Wolf RPG

He moved further inland where the grass bowed in the gentle wind like vast wheat fields under a farmer's scythe. Despite the idyllic scene, Pier carried with him a sense of ingrained tension - his gait was stiff and agitated, his face sharpened into his customary frown.

It was true that he had left his life behind (or had been altogether forced from it) but he found that old habits were difficult to cull. This morning he had woken up, heart pounding, believing he had been running late on an errand. Instead, his eyes had opened to an empty bedside and a shuttered view of the ocean.

he could not have explained how he got here.

driven further in what seemed like a haze, a fever bestowed upon him by none other than God. growing restless with the need to spread the word further.

his pace had slowed, but he could not allow it to disappear. his heart hammered at the thought. only to find somebody seemingly all alone. laid wasted in the grasses. a sheep without its flock.

he had come upon something, he felt, but when had that ever stopped him before?

blessed morning, stranger. he hummed softly, tired himself and not nearly as lively as he tended to be.

A man walked to him through the viscous haze, his silhouette tapered and thin. He got up to his knees, squinting. His hands shook almost imperceptibly.

Good morning, he muttered, trying to hide his previous panic. Though I'm not so sure if it is blessed.

It was a strange choice of words, but in that moment Pier did not have the mental clarity to suspect much of anything at all. Blood rushed in his ears; if he closed his eyes, he could still recall the smell of home - tired, vicious men and their jejune wives.

the words struck him as a kinder way of the wayward souls of these lands.

so often the faces he met knew not the greatness that awaited them, the knowledge and power that could be bestowed upon them with the Lord's word.

he did what he always did — started soft, a friendly man with a helping hand.

and why do you find it not blessed? we are alive with another day made for us, no?

It dawned on him. How sacerdotal this stranger was! There was a certain mien to pastors and priests - a result of their asceticism, an infuriating thoughtfulness bred by their search for a life of contemplation.

I know you priests, he replied, sharper than intended. My wife wanted me to go to confession before we married.

He smiled unhappily. Do you know what the man in the booth told me?

his features shifted into something more...natural. not mean, not sharp but no longer the face of that helpful stranger.

it was the face of a thin man sent to the wilds to spread gospel. a tired look in his eyes as he gazed upon a man who was clearly different than the others.

still prepared to say what he must to further show his loyalty to the Lord.

what did he tell you?

Pier felt some satisfaction to have driven the lukewarm kindness from his features.

I've committed many sins in my life - it is true. Murder is not the half of it.

It was a long and painful process. He still remembered the priest on the other side, a glimpse of his rheumy, filmed eyes. But he forgave me in only a few words. Despite all that I've done -

He caught himself verging on a shout, and lowered his voice. - should it really be so simple?

Tu sei un figlio di Dio. Tutto è perdonato.

What a farce you have made for yourselves. Without realizing it, he had torn up the grass beneath his feet.

the man was jaded.

the man was not without flock, he had seemingly fled his flock. that was how bartholomew viewed it from the stance of a man who had to listening to a raising voice. one that seemed fit to cast judgement that was not his to throw on the priest.

it is not that simple. he spoke, lulled and calm.

it is not my choice to forgive in simple words. i leave that to Him, i am merely here to guide the lost to Him. to teach them the devotion that is so much more rewarding than the...simple forgiveness following that of a confession.

but confession is a start.

It bothered him to no end, to be the only one shouting. It was difficult to maintain such anger in the face of such lown charity.

I know that this is an unforgiveable sin, but I can't help but turn myself away. His weak smile collapsed in on itself, the last eggshell-thin eaves of a roof blown off by wind.

Something in his gaze coalesced, became opaque. If I ever believe in a god it will only be out of fear.

For a few moments there were no words spoken. The silence was only interrupted by the susurration of grass, the distant crash of waves on the shore. He turned back to the thin man.

Where do you come from?

bartholomew had met plenty of men such as this ones.

the ones who only believed when their times came. the ones who believed only when things did not go their way.

how they cried and begged on death beds or failed marriages for forgiveness, for their unearned kingdom. each time he saw it, it did not get easier to handle. somehow they were the hardest for him.

far from here, he supplied lowly, gaze not once wavering from the haggard man.

if you have heard His word and turned your back to Him, shall you turn your back to me too? cast me from your presence and mark me down as another priest?

Far from here, the priest supplied. Pier wanted to say me too, withering and acidic, but held his tongue.

I still don't know yet, he responded, if that is a bet I'm willing to take. The wager felt far too dangerous. The cards burned like phosphorous in his hands.

He posed this question with care, and a certain amount of self-consciousness that made his face tighten further, his brow a shelf above his averted eyes. I'd like to talk to you again. Not now, not here, but later. Where will I be able to find you? What is your name?

shunned but not exiled. neither one of them.

this man was unwilling to excommunicate fully, but he did not wish to speak with the priest. not here, not now.

bartholomew, he offered first. the only solid answer he could give in return to this man's questions.

i do not have one place i stay. i wander, it is how i spread the word, regardless of whatever this man (or any man, woman or child) may think about it. i will stay near the saltwater for a time, it is on you to call me when you're ready to speak.

If possible, Pier looked more tired than before. He hunched to the ground as if he could no longer bother fighting against gravity - thirty-two feet per second per second.

Then he appraised the priest, eyes dark and unreadable.

The windswept man was weary but unwavering. A bent figure knelt in the garden of Gethesmane, sweating blood. How many crosses had he had to shoulder?

He walked away, to the coast.

and he would watch the worn man disappear into sandy grasses and shores.

uncertain what this encounter had done to either one of them.

there was still work to be done.