Post by Takashi Sakuma on Mar 5, 2018 17:40:37 GMT -5
“Men!” The voices of the training Shinigami and the smack of bamboo shinai carried over all the other noise that filled the training hall. The doujou wasn’t particularly busy that day, but every footfall on the hardwood floor contributed to the dull echo that filled the massive corridor. Takashi slid the door shut behind him as he entered one of the side corridors, pausing on the doorstep to remove his waraji. After some prodding, he stirred Kohaku from her nap on his shoulder. The hawk stretched her wings, and after gaining her bearings, hopped onto the top of the storage cabinet that faced the training floor: her habitual perch whenever he came here to train.
Takashi brushed off the water from his sleeves that he had collected from outside. It was early spring, and while it wasn’t raining, he had carried a part of the misty, gray day inside the doujou with him. He could still feel its chill on his skin as he switched out his Zanpakutou for a bokken and stepped onto the main floor. Motes of suspended dust shimmered in the diffuse light that filtered in from the ventilation windows in the main cupola above. The cool air and the bright smell of wax gave the training hall a clean feeling, and as Takashi settled into his stance he felt the tension in his shoulders dissipate. While he wasn’t quite as relaxed as he would have been if he were training in the open air, the doujou was a familiar place for him, and he was at least at ease for the moment.
The central training hall, one of the larger ones in the Seireitei, was located near the Shin'ou Academy and as such was shared by several divisions. There were open floors for free sparring, as well as simple wood practice dummies that stood closer to the outer walls. One corridor was closed off from the main area by sliding doors, which was designated as the only place Zanpakutou were permitted, specifically for iaijutsu.
Without making himself obvious, Takashi quickly took stock of all who were there that afternoon. Mainly, the doujou was being used by new recruits from the Academy, who kept close to each other, likely too timid to step out from their groups. The few other practitioners seemed to be mostly from the Fifth, which was not surprising, although there were a few from the Third as well. From what he could tell, Takashi was the only one there from the Second, and he breathed a sigh of relief. One of the main reasons he went out of his way to come to the shared doujou as opposed to using the one at headquarters was because he wanted to avoid the fellow members of his division as much as possible, as he was not one for their training methods. Fortunately, it seemed he had succeeded that day.
Turning his attention to the dummy in front of him, Takashi calmed his breathing and adjusted his grip on the hilt of the bokken. After moving through a series of sweeping cuts meant as a warmup, he began to practice in earnest, concentrating on his precision as he swung the bokken again and again. With each stroke of the wooden practice sword, Takashi cut away at the cloud that clung to his senses. Only five years had passed, but he felt like he had aged fifty. The decimation of his division and the grief at the loss of his mentor continued to lie just beneath the surface of his skin; a deep wound that had only thinly scabbed over. He knew that if he started to think about it all the pain would come welling back up to the surface. So he did his best not to think. The rhythmic sound of the bokken clacking against the dummy helped him to drown out his surroundings, and Takashi’s concentrated fully on the task in front of him.
He was interrupted by a sudden tightness in his chest. He stopped, at last noticing that his breath was coming shallow and too fast. He tried to calm himself, but he could feel his pulse throbbing in his palms as he gripped the bokken much too tightly. His vision seemed to shrink around him, and in the muted pressure against his ears he heard a voice. His shikai, the Aka no Tsume, was once again calling his name.
Slowly, Takashi turned to glance in the direction of the cabinet where he had placed his Zanpakutou. He tasted the salt of sweat on his lips, and felt the unmistakable urge to retrieve the sword. What do you want? He asked. But there was no reply. Closing his eyes, Takashi shuddered, and the moment passed as quickly as it had come. He relaxed from his stance, straightening up and allowing his sword arm to drop to his side. The color had drained from his face, and he felt as though all his strength had been drained. He couldn’t go on like this, that much was certain. With an air of defeat, he turned to replace the bokken and leave the training hall.
Word count 859
Takashi brushed off the water from his sleeves that he had collected from outside. It was early spring, and while it wasn’t raining, he had carried a part of the misty, gray day inside the doujou with him. He could still feel its chill on his skin as he switched out his Zanpakutou for a bokken and stepped onto the main floor. Motes of suspended dust shimmered in the diffuse light that filtered in from the ventilation windows in the main cupola above. The cool air and the bright smell of wax gave the training hall a clean feeling, and as Takashi settled into his stance he felt the tension in his shoulders dissipate. While he wasn’t quite as relaxed as he would have been if he were training in the open air, the doujou was a familiar place for him, and he was at least at ease for the moment.
The central training hall, one of the larger ones in the Seireitei, was located near the Shin'ou Academy and as such was shared by several divisions. There were open floors for free sparring, as well as simple wood practice dummies that stood closer to the outer walls. One corridor was closed off from the main area by sliding doors, which was designated as the only place Zanpakutou were permitted, specifically for iaijutsu.
Without making himself obvious, Takashi quickly took stock of all who were there that afternoon. Mainly, the doujou was being used by new recruits from the Academy, who kept close to each other, likely too timid to step out from their groups. The few other practitioners seemed to be mostly from the Fifth, which was not surprising, although there were a few from the Third as well. From what he could tell, Takashi was the only one there from the Second, and he breathed a sigh of relief. One of the main reasons he went out of his way to come to the shared doujou as opposed to using the one at headquarters was because he wanted to avoid the fellow members of his division as much as possible, as he was not one for their training methods. Fortunately, it seemed he had succeeded that day.
Turning his attention to the dummy in front of him, Takashi calmed his breathing and adjusted his grip on the hilt of the bokken. After moving through a series of sweeping cuts meant as a warmup, he began to practice in earnest, concentrating on his precision as he swung the bokken again and again. With each stroke of the wooden practice sword, Takashi cut away at the cloud that clung to his senses. Only five years had passed, but he felt like he had aged fifty. The decimation of his division and the grief at the loss of his mentor continued to lie just beneath the surface of his skin; a deep wound that had only thinly scabbed over. He knew that if he started to think about it all the pain would come welling back up to the surface. So he did his best not to think. The rhythmic sound of the bokken clacking against the dummy helped him to drown out his surroundings, and Takashi’s concentrated fully on the task in front of him.
He was interrupted by a sudden tightness in his chest. He stopped, at last noticing that his breath was coming shallow and too fast. He tried to calm himself, but he could feel his pulse throbbing in his palms as he gripped the bokken much too tightly. His vision seemed to shrink around him, and in the muted pressure against his ears he heard a voice. His shikai, the Aka no Tsume, was once again calling his name.
Slowly, Takashi turned to glance in the direction of the cabinet where he had placed his Zanpakutou. He tasted the salt of sweat on his lips, and felt the unmistakable urge to retrieve the sword. What do you want? He asked. But there was no reply. Closing his eyes, Takashi shuddered, and the moment passed as quickly as it had come. He relaxed from his stance, straightening up and allowing his sword arm to drop to his side. The color had drained from his face, and he felt as though all his strength had been drained. He couldn’t go on like this, that much was certain. With an air of defeat, he turned to replace the bokken and leave the training hall.
Word count 859
