Sunday, April 1, 2018

100 Words a Day 1160

The priestess wore a robe that was covered in dirt and full of holes. It smelled of rot and had been passed from one priestess to the next for as long as anyone could remember. It was the robe of the priestess of Death.

The congregation was isolated and few survived to adulthood. They hoped that their prayers would appease Death and that he wouldn’t let the shadow of his hand fall across their young. Failing that, they hoped he would pass that same shadow over their deceased, that they might rise up again and help till the rocky fields.

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