In light of her fighting, Isabella had taken her daggers to a clearing in the rooms, ignoring the scents of the inhabitants. If anyone watched, they would see her slowly move through attack patterns, self-invented of course. She was family and they could not insult her to her face, though she wished that someone wise in these arts would come help her. She was not the best at this, as her poor ability in the knives was only enough for self-defense and some offense if she was enraged enough. More so, it was more useful to kill someone unexpectedly.

Isabella held the daggers in her hands awkwardly, twisting them to get a good grip on the handles and get it comfortable in her fingers. It felt clunky in her grasp, a woman who was used to smooth as silk everything. Though she had fought before with them, Isabella felt that out of combat, she was as graceful as a toddler with feet too big. Breathing slowly, the gypsy moved her daggers as best as she could. She remembered her brother's practicing with weapons and teeth. Her motions mimicked them, though every movement felt slow, chunky, and jerky. She tried a sweep here and it felt too wide and she could see she was left open.

Her next few motions were smoother, but still nothing beautiful. Isabella let her hands sweep around, more for a dance of knives than for a combat maneuver. It would win her no kills but she was in it for the self defense. Sighing in resignation, Isabella jerked her arms in such a way that her body became unbalanced. She stumbled and almost fell. Heat filled her face and anger made her eyes stormy. With a growl, she took a dagger and chucked it hard at a nearby tree. Somehow it had spun properly and landed blade first into the wood.