An Elven Blessing
Before the altar I knelt and poured an elf's blood. It had curdled from sitting in the vial too long, so I had to tap the back of it. The priest walked to the altar quickly, showing no emotion. He hovered over the altar and prayed a blessing or a curse. I could not say. It was his secret prayer. I saw his lips move, nothing more. And the stone temple, full of dancing light from torches in their sconces, still felt cold. It was a blessing. The elf's blood bubbled and a small flower bloomed in the center. I didn't know the purpose of these rituals. I was simply an acolyte in my roughspun tunic, trying to remain unmoving, kneeling on bruised knees. The priest plucked it from the small blood puddle and inspected it's gold petals, it's silver bud, it's delicate green stem, and his eyes looked greedy. He nodded at me dismissively, and I walked to the acolyte's quarters as quickly as possible. But something about his eyes had made me curious. So I hastened to the ...