Post by Amadi Dumisani on May 19, 2013 11:47:35 GMT -5
Apollo himself was barely dragging his body out of bed by the time Amadi Dumisani's hands were raw and bloody. That was nothing compared to the training buddy he had chosen for his victim, though. Not one of the softer ones wrapped with cloth and made for hands-on contact, no, those wouldn't do for his purpose. This was one of the wooden dummies responsible for dulling the campers blades for sword practice. The darkness was slowly slipping away, revealing dents where the 'face' should be, the torso skinnied down from the kicks it had been subjected to.
Amadi paused, bending over to rest his bloody hands on shaking knees. He surveyed his handiwork, the blood inside the dents, the slight layer of wooddust on the ground mixed with more of his blood. Sweat dripped down his forehead, though all that happened when he lifted his hand to wipe it away was now blood was in his eyes. He growled, whatever. Fine. He didn't need to see. He knew where the dummy was in relation to him, relying on sight was nice but it shouldn't be necessary. He took a deep breath, and began to attack the dummy again.
Too little, like Isoba said. Too small, like his mother said. All he could do was run and hide. Just like always. He was no warrior, and the training dummy knew it. It stood there, mocking him, his blood dripping down it to prove that no matter how much he whittled it down it would take more out of him. It would beat him.
“Hya!” Amadi let loose another barrage of punches at the dummy, ignoring the increasing pain in his hands as more splinters embedded into his knuckles. Not good enough, he still wasn't strong enough. Isoba would never believe he was strong if this was the best he could do.
The pain in his knuckles was finally getting unbearable, not helped by the dirt and wood scraps embedded into them, so he switched it up, attacking the dummy with the heel of his palms, striking from the sides and the tops with the ferocity of a slowly dying tiger. He could feel his legs under him straining and finally start to give way but he still attacked the head, then the neck, and then the torso right up until his legs gave up and he sunk to the ground.
"Wasse." He muttered, not bothering to try and get up. The arena floor felt strangely comfortable, and if he didn't move no new pain shot through his body besides the sting and the throb of his hands and legs. In a moment, he would get up and clean himself off, wash his wounds and wrap them. If it was too bad, he might consider going to the infirmary to get some ambrosia later. Rolling onto his back, he stared at the sky to watch the sun slowly rise.
Amadi paused, bending over to rest his bloody hands on shaking knees. He surveyed his handiwork, the blood inside the dents, the slight layer of wooddust on the ground mixed with more of his blood. Sweat dripped down his forehead, though all that happened when he lifted his hand to wipe it away was now blood was in his eyes. He growled, whatever. Fine. He didn't need to see. He knew where the dummy was in relation to him, relying on sight was nice but it shouldn't be necessary. He took a deep breath, and began to attack the dummy again.
Too little, like Isoba said. Too small, like his mother said. All he could do was run and hide. Just like always. He was no warrior, and the training dummy knew it. It stood there, mocking him, his blood dripping down it to prove that no matter how much he whittled it down it would take more out of him. It would beat him.
“Hya!” Amadi let loose another barrage of punches at the dummy, ignoring the increasing pain in his hands as more splinters embedded into his knuckles. Not good enough, he still wasn't strong enough. Isoba would never believe he was strong if this was the best he could do.
The pain in his knuckles was finally getting unbearable, not helped by the dirt and wood scraps embedded into them, so he switched it up, attacking the dummy with the heel of his palms, striking from the sides and the tops with the ferocity of a slowly dying tiger. He could feel his legs under him straining and finally start to give way but he still attacked the head, then the neck, and then the torso right up until his legs gave up and he sunk to the ground.
"Wasse." He muttered, not bothering to try and get up. The arena floor felt strangely comfortable, and if he didn't move no new pain shot through his body besides the sting and the throb of his hands and legs. In a moment, he would get up and clean himself off, wash his wounds and wrap them. If it was too bad, he might consider going to the infirmary to get some ambrosia later. Rolling onto his back, he stared at the sky to watch the sun slowly rise.