tensor is a math term, you should read it on wikipedia. it totally works here.
Title: Tensor
Author: wellowned
Person the story was written for: sandykidd
Rating: PG
Summary: Kill orders, a nameless assassin, and a throw of the dice.
Author's Notes: Hope this works for you! Sometimes my brain gets away from me… it’s not about luck, per se. But it does touch on some similar ritual.
In the pitch black of night, they find their oasis in a city carved into the mountains that stretched across the horizon like the end of the world. Imposing natural columns snake sharply from the formations overhead until they pile thick and amorphous on the ground. Each jagged edge of the walls and ceiling above is tempered by the smooth paths they slowly roll along. The number of people still entering the city is staggering, as if this is their only hope.
She looks out from the veil she's worn the entire trip, shielded from the still harsh sandstorms that rage just outside the cave's entrance. She finds herself reluctantly warmed by the orange glow of lights that shine from just further along the road. After so long in the darkness of her journey, so long from the light of the sun, her eyes are both unused to and yearning for the wondrous brilliance of the light. She finds she cannot help but to follow it, follow the noise and the light until she reaches the raucous home of the warmth.
The weathered plank that serves as a door leaves little to the imagination about the caliber of this place, and she can feel the grit of sand in every groove as she pushes it aside to enter the inn. The noise belies the place, which looks like it has been the home of many a weary traveler, though not as worn as she’d expected.
“Come in, or go out. Don’t just stand in the door, lass,” a disgruntled man says as he shoves past her to talk to the barman a few feet away. She murmurs her apology even as she moves to sit down at a nearby unoccupied table. Her hands start to drift until she finds the two small lumps she was looking for.
She keeps a set of 6 sided die in her possessions, something she’s picked up as a habit among her brothers. She doesn’t think about exactly what her master would think if he knew that her decisions were based on a throw of the dice, for fear of letting go that deciding factor. She allows herself this fault in an otherwise perfect tool-the hands made to wield a knife, the quick limbs and the ease she has in blending in-if only because they are slanted toward her master’s will.
Her dice are like a rosary, decisions made on a roll on the nearest hard surface. Bone white, they scratch hard edges along sand-blasted fingertips with a series of raised dots to make a final decision. She holds her breath and rolls her dice, watching it bounce along the stone bench at her table until it stops. One dot means wait.
And so she does, watching the burning sun set on the dunes in the distance as it casts endless shadows of citadels on the far horizon. She waits, and prays for her brothers who are training right now to move in should she make a mistake. Of all the things she wants, she wants nothing more than for her brothers to never see this side of their lives. She’s seen it enough in the years between her capture and now. They still think they train as gladiators, as if their skills will never be put to use.
Her thoughts stretch back to the training salles, the long hours of training in adobe walled rooms. She could kill a man in her sleep, she knows. The muscle memory has her twitching in malicious aborted movements that fill her lonely time and cause her to hunch further in on her tensed body against the window. So many times she’d come close to…. She thinks of the nights before she stopped sleeping so deeply. How, more than once, she’d woken to the gasping breaths of one of her brothers trying to fend off blows.
Her dice are like a rosary, and they fall most often between two and three. They fall between kill and leave, between obedience and disobedience to her lord and master. The only way she can survive is to see them fall accordingly. She casts up a prayer to whoever listens as she rolls her dice again. One dot, and she waits for another eternity. She bides her time and thinks of how the men come and go in this city buried beneath the rise of mountains to the east of all she’s known. She tracks their movements, their maladies, their malcontent and their patriotism.
She casts her eyes about to the barman, the myriad travelers who have chosen to spend the night in this establishment as opposed to getting a room elsewhere. They’re loud and bedraggled, weary from interminably long nights and even longer days ahead, if the way the women drape themselves across laps is any indication. She grips her dice tighter in her hand, feeling the dots press their relief into her palm. She doesn’t belong here, and it’s going to show.
It’s with a sigh that she makes her way to the barman and asks about his rooms abovestairs. Gold greased palms slide against one another as she pays for both her stay and for his silence. She doesn’t know how long she must wait, how long she must study this city with its carved structures and cold stone edifices, how long she must bide her time until she can fulfill the work of her lord.
She rolls her dice again as the door to her room snicks closed against stone and she eyes her pallet near the window. One dot.
Days pass with each morning rolling wait.
Three days, and she knows everything there is to know about the city, about exit routes and the palace against the walls where her objective lies.
Three days, and she rolls. 2 dots, and the enemy’s death sentence will be executed.
She readies herself and hides blades against her skin as she was taught to do. Each blade has a prayer said over it, asking for the blessings of the gods and her master to guide her steps sure, her movements quick. They shift against her as she moves, never showing but always reminding her of their presence.
At last, she turns to the door, dice in hand, a rosary against sand-rough fingertips and callused palms. At last, the hunt.
Author: wellowned
Person the story was written for: sandykidd
Rating: PG
Summary: Kill orders, a nameless assassin, and a throw of the dice.
Author's Notes: Hope this works for you! Sometimes my brain gets away from me… it’s not about luck, per se. But it does touch on some similar ritual.
In the pitch black of night, they find their oasis in a city carved into the mountains that stretched across the horizon like the end of the world. Imposing natural columns snake sharply from the formations overhead until they pile thick and amorphous on the ground. Each jagged edge of the walls and ceiling above is tempered by the smooth paths they slowly roll along. The number of people still entering the city is staggering, as if this is their only hope.
She looks out from the veil she's worn the entire trip, shielded from the still harsh sandstorms that rage just outside the cave's entrance. She finds herself reluctantly warmed by the orange glow of lights that shine from just further along the road. After so long in the darkness of her journey, so long from the light of the sun, her eyes are both unused to and yearning for the wondrous brilliance of the light. She finds she cannot help but to follow it, follow the noise and the light until she reaches the raucous home of the warmth.
The weathered plank that serves as a door leaves little to the imagination about the caliber of this place, and she can feel the grit of sand in every groove as she pushes it aside to enter the inn. The noise belies the place, which looks like it has been the home of many a weary traveler, though not as worn as she’d expected.
“Come in, or go out. Don’t just stand in the door, lass,” a disgruntled man says as he shoves past her to talk to the barman a few feet away. She murmurs her apology even as she moves to sit down at a nearby unoccupied table. Her hands start to drift until she finds the two small lumps she was looking for.
She keeps a set of 6 sided die in her possessions, something she’s picked up as a habit among her brothers. She doesn’t think about exactly what her master would think if he knew that her decisions were based on a throw of the dice, for fear of letting go that deciding factor. She allows herself this fault in an otherwise perfect tool-the hands made to wield a knife, the quick limbs and the ease she has in blending in-if only because they are slanted toward her master’s will.
Her dice are like a rosary, decisions made on a roll on the nearest hard surface. Bone white, they scratch hard edges along sand-blasted fingertips with a series of raised dots to make a final decision. She holds her breath and rolls her dice, watching it bounce along the stone bench at her table until it stops. One dot means wait.
And so she does, watching the burning sun set on the dunes in the distance as it casts endless shadows of citadels on the far horizon. She waits, and prays for her brothers who are training right now to move in should she make a mistake. Of all the things she wants, she wants nothing more than for her brothers to never see this side of their lives. She’s seen it enough in the years between her capture and now. They still think they train as gladiators, as if their skills will never be put to use.
Her thoughts stretch back to the training salles, the long hours of training in adobe walled rooms. She could kill a man in her sleep, she knows. The muscle memory has her twitching in malicious aborted movements that fill her lonely time and cause her to hunch further in on her tensed body against the window. So many times she’d come close to…. She thinks of the nights before she stopped sleeping so deeply. How, more than once, she’d woken to the gasping breaths of one of her brothers trying to fend off blows.
Her dice are like a rosary, and they fall most often between two and three. They fall between kill and leave, between obedience and disobedience to her lord and master. The only way she can survive is to see them fall accordingly. She casts up a prayer to whoever listens as she rolls her dice again. One dot, and she waits for another eternity. She bides her time and thinks of how the men come and go in this city buried beneath the rise of mountains to the east of all she’s known. She tracks their movements, their maladies, their malcontent and their patriotism.
She casts her eyes about to the barman, the myriad travelers who have chosen to spend the night in this establishment as opposed to getting a room elsewhere. They’re loud and bedraggled, weary from interminably long nights and even longer days ahead, if the way the women drape themselves across laps is any indication. She grips her dice tighter in her hand, feeling the dots press their relief into her palm. She doesn’t belong here, and it’s going to show.
It’s with a sigh that she makes her way to the barman and asks about his rooms abovestairs. Gold greased palms slide against one another as she pays for both her stay and for his silence. She doesn’t know how long she must wait, how long she must study this city with its carved structures and cold stone edifices, how long she must bide her time until she can fulfill the work of her lord.
She rolls her dice again as the door to her room snicks closed against stone and she eyes her pallet near the window. One dot.
Days pass with each morning rolling wait.
Three days, and she knows everything there is to know about the city, about exit routes and the palace against the walls where her objective lies.
Three days, and she rolls. 2 dots, and the enemy’s death sentence will be executed.
She readies herself and hides blades against her skin as she was taught to do. Each blade has a prayer said over it, asking for the blessings of the gods and her master to guide her steps sure, her movements quick. They shift against her as she moves, never showing but always reminding her of their presence.
At last, she turns to the door, dice in hand, a rosary against sand-rough fingertips and callused palms. At last, the hunt.