His soul urged him to locate the most valuable object in reach and to break it. Not to crush it. Not to destroy it utterly. Simply break it. Hobble it. Make it lame. Make it a lasting reminder of his foolish idiot whim. A scream may also quench his seething impotence as well.
He yelled and struck the thing.
It did not break sufficiently, it wasn’t lame enough. So he crushed it because in it’s resistance—it’s resilience—it thwarted him.
Sine Dos held still—eyes forward—as his master raged behind him. He heard the crumpled pile of bone and meat scuff along the stones as it was kicked repeatedly. Sine Cos would be missed by some, but not Dos. If he’d learned any lesson more than once in this audience hall, it was to never get up, to never struggle to your feet, to never appear whole once the master selected you for breaking.
Lately I’ve been struck by the lightness of my writing. Not that there isn’t or won’t eventually be conflict, but I tend to shore up my prose as a bunker for my heroes to languish in. I don’t know how often or extensively I will visit the enemies—I suppose I ought to give them equal time—but here’s a little look into that realm.
Can you imagine 300 days of enemies?