She was in a box.
Not a metaphorical box that might have signified particular walls or barriers put in place that might have reflected poorly on her as a person, but an actual fucking metal box, locked with a padlock and located in one of the Academy's storage rooms alongside training dummies and target boards.
Marcia had been blindsided, caught unaware in the corridor on her way to bed by two mystery assailants or one mystery assailant with more than two arms, but the former seemed more likely. The girl hadn't caught sight of them, having been cracked in the back of the head and immediately blindfolded. Still, she had a solid idea of the culprits' identities—a pair of arrogant, ostentatious egos who, while begrudgingly talented, were also wholly loathsome pricks. The twat team, as she called them.
Then again, she wasn't the most popular Initiate and her existence was antagonistic enough to relegate her from scrappy underdog to obnoxious menace amongst her peers. It could have been anybody.
She needed to rectify this as a marker of self-improvement; working well with others was an unfortunate trait of a well-rounded Dreadlord. There hadn't been much success, but she was approaching camaraderie with the determination and grace of an Anirian Pit Dog. Perhaps she needed to change the approach, but that wasn't something she could do while locked inside a bloody box.
Having already tried to punch and kick her way out furiously, Marcia had deduced with each enraged clang that it was a metal box, the lid of which was now stained with the blood of her unrelenting fists. When brute force hadn't worked, the Initiate shifted onto her back and tried to force the lid open with her boots, but since she weighed as much as a wet cat, it was unsuccessful.
It was becoming inevitable that the box would be her bed for the night, granted it wasn't airtight. The thought of being the Academy student who suffocated in a box was suddenly very real and very horrifying.
"Fuck!"
New plan. Loud noises.
So the box, or rather the student inside the box, began to scream, holler, and swear, with threats of profanity-laden violence peppered in for good measure. Surely, somebody was going to come along and help her.
Then again, it was quite late at night.
Not a metaphorical box that might have signified particular walls or barriers put in place that might have reflected poorly on her as a person, but an actual fucking metal box, locked with a padlock and located in one of the Academy's storage rooms alongside training dummies and target boards.
Marcia had been blindsided, caught unaware in the corridor on her way to bed by two mystery assailants or one mystery assailant with more than two arms, but the former seemed more likely. The girl hadn't caught sight of them, having been cracked in the back of the head and immediately blindfolded. Still, she had a solid idea of the culprits' identities—a pair of arrogant, ostentatious egos who, while begrudgingly talented, were also wholly loathsome pricks. The twat team, as she called them.
Then again, she wasn't the most popular Initiate and her existence was antagonistic enough to relegate her from scrappy underdog to obnoxious menace amongst her peers. It could have been anybody.
She needed to rectify this as a marker of self-improvement; working well with others was an unfortunate trait of a well-rounded Dreadlord. There hadn't been much success, but she was approaching camaraderie with the determination and grace of an Anirian Pit Dog. Perhaps she needed to change the approach, but that wasn't something she could do while locked inside a bloody box.
Having already tried to punch and kick her way out furiously, Marcia had deduced with each enraged clang that it was a metal box, the lid of which was now stained with the blood of her unrelenting fists. When brute force hadn't worked, the Initiate shifted onto her back and tried to force the lid open with her boots, but since she weighed as much as a wet cat, it was unsuccessful.
It was becoming inevitable that the box would be her bed for the night, granted it wasn't airtight. The thought of being the Academy student who suffocated in a box was suddenly very real and very horrifying.
"Fuck!"
New plan. Loud noises.
So the box, or rather the student inside the box, began to scream, holler, and swear, with threats of profanity-laden violence peppered in for good measure. Surely, somebody was going to come along and help her.
Then again, it was quite late at night.