nothing but thieves } shiloh&cage
Feb 6, 2016 12:44:29 GMT -5
Post by Deleted on Feb 6, 2016 12:44:29 GMT -5
SHILOH TEIXEIRA
RAISE YOUR ARMS THE HIGHEST YOU CAN
Sweat hangs between his skin and his sweater, a light thing like two a.m. silence and the panting of manic breathes. Shiloh was never one for failure. A never ending sway, spear in hand after sixty-one jabs in aortic valves and optic nerves, but they were still standing and standing still and it bit at his ever living nerves. No matter how many times he did the same routine, there was still no way to kill something that was never living.
His knuckles were whiting, blinding on the handle that gave rope rash to his palms - it was something. Each attack rubbed his hands a little more raw and it was like dopamine each time, feeling something with each spearing. It brought something forwards, like an emotional attachment to each swing as he counted sixty one to sixty five, if he felt the attack he wanted to make sure the other end felt it more.
Through the day he had already broke eight dummies; each accompanied with seventy-two strikes on each limb.
He hated wasting time.
Killing quick wasn't interesting, wasn't fun - efficiency wise it had some standing, but what's the point. There's no point to practice still one-hits, after a while it ruined the spear and he would just relearn the same lesson - you can't kill what was never living. It was a waste of time to pretend to be stronger than a dummy, so he did precision.
It made it feel like eighteen years were almost worth it.
Seventy-two, he exhaled through broken breathes of the same routine, seventy two years and he still saw nothing more than white walls and red spears. It was like being stabbed, seventy-two times each for every year he still lived through glass walls; he wasn't ready. Each year he could've won, but each year he still couldn't find himself perfect. He found himself inefficient at the most. It was a waste of perfectly good him to spend eighteen years training, no matter what the arena he could've won as he threw the spear through the dummy's mouth and it shot clear through.
They couldn't kill him, because he was never alive to begin with.
His knuckles were whiting, blinding on the handle that gave rope rash to his palms - it was something. Each attack rubbed his hands a little more raw and it was like dopamine each time, feeling something with each spearing. It brought something forwards, like an emotional attachment to each swing as he counted sixty one to sixty five, if he felt the attack he wanted to make sure the other end felt it more.
Through the day he had already broke eight dummies; each accompanied with seventy-two strikes on each limb.
He hated wasting time.
Killing quick wasn't interesting, wasn't fun - efficiency wise it had some standing, but what's the point. There's no point to practice still one-hits, after a while it ruined the spear and he would just relearn the same lesson - you can't kill what was never living. It was a waste of time to pretend to be stronger than a dummy, so he did precision.
It made it feel like eighteen years were almost worth it.
Seventy-two, he exhaled through broken breathes of the same routine, seventy two years and he still saw nothing more than white walls and red spears. It was like being stabbed, seventy-two times each for every year he still lived through glass walls; he wasn't ready. Each year he could've won, but each year he still couldn't find himself perfect. He found himself inefficient at the most. It was a waste of perfectly good him to spend eighteen years training, no matter what the arena he could've won as he threw the spear through the dummy's mouth and it shot clear through.
They couldn't kill him, because he was never alive to begin with.
SO THE WHOLE UNIVERSE WILL GLOW
