Kentigern: A Legacy Chapter One
The dawn broke like a bad egg over the tiny village at the edge of the Chesap forest. The priest, he had a name once, but now everyone just called him The Priest, lay in his bed, trying to keep the light from forcing it's way into his head. He'd had a rough night and it looked like the morning was going to be just as bad.
He'd spent the greater part of the evening drinking some bad dwarven wine a trader had brought in the week before. It was just this side of vinegar and hard on the head and stomach. He retched a couple of times and decided to get up before he made a mess of the bed. He swung his legs to the floor and just kinda sat there for a while, waiting for the room to stop spinning. The night had been full of booming thunder, about half of it from the wine, and he winced with every heartbeat. He also seemed to remember a howling sound, but chalked that up to being the wind from the storm or maybe the echos of his bad singing.
As he stumbled around the hovel he called home, dodging piles of scroll and dirty robes, he seemed to hear a scratching at his rough-hewn door. "Damned curs! Coming to beg for scraps I don't have!" he murmured. Striding to the door, he threw it open, ready to chase the dogs off with a well placed kick and some scathing words. What he found sobered him right up.
There, lying on his doorstep, was a woman. She was young, maybe in her twenties, and covered in blood. It looked like she'd been mauled by some animal. The Priest could see her breath forming bubbles in the torn mass that once could have been a lovely neck. He quickly dropped to his knees, frantic to try to stop the flow of blood. Her eyes fluttered open and in them he saw great fear and also, a want to live. He would do his best to save this young woman.
The Priest was no cleric, but he had always done what he could to mend the scrapes and bruises of his small community. He made a hasty prayer to whatever Gods were handy, picked the young woman up and carried her inside. The table was closest so he laid her there with great care. He then went to work trying to put back together what someone or something had taken great pains to take apart.
It was approaching midday when he'd finally finished his work. It was the best that could be expected given he had no training and little more than kitchen tools to work with. She would not die today, but would never speak again. She was covered from head to toe in bruises, her throat had been torn open and there were gashes on her chest, stomach, legs and groin. She had truly been ravaged. The best thing for her now would be rest and prayers. The Priest shuffled back to his bed and collapsed, thoroughly exhausted.
He'd spent the greater part of the evening drinking some bad dwarven wine a trader had brought in the week before. It was just this side of vinegar and hard on the head and stomach. He retched a couple of times and decided to get up before he made a mess of the bed. He swung his legs to the floor and just kinda sat there for a while, waiting for the room to stop spinning. The night had been full of booming thunder, about half of it from the wine, and he winced with every heartbeat. He also seemed to remember a howling sound, but chalked that up to being the wind from the storm or maybe the echos of his bad singing.
As he stumbled around the hovel he called home, dodging piles of scroll and dirty robes, he seemed to hear a scratching at his rough-hewn door. "Damned curs! Coming to beg for scraps I don't have!" he murmured. Striding to the door, he threw it open, ready to chase the dogs off with a well placed kick and some scathing words. What he found sobered him right up.
There, lying on his doorstep, was a woman. She was young, maybe in her twenties, and covered in blood. It looked like she'd been mauled by some animal. The Priest could see her breath forming bubbles in the torn mass that once could have been a lovely neck. He quickly dropped to his knees, frantic to try to stop the flow of blood. Her eyes fluttered open and in them he saw great fear and also, a want to live. He would do his best to save this young woman.
The Priest was no cleric, but he had always done what he could to mend the scrapes and bruises of his small community. He made a hasty prayer to whatever Gods were handy, picked the young woman up and carried her inside. The table was closest so he laid her there with great care. He then went to work trying to put back together what someone or something had taken great pains to take apart.
It was approaching midday when he'd finally finished his work. It was the best that could be expected given he had no training and little more than kitchen tools to work with. She would not die today, but would never speak again. She was covered from head to toe in bruises, her throat had been torn open and there were gashes on her chest, stomach, legs and groin. She had truly been ravaged. The best thing for her now would be rest and prayers. The Priest shuffled back to his bed and collapsed, thoroughly exhausted.