If you don't contest a draw, then the rules of the draw state: it's a damn draw. Johanna is satisfied with that, and satisfied with Kate catching even a glimpse of tongue. You don't stop playing a game with someone just because the fight portion of it is over, not if you're playing to win. If Kate knows the game--that one's more difficult to say.
But, axes. That's way more Johanna's style. She shifts to her feet and strides over to where she's left them, laying beside her t-shirt, heads gleaming in the light. Their handles fit easily against her palms--not the wood that she was used to, from childhood, but hard metal and plastic, manufactured somewhere for the Games. The thought is not a pleasant one, but axes are axes. If Johanna wanted reminders of childhood, she'd get a treeline tattooed on the inside of her eyelids, so she could see the forest whenever she managed to sleep.
As if to prove this to herself, she grips at both axes as she stands. Three seconds, to size up the targets as she approaches, gets a bit closer--and then Johanna shifts, abruptly, mid-step, sinks down into the proper stance as her fingers slide neatly down the shaft toward the bottom--brings the axe up in an arc, up from her knee, and sends it whirling through the air. Head over shaft, over head, over shaft, and then, thunk, the blade bites right into the center of one of the targets.
Pleased with herself, she turns to Kate, and holds out the spare axe. "It's not in the wrist. That's the first thing to remember. And you want them dull. They grip your target better when they're dull. More screaming." She wiggles the axe, enticingly.
LOOKS AT YOU
But, axes. That's way more Johanna's style. She shifts to her feet and strides over to where she's left them, laying beside her t-shirt, heads gleaming in the light. Their handles fit easily against her palms--not the wood that she was used to, from childhood, but hard metal and plastic, manufactured somewhere for the Games. The thought is not a pleasant one, but axes are axes. If Johanna wanted reminders of childhood, she'd get a treeline tattooed on the inside of her eyelids, so she could see the forest whenever she managed to sleep.
As if to prove this to herself, she grips at both axes as she stands. Three seconds, to size up the targets as she approaches, gets a bit closer--and then Johanna shifts, abruptly, mid-step, sinks down into the proper stance as her fingers slide neatly down the shaft toward the bottom--brings the axe up in an arc, up from her knee, and sends it whirling through the air. Head over shaft, over head, over shaft, and then, thunk, the blade bites right into the center of one of the targets.
Pleased with herself, she turns to Kate, and holds out the spare axe. "It's not in the wrist. That's the first thing to remember. And you want them dull. They grip your target better when they're dull. More screaming." She wiggles the axe, enticingly.