Siris sat, his legs crossed below him, his hands in his lap palms up, one atop the other. He breathed slowly, his eyes closed, and tried not to think. He could hear Alim in the next cell, bemoaning his lack of "medicine," and even though the dwarf was choosing not to speak, Siris could hear Drevlin's heavy breathing on the other side of him now that he knew he was there.
Siris shook his head, closed his eyes again. In the monastery, he had never had any trouble calming his mind and shutting everything out, but when he was with his companions he felt as though he could never let go of the world around him. Perhaps it was just that he didn't trust them not to go destroying everything while he meditated.
No, Siris thought, that wasn't it. Something had been bothering him for a while now, every time they met with an opponent. He had been sent out as an emissary of Ilmater, to be his strength in the world, but whenever they faced an opponent it seemed his strength was overshadowed by the others. Were not the hands of right a match for the blades of an assassin? Did not the power of his god match the magic of an upjumped lich?
Siris scowled. No. That wasn't the right line of thinking. Ilmater was not to blame; he was. If he was weaker than expected, he should look inward, should refocus himself on growing his strength. Siris raised his hands from his lap, pushed them out to his sides, and then slammed them down on the stone floor of his cell. The force of the strike propelled him easily to his feet, and as he looked down, he could see in the glow from his skin that even though it was enchanted, his fists had left slight cracks in the stone. Siris nodded.
"Hey guys!" A familiar voice echoed down the cell block.
'Ah,' Siris thought. 'And now, we are all together again.'
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