After all these years, the Brentaalan could still remember the first time he'd begun to train himself-- in every manner of discipline, in fact. A few things had defined his life over the past decades, and when he wasn't obsessing over the pursuit of wealth, ruminating on his desire to see anyone who called themselves Sith dead or as fas away from him as possible, or indulging in any manner of debauchery to satisfy his hedonistic tendencies, the Brentaalan was, every day, every week, of every month in every year, when able-- training.
He'd first been taught how to pickpocket-- a skill he seldom indulged in anymore, what with him no longer needing to steal just to put food on his plate. That had been followed, years later, with literacy-- something he'd spent hours every day trying to comprehend without any instruction, yet it was well worth it. Literacy opened up a number of different opportunities to him, namely in acquiring study material for what he'd train himself in next. Simple instruction books on combat-- how to shoot straight, how to hold a blade, and most importantly in his early years, how to throw a punch.
All of it had served as the foundations for his skills. Ofcourse, his hours spent in the gym were a different matter. Everything else he'd taught himself-- or been taught, in the case of his teachers and master on Yavin-- had come from an almost entirely practical perspective. Words were everywhere, so he'd learned how to read them. He got into fights, so he wanted to learn how to win them. A saber had found its way into his hand, so he wanted to learn how to use it. The Brentaalan, volatile and flamboyant as he was, had always been able to put such tendencies aside when the need, or even intense want, arose.
But it hadn't been that thinking, practical man that had led him to start lifting weights. Sure, the gym helped him run faster, exert himself for longer, and punch much, much harder, but those had all been secondary notions in his mind. He'd spent his entire life staring at statues of his purported ancestors, all boasting about great works or accomplishments-- and carved in the style of Gods, their bodies idealized and shown off. All appeared young and beautiful, all had perfect proportions, and all had strong bodies with well-defined muscle.
Had he known such sculptures had often been carved well after the subject's youth had faded and their physiques, which very rarely actually lived up to the art, were covered in layers of fat and wrinkled skin, he might've put those notions aside. But, those men and women were called Tannaras. He, and his mother, called him Tannaras. If a Tannaras was supposed to look young, handsome, and carry themselves with a physique that would take a strict diet and hours of work every day to achieve, he would do exactly that. Surely, nobody would doubt that he was who he said he was if he looked the part.
Even after he'd forgotten such naive notions the boy man never given up his obsession to achieve what was, in his mind, physical perfection. He'd spent hours in the gym on his ship, every single day, sticking to his routine and cataloguing everything he ate or drank. The results were undeniable, and even though his crippling insecurity kept him from showing any of it off directly, the Brentaalan had found other ways to demonstrate what he was capable of.
He'd first been taught how to pickpocket-- a skill he seldom indulged in anymore, what with him no longer needing to steal just to put food on his plate. That had been followed, years later, with literacy-- something he'd spent hours every day trying to comprehend without any instruction, yet it was well worth it. Literacy opened up a number of different opportunities to him, namely in acquiring study material for what he'd train himself in next. Simple instruction books on combat-- how to shoot straight, how to hold a blade, and most importantly in his early years, how to throw a punch.
All of it had served as the foundations for his skills. Ofcourse, his hours spent in the gym were a different matter. Everything else he'd taught himself-- or been taught, in the case of his teachers and master on Yavin-- had come from an almost entirely practical perspective. Words were everywhere, so he'd learned how to read them. He got into fights, so he wanted to learn how to win them. A saber had found its way into his hand, so he wanted to learn how to use it. The Brentaalan, volatile and flamboyant as he was, had always been able to put such tendencies aside when the need, or even intense want, arose.
But it hadn't been that thinking, practical man that had led him to start lifting weights. Sure, the gym helped him run faster, exert himself for longer, and punch much, much harder, but those had all been secondary notions in his mind. He'd spent his entire life staring at statues of his purported ancestors, all boasting about great works or accomplishments-- and carved in the style of Gods, their bodies idealized and shown off. All appeared young and beautiful, all had perfect proportions, and all had strong bodies with well-defined muscle.
Had he known such sculptures had often been carved well after the subject's youth had faded and their physiques, which very rarely actually lived up to the art, were covered in layers of fat and wrinkled skin, he might've put those notions aside. But, those men and women were called Tannaras. He, and his mother, called him Tannaras. If a Tannaras was supposed to look young, handsome, and carry themselves with a physique that would take a strict diet and hours of work every day to achieve, he would do exactly that. Surely, nobody would doubt that he was who he said he was if he looked the part.
Even after he'd forgotten such naive notions the boy man never given up his obsession to achieve what was, in his mind, physical perfection. He'd spent hours in the gym on his ship, every single day, sticking to his routine and cataloguing everything he ate or drank. The results were undeniable, and even though his crippling insecurity kept him from showing any of it off directly, the Brentaalan had found other ways to demonstrate what he was capable of.
The crunch of bone beneath his fists was something the Brentaalan had gotten used to over the years. A long time ago he'd found it satisfying, but his master had long discouraged those kinds of feelings. She hadn't been able to suppress all the satisfaction that came from combat though-- namely, Ephiny had never managed to make him stop enjoying the gratification that others gave him when he won a fight. It wasn't her fault-- all the fights the Brentaalan had won on Yavin were sparring matches, and he wasn't being praised for beating people to a pulp, but instead for demonstrating his skill.
That wasn't really the case right now, though.
When he was done with the Mirialan who'd climbed into the ring to face him, his hands were utterly soaked with the man's blood. Green had bled through the fabric, and it took two full rinses to clean up. The crowd had roared when he'd laid into the younger man, and to his credit, he'd managed to stay standing for far longer than the Brentaalan had expected. That had had the unfortunate side effect of taking far more blows than he otherwise would have suffered if he'd just gone down when the fight had obviously been lost, but the alien had persisted, defiantly holding his balance until a rib was broken and his face looked like it had been hit by a speeder.
The victory pot was small, and while Laeonas might have once eye the pot greedily, Laeo also didn't really need it's contents-- not all of it, anyway. As well as that, when he glanced down at the Mirialan he'd beaten, he couldn't help but feel impressed. "Give the guy half the pot-- enough to get a dip in some bacta, and to pay for a few lessons so I don't knock him on his ass again next time!" He'd loudly shouted into the microphone, much to the surprise-- and roar of approval-- from the crowd. It felt good-- really, really good, actually. The eyes, the attention. They were calling out his nickname-- "Raven," for his hair.
If he could, he would've just stood there and bathed in the chanting and applause for an hour-- maybe even a day.
--------
It took awhile for him to get back out from the arena and into the broader club area again. His opponent wasn't the only one who'd needed medical treatment-- the man had been fighting for hours, and he'd suffered a number of bruises and scrapes that the medical droids said needed to be taken care of. He didn't much mind them-- he'd suffered far worse, as evidenced by the prosthetics in his wrist and thigh, and the numerous scars all over his body. When all that was done, the Brentaalan was finally able to bathe, washing off hours of stench. He'd slipped out of his fighting clothes and into something a bit more fitting, before finally making his way out.
He wasn't recognized immediately-- the man was no longer covered in blood, he'd done up his hair, and he was wearing a completely different outfit, but when one noticed him, a few more did, and soon, there were people actually coming over to talk to him. He'd smiled, coolly answered questions-- one Pantoran girl even asked for a picture with him. His excitement over the positive attention radiated off of him, and to the others around him, it was infectious, a feedback loop of positive energy jumping between him and those impressed enough by his performance to come and talk to him.
This was going to be a good night.
@Reylo4evr
