Are
Apostate
Stubborn spiders burrowing beneath the skin of the very creation itself. Sending it stumbling ever closer to a cliff over blackened waters, spasmodic convulsions hurtling it over the edge and into the far beneath. All to the maniacal laughter of the wolves set it ablaze.
Apostate
The Shepherd demanded it. A faithful servant sent wandering the wilds in search of all that would oppose the nature of the world, that would see it burned at the stake before laying down their arms at the feet of it's true masters. Gods above how the cold seeped through every crack in the tattered heap of wool and leather that Are's previously humble, but proper dress had become. Yet there was no time to care, no mind to give the growing pains of the tortured body, not while there was still purpose. Not while there was still enemies drawing breath. Or making tracks.
Apostate!
How he had arrived was nothing but a blur. Flashes of images, a creek, a river, the river. Ragged breath escaped the blackened mouth in puffs of white, strained breaths turned as pure as the newly driven snow, but there was a taint in the air. A sulfurous stench of a flame burning in his memory, and not far from where the tracks ended.
"Apostate!"
The man bellowed to none in particular, cursing the very air around him that the track was lost. Not a trace of what had been found by instinct alone.
Stubborn spiders burrowing beneath the skin of the very creation itself. Sending it stumbling ever closer to a cliff over blackened waters, spasmodic convulsions hurtling it over the edge and into the far beneath. All to the maniacal laughter of the wolves set it ablaze.
Apostate
The Shepherd demanded it. A faithful servant sent wandering the wilds in search of all that would oppose the nature of the world, that would see it burned at the stake before laying down their arms at the feet of it's true masters. Gods above how the cold seeped through every crack in the tattered heap of wool and leather that Are's previously humble, but proper dress had become. Yet there was no time to care, no mind to give the growing pains of the tortured body, not while there was still purpose. Not while there was still enemies drawing breath. Or making tracks.
Apostate!
How he had arrived was nothing but a blur. Flashes of images, a creek, a river, the river. Ragged breath escaped the blackened mouth in puffs of white, strained breaths turned as pure as the newly driven snow, but there was a taint in the air. A sulfurous stench of a flame burning in his memory, and not far from where the tracks ended.
"Apostate!"
The man bellowed to none in particular, cursing the very air around him that the track was lost. Not a trace of what had been found by instinct alone.
