malins
Stumbling Seeker
[ a little fairytale of a story which will twist its way to the kind of end such tales have. The ingredients are all in the pot, such as kings and quens and knights and frogs, good and bad but it still needs some stirring. Though no dwarves or dragons - but fire, and, of course crosses. That might take a while because sometimes it's a long journey for someone until they learn to accept and appreciate the cross...]
1
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They found the emaciated creature in a ravine not an hour's march from the monastery.
She must have barely subsisted in the wilderness for weeks, if not months. Seemingly unable to speak and barely crawling, she offered no resistance when they lifted up her tattered cloak to look for any dire wounds or signs of infectious illness. Skin and bones, jutting ribs, deep, livid bruises, scratches and sores.
However, the attempt to pull back the hood over her face brought a sudden storm of kicking and screaming, from whatever reserves remained in her exhausted form.
“Don't”, she cried.
“The fire in my face. Every touch of light will burn my face. The moon, it burns my face…”
“...Even every shadow burns my face.”
They left the hood on, they picked her up, carried her.
“We have salves and potions,” they promised; “the scars will never go but trust us, you will be able to bear the light again.”
“Devil-fire”, she had said, that it was devil-fire.
“And if you looked upon me, it would burn you too.”
They said nothing more then. The hood stayed on.
They knew about devils.
In fact, many had joined the Order because the courses of their own lives had given plenty proof of demons and devils at work, and brought them to seek gods to counteract them.
With the outbreak of war, they had witnessed many works of devilry and taken in many broken creatures.
It was rumored that when Tsilsne had tired of people's presence, strings of molten sulphur were poured over their faces. And perhaps worse things put upon them, curses crafted from wicked words.
1
--------
They found the emaciated creature in a ravine not an hour's march from the monastery.
She must have barely subsisted in the wilderness for weeks, if not months. Seemingly unable to speak and barely crawling, she offered no resistance when they lifted up her tattered cloak to look for any dire wounds or signs of infectious illness. Skin and bones, jutting ribs, deep, livid bruises, scratches and sores.
However, the attempt to pull back the hood over her face brought a sudden storm of kicking and screaming, from whatever reserves remained in her exhausted form.
“Don't”, she cried.
“The fire in my face. Every touch of light will burn my face. The moon, it burns my face…”
“...Even every shadow burns my face.”
They left the hood on, they picked her up, carried her.
“We have salves and potions,” they promised; “the scars will never go but trust us, you will be able to bear the light again.”
“Devil-fire”, she had said, that it was devil-fire.
“And if you looked upon me, it would burn you too.”
They said nothing more then. The hood stayed on.
They knew about devils.
In fact, many had joined the Order because the courses of their own lives had given plenty proof of demons and devils at work, and brought them to seek gods to counteract them.
With the outbreak of war, they had witnessed many works of devilry and taken in many broken creatures.
It was rumored that when Tsilsne had tired of people's presence, strings of molten sulphur were poured over their faces. And perhaps worse things put upon them, curses crafted from wicked words.