Blood Son - 5120-06-19 - Prologue
Paragraphs (but not the section titles) taken from the following official forum post:
GS4-KENSTROM
Subject: Blood Son: Prologue on 06/19/2020 03:17 AM EDT
Category: Cities, Towns, and Outposts
Topic: Wehnimer's Landing
Post: 14660
Before
He placed his polishing cloth down.
His hands hurt. His heart hurt.
He was tired.
He stepped away from his workbench and walked down the lonely, dark hall of his home. He passed an open archway and paused. He stepped back. His aging eyes stared through the opening and squinted while his vision adjusted to the dark room that held the briefest illumination from a few streamers of moonlight that creeped in from the boarded-up window. He watched the empty bed against the far wall and remembered a better time, a better memory, and a better life.
He peeled away from the empty bedroom and continued down the hall, almost shambling into his own chambers. His bed was untouched on one side, ruffled on the other. He went around to the side of the bed that had been undisturbed and ran his hands along the smooth blanket covering, kneading away any possible wrinkles that had formed.
He knelt at the side of the bed and brought his palms together. She had believed more than he ever had, but he carried on her tradition even if he didn’t always feel it helped. Perhaps one day it would.
He lowered his head and closed his eyes and he prayed.
After
He placed his stained brush down.
He felt alive. He felt renewed.
He was reborn.
He stepped away from the table and walked to the door of his dwelling. He could hear the approach of horses, their soft whinnying sounds and the clacking of their hooves echoing against the rocky trail. He paused and inhaled, filling his lungs with air and then exhaling. He looked down at his hands and arms and the image of scars still burned into his vision, but they were but memories now, all evidence of them having gone away.
It was time to leave again. It was time to prepare for the final harvest. He went back to his worktable and brushed his fingers along the smooth surface of a piece of red oak. He picked up his stained brush and the coppery odor of blood still clung to each bristle. The sanguine liquid still freshly coated every inch.
He knelt in the center of the room and dragged the brush along the floor in a wide circular motion. Again, and again, over and over, he smeared a circle of blood into the ground. With each broad stroke he uttered devotions beneath his breath. He stopped suddenly, leaning back to observe his creation. He dropped the brush to his side.
He lowered his head and closed his eyes and prayed.