Good Ol' Scoundrel
MIDDLE OF NOWHERE
MIDDLE OF NOWHERE
Middle of nowhere.
Sure is.
The wooden church, if you could call it a church rather than an oversized shack, overlooked the village peacefully. You'd barely see the village from the tall golden threads of grass thickly surrounding the place of worship and healing or whatever else they called their oversized shack. Time stood still here. Days and nights rolled in an endless cycle of lethargy, peace and quiet. Ignorant of the troubles of the galaxy but well acquainted to the troubles of life.
Rohak hadn't bothered learning the village's name, if it even had one. He'd not even bothered to learn the name of the missionaries. The same missionaries that had saved him after the red coronation on Manda'yaim. So why had he sought them out?
Shepherd.
He appeared more often than usual recently, his intrusions always at the worst time. Preaching and preaching about peace and love for the other.
That, and the anniversary of his brother's death. The memory still in his mind like yesterday and every time it resurfaced in his thoughts the scar on his cheek burned. His hand came to touch it before the other swung the bottle of alcohol up in his mouth. The bittersweet taste lit his senses briefly and warmed his thirsty throat. The dar'manda leaned back on the wooden wall of the church besides the door and beneath the very welcomed shadow. Rohak had stood there for the last few hours refusing to enter. What was the point, anyway? He had not shown a glimpse of gratitude to the missionaries when they had saved them, on the contrary. He'd always laughed off religious cults.
So why?
[member="Irella Toldreyn"]
MIDDLE OF NOWHERE
Middle of nowhere.
Sure is.
The wooden church, if you could call it a church rather than an oversized shack, overlooked the village peacefully. You'd barely see the village from the tall golden threads of grass thickly surrounding the place of worship and healing or whatever else they called their oversized shack. Time stood still here. Days and nights rolled in an endless cycle of lethargy, peace and quiet. Ignorant of the troubles of the galaxy but well acquainted to the troubles of life.
Rohak hadn't bothered learning the village's name, if it even had one. He'd not even bothered to learn the name of the missionaries. The same missionaries that had saved him after the red coronation on Manda'yaim. So why had he sought them out?
Shepherd.
He appeared more often than usual recently, his intrusions always at the worst time. Preaching and preaching about peace and love for the other.
That, and the anniversary of his brother's death. The memory still in his mind like yesterday and every time it resurfaced in his thoughts the scar on his cheek burned. His hand came to touch it before the other swung the bottle of alcohol up in his mouth. The bittersweet taste lit his senses briefly and warmed his thirsty throat. The dar'manda leaned back on the wooden wall of the church besides the door and beneath the very welcomed shadow. Rohak had stood there for the last few hours refusing to enter. What was the point, anyway? He had not shown a glimpse of gratitude to the missionaries when they had saved them, on the contrary. He'd always laughed off religious cults.
So why?
[member="Irella Toldreyn"]