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Studying Kisman like an alchemist would an apparatus, the elfin lord settled for silence as he heeded the monk’s words. The Kemite’s salient wisdom was projected in his metaphor of the desert sand and life, two concepts that he interwove to convey a powerful meaning across to the Syl’rosyan Lord. Whereas many might have missed the significant message that Kisman relayed, the astute elf understood it perfectly.
Heeding the monk’s suggestion, the assassin closed his eyes and meditated on the scene evoked by Kisman’s direction, a desert composed of a sea of endless dunes. The image was not hard to imagine; the Temple of the Open Hand was situated in such a realm, in the heart of the Deserts of Arakmat where life was believed not to exist.
He felt the grains of sand trickling through his fingers, their mineral particles scratching his skin microscopically as if shredding the very mountains that Kisman whispered of. Nimavel isolated a single granule then, mentally constructing its diminutive size and shape. It did not multiply into two or three more, though, as the Kemite had said it could.
The assassin lost concentration shortly afterwards, his meditative abilities not nearly on par with the trained Sunn monk’s. However Kisman was able to focus on such a seemingly insignificant detail was beyond Nimavel’s knowledge, but he understood the connotation of being able to do so. Kisman was both a master of the body and of the mind.
“In what way does the silence speak to you?”
The Heru Mynendil inquired, his lavender eyes flashing open and locking with the monk’s verdant stare. He was certain that Kisman was referring to meditation, something that the assassin seldom practiced. But if he was to fully understand what the monk was talking about, he needed to know what to look for.
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