#multismusa

“What do you want? Unless it's a drink or a fight, I probably can't help you.”

[ @multismusa ]

It wasn’t difficult to hire an empty warehouse by the docks. It was a little harder to find a few bales of straw and a sack of grain, or enough rope - if it wasn’t on a ship, any kind of rope made people here nervous. But now the straw was lined along the wall and the grain suspended from one of the sturdier overhead beams, dangling free in the center of the room.

Thera circled the bag on steady feet, eyeing it a moment before darting in with a flurry of punches, then away. Her boots shuffled on the floor, sweat pooling on her brow and dampening the man’s shirt she wore open at the neck.

In, one-two, away … She prowled rather than bounced, a street fighter’s stance rather than a boxer in the ring. One-two, elbow, knee - ! The bag hollowed where she hit, swaying, the grain inside shifting from the impact.

She’d neglected this too long, made do with walks (runs when she couldn’t be seen) and quiet, repetitive exercises in her room. And again. Mix it up … She threw herself at the bag, raining punches and kicks, until her wrapped knuckles rested on the canvas, leaning as she caught her breath.