Of The Fittest (Solo)

[Razkar]

8th of Fall, 512AV

After the first mile his lungs began to burn and his breath stabbed at his throat. After three his sides screamed in agony and his legs progressed from agonized to numb. After five the sweat steamed off his body and arced off his hands with every swing.

And yet Razkar kept running, and rejoices in his pain.

Visitors and outlying residents to Riverfall are treated to the sight of a half-naked Myrian pounding around the city walls that morning, when the night's chill was melted away and the sun began its slow climb from the abyss of the horizon. Many were caravaneers who merely blinked at the curious image; it was hard to shock such men who plied the Sea of Grass for their living. Others were new arrivals, and many paused for a few chimes to see the tattoo- and scar-festooned savage hurtle around in his bare feet.

Razkar noticed them not. Noticed nothing but the blood pounding in his ears and the growing agony inside him.

The pain was good. The pain purged. It expelled weakness and gave birth to the body's power.

He curved around the bottom corner of the city walls, teeth gritted, and saw the ocean in front of him through a film of sweat. The tower at the edge of the beach rose up behind the walls and he knew he was nearly at his end.

So he ended it on a high note.

He forced his aching legs to piston and pump even harder, gaining speed as his armed jerked faster and harder with every shuddering footfall. A low growl started to rise in his throat as the wind blew through his hair, rushing past a startled dog in a blur. The sea got closer, and closer, and-

His feet hit the beach, loose sand sucking them down but he was too fast to be stopped by it now. His body howled in agony but he kept going, pounding forward to the surf until-

With a joyous whoop, Razkar threw himself into the water.

[Razkar]

Adrenaline was a wonderful thing. Razkar had heard healers and philosophers speak of things called "endorphins", too, but he did not understand that word. But it was easy to grasp that exerting oneself like he did every day released a charge of power that was like a lightning strike.

Mainly because as he strode out of the surf, legs sore but stable under him, panting and drenched, he can feel every spark.

The Myrian grinned upwards at the rising sun, turning the face the west where his people and his Goddess still fight and live and struggle. He rose his arms and shouts in Myrian, overjoyed in a way many Akalaks would have thought impossible in a "savage".

Then he turned towards the city, the sight of its high walls and towering spires reminding him that he was not yet finished.

Push-ups. Sit-ups. Three hundred of each, just as his morning routine was in the Taloba army. There it was understood that the warriors there were already seasoned, their bodies hardened beyond what mere humans would be in comparison. But they were the elite, the finest of the Myrian people. And so they drilled. Harder and harder every day, until the weaker were weeded out and the strong came into their own.

Razkar finished his final sit-up with a grunt, back and abdominals on fire and breathing hard again. Then he spied a tree and grinned.

Ah. One final thing...

The Myrian judged the branch to be... yes, nine feet off the ground. He took a run at it, leaping with legs that should have been tired but seemed to shrug off the pain, flying upwards with arms outstretched-

-and missing.

A curse that needed no translation into Common burst from his lips as he hits the ground. He forced himself not to look around as he jumped back to his feet. He would not look. He did not care, they were barbarians, and-

A giggle brought his head snapping round but all he saw was an empty doorway and fleeing footsteps. Razkar rolled his eyes upwards and sighed.

Wonderful.

[Razkar]

He didn't bother doing anything fancy the second time round. He stood under the branch, bent down and jumped up. Muscles like springs threw him upwards and he grasped the branch firmly. He wriggled a little, spacing his grip to shoulder-width, and began pulling himself up, getting his chin over the branch, lowering himself... raising himself...

Rise and repeat. One hundred times.

The sun had fully risen by the time he hit ninety-nine, every inch of height straining his arm muscles. But he did not, could not stop. He had set his mind and his body to an objective, and so he would complete it. Weeks, months, years of punishment for not doing so had beaten that defeatism out of him.

His first month was the worst. He failed to do three hundred push-ups... by a margin of five. His instructor, Xila, had beaten him with her staff until he urinated blood. He did not miss his goal again and now...

With a growl of victory he made one hundred, let his numb, quivering fingers drop him onto the sand. It was darker where he stood, panting, a stream of sweat drenching the sand so it was almost mud.

His beat... he felt it pulse through every vein on his body. His muscles were sore and his limbs almost inert. But that wasn't the point. The punishment, the pain, they were all anciliary. Merely distractions. The self-torture was not just to gain muscle or lose fat.

They proved to you that you could overcome it. That he could leave his weakness behind.

Razkar takes a long, shuddering breath, and exhales it slowly. Now his day can begin properly. The Myrian started to walk back to the inn, and pack his things.

[Gossamer]

. Character: Razkar Experience: +1 Running, +2 Observation, +2 Body Building, +1 Acrobatics Lore: Pain means the training is working, You Train With What You Have Available. Additional Note: Short but sweet fitness thread. Not much to say about it. I’m sure people stared. .