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.
No sequels yet. Why not write one?
Comments (1 so far!)
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.
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