Momoku had started to think he'd been rude for asking as a silence stretched between them.
Then he heard scratching and caught a whiff of a smell before he felt another hand; Breakfast Girl (Sumire), he assumed; before she said:
"I am doing the hand seals in your hands so that you can feel them and get an idea of what they look like in your mind."
Nodding in thanks, he began to go through the hand seals as he had practiced for hours and felt… well, mostly a bubbling feeling in his gut and a pitiful breeze around his ears. It was a bit frustrating, but Momoku would not be stopped by such a setback. He was about to thank Sumire anyway when he heard a small strangled noise before she was gone.
Shrugging, he went back to centering himself when he heard the teacher mumble, "Oh, jeez."
Welp, here we go again, Momoku thought with a bit of bitter disgust. What was it going to be this time? "We can't train a cripple," or "You might be better suited for farming," or his personal favorite, "Get out! how could you hope to be a—"
"You're gonna have a much harder time than anyone else here," Rika stated rather bluntly. "But hand signs are flexible. Once you become more skilled, you will be able to perform jutsu with one hand, or without hand signs at all. Your only limitation is yourself and your imagination."
Momoku was floored. This had been the first time since he was blinded that he had been encouraged by, well, basically anyone. A series of failed attempts to be anything but a burden on his clan had left him a bit bitter, he had to admit. But this? Even hearing Rika ramble on about a story (he was already making a mental note to check whether his favorite bookstore had a copy he could get transcribed) the fire of his determination blazed brighter than ever. Not to be the best, but to be the most useful.
When Rika told the class to form the ram seal and hold it until it stung, he grinned, made the seal seamlessly, and strained to pull on the bubbling pool of what must be chakra, deep in his gut. He reached for it mentally, willing it to flow, to do something; anything. That was when he felt the heat from his core begin to churn and move, slowly, ever so slowly, toward his hands.
Then he heard scratching and caught a whiff of a smell before he felt another hand; Breakfast Girl (Sumire), he assumed; before she said:
"I am doing the hand seals in your hands so that you can feel them and get an idea of what they look like in your mind."
Nodding in thanks, he began to go through the hand seals as he had practiced for hours and felt… well, mostly a bubbling feeling in his gut and a pitiful breeze around his ears. It was a bit frustrating, but Momoku would not be stopped by such a setback. He was about to thank Sumire anyway when he heard a small strangled noise before she was gone.
Shrugging, he went back to centering himself when he heard the teacher mumble, "Oh, jeez."
Welp, here we go again, Momoku thought with a bit of bitter disgust. What was it going to be this time? "We can't train a cripple," or "You might be better suited for farming," or his personal favorite, "Get out! how could you hope to be a—"
"You're gonna have a much harder time than anyone else here," Rika stated rather bluntly. "But hand signs are flexible. Once you become more skilled, you will be able to perform jutsu with one hand, or without hand signs at all. Your only limitation is yourself and your imagination."
Momoku was floored. This had been the first time since he was blinded that he had been encouraged by, well, basically anyone. A series of failed attempts to be anything but a burden on his clan had left him a bit bitter, he had to admit. But this? Even hearing Rika ramble on about a story (he was already making a mental note to check whether his favorite bookstore had a copy he could get transcribed) the fire of his determination blazed brighter than ever. Not to be the best, but to be the most useful.
When Rika told the class to form the ram seal and hold it until it stung, he grinned, made the seal seamlessly, and strained to pull on the bubbling pool of what must be chakra, deep in his gut. He reached for it mentally, willing it to flow, to do something; anything. That was when he felt the heat from his core begin to churn and move, slowly, ever so slowly, toward his hands.