You've gathered from discussions around the fire that Brolle has lived a few past lives, firstly as a son of merchants, then a merchant selling tinctures and remedies, then a healer to the nobles and merchants of the city, and finally as a priest of Calistria, which you've heard him describe as a goddess of knowledge, love, will and justice, in contrast to what you've heard of Calistria from others. When asked why Calistria, he says he called out at his lowest moment, and she answered him, so fuck the other gods with a rake. He can speak the elvish language of his god fluently with only a few human mispronunciations.
Brolle looks middle aged, dresses in dark embroidered fabrics, cut smartly to fit, and carries a holy book, and a whip at his side. He can be unnervingly brash and cheerful in dangerous circumstances, yet appears observant and thoughtful other times, and yet at others you have seen him reclusive and dark faced. Nevertheless, you have come to rely on his healing and savvy council.
You snuck a peek and found this inscribed on the back of his journal:
"What have you to say wind wind wind did you love somebody, and have you the petal of somewhere in your heart, pinched from dumb summer? O crazy lady of death, dance cruelly for us and start the last leaf whirling in the final season! Let us as we have seen, see doom’s integration. A wind has blown the rain away and the leaves and the sky and the trees stand, the trees stand, the trees, suddenly wait against the moon’s face rising and falling. O crazy lady, make the rain beat us make blue our vows make infernal summer's hot edge eddy and obey us in this our final season."
You're really not sure what to make of it, but occasionally the words float in your head upon waking for the day.
No comments:
Post a Comment