A boy pounded his fist into a practice dummy. He tried to drown out the words that echoed inside his head with the sound of his fists hitting wood. It only fueled his anger more as the voice in his mind seemed to get louder with each blow. His blue mane, fallen in his face, drenched with sweat. With his wand thrown aside, the young cleric striked the oak dummy once again, his hands long gone numb from the pain.
Another fist went flying into another arm of the dummy, blood now dripping from his knuckles. The voices of inspiration cut to his very soul. Over and over, the image of an airship played in his mind repeatedly.
Short story, will continue.. whenever.