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[Tai Kwan Leap]

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A tall gaunt incredibly hairy man wearing only a kilt staggered and stumbled down the steps to where a very old man sat motionless in the morning chill wearing only his saffron robes of order.

“Kinley-san, you could never sneak upon someone. You walk like a bull in a china shop,” the old man lifts his hand slowly in a form of salute.

“Sensei Po, only a fekkin’ fool would try ta’ sneak up on ye. An’, I dinna claim tha’ heritage any longer. Tha’ man was born in a cave. I am Silent Poet now an’ e’er after,” the kilted one sat one step behind the robed monk.

After adjusting his kilt and finding a comfortable spot on the step, Poet pulls the plug on his flask and drinks deeply. The flask is dented, battered and scarred from many years and fights.

“I respect, ye an’ all me lad, but why was I forcefully wakened at this fekkin’ hour,” he says sipping from the flask again. He closes his eyes as the fire of the drink fills his belly with heat.

The monk chuckles lowly and raises his right hand and points to the sparring field in front of the temple that he and Poet sat on the steps of.

“There. The little ryu. Watch and tell me,” and then the old man holds his hand out for Poet’s flask.

The kilted one lifts his flask and jiggles it judging the amount of contents and then reluctantly passes it to the blind monk.

“Ye really should go easy on tha’, tis one o’ me new brews, an’ has a kick like a deranged harlot,” he says watching the monk drain his flask.

A staff appears in the monk’s hand and then it is at the back of Poet’s head and on either side forcing him to look at the field.

There on the field was a very short but wide man he knew well. His gi was made of simple woven cloth. Tai Kwan was the name of the man wearing nothing but garments kneeling with his legs tucked under him in the desai position. He kept his eyes closed in the face of the ten archers facing him with bows at the ready.

“Okay, tha’ runt is meditatin’ in his pajamas an’ there’s ten archers drawin’ down on him,” Poet says pushing the staff away from him.

Sensei Po nods and the archers release their volley. Keeping his eyes closed Tai Kwan stands and fluidly moves into a crane stance. The arrows fly through the air directly to their target and the short monk bats them all aside keeping his eyes closed.

“Tha’ runt just made tha’ wee archers look like idiots,” the hairy man says looking for his backup flask.

The old blind monk holds up two fingers, and the archers and Tai Kwan both nod. Within three seconds the archers had released two volleys of arrows. The short monk switched to the Tiger stance and knocked them all to the ground.

“He is still unharmed. Give them a chance. Tis nothin’ ta’ dodge volleys at 100 paces. Halve tha’ distance, an’ then after tha’ volley, halve tha’ ground covered again, an’ then a third volley at random,” Poet says sipping from secondary flask.

Po nods and those on the sparring field nod in unison. Arrows fly through the air and the archers move forward. Another volley into the air and they take up their lands 13 feet from the monk. He began moving in a kata slowly and gracefully, his hands and feet deflecting the arrows.

He bows to the archers and they then begin to randomly fire at him. The first seven are deflected with apparent ease, but the last three are released as a single volley.

Their timing and aim was impeccable. However, he was still in his kata form and the eighth creased his ribs. He caught the ninth at his forehead, and flipped sideways to catch the tenth in his thigh instead of his chest.

“He was barely injured. Okay, ye an’ he are just showin’ orf,” Poet says sipping from his flask.

Po reaches back taking the secondary flask from the drunkard’s hands in one quick movement.

“The time has come,” Po says draining the flask.
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"He's been fired from the Shrimp Boat?" -- Charlaine Harris "Living Dead In Dallas."