Role

Chapter 1

The wind was unusually still above the Tahril as Feslin the Monk
placed his controversially colourful prayer cushion on the earth
beneath him and adjusted his cowl to sit. He enjoyed it up here,
the fresh air always seemed to help his mood compared to the old
Temple nested in the sands below.

He closed his eyes and let his mind drift, enjoying the sound of
the wooden wind chimes he'd fastened to the rock face behind. It
was an unusual rhythm today, as if they were worn about the hips
of an exotic dancer. He frowned to himself.

Such erotic thoughts would get him in trouble again.

So he attempted to avert his thoughts from the hips of women and
focus on something a little more respectful. But the sound grew
closer and more obnoxious, he could feel the stale breath of his
perverted mind breathing down his neck. He needed this noise to
cease and for his peace to return.

Standing abruptly he turned on his feet, preparing to rush over
and wrench those provocative chimes from where he hung them last
week. Then he remembered the wind, that unusually still wind, he
froze where he stood and was suddenly trembling. He barely heard
the silence, when the sounds of the chimes ceased.

He only heard the whomping of a club as Narzaal cracked open the
back of his head and his lifeless body slumped to the earth. He
was then decapitated, eaten, skinned, butchered, all in a grisly
display of macabre affection. His head was salvaged of course,
then shrunken down by some dark voodoo and placed upon Narzaal's
belt where it would rhythmically knock together with the others.

Just like wind chimes.