33 Recent Deviations
Father DagonJericho's first memories were loneliness and darkness. He was given by his parents to a radical, extremist, isolationist sect of the church. He had the devil in him they had said. Touched by hell. Who could say why they would say such a thing. He was meant to live, serve and die in the cathedral upon the coast. No one ever left.
Jericho never felt the religious fervor for God the other children did. Scripture gave him no comfort. Sermons only spoke of doom and fire. He grew to hate the faith that was forced upon him. He hated the cathedral that was his prison; imprisonment he earned only by being born. He could see the deep, blue ocean from the top-most bell tower, on cloudstrewn days when he could escape away. He wanted nothing more than to feel the sand between his toes and the waves crash over him. He longed for it like a starving man for food.
Ever forced to do penance for his transgressions or his constant rule-breaking, he was one day sent to organize the churches sizable library
The First Laugh
Ithil sat perched on the edge of a stool in the corner, her cloak pulled tightly about her figure. It was the summertime, but she didn't wish to startle the common-folk of the village with her appearance. One glance would make many recoil in disgust; some would even flee screaming. She took a solemn sip of the wine sitting before her, bitter and strong. The bartender had seen her face when serving her, giving her a look of mistrust but remaining silent. She was grateful to him for it.
Normally she wouldn't be sitting around a bar during the night. The path she had chosen was one of a Druid, and she was more attuned to wandering the lands, helping the earth and nature where she could. However, some nights she desired more comfort than the grass or a cave. A nice mug of wine and a room with a fire were a nice treat now and again. Her cup emptied and she took another piece of copper from her belt for a new one; earnings from relocating a family of rabbits tearing up a local garden.
The Book of The GuiltyIt was once told that there was a book. This book was said to be bound in the flesh of men and beast, and set upon a pedestal in the darkest reaches of the world. Men fear to tread there, where heathen Gods and forgotten creatures hold sway.
There, alone in this forsaken place, lives a single man. Some say he is eternal, one of the precursors to the mortals that now rule this planet. Others believe he is cursed, here to watch over this place eternally, never moving, never leaving. He is as the Earth itself; here before primordial man and will exist long after they are gone.
It is his job to care for the skin bound tome, a lonely sentinel in the dark. It is his job to swipe the knife, and pen the names into it's infinite pages in his own blood by the light of the black-flame candle.
The Book of The Guilty, a tome that is a testament to sin. Every sin committed, by deity and mortal alike, is recorded. No one is exempt. No one is overlooked, no matter how alone or unimportant.
No one is j
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