... returning to a village in Volgrath:
Thus far:
Child: (shakes free the mud, now mysteriously dried at an instance, glances at the mud-visage of the old lady... the
eyes, those emerald eyes... mutters something... then runs swiftly to the town center... and, feeling very weary, sleeps
under a horsecart by the rotunda... )
Continued:
[visualize here a dream-like vision:
... of a beautiful girl being surrounded by gargoyles...
... cries for help...
... of a temple reduced to ruins...
... men clad in armor....]
The Child awakens. She rids her eyes of mote, just like any other precocious youth. Ahh, those emerald eyes... if one
could look beyond the tattered cloak and hood, one could stare at those precious eyes for eternity.
But the anklet is glowing... and has begun attracting the attention of the more sensitive local rogues/pickpockets,
eager to seize an easy steal.
The child looks around. The wind is gently slapping her cloak. It seems that she was not hurt from the brusque action of
that old woman, now mysteriously transfigured into mud.
But she senses something. A stabbing pain within... What is this...? A scar appears on the Child's right arm... not
a fresh, bleeding wound, but a scar with all of its hideous dried-up pus.
The anklet slowly builds its magik dance of throbbing. Throbbing. Is it the imagination of the rogues, or is the ornate
symbol on the anklet... growing?
The lead rogue-thief whispers to his left, "Chance! Get 'er!"
........
