God help the outcasts, the tattered, the torn
Seeking an answer to why they were born
Bastien had had to be dragged to the Spire by one of his guild members, too taken with malaise and apathy to even believe a cure could be possible by this time. He'd spent too long bouncing between delusion and depression throughout the experience to believe it could get better.
As he saw the Spire though, a small enthusiastic bounce got into his steps as he remembered his temple plans, which he'd hopefully be able to put into effect if he were well. Waiting in line he let himself hope, then a little more, then by the time he'd made it to the Voice he was beaming, thrilled with the idea of getting better. "Thank you, Goddess." He said brightly, taking the cure without hesitation.
"Oh, that is--my mind, it has been so foggy, I didn't realise." He laughed under his breath, holding his head as everything began to clear.
As he saw the Spire though, a small enthusiastic bounce got into his steps as he remembered his temple plans, which he'd hopefully be able to put into effect if he were well. Waiting in line he let himself hope, then a little more, then by the time he'd made it to the Voice he was beaming, thrilled with the idea of getting better. "Thank you, Goddess." He said brightly, taking the cure without hesitation.
"Oh, that is--my mind, it has been so foggy, I didn't realise." He laughed under his breath, holding his head as everything began to clear.
Winds of misfortune have blown them about
You made the outcasts, don't cast them out
BASTIEN
