A Solid Grip

The stillness broke. Strength surged through my fingers first. I tightened my grip on the spear haft, feeling the grain under my glove as the wooden shaft grounded firmly against the surface. Beside me loomed a massive ceramic mug, its speckled wall cold and smooth. I cautiously extended my left knuckle to rap against its heavy curved flank. A low, hollow chime answered back. My limbs answered to my own intent now. I squared my stance, spear planted upright, scanning the shadowed perimeter.