Perfection... no really
Azula stood in the practice yard in what passed for morning. She practiced religiously - perfection was her religion, her faith was in skill, and she was her own church. She moved, as if possessed by some other worldly grace and strength.
She concentrated and exhaled a deep breath. And then another, this time it would be perfect or it wouldn’t be worth doing. Lighting started to crackle between her finger tips. The feeling always gave her a rush, it made the blood run, the heart pump. And it was something that only the best could do.
She moved slowly, balling the lighting in her hands in the kata, paying attention to each of her steps on the ground, to how she moved her hands. Even the wind in her hair was taken into effect. She moved and then, suddenly, the lighting shot from one hand, hitting a piece of rubble in the practice yard, leaving a scorch mark. Perfect… it had to be perfect.
She took a deep breath.
She concentrated and exhaled a deep breath. And then another, this time it would be perfect or it wouldn’t be worth doing. Lighting started to crackle between her finger tips. The feeling always gave her a rush, it made the blood run, the heart pump. And it was something that only the best could do.
She moved slowly, balling the lighting in her hands in the kata, paying attention to each of her steps on the ground, to how she moved her hands. Even the wind in her hair was taken into effect. She moved and then, suddenly, the lighting shot from one hand, hitting a piece of rubble in the practice yard, leaving a scorch mark. Perfect… it had to be perfect.
She took a deep breath.