Punching Bags and the Smell of the River Ness

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Roderick Douglas
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Punching Bags and the Smell of the River Ness

Post by Roderick Douglas »

A quiet night amidst empty rings and air stale with the scent of old blood and sweat. How long had it been since she had made that vow to herself that she would get into these rings and prove to herself and everyone that doubted her that she was strong? A year. A year of struggling to pay for school, continuing to work too many jobs, and study during the time she wasn't working. Perhaps her mind had changed and she no longer felt the need to prove she could win a title, but she still needed to prove to herself that she was not weak. So, with no extra money to pay for a fancy gym, here the redhead stood with her feet slightly apart while trying to beat the living hell out of a bag that wouldn't cooperate. "Bet the Outback has better equipment than this crap that
won't even move when I hit it..." she grumbled as a glove encased fist swung once more and landed with a thud.

Perhaps Roddy hadn't gotten the memo, but the duels were closed tonight. He'd been having a quick drink after work up in the Inn, and had noticed the utter lack of traffic down to the Arena or the Annex below it, but perhaps long absence and recent, frivolous attempts at dueling had piqued his curiosity enough just to check. Finishing his scotch, turning the glass thoughtfully in a calloused hand, he stood - and opted for the stairs down, rather than the door out, homeward. A tuneless whistling was heard well before he pushed the door open to the sub-basement,glancing down along the stairway and further out in the room before heading down. The whistling died to a hum, then stilled altogether when he saw the red-headed lass, a stranger to him. "Evenin' t'ye," he said with a friendly smile.

A loud grunt was the initial response as she -finally- moved the heavy bag with a rough front kick. Several quick steps moved her backwards as the bag swung back into her slight form and she lost her balance. Well, how embarrassing. Clearing her throat, pale cheeks with their wash of freckles pinked up, as she half turned her head towards the unfamiliar face. "Nobody's fightin' down here tonight. Unless you count me gettin' my arse kicked by this piece of crap..." Punch, punch, punch...it didn't move. So, the bag received the Kenzi treatment that most things received that wouldn't yield to her...she stuck her tongue out.

If he'd really been paying attention and not whistling like some country idiot, he might have realized the girl he spotted was deep in combat with a...punching bag? They had those down here now? Or maybe they always had - Rod was the type to punch people in the rings and stay in shape breaking horses, more. Not that he'd never used a punching bag. "Ye look tae be doin' jes' fine, mahm, though ye might try keepin' movin' after ye kick et, aye?" He didn't reply to her comment about the night being closed, just flicked his blue eyes - visible now as he moved to the bottom of the steps - around a moment. "Might as well 'ave a dram while I'm 'ere," he continued, half to himself. Dressed in his work clothes, tee shirt, boots, and jeans, he was dusty from the stables but not rank with the smell, at least. Soon enough he was over at the bar, heading behind it, though his eyes drifted back to her meanwhile.

"Ooof..." The air knocked out of her as another kick to the bag was repaid. Leaning over with her hands on her knees, Kenzi looked up from beneath the mop of fiery waves barely restrained with a bandana around her forehead. "Keep movin'? Like...I have a choice?" She took in a deep breath, puffed out her cheeks as she exhaled, and shifted her stance. With a three-quarter turn, her heel caught the bag with quite a bit more momentum than previously and the redhead quickly retreated, avoiding the bag as it returned. "HAHA! Sucka!" Tank top and yoga pants clad form bounced on bare feet as the gloves were smacked together. Then, feeling quite froggy, she went in for a 1-2 punch that did very little to move the bag. Well, this was entirely unacceptable, so
the little firecracker just launched at the bag because what finesse couldn't accomplish, full frontal assault could, right?

He did lift a brow at her reply, his lips surrounded by day-old stubble turning up a touch, into a poorly-hidden smile. He wasn't trying to mock her, really. Four years in Rhy'din, and in the city at least softened his brogue, that much was obvious. "Well, footwork's yer choice, aye, but I'm rude fer interruptin' ye. Carry on." That was after her question, and before she started giving the bag the what-for, which made him grin wider. He spared enough attention to the bar itself to find some single malt from a dusty old bottle and pour a few fingers' worth into a glass. Elbows met the bar counter, the Scot lingering back there, studying the redhead with some interest. She looked, but did not sound, like a countrywoman, a Scots lass, but in any case she was not difficult to watch.

What occurred from the moment he turned away to locate whiskey and when his gaze returned to her could only be summed up with one word: hilarity. She had launched her full frontal assault and when the bag "fought" back, she had jumped onto it, barely holding on with arms and legs wrapped around as it spun and swayed wildly. What was Kenzi doing during all of this? She was cackling with all of her might, head dropped backwards with a chaotic waterfall of copper flowing behind. At the rate she was going, the only thing she would be accomplishing in any ring or street fight alike would be as the comedic relief. Maybe she could get a job as a rodeo clown?

Soon she let go with her arms, strong thighs gripping the bag as she arched her back, hanging nearly upside down with her arms out to her sides like wings. Likely, the Scotsman wouldn't be missing the sound of her humming as the laughter faded away. She seemed to be caught up in her own world.

Hilarity indeed - at least, it drew a quiet chuckle from the man at the bar, who had just had the notion that sitting around staring at a woman play with a punching bag in an empty arena might qualify him as a creepy sort. "Cannae say as I've ever seen one o' those used tha' way," he was forced to comment, after the laughter. The thought of offering his name was there, but he also picked up on the fae mood. Perhaps after she was done showing off? He had a brief mental flash of trying what she was doing, and winced inwardly. A long sip of the scotch soon followed.

Except she wasn't actually showing off since she had entirely forgotten the man was present. A fae mood indeed; she could've passed for a wild haired little sprite right then. His comment broke the spell and Kenzi's eyes reopened, the freshness of a cloudless day dipped into the foam of the sea, peering at him from her upside down perch. "Seems quite a better use for such a stubborn, unyielding object." A whimsical smile tickled upon her lips, and the “embodiment of oddness” used her abs to draw her body upwards to grasp ahold of the bag so that her legs could slide from their strangulation of the rough and taped leather. A surprisingly agile dismount had her bare feet planted firmly upon the ground as a hand reached out to pat the bag. Apparently, in her own mind, she had tamed the beast that had dared challenge her gracefulness. Bending back over, she gathered the waist length waves into a ponytail high on her head and then twisted it into a messy bun before standing again and taking a tentative step towards the bar. Now, only just now, was she fully aware that there was a strange man sitting down here watching her behave like a fool. Squaring her shoulders, even as her face grew bright in embarrassment beneath the lights of the basement ceiling, she moved towards the bar and around to the serving side to begin pilfering the contents for something palatable.
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Post by Roderick Douglas »

Yep, he definitely could not do that ab-crunching thing quite as easily as she, but then, he was out of fighting shape. Not in the Iron Fists league, and with dueling so slow hadn't been giving him much of a chance to change that, but in any case he was a little impressed. "'Ow've we no met before then? Ye a newer fighter?" he asked when she got to the bar. Or a fighter at all? he thought to add, but he left the question where it was. Eyes moved down, and back up - creep he may have been for being there ogling her antics, but he wasn't leering, not lingering on any of the 'goods'. His face had an open look to it, and his smile was friendly enough. "Roderick, Clan Douglas, by the by," he mentioned. He'd even been thinking of asking her what she'd like
to drink but it was clear she had that handled. He shifted his considerable frame, facing her more directly; he looked tired, like anyone might after a day's work, but certainly not drunk.

"Uh...I'm not sure? I'm not around so much anymore but I didn't really fight much when I was." Not much being...two fights? "I work at the same radio station as Harris but I am their blogger. So, I used to do some of my stories on the fighters around here." If she had noticed him looking her over, she didn't say anything.

After all of the ingredients were before her on the bar, she began making up a batch of her favorite drink, the fruity Lava Flow. A chilled glass was pulled from the cooler and partially filled but remained in her hand as she listened to him. Even if the brogue was fading, it sounded like home to her; reminding her of the earliest days of her childhood and her father prior to arriving here. With a smirk upon perfect rosebud lips, mischief to make the wee people proud, she spoke, mimicking the brogue perfectly. "McKenza, Clan Davidson, by the by. Shor'ened tae Davis when me dadaidh brough'us ‘ere." Her smile, her entire appearance, softened from the memory, long dead. Clearing her throat, Kenzi looked back down to her drink, breaking whatever spell had been cast over her and lifted the glass to her lips.

He'd been coming around the place a long time, but could only assume the erstwhile dueling she spoke of had occurred during his absence. The thought of which cast a brief shadow over his face, perhaps the flicker of a frown, schooled as quickly as it might have showed. She was mixing a drink, so she might have missed it - but there was certainly more going on behind the big, black-haired Scotsman's blue eyes than sunshine and cheer. But before he could dwell on absences, past events, for long, she managed to shock him right out of it when she laid down with the brogue. His eyes widened, black brows lifting, then a real smile came over his features. "Och, aye? Yer from 'ome, aire ye? Wot year, an' where?," he asked, brogue thickening as if coaxed by her show of accent. He was versed enough in the cosmic melting-pot that was Rhy'din's timeline, and knew not everyone came from the year 1452. If she'd met him a few years before she'd have found a far less modern man, but this city had its bizarre way with everyone, no matter their place of origin. For instance, he'd doffed the kilt aside from the odd formal occasion. "Glenfinnan, year o' Our Laird Fourteen and Fifteh Two, McKenza Davidson," he offered. Best way to open someone up was to open up yourself, was Roderick's way of thinking.

The smile warmed his hardened Scottish features and she found herself relaxing and smiling in reply. "Oh aye, born in Culloden near Inverness, ya ken?" She felt a warm rush of camaraderie, a flush that softened the sometimes sharp features. It was a feeling similar to the smell of fresh baked cookies to remind one of their long lost grandmother, poignant and sudden. Kenzi paused, to answer the other part of the question...when, he'd asked. When indeed? It was never a question that she'd been born twenty-one years prior and sometime as a very small child she had been forced to leave her home. Pale brows furrowed, creating a crease between her eyes that was quite fearsome to behold. She normally forced herself to think of anything else when memories of her family returned and thus she was rather bombarded by the influx of what her senses had stored in her memory.

Finally speaking, she shook her head, "I...don't know." The brogue was gone as her concentration was entirely upon processing what her mind had stored away for...who knew how long. She'd even told herself she'd never been out of this realm as most of her "real" memories were from a time after she had gone to live at the orphanage. She shook her head once more, with more force, and was rewarded with a wild wisp of red gold hair that tumbled into her face. As she pushed it back, she tried to force a smile for the Scotsman.
"I...suppose that sounds rather crazy. I'm not typically prone to irrational fits of rage, so no fear for your life or anything." He wasn't a punching bag, after all. The punching bag was likely still not safe.

Yet, the large man had had his arse handed to him by more than one 'smaller' resident, denizen of this place, whether or not she'd fought in the duels. Part of him, that part which had arisen during more recent mental incarceration, was more paranoid than he used to be. Certainly, as a warrior he was ever wary - but this Scotswoman didn't *feel* off, to him. He was no wizard or shaper of magic, not like most of the city's bizarre hodgepodge of creatures, but he was observant enough. She wasn't setting off that 'othersense' either, that he had learned to recognize as the sensing of someone...like him. So, she wasn't going to try to take his head, he figured. Hoped. He'd just have to trust to his gut and his fighting skills if she did happen to turn into some demon from hell, right? Listening to her describe the place - which he knew, at least, from his own time - then to her confusion about the time, he could easily chalk it up to the memory fugue that affected many who passed the Nexus from other places. "I'll take ye on yer word, aboot my 'life'," he quipped, his grin briefly widening. "It doesna sound all that' crazy tae me. Ye grew up 'ere tho'?" A small sip of his scotch - he loved the mother's milk of his homeland but this McKenza had far more of his interest, now.

She nodded slightly, her gaze moving past him and into an entirely different time. "In the Sorrowful Mother orphanage...until I left there. I knew I could take care of myself and there was a world for me to see. Someday, I will anyway." Nodding, a slight twist of one corner of her mouth broke the serious set of her jaw and she took another sip of her drink. "So, for as long as I can remember, I've simply been Kenzi Davis. Among other names, some of which are not quite as nice but entirely unfounded." Not likely. Trouble clung to Kenzi like too much perfume on a whore. "So strange. It's as if I can still smell the River Ness..." Thick, pale lashes lowered to close over her eyes and she inhaled deeply, convinced she could smell home. A brow quirked one eyelid open so she could stare at him. "Alright, what've you done to me? And don't play stupid and say nothin' because there is something happening and it was all fine until you came here..."

His brows furrowed slightly when she mentioned a past as an orphan - he'd lost a mother young, and a father in battle after that, but even back in war-torn, English-oppressed Scotland, he'd had family, the clan. He may have been an overly tall fighter but he had his soft-hearted moments, probably more than he would let on on casual conversation. She was pretty obviously giving him the name she preferred to go by, and he opened his mouth to reply - but her accusation closed his mouth right back up, both brows raised over his loch-blue gaze. "'Do' tae ye, Kenzi Davis?" He smiled then, a sign he wasn't offended, and chuckled - it was laced with merriment, not really derision. "Listen, I'm a God-fearen' Scot, I've nae tricks up me sleeve, Rhy'din though theses. I'm thinkin' I just remind ye of 'ome, and ye've no 'ad such a reminder in a time." Clearly he was not all brawn, keenness of perception in his words and behind those eyes. She was getting more intriguing by the moment.
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Post by Roderick Douglas »

"Yes, do TO me!" She emphasized the word and frowned at him. "I dunno what it is. But there's something..." her words trailed off as the backdrop of the annex faded away and she was standing upon a grassy bluff overlooking the deep blue of a loch. Kenzi gasped and spun around looking for Roderick, though she barely knew him, as some sort of anchor back to reality. What she actually found was the cooler, and she found that with her face. The Highlands had faded and she was back in the Annex, laying upon the ground dazed and half knocked out. There was definitely something amiss here but the girl was too inexperienced to know what exactly. The popping colors of stars upon a black canvas slowly became the flapping of irredescent wings and the dancing of small feet within the air. Smiles bright as anything she'd seen also held razor sharp teeth the size of pins and she was certain the horde of these beautiful but horrendous creatures were about to descend upon her. Her arms lifted instinctively to protect her face as she screamed.

He practically dropped his scotch when the fit seemed to come over her, the glass landing with a thunk of its base against the bartop - though no true Scot would spill a single malt if he could help it, and he kept it upright while he watched her fall. It was as if it was in slow motion, for him, and he reached a huge hand out, though there was no way he could possibly catch her with the distance that separated them. Still, instinct took over, and he left his nearly-spilt drink behind as he moved, his bulk belying his fighter's grace, closing the gap between them and crouching to a knee beside her. He had not a bloody clue what the hell was happening - epilepsy? People had fits like that back in his time, though he was no longer superstitious enough to think it was anything but a medical condition. No clue, indeed, that it could be something, some lingering taint of his own that might have caused this. At some point during his kneel she screamed, and the sound was like nails on a chalkboard, shivering up his spine.

"Och, Kenzi, lass, 'tis alrigh'!" Empty words - words he hoped were true, anyway. It might not have been wise, but he reached out a hand, trying to settle it at her shoulder. A risky gambit on his part, but while perceptive, well-educated for a Dark Age Scot, he had never been anything but brave, and had a protective streak toward women a mile long. "Shhh, 'tis alrigh', I'm thinkin' ye let the punchen' bag get the better o' ye er somethin'.." A quick scan checked for any blood anywhere on her, making sure she hadn't hurt herself in the spill.

The buzzing stopped and the flurry of color was gone . She was fully awake now, and glancing wildly about, nauseated and the entire world was spinning around her but she could hear the sound of his voice. At first it seemed to be in a tunnel and very far away but it quickly picked up volume and depth. She felt the soothing touch of a strong hand and focused upon that strength as well as what her senses were giving her as breadcrumbs to find her way back. Lifting a hand to grasp his arm, she used it as leverage to sit up and then nearly fell right back down as everything turned dark and tumultuous. With her head dropped between her knees, the few contents of her stomach regurgitated as each wave of dizziness washed over her. And then? It was over. As if whatever force that had been driving this had suddenly retreated. She smelled the fresh scent of the long Highland grass and then nothing. Blinking, her gaze shifted up to Roderick. "I think I need to learn not to eff with punching bags then.”


Once he had a hold of her, and she of him, it would take more than a moment of weakness to lose his support. Big as he was, there was hardly an ounce of fat on him, and he spent his days tangling with untrained stallions (and other, even more unruly steeds, in fact); keeping the slight Kenzi upright was not a burden. He didn't even bat an eye when she hurled; he really had come from more savage times, battlefields and rampant sickness common. He might have thought she'd had too much to drink before tangling with that punching bag, but she hadn't acted like it. The hand not grasping her reached around, fumbling a moment before catching a nearby bartowel in his grasp, which he offered, gently touching it to her lips after her comment; which made him smile slightly despite the bizarre situation. "'Ere lass, take that. I'm thinken' we might want tae get ye oot o' here, aye? Ye live close?" There was nothing but concern in his voice, though again it struck him she might think him a daft creep for asking where she lived. "I c'n get ye 'ome er en a cab. Wotever ye like, Kenzi Davis." Too much of this was hitting somewhere deep, murky, psychological, esoteric, though flashes of some of his strange dreams were trying to bubble up to his conscious brain, perhaps for the first time in waking memory. He sure as heck wasn't going to talk to this lass he'd just met about crazy night dreams, though, not right then.


Taken from live play.
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