73rd of Summer, 514 AV
"Forty... forty-one... forty-two... forty-three!"
Hirem had found himself in an odd paradox during the last few days, a paradox that was striving to drive him slowly mad. Seeing that he would soon be called upon to fulfill his duties to a cause - though the decision of which cause he would be devoted to, was still unsure in his mind - he spent more and more of his free time at the Tuvya Sasaran, intensifying both his workout regimen and his education in unarmed combat. But, instead of making him feel more prepared for the struggles of the future, he realized with every bell of exercise that he was unprepared for the actual realities of battle. The more he fought, the more he believed that if he went up against properly-disciplined fighters, he was going to lose without first building up the proper skills. And every hit he took during a practice bout, reminded him that he still wasn't up to the level he needed to be at. Combat at the Tuvya Sasaran, which was supposed to embolden his resolve and make him feel more confident in his skills, was making Hirem feel more and more at unease. Soon, my enemies will be upon me whether or not I am trained, he thought, gritting his teeth and struggling to redouble his efforts whenever this feeling of dismay washed over him, so I must do my best to ensure that they are not given my life as quietly as they wished to take it.
"Forty-four... forty-five... forty-" Feeling his arms strain and begin to wobble dangerously, Hirem took a deep breath and tried to muster his strength for this last leg of the workout. "Forty-forty-six, forty-seven, forty-eight..."
Forty-eight push-ups into a fifty push-up set, and the Benshira felt as if he was going to end up passing out and drowning in a pool of his own sweat. Casting his shaking eyes around the rest of the practice room, Hirem was relieved to see that the Sasaran's halls were currently empty save for the occasional initiate struggling to find their classes, the rest of its occupants all having took to one practice hall or another. I don't think I could tolerate another gawking young Akalak whispering to himself, 'Look at the great desert ox struggling to keep himself afloat! I wonder, is that muscle he's garbed in, or fat?' To be honest, Hirem could no longer tell in what manner his body had filled out, though it had certainly filled out tremendously since the beginning of last season. Back in late spring, he remembered coming to the Sasaran and thinking himself a mere skeleton of what he had once been, all bones and flab and utterly devoid of real power. Since that time, he had managed to regain the bulk that he had lost, but it was still difficult to discern whether it was actual muscle that he had built up, or if the weight increase was thanks to Riverfall's delicious cuisine. I had best pray that it was muscle, he would whisper to himself, for surely the Ruv'na would skin me alive if they thought me more a pig than man.
"Forty-nine... fifty!" Hirem cried upon finishing the workout, his hissing voice lighting up with the glow of success. He did one more push-up to help settle his racing heart and ease himself slowly to the ground, before letting his arms splay out in either direction and his legs lay still on the warm floor of the practice room. Everything in him felt warm, uncomfortable, sweaty, and ready to detach from his body at the slightest hint of distress. His veins, pulsing with blood, continued to pound through his ears as he laid his head on the ground, closing his eyes and taking a few deep, shuddering breaths. Don't let yourself give in to panic. Take advantage of every breath to calm yourself. Feel the tension flow from you. Using the advice of the Sasaran masters, the Benshira let the stress his body had been placed under slowly bleed from him, disappearing through his ears and nose and mouth into nothingness. Consoling himself in his mind, Hirem whispered under his breath, "Praise be to Yahal for the simple glories of the world, and the path that he weaves to guide us through it. Though the road will be..." He tried moving his chin in a certain way and felt the muscles in his back flare up in response, sending a spasm of pain through his body. "Though the road will be tough, and hard to follow, I know that Yahal's grace will guide me through to its heavenly end. So shall I pray." The words gave Hirem a great deal of comfort, and he might have been able to settle into some form of ease as he lay down on the floor. But then his thoughts tended towards Kavala's talk of the Ruv'na, and of how this despicable enemy would have felt only scorn towards his reverence.
Gritting his teeth, Hirem picked himself up again and prepared for another exercise.
Trying to convince himself that he was only biding time for his sparring partner Alyra to arrive at the Sasaran, and that he was not in fact compensating for the terrible feeling of helplessness that came over him whenever he imagined his enemies, the Benshira turned on the nearby practice dummy and immediately began lashing out at it. Kick. Punch. Step back, switch up hands, return to the fray. Kick, punch, kick, block. The routine was well engraved in his mind, but even more ingrained than that was the grinning face of Owen Locke staring at him from the darkness. Thinking of the man nearly made Hirem draw blood from his own lip as he battered the practice target, his eyes intent and his demeanour edged with menace.
"Forty... forty-one... forty-two... forty-three!"
Hirem had found himself in an odd paradox during the last few days, a paradox that was striving to drive him slowly mad. Seeing that he would soon be called upon to fulfill his duties to a cause - though the decision of which cause he would be devoted to, was still unsure in his mind - he spent more and more of his free time at the Tuvya Sasaran, intensifying both his workout regimen and his education in unarmed combat. But, instead of making him feel more prepared for the struggles of the future, he realized with every bell of exercise that he was unprepared for the actual realities of battle. The more he fought, the more he believed that if he went up against properly-disciplined fighters, he was going to lose without first building up the proper skills. And every hit he took during a practice bout, reminded him that he still wasn't up to the level he needed to be at. Combat at the Tuvya Sasaran, which was supposed to embolden his resolve and make him feel more confident in his skills, was making Hirem feel more and more at unease. Soon, my enemies will be upon me whether or not I am trained, he thought, gritting his teeth and struggling to redouble his efforts whenever this feeling of dismay washed over him, so I must do my best to ensure that they are not given my life as quietly as they wished to take it.
"Forty-four... forty-five... forty-" Feeling his arms strain and begin to wobble dangerously, Hirem took a deep breath and tried to muster his strength for this last leg of the workout. "Forty-forty-six, forty-seven, forty-eight..."
Forty-eight push-ups into a fifty push-up set, and the Benshira felt as if he was going to end up passing out and drowning in a pool of his own sweat. Casting his shaking eyes around the rest of the practice room, Hirem was relieved to see that the Sasaran's halls were currently empty save for the occasional initiate struggling to find their classes, the rest of its occupants all having took to one practice hall or another. I don't think I could tolerate another gawking young Akalak whispering to himself, 'Look at the great desert ox struggling to keep himself afloat! I wonder, is that muscle he's garbed in, or fat?' To be honest, Hirem could no longer tell in what manner his body had filled out, though it had certainly filled out tremendously since the beginning of last season. Back in late spring, he remembered coming to the Sasaran and thinking himself a mere skeleton of what he had once been, all bones and flab and utterly devoid of real power. Since that time, he had managed to regain the bulk that he had lost, but it was still difficult to discern whether it was actual muscle that he had built up, or if the weight increase was thanks to Riverfall's delicious cuisine. I had best pray that it was muscle, he would whisper to himself, for surely the Ruv'na would skin me alive if they thought me more a pig than man.
"Forty-nine... fifty!" Hirem cried upon finishing the workout, his hissing voice lighting up with the glow of success. He did one more push-up to help settle his racing heart and ease himself slowly to the ground, before letting his arms splay out in either direction and his legs lay still on the warm floor of the practice room. Everything in him felt warm, uncomfortable, sweaty, and ready to detach from his body at the slightest hint of distress. His veins, pulsing with blood, continued to pound through his ears as he laid his head on the ground, closing his eyes and taking a few deep, shuddering breaths. Don't let yourself give in to panic. Take advantage of every breath to calm yourself. Feel the tension flow from you. Using the advice of the Sasaran masters, the Benshira let the stress his body had been placed under slowly bleed from him, disappearing through his ears and nose and mouth into nothingness. Consoling himself in his mind, Hirem whispered under his breath, "Praise be to Yahal for the simple glories of the world, and the path that he weaves to guide us through it. Though the road will be..." He tried moving his chin in a certain way and felt the muscles in his back flare up in response, sending a spasm of pain through his body. "Though the road will be tough, and hard to follow, I know that Yahal's grace will guide me through to its heavenly end. So shall I pray." The words gave Hirem a great deal of comfort, and he might have been able to settle into some form of ease as he lay down on the floor. But then his thoughts tended towards Kavala's talk of the Ruv'na, and of how this despicable enemy would have felt only scorn towards his reverence.
Gritting his teeth, Hirem picked himself up again and prepared for another exercise.
Trying to convince himself that he was only biding time for his sparring partner Alyra to arrive at the Sasaran, and that he was not in fact compensating for the terrible feeling of helplessness that came over him whenever he imagined his enemies, the Benshira turned on the nearby practice dummy and immediately began lashing out at it. Kick. Punch. Step back, switch up hands, return to the fray. Kick, punch, kick, block. The routine was well engraved in his mind, but even more ingrained than that was the grinning face of Owen Locke staring at him from the darkness. Thinking of the man nearly made Hirem draw blood from his own lip as he battered the practice target, his eyes intent and his demeanour edged with menace.
