Erem's Fingers
The Enclave > Folk > Neth

You're no better than the last spears - your armor's no prettier, neither. Blood! Erem should be dead, sick and past the end of his road since we came down from Krineth's Hills. But no, he won't die afore he's told a hundred and their friends, and coin for each telling. Mark my words, I'd take a blade to myself afore I let Neth blood chill me to a slow death. Did he show you his fingers, what's left of them? His hands might as well be buried; they were rotting meat fresh from an old midden even this past summer. The four of us left who could walk, and Erem dragged on a litter, come down to the Trade Road from the tombs. He brought the stench of Neth with him, blood and bile, and sick we all were. Sick, but not dead like the five good spears left to rot on bare rock under the sun; harder men than you they were, mark me well.

The Unbroken Cask? You know all I could tell if you gave coin to the dying. I'll give you nothing, and take none of your coin! Find the Cask without my help - go and seek as you will. You'll find your reward pinned beneath filth and dying Neth, Neth who yet twitch and hate and chew the flesh from your fingers while you scream.

Leave me to my ale, you and all the others. There's blood and greed on you all, food for Neth Powers, and it sickens me.

[ Posted by Reason on May 27, 2005 ]