Chương 17: Trying to train
Bought - Obsessive but Skilled (-2 tp)
0tp remaining
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Chosen option - train for 3 days, Desert Hunter guest, Revenge Quest. This is agreeable to Sal so no convincing roll. Here is the first day of training, not every session will be so detailed. Take this as an example for what we will be skipping past in the future:
His earthbending is at lvl 10. A roll of 55 it higher is required for advancing to the next level
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Sal wasn't afraid of pain. He'd never been. Not that he actively sought it; he simply didn't see a reason to fear it, either. His new training routine was proof enough of that.
He slept for a long while, almost a whole day, but when he woke up, he felt like his many wounds were more or less knitted up.
Out in the shifting sands, he began his morning with a steady run, his feet sinking into the dunes as he pushed forward, feeling every grain slip beneath him. Running on sand was unlike anything else—each step tested his balance, his calves aching from the strain of keeping upright, but he kept on running. At least it didn't burn his soles anymore.
Next came the bodyweight exercises: one-arm push-ups, core work, leg raises. Each movement brought a distinct burn, a reminder that the ring didn't make him stronger physically. Not yet, anyway.
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After the warm-up, he knelt in the sand and focused on the basics. This was the way his tribe trained their young, though he hadn't gone back to this level of simplicity in ages. Oddly, he found it soothing after the physical strain.
At first, he controlled only a handful of sand, moving it through narrow channels he created with his fingers. A small ring, a basic sphere—the work felt familiar, comforting even, as he shaped them against the breeze. Drills like these weren't about strength but finesse, coaxing each grain of sand to obey him without scattering.
Sometimes, he'd add a personal challenge, holding the sand in shape while making larger motions, or bracing against an unexpected gust. But as the morning sun climbed higher, his thoughts drifted. He wondered: when was the last time he truly pushed his bending? Had he even tried since being cast out of his home? A twinge of bitterness rose up. Then, with a grunt, he brushed it off and returned his focus to the shifting sand in his palms.
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Next was whip practice. Whips were a sandbender's standard choice in a fight, meant to subdue a target at a distance. Sand didn't cut or shatter—it clung, smothered, restrained.
He began with short strikes, forming whips from the sand at his feet and lashing at imaginary foes. Each strike left a faint mark in the sand, the grains scattering with every impact. Over time, he increased the length of the whips, maintaining cohesion while extending and retracting them. At one point, he flicked a whip towards a small rock, breaking it loose from the sand. It was satisfying to feel the precision and speed grow, each hit gaining purpose.
(Training roll - Req 55 / Rolled 23 / fail)
Occasionally, he'd miss, his frustration flaring. But this was how his people fought, and he wanted to perfect it. Hit from a distance, keep control, wear them down. Simple but effective.
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He flopped down on the sand, letting out a sigh and stretching his arms above his head. The sun was climbing, heat seeping into his bones, feeling like a gift from the heavens as he downed a tiny bit of water and stretched out the kinks in his shoulders.
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The next session focused on density—compacting sand for harder strikes and solid defenses. Sal dug his fingers into the sand, pulling up a handful and crushing it until it formed a solid mass. With a sharp inhale, he slammed it against a nearby rock. The grains scattered on impact, and he scowled. Not nearly hard enough.
He kept at it, forcing the sand to stay compressed. Sometimes, it slipped through his fingers, loose and scattered, reminding him of just how fine the control had to be. Other times, he managed a satisfying smack against the rock, a hint of solidity in the sand's usual fluidity. The task wasn't just about strength; it was about timing, learning to hold the grains tight only at the exact moment of impact. Oh, he could make the sand rock solid if he put his mind to it, but in the middle of a fight he couldn't focus solely on that. The sand had to harden instantly at his command.
Between strikes, he practiced creating compact shields, forming them quickly in front of him before smashing them down, scattering the sand. The shields weren't yet sturdy, but they were improving, bit by bit.
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This was where things became more instinctual—adapting his bending to the landscape itself. Sal practiced manipulating the dunes around him, creating hills and pits in the sand to trip up imaginary enemies.
With sweeping motions, he would carve out a trench or force a dune to rise, all with the goal of creating obstacles on the fly. He practiced shifting larger and larger amounts of sand, sometimes losing control as it spilled out in unintended waves. Sal clenched his jaw and tried again, determined to make each movement smoother, more fluid.
The desert itself was his teacher here—the way it shifted and moved, changed shape with the slightest wind, taught him how to manipulate sand naturally. Sometimes, the sand was cooperative, flowing easily under his control. Other times, it resisted, stubbornly. Good thing that Sal was even more stubborn.
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This was new, and it was grating at his patience. He knew Crow expected results eventually, but controlling sand without a second hand was frustrating beyond belief. Yet, he persisted, forcing himself to try bending sand with only the stump of his missing hand. He'd lift his arm, concentrating, focusing with every fiber of his being to try to create even the smallest motion.
When the sand barely budged, his anger simmered, but he kept at it. It had to be possible; Crow claimed it could be done. If a man like the King of Omashu could bend with just his face (Crow's exact words), then Sal wouldn't let something like a missing hand stop him.
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With the midday sun blazing overhead, Sal sat cross-legged in the sand, closing his eyes and trying to center himself. The physical strain was starting to catch up, every inch of his body aching. Meditation, as much as he disliked it, was necessary to recharge, letting him gather his energy for the next round of drills.
He pictured the sand, each grain fluid yet solid when necessary. And not for the first time, he found himself picturing that feeling extending to himself—adaptable, resilient, but also capable of intense focus and strength.
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Once his energy was restored, he moved on to one of the more challenging aspects: multiple whips. Even just thinking about it was daunting, but he didn't hesitate. Starting with one whip, he flicked it forward, adjusting his stance to stay balanced. He then formed a second one, trying to control them both at once.
The first few attempts were a mess, with one whip falling apart just as he tried to strike with the other. But he kept pushing, finding a rhythm between them. Occasionally, he managed a decent strike with both whips, but it was still rough, more effort than instinct. There was something in this challenge that he found deeply satisfying, the slow understanding of a skill that was truly difficult.
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As the sky darkened, Sal took a break, stretching his sore muscles and chugging water from his canteen. Despite the grueling day, there was a deep satisfaction simmering within him. He was pushing himself in ways he hadn't in years, and the work felt good, solid. Even if he wasn't making any massive breakthroughs yet, he felt himself inching closer with each session.
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Crow suggested he try blindfolding himself. Sal was dubious at first but went along with it, tying a cloth over his eyes before diving into his reflex drills.
Without sight, everything became more difficult. He had to rely on the feel of the sand, the way it shifted under his control. When he sent out a whip or tried to form a barrier, it was a leap of faith, an act of instinct rather than precise control. Crow would occasionally call out, his voice urging Sal to keep going, to push past the discomfort.
(Training roll - Req 55/ Rolled 41/ fail)
It didn't work at all, but it was a work in progress.
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For the final part of his newly established routine, Sal sat in stillness, hand resting on his knees as he took slow, deliberate breaths. He closed his eyes, letting the desert quiet around him, focusing inward. In his mind's eye, he visualized every technique he'd practiced—the whips, the dense shields, the environmental manipulation.
He imagined what it would be like to shape sand as fluidly as Crow had described, bending it to his will without hesitation. The idea felt far-off, like a distant star, but it was there, and he kept reaching for it as he drifted into the meditative state.
It was a long, hard day, and by the end of it, his body was screaming for rest. He let out a yawn, finally preparing himself to settle in and repeat the same grueling schedule tomorrow. But of course, the desert had other plans.
Out of the darkness, he heard the faint buzz of wings. And as he opened his eyes, he saw them—dozens of Buzzard Wasps circling around him.
"Great," he muttered. "Just great."
(Luck roll - 16)
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