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The Blatherings Of A Blitherer

100 Words: Broken Glass


“By the In-between Spaces, Simot, you throw like a freakin’ girl! Put your back into it, for crying out loud!”

Simot had no interest in throwing a ball around. He’d been perfectly content wandering through the woods just outside of town looking for Pigsies and Crampmoss. Croan, however, had other plans. Masculine plans. The Games That Separate Men From Weenies plans. And so Simot had been roped into another stupid round of “throw two balls around in a circle, chasing after it every time you miss or drop it.” He’d done a lot of chasing after the ball so far, as had whoever he was throwing to. His aim was less than good. Even little Danet, the girl obsessed with the City Guard, was able to out throw and out catch him. It was hot, and he was frustrated, and Croan would not leave him alone. So he pulled his arm back and threw as hard as he could, aiming for Croan’s head.

He missed Croan entirely.

The ball flew wide, not posing any sort of threat to Croan at all.

Instead it broke through the new plate glass window of Sebsis’s Bakery. Old man Sebsis burst out of the bakery in a rage, the ball held in one white knuckled hand. The other kids fled.

Simot woke up two hours later.

He’d never seen the ball coming.

After his pupils were the same size again, Lian took Simot to Imris to be fitted for eyeglasses, delicate round lenses that both gave him greater accuracy and the ability to see what was in front of him, as well as an excuse not to participate in rough and tumble games.

279 Words

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Simot Aldonan (Cleric)
A somewhat gloomy young man who was orphaned as a child, raised as a ward of the town, and recently chosen–much to his surprise–as the mortal instrument of Saint Matry, motherly patron of midwives, doctors, and undertakers.
Very perceptive, but clumsy. Very durable, and well armored. Able to repel undead creatures, heal himself and his allies, and use divine magic. Has powers regarding both death and healing.

Ennor and his men stood over the now-dessicated body of the Sorcerer their Lady had set them after. He had died fighting, hurling curses and death spells, weaving darkness. Lian had finally taken him from behind, a long silver blade slipped through his ribs, under his shoulderblade, through his lung and into his heart. That, and some fire, had finished him off.

“Search the place. Gather his books for burning.”

The men complied, tapping on walls and floor, looking for hidden rooms and compartment. Emrys found a rack of bottles filled with light, and with darkness, and he wrapped them carefully in bedding, padded them, before taking them out to the cart. A simple burning would not be safe. Ennor rapped on the floor, listening for hollowness. He thought he heard something, and pulled Lian away from the fireplace, where the man was alternately tugging and pressing on bricks. Lian joined him, and together they found the hidden ring. A trap door opened onto darkness, and a whimpering scuffling noise. Ennor gestured for a torch, and thrust it into the darkness.

There was a slim figure, pale, pressed into a corner. Ennor’s eyes adjusted to the light and he realized it was a boy, naked, covered in bruises and sores. He was filthy, stinking. His dark hair had been shorn in the manner of sheep, which is to say that in some spots tufts of thick dark hair stood up and in other spots his scalp was scraped raw and red. Ennor heard a muffled clinking and realized that the the boy had an iron collar around his neck, manacles around his wrists, thick chains that rain to a stout oaken post, banded with iron, that stood in the center of the space beneath the floor. Ennor handed the torch to Lian and dropped into the dark space.

The boy made a small sound at his approach, tried to press his thin body deeper into the corner, away from the stranger. He shivered convulsively and Ennor realized that the sores on the boy’s body were alchemical symbols, branded and cut into his flesh… branded, cut, and infected. No wonder the boy cowered and shivered. Ennor pulled his cloak off, crouched, wrapped it around the boy. His action surprised the child, who looked over at him, startled. His eyes were wide and dark, and his lips, Ennor saw with shock, had been sewn shut.

It was the work of a few moments only to strike the thick chains, to sever them. Ennor handed the cloak-wrapped bundle of boy up to Lian, who slid his silver blade between the boy’s lips and cut the slender black sinews that stitched his mouth shut. They fed him a bit of weak tea, handed him some hard bread that he fumbled with, ate, and then vomited back up. Emrys sat with him, calm cool hands stroking the fevered wounds until the boy fell asleep. The men of the White Lady worked around them.

At last they left, the Sorcerer’s house behind them crackling merrily orange at their backs. Ennor, who had found the boy, named him Simot as the boy was not forthcoming with a name of his own. Lian and his wife Eleyn raised Simot, accepting donations in the form of food and supplies from the town for the expense of the child. It was two years before he speak, and never of his time with the Sorcerer, nor of what his life was before then.

Simot grew up tall, slender, almost frail-looking, and sardonic. His foster parents were not surprised when he was called to follow Mother Matry, for all that Simot had nursed a hope of serving the White Lady.

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