((open to all or jailors...or who ever))
The malnourished corpse of a Halfling rests locked away in the jail of Trollsbane, from appearances it would seem he has starved to death. What looks like a note is scribbled onto a scrap of paper near his body it reads.
I was promised to be feed, I was told I would hear my sentence though it seems I was lied to for I begin to think I will never live to see the age of 20 ...It was only a fishing rod and some arrows.
Harsh punishment
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Taliss Kazzxs
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Siltaris goes to the jail downstairs. There she sees the man who was hired for caring for the people in the jail. Every day he brings some food and water to them, caring for them the way they deserve.
While he does his job, the Town Guard keeps on caring for peace in the streets of the town the best way they can... regarding the sheer number of bandits, robbers, murders and outlaws this is not the easiest job to do.
Siltaris speaks some words to him and then turns to go up into the street again.
While he does his job, the Town Guard keeps on caring for peace in the streets of the town the best way they can... regarding the sheer number of bandits, robbers, murders and outlaws this is not the easiest job to do.
Siltaris speaks some words to him and then turns to go up into the street again.
((Whence it was too early too late.))
Small rough hands clench to fists in the darkness.
Staring eyes long to spill forgiveness.
New robes torn by thorns.
Steel crossing flesh.
Only pigs,
breathing, bleeding little
greedy pigs.
Only a petrified applepie,
and some rent scripture,
and noone to understand.
Only flesh,
breathing, bleeding pitied
daring flesh.
Another sunrise to fear,
warmth to wait for.
In the cold of a night,
staring eyes wander the pigmuds, caught by remains of what a brother once was, a betruthed might have been. Silent tears fill these eyes, as hands gather the scattered provements of someones wrong-gone belief in the iron glove.
Even for these thin arms the bag is easy to carry, towards the fields south of Trollsbane, though dragging the weight of mountains on heart, makes her sigh in disbelief.
In the cold of a night, shaking fingers start to scratch a hole between faned sunherbs, of a year that`s passed.
Trembling lips form soundless words towards the dark maid, begging for unity in her loving embrace.
Small rough hands clench to fists in the darkness.
Staring eyes long to spill forgiveness.
New robes torn by thorns.
Steel crossing flesh.
Only pigs,
breathing, bleeding little
greedy pigs.
Only a petrified applepie,
and some rent scripture,
and noone to understand.
Only flesh,
breathing, bleeding pitied
daring flesh.
Another sunrise to fear,
warmth to wait for.
In the cold of a night,
staring eyes wander the pigmuds, caught by remains of what a brother once was, a betruthed might have been. Silent tears fill these eyes, as hands gather the scattered provements of someones wrong-gone belief in the iron glove.
Even for these thin arms the bag is easy to carry, towards the fields south of Trollsbane, though dragging the weight of mountains on heart, makes her sigh in disbelief.
In the cold of a night, shaking fingers start to scratch a hole between faned sunherbs, of a year that`s passed.
Trembling lips form soundless words towards the dark maid, begging for unity in her loving embrace.