|
|
Post by SEBASTIAN E. G. BRANDT on Oct 5, 2013 10:47:55 GMT -8
He wrapped his hands carefully, hooking the loop of the black cloth over his thumb first, encircling a part of the thick strap around his wrist afterward. Sebastian was so used to this by now that he could have done it blindfolded; the cloth seamlessly crossed the back of his open palm, his fingers splayed as he forced it to hug the base of his thumb before looping the strap back around to the wrist. Slowly, the entire roll sitting in his left hand began to diminish. It was an easy enough process, once you grew accustomed to it. Wrist. Circle the palm. Catch the thumb again. Wrap the knuckles—once, twice, three times. Back to palm. Now, between the fingers. His brow furrowed as he carefully eased the cloth between the white, bone rings that embraced each digit, always making sure to slip the wrap between two fingers at a time before threading it over his knuckles again and repeating the effort. Once that was done, he flexed his fingers to make sure it would be tight enough without cutting off circulation. Then Sebastian returned to his knuckles for two more loops, crossed his palm again, and at last, embraced the wrist one more time. One protective wrap done. He spent a few seconds adjusting his work, flipping his hand palm up and nudging straps out of the way so that he had a clear space of skin on his open palm that made grappling easier. This whole thing was repeated with his left hand and a new roll of wrap.
Once it was done, Sebastian smirked to himself. For an instant, the fatigue under his eyes—hints that he hadn’t slept well—disappeared entirely. “Schön,” he whispered to himself before dropping the same word in English: “beautiful.” He rose to his feet, and though at this hour this section of the gym was empty, he could care less. A heavy bag was hanging nearby and he needed something to hit—and hit hard. Those first few strikes, knuckles flush against the bag, were just that: concentrated with a heavy dose of frustration. Each whack made the bag shift or subtly bend under the force of a jab or hook. He dove close for the latter, or twisted his hand, palm up, to slam his fist into a lower part of the heavy bag. There was a faint ringing in his ears, a senseless noise that drove him mad, but his eyes grew hard and cold, almost brutal in their ruthlessness. He smothered that ringing with the sound of his own fists, each heavy thwack muffling another god forsaken headache that kept threatening to creep up on him.
Eventually, he was dripping sweat. His fingers were slick with it as he unfurled them from their tight fists, snapping one arm up to stop the heavy bag from swinging too much while he caught his breath. One hand clutched the leather tightly, but he swiped the forefront of his other arm against his forehead, his gaze still simmering. His pale hair fell into his eyes. But most importantly, the ringing was gone. He’d avoided it—kept at bay. At least for the moment. As a result, Sebastian was too relieved when he thought he heard something over his shoulder; disheveled, he straightened, still holding the heavy bag at bay with one hand, his eyes sweeping the gym.
Time Stamp: May 11th, late night (after midnight)
Notes: Yay, I finally kicked some sort of muse into gear. About 550+ words of it. Progress.
|
|
|
|
Post by KELLAN ACCURSO on Oct 18, 2013 14:15:12 GMT -8
Wham!The heavy echo of the man’s fist slamming against the heavy bag resounded throughout the gymnasium. Kellan flinched. The scene of flesh slapping against leather replayed in his mind, and he furled his fingers into a tight fist. Did the man enjoy beating up his hands? If this was what was expected of him, then he was just about ready to say good-bye to the Impedio Society with a not-so-heavy heart. A frown crossed his face. No, that was stupid idea. The Impedio Society was his life, and you can’t run away from life. Or, more importantly, Mr. Giovanni Accurso. However, Kellan noticed the glistening of sweat on the man’s face and pulled a vain one. That didn't look to be too pleasant. Raking nimble fingers through the tangled chaos that was his hair, he continued to observe. The man was dancing a bellicose dance to an unheard tempo, his quick punches cutting straight to the heavy bag with deadly precision and power. Kellan knew he didn’t want to ever be on the receiving end of those punches. And then the man stopped, righted himself, and turned around to face him. Kellan waved. “Good day!” he said joyfully, his voice tinged with the honey-baked accent of a seasoned Englishman. “You would be Mr. Sebastian, no?”SEBASTIAN E. G. BRANDT
|
|
|
|
Post by SEBASTIAN E. G. BRANDT on Oct 18, 2013 22:33:35 GMT -8
Sebastian’s gaze shifted. He discovered the culprit and breathed a noise that might have been some sign of respite, were it not for the fact that he did not know or recognize the wild haired young man in front of him. A frown creased his expression briefly, but he quickly obscured the fact by reaching up to sweep his damp, pale bangs back and out of line of sight. Sebastian’s chest still rose and fell with the deep rhythms of exertion, but a feral glint was still there, simmering with impatience—the last flickering bits of adrenaline. He had actually heard those words at least and it cooled his hot blood; he’d been worried—no, perhaps that was too strong an English word—concerned? weary? wary?—that any noise would have been an illusion spurred forth from his own frustration and desperate desire to hear something. Thankfully, that was not the case. The ringing in his ears had ceased, at least for now.
He grunted, releasing the weighted bag, amused. Mr. Sebastian—that was a new one. He rolled his shoulder upward and ducked his head, mopping the sweat from one side of his face before a drop could slither into his eye.
“Sebastian, yes,” he finally said. It had taken a split second to interpret some of the English before he responded, and when he did his accent was dry but solid, punctuated by his breath as he recovered from the workout. “Nacht,” he countered roughly, correcting the impulsive German word quickly enough, “Night, you mean to say.” Or really early morning, he supposed. It was after midnight anyway. No one was usually up this hour, and Sebastian was surprised to see another night owl scouting the gym at this time of night. He reached up to the back of his neck and sighed as he cracked the tension out of it.
“I do not think we have met,” he managed.
Did he know this kid? Was he supposed to?
Time Stamp: May 11th
Notes: Yay a post! KELLAN ACCURSO
|
|
|
|
Post by KELLAN ACCURSO on Oct 23, 2013 16:21:20 GMT -8
“We haven’t,” he said, his voice still bright and saturated in merriment. “You can call me Kelly, though.”He flashed his pearly rows and careened toward the man with his hands jammed into his khaki shorts. Then he stuck out a hand, strangled by an expensive-looking wristwatch, and looked up at him with a crooked smile. Fitted into an ardently yellow golf shirt and rocking a pair of black Skechers, he didn’t look like the type of spoiled child to brave the gymnasium, and in the IS Headquarters, no less. But he was a free spirit and went where he pleased, based on whims that were as capricious as him. He did, in fact, know of Mr. Sebastian—but only his name—through clippings of eavesdropped conversations. He was the peculiar man with an intimidating, but somehow unnoticeable, man with an equally peculiar accent and a penchant for silence. And, to the daring Kellan, he was mighty interesting. But face to face, he forgot what he expected of him. “Do you always ravage heavy bags this late at night?” asked Kellan. “Does it really help? Everyone’s always on my case about physical training, but I honestly haven’t the slightest clue about it.” Really, he just disliked his trainer’s methods of coaching. Anything that included physical labour begged for his disapproval, and got it. Kellan eyed Sebastian's battered hands. SEBASTIAN E. G. BRANDT
|
|
|
|
Post by SEBASTIAN E. G. BRANDT on Oct 26, 2013 16:58:17 GMT -8
Sebastian flexed his fingers as his sides, ignoring the gentle pop and crackle of bone and muscle in his hands, but he also gave a small nod of approval. “Kelly, then,” he said, testing the weight of the name on his tongue; it felt light—airy even—though his accent might have added more force to the K than others were used to. Either way, Sebastian thought there was a whimsical touch in that name that said a lot, and it reflected back to him in the way the young man thrust his hand out toward him in greeting; hesitating for just a moment, Sebastian reached forward and accepted it, his grip firm.
“On your case,” Sebastian repeated thoughtfully, his gaze wandering elsewhere, the light in his eyes dimming. He had to think for a moment before the saying clicked into place and he understood. English, apparently, was not his strong suit. He had held onto it all these years for the simple fact that he needed to keep in touch with his father really. That meant that a number of expressions and slang which might have been familiar to him in German—or even Italian—were sometimes unrecognizable in English. Sebastian was learning though. Slowly, yes, but progress was progress. “I see. Are you a trainee then? A new recruit?” He chuckled. “First year or two is always hard to adjust to. But yes. It helps. Hunters do not survive for very long in field otherwise; if monsters were so easy to kill, we would not need secret groups like this one, or special training.” Sebastian paused and relinquished Kellan’s hand, smirking. “Though I must admit—only a few of the trainers here are forgiving. The Italian branch—Salvatore—he was not a…weak man either,” Sebastian said. He could not think of the right word in English. “I am used to it,” he admitted.
Sebastian glanced back at the weight bag and his smirk faded. That was not why he was here now though, this was not a training session, or even an attempt to test his limits. He wasn’t sure if he could admit it either; his gaze slid back to Kellan. “Is it that you do not like your training, or you have not started?” From Sebastian’s perspective, Kellan seemed small and unimposing, perhaps even a little thin. With those rimless glasses and the spark in his sapphire blue eyes , Sebastian realized it was difficult to take him seriously—combat wise. He raised his hand, fingers curled toward his palm, to his lower jaw, considering quietly. “Perhaps you should switch your style of combat if that is the case,” he said thoughtfully, almost under his breath. Kellan might be excellent, actually, with a style that emphasized speed and precision over blunt power. Either that or, he would have to learn to bulk up.
Time Stamp: May 11th
Notes: KELLAN ACCURSO
|
|
|
|
Post by KELLAN ACCURSO on Nov 1, 2013 20:17:24 GMT -8
“Perhaps.” Kellan offered Mr. Sebastian an effusive nod, and released himself from the bulky man’s firm grip. He wiggled the fingers on his hand, testing to see if they still functioned properly after a run-in with a one-sided handshake that enveloped his own hand. In truth, he had started his physical training, and it was hard to admit, even to him, that he wasn’t very good at what his trainers had been trying to pound into him. He’d tried to reason, once, with a well-built, red-cheeked, hard-of-hearing trainer from Russia that his body was never meant for the physical labour he was putting him through. The man hadn’t been amused—he could remember his lips curling in distaste behind a thick moustache—and doubled his exercises. That was the last session Kellan had with that man. Who knew what he was up to now? So, Kellan found himself agreeing with Sebastian wholeheartedly, and he bobbed his head up and down, looking almost like Hula Girl Bobblehead that people like to put on their dashboards. “Once, I had tried to explain that to a trainer of mine. It didn’t end that well.”Kellan gave a limpid shrug. “But I’m not a very physical person. I’m more . . . subtle. Sneaky. What do you know about that?”SEBASTIAN E. G. BRANDT
|
|
|
|
Post by SEBASTIAN E. G. BRANDT on Nov 10, 2013 10:30:52 GMT -8
Sebastian chuckled at that one, dropping his hand. He reached out for the weight bag behind him. “You told your instructor that his style of training wasn’t working for you,” Sebastian breathed, still laughing softly between words. He scrubbed his fingers back through his damp hair, eyes lighting up. Sebastian could only imagine what Salvatore would have had to say about any new recruit that had the audacity to suggest certain training methods were inadequate. He could only guess that Kelly’s former master hadn’t taken it well either, particularly if he had been a powerhouse type of teacher. But Sebastian could respect truth—he could respect the bravery it took to sometimes admit it. He contemplated Kelly’s last question quietly before sliding his gaze back toward the young man, his shoulders relaxing.
“Mal ehrlich (But honestly),” he mumbled, more to himself than Kelly. “It would suit you. In Italy I ran missions where stealth was required. I did my best, but I did not like it; it is not my style. What I know are the basics—perhaps a few advanced techniques, but little else. You will need a master who can teach you to move like smoke.” It was a poor comparison to what he really meant, but Sebastian could not wrap his mind around the proper English word he really wanted. He paused. What had Kelly called it? Subtle? “Manipulation, silence and accuracy would be the skills they teach you. But if you are smart you will find someone who can teach you what to do when you are cornered by someone bigger and more intimidating than yourself. You will learn to fight…dirty,” Sebastian said. He rolled his shoulders and shook his head. In a fight there was no such thing as that word—it was a made up concept by people who didn’t participate in battles of life and death. Concepts of honor and glory faded when your life was on the line.
“Idioten,” he growled. “’Dirty’ does not exist in battle. And if you realize that my friend, then you will be fine. But I am serious—what your first teacher will lack is the ability to show you what to do in a cornered situation, because they are not meant to be caught; you must find a Hunter that values strength over speed and stealth, that values open combat. You must show them that you are specializing in your preferred field, but want to be adaptable in such a situation—you will have to spar with them whether you like it or not. It is the only way to learn .” He tilted his head and sighed. “You are small, Kelly. You do not look intimidating or dangerous—you are right to look to training in another style of combat. But when sneaks are caught, they do not last very long for a reason. You must be different. Smart. Even if it means the fighting you must do against a larger opponent is…what some would call underhanded.”
Sebastian did not know how that would sit with Kelly.
Notes: KELLAN ACCURSO
|
|
|
|
Post by KELLAN ACCURSO on Nov 12, 2013 17:32:26 GMT -8
Mr. Sebastian spoke with a coarse German accent, and Kellan strained to render the man’s wisdom coherent. A twitch said that he didn’t understand something (and there were some words he wasn’t supposed to understand, but he tried to, anyway), but politely. A nod was often accompanied by confusion, because he’d lost his concentration in satisfaction long enough to lose himself. It was a bewildering, convoluted process, and Kellan vowed to get better at it. “Basically, I’m gonna need to rely on . . . other things, other than brute strength, like speed.” He paraphrased crudely, but he believed he’d retained the bulk of the message. “Or artifice. Through physical means and verbal flamboyancy.” He had hope. He also needed a trainer for that. The hope flickered. He folded his arms across his polo and thought. It would mean straying away from the front lines. It was something that Kellan was all right with, but paired with a lack of self-preservation, acknowledging orders as guidelines, and an unhealthy need for trouble, he would be dead within a week. He worked a frown at that. He wasn’t ready to check the suggestion off the list, though.“What kind of things would such a person do?” He walked over to the heavy bag and traced the ridges, and found it was slicked with sweat. He made a grunt of disapproval. “Also, does super strength really come from pounding away at this? I still don’t see it.”
It was a fairly serious question. SEBASTIAN E. G. BRANDT
|
|
|
|
Post by SEBASTIAN E. G. BRANDT on Nov 12, 2013 18:56:46 GMT -8
Sebastian laughed. Super strength? He smirked, eyes flashing, reaching above the weight bag. He snapped the restraint that held it in place, but not before reaching out and gently tugging Kellan out of the way and taking a step back himself. The bag plummeted; it struck the mat with a whump of noise and toppled heavily onto its side where it did not move afterward. “This is the sort of thing you will need to know,” Sebastian said. He rolled his shoulders and stretched one hand up to the back of his neck tiredly, but he still wore his smile. “Your opponents will be large and heavy. Sometimes, yes, it will be like fighting a tank.” He flicked his gaze slyly toward the young man over his shoulder. “Imagine all of the force of that,” he pointed toward the bag, “coming down on you suddenly. It would hurt, would it not? If it is larger, it might smother you, or break something. Even kill you.” He spoke slowly, because Sebastian knew that sometimes he could overwhelm others with his accent. He loathed the fact that he could not speak English appropriately when he needed to. It drew unnecessary attention to himself and made communication difficult, but right now he did his best to level his tone and enunciate his words as best as he could.
This was an important lesson after all.
“But when something big falls—it falls hard. You weren’t in the way when the weight came down; all of its momentum and power missed. Imagine the bag as your opponent. He would now be in pain. He would have wasted senseless energy, and now would it would be your turn to sweep in and finish him while he is unable to strike. Remember friend, it is not cowardice to run in a fight, to bide your time, dodge and never land a hit. In your case, it is smart. Super strength as you call it, is only dangerous to you if it hits you. And when it misses—use it to your advantage. A clever warrior is neither big nor strong. He is patient. He reads his opponent and creates weakness in strength and strength in weakness. Imagine the damage that can be done with precision—with knowing when to strike and when to trust the instinct to hang back.” Sebastian grinned. He enjoyed this sort of talk. He was a power player himself, but it felt good to discuss combat and strategy. “No animal or person is born with the pure urge to fight. Those that survive know when to flee, even the predators that skulk in the night. Which is what you will be,” he said knowingly, “if you choose to take that path. Silent. Quick and clever but with a lethal bite.”
|
|
|
|
Post by KELLAN ACCURSO on Nov 12, 2013 19:43:49 GMT -8
Kellan, ever attentive, could hear the smile in Mr. Sebastian’s voice. It was a refreshing nuance, something ebullient underneath the hoarse torrent of words (that was slowed, curtsey to the man’s consideration), and Kellan found himself growing attached to the man, like he was attached to his wristwatch. He liked his wristwatch, but he loved his boat shoes. He supposed there was potential for his affection to reach the same standing as his Top-Siders. And as he listened, he stared. The heavy bag was on the ground, inanimate and lofty, and Kellan thought that he’d end up with a black toe if he tried to throw his foot at it. It was a tank, like Mr. Sebastian was explaining. Something to keep in mind when he went face-to-face with someone, say, Mr. Giovanni. He cringed. “Would something as stocky as that—” he jerked his chin at the heavy bag, “—have a weakness? It’s all rock-solid meat.”SEBASTIAN E. G. BRANDT
|
|
|
|
Post by SEBASTIAN E. G. BRANDT on Nov 12, 2013 20:28:30 GMT -8
“Always,” Sebastian answered immediately. For a second the energy fell out of his eyes and his expression blanked. They were entering a sort of gray morality area with this sort of talk, but Sebastian cracked his neck in the temporary silence that followed and answered anyway. “Physically speaking, a strong and large enemy often sacrifices the ability to evade and move as quickly as their smaller, agile opponents. Momentum is both their greatest strength and constant weakness. But let me tell you something—a human, no matter their size, is as fragile as the next. Sebastian planted the ball of his foot against the bag and snorted. “Flesh still gives way under the force of a well aimed knife. Or arrow. Or bullet. No amount of muscle can stop that.” He glanced back at Kellan to make sure he understood. “Some of the smallest and most unassuming men in the world have the capacity to topple entire nations with a single, well placed shot. That must be your strength.” Sebastian paused.
“There are other ways as well. Methods that require more stomach and guile. One man’s treasure is another man’s leverage,” Sebastian said quietly. He did not like to admit it, but it was true. “Monsters or men, they all bleed for something. Sometimes those that rely on stealth must be willing to make the decisions that others cannot, to target what is unseen by most. The price then, for acting amongst the shadows is high. Where I have been trained to have an iron hide and steel fist, you must cultivate a heart of stone and a garden of apathy.” He flattened his palm to his chest where his heart would have been, frowning. “Your precision then will be crippling—beyond lethal.” He dropped his arm and shook his head. “But I am not entirely certain that is the road you want to take. You can fight smart without such measures. Though it is up to you,” Sebastian added quietly.
He flicked his gaze back to Kellan.
“If you require a person to teach you weaknesses, counters and strikes to take at an opponent like myself,” Sebastian shrugged, “I have free time on occasion and can do so. But I cannot teach you everything—I don’t know everything,” he admitted.
|
|
|
|
Post by KELLAN ACCURSO on Nov 14, 2013 20:04:05 GMT -8
“Always,” Kellan echoed. The kind of person Mr. Sebastian had seemed to be describing was a stalker of the shadows—somebody who moved unseen, truly a memory of a person that had just been, but not quite, there. Kellan could see it; him, tucked into the corner with a black mask slid over his lips, watching and waiting. Waiting? Patience? Something was wrong there. He knew that strength was never going to be the thing that held his place—whatever that would be—in the Society, but a sharp intelligence brandished as a weapon and prepared to draw blood. His wits were his armour, but wits didn’t get you out of everything. Well. He just wasn’t that experienced with a silver tongue. Maybe he’d master it, someday. But until then. Kellan’s eyes widened with expectation. Mr. Sebastian tutoring him in the art of beating-the-snot-out-of-people seemed like a wonderful idea that reminded him of the pleasantries in life, like flowers and little kittens. Only the basics, but he would work with what he had. “That would be just aces,” he told him. “What does that entail? Hopefully the basic basics. I can hardly throw a punch.” In demonstration, he furled his hand into a fist—the thumb pocketed into the fist—and punched the air with vigor, but lacking form. “Oooh . . . .”SEBASTIAN E. G. BRANDT
|
|
