68 days ago...
"How long?" asked Cazen as he slid back into the doublet. Typically, he was quiet as a mouse, but a clamorous den arose from a garment leaden with hidden pockets and their get. He didn't bother to sit back down, nor even turn away from a door he only now consciously realized he was opening.
"You can't run from this, Cazen."
His shoulders shrank, but his hand never left the door. "I know. How long?" He repeated the question without a hint of annoyance in his tone. He heard papers shuffling behind him. "It's not too late for a miracle. There's many faithful who have skills far beyond anything--" "And they need to save those for people who are going to do something extraordinary." Cazen replied, sounding a bit more bitter than he meant to. He sighed, and asked a third time, "How long, Pope?"
Nasipope Frangdel, disgraced healer and Cleric of Tymora let out a sigh of his own. "About ten weeks," he finally admitted, "maybe less." "Hells..." Cazen replied, "it'll take eight or better to get to Sundren." He began to open the door and step swiftly out. Pope followed behind, frustration evident, "Why the Hells would you go back there?! That damned place is the reason...for all of this!" Without looking back, Cazen replied, "You can't be sure of that, Pope." "So that's it then? You're just going to roll over and accept it? I thought you had some sand."
The scoundrel had been raising his hood, but he stopped. A quiet moment passed with Pope standing on the stoop of his home and Cazen in the middle of the street. "Nah," he replied to Pope, "I'm not gonna just roll over. I'm goin' back to enjoy what little time I got left." A gust of wind kicked up a cloud of dust, forcing Cazen to raise his hood. Pope was forced to shield his eyes, but only briefly. The scoundrel no longer stood in the road, nor anywhere else in view. The little gnome grumbled to himself and strode back into his home, closing the door behind him.
Cutting through a familiar path that wound directly to the harbor, the scoundrel's hood and dust-mask hid how hard he wept.
"I don't wanna die. I'm not ready, yet."
"How long?" asked Cazen as he slid back into the doublet. Typically, he was quiet as a mouse, but a clamorous den arose from a garment leaden with hidden pockets and their get. He didn't bother to sit back down, nor even turn away from a door he only now consciously realized he was opening.
"You can't run from this, Cazen."
His shoulders shrank, but his hand never left the door. "I know. How long?" He repeated the question without a hint of annoyance in his tone. He heard papers shuffling behind him. "It's not too late for a miracle. There's many faithful who have skills far beyond anything--" "And they need to save those for people who are going to do something extraordinary." Cazen replied, sounding a bit more bitter than he meant to. He sighed, and asked a third time, "How long, Pope?"
Nasipope Frangdel, disgraced healer and Cleric of Tymora let out a sigh of his own. "About ten weeks," he finally admitted, "maybe less." "Hells..." Cazen replied, "it'll take eight or better to get to Sundren." He began to open the door and step swiftly out. Pope followed behind, frustration evident, "Why the Hells would you go back there?! That damned place is the reason...for all of this!" Without looking back, Cazen replied, "You can't be sure of that, Pope." "So that's it then? You're just going to roll over and accept it? I thought you had some sand."
The scoundrel had been raising his hood, but he stopped. A quiet moment passed with Pope standing on the stoop of his home and Cazen in the middle of the street. "Nah," he replied to Pope, "I'm not gonna just roll over. I'm goin' back to enjoy what little time I got left." A gust of wind kicked up a cloud of dust, forcing Cazen to raise his hood. Pope was forced to shield his eyes, but only briefly. The scoundrel no longer stood in the road, nor anywhere else in view. The little gnome grumbled to himself and strode back into his home, closing the door behind him.
Cutting through a familiar path that wound directly to the harbor, the scoundrel's hood and dust-mask hid how hard he wept.
"I don't wanna die. I'm not ready, yet."
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