#sicklyi

[yi-dashi-a]

cervantestheferryman replied to your post:

-cooks him up a fresh crockpot of stew right before his very eyes… erm… goggles-

shadow--master replied to your post:

*Yells from afar* I DIDN’T POISON IT!

“I do not trust any of this.

  I do not trust any of you.”

[yi-dashi-a]

“... I am not even going to pretend that I do not walk in opposition to my body.”

[yi-dashi-a]

Set. Release. Set. Release.

Wuju training was sometimes simplest done by returning to basics. The greatest way to judge a man’s proficiency with a sword was to observe how he drew it from his waist. So, to better understand self, the Wuju Master drew a blade from his heel and placed it by his hip, bringing it to bear in both of his hands in a rhythm that had become muscle memory long ago.

Set. Release.

Set... Set.

From behind goggles sweat pooled as he missed a beat, but quickly was he back on track. Drawing and redrawing, noting every false twitch of his muscles as he did so. He knew no one faster to the draw than him, and he intended to keep it that way. For years he had done the same training without fault. He expected nothing less than perfection from his part.

Release. Set. Release--

A mighty cough racked the man’s form, coming from a deep place in his throat where it stirred up the gravel that made his voice so unique. It swayed his posture for but a moment, but with his brow so deeply furrowed he tried to save the stance. Perhaps he might have to some, but he couldn’t help but note how his hands trembled. This wasn’t done until it was perfect, it made him think. Training wasn’t done until the Wuju Master within said so.

Set. Release. Set. Release....

Not even as a dull tinnitus settled in his ear, and the blood seemed to rumble under his cheeks would he stop.

Set. Release...

... Set. Release.

Not even as he coughed under his breath would he relent. He had called himself Wuju Master. He had to earn it, despite a fever or despite a dizzying head.

Set... Fall..

He didn’t feel himself hit the ground. He didn’t even realise he was there until he felt a dull pain from his chest culminate in a strange warmth. Rolling over with a groan, he put a hand there idly, only to return it to his vision to see his deep purple gloves stained ever so slightly with blood. But was he in a mind to care about falling on the sharp point of a blade? Not particularly. Injury, no matter how deep or surface level the scrape, was of little issue to him.

I call myself Wuju Master, and yet I cannot wield my sword with a cold...

[yi-dashi-a]

shadow--master replied to your post:

It’s all an illusion. We can just be shadows or the real thing. You may never know.

“|Don’t sass with me, other Shadow Man!|” He coughed again in Ionian.

But was it really words, or more like a man gargling 10 tons of gravel in his throat?

No one could really say.