The thud of wood-against-metal-against-stone rings out across the sea cliffs. It reverberates gently off nearby rock, fading as the distance grows. A crow that had been cleaning itself in a nearby puddle flies aloft immediately, circles, and lands on a branch of a stubborn crag pine, then caws out in complaint to the originator of those sounds -- how rude of that person to interrupt a perfectly good bath.
Yasin is, of course, to blame, though he doesn't seem to pay much attention to the offended crow. No, his honey-brown eyes instead flit across the face of the cliffs where he's situated, silently gauging, judging, thinking.
The young man hasn't had the best luck with the deposits of the earth, of late.
And it is those thoughts that roll around his head as he looks for a sign of -- anything, really. There is nothing hanging over the top of him to fall on him. He picked this spot on purpose: away from the steep incline near the lookout, just a scramble away off-trail, where nothing loomed overhead to come crashing down. The scramble wasn't far, though he lost sight of the trail he'd originated from in the journey, hidden by jutting rocks and an occasional crag pine that seemed to defy the craggy surrounds and assert that it can, indeed, find a place to root itself, regardless of the stone's opinion of it.
Yasin kneels and presses a palm to the rocky ground beside his boots. His eyes close slightly, and he listens. He doesn't really know what he's doing, but he's seen enough of it that he's hopeful. Hopeful that he'll sense that the rocks aren't taking too kindly to this interruption in their daily plans, or that he'll be able to discern weakness in the rock beneath his feet. Nothing to fall on him doesn't mean that he can't somehow fall in to the rocks.
That might be worse, the young man realizes, blinking his eyes open as thoughts of being buried alive in rock and stone fill his consciousness for a brief, intrusive visit.
That causes his mind to wander, and he remembers that moment outside of the mine, where he lay broken. Not the first time. Perhaps not the last. The colors of the surrounds, the flickering flame of his dropped torch, the swaying breeze of nearby trees in the ravine. Everything was pale grey, the color draining as surely as the blood from his body. But the faces of his two companions that afternoon -- those ring through his hazy memory clear as crystal. He can see them both, looking over him with somber concern, even as his recollection of their speech is clouded and muddled.
No. The fear in their eyes, he remembers vividly.
And when he woke, the first thing he saw was that smile. Crooked. Watching him. Delighted. Wrong.
And then, the blood...
A complaining 'caw' brings Yasin free of that line of thinking, and he blinks upward, looking to the crow as it sits upon its perch. It stares down at him with a tilt of its head. Yasin manages a small smile that way, then casts his gaze across the landscape.
It is not that day of the mines. There is no blood. He remains standing on his own feet, his own limbs, and he flexes each hand, feeling the strength in them. He closes his eyes and allows his thoughts to drift to something else entirely, something of his own choice, whatever it is granting him at least reason to smile.
His eyes open, he takes a deep breath, and he refocuses on the task at hand.
"I apologize, my friend." He calls over to the crow-spectator. "I will be making this sound quite a few more times, until this stone is free of its resting place. Limestone for limewash, and for a clinic that badly needs it." He doesn't know why he bothers saying these things to the crow, and the crow, tilting its head the opposite direction, looks like it doesn't care one way or the other.
Yasin examines the quarrying chisel that he'd just malleted into place, the massive thing widening the fracture separating a protrusion of the pale limestone from its brethren. It is affixed to a partner by a length of rope. He lifts the sibling chisel, the thing as big as his forearm, and fits it into a spot down the line of the fracture.
Then, lofting the mallet in his hand, he prepares for another strike. He brings down the mallet with force and intent, determined grit in his expression.
As wood connects with iron, the stone shudders with the impact -- and, perhaps like the young man who wields it, though fractured, it does not yet yield.