Role

Chapter 4

One day, one of the same cityguards who had helped Iskrith was patrolling
the dark alley when Iskrith emerged from the guild. Iskrith bowed his head
in thanks toward the guard. The guard sneered back at him, not appearing
to remember what had been an important kindness to Iskrith.

"Necromancer. Don't be casting anything noxious on the city streets, under
pain of death."

Iskrith asked what the guard meant. "It means we'll kill you, and make it
hurt."

"Why do you say pain of death? There is no pain in Weh. Pain is on Sra's side
of the threshold to Weh."

The guard seemed irritated and unnerved, and wandered off muttering something
Iskrith assumed to be profane.

Iskrith thought back to the mangled elf after he entered Weh. How his eyes
clouded and glazed over. How his skin grew pale. How the blood congealed. How
the insects and creatures went to work, violently rending away pieces of the
dead elf.

He thought about this scene as he passed the butcher's stall by Market Square,
and saw families laughing and joking over a mosaic of Weh. As the butcher
wrapped neatly sliced pieces of Weh in paper, as if to hide it. As the
customers took it home to put it over fire and decorate it, as if they could
not stomach the thought of eating it if they could see it for what it was.

Outside of the guild, this place was not much different than K'sra Village,
Iskrith concluded.

"I am not the monster," he whispered, watching a man, woman and three children
leaving the butcher shop. "You are."