Blightborn
“Then he does a mad dance, stomping his feet and spinning around, possessed by the ecstasy not of divine breath but of unadulterated atheism.The two figures who have come to see him look on. The votary of the Lord and Lady stands by in his black cassock and looks equal parts embarrassed and frustrated. The old man straightens his prodigious white beard and looks away from the spectacle.The priestess of Saranyu stares, as placid as a cup of water. She with her purple sari and orange sash, with he...r hair in a pair of dueling braids and her arms inked with the dark filigree of dyed scripture up to her bare shoulders. Her smile is as small and still as a mouse.“You’re being executed in a matter of days,” the votary says. Votary Rimfin is his name. Balastair knows him—or did, once. Old, shriveled bastard. Likes the wine. Likes the smoke. Likes all the indulgences he is allowed by the laws of catechism. “We should pray. And not to some old goddess whose presence here is purely cursory.”The old man’s eyes flit toward the priestess.For her part, she maintains a hold on serenity and says, “Saranyu only wishes to bless you on this, your journey into the life beyond.”Balastair grunts.MoreLess
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