Post by john on Apr 13, 2007 22:48:01 GMT -5
The room itself can't even really be called John's. A communal setting shared by 3 other bodies, 2 tielfling, 1 unknown. (John has learned not to ask.) Scattered detritus from their lives surrounds him as he sits on his own bunk, the lower, below a male Taker and tax collector like himself. His own is little neater, only notable by the lack of pornographic pictures or expended dog-ends of various smokeables near it, as compared to the beds of the others.
He works his whetstone down over his blade, sharpening it without thought or deliberate movement, entirely living by reflex. His mind is set on the contemplation of the various people he has met in Sigil within the past few days. Fishy, the Bariaur warrior, Nilou... the conceited, self important, but knowledgeable and useful bitch. The clueless prime with the funny ears. The other gamblers. The worthless dead wench.
He realizes, in this moment of contemplation, a rather dreadful fact. He doesn't have a single friend in the world. But this fact is immediately put out of his mind by a dogma that has been drilled into him by Scree, herself not his friend, but his mentor nonetheless "A Fated doesn't need friends. He can accomplish what he needs by himself. Dependency on others breeds weakness, and weakness brings death when the other fails you."
He looks upon the edge of the sword, almost over-sharpened now, possibly liable to blunt or break if hitting too thick a bone or armor in a fight. He shakes his head, and looks down at his boots, polished to the usual sheen which demonstates even more blatantly the dullness of the rest of his clothing, from the dark green cloak to his ironmongery, draped about him as naturally as most men would wear a vest or light shirt.
He sheathes the sword with a grunt, unable to think of any further maintenance for it. He pulls his legs up to his chest and curls into a ball, a curiously vulnerable gesture for a man who virtually oozes aggressiveness and barely-contained intimations of violence on even the most jovial of occasions. The room is cold. Another bit of dogma is mentally recited to him, "Physical sensation is an illusion. A foe to defeat. The sensates are sucked in entirely in the moment and as such fail to see the main chance, the time to strikes the correct blow, and in so doing fail. Abide, survive, and in so doing learn strength."
He lies back after a moment, taking no pleasure in the possible comfort of the bed creaking beneath his bulk. He reaches over, and almost irritatedly pulls a book out of his foot-locker, reading an already-memorized page of military drill and tactics once more, as a man might finger prayer beads or nervously chew his nails, a repetitive, meaningless action which comforts, calms, and focuses him for a moment. Page upon page of stances, cuts, parries and counter-attacks, each illustration and world already engraved in his mind so clearly he could close his eyes and recite the book. Just as Scree used to force him to do, under her brutal, demanding tutelage.
He works his whetstone down over his blade, sharpening it without thought or deliberate movement, entirely living by reflex. His mind is set on the contemplation of the various people he has met in Sigil within the past few days. Fishy, the Bariaur warrior, Nilou... the conceited, self important, but knowledgeable and useful bitch. The clueless prime with the funny ears. The other gamblers. The worthless dead wench.
He realizes, in this moment of contemplation, a rather dreadful fact. He doesn't have a single friend in the world. But this fact is immediately put out of his mind by a dogma that has been drilled into him by Scree, herself not his friend, but his mentor nonetheless "A Fated doesn't need friends. He can accomplish what he needs by himself. Dependency on others breeds weakness, and weakness brings death when the other fails you."
He looks upon the edge of the sword, almost over-sharpened now, possibly liable to blunt or break if hitting too thick a bone or armor in a fight. He shakes his head, and looks down at his boots, polished to the usual sheen which demonstates even more blatantly the dullness of the rest of his clothing, from the dark green cloak to his ironmongery, draped about him as naturally as most men would wear a vest or light shirt.
He sheathes the sword with a grunt, unable to think of any further maintenance for it. He pulls his legs up to his chest and curls into a ball, a curiously vulnerable gesture for a man who virtually oozes aggressiveness and barely-contained intimations of violence on even the most jovial of occasions. The room is cold. Another bit of dogma is mentally recited to him, "Physical sensation is an illusion. A foe to defeat. The sensates are sucked in entirely in the moment and as such fail to see the main chance, the time to strikes the correct blow, and in so doing fail. Abide, survive, and in so doing learn strength."
He lies back after a moment, taking no pleasure in the possible comfort of the bed creaking beneath his bulk. He reaches over, and almost irritatedly pulls a book out of his foot-locker, reading an already-memorized page of military drill and tactics once more, as a man might finger prayer beads or nervously chew his nails, a repetitive, meaningless action which comforts, calms, and focuses him for a moment. Page upon page of stances, cuts, parries and counter-attacks, each illustration and world already engraved in his mind so clearly he could close his eyes and recite the book. Just as Scree used to force him to do, under her brutal, demanding tutelage.