Carving.
He was carving, slicing off a slab of meat, sawing the knife through the shoulder muscle, and in spite of it all he was met with blissful silence. That was off. That was wrong. So he kept carving. He kept slicing. Set the point of the knife against the bone, raised up the reflex hammer, and swung into the pommel.
A gut-wrenching, heartrending scream. He smiled, and swung again. And again. And again. Yelling. Bellowing. Sobbing. Cursing. Cacophony. Chaos. Sweet music to his ears.
Then she was there, as he held the hammer high, the knife set against her heart, and her eyes were full of tears. She was his mother his sisters his friends his comrades his lovers his soulmate. She was every woman he had ever failed… and momentum brought the hammer down.
He bolted upright, panting, his fists clenching the sheets, the sweat poring off him in rivulets. He was drenched, and his heart was still pounding as a shaking hand pushed back through his wet hair. The knot in his throat was a hard swallow, but he managed. Eyes closed once more, he focused on his breathing, intent upon the rhythm, the tempo, until it was regular once more. Satisfied, he glanced over, reached out, and brushed the back of his hand gently down over her cheek before pushing a stray lock of hair back behind her ear.
Slow, careful motions brought him to the edge of one of the finer beds he’d ever slept in – the Hourglass was known for such things – and soon enough he was on his feet, digging through the armoire for his clothes and dressing at a lethargic pace. He walked over to a nearby desk, and ran his fingers over the various belts, scabbards, and loops that held his assortment, his collection, his arsenal of knives. His hand recoiled at the first touch of steel, and he grimaced.
“Enough.â€
He reached for the manuscript copies on the desk, a humble bundle of papers that he’d had to send to Little Ala Mhigo for, as he lifted a small rucksack from the floor. His eyes ran over one particular passage for what must have been the hundredth time since the last sun had set.
Red is its color, bold as blood, for it is what it seeks to protect; what it covets to flow within one's own veins and will not allow to spill without severe jealousy.
One short, exasperated sigh later, he had the papers in his bag, his bag over his shoulder, and a note scrawled for his dearest, for when she woke.
AT HAMON’S. HAVE OUR PEARL.
Osric left the nutkin in the little tyrant’s nest beneath the bed, the note on his pillow, the kiss on her forehead, and the door shut and locked.
Old faces. Greetings exchanged, pleasantries seen to. New faces. Quick, harsh once-overs for appraisal, and the just-as-sudden softening of the features as they recognized the calluses on his hands. This was the pugilists’ guild, and pugilists were always welcome. The familiar cadences of flesh against leather and padding filled his ears, and he couldn’t help but grin.
A quick word with Gagaruna saw him to one of the backrooms where they maintained a number of striking dummies for private workout sessions. Once the iron doors slammed shut behind him, silence rushed in, and he was cut off. He was alone. He was alone with himself, and that had his heart racing again. He shook himself to throw off the mounting tension in his shoulders, then lowered his rucksack to the floor by the door.
He hadn’t worn much: white shirt, white sarouel, leather caligae. He wanted this simple. He wanted this pure.
He fell into the usual routine… or, at least, what had been the usual routine. Slow, methodical, more attentive to form and footwork than speed or force. It occurred to him that it had been quite some time, that it had been a while. When had he stopped? When had he stopped practicing? He cast his thoughts back through time, trying to identify just when he’d let his skills slip away from him, and found it, found that fixed point in time and space
Highbridge, nearly six moons ago. Highbridge, when he had pulled that trigger, when he had sworn to himself that never again would he take mercy on and spare the guilty, that never again would he allow a threat to his loved ones to walk free, that the cold finality of his steel would be the last sensation they felt in this life.
On Highbridge, six moons ago, he surrendered himself to his guilt, and that guilt had driven him back to the knives.
He shifted focus now and attended to the accuracy of his strikes as he circled the wooden figure before him. The shift in his philosophy had been just as swift: within a fortnight he had graduated from the patas to the katar, and from there it had been a mere hop, skip and a jump back into his old habits. He wondered why it had been so easy… then he blinked as he noticed, for the first time, that more than a few of his strikes were landing with the side of his hands presented against his target.
As if he was holding blades in reverse grips.
That’s what you are. That’s all you’ve ever been, and what you’ll always be. Why else would Master Rosethorne abandon you? Hells, there’s a ruttin’ crimson gemstone back at the Hourglass that’s yours, and what’s on it? The Knife. That’s how they know you. That’s how they’ll always know you.
That’s all you’re good for.
“No,†he hissed. “I don’t believe that.â€
Yes, you do. You know better. Osric died a long time ago. It’s been Dirk ever since.
He struck the target with his knuckles.
“He didn’t believe that.†With his palms. “He left me a letter.†With the backs. “Introduction.†With his elbows. “It’s why I’m here.†With a shoulder. “It’s why I’m still alive.â€
His breathing was ragged now, as ragged as it had been when he’d first woken this morning. He bit down and forced his eyes closed, forced himself to stillness.
"Da knew," he breathed. "Somehow, he knew."
Down he went, into the darkness, into oblivion where he was truly alone, that empty pit he’d been too scared to visit, to face. He drove out all thought, each and every single thought. One at a time, two at a time, three, four, more, he drove them out.
He’d sworn to put down the guilty, so why hadn’t he done for Lazarov on their first meeting, or their second? Perhaps because the man reminded him of himself… and perhaps because Roen reminded him of her. Innocence tarnished over time by harsh realities, but a single polishing away from shining just as brightly once more. It didn’t matter. He pushed it away.
He’d been so earnest for covert work, for skullduggery. Why had he found his time with the Red Wings so disappointing? So much time wasted. So many opportunities lost, as he’d pulled away, allowed his duties to seclude him. He’d laid aside brass for steel, knuckles for knives. Was that even the unit’s fault? Hadn’t he driven himself back to those dark depths which he’d never planned on revisiting? Perhaps he was wrong to lay blame at the feet of another. Perhaps not. It didn’t matter. He pushed it away.
Her. Everything always came back to her. She’d entered into his life on the tailwinds of a storm, and he’d been disheveled ever since. He’d found himself changing, conforming, felt the veil of pessimism lifted from his eyes and his soul lifted from the hells to which he’d committed it. He’d dedicated so much time and effort to understanding, to confiding, to pursuing, charming, safeguarding… he’d neglected himself. She mattered. Oh, how she mattered… but right now, she didn’t. She couldn't. Right now, he did. So he pushed her away.
He pushed past his work, his friends, his love, his knives. He pushed past the bodies and the blood. Then, at last, he was alone.
Alone. Stripped. Base. Primal.
Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
Thump-thump-thump-thump. Thump-thump-thump-thump. Thump-thump-thump-thump.
He remembered it.
He felt it.
He craved it.
He slowed. He breathed. He stepped. He faltered.
Maybe she did matter.
Maybe he mattered.
Maybe it all mattered.
He moved, and as he moved a certainty grew within him, a weight of sorts, a building pressure. Hand over hand, he drove himself into the wood. Foot over foot, he flowed around the wood. The two hearts beat as one, pulsed together, and at last when he struck his foe with everything he could muster – feet, thighs, hips, waist, shoulder, elbow, wrist, and every muscle in between – he felt no pain. He didn’t give.
The wood did.
He came back to himself, as he drew his fist back from within the splintered ruins of what had once approximated a man’s chest, and glanced down at his fist as he flexed his fingers. He wasn’t shaking. His hand wasn’t shaking. No cuts, no blood, nothing.
â€Hit me. Strike me on the chest. Go on.â€
He turned, eyes intent on the stone wall. One, two, three, four, five steps and as he moved he aimed, struck, lashed out beyond, into and through what should have been solid rock. Instead, the stone he’d struck broke, and the resulting pieces and the dust greeted him as the impact left a small crater.
“…heh.â€
He smirked as he staggered into the wall and rolled across it, slumping to the floor next to his rucksack.
“I can keep ‘em safe. I will.â€
He glanced down and reached inside his bag for the next step, pulled out his small sheaf of papers, and flipped to the second page. Read the words to himself. Smiled.
Orange is its color, mixed of red and yellow. Will and survival mix to become desire. Desire serves as a driving force for both. Such is the cycle. Thus flows the worldly energy up from the root into the Sacral. Thus lies where the spirit keeps and molds it, until such a time when it is called. Such is the Sacral.
So writes Berrod Armstrong, Son of the Fist, regarding the Second Chakra.
“…but on m’own terms. The past can go rut itself.â€
He was carving, slicing off a slab of meat, sawing the knife through the shoulder muscle, and in spite of it all he was met with blissful silence. That was off. That was wrong. So he kept carving. He kept slicing. Set the point of the knife against the bone, raised up the reflex hammer, and swung into the pommel.
A gut-wrenching, heartrending scream. He smiled, and swung again. And again. And again. Yelling. Bellowing. Sobbing. Cursing. Cacophony. Chaos. Sweet music to his ears.
Then she was there, as he held the hammer high, the knife set against her heart, and her eyes were full of tears. She was his mother his sisters his friends his comrades his lovers his soulmate. She was every woman he had ever failed… and momentum brought the hammer down.
He bolted upright, panting, his fists clenching the sheets, the sweat poring off him in rivulets. He was drenched, and his heart was still pounding as a shaking hand pushed back through his wet hair. The knot in his throat was a hard swallow, but he managed. Eyes closed once more, he focused on his breathing, intent upon the rhythm, the tempo, until it was regular once more. Satisfied, he glanced over, reached out, and brushed the back of his hand gently down over her cheek before pushing a stray lock of hair back behind her ear.
Slow, careful motions brought him to the edge of one of the finer beds he’d ever slept in – the Hourglass was known for such things – and soon enough he was on his feet, digging through the armoire for his clothes and dressing at a lethargic pace. He walked over to a nearby desk, and ran his fingers over the various belts, scabbards, and loops that held his assortment, his collection, his arsenal of knives. His hand recoiled at the first touch of steel, and he grimaced.
“Enough.â€
He reached for the manuscript copies on the desk, a humble bundle of papers that he’d had to send to Little Ala Mhigo for, as he lifted a small rucksack from the floor. His eyes ran over one particular passage for what must have been the hundredth time since the last sun had set.
Red is its color, bold as blood, for it is what it seeks to protect; what it covets to flow within one's own veins and will not allow to spill without severe jealousy.
One short, exasperated sigh later, he had the papers in his bag, his bag over his shoulder, and a note scrawled for his dearest, for when she woke.
AT HAMON’S. HAVE OUR PEARL.
Osric left the nutkin in the little tyrant’s nest beneath the bed, the note on his pillow, the kiss on her forehead, and the door shut and locked.
Old faces. Greetings exchanged, pleasantries seen to. New faces. Quick, harsh once-overs for appraisal, and the just-as-sudden softening of the features as they recognized the calluses on his hands. This was the pugilists’ guild, and pugilists were always welcome. The familiar cadences of flesh against leather and padding filled his ears, and he couldn’t help but grin.
A quick word with Gagaruna saw him to one of the backrooms where they maintained a number of striking dummies for private workout sessions. Once the iron doors slammed shut behind him, silence rushed in, and he was cut off. He was alone. He was alone with himself, and that had his heart racing again. He shook himself to throw off the mounting tension in his shoulders, then lowered his rucksack to the floor by the door.
He hadn’t worn much: white shirt, white sarouel, leather caligae. He wanted this simple. He wanted this pure.
He fell into the usual routine… or, at least, what had been the usual routine. Slow, methodical, more attentive to form and footwork than speed or force. It occurred to him that it had been quite some time, that it had been a while. When had he stopped? When had he stopped practicing? He cast his thoughts back through time, trying to identify just when he’d let his skills slip away from him, and found it, found that fixed point in time and space
Highbridge, nearly six moons ago. Highbridge, when he had pulled that trigger, when he had sworn to himself that never again would he take mercy on and spare the guilty, that never again would he allow a threat to his loved ones to walk free, that the cold finality of his steel would be the last sensation they felt in this life.
On Highbridge, six moons ago, he surrendered himself to his guilt, and that guilt had driven him back to the knives.
He shifted focus now and attended to the accuracy of his strikes as he circled the wooden figure before him. The shift in his philosophy had been just as swift: within a fortnight he had graduated from the patas to the katar, and from there it had been a mere hop, skip and a jump back into his old habits. He wondered why it had been so easy… then he blinked as he noticed, for the first time, that more than a few of his strikes were landing with the side of his hands presented against his target.
As if he was holding blades in reverse grips.
That’s what you are. That’s all you’ve ever been, and what you’ll always be. Why else would Master Rosethorne abandon you? Hells, there’s a ruttin’ crimson gemstone back at the Hourglass that’s yours, and what’s on it? The Knife. That’s how they know you. That’s how they’ll always know you.
That’s all you’re good for.
“No,†he hissed. “I don’t believe that.â€
Yes, you do. You know better. Osric died a long time ago. It’s been Dirk ever since.
He struck the target with his knuckles.
“He didn’t believe that.†With his palms. “He left me a letter.†With the backs. “Introduction.†With his elbows. “It’s why I’m here.†With a shoulder. “It’s why I’m still alive.â€
His breathing was ragged now, as ragged as it had been when he’d first woken this morning. He bit down and forced his eyes closed, forced himself to stillness.
"Da knew," he breathed. "Somehow, he knew."
Down he went, into the darkness, into oblivion where he was truly alone, that empty pit he’d been too scared to visit, to face. He drove out all thought, each and every single thought. One at a time, two at a time, three, four, more, he drove them out.
He’d sworn to put down the guilty, so why hadn’t he done for Lazarov on their first meeting, or their second? Perhaps because the man reminded him of himself… and perhaps because Roen reminded him of her. Innocence tarnished over time by harsh realities, but a single polishing away from shining just as brightly once more. It didn’t matter. He pushed it away.
He’d been so earnest for covert work, for skullduggery. Why had he found his time with the Red Wings so disappointing? So much time wasted. So many opportunities lost, as he’d pulled away, allowed his duties to seclude him. He’d laid aside brass for steel, knuckles for knives. Was that even the unit’s fault? Hadn’t he driven himself back to those dark depths which he’d never planned on revisiting? Perhaps he was wrong to lay blame at the feet of another. Perhaps not. It didn’t matter. He pushed it away.
Her. Everything always came back to her. She’d entered into his life on the tailwinds of a storm, and he’d been disheveled ever since. He’d found himself changing, conforming, felt the veil of pessimism lifted from his eyes and his soul lifted from the hells to which he’d committed it. He’d dedicated so much time and effort to understanding, to confiding, to pursuing, charming, safeguarding… he’d neglected himself. She mattered. Oh, how she mattered… but right now, she didn’t. She couldn't. Right now, he did. So he pushed her away.
He pushed past his work, his friends, his love, his knives. He pushed past the bodies and the blood. Then, at last, he was alone.
Alone. Stripped. Base. Primal.
Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
Thump-thump-thump-thump. Thump-thump-thump-thump. Thump-thump-thump-thump.
He remembered it.
He felt it.
He craved it.
He slowed. He breathed. He stepped. He faltered.
Maybe she did matter.
Maybe he mattered.
Maybe it all mattered.
He moved, and as he moved a certainty grew within him, a weight of sorts, a building pressure. Hand over hand, he drove himself into the wood. Foot over foot, he flowed around the wood. The two hearts beat as one, pulsed together, and at last when he struck his foe with everything he could muster – feet, thighs, hips, waist, shoulder, elbow, wrist, and every muscle in between – he felt no pain. He didn’t give.
The wood did.
He came back to himself, as he drew his fist back from within the splintered ruins of what had once approximated a man’s chest, and glanced down at his fist as he flexed his fingers. He wasn’t shaking. His hand wasn’t shaking. No cuts, no blood, nothing.
â€Hit me. Strike me on the chest. Go on.â€
He turned, eyes intent on the stone wall. One, two, three, four, five steps and as he moved he aimed, struck, lashed out beyond, into and through what should have been solid rock. Instead, the stone he’d struck broke, and the resulting pieces and the dust greeted him as the impact left a small crater.
“…heh.â€
He smirked as he staggered into the wall and rolled across it, slumping to the floor next to his rucksack.
“I can keep ‘em safe. I will.â€
He glanced down and reached inside his bag for the next step, pulled out his small sheaf of papers, and flipped to the second page. Read the words to himself. Smiled.
Orange is its color, mixed of red and yellow. Will and survival mix to become desire. Desire serves as a driving force for both. Such is the cycle. Thus flows the worldly energy up from the root into the Sacral. Thus lies where the spirit keeps and molds it, until such a time when it is called. Such is the Sacral.
So writes Berrod Armstrong, Son of the Fist, regarding the Second Chakra.
“…but on m’own terms. The past can go rut itself.â€
![[Image: 1qVSsTp.png]](http://i.imgur.com/1qVSsTp.png)
