temper.
Suriyen led them through the side streets, which at the end of the walled city were lined with many coffee houses, taverns, and shops. The buildings were all carved out of the soft yellow desert stone, or else made from mud brick and wood panels. They could see that it was a prosperous place, or at least a very busy one.
Occasionally, they would pass a small fountain, or a tiny courtyard with one tree growing in its center. Vekal wondered where all of the statues of the gods were and why he could not see them. Looking up, he saw the glare of the southern sun through a haze of smoke; camp fires, cook houses, incense and all of the fog of a busy city. He could not hear the birds on the wing, nor the distant desert winds.
“Sin Eater!” s omeone shouted, and Vekal turned just in time as something sailed past his head, and bounced off the wall behind. A rock. The man who had thrown it was large, pinkish, with a blood-smeared apron, who from the smell of him seemed to be the owner of the nearby butcher’s shop.
“Get out and stay out!” the butcher shouted, slapping his large meaty fists together. “I’ll not have your dead claws near my meat!”
Fool, Vekal thought, ready to turn around and continue on his way, when something hit him on the back with a sharp sting of pain. Another rock.
Ikrit hissed inside of him, and Vekal found himself echoing it with his own grimacing teeth at the new attacker. It was the baker from across the street, a similarly portly proprietor, but much shorter and with tanned skin.
“Yeah, and stay away from my breads and my customers, too. You’ll get no solace here, fiend,” the baker said. Around them there was a scattering of ribald cheers from the burlier looking customers, all of whom had seen Vekal coming and had appeared to have urged the two local ‘toughs’ to do something about it.
“I’m warning you, devil,” the butcher said, pointing a fat finger at him.
“Vekal…” Suriyen said warningly. “Leave it. We’re not far now.”
Vekal and Ikrit together hissed once more, but were about to comply with Suriyen’s request when the baker had to say his next insult.
“And take those two other little freaks with you. A little family of sin!”
Vekal folded himself into his rage. The only two people who had showed him any kindness were Suriyen and Talon. Something turned his body around and was marching his legs forward. In his rage, Vekal and Ikrit seemed to bond.
“Hey, now—” the baker had a chance to say, his face blanching a second before Vekal’s hand struck out and seized the portly baker by the throat, and, with apparent ease, lifted him off the floor and high into the air. Onlookers gasped, and one woman screamed.
“Would you like me to tell you about sin, little man?” Vekal said. The man inside did not know who was speaking the words, or where they came from. But he found them pouring out of him anyway.
“Would you like me to tell you of the seven hells below our feet? And of all of the things that happen there? Of the tortures that Yshaddarak the Unclean reserves for little men like you?”
Vekal had no idea who Yshaddarak was, but even the word cast a heavy bruise over his mind.
“You see, he hates hypocrites, liars, and pompous, little men. He hates those who try to raise themselves up above everyone else. He likes everyone to know just how little their heart is inside.”
Vekal found himself drawing the half choking man down to his eye level. “He peels them like an orange, looking for what makes them believe they are so great. He rummages. He paws. He looks for anything that might be large, and so powerful as to warrant such an attitude as you have. When he is done, he leaves you on a rock, where you, still alive, have to endure everyone coming to look at you, spread out and flayed on the rocks of the fifth hell. And then, every night your body is restored to you, and every day he starts again. So, the question that you really have
Suriyen led them through the side streets, which at the end of the walled city were lined with many coffee houses, taverns, and shops. The buildings were all carved out of the soft yellow desert stone, or else made from mud brick and wood panels. They could see that it was a prosperous place, or at least a very busy one.
Occasionally, they would pass a small fountain, or a tiny courtyard with one tree growing in its center. Vekal wondered where all of the statues of the gods were and why he could not see them. Looking up, he saw the glare of the southern sun through a haze of smoke; camp fires, cook houses, incense and all of the fog of a busy city. He could not hear the birds on the wing, nor the distant desert winds.
“Sin Eater!” s omeone shouted, and Vekal turned just in time as something sailed past his head, and bounced off the wall behind. A rock. The man who had thrown it was large, pinkish, with a blood-smeared apron, who from the smell of him seemed to be the owner of the nearby butcher’s shop.
“Get out and stay out!” the butcher shouted, slapping his large meaty fists together. “I’ll not have your dead claws near my meat!”
Fool, Vekal thought, ready to turn around and continue on his way, when something hit him on the back with a sharp sting of pain. Another rock.
Ikrit hissed inside of him, and Vekal found himself echoing it with his own grimacing teeth at the new attacker. It was the baker from across the street, a similarly portly proprietor, but much shorter and with tanned skin.
“Yeah, and stay away from my breads and my customers, too. You’ll get no solace here, fiend,” the baker said. Around them there was a scattering of ribald cheers from the burlier looking customers, all of whom had seen Vekal coming and had appeared to have urged the two local ‘toughs’ to do something about it.
“I’m warning you, devil,” the butcher said, pointing a fat finger at him.
“Vekal…” Suriyen said warningly. “Leave it. We’re not far now.”
Vekal and Ikrit together hissed once more, but were about to comply with Suriyen’s request when the baker had to say his next insult.
“And take those two other little freaks with you. A little family of sin!”
Vekal folded himself into his rage. The only two people who had showed him any kindness were Suriyen and Talon. Something turned his body around and was marching his legs forward. In his rage, Vekal and Ikrit seemed to bond.
“Hey, now—” the baker had a chance to say, his face blanching a second before Vekal’s hand struck out and seized the portly baker by the throat, and, with apparent ease, lifted him off the floor and high into the air. Onlookers gasped, and one woman screamed.
“Would you like me to tell you about sin, little man?” Vekal said. The man inside did not know who was speaking the words, or where they came from. But he found them pouring out of him anyway.
“Would you like me to tell you of the seven hells below our feet? And of all of the things that happen there? Of the tortures that Yshaddarak the Unclean reserves for little men like you?”
Vekal had no idea who Yshaddarak was, but even the word cast a heavy bruise over his mind.
“You see, he hates hypocrites, liars, and pompous, little men. He hates those who try to raise themselves up above everyone else. He likes everyone to know just how little their heart is inside.”
Vekal found himself drawing the half choking man down to his eye level. “He peels them like an orange, looking for what makes them believe they are so great. He rummages. He paws. He looks for anything that might be large, and so powerful as to warrant such an attitude as you have. When he is done, he leaves you on a rock, where you, still alive, have to endure everyone coming to look at you, spread out and flayed on the rocks of the fifth hell. And then, every night your body is restored to you, and every day he starts again. So, the question that you really have
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