continued from here. 1st Winter, 510 A.V. Zahari was old and had taken to frequent naps. They said he would soon begin the Great Journey; that is, Death. There was little fear of Mother Dira in Denval. The descendants of Suvan warriors knew She was their inevitable friend, and companion on that Journey everyone must take eventually. So when an acolyte came to Haimon in the library, he knew what to expect and quickly finished adding the name of a newborn babe to the records of Denvali bloodlines. This was both his civic as well as religious duty. The middle-aged chaplain stepped out into the chapel proper, but there was only the one man praying at the moment. Haimon knew everyone in Denval; it was joked that only Oleg knew them better. The chaplain of Viratas did not know this man, but that was of no moment. Since their rediscovery by the blessed traveling Zeltivans, more and more outsiders had come to visit, even if merely to stop in their meager port on their way along the Kalean coast. A brief sweep of his gaze across the room verified that the proper candles were lit, and all was in proper order. The prayerful man seemed content with himself, and so Haimon knelt before a small altar to offer his own prayers, which would be short, but powerful. If the man needed him, he would not have to wait long. He dragged up the sleeve of his robe, revealing a clever bit of cloth that looped up to button at his shoulder, holding the sleeve up. The movement also revealed an untold number of scars. Most were thin and silvery as spider silk, though others were not and had stories of their own. Above that, wrapping around his bicep, was a sort of mark in the shape of a crimson chain. Nine links were that bright red color, a hidden three remained dark. A consecrated blade was pulled from his belt and slipped quickly and deftly across his inner arm and he held the wound over a bronze bowl that caught his offering. When he spoke, his voice was soft and sonorous: "Spilt blood cries out to me. It speaks of life and death. It sings of sins and blessings. Every drop is precious, But not all cries are holy." |