He was half reclining in a big, Chinese bamboo chair, with an attitude of utter and disheartening boredom.

His crossed legs were stretched out, one heel digging into the soft pile of the Tabreez rug.

Muscular arms folded in an idleness that irked them with aching weariness, he sat there, brooding, motionless.
Everything about the man spelled energy at bay, forces rusting, ennui past telling.

But force still dominated.

Force showed in the close-cropped, black hair and the small ears set close to the head; in the corded throat and heavy jaws; in the well-muscled shoulders, sinewed hands, powerful legs.