Disciple (pt4)
Zaji woke up to the faint rustle of cloth, like the whisper of linen over marble. He sat up slowly and was rewarded by the louder sound of creaking leather. He was cold, without his robes. But his arms and legs, strangely, were not. The chill against his bare torso invigorated him; it opened his eyes and put power behind them. He stood and turned his head to the ray of sunlight that pierced the cave's broken ceiling. In the halo of light lay the broken lantern, but off to the sides he could just make out the two monks, still sitting, levitating at the edge of the glow, facing him.
He stepped into the main part of the cave, looking from one monk to the other. Their hoods shrouded their faces, but he knew what he would see if he could: starved features, wilted eyes, tight mouths, and oceans of boundless gratitude.
When the light finally met him, he looked over the leather armor he wore. The arm pieces were fingerless gloves sewn tightly against bracers and elbow padding and buckles that wrapped his biceps. The leg pieces were full boots that encased his shins, jointed into knee padding, and buckled around his thighs. A belt was strapped around his stomach, hanging a long, black cotton cloth that reached to his knees and bore the old Thystic symbol of "Forever." Aside from the cloth and the buckles, every piece of it was stitched of a perfect, thick, black leather. The joints were well-worn and didn't creak as much as they should have. Despite the warfare this garb had doubtlessly seen, not a single ruining mark had been left on its hard leather pieces.
Zaji nodded toward the monks. They, slowly, nodded in reply and collapsed to the floor into heaps of papery flesh, molded musculature, thin bones, and tired robes.
He looked up at the sunlight spewing from the hole high above. He smiled to think he could have easily died from such a fall. The smile faded.
He thought about a nation of compromises. He thought about an Order of sycophants. He thought about home.
Zaji crouched, touched the cave floor one last time, and easily leapt up through the hole and into the day.
He stepped into the main part of the cave, looking from one monk to the other. Their hoods shrouded their faces, but he knew what he would see if he could: starved features, wilted eyes, tight mouths, and oceans of boundless gratitude.
When the light finally met him, he looked over the leather armor he wore. The arm pieces were fingerless gloves sewn tightly against bracers and elbow padding and buckles that wrapped his biceps. The leg pieces were full boots that encased his shins, jointed into knee padding, and buckled around his thighs. A belt was strapped around his stomach, hanging a long, black cotton cloth that reached to his knees and bore the old Thystic symbol of "Forever." Aside from the cloth and the buckles, every piece of it was stitched of a perfect, thick, black leather. The joints were well-worn and didn't creak as much as they should have. Despite the warfare this garb had doubtlessly seen, not a single ruining mark had been left on its hard leather pieces.
Zaji nodded toward the monks. They, slowly, nodded in reply and collapsed to the floor into heaps of papery flesh, molded musculature, thin bones, and tired robes.
He looked up at the sunlight spewing from the hole high above. He smiled to think he could have easily died from such a fall. The smile faded.
He thought about a nation of compromises. He thought about an Order of sycophants. He thought about home.
Zaji crouched, touched the cave floor one last time, and easily leapt up through the hole and into the day.
posted by Ghostwind | 3:39 AM
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