Mystagogue, Pt. 6

I stood there, my face stinging sharply (and feeling downright punctured in at least one spot. The priestess wore several gaudy jewel-tipped rings, and I wondered if she’d somehow managed to turn one inward before striking me.)

I reached up and gently rubbed the sore spot on my cheek. I drew my fingers back and examined them, searching for blood and finding none. In light of this lack of evidence, I was forced to re-examine my hypothesis about the ring: she must have stricken me with some kind of a curse instead.

I looked down at my hand, waiting to see my skin slough off or my fingers turn into snakes or any of the other classic signs of an evil curse. When none were forthcoming, I looked up and made (very brief) eye contact with the priestess and fixed her what I hoped was a withering glare. “I suppose this means that the tour is over.”

She sighed. “I sincerely wish. But my god has spoken, and it seems that I am the mortal that will not be getting what they want.” She turned from me and began walking away. “You, at least, shall be the recipient of more wisdom.”

I stood and simply stared in confusion. She disappeared around a corner, speaking as she went. The sound of her voice, the echo of her footsteps, all the noise she was making went silent impossibly fast. I had no choice but to chase after her.


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