Senshi’s maroon eyes flittered open as the shuffling sounds of a busy nurse awoke him. Remorsefully, he pulled the scratchy white blanket over his eyes, trying to recall the rapidly fading scattered dreams that had entertained him through the night — vague shapes, whirlwinds of color, and soothing voices were all that came to him. With a sigh of defeat, he pulled the blanket off from his face.
The pallid boy, aged 16, breathed in the sterile air, slowly, so as not to cause himself another coughing fit. He reached for a glass of water that had been left by his bedside sometime before he’d awoken; it helped, a little.
In recent days he’d been feeling well enough to escort himself to the washroom, albeit with some difficulty. Ambling out of bed, gingerly testing his weight on feeble limbs, was a slow process. When at last he could crawl back into his cozy, scratchy, cot — weary and worn from his arduous odyssey, but clean and freshly clothed in a new hospital gown — he felt that he could eat his weight in meat. After finishing half a small pork cutlet, he couldn't even fathom taking another bite.
His strength all but depleted, he propped himself up in bed and reached for a book simply titled "Applications of Chakra," settling in for the better part of the morning. Days here were slow and entertainment was limited. Senshi made do with what he could; conceptually, at least, he was equal among his peers.
The doctors worried about his health. They were afraid he'd never possess the constitution for combat, travel, or even simple activities. Senshi was a shinobi, but should he be? This was the fourth time, in as many years, that the boy had taken residence within their halls. Surely it was a sign?
The boy would not be dissuaded. Day after day, he insisted that he was feeling a bit better. He was convinced that he would one day set foot upon foreign lands, gaze upon sights too alien to imagine, and immerse himself in cultures yet undiscovered. He was a bonafide dreamer.
Today, like many others before it, was moving slowly. He began to hum to himself as he read, the pages turning with ever quickening pace. He wished something exciting would happen.
NPC: FUZUKAZE SENSHI
The pallid boy, aged 16, breathed in the sterile air, slowly, so as not to cause himself another coughing fit. He reached for a glass of water that had been left by his bedside sometime before he’d awoken; it helped, a little.
In recent days he’d been feeling well enough to escort himself to the washroom, albeit with some difficulty. Ambling out of bed, gingerly testing his weight on feeble limbs, was a slow process. When at last he could crawl back into his cozy, scratchy, cot — weary and worn from his arduous odyssey, but clean and freshly clothed in a new hospital gown — he felt that he could eat his weight in meat. After finishing half a small pork cutlet, he couldn't even fathom taking another bite.
His strength all but depleted, he propped himself up in bed and reached for a book simply titled "Applications of Chakra," settling in for the better part of the morning. Days here were slow and entertainment was limited. Senshi made do with what he could; conceptually, at least, he was equal among his peers.
The doctors worried about his health. They were afraid he'd never possess the constitution for combat, travel, or even simple activities. Senshi was a shinobi, but should he be? This was the fourth time, in as many years, that the boy had taken residence within their halls. Surely it was a sign?
The boy would not be dissuaded. Day after day, he insisted that he was feeling a bit better. He was convinced that he would one day set foot upon foreign lands, gaze upon sights too alien to imagine, and immerse himself in cultures yet undiscovered. He was a bonafide dreamer.
Today, like many others before it, was moving slowly. He began to hum to himself as he read, the pages turning with ever quickening pace. He wished something exciting would happen.
NPC: FUZUKAZE SENSHI
