Role

Chapter 13

Dead of the night. A Forest Grove. A shrill scream. Flapping Frightened Doves
in flight. Silence. Again.

Ruhktanshi crawled, silent with all the pain that she was in siege of and
managed to reach by the edge of the pond. Cupping some water in her hands
she managed it over her spurting wounds for cleansing. With a grith of the
teeth she quickly patched her carved out flesh, now washed and cleaned, with
a tight knot of some loosely torn rags of cloth.

Heavy breathing. Early brink of dawn. Fresh vision. Consciousness Regained. Silence... Still.

Slow the skinny frame of Rukhtanshi, shrivelled, wrinkled, skinny to the bone:
gathered itself to rise (and much to the amusement of the Gods) and slowly
she strode out of her own pool of blood and chunks of strewn flesh, harp in
hand, a harp carved of her own flesh.

Silent Stride. A soul redeemed. Magic's wastes now Nature's stream. Seeming weak, spirit strong. Bloodied husk of a wench. Stroke of morn, on she strode. With harp made of her flesh and bone.