. (sharaf) wrote in caeleste, @ 2010-10-27 23:46:00 |
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Entry tags: | adward sharaf, petra fortis |
how could i kill a man (petra)
"I'll grow tits when they add rooms for us," im insisted.
"Let's hope it doesn't come to that," Sharaf replied diplomatically.
"It already has, boy!"
"Well, I won't hold you to the tit thing," Sharaf tried again.
"Ha!" was the response.
In contrast to the grand and open spaces of the temple below, the offices of qa Yvutha Pharath were quite small. There was only one jolly fellow there at the moment, an elder tracker who could not move without the use of a cane and would probably not see a city outside of Urt Ivis again so long as he drew breath. His name was im in any case, and im was not one who spent a great deal of time mourning the loss of a prisoner. There were no rooms for spare here, not when they were all being used to store the belongings of other trackers out in the desert, so the best that im could offer was a pair of empty cells.
He laughed, as though it were some grand joke.
A long corridor in their section of the temple led to this place. The corridor was narrow, made of white brick stacked close together, and the bars were faded iron painted over with chipped white in some sort of effort to keep the colors uniform. They'd arrived at a great square room, the outer wall of which was taken up by square cells of iron bars and no privacy. Each cell had it's own stand, secured to the wall, and a cot. Sharaf could see light marks on the brick in the vast, open center of this room where a desk once had been. There was no desk now. There was simply empty space. The cells were personal, with one for each prisoner, but they were not private. im quickly hung a sheet on the bars between two cells, so that they would have some small amount of privacy.
Five oil lamps hanging near the center of the room were lit with great precision and speed, considering how old and broken-down was their host. im could not wait to leave this place, Sharaf supposed.
"It's quite comfortable," im related.
"It looks stunning," Sharaf agreed with heavy sarcasm.
im was singing some old song that Sharaf did not know the name of. The old tracker was disappearing now, having left his cargo behind him, and apparently he had no interest in sharing a drink
It didn't matter.
At first, he did not speak to Petra. Sharaf deposited his pack in the far back corner of the cell, right against the bars. The tonfa were stored there, as well, and his empty belt was used to loop through bars and trap the door to his cell open. There were no chances to be taken if im fell down a flight of stairs to his death, and in any case, Sharaf did not want to think that Petra would lock him in his cell. Or anyone else. There was no privacy as it was. His sleep would be light, without alcohol. Only when the belt was looped through two sets of bars and had trapped one against the other did Sharaf tighten and secure it.
It was impossible to hide what he was doing from Petra.
He was not going to try.
The bread which im had brought to them - it smelled of the sun and of wheat, two things Sharaf had not though he'd smell in a place so obviously opposed to agriculture as this - tempted his fingers. Sharaf resisted long enough to pry his boots free. Socks followed after, stretched over bars to dry them from the sweat, and then the pea coat next. Followed after his shirt, which was also stained by sweat. There were floral powders for that in his bag. Best to let them dry first, or he'd itch at the first sign of sweat. Only when he was reduced to his trousers did Sharaf exit the cell that was to be his nightly home.
Here in the locker, there was a great open space in the center of all the cells, with only one exit - the long corridor through which they'd just come. Sharaf could feel and see the bruises on his shoulders and sides. The tender place on his cheek was less visible to his own eyes, but no less painful. It was important after a fight of any kind to stay limber and loose. Keep the muscles from tightening up in your sleep and delivering all sorts of cramps and tears. He started by lifting his knees to his chest, one at a time, in a standing position. Or at least, as close as you could get in such a position. Only when he'd done these basic stretches several times did he turn to something more complicated.
One lunging step forward. Then his right knee lifted as the second step began. He turned to the right, dropping his right foot hard at the same time. This right foot provided the pivot point for a vicious turning kick that was called the tornado by some. Sharaf's foot could be heard as it sliced through air. Immediately into another tornado, always moving slightly to his right, so that he was following a great circle. The kick was not always practical, but it demanded all range of motion from your legs, and it was not a bad stretch if you were concerned about cramps and muscle fatigue. After ten or so, he went back the other way.
Sweat was rolling down the side of his face when he stopped.
Bouncing from one heel to the other, in constant motion, both hands raised just below his chest. This was the common stance for practicing your jabs and blocks. Petra would not be a good sparring partner unless it was full contact, and if it was full contact, he would murder her.
Murder. What a poor choice of words.
"You want to talk about it?" he asked with short syllables, still bouncing on his feet, looking for the right imaginary opponent.