Peter’s a great writer. He can be found on Twitter by the name @zen_mox.
By Peter W.
Her Mothers Grief
She never learnt what became of her mother. She left willingly, amazed by their armour and black horses. They rode for seven days, out of the Dale, sodden turf left far behind. She kept the family necklace, but never looked at it.
Always in her black tunic’s breast pocket, the child had been six, she had been fourteen. She had lost the Kris knife she used, fleeing the O’shandalin Inquisitors. But she kept the tooth, held it when she pondered, remembered the fear in his eyes as she gave life to Dagothoth.
A malnourished rat. He roamed the mossy stone of Khare-Khane and brought her news of the stricken families that lived in the shadow of the Empirical Palace, whispered in her ear as she slept in the gloomy attic. He had chosen her.
The Walk to Market
With her tattered black skirt gathered around her knees, the locals fled at the stomp of her boots on the flag stones. She always bought the same things: four potatoes, three carrots and a stick of ginger. She always paid with the exact amount of silver, the wary shop keep never talking to her, always looking at the ground.
When she called them, they came. They would walk through her mind. She would meet them in the old orchard. As the leaves fell, they listened to her commands. Sometimes they demanded payment.
The Hat Pin
As she pull;ed the pin from her greasy hair, it fell around her shoulders. The six inches of polished steel slid easily into his closed eye. She knew exactly where to push, so he wouldn’t scream as he woke. She leaned over him and studied his face as he expired, then inhaled his last breath.
As the fat, slow rain drops fell to the ground, they detained her at the city gate. Her green eyes glistened as she went, willingly. In the carriage, one of the militia had kicked her several times. The bruises lasted for weeks, but she never protested. The Captain of The Guard had seen her alone, pulled the Idol of Dagothoth from under her tunic. He grinned as he removed his, slick green metal glowing in the candlelight. She walked home that night.
All For Him
As age did its slow, inevitable deeds to her flesh, she prepared for him. On the night of the winter solstice, she knelt naked before the desecrated shrine. With long cracked nails, she started by removing her eyes and whimpered not. She gave herself to him slowly and in all the centuries the church stood, the locals feared the nightly wailing of a true disciple.