The room that they put Arthur in was rather bare. It did have a few things going for it - for one thing, it was about twice the size of the closet he had been relegated to in their other buildings - and had a bed and desk and even a small table. Of course, the bed had no mattress, instead a bunch of blankets laid out on it for rest. And the entire house lacked indoor plumbing, though at least there was a large washbasin filled with water. Cold, but beggars couldn't be choosers.
Or, you know, Climbers who had just fought through multiple floors and not taken a proper bath. He was just grateful the scenario and Tun Rahman hadn't chosen to get angry at his state of dress and the amount of dirt he was trekking in.
With the warning from the smaller man - and damn him for being unable to remember the name. It was one of those I names, Ifa, Ifram, Ishak? something like that - Arthur definitely wasn't going to bed. Not that he wanted to sleep filthy either, so once he propped the chair in the way, he stripped his armour off and began the long process of cleaning himself.
After the third time he had to ask for a change of water, he stopped blocking the door directly, just leaving the chair such that he could toss it with his leg or kick it into whoever decided to charge in, if necessary.
Of course, the meant he left his back to the window which was propped open from the bottom, but what could you do?
Washing himself clean was a quiet, and calming ritual. It allowed him to think over the events the last few hours, his opponents and what events might occur. Once he was done and clean, he dressed himself in a set of shorts and a shirt before he turned towards his weapons, finishing the cleaning process of those.
Funny, of all the things that he had, those were the cleanest. Not just the edges, but along the grip and shaft where he held it closest, blood and guts wiped clean, brushed away over constant use. When he had time - and water - he cleaned them. Sharpened the edges, double-checked the points and got ready of burrs and chips.
Care for the weapons, for his equipment was a mainstay of his life here in the Tower. For him and most Climbers who wanted to survive, but it said a lot that it was his weapons that were the best cared for. His armour, when he got to it an hour later was still a battered mess.
He wiped it down with a cloth, noting how the cleaning spray he'd borrowed, that initial rub down to help break down the accumulated filth had done some work. Leather needed to be oiled, after you used soap on it; rubbed down gently to give it back its suppleness. Burrs and scratches could be sandpapered away, holes punched into sides banged out and then covered with duct tape later.
Too bad he didn't have better patches, strips of leather to replace broken portions. Bindings could be removed, gromets unpunched and pulled apart with the right equipment, but that took time. Even if he noticed a few straps a little frayed, a couple ready to come apart, latches and buckles bent out of shape he left them for now.
Instead, he finished the cleaning and inspection, wiped everything down and set it all aside to dry. He would put it on, but armour was uncomfortable, especially some that had been beaten around so much. Uncomfortable and, especially in Malaysia, hot. There was a reason you didn't see warriors wandering around the South East Asian isles in plate armour.
Work finished, all his equipment sorted for the moment, Arthur stood up and stretched, walking around the small room. No balcony to walk out onto, just a window he could open. It was late at night, well past midnight now and he almost wished he had taken some time to cultivate.
He was as ready as he was ever going to be, assuming he didn't have time to draw in more energy to refill his reserves. And yet, nothing was happening.
Sticking his head outwards, he looked back and forth. Searching for problems. Seeing nothing but a couple more windows, all of them closed but one. That was propped open, a light burning within two windows from his.
He stared at it, hoping to gain some clue, but the angles were all wrong. He was in the midst of pulling himself back in, when he saw movement out of the corner of his eye. Craning his head upwards and sideways, he spotted a swinging shadow, moving across the top and then.
A flash of white eyes, narrowing under clothed face. He couldn't see much, just the silhouette and something glittering in one hand that flashed towards his face.
Instinctively, Arthur pulled away and into his room but just a touch slow. A burning line along his face, searing pain before a spreading numbness as the attack passed him by. He staggered back, kris appearing in his hand, legs landing against the edge of his bed before he collapsed against it.
Poison Detected!
Climber attempts to resist poison!
Poison partially resisted!
Poison partially resisted!
Numbness spreading through his body, the Tower providing details about what his body was doing. He understood this poison, this deadening of his nerves. It was not the same kind that he used, though it was a Yin-related poison, a thing of slumber and quiet, of energy lowered. It should have been simple to handle, what with his Yin body, his healing factor.
That it wasn't, spoke of the potency of the poison itself. He shuddered, his body going into overdrive as it washed the poison away from the wound itself, spreading its effect all across him, Yin chi acting against it to reduce the effectiveness. From his wound across his cheek, blood leaked, his vision swam a little as he focused on the open window intently.
Waiting to see if the attacker returned.
Wondering what they were doing up there.
Then, voices. Raised voices, a scream, a clanging of a bell. The alarm raised, and dread swept through Arthur, as he tried to pull himself upwards, understanding running through him.
So that's what they meant by the game.
And why he should not sleep.