Wheeling Gull Isle For the wages of sin is death

Torn and ripped at his ends, from every action his blood had done to him. To themselves. And the eyes of God? He mourned, that so very easily they could be destructed. To not try until end. To not love until end. To not pray until end.
Caracal paid his own tax, by his own hand.
Saran would spend each day praying that his soul would find way through the fires of a berating hell, and onto a beastly heaven. That his walking spawn would not follow in his steps, and see the way that was sin; the way that it broke all.
Purgatory would be cruel.

”Malakai.”
He rose.

To the sea, he looked to the waves. The crash of life.
Heed.
“Your blood relinquished my sufferings when they took me from the ground of violent waters and lifted me to life.”

And when the waters stilled, he casted the dreary, tired boy his will.

“But it is God who allowed their prayers to be heard. God who placed me here upon your shores. It is he who lets me now look to you. So I will stay where he let me crawl so one day I may learn to walk. It’s a thunderous day, Malakai.” Until the waves roared again. He felt all. “Why do you stay?” He wished to know, if Malakai wished to tell. For yes, a child, he was still a being. Still a soul. Until God bids them part, Malakai was his in spirit as he was his too. As they all were.