[ It's like that time he took her clubbing. The excitement is infectious, seeming to zing off Korra, crisscrossing in luminous spiderwebs across the room. From the stands, he watches a small band of wizened old men in shabby violet uniforms. They pick up instruments -- java flute, drums, tiny glittering cymbals -- and begin to play music that, in its own way, is a cacophonous nightmare. The horns are shrill and crazy, weaving in and out of each other's trance-inducing melodies. The resonating gongs, the thumping drums, interspersed with the delicate tinkling of chimes -- they're like snake charmers on death row. The music slithers into Hei's brain -- makes his head as well as his heart pound. ]
[ Casually, he sidles closer to Korra. Positions her so she's standing in front of him, his arms draped over her shoulders like a flesh-and-bone barricade. The crowd around jostles and elbows them; but their eyes are on the bright ring where the two sinewy boxers are receiving the blessings of their stable masters. They wai deeply to their trainers, and then to the judges, before leaping into the ring. Festooned in their multicolored head ropes, garlands dangling around their necks, they perform the formal, individual wai khru ram muay -- the fight prayer dances. ]
[ Hei watches with a critical eye as they step, knee, step, knee their way around the ring. Each boxer chooses his own way to express loyalty to his fight stables through body-language, stopping here and there to pose in an emulation of mythical creatures. One dips in a bow to one knee, arms rising into the air as a bird. The other sways side to side, then expands his chest and arms wide like a snake. Meanwhile, the music clamors on, piercing through the rumble of the crowd. On a practical note, the wai kru is a narrow window to observe your opponent's abilities, via their ritual dances. ]
[ But Hei focuses on other details. Placement, center of gravity, favored footwork, weak points in muscle telegraphed by subtle movements. Resting his chin on the top of Korra's head, he says, ]
no subject
[ Casually, he sidles closer to Korra. Positions her so she's standing in front of him, his arms draped over her shoulders like a flesh-and-bone barricade. The crowd around jostles and elbows them; but their eyes are on the bright ring where the two sinewy boxers are receiving the blessings of their stable masters. They wai deeply to their trainers, and then to the judges, before leaping into the ring. Festooned in their multicolored head ropes, garlands dangling around their necks, they perform the formal, individual wai khru ram muay -- the fight prayer dances. ]
[ Hei watches with a critical eye as they step, knee, step, knee their way around the ring. Each boxer chooses his own way to express loyalty to his fight stables through body-language, stopping here and there to pose in an emulation of mythical creatures. One dips in a bow to one knee, arms rising into the air as a bird. The other sways side to side, then expands his chest and arms wide like a snake. Meanwhile, the music clamors on, piercing through the rumble of the crowd. On a practical note, the wai kru is a narrow window to observe your opponent's abilities, via their ritual dances. ]
[ But Hei focuses on other details. Placement, center of gravity, favored footwork, weak points in muscle telegraphed by subtle movements. Resting his chin on the top of Korra's head, he says, ]
My money's on the one in blue.