[backdated to a day or two after the halloween festival]
[Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!
The rhythmic impacts of wood striking wood echo across a certain Sheikah's chosen section of the wildlands surrounding Reverein, shaking loose the odd decaying leaf nearby and sending the local woodland creatures scattering for quieter, less threatening pastures.
Surely if it was granted an ounce of sentience, the training dummy Sheik conjured would no doubt attempt to do the same. He's been whaling on it for a while now, running through combat drills one after the other, again and again. Perhaps one could admire his diligence, his discipline as he moves from one well-practiced strike to another, but a well-trained eye will see the tension in his jaw and the furrow in his brow, and know that this is no mere training session to keep one's skill's sharp.
Thwack! Thwack! ...Thwack!
He's doing this because he's angry. Because he's afraid. Because he's frustrated and grieving and guilt-ridden and a dozen other things he can't express. It isn't helping. It doesn't make him feel those things any less, but as his palms sting with each impact his training sword makes with the splintering dummy, as his limbs burn with each surge of motion in the cooling mid-autumn air, they at least give him something else to feel besides—
Crrrrack...!
His leg swings up, over, colliding with the dummy's "head" with a grunt of effort that betrays the irritation lying beneath the disciplined facade, and that is when the dreamotion construct reaches its limit. The head flies off into the underbrush nearby, the rest tipping over before vanishing into the ether it was spun from as Sheik falters, caught off guard by its breaking.
A moment later, his expression falls, and he sighs, muttering to himself:] ... Useless.
for skyglider; the healthiest coping mechanisms
[Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!
The rhythmic impacts of wood striking wood echo across a certain Sheikah's chosen section of the wildlands surrounding Reverein, shaking loose the odd decaying leaf nearby and sending the local woodland creatures scattering for quieter, less threatening pastures.
Surely if it was granted an ounce of sentience, the training dummy Sheik conjured would no doubt attempt to do the same. He's been whaling on it for a while now, running through combat drills one after the other, again and again. Perhaps one could admire his diligence, his discipline as he moves from one well-practiced strike to another, but a well-trained eye will see the tension in his jaw and the furrow in his brow, and know that this is no mere training session to keep one's skill's sharp.
Thwack! Thwack! ...Thwack!
He's doing this because he's angry. Because he's afraid. Because he's frustrated and grieving and guilt-ridden and a dozen other things he can't express. It isn't helping. It doesn't make him feel those things any less, but as his palms sting with each impact his training sword makes with the splintering dummy, as his limbs burn with each surge of motion in the cooling mid-autumn air, they at least give him something else to feel besides—
Crrrrack...!
His leg swings up, over, colliding with the dummy's "head" with a grunt of effort that betrays the irritation lying beneath the disciplined facade, and that is when the dreamotion construct reaches its limit. The head flies off into the underbrush nearby, the rest tipping over before vanishing into the ether it was spun from as Sheik falters, caught off guard by its breaking.
A moment later, his expression falls, and he sighs, muttering to himself:] ... Useless.