Illuminated by the faint glow of nearly a hundred candles, the cloaked figure makes its way down the aisle.
Brushing past empty pews without so much as a glance, it's hooded head cast down.
A well dressed man with an elaborately decorated robe and headdress stands in front of the altar, indicating his rank.
As that of the High Priest.
His robed arms uplifted, the High Priest speaks in the Holy Tongue, speaking in a language very few could understand.
Speak in lies and deception, the figure thinks with disgust.
As if sending something, the High Priest turns around.
Seeing the look of abject surprise coming across his face, the figure hides a smile.
Good, all the better, he thinks, as it makes its way towards the altar and the High Priest.
One of the holiest of men.
Holiest, my ass, the figure thinks, a surge of anger coursing through his veins.
As it gets closer and closer, the figure feels that anger rising deep inside himself.
The High Priest, having already made his features into a friendly mask, says in a kindly voice.
Hiding the monster within.
"Welcome my son. How may I be of assistance?"
The figure steps back for a moment, accessing the man.
Images go through it's mind.
A young boy crying. A screen door. Words whispered in the dark. A figure swinging from a rope.
Then he slowly lifts the hood off his head, revealing himself.
The High Priest stares at the scarred man in front of him. At his eyes burning with intense hatred and anger.
"There is one thing you can be of assistance of," the scarred man says in a deep and strong voice.
"Father."
He then slowly and stealthily pulls out a dagger, it's edge as sharp and as keen as the coldest of icicles.
"Die."
YOU ARE READING
Creative Writing Passages Part Two
PoetryThese are ideas and creative words and writing that are only starting to come out. I hope everyone enjoys it and has a comment or two to say.
