Barziali breathed evenly as he ran, pumping his arms in a steady rhythm as he pounded down the track. He held Ferrum and Fortia in his hands, tightening and relaxing his grip on them, the silver of the weapons occasionally growing brighter as he circulated his aura into them; the pattern matched his breathing, and it was a method he’d found to be very helpful in learning to better control his aura. Many long days had been spent training both his body and his Soul at once, and with every stretch of Finnek Forest he’d sprinted through, every cliff of the mountain range he’d climbed, and every Grimm he’d slain with the tekko in his hands, calling upon his Aura – and in turn, utilizing his Semblance – had become an instinct. But still... there was always room for improvement, and the driving need for more battle experience. Barz rounded the corner, slowing his pace down and jogging off of the track and through the locker room doors. And he knew exactly where he could get it.
Half an hour later Barzilai stood in front of the Training Arena, a sweat rag draped on his shoulders, hanging over the straps of his red, sleeveless A-Shirt. He tightened his hand wraps – white bandages that wound their way up to his forearms – and kicked out the tension in his legs, the baggy pant legs of his gray sweatpants swooshing with the movement and the steel soles of his combat-boots clacking against the pavement, as he paced around the entrance. He’d often make his way here once he’d warmed up from his morning exercise, and wait diligently for any of his classmates to come looking for a sparring partner. And, to Barzilai’s welcome surprise, he’d often get plenty of takers, most all of which were pretty friendly and as eager to train as he was. To Barz, this was the perfect way to feel more… social, as it were: not only would he get to meet and square off against people with varying backgrounds, fighting styles and weapon masteries, but he’d also get to (hopefully) laugh along with them about how the fight went afterwards.
Barzilai smiled and stretched one last time before going to lean against the steps leading up to the Arena, where he then crossed his arms lightly, his eyes scanning the passing students eagerly as he dexterously twirled Ferrum and Fortia in his hands. “Hmm… I wonder who’ll be first today…?”
Half an hour later Barzilai stood in front of the Training Arena, a sweat rag draped on his shoulders, hanging over the straps of his red, sleeveless A-Shirt. He tightened his hand wraps – white bandages that wound their way up to his forearms – and kicked out the tension in his legs, the baggy pant legs of his gray sweatpants swooshing with the movement and the steel soles of his combat-boots clacking against the pavement, as he paced around the entrance. He’d often make his way here once he’d warmed up from his morning exercise, and wait diligently for any of his classmates to come looking for a sparring partner. And, to Barzilai’s welcome surprise, he’d often get plenty of takers, most all of which were pretty friendly and as eager to train as he was. To Barz, this was the perfect way to feel more… social, as it were: not only would he get to meet and square off against people with varying backgrounds, fighting styles and weapon masteries, but he’d also get to (hopefully) laugh along with them about how the fight went afterwards.
Barzilai smiled and stretched one last time before going to lean against the steps leading up to the Arena, where he then crossed his arms lightly, his eyes scanning the passing students eagerly as he dexterously twirled Ferrum and Fortia in his hands. “Hmm… I wonder who’ll be first today…?”
