Quoted By:
[6/6]+Write IN
The risen sun casts harsh, angular shadows across the clearing. The hunter's posture is coiled - his arm pulled back as he considers loosing a broadhead at a quarry that cannot bleed.
"...I swear upon the lord..." declares the wounded daughter.
"...of this place..."
<...LIE...>
The air shivers as the daughter inhales with suppressed pain. Fresh blood arcs upwards, wetting the scored limestone.
"...The lord spoke to me and..."
<...LIE...>
"...granted us mercy..."
<...L...>
A softer, warmer breeze rushes through the clearing. A circlet of sunlit dew frames the daughter as she prepares to receive another cut. You had wished to answer her prayer as you did in the gatehouse, but you hope that this alone will suffice.
<...I...SHA....>
When the daughter looks up again, the thrice-wounded herald is already gone. Her trembling hands close around a sliver of hardened limestone that leaves tiny, hair-thin wounds on exposed skin.
[+1 WIND-SLIVER]
