(no subject)
Kicked up by the feet of a thousand pilgrims, the dust on the road was thick, rising high above the road in a wispy, glittering cloud. A month before, the Right Hands had announced a day of observance, and from all over the region every family sent at least one person to represent them at the ceremony. From his perch high on a hill above the thoroughfare, Lisor watched the serpentine river of filth and bodies and chaos as it wound its way across the plain towards the city, marveling at the sheer size of the mob. In all his life, the young man had never seen more than a hundred people together at one time. This seething mass of humanity stretched out across the land in front of him, it was...absolutely terrifying.
In the distance, rising like a glittering jewel amongst the dull stones of the fortress city, the white spire atop the temple of the Sister sparkled in the summer sun. Inside it resided the second council, headed by the new First Hand that everyone was talking about. If the stories were to be believed, inside that brilliant white tower the Right Hands worshiped the Sister with wild celebrations and bizarre licentious acts beyond even the most deviant mind's capacity to imagine. Having met a Right Hand, one of the most staid and boring people he'd ever known, Lisor found those stories extremely hard to take seriously.
In any case, Lisor's path did not lie with that of the pilgrims. With a weary sigh, he hefted himself up off his seat, shouldered his pack, and turned his back on the worshipers trekking towards the city. Far ahead of him now, a blob of green in the midst of the dull brown and gold plain signaled his destination. When he reached the bottom of the hill, he wouldn't even be able to see it, despite the flatness of the land. It would be at least another three days of steady walking before he reached it.
Unlike the Right, the Left Hands preferred a more isolated existence. Content to remain in their sequestered oasis fortresses or tiny mountain monasteries, they shunned most outside contact unless absolutely necessary. Which was perfectly fine with Lisor. He had enough experience with people to last him a lifetime. Being born Other was no easy burden in the most metropolitan of cities, and in the backwater towns far away from those cities it was even harder. Very few rights were accorded to slaves, and those few were routinely disregarded by the majority. Others were no better than dogs, lower than dogs, even, and were treated accordingly.
Lisor himself was lucky enough to be sold to a man who treated his dogs rather well, but dealing with the scorn and rough treatment from the rest of the village was difficult, to say the least. Which is why when a Right Hand passing through his village asked his owner to release him for service to the Twin God, the young slave veritably leapt at the chance. Being a devout follower of the Brother, and an uncommonly kind man, it took very little convincing on the part of the Hand to get the old merchant to agree.
A six-day later, a bewildered but elated Lisor found himself on his way to the nearest holding of the Left Hands, all his worldly possessions in a bundle on his back. Eight days of grueling travel later, following the crude map the Right Hand had drawn for him, he was nearly there. Soon he would be taken into that stronghold of knowledge and learning, taught to read and write, and instructed in the duties of the Left Hands of the Twin God. What those duties were, he wasn't quite sure, but anything was better than the drudge-work he had been doing up until that point.
Now all that remained was actually reaching said stronghold.
{{For this.}}