The Accused


Red eyes

Rusted fur

Imperfect rhymes

But full of words

I changed in the years of my exile, and though no one in the streets recognized me beneath the beard and rough clothes, I had found my home with little effort. Heavy leather gloves with large stitching were the only reason I made it inside the gates. Everyone here knew I was a wastelander, but it was not until I pushed into the main square that I began to call out the names of my family and the priests. Not pleading, not searching, but as a demand.

Guards hemmed in, but a man recognized me and all motion in the square halted in two kinds of silence: confusion and speechlessness.

Again I demanded the names, and slowly the people began to stir as word spread of my return. In such a small town, it didn't take long before I stood before the same crowd as I had long ago.

This time, as the accuser.

I dared the priests to wash their hands before us. I mocked the guards wearing their heavy gauntlets, the deacons with their arms crossed beneath their robes. I even called out the secret servants who skirted the crowd.


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Comments (1 so far!)

ElshaHawk LoA

ElshaHawk LoA

Confrontation with the priests is key. But there is still no epic weapon! LOL. He probably doesn't need it.

  • Posted 14 days ago

Inspired by (sequel to):

The wastes are not empty. They are bleak, harsh, even dangerous, but people make a living out here. …

The Black Hand
  • Published 14 days ago.
  • Story viewed 9 times and rated 0 times.

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