Strange Trip

Going outside, it was hard to believe this was only March. Paris during Lent (something Constance had tried and failed to calculate on her own without the cycle of Masses and saints days) was always so dreary and chill, although still a relief from winter. Here it was actually warm already, and she decided to make the most of it.

She'd given in eventually and found some items in the boutique she altered to fit, although most days she preferred the familiarity of her own clothes. Today she was in a pair of the blue twill trousers so many here wore, tucked into her boots, and a finer cotton shirt with buttons all down the front under her bodice (that had taken more alterations, but she'd taken in the shoulders, shortened the sleeves, and incorporated laces so they fit snugly along her forearms and out of the way). The trousers had what she thought were supposed to be pockets, but so small and tight she wasn't sure what was supposed to fit in them, so she'd hung her pistol from her belt opposite her sword. Her hair hung in a simple plait over one shoulder. All in all, not a bad figure, she decided, looking herself over in the mirror. It never would've done in Paris, but she'd dressed similarly when riding out with the musketeers before.

She'd gone to the stables for a horse and rode out a ways from the inn's main buildings. It felt good to get out and move more, with the sun warming into her, although she could've done with a hat to block it from her eyes and skin. She didn't know how D'Artagnan stood it without a hat. Once she was a ways away, she let the horse graze and found a fencepost that served as a good target. When trouble came, because it would she was sure, or when they found a way to return home, she wasn't going to be out of practice. ...Except possibly with the pistol, since she only had a few balls and not much more powder, so she carried the gun because it felt right to have with her rather than to train with it.

Drawing the dagger from its sheath at her back, Constance found the balance the way Vax was teaching her, took a slow, steadying breath, and threw it at the fencepost. It hit, but not well, the spin and strength just off, so it dropped instead of sticking into the worn wood. Picking up the knife, she set herself and tried again. And again.

After awhile, she switched to her sword. Hard to practice without an opponent, but she had her imagination, and memories of many hours training with D'Artagnan or watching the musketeers and cadets at their practice to call on.

Athos would've been proud, for all her focus on her practice, she stayed aware of the quiet around her - easier than at home, where the garrison and Paris around it were never this quiet – and she paused when someone approached, turning to see who it was.



[ooc: Run into Constance in the inn, at the stables, or anytime during her self-imposed training session. Her receptive English skills are starting to develop, but only basic stuff, and expressive is almost non-existent, but please don't let a language barrier stop you. She needs the practice.]