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6/17/2025, 11:12:47 PM
>>6260080
“By Midday, we have shared bright words with each other.”
“Make her stop,” groans a female Priest, waving her hand.
“Stop saying the hallowed words to the Sun-Birther?”
“She is a heathen and a spy! Make her filthy lips stand still!”
“There will be no interrupting any who want to reach out to the Everburning. That will be all I say about it,” the Priest who read your name snarls, and the other tilts her head in obeisance, if forced.
“And by eventide, we have done bright deeds,,” you complete.
But as every step follows the previous one, and the mariners keep you upright, leading you away from the shore and towards an barge anchored on the river’s shore, there is, once again, no answer.
It does not make sense.What did you do wrong?
“Please tell me. Tell me what I did wrong. Please. Please tell me please please please…” you mutter in despair, just as the mariners shove you on the barge, together with a few priests, as the crowd disperses along the shore, and curious Maduans, in their tunics and sandals, old men and women and strong youth and children peer at you from the sides, scrutinising your silver hair.
“Being born,” mutters the female Priest, and the male one slaps her ear behind the veil of fabric, which finally seems to put a stop to her words.
But not her enmity.
The mariners push the barge away and it starts moving upstream, with no sail and no Sarcophagus, merely pulled by the Will of Ansàrra, it seems.
And it flows around you, without touching, without warmth.
“At Dawn we wake up with bright thoughts—” you start over again, rocking back and forth, holding the cameo in your hands like a lifeline, though all it can do is sit there, the last mote of warmth, a silent burning ember that slowly rises into the utter darkness.
You repeat and repeat the prayer, scouring your throat, until the words stumble upon each other, until you are not even sure if you are mouthing words of shards of ice.
By the time the barge is moving between the tall cliffs surrounding the river, with their verdant trees and flowering sides, under the beauty of Maduan summer, and you are still caught in your own inner winter, you can’t even make sure you ever knew words that mattered.
[cont.]
“By Midday, we have shared bright words with each other.”
“Make her stop,” groans a female Priest, waving her hand.
“Stop saying the hallowed words to the Sun-Birther?”
“She is a heathen and a spy! Make her filthy lips stand still!”
“There will be no interrupting any who want to reach out to the Everburning. That will be all I say about it,” the Priest who read your name snarls, and the other tilts her head in obeisance, if forced.
“And by eventide, we have done bright deeds,,” you complete.
But as every step follows the previous one, and the mariners keep you upright, leading you away from the shore and towards an barge anchored on the river’s shore, there is, once again, no answer.
It does not make sense.What did you do wrong?
“Please tell me. Tell me what I did wrong. Please. Please tell me please please please…” you mutter in despair, just as the mariners shove you on the barge, together with a few priests, as the crowd disperses along the shore, and curious Maduans, in their tunics and sandals, old men and women and strong youth and children peer at you from the sides, scrutinising your silver hair.
“Being born,” mutters the female Priest, and the male one slaps her ear behind the veil of fabric, which finally seems to put a stop to her words.
But not her enmity.
The mariners push the barge away and it starts moving upstream, with no sail and no Sarcophagus, merely pulled by the Will of Ansàrra, it seems.
And it flows around you, without touching, without warmth.
“At Dawn we wake up with bright thoughts—” you start over again, rocking back and forth, holding the cameo in your hands like a lifeline, though all it can do is sit there, the last mote of warmth, a silent burning ember that slowly rises into the utter darkness.
You repeat and repeat the prayer, scouring your throat, until the words stumble upon each other, until you are not even sure if you are mouthing words of shards of ice.
By the time the barge is moving between the tall cliffs surrounding the river, with their verdant trees and flowering sides, under the beauty of Maduan summer, and you are still caught in your own inner winter, you can’t even make sure you ever knew words that mattered.
[cont.]
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