| No Rules |
| Summary: | Tuesday means blood must be shed. RAWR. |
| Date: | 20 Apr 2041 AE |
| Related Logs: | None |
| Players: |
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| Athletics Area — Deck 12 — Battlestar Cerberus |
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| Post-Holocaust Day: #52 |
| A large pair of mats dominates the center of this room, their centers taped-out for a small area to practice boxing or other martial arts. Around the outside are treadmills, bikes, weights, and an impressive variety of gym equipment to help tone and shape the bodies of the crew. To one side of the room is the locker room while at the rear is a hatch that leads back to the oversized swimming pool. Off to the side is a rack that holds boxing gloves, pugil sticks, and the associated pads for the sticks. |
| Condition Level: 3 — All Clear |
You were looking forward to this, girl. Remember how much you were looking forward to it. Huff, puff. Tisiphone's over yonder on one of the universal weights, clad in tank-top and sweat-shorts, struggling through some manner of arm exercises for her now-uncast arm. There's a rather laughably small amount of weight being fought against — considering the frustration and irritation upon her sweatshiny face, she's acutely aware of this.
Sometimes the XO appears out of nowhere. Its this specially acquired skill that is granted with the Major's pins. But this time he appears to be coming from the locker rooms near the pool. He's still in his swim trunks but the man's got a shirt on, too. Spotting the bald pilot, the man diverts course towards her. "Physical therapy?" he asks, watching the arm move the small amount of weight.
Disappearing-Reappearing Major. Dark arts come along with those pins. The CAG has ghosted unawares into Chez Viper more times than Tisiphone can count, at this point. "S-i-r," she grates out, in the middle of a rep as Tillman approaches. The muscles in her arm are atremble. She finishes curling her arm to the top, then lets the grip slide out of sweaty fingers. The meagre weight lands against the unused ones in the stack with a CLACK. "Sir," she repeats, breathless but more conversationally, as she looks up. "Frakking cast."
There's an unopened bottle of water in his hand that was probably intended for himself. "Here," he says, offering it to her. "Take a break." The man moves to lean against the machine next to her and eyes the arm. "Well its fixed, aye? How long until you think you can get back out there and fly again?" The towel around his neck is lifted and brushed through his hair to help dry it off - what's left of it anyway.
"Planning- on it. I've- got my- own. Thanks," Tisiphone puffs, leaning over with a groan. There's a refillable plastic squeezebottle and a small towel near one of her bare feet. The towel gets scrub-scrubbed over her face and head before she drinks, trying not to guzzle like a drought victim. "Ten days? Two weeks? Depends how- fast this arm comes- back. No point if- the bird grabs the stick- back from me out there."
The XO shrugs and puts his hands on top of his head, watching the Ensign huff her way through her words. "Damn. That long, huh? You've been out of the pit for what? Six weeks? I think the last time I saw you without a cast was around Virgon, wasn't it? What happened to you, if you don't mind my asking?" Not the demanding type today, Tillman looks more inclined to be lazy. Even if that means being lazy in the gym.
The Ensign's smoked far too much while cooling her jets, these past weeks. Her lungs are Not Impressed. "Five weeks and- change? Virgon, yeah. Salvage op there, the- one that went tits-up." Another gulp or three of water before she sets the squeezebottle aside and starts working on some flexibility streteches. While twisting, she says to Tillman, "I listened to my- frakthathurts. Listened to my wingleader instead of the CAG."
Tillman is fresh out of the pool, complete with swim trunks, semi-wet gym shirt, and a towel around his neck. He's leaning on a machine next to Tisiphone. "The- ohhhhh. Damn. No kidding. That's a helluva time. Listened to your winglead instead of the Major? Were you caught in that big explosion?" So Tillman -does- remember that. His face is a ball of confusion, though. Something isn't connecting. "What'd your wingleader do?"
"Went in for a kill instead of listening to the RTB." It's more dismissively scornful than venomous, at this point. Five weeks of axe-grinding doesn't leave much of an axe behind. "/She/ got off scot-free for it." Maybe a tiny bit of axe-nub left, there. "Lesson learned, though. Next time someone wants to rub one out over their kill-count, I'll sit back and watch. The way the last few ops have sounded, ditching wingmen is all Lieutenants are good for." Snort. Tisiphone untwists her arm from behind her head, wincing as she does.
Karthasi drifts through the athletics room hatchway, considerately left open for her by someone on her way out. Tank tops of the regular variety are capped with a sash that hugs tight over one shoulder and down under her other armpit, a pale green with a clasp like a stylized shield. Pants a loose, light linen, baggy to her knees, then bound tight around her calves with strips of of cloth wound around them, the way the Anointed of Ares on Scorpia used wear them in their devotions, hands similarly bound to the knuckles, looking, perhaps, for a scrap in the name of the Violent God. She moves up along the row of punching bags and pugil sticks, where most people looking for violence are wont to linger, though her eyebeams head on before her as she spots Tisiphone and Clive, giving them a meek, unassuming smile that meshes not at all with the garb, for those people who know what it is.
Tillman quirks a brow, glancing around the athletics area for a few seconds before he says anything. "Its good to learn early that it ain't about kill counts. Not anymore. And I don't know about the tactics involved in how wingmen fight.." He keeps his voice low, eyes finally turning back to Tisiphone. "But I heard about the loss of a Viper because a Lieutenant left another without warning to engage another target. While that may piss you off, what that pilot did was save lives. A lot of them. He engaged nuclear weapons that were downbound for this boat. That's the job of the air wing - to defend this ship. That pilot prioritized his threats properly. Beyond that, I can't say much about his behavior. Space isn't my playpen…" He trails off as he spots Karthasi. Its almost a reflexive smile that crosses him. "Sister. Fraid I hardly recognized you. What's.." He gestures to the woman's workout gear with an extended palm. The question lacks any mocking and is more genuinely curiosu than anything else.
"Not your playpen, but you've plenty of ideas how we should be playing in it anyway, Sir?" Tisiphone's question is a little pointed, but only a little. She clears her throat dryly after asking it. Her mental editor is doubtless shrieking 'he XO, you ENSIGN, you witless girl' right about now. Looking over toward Karthasi, more than a little grateful for the distraction, she calls to her, "Hello, Sister. I wish I could join you."
Karthasi steps to as Clive greets her, "Why, hello, Clive. Hello, Tisiphone— Ah! You've had your cast removed! Congratulations," she tells the woman at the weights, looking regularly glad for her. "If you want any help with your PT, only come and find me, I'll be happy to lend what aid I can." To Clive, then, "In the cycles of the days," she begins to explain, "There occurs a regular pattern of universal affinities. Today is the Hemerareios, where the numen of Ares is strongest with us. If… Ares can ever be said to be far from us, these days," she adds, eyebrows quirking with a note of wry regret. "But I find it proper to propitiate the Lord on this day and to render unto him his due honors. Would you care to join me?" she wonders, almost chipper, and then, as if just noticing his own choice of garb, "After you've had a chance to change, perhaps?"
Bannik makes his way into the Athletics Area, looking like here's here because he has to be here rather than craving the fun that is Physical Training. He's in his off-duties, coming in just at the tail end of Karthasi's explanation. His expression says, 'Huh'?
Tillman nods. "Yeah. I do. I've got a lot of years of experience that tell me I do. How you all conduct yourselves during a dogfight isn't my problem until I get concerned about the ship. Nukes fall under that catagory. They're a number one concern." He says it all so matter-of-factly. Its left to hang as well, the words lingering like the look in his eyes before looking to Karthasi. "Sister? Are you saying that you wanna fight me? This could be an epic battle. A chance to slay the atheist and the XO all in one go?" The Major nods. "Absolutely. Though I have an inkling that an Ares-infused Priestess will probably stomp me into the ground." He leans off the machines and holds up a finger as if to say 'one minute' while he heads for the locker room.
There's a mildly exasperated eyeroll thrown Tillman's way, once his back is well and truly turned to Tisiphone. Like he has any idea what he's talking about. He's only the XO, where she — she! — is a battle-hardened Ensign. The annoyance doesn't linger, however — instead, she turns exertion-brightened eyes and a slightly shy grin back to the Chaplain. "Lieutenant Stavrian mentioned a- thing, Sister." /That's/ specific. "Some weeks ago. You were considering a night of pankratic sport in Ares' name. Are you still considering it? Give me a few more days, and I'd be well enough to attend."
"Mm," the downward note of the hummed syllable is a negative answer as the Priestling shakes her head to Tisiphone with a look of regret. "I'm afraid not, Tisiphone. The Pankration is a dangerous sport, and Ares requires our blood for more dire contests. We can't afford to put people off of the line, at this point," she puts in more plainly military terms. "But perhaps a night of boxing might be arranged," she offers in terms of a consolation prize.
Boxing? Tyr does not look like he's one for that. Or for Pankration, for that matter. Whatever that is. But he does offer up a smile to Tisiphone when he passes close. "Hey, Ensign. Your cast is off. Way to go. Are you clear for Flight Ops yet?" he wonders.
Tillman returns after..not really having changed. It would seem he only got a mouthguard from his locker. The towel is gone, too. "Alright, Sister. So what's the rules of this game? And..what're we doing? Flying legs of doom or we limiting this one to just our fists?" he offers easily as he moves for the wall with the gloves.
Sadface. "That's too bad," Tisiphone says, pausing in her stretches long enough to almost, a-a-almost pout. "But I- It makes sense. I understand." In happier news: "A couple people have promised me a spar. As soon as I can lift my arm with the glove on, I'll be taking them up on it, too." Wry, that. Curse you, enfeebled arm. A glance to Tillman as he reappears, sleety mischief glimmering there. Not overly loud, but loud enough to make it to the XO's ears: "Good fighting, Sister. Don't hurt the Major too bad. You heal slow when you start getting old." /That/ delivered, her attention moves to Bannik with a grin. "Tyr. Hey. How you doing? Probably two weeks for me, yet. But. It's coming."
Karthasi smiles shyly to Tisiphone, then moves away from the machines as Clive returns to the mat. "I'm for no rules if you are, Clive," she begins, coming to stand across from him, feet slightly apart, arms at her sides, loose but ready. She lifts her right hand, then, touching the tip of her thumb to the base of her second finger, drawn close to the first finger in a sign of blessing, "Go as the God guides you," she continues the explanation in a serene, mild expression to accompany the blessing of her opponent.
"Two weeks? Awesome. Let me know when you get to fly for the first time, and I'll try to be there for your push-back at the very least, huh?" Tyr gives Tisiphone a bright grin. "I mean, I'd like to be on your squad getting you out there for the first time if I'm not still doing eight in CIC, eight on the line, eight rack."
Tillman turns slowly to look at Tisiphone and laughs. "Frak. You. Don't make me come over there and kick yer ass, Ensign." He then looks to Karth and notices the lack of pads and he shrugs. "This'll be fun to explain to the Admiral, I'm sure. 'Religious ceremony' or something, right?" He smirks to Greje and gets into a fighting stance, his own legs a little spaced as he bends slightly at the waist. "Yeah. Best of luck, Sister. Just don't let Ares kill me, yeah? Might piss a few people off."
Tisiphone blinks at Bannik's words, seemingly dumbfounded in that universal sort of 'unexpectedly nice thing said to me, pleez halp' way. Social wizard, she ain't. She blinks several times at him, her grin caught somewhere between wolfish and gawky, before she manages to chuckle and look down, scrubbing at the scalpfuzz at the base of her skull. "That'd be, uh. Yeah. That'd be really great, Tyr. You bet I'll tell you."
Karthasi smiles to Tillman and lowers her hand to her side again, "Pray to the Lord, not to me, Clive. The matter is not in my hands," she lets him know, voice too pleasant to match the ominous words. With these words of surrendering her body up to the God for His purposes, her breath leaves her, and her chin dips downward. Then, air returning, she lifts her chin again, jaw a little more firmly set than before, pallid green eyes fixing upon her opponent with an almost savage glint, and she lets out a grunt as her feet dig hard into mat, and she runs full-tilt at Tillman, keeping her stance wide, meeting him in the center and trying to ram her right knee up into his ribs while she grabs at his right arm with both arms, body twisting.
"Good to hear, sir." Bannik smiles. "Two weeks. You better get that arm rehabbed, because my schedule fills up quick and I'm not sure I'll be able to move you." He winks over at the pilot and then turns back to the fight going on in front of th — "Woah. That's the Sister?"
<COMBAT> Triggering new turn.
<COMBAT> Karthasi attacks Tillman with Sparring - Light Stun wound to Chest.#-1 NO PERMISSION TO GET ATTRIBUTE
<COMBAT> Tillman attacks Karthasi with Sparring - Light Stun wound to Head.#-1 NO PERMISSION TO GET ATTRIBUTE
<COMBAT> Karthasi has started a new turn. Pose and choose your action.
<-=[ Combat #35 ]=-------------
< Name Weapon/Vehicle Damage Stance/Action Target
<
< Team 1
< Karthasi Sparring ….. NOR/attack Tillman
<
< Team 2
< Tillman Sparring ….. NOR/attack Karthasi
<
< Observers/NPCMasters:
<
< * MOCK COMBAT *
<---------------—-
Tillman shakes his head. "Yeah. That prayer thing. About that.." He's not entirely ready. Nor has he ever seen the Sister move like that. Rutroh. He almsot startled as she moves in to hit him, taking the knee to the chest. But the arm isn't caught in time and he brings a fist down on the side of the opponent's head as he stumbles backwards. Its onyl a second for him to catch his breath before he jumps back towards her.
A rather toothsome grin to Bannik. "Yeah. Yeah, that's the Sister." If there had been hockey on Sagittaron, Tisiphone would've been one of the fans up at the boards, baying for blood at every fight that broke out — her eyes are eager and intent, attention riveted on the sparring match. She leans one shoulder back slightly into the exercise gear without looking away, her stretches paused for now.
Karthasi isn't backing off; even as her head gets knocked to the side she presses on, coming at him as he stumbles, meeting him full press with her shoulder, trying to worm her left arm up under his armpit and hunch downto bring her right around and under to pummel him in the guts, that odd mix of wrestling and boxing so commonly seen in the Pankration.
OW! Tillman takes the hit to the chest andbends a bit with the Sister's lunge, his waist tilting. A low breath of air leaves him with it all, wrapping one arm around her waist and bringing down the other into her side before trying to deflect her into the mats below them both.
"But I thought religious people were like — peaceful and stuff." Clearly, Bannik's experiences with clerics that worship Demeter primarily has made him a bit less accustomed to worship of the more — uh, forceful gods. "Well. We've got to get her out with the Cylons. Wow."
"Today is Ares' day," Tisiphone says to Bannik, as if that Explains Everything. Then, for extra clarification: "The Sister is one of the most peaceful people I know." How she can say this while grinning ferally at the brawling pair is anyone's guess. She touches thumb and pinky to her lips for a moment, throwing a moderately quiet wolf-whistle at the boxing mats.
Karthasi peels her flank away from his as he comes in close, another grunt— almost animalistic— getting shoved from her as the blow hits home in her gut. The arm that has snuck up under his armpit wraps up and around to get her claws in under his chin and use its newfound point of leverage to to to toss his head back and knock him off-balance, elbow straightening to bring her alongside him and get her in position to deliver a sharp kick to the back of his knee in an attempt to bring him down.
Tillman does his best to try and get away from the clawing Priestess. No, rly. It doesnt look like it feels too hot. The man bring an elbow up and then down onto the woman's neck as she swipes at his knee. "Frak!" he grunts as he goes to the ground. The man is scrambling as quick as he can, though, to try and recover, turning on the small of his back to try and sweep her legs. Guy can move a little better than one might guess for someone around 40. The big difference is, he'll probably feel this tomorrow. She won't.
"Oh. Well. If it's for the Gods." Tyr Bannik doesn't sound like he quite understands the distinction, but, hey, he's willing to go along with it. The Sister must know what she's doing. He folds his arms over his chest, smirking a little bit as he watches the Exec and the cleric go at it. Metaphorically speaking.
You paged Tillman with 'I'll cycle it now to see whether you catch her, since it'll affect my pose.'
"Nice. Nice." Tisiphone starts to chuckle, throaty and amused. If it had any more energy devoted to it, it'd upgrade itself to a bloodthirsty giggle. "Keep it up, Sir!" she calls toward the pair — toward Tillman, presumably, as Karthasi is always 'Sister' in the Ensign's books. It's the sort of encouragement someone gives the underdog before a fight, to goad them along.
Karthasi tries to jump the swung leg, but it clips her in the ankle no less, and, taking her off balance, she flails a moment before drawing herself compact, falling to the mat half-atop Tillman with an elbow angled articulately into the fleshy spot below his lowest rib. Kicking out a leg behind her, she tries to catch up his leg in hers and draw it backward to stop him from getting up and draw him prone, elbow alleviating its pressure enough to aim another jab at the flank within jerk's range.
Ooof! Damn! The elbow lands in his rib and he grunts, rolling away into a crouch. He makes a very sharp gesture with one arm as he draws it around in a feint before landing the other fist into her stomach. It looks like a maneuver practiced that was probably left over from years back - when this stuff meant life or death.
Bannik is, on the other hand, one of those guys who looks like he'd be watching through slightly parted fingers at the brutality in a sporting event. Though he does watch the brawl, it's with a vaguely pained expression, wincing at each 'hit' on the opponents. "Yikes. They're pretty serious." Good insight there, Tyr. We'll get you on the color commentary team.
Tisiphone can be Bannik's co-commentator. Her insight isn't much different — a half-feral, half-sympathetic wince and an, "Oooch. Nice." She leans forward a little, watching more closely. Maybe she's not so certain of the outcome, anymore.
Karthasi loses track of the leg as Clive wriggles out of her grasp, and she's in the process of getting into a position to roll up to her feet when the blow comes hard down on her stomach, seemingly out of nowhere, rousing a call of pain from the priest on her back. Dazed, no less she grabs hold of the arm, trying to lock it in a grasp that will at least stop Tillman from doing much until she can get her bearings again. In the meanwhile, the need to inflict harm runs deep and feral, and she ducks her head to sink her teeth into the arm that punched her, midway between elbow and shoulder as she uses his arm as a help to sit up.
Sometimes, when you get bit, its more surprising than getting punched. Cuz, you know, its not so common. People don't get drunk and bite- wait. Nevermind. "Sonuna-!" His arm captured, Tillman looks on almost in shock as the Sister bites him. One way to loosen that toothy grip? He lands another punch towards her stomach with his free arm, attempting to turn to stand.
"Hey. Hey. Biting?" Bannik may not know too much about Ares Day, but the situation escalating biting seems to violate some sort of fundamental sense of fairness in fighting in his head. "Uhm. Ensign? Do you think we should maybe —" Step in? He seems to trust the Saggie to know where the line is better than he.
"Ha-haaah!" That's what Tisiphone thinks of the Sister's tactics. She leans back again, cackling with laughter, pausing only to touch fingers to lips for another light wolf-whistle. "No way. No water-buckets until they're bleeding," she advises Bannik, mouth split with a wide grin.
First blood! Let Enyo rejoice in the screams of the battlefield! It's not a horrible bite, by any means, but there's a little red smeared on Clive's arm and up across Greje's nose as she smears her face across it when her stomach gets pounded again, looking like that particular spot's starting to get more than its share of sore. She lets Tillman put all the effort into standing, pushing with her feet just enough to not keep him down, but letting him give her a moment of respite as he drags her up with him, giving her enough time to compose herself before she lets go of his arm and dances back, panting, bloody-mouthed. Ready for round two.
Tillman rises up and looks at her, then his arm, then at her, and..laughs. He's breathing a little hard from all that, too. "Got some red on you." He grins and looks to his arm again. "Okay, sadly, you and I are going to have to finish this later. I have Watch in about twenty minutes." He extends a non-bloody hand to her. "Outstanding, Sister. Catch me for round two later, aye?"
"But they are bleeding! And open cuts means we need to bleach down the mats and —" Bannik's protestations are vaguely recalled from his one-week course on basic First Aid back turning his training days, apparently. But Tillman calls an end to the fight — which seems to bring no end of relief to the Crewman — and Bannik lets out a sigh. "Well. I guess I just wasted all of my athletics time. I need to get back to the line for those bent birds from the last Op." He nods to Tisiphone. "Sir. Two weeks, huh?"
A laugh to match Clive's stumbles out on a priest-breath, "Heh!" And, pacing the way to the center again, she grasps his wrist in her hand in a manner that sets her wrist in his hand, as well, for a brief grasp of comraderie. "Ares look over you, Clive," she tells him.
Still chuckling, Tisiphone stands up and applauds slowly for a few moments, seeming well and truly delighted by the match. "Good showing, Sir," she calls to Tillman. Genuinely meant, that. "Mind the Sister on Ares' day, hm?" So, /so/ amused. Her attention moves back to Bannik, then, as she lifts a hand to him in farewell. "Two weeks, man. I'll see you down on the deck soon, okay?"
Karthasi lifts her hand to just above her mouth, the fingers coming away rosy, and she smiles a little bit, looking back over to where Tisiphone sits. "Blood for the Blood Lord. Better spilled in here than out there. I only pray he may be appeased," this last, worried, solemn, almost a prayer in and of itself.
"So say we all," Tisiphone murmurs. She absently, and superstitiously, touches her cuff as she says it. Then, louder, "Get you some water, Sister?" She lifts her squeezebottle in wordless query, then glances about for the nearest water-fountain.
"That would be lovely, thank you. But I think I had better wash my mouth out. Ares may be bloodthirsty, but it is still a crime against the Lords to swallow the flesh of a human being." Mildly jocular, that, as if it could be a joke, if it weren't quite true. "Come walk with me?" she invites the other woman, heading on toward the water fountain, herself. For the ol' rinse-and-spit.
"Of course." Tisiphone stoops to pick up her towel and drapes it around her shoulder before moving to trail after Karthasi, her bare feet quiet against the gym floor. (Somewhere over yonder by the lockers are a pair of gently-broken-in combat boots and her trusty red- and gold-striped socks.) "I haven't spoken to you in a time," she says, after a few steps. "Things have been…" A shrug. Things have been the same for pretty much everyone. She's looking genuinely on the mend these days, at least. A lighter step. Putting weight back on.
Swish swish swish— ptuh, and the water comes out all pinkish from her mouth. Once more, and then she stands up straight, turning to the side to clear the way to the fountain. "It has been. Too long, Tisiphone. But every time I think to begin to organize an observation of a passing festival—" and the calendar is packed with festivals, at least one or two a week. If anyone in particular celebrated every Lordly festival, they'd probably do little else. "It seems like an inopportune moment, for one reason or another." Well. One reason: more people just died.
"It's been like that for everyone, Sister." Not that Tisiphone seems happy to confirm it. "Soon as there's a reason to smile, there's three reasons /not/ to. Maybe it's what we've got to look forward to, from now on? I- can't imagine having to try to plan around random happenstance." Her mouth quirks at one corner, equal parts sympathetic and wry, before she takes her turn at the fountain, re-filling her squeeze-bottle. "Has Lieutenant Stavrian seen you today?" she asks, curious, as she finishes with the fountain. "Or- late last evening?"
"No," Greje answers, leaning in to actually drink from the fountain now that she's feeling certain enough that she's not going to be poisoned. "No, Jesse hasn't really spoken to me, since…" she trails off, shaking her head— not treading on the confidentiality between a man and his priest. "A long time, now," suffice it to say. "Why? Was he looking for me?"
Tisiphone's brows lift a little as Karthasi trails off. She's obviously curious. She also makes not a peep of inquiry. Not the Sister's place to tell; even less her place to try and get the Sister to do so. "We spoke last night," she says, casually enough. A slight smile for a moment, before a more pensive expression takes its place. "There's something he was considering talking to you about. About the- last week's attack on the ship."
"… Ah. Yes, well— I'm afraid my only answers on that score are perfectly useless ones," the priest has to admit. "Nonetheless, it was… it was spectacular to see, Tisiphone. It's like they were… actual people, for a moment. Not machines."
GAME: Save complete.
"That's… it's- what it sounded like. I can't imagine it." Sickbay was too busy having its occupants turned to bloody meat in standard Centurion style, after all. "It really doesn't make any sense, what he told me. Doesn't make any sense to him, either. But. He wasn't sure if he should bring it up to you, and I encouraged him. I think maybe-" Tisiphone gnaws at her lip for a second, uncertain how to, or if she should, proceed. "I think maybe you intimidate him a little. We simple folk and you with all your learning."
Karthasi's lips twitch just a little bit. "I've been known to lecture. Just… poke me, when I do. It's a bad habit, one best left to inflict upon theology students, not my flock," she looks more or less thoroughly abashed.
"I'm always happy to learn. But I'll remember." Tisiphone again offers a quick, almost shy smile before she fidgets with her squeeze-bottle. "I should- get going." Reluctant. "Four hours of light duty now that I'm done here. Lords and Ladies watch over you, Sister."
"And over you, Tisiphone. Ares at your side," Greje appends, in honor of the day, dipping her head in something like a truncated bow.