Sparring, was there anything quite like it?
Not only was it a valuable exercise to hone combat skills—the entire cause of their existence—but it was also one of the best methods of releasing pent-up frustration, perfect, given that Marcia was the spirit of frustration poured into a five-foot package of barely restrained rage.
Finding participants for a sparring session was never hard, but her peers weren't usually in it to pursue self-improvement. They saw it as a chance to get a measure of revenge, a fraction of pleasure from smashing that short, obnoxious, and mouthy cretin of rage who had been a permanent fixture in the academy for the last fourteen years. She didn't mind, seeing it as better to have people lining up to deck you rather than being outright rejected and relegated to the training dummy for extracurricular activity.
But there was a problem.
It was a problem that had started insignificant but had snowballed into an ever-growing concern for her.
As a child, she was one of the stronger ones, an absolute tyrant among the nine-year-olds. Then, the other girls grew taller. First, she adapted as best she could, switching from strength to speed, but a couple more years went by, and the boys joined them. That was worse. Some of them were already an entire foot taller with room to grow. They were stronger and had better reach, and it didn't take long to know that the best way to beat her was to get up close and personal and grapple. A lot of revenge had been due on that front, and she went from bully to bullied as they reached physical maturity.
Some advice had been to focus on magic instead, compensating for her weakness by taking advantage of her unique abilities. Marcia didn't entirely disagree; every form of combat was valid and worthwhile. A Dreadlord should be adaptable. However, there would also be times when she couldn't use reflection magic, so to be ill-prepared for that eventuality was death. Frankly, unacceptable. Close-quarters combat was vital, and she would not excuse herself on account of her embarrassingly small stature.
She would improve, no matter the broken bones or missing teeth.
The invitation to spar this time had gone out to one student in particular, Initiate Black. He was one of the imposing figures that towered over her and, in comparison, was built like a brick shithouse; who better to ask? Sure, he was the sullen and angry type, but couldn't she relate? Did birds of a feather not engage in academic violence together?
Marcia waited in one of the many rooms within the Academy set up for combat training, being sure to limber up and stretch out in preparation. An array of weapons, both practice and real, were racked for the occasion, and her own spiked buckler was propped up against the wall.
Already, she anticipated that tomorrow was going to hurt.
Not only was it a valuable exercise to hone combat skills—the entire cause of their existence—but it was also one of the best methods of releasing pent-up frustration, perfect, given that Marcia was the spirit of frustration poured into a five-foot package of barely restrained rage.
Finding participants for a sparring session was never hard, but her peers weren't usually in it to pursue self-improvement. They saw it as a chance to get a measure of revenge, a fraction of pleasure from smashing that short, obnoxious, and mouthy cretin of rage who had been a permanent fixture in the academy for the last fourteen years. She didn't mind, seeing it as better to have people lining up to deck you rather than being outright rejected and relegated to the training dummy for extracurricular activity.
But there was a problem.
It was a problem that had started insignificant but had snowballed into an ever-growing concern for her.
As a child, she was one of the stronger ones, an absolute tyrant among the nine-year-olds. Then, the other girls grew taller. First, she adapted as best she could, switching from strength to speed, but a couple more years went by, and the boys joined them. That was worse. Some of them were already an entire foot taller with room to grow. They were stronger and had better reach, and it didn't take long to know that the best way to beat her was to get up close and personal and grapple. A lot of revenge had been due on that front, and she went from bully to bullied as they reached physical maturity.
Some advice had been to focus on magic instead, compensating for her weakness by taking advantage of her unique abilities. Marcia didn't entirely disagree; every form of combat was valid and worthwhile. A Dreadlord should be adaptable. However, there would also be times when she couldn't use reflection magic, so to be ill-prepared for that eventuality was death. Frankly, unacceptable. Close-quarters combat was vital, and she would not excuse herself on account of her embarrassingly small stature.
She would improve, no matter the broken bones or missing teeth.
The invitation to spar this time had gone out to one student in particular, Initiate Black. He was one of the imposing figures that towered over her and, in comparison, was built like a brick shithouse; who better to ask? Sure, he was the sullen and angry type, but couldn't she relate? Did birds of a feather not engage in academic violence together?
Marcia waited in one of the many rooms within the Academy set up for combat training, being sure to limber up and stretch out in preparation. An array of weapons, both practice and real, were racked for the occasion, and her own spiked buckler was propped up against the wall.
Already, she anticipated that tomorrow was going to hurt.