Miryn leaned her head into her hand, letting the sounds of the Quicksand wash over her. She could see the bottom of her mug and didn't even feel a pleasant buzz anymore, but had not the coin to correct the issue. Jobs had been scarce of late and her purse was worryingly light against her hip. One drink a night was already a luxury she could ill afford. Ah, but at least she could count on the Twelve for small favors; at the Quicksand, even the cheapest porridge tasted like the finest meal.
But the evening was wearing on and Miryn had no desire to turn in for the night. Feeling fresh air would do her good, she secured her sword and made for the doors.
As the evening breeze hit her, so too did a stirring voice from down the steps. Curioty piqued, Miryn joined the small crowd that had gathered by the fountain and pushed her way to the front. In doing so, she accidentally made eye contact with the woman and found herself at the business end of an index finger.
Devotion or sin.
Miryn stiffened, her eye widening a perceptible fraction of an inch. Perhaps it was the glint of armor and flowing cloth, or the voice ringing with familiar fervor, but she was strongly reminded of the Inquisitors, the weight of their judgement hovering over her house, all she had labored for threatening to collapse into ruin. Emmalie's tearful plea to help her escape...
Instinct brought her hand to her sword and she'd gripped the hilt before realizing it. Miryn hastily forced herself to relax and corrected her expression into what she hoped was one of disdain.
"My devotion and sins are for the Twelve to know, not you." She frowned. "Who are you to question passersby at random, anyway?"
But the evening was wearing on and Miryn had no desire to turn in for the night. Feeling fresh air would do her good, she secured her sword and made for the doors.
As the evening breeze hit her, so too did a stirring voice from down the steps. Curioty piqued, Miryn joined the small crowd that had gathered by the fountain and pushed her way to the front. In doing so, she accidentally made eye contact with the woman and found herself at the business end of an index finger.
Devotion or sin.
Miryn stiffened, her eye widening a perceptible fraction of an inch. Perhaps it was the glint of armor and flowing cloth, or the voice ringing with familiar fervor, but she was strongly reminded of the Inquisitors, the weight of their judgement hovering over her house, all she had labored for threatening to collapse into ruin. Emmalie's tearful plea to help her escape...
Instinct brought her hand to her sword and she'd gripped the hilt before realizing it. Miryn hastily forced herself to relax and corrected her expression into what she hoped was one of disdain.
"My devotion and sins are for the Twelve to know, not you." She frowned. "Who are you to question passersby at random, anyway?"
