north calling { silk & cas }
Feb 13, 2021 19:23:41 GMT -5
Post by tick 12a / calla on Feb 13, 2021 19:23:41 GMT -5
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The metal-on-metal clash is loud enough to burn.
Ok, well, maybe that's a bit much.
But it's loud enough to make his ears ring, especially when the sound of it bounces off the walls and goes up into the rafters. It's like being tossed into a blender with a brewing thunderstorm and about two dozen angry cats.
So when M brings him to the training centre, and he's busy testing the slight give of the floor and straining to make something out through the static of the artificial lighting, one of the trainers grabs him by the shoulders and he jumps. He gets something shoved into his hands, fingers naturally curling around it, and then someone guides him slightly away from the noise.
But then after a few disorientating seconds, there's just nothing. And he supposes that makes sense. The trainers are probably more focused on the careers and the high-betters. If the blind kid gets run through on the first day of training, it'd be fucking up their paycheque. Castor reaches a hand out tentatively, meeting some kind of hard plastic and when he drums his fingers against it it sounds solid. He pushes against it once, then again when it doesn't move, feeling over the slopes and juts of it.
A training dummy, then.
He runs his finger gently along the edge of what he thinks is a sword, and it's heavy, dulled down for training, but he can barely even lift it above his waist. He sets his shoulders and tries to poke it into the blur he's assuming is the dummy, but the blade is barely in the air for a few seconds before the tip of it falls back to the ground.
Ok, well, maybe that's a bit much.
But it's loud enough to make his ears ring, especially when the sound of it bounces off the walls and goes up into the rafters. It's like being tossed into a blender with a brewing thunderstorm and about two dozen angry cats.
So when M brings him to the training centre, and he's busy testing the slight give of the floor and straining to make something out through the static of the artificial lighting, one of the trainers grabs him by the shoulders and he jumps. He gets something shoved into his hands, fingers naturally curling around it, and then someone guides him slightly away from the noise.
But then after a few disorientating seconds, there's just nothing. And he supposes that makes sense. The trainers are probably more focused on the careers and the high-betters. If the blind kid gets run through on the first day of training, it'd be fucking up their paycheque. Castor reaches a hand out tentatively, meeting some kind of hard plastic and when he drums his fingers against it it sounds solid. He pushes against it once, then again when it doesn't move, feeling over the slopes and juts of it.
A training dummy, then.
He runs his finger gently along the edge of what he thinks is a sword, and it's heavy, dulled down for training, but he can barely even lift it above his waist. He sets his shoulders and tries to poke it into the blur he's assuming is the dummy, but the blade is barely in the air for a few seconds before the tip of it falls back to the ground.
