Grantaire

Grantaire can't make heads nor tails of the weather. Given their blizzard, earlier this month, and the snow last year at this time -- he believes everyone when they say the balmy weekend they're having is unseasonable. It's warmer even than what he's used to in Paris, more like true spring. He's gone from a heavy coat to warm in a light jacket.

It's sunny as well today, and so he's taken himself out and about, down to the beach. The water must still be freezing, but that's not his intention. Rather, it's too early in the season to run into too many people down here, and lately he's been thinking about fighting. Like art, and like the drinking he's rededicated himself to giving up, it focuses his mind down, away from the melancholy and doubt that can plague him sometimes. He ought to go to one of the gyms and really work on training for the boxing aspect of his sport, but today it's more of an experiment.

He doesn't have anyone to spar with, which would be more ideal, but he's taken his baton -- a long staff, a bit smaller than a quarterstaff, like a longsword in length -- and after loosening up he brings it into play, practicing the basic positions of defense and offense and slowly tying them together. Like a dance, this battle against an invisible opponent. He can feel unused muscles stretching out, and it feels good: like speaking again to an old friend.