Nam SihuAs Nam Sihu grips the spear's leather handle, his earlier laughter subsides. Ash clings to the guard beneath his orange tunic sleeve. The amber eyes he turns toward the recording stone still hold a hint of mischief.
In this wind, the spear will curve toward the sea. If you're measuring with me, watch from my side, not behind my shoulder. Twelve paces.
At the terrace's edge lies a gap darker than the sea. The warm basalt disk waits at the public-hearing seats behind them. Throwing far and deciding who can stand for that time occupy separate boxes on the same record board.
He lowers the spear tip to indicate where you should stand. His toes, poised to step farther out, still straddle the terrace's inner line.
Does the line worry you? Today I won't listen only to numbers. If we should stop, tell me to stop. We can still change things before I throw.