By John Belliston
The snakeman slithered elegantly through the crowded street. His skin had been meticulously cleaned with a sand bath only this morning with sand he had brought in from his homeland. He lived amongst the barbarians but refused to damage his scales with their soaps and water. “Keep your body pristine. Even if it is illusion, the sand will think more of you.” He smiled at a young minotaur woman laboring in the street. A small bloody wound lay on her arm. As he lay a gentle hand to reassure her that she had the strength, a trickle of shadow energy flowed from his hand and closed her wound. She smiled up at him and thanked him. She would feel indebted to his kindness and refusing a reward would deepen her respect. He had seen her being trained by one of the more influential of the Carpenters. His smile had been wider and the scent of him more masculine as she worked by his side. She would talk of the Lash-ti-nowish that helped her.
The snakeman slithered elegantly through the crowded street. His skin had been meticulously cleaned with a sand bath only this morning with sand he had brought in from his homeland. He lived amongst the barbarians but refused to damage his scales with their soaps and water. “Keep your body pristine. Even if it is illusion, the sand will think more of you.” He smiled at a young minotaur woman laboring in the street. A small bloody wound lay on her arm. As he lay a gentle hand to reassure her that she had the strength, a trickle of shadow energy flowed from his hand and closed her wound. She smiled up at him and thanked him. She would feel indebted to his kindness and refusing a reward would deepen her respect. He had seen her being trained by one of the more influential of the Carpenters. His smile had been wider and the scent of him more masculine as she worked by his side. She would talk of the Lash-ti-nowish that helped her.
And the price of Snakemen glass was about to be debated
in the Grand Assembly. But Saleth already knew that.
The Wind Moves the Sand.
Though there are thousands who serve within the ranks of the
Priest Caste, it is a truly select and tiny few that bear faith powerful enough
to become a cleric. Each one carries with him a sigil to reflect the deeper
understanding of the wind and sand, a personal reminder
of the moment they found their faith. Saleth carries a copper ladle. When he
was young and foolish he found himself abandoned by his caravan. Lost in the
hellish heat of the Black Shamshar, days passed. Madness came and went like a
wild wind across his mind. His eyes barely open, his skin cracked and bloody
beneath the scales, he begged for Daras' sweet release but the Lady of the End
refused to come. He was found moments from breathing his last by one of the
convicts exiled to the black wastes. The convict offered him a copper ladle. He
gave Saleth a drink of precious water and asked for nothing in return.
Saleth holds all that he has become and all his works as the
direct consequence of that tiny act of kindness. It is that idea that fuels the
flame of his faith in the Ripples of Worth. Each of the priest caste must over
time decide how best to manipulate the sand and shape the world. Saleth selected
kindness as his weapon, for a kind act creates many after affects, and those
who are wise can use those effects to their advantage.
According to the Chroniclers within the Meticulous Bureaucracy, Saleth is the 425th priest to bear
the name Saleth. Its previous owner was remarkable only in the manner of his
death, having been savagely torn apart in an Unkhan raid. The newest Saleth
seeks to bring new honor to his name, but will play by his own rules. Like
all Lash he pays service and fealty to the Old Ones though over time that
loyalty has become more and more of a charade. He travels the world, as many
others do, not to work towards the benefit of the Old Ones in their Tomb
Palaces, but to see what ripples his kindness will make. Saleth wishes to
change the world… and to watch exactly how.
No comments:
Post a Comment