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it's an involved process, his prayer. proper prayer.
he likes to wait for the slow hours, when there are almost no other people in the temple. he usually lights a candle and places what coin he has into the alms box while he waits for solitude.
when it eventually comes, an acolyte approaches and speaks in soft words.
“what troubles you, my brother?”
and sinrick really thinks.
everything.
he doesn’t remember most of his childhood, he doesn’t even remember his real name. what he does remember is the warmth of the sun and the music.
he was born into a tribe of travelers. merchants, artists, and bards who wandered from settlement to settlement spreading their talents and wares to all. his father was a gifted bard, able to paint a tapestry with word and song. his mother…
his father always said she had the gift. she saw things that others did not. often speaking in riddles, she told fortunes in the villages where they traveled.
during one visit, she spoke of famine and disease that would plague the villagers before the new moon rose. and when the crops started to dry out and the local lord’s wife died in childbirth taking both mother and firstborn son, rage started to grow.
and even though sinrick’s tribe had come and gone, the rage hunted them down. a band of angered villagers tracked the tribe down and in the night, they set fire to everything and everyone. sinrick awoke to red hot flame and screams. his father told him to run just as the angry mob came to take his mother.
so he ran. as far as his young legs could take him. he slept in the woods, tears staining his face and brush scratching his skin raw.
as a red sun rose, he followed the pillar of smoke back to his encampment. charred remains of his friends and loved ones were strewn about, skeletons of tents barely stood. in the center of it all, embers still glowed around a body, displayed as both a warning and a haunting reminder. his mother, arms splayed out, eyes raised to the sky without a moon.
then a voice.
“you seek revenge.”
sinrick turns to see a woman, ethereal and lavishly dressed. she would introduce herself as pasha and explain to the boy that she was willing to help sinrick with that revenge, in exchange for a price. he agrees without thought. she then explains that he’s not yet ready and must build his strength first.
so he trains. he toils day and night for years, building muscle and skill with every weapon he can find.
years go by before he sees pasha again. but she appears once more, in the middle of the night, delivering only a marked map with names.
one by one the names are crossed out, a trail of blood and destruction the only thing sinrick leaves in his wake. and when it's all said and done, he repays fire with fire. the village burns.
and as the embers dull to an orange glow he watches. and he takes a breath for the first time in forever.
and he screams.
and again she appears from seemingly nowhere.
“what do we learn from history if we just repeat it? rest well. when the time comes you’ll be handed the key.”
and pasha is gone.
and he’s alone.
guilt is a funny thing. it washes over you like a wave, pulling you beneath the water to an angered sea. he doesn’t know how long he was under, but he does remember washing up on the steps of a temple.
an acolyte looks down at him with kind eyes. it’ll be the last time anyone sees his eyes. his face.
“what troubles you, my brother?”