You have not anw=sweared my prayers I know why you disregard my request; to award a solider like this rebirth would be to waste a mircale. As I write the boy's father stares into the blank, parchement colored eyes of his seed. He talks in a morbid toungue that heavys the weight on my on my already collapsing chest. I offer him prayer and in such a case I offer him drink. He takes neither, but only sits and mumbles. He mut go soon if I am to prepare the body for your Holy Sanctum and free he space. A war is waging; we cannot weep untill one side prevails. Dear Lord, I pray for dry faces and steal hearts. Amen.
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The Angel's Trumpet
FantasyDelysia Jones The patron Saint of Rebellion. Of those who pray to her, those who awake in the night staring into the eyes of a dead king weighing on their chest, those who sail in blood and bury luxury within the earth. Pray to her when war wages...
