Gathering a little moss

I woke up in Fezia. That surprised me, for I had slept, shivering in the lee of my dead horse, in the certain knowledge that my travelling days had come to and abrupt and unfortunate ending.

My room was carved directly from the native rock, with a seam of gold in one wall, that wandered across it as lazily as the river Q’sohic through the deep jungles of Eilt. My body ached, and my mind struggled to comprehend my survival.

The purple robed monks fed me, clothed me in green, and called me Chosen. I repaid their generosity with long hours in the forge, and through the long autumn and winter, with much trial and error, my skills improved.

Every room in the city was made by hand, and, one day as spring approached, the Kaxim called on me to wield a pick with a team of others, to create a space for a new family.

If I had never seen his face, I might have remained in Fezia, and perhaps learned their secret arts.

The night they found him with me, I narrowly avoided being cast into the Void. He was not so lucky.

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