed.
Stanz didn’t walk far before facing Kotton again. He held out his hand, smile dropping for a split second. Kotton knew exactly what he wanted. He was demanding penance in exchange for his teaching and Kotton wasn’t against giving him what he wanted.
“Tell me,” Stanz began, his breath smelling like rubbish, or horse feces.
“Tell you what?” he asked, perplexed.
“Tell me what you wish to learn and I shall try my best to teach you,” he said laconically, placing his hand on his hip, patience draining from his disposition.
“I wish to leawn the ways of unawmed combat, so that I can protect myself and othews. You know how?”
Kotton felt overwhelmed with effrontery. Of course he knew how to fight, for why else would he be working outside the grounds of a respected establishment of combat?
Something sinister was hidden in the depths of his pupils. It was revolting and disgusting, screaming for release. It wanted to be drained in thick waves of dark cruelty. It was festering inside him, feeding on the only things that were still holding him together, keeping him sane.
“Why do you seek this information?”
Kotton was drawn to the random dummy Stanz pulled out from behind him. It stared at him without eyes, without a face.
“I was in a fight,” he admitted, refraining from looking to the dead skin of his fingers for comfort.
“Then I suggest you show me how you fight,” Stanz declared, taking a step to the side with the nonverbal announcement of the dummy standing directly behind him.
Kotton paused for a millisecond before catapulting himself towards the dummy, knuckles ablaze with earnest.
“That’s what you call a punch?” Stanz drawled, stifling a laugh that managed not be stifled at all. Kotton’s face heated up; he felt like a despondent wench.
He was acting foolish. Of course he knew how to punch. He had some knowledge in the areas of unarmed combat and knew what the basic techniques were and how to use them to his advantage. So why was he acting like such a newcomer? He was better than this, wasn’t he?
“You’we wight,” Kotton said with apology. He straightened himself and went back to a basic stance.
He placed his right foot in front and his left foot in back. He bent his right knee and straightened his back leg. He placed his left hand, curled tightly into a fist, on his waist line so that it was facing upwards like he had seen someone do before. Then he let it fly off his belt and into the dummy.
It wasn’t as soft as he had expected, but it was a punch nonetheless. It hurt his hand a little bit as he hit it, but nothing like the feeling of being slammed in the face.
“Not bad,” said his instructor.
“You have the proper form down, but it’s basic. I will teach you a few more advanced techniques. They will be easy enough for a novice to do as what I assumed you were.”
Kotton nodded bashfully.
“Watch me,” Stanz instructed, demonstrating a new stance.
He applied more pressure to his left foot which was placed behind his right. He was leaning backwards, his front knee bent at a ninety degree angle. He held up his hands so that they were open, his fingers squeezing together to prevent any breakage.
Kotton copied his movements, watched him out of the corner of his eye and perform the same technique as he witnessed. He placed his left foot backward, because his left was more dominant than his right, and put his right In front, making sure to bend it slightly so that it matched Stanz’s.
He put his hands up but forgot to open them. He held them as fists, a scowl already tainting his usually elated mood.
“No,” Stanz gruffed, coming over to adjust his pupil’s position. He forced Kotton’s back leg to part from his front a little. His stance was widened and ensured to be corrected via his hands. He opened his fists so that his palms were parallel to his body.
“This is so you can have full range of motion. If you need to close them, you can close them, but if you need to slap someone or grab something, they are open for you to do so.”
It was incredible how much Kotton understood what he was saying. Having been only able to formulate sense from lip formation, he was doing extremely well.
"But I also want you to keep your thumb out of your hand hold. If you keep it folded under your fingers, you'll surely break it. So don't."
Kotton took a second to deliberation, nodding his head as though in sync with a melodic beat.
“Now I want you to kick.”
“Kick?”
“I want you to kick that dummy as hard as you can and as high as you can without losing your balance. If you cannot maintain your balance on one leg, then you need to practice until you can.”
Kotton’s eyes grew wide. he knew something about balance and he most certainly didn’t want to practice on having balance alone. Hastily and with an eye targeted on the dummy, he put more pressure on his back foot and raised his front.
He stretched out his leg until it almost made a snapping sound from the way his pants struck his flesh. The ball of his foot made contact with the dummy, a solid sound reverberating up his calf.
“That was alright,” Stanz acknowledged with mild sincerity. “I think you have this technique down.”
“What is this technique?” Kotton questioned.
“I like to call the horse stance and sidekick,” Stanz avowed, face brilliantly beaming with brilliance, smile pinned to his lips.
“I’d like to learn more,” Kotton pressed.
“Another time,” Stanz decided. “So long as I get my money.”
