Signs and offerings
Milo sat alone atop a rocky slope and looked out over Matthew's bay. The water below was like a vale brush stroke set in the light see-through tones of a watercolor, a stage for the sun to dance on. From up here the city looked deceptively small, half-hidden between the greenery, but magnificent nonetheless. It puzzled him how a place like this could exist outside of Rhysol's grace. The people here didn't just ignore the benevolent god, they rejected him and all those who followed him. And so he'd come here, a little ways outside of the city on the border between civilization and wilderness where none could see him pray.
It hadn't taken him long to find the little sanctuary, it was close enough to the Underhill cottage that he could make a quick return without raising suspicions, yet far enough away that he would have some forewarning should anyone come looking for him. So far his only company had been two ants that crawled up his bare ankles, tickling his skin below the crumple off his rolled-up trousers. In his lap lay the small offering he had managed to scavenge from the kitchen: a candle, a small jug of milk, a handful of table salt, and some thyme from the garden.
It wasn’t much of an offering, just what he thought he could without raising suspicions. Sighing, he traced the soft wax of the candle with a stubby finger, checked once more over his shoulder to be certain he was alone, then lit the candle with the flint and steel he’d brought and placed it in front of a small pile of rocks he’d gathered.
When he had laid out his meagre offering, he sat down on his knees, closed his eyes and directed his mind toward Rhysol. Ghostly memories stirred. He remembered the smell of burned incense, the soft murmuring of prayer, the flickering light of a hundred candles all burning in honor of Ravok’s god. His god. His sad pile of rocks was a poor replacement for the beautiful shrines in Ravok, and his prayer a soft, meek muttering compared to the hum and buzz of a thousand voices joined in worship. He missed his mother, and his father too, even if he wasn’t his real father, even if the man hated him now.
He prayed for selfish things too. Prayed that he might return to Ravok, prayed for guidance, promised that he would try to save his aunt and grandparents, and even his little cousin from their misguided ways, prayed to be less lonely, prayed for a sign. More and more his mind turned toward Ravok, toward the friends he missed and might never see again. Something started to burn behind his eyes.
For the longest time, the heavens remained silent and only the tickly ants and a gentle breeze coming over the hillside kept him company.
Then he heard it. A snap, like twigs being crushed underfoot. It sounded close. His eyes shot open and he turned to look over his shoulder. A tall figure loomed in the distance, half-hidden behind the thicket, and Milo hoped he hadn’t been spotted while he dried his eyes with his sleeve.
20th of Summer 521AV
Milo sat alone atop a rocky slope and looked out over Matthew's bay. The water below was like a vale brush stroke set in the light see-through tones of a watercolor, a stage for the sun to dance on. From up here the city looked deceptively small, half-hidden between the greenery, but magnificent nonetheless. It puzzled him how a place like this could exist outside of Rhysol's grace. The people here didn't just ignore the benevolent god, they rejected him and all those who followed him. And so he'd come here, a little ways outside of the city on the border between civilization and wilderness where none could see him pray.
It hadn't taken him long to find the little sanctuary, it was close enough to the Underhill cottage that he could make a quick return without raising suspicions, yet far enough away that he would have some forewarning should anyone come looking for him. So far his only company had been two ants that crawled up his bare ankles, tickling his skin below the crumple off his rolled-up trousers. In his lap lay the small offering he had managed to scavenge from the kitchen: a candle, a small jug of milk, a handful of table salt, and some thyme from the garden.
It wasn’t much of an offering, just what he thought he could without raising suspicions. Sighing, he traced the soft wax of the candle with a stubby finger, checked once more over his shoulder to be certain he was alone, then lit the candle with the flint and steel he’d brought and placed it in front of a small pile of rocks he’d gathered.
When he had laid out his meagre offering, he sat down on his knees, closed his eyes and directed his mind toward Rhysol. Ghostly memories stirred. He remembered the smell of burned incense, the soft murmuring of prayer, the flickering light of a hundred candles all burning in honor of Ravok’s god. His god. His sad pile of rocks was a poor replacement for the beautiful shrines in Ravok, and his prayer a soft, meek muttering compared to the hum and buzz of a thousand voices joined in worship. He missed his mother, and his father too, even if he wasn’t his real father, even if the man hated him now.
He prayed for selfish things too. Prayed that he might return to Ravok, prayed for guidance, promised that he would try to save his aunt and grandparents, and even his little cousin from their misguided ways, prayed to be less lonely, prayed for a sign. More and more his mind turned toward Ravok, toward the friends he missed and might never see again. Something started to burn behind his eyes.
For the longest time, the heavens remained silent and only the tickly ants and a gentle breeze coming over the hillside kept him company.
Then he heard it. A snap, like twigs being crushed underfoot. It sounded close. His eyes shot open and he turned to look over his shoulder. A tall figure loomed in the distance, half-hidden behind the thicket, and Milo hoped he hadn’t been spotted while he dried his eyes with his sleeve.