Ill-Made Martyr [Open]

The Gods created the world. It sounded... silly to Peter, but what else could he believe? Maea had been nothing but kind, and if he couldn’t trust her words now, then he would have to start right back at the beginning, when he’d first crashed out of the house he’d arrived in. All he had to do was swallow the fact, accept it, and other things fell into place around it. Though it didn’t help his understanding of the shrines much. Who would presume they could bother such powerful creatures? The talk of races, and their powers and history, seemed to unnerve Peter more than anything, his eyes on anything but Maea and his own hands while she explained them. Having a marker assigned to him that he had never asked for brought with it a queasiness, uncomfortable memories rising up and assaulting him with expecatations of pain and hiding. ”I’m not... I don’t want to... to get in trouble with...” He stopped, chewed his lip and tried to choose his words carefully, tactfully, to keep himself safe and still get the knowledge he needed. ”Are... any of the... the people, the races... are they bad?” Peter The only thing I know is this: I am full of wounds and still standing on my feet.