Zeykin Dorobo
The door of the cell swung open with a rusty clang, and a couple of thug-guards shoved a no less hefty fellow into the musty, dusty room with a blow to the back.
— Make yourself at home. This is your new home now, — the guard threw over his shoulder, slamming the heavy door shut, driving the final nail into the soul of the prisoner, the lock screeching disgustingly one last time.
Clearing his throat, the fellow got up from the dusty floor, brushed himself off as best he could, and squinted, trying to make out the surroundings in the semi-darkness of the cell.
— Well?.. — a displeased voice rang out from the far corner.
Rubbing his eyes, the fellow barely made out a silhouette lounging lazily on the far bunk.
— H-hello... — he mumbled.
— Who are you? Under what article? — the silhouette grumbled.
— Two hundred eighty-fifth... Part one, — the fellow hissed through clenched teeth.
— Two hundred... Well, come on, enlighten me?
— Embezzlement of state funds, — the fellow's eyes had adjusted to the dark, and he made out in the silhouette an old man with a very long beard and the piercing gaze of a hawk. The cellmate lay on the bunk, hands behind his head, legs crossed, boring into him with a heavy stare. — Without aggravating circumstances.
— Ha! — the old man snorted, immediately breaking into a heavy cough. — So you swindled the peasants? Serves you right.
— I didn't steal anything. It's a mistake and slander, — the fellow frowned. — I was framed.
— By the look of your mug, I wouldn't say it's a mistake, — the old man snorted again, then returned to a stern tone. — And besides... What decent man enters a cell without giving his name?
— Ah... my apologies... — the fellow wiped the sweat from his brow. — Zeykin.
— You ask, do you... And I won't give it to you. Greenhorn, — the old man's voice took on the steely edge of a seasoned inmate.
— I-it's just... I'm not used to it... — the fellow babbled.
— Not used to it... — the old man drawled, getting up and sitting on the bunk. His hands rested on his knees, and his heavy gaze from under his brow ridges pierced the newcomer's soul. — So maybe I should teach you a lesson? How to enter a cell properly, how to carry yourself. Shall we go through the initiation? Eh?
Despite the fact that Zeykin's frame was more than twice the size of the old man's, something authoritative and threatening in his voice made him tremble like a ferret before a predator.
— I'm s-sorry if I did something wrong... I've never been in prison before... — he muttered, casting his eyes down.
— Well then, we'll teach you the ropes, — the old man rolled up his sleeves and cracked his neck. — It'll do you good. I chew up pups like you ten a day.
Zeykin exhaled convulsively, closed his eyes. After a few moments, he raised a meek gaze to the old man.
— Alright. If it's necessary, then... I accept your terms, — he said seriously.
For a few seconds, they stared at each other without blinking, then the old man snorted, then again, until he finally burst into a terrible consumptive's laugh, the rasping of which brought tears to the eyes of any listener.
— Where do you think you are, you fool? A bank?.. Ahahaha... 'I accept your terms'... Ahahaha!.. — the inmate laughed for several seconds until he was seized by another heavy coughing fit, during which a few poorly-looking drops of dark sputum fell onto his sleeve.
— Oohhh... — wiping his mouth, the old man caught his breath with difficulty and leaned against the wall.
Trying to make himself as small as possible, Zeykin pressed himself into the opposite corner of the cell:
— Are you... alright?..
The old man threw an irritated glance at him.
— What do you think? This ain't a sanatorium.
Zeykin remained silent.
Apparently finding no strength to continue the initiation, the old man lowered himself back into a lying position with a heavy groan.
— Listening to you, you really do sound like some kind of nerd. Doesn't show on your face though. Well, what are you standing there for like you're taking an oath? Sit down already, — the old man waved his hand towards the free bunk. — And tell me, what exactly did you embezzle?
***
After yet another grueling Friday, Zeykin Dorobo, treasurer to His Grace the Duke, decided to ease his soul at a drinking establishment. Trying not to disturb the already heavily intoxicated local clientele, he ordered a shot of whiskey and sat with it at the far end of the bar. The evening was in full swing, people were chatting, the innkeeper and the waitresses were calling out to each other — in short, life was bustling.
Staring absently at the reflection in his glass, Zeykin slowly sipped his drink, trying to unwind from a hard day's work, his mind repeatedly drifting back to the documents he should have submitted last week, turning his boss's scathing words, who had given him a proper dressing-down, over in his head, and sighing softly. The strong alcohol, which should have relaxed his heart, had no effect on him, merely clouding his head.
Catching the edge of a tremendously heavy sigh, lasting a good half a minute — far surpassing his own — he glanced at its source and found a tall, gaunt man, head propped on his hand, sitting a few seats down the bar with a glass of clear liquid, gloomily surveying the patrons.
Noticing Zeykin's gaze, he stared back at him.
— Hm? — he said challengingly.
— Ahem... — the treasurer coughed and returned his eyes to his shot. A few seconds later, glancing back at the patron, he found, to his confusion, that the man was still staring at him. — Oh, nothing... I see you've also had a tough day, my good sir.
— 'Tough' is an understatement, — the patron readily picked up the thread. — Except it's not *my* tough day, but humanity's. Or rather, all the species inhabiting our world.
— Ah... A rather philosophical view of things, — Zeykin shrugged with a smile and turned his gaze back into his glass, assuming the conversation was over.
— No, not at all. Quite demonstrably provable, — the patron, picking up his glass, moved a few empty seats closer to the treasurer. — Who lives well in our world? The Duke, quite well. Ordinary working folk? Hardly!
Zeykin looked up at his interlocutor again — he didn't seem drunk, but a strange kind of energy was bursting out of him. It was clear that this man was genuinely passionate about his intellectual musings.
— The Duke's standard of living is indeed quite high compared to the common man... — he said cautiously. — But he also bears a great responsibility — for people's lives and the governance of the duchy. An ordinary man, of course, has no right to call him to account if he fails in his duties, but there are also counterbalances in the form of envious rivals, conspirators, and simply powerful nobles vying for their share. A good duke must know how to navigate between all these factors, otherwise he won't last long in his post.
— Nonsense, — the interlocutor waved dismissively. — All he has to do is butter up specific rich folks for their support, and then let the grass grow where it may. Meanwhile, the common man suffers under the yoke of the aristocratic class.
— Not everything is so dire in the south... — Zeykin tried to defuse the conversation, fearing he'd run into a provocateur. — And, may I ask, what line of work are *you* in? If it's not a secret, of course.
— I am a man of science, — the interlocutor explained, puffing out his chest. — My competence includes the accumulation of knowledge and the subsequent development of scientific concepts necessary for improving our society in a progressive manner.
— Oh!.. — Zeykin nodded respectfully. He had never before in his life encountered a learned man. — Your field of endeavor is worthy of respect. I wish I had such an impact on society. And which university did you attend? The Seetrian State University, or perhaps our local one?
— And what does that matter? — the interlocutor bristled. — One university differs from another — if it differs at all — only in the political message embedded in its curriculum. A true researcher must first and foremost be familiar with the monumental works of his predecessors.
Zeykin nodded — he probably couldn't, and indeed didn't want to, argue with that. It sounded reasonable, and from his perspective, as a graduate of a local provincial institution, he could quite easily apply this idea to what he had been taught there.
— That is true. By rejecting the state for the sake of freedom, we have nothing to lose but our chains, — he recited a quote from one of the philosophers.
— Yes, — the interlocutor nodded dryly.
Zeykin assumed that, being a man familiar with the works of the greats, he would continue the quote, but it seemed the scientist didn't deem it necessary to repeat platitudes. Realizing this, the treasurer blushed slightly, feeling like a simpleton.
— And what about yourself, what field do you work in? — the scientist inquired. — In the fields or the mine? Don't you feel that the fruits of your labor are being exploited, regardless of your will?
— Ha-ha-ha... — Zeykin smiled quietly. — I'm afraid you're mistaken... I know I don't look the part, but I work in the treasury.
— Hmmm... — the interlocutor's eyes narrowed and scanned Zeykin from head to toe. — Is that so?.. Then let me rephrase. Don't you feel that all your so-called labor merely serves to exploit the working class?
— No, — Zeykin shrugged. — I just do my job. Someone has to count the taxes and prepare the budgets.
The interlocutor clicked his tongue:
— Well, as long as we have people like you in such positions, the common worker can't expect anything good, — the interlocutor declared sharply in condemnation.
— Life is unfair, but it's the life we have, — Zeykin shrugged placatingly, trying to close the painful subject. — What about...
— Tell that to the Skiors. Now *there's* real science, culture, and a progressive outlook, — the interlocutor interrupted. — Not like our swamp here!
Zeykin glanced nervously at the drunken crowd, who had turned their heads their way.
— Please, keep your voice down... — he tried to calm the man down and nodded at his glass. — Perhaps you've had enough for today?..
The interlocutor clicked his tongue arrogantly again.
— Don't lump me in with the local dregs. This is artesian water. A scientific man would never allow himself to cloud his mind with the opium of... the undiscriminating public, — he glared disapprovingly at the shot of whiskey sitting in front of Zeykin.
Ignoring this jab, the treasurer sighed with relief as he watched the patrons return to their conversations.
— What a pity I wasn't born in Skior, — the interlocutor continued. — My place is there — among the high spires of universities packed with books, progress, and prosperity... But never mind, the system will get its due. Historical justice will prevail over our kingdom — if not through evolutionary methods, then by force, — he muttered the last phrases, staring gloomily into his glass. — So, anything else to say about your work? Bet you've had the urge to get your hands on the "lower class's" money?
— Ha-ha-ha... I won't argue — when you're dealing with such sums, thoughts do occur... Just a little misplacement of a digit here and there... — the treasurer joked and shrugged. — But that's nothing. Such is human nature — it's not designed for dispassionate manipulation of these matters, hasn't progressed far enough in its development. But thoughts are just thoughts, nothing more. No decent person would ever do such a thing.
They talked for some time about their respective fields, the weather, books, women, religion, pets, favorite foods, and many other things, as well as various charged topics. Then the interlocutor downed his glass in one gulp and threw over his shoulder to Zeykin as a farewell:
— See you around, taxman. Don't die under a pile of dusty papers.
Watching the strange drinking companion — if he could be called that — leave, Zeykin thought that the man was certainly difficult to talk to, but what could you do — not everyone is gifted with empathy and tact. His intellect, passion, and sincerity in his views, however, were undeniably appealing. He deserved a chance.
*
— I decided I'd drop by that bar again sometime. Maybe I'd get to talk about something interesting, — Zeykin shifted on the bunk, looked up at the old man, and found that he had long since fallen asleep, lulled by his tedious story.
Sighing heavily, the prisoner began to arrange his bedding.
***
The first days in prison flew by, indistinguishable from one another, and then, one evening, Zeykin entered the cell completely beaten. His nose was tilted at a strange angle, his swollen eyes barely made out what was happening, his lips were swollen like ripe cherries, and his tongue constantly probed the stumps of broken and knocked-out teeth.
— You look like my wife. Ha-ha-ha! — the old man roared, seeing his cellmate, then, as usual, started coughing.
Zeykin did not reply and silently lay down on the bunk.
— Let me guess. Met Gashyony and his crew?
Zeykin turned to face the wall.
— Hey, kid. Look straight ahead when your elders are talking to you, — the amusement vanished from the old man's voice.
After a moment's hesitation, Zeykin turned and sat up on the bunk.
— Damned if I know... Some scumbags picked a fight. 'Play backgammon with us,' they said. No money or cigarettes — so do it as a favor. I had a feeling it wouldn't end well and refused. They started accusing me, saying it was the custom, showing disrespect. And in the end, they jumped me. And the guards couldn't care less — went off for tea, — Zeykin stared blankly ahead, head bowed, with red drops dripping from it onto the clay floor.
— Have to teach you everything, you greenhorn... — the old man shook his head, hands on his hips. — I bet you just stood there slobbering again, you pussy-whipped clerk. Remember — prison is the school of life, meaning it's a jungle. Might makes right, and the strong one comes up with the verbal justification for it. You're a big ox, but inexperienced. You were right to refuse to play, but they'll break you down and crush you here quick. My advice — carry a strip of sharp steel with you. Lift your mattress, pull a rod from the bunk. Sharpen it on a brick. It'll be your final argument for any situation that can't be resolved with words. And lift your damn mug, wipe it with a towel, you're messing up the cell!
Zeykin hurried to follow all the recommendations of his senior comrade.
The prisoners spent the rest of the evening teaching the newcomer all the subtleties of prison life.
— Thank you, old man, — Zeykin finally said. — So many non-obvious nuances, I never would have figured them out on my own.
— Yeah, right. Common sense, — the old man waved dismissively. — I might have put in a good word for you if I'd been there, but I can't go out for walks — you can see my health won't allow it.
— In any case, thank you for the lesson, — Zeykin repeated.
— Oh, shut up already, — the old man grumbled. — 'Thank you,' 'please,' 'hello,' 'sorry.' No shame in schooling such a nerd.
The prisoners were silent for a while.
— Maybe you'll have better luck than your predecessors, — the old man muttered.
— With what?
— Getting out, what else. How much time did they give you? Twenty?
— Thirty...
— It'll be rough for you. Well, do your best. They don't put people in this cell for re-education. I've been sitting here longer than you've been alive. I've had a few cellmates — not a single one made it. So don't count on success either.
A heavy silence once again settled within the cell walls until Zeykin finally spoke:
— I *will* get out. I have unfinished business on the outside, — his hand tightened around the steel rod.
— Eh? And what business is that?.. Ah! You never finished telling me how you ended up in here.
Zeykin didn't bother reminding him how his last attempt at storytelling had ended.
***
From then on, the treasurer visited that bar many times, and to his delight, he found his new friend there each time. The man seemed to constantly sit alone, and only upon seeing Zeykin would he liven up and strike up a conversation. They spent many tense but pleasant evenings in idle chatter. Though they rarely agreed on things, which infuriated the scientist, his unusual views and the boldness with which he expressed them sparked an inexplicable warmth in the treasurer's heart, as if reinforcing his faith in humanity — which, despite life's hardships and society's stifling laws, still strove for something idealistic, something it considered the right vector for development and self-improvement. Even the drinking companion's occasional hot-headedness or harshness soon ceased to grate on the ears and simply went in one ear and out the other.
This continued for months, until Zeykin had to leave for another city on business for a few weeks.
Upon returning home, he encountered an incomprehensible, barely perceptible coldness from the local population. Walking down the street, he caught sideways glances from some passersby; at the market, people elbowed him much more often, and some stalls, even very familiar ones, refused to serve him, citing vague excuses. All of this seemed rather strange. What could have happened in their little town in just a few weeks?
The treasurer visited the bar a couple more times but no longer found his friend there. On his last visit, he ran into a group of drunkards who showered him with insults and spat at his feet — though it didn't come to an open fight because each of them was a head shorter.
Finally, a couple of days later, he showed up for work on the most ordinary Monday. Seeing him, the receptionist nodded to the guards, and they immediately twisted the treasurer's arms behind his back.
— What's going on? — Zeykin didn't understand what was happening and tried with varying success to free himself from the guards' grip when several more men piled on him and began delivering painful blows to his kidneys until he quieted down.
After several days in the dungeon, Zeykin was brought to court. He was charged with numerous minor offenses, and among other things — a substantial sum of money had disappeared from the treasury, and they were pinning the embezzlement on him.
A huge number of townspeople were called as witnesses, some of whom the treasurer knew personally, others he was seeing for the first time.
— I often saw this... this... man... hanging around my plot, — a frightened peasant woman pointed her finger at the defendant. — Every time, my Dianka would run up to the fence with a happy bark, wagging her tail, and stick her snout through the gap, and he... he would squat down and reach out his hands to her, petting her head. She would lick them. There was a sinister grin on his face all the while. And then... then... Dianka died. Grandma Klara said she was poisoned! *He* did it, there's no one else! My poor little dog never reacted to anyone else like that! She wouldn't have taken poisoned food from anyone! People saw *him* last near my plot, right before Dianka kicked the bucket! — the peasant woman burst into sobs; the jury and spectators murmured.
"What a scumbag... Poisoning a poor neighbor's dog like that..."
— What are these conjectures? — Zeykin was taken aback. — I would never have done that! Have you people lost your minds?!
— We all know about you! — a voice rang out from the audience. — Hater of all living things! He even drowned kittens, you fiend!
"Ooooh!!! What a villain!"
The court called the next witness — a crooked old woman.
— Yes, yes! I remember *that* one very, very well! — she mumbled with empty gums. — The other day, he's walking along, you see, with a sack, from the west — where our river flows. And the sack is wet! And then... Then I remembered... We had so many cats around here, countless, you know? Remember, eh? But lately, I don't see them anymore! Drowned every last one, you demon! I've heard about you! I know all about you, you scoundrel!
"Demon... Devil..."
— What cats, what sack? Do you people even hear yourselves? — his face twisted from such a brazen and unjust accusation. — I carried potatoes to the river to wash them, they were all covered in dirt. And what sane person would drown kittens?!
"Well, we all know who! Just look at his evil mug!"
— I always served him at our tavern as a regular customer... I didn't suspect anything bad... He always said hello and smiled... — the waitress recounted. — But then rumors reached me that he was just doing it for show, and that he was actually trying to look down my cleavage when I brought the order, — the waitress couldn't control her emotions and burst into tears.
"Scoundrel... Womanizer... No wonder he's not even married — who would marry someone like that, and he's clearly not suited for marriage anyway!"
— That never happened! Marishka, why are you lying? Have I ever done anything bad to you or said a single harsh word? — Zeykin clutched the bar convulsively.
Marishka, trying not to look him in the eye, said:
— I didn't know about it... But all the observant people told me! He even bragged about it to them! Ugh!.. — sobbing, she returned to the audience.
"And he broke my fence and trampled my garden bed! And, excuse me, comrade judge, he defecated on the crops! It happened at night! They saw him on my field! We common folk know all about you!" — the accusation came from the crowd itself and was picked up by dozens of other voices, each attributing some bad deed to the treasurer, citing the testimony of unknown persons.
Zeykin tried to justify himself, to shout over the crowd, but it was a lost cause — for every word he said, he received two dozen shouts in return.
Finally, the final witness was called to testify on the most serious charge — the embezzlement of the ducal finances. Zeykin's eyes widened in terrible disbelief at what he saw — standing behind the witness stand was his friend from the bar.
— I confirm this accusation! — he said loudly, pointing an accusing finger at the treasurer. — On the very first day I had the displeasure of meeting this criminal, he confessed to me that he had thought, time and again, about ways to get his hands on public money! He even justified it with some sort of 'urge' and 'human nature' that he couldn't overcome!
Zeykin couldn't believe his eyes and ears and stood with his mouth open for a while.
— You're lying! You *know* you're not telling the truth! That never happened! — he bristled.
His drinking companion turned his burning gaze upon him — the same one that could be seen every evening of their conversations — and cried out:
— No! It all happened and you know it perfectly well! I long tolerated your company, your smug grin and ignorance, and time and again I was convinced that you are a scoundrel, a boor, and a criminal! Your vile views on everything in this life are direct proof of that! — the comrade's burning gaze was filled with animosity, arrogance, and absolute certainty that everything he said was the truth. This man believed, from the first word to the last, in the story he was telling, and this belief was reinforced by a sense of his own rational and moral infallibility.
The rest of the trial did not take long. Unable to shout down the enraged mob, which had found a scapegoat for all its domestic troubles, or to convince his bar friend or the court itself of anything, Zeykin Dorobo was sentenced to thirty-two years in a strict-regime colony without the possibility of parole.
***
The first years dragged on slowly, but the decades flew by quickly. Zeykin sewed hats and shoes, exercised, and dealt with the problems of prison life.
Gashyony's gang gradually fell apart — after another skirmish, he himself was found with a mop handle in his rectum, after which the leader was transferred to the outcast caste and lost all authority; some served their time, others were killed by inmates, the rest kicked the bucket, either tortured by the guards or simply from diseases and appalling living conditions. New gangs came and went in their place, trying to establish their own rules, but they only managed to bully the newly arrived youngsters.
An unexpected salvation, if it could be called that, came in the twenty-third year of his sentence. The old duke stepped down from ruling, and the new one declared an amnesty for certain categories of prisoners. Zeykin fell under the amnesty only because, with the redistribution of the administration, new facts of his case came to light — the real thief of the money and the respected man in whose pockets it had ended up were found. As the royal lawyer explained, laughing and scratching his head, the convicted man had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time — someone needed a scapegoat to pin the embezzlement on, and there were plenty of backbiters happy to ruin his reputation even without any personal gain. It was a judicial error, but what could you do, the system is imperfect — sometimes life is just unfair.
On the eve of Zeykin's release, a serious conversation took place between the two inmates.
The old man, despite the passing years still holding up as a spry fellow, sat on the bunk, hands folded on his knees, staring at the floor; his cellmate lay counting the cracks and stains on the ceiling, probably for the ten-thousandth time.
— I know what you're thinking, greenhorn, — the old man finally said. — That thought has kept you warm and helped you survive decades of hopelessness. That's good. But it won't make it any easier for you. You don't need to do this. Just let it go. Life has changed many times over already.
Zeykin was silent. This conversation had played out between them dozens of times.
— In a way, you were lucky. You knew you were innocent and had no sin on your soul. There's no point in committing one now.
— There's no point, — Zeykin agreed.
The old man tugged at his beard, twiddled his fingers.
— I never told you how *I* ended up here. And you never asked. What do you think, for what?
Zeykin shrugged.
— For absolutely nothing. My wife, the fool... Went out one evening for some trivial thing, ran into some scum, they beat her to a pulp. I was young, blood was boiling. I went to get revenge, see. Didn't bother informing the authorities — what the hell would they do anyway, and can a man really let something like that go unpunished? But I went a little overboard... I should have done the same to them, an eye for an eye. But I loved her so much, my heart was torn apart just by looking at her. I got insanely angry, saw nothing in front of me for rage. Found the shack where those animals went to rest and drink, barred the door with a plank, and set it on fire. There were no windows there — just a piece of crap made of shit and sticks. I stood and watched it burn, listened to the screams. And among them, a woman's shriek. Some girl was hanging out with them in there too. I knew right away I'd take them all to their doom, didn't even think of running, just stood and watched. But that shriek cut through my soul something fierce, — the old man fell silent, staring into space, reliving those moments; his tense face showed that this torment was familiar to him, but still just as painful.
Finally, blinking hard and coughing heavily, he finished his story hoarsely:
— They tied me up and threw me in the slammer. And before that, the investigator took me through that shack. Showing me, you see... what was left of them, — he shook his head and ruffled the remnants of his gray hair at his temples. — They gave me a hundred years, no questions asked. And now what? I sit here, my wife is out there, and those screams haunt my dreams every night.
He paused for a long time.
— Forget about that shit, kid, it ain't worth it. Be glad you've lived to an age few in our world reach. Get out, go far away from here and never look back, — he concluded.
Zeykin turned on his side — towards the wall.
— Tch. Yeah, why listen to the ramblings of a decrepit inmate. Well, sleep, sleep, little one. Enjoy your last night on this mattress, — the old man grumbled, offended.
But Zeykin never closed his eyes that night.
The next morning, the key ground in the lock for the last time.
— Prisoner, serial number... three sixes... one-four-eight-eight — on your way out! — the guard barked from the corridor.
Gathering his belongings — the mattress and a few meager possessions — Zeykin turned to the old man, who sat on the bunk, boring into him with a heavy stare — a pose familiar and habitual over the long decades.
— Thank you for everything, old man. For the lessons, and for the company.
The unsmiling old man continued to sit in silence.
— I'll think over your words, — Zeykin finally forced out after hesitating.
The old man's face relaxed; he nodded.
A guard stuck his head through the doorway and barked:
— Well, what are you waiting for? Got used to rotting in here? We can keep you here!
— Chief, don't be so harsh. He's done his time, — the old man reined in the guard.
The guard ignored him and placed his hand on his baton. Zeykin Dorobo, aged fifty-two, cast one last glance around the cell and moved towards the exit.
The door clanged shut. The sound of several pairs of feet receded down the corridor, growing quieter and quieter until finally fading away.
The old man sighed heavily, lay down on the bunk, hands behind his head, and smiled sadly. A bright ray of morning light, penetrating from the high window, fell upon him, and passing through him — onto the surface of the bunk.
— Good luck to you, greenhorn, — the old man mumbled and closed his eyes.
***
The nurse scurried down the corridor, feeling somewhat uncomfortable in the company of the huge, battered man, but tried not to show it.
— You know, we thought he had no one left. Not a single relative has visited him over the years, and according to the records, there shouldn't be any... Are you sure you're at the right address? — she clarified nervously.
— Right address, — the man nodded. — I came from far away, a distant relative. News didn't reach me right away.
— Oh, well, it's good you came, it was all getting rather sad.
— So what happened to him? I don't know the details.
— Well, he got into a fight. Had an argument in a tavern with some lowlifes, they beat him over the head. Hm... — the nurse caught herself. — Sorry for the unmedical description... He had a stroke. Now he doesn't react to anything and can't move on his own.
The man was silent, a barely perceptible, unidentifiable emotion on his face.
— You know, he... Don't take this as rudeness, but he was an unsociable man. Lived in his deceased parents' house, by all accounts — spent his days reading books. Fiction. They had a home library, — the nurse lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, and it was clear the gossip pleased her. — People say he didn't even do any real work, just lived off his parents' savings and sold off their belongings. Often got into arguments with people... And that finally did him in this last time... His health was fragile, couldn't take it, you see.
She stopped in front of a ward.
— Well, here we are, please come in, — opening the door, she let the man pass ahead. — I'll leave you. When you're done, go down to the first floor to the window, okay?
The nurse left, and the man stood in the doorway, clenching his fists, staring at the silhouette of a person in a wheelchair, frozen motionless by the window. After standing like that for a moment, he closed the door behind him and slowly walked over to the patient.
The old friend was unrecognizable — lifeless, brittle shoulder-length hair, a thin beard in the same condition. His mouth was slightly open, with traces of long-dried moisture at the corner. Cloudy, half-closed eyes stared into the distance. His matchstick-thin body sat statically in the chair, his long, thin fingers with dirty, uncut nails, twitching, lay in an unnatural pose on the worn, scratched armrests. The patient had been somewhat tidied up before the "relative's" visit, but not much effort was put in — a slight smell emanated from him.
— You look like shit, — Zeykin commented, but received no answer. — If only you knew how I dreamed of this meeting. I have things to tell you. And you? Were you waiting for my return?
The questions were rhetorical, as no retort was to be expected from a vegetable.
— You disappointed me, — sitting down on the bed, Zeykin turned his "comrade" around and stared into his empty gaze. — I was so looking forward to getting out and looking into your eyes. Asking questions, hearing answers. Or maybe you're just playing a joke on me?
He patted the former drinking companion's face, took him by the cheeks — there was no reaction, his skin felt like brittle parchment, barely warm.
Sighing, Zeykin withdrew his hand and put it in his pocket, his fingers tightly gripping the narrow shank, made from a bunk rod over twenty years ago — already well-used, covered in nicks and indelible stains.
— I have a present for you, — he slowly pulled out the shank and held it close to the patient — so his eyes could see it. — I made it myself, many years ago. I tried very hard, hoping you'd like it. Well?
The patient was silent.
— I even tested it out beforehand, to be sure it would suit you. So it was all for nothing? Or not? So, will you accept the gift? Refusing is impolite.
The patient was silent — not a single iota of understanding could be read in his unusually dull eyes. No miracle occurred.
— I see you haven't lost your rudeness, even in this state. Amazing, — Zeykin sighed and put the shank back in his pocket. — Well, I'll keep it for myself.
Standing up from the bed, he cast a final glance down at the shell of what was once the object of his seething hatred.
— The gods have punished you enough, — shaking his head, he turned the wheelchair back towards the window and left the ward, ending this pointless charade.
Origin: Seetria, man of honest fate, actor, medium.
Faith: The Lady.
Stats: 16-8-8-1-10-0
Equipment: double-bladed battle axe, homemade shank, normal armor, warm cloak, combat boots, emblem of the Lady on a string, sharpening stone, spool of thread with a needle, dry rations, backgammon set, pack of cigarettes and matches.
Abilities:
Sweep Kick - attack, knock the opponent to the ground and stun.
Lunge - charge over a distance; if a unit is in the path, it is knocked back: if into an occupied cell, it is stunned and takes additional damage, if into an empty cell, it falls.
Cleave - area attack.
Sand in the Eyes - debuff, blind.
Rest - out-of-combat ability, plus to speed and initiative for the next battle.
Focus - self-buff, next attack/ability is guaranteed to hit.
Endure - self-buff, cleanses negative statuses.
Wishes for abilities:
- Initially thought of *Sweep Kick* as just a knockdown, but then realized without a crowd of people on adjacent cells it's rather useless - you fall, you get up, nothing changed, and I wouldn't even have time to land another hit. Therefore a stun (bonk head on rock) is needed, or stat reduction on the fallen target, or something along those lines, just to make spending a slot worthwhile.
- *Sand* implies the champ kicks something into the opponent's face, causing them to cough and rub their eyes. This might not always be feasible (setting aside how effective it is in real life), but I'd like some degree of leniency. After all, you could kick a thick layer of cave dust/a puddle/rotten leaves/debris/gravel/random junk. Otherwise, it would be too situational.
- If the last two abilities could be passives instead of actives — like *Focus* activates itself every few turns, *Cleanse* triggers upon receiving a debuff and then goes on cooldown — that would be great. At higher levels, maybe: reduce the cooldown (if that's feasible given the existence of a cooldown parameter in the table), give *Focus* damage bonuses or even crit, and *Cleanse* a temporary boost to defense and will/saves against negative effects.
Hope it's not too much.
Небо
