Scrolls of the Prophet
Book I
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Floundering
IDENTICAL garb was clad upon each of the young ones as the big woman had rocked them one upon each knee. I imagined how easily the two children could have disappeared and been engulfed by the megalithic folds of her fine silken garments if only she chose to lift them to her bosom and hold them slightly closer.
She voiced out kindly, “Peace be with you..,” and “Shalom..,” in a tone soft at the edges. Her greetings repeated to all the fine patrons or curious passers-by. Though the woman was large and had a stout frame, she moved about her space gracefully while portrayed in a nimbleness as she balanced the children. Each was put to a hip as she moved around her booth and bent over reluctantly to return each piece of jewelry to its original place—rearranging her offerings each time a new patron had made one of their inevitable touchy-feely examinations of her wares.
On the other side of my booth sat an elderly gentleman who now managed an entire corner lot that faced directly at gate-three. He brandished a face that showed out his age and he looked every bit the part of a local mosk cleric—or, with a stricter observation, someone’s great-grandfather. His sun-baked skin told the story of his years and surely a life that was spent under the gaze of countless desert suns. I smiled to myself as I took in the curious patch of fluffed hair that encircled his head like a crown of great wisdom. The top of it missing and left gleaming quite baldly as his efforts had succeeded to leave it polished and shined.
“Yury! Yury! Yury..!, cups, bowls and fine spoons..!” the old vendor cried loudly with repeated firm bursts and his voice came highly-pitched for a man of his age. His chant omnipresent as it pierced through the roadway, oddly charming at times as it seemed ever present.
He stood amid a well-stocked display that was filled with clay-fired stoneware—an impressive array of jars, cups, platters and dishware, all in fine detail about two-handled urns. The front two-rows were filled with more utilitarian red-colored vessels—their arrangements decisive and meant for easier grab for fast sales. The middle rows came displayed with deeper-red plate-sets, and behind those in line, and held further back from reach, were the true treasures he offered in detailed ceramics.
These less modest selectios of hearthware came in a mixed range of bright colors, rich-blue and deep-green, and others which bore surface details in a bright-orange gloss that had been applied to decorate their more exotic outer shells—these pieces created with intricate care, then fire-kilned to set hardness with a lustrous glaze. It was obvious that these were the most prized pieces of pottery in his collection, and all had been carefully arranged and lined up on the back rows to deter any clumsy palms from their use of curious fingers.
The tall, lanky old merchant handled these back-row treasures with the deliberate care of a master craftsman. He clearly understood their value and intended to protect them from any touch of temptation.
“Yury! Yury! Yury..!, cups, bowls and fine spoons..!” he cried out again, no sooner than he had finished with his last call of campaign. His performances might of appeared somewhat repetitive in nature, or even annoying to many, but I found it oddly endearing. It injected a certain energy to the air, like a pulse that had quickened in every heart of the market.
His voice, rhythmic and bright, never failed to draw a crowd. The children who were unreadied, they would jump at their stations upon each sudden outburst, only to laugh in delight when relaxed upon seeing the old man’s impish grin. Parents joined in while adding loud chuckles as they shared in mused glances. The old vendor had become somewhat of an institution—his cries an expected delight for those who often frequented the bazaar.
“Yury! Yury! Yury..!,” he belted out again..., loud and prouder this time as he tempted the crowds, and I found myself put to revel at his every new startle. I never tired of watching the many patrons' reactions—surprised a bit at first, but then softening with laughter.
To my dismay, Mariana’s guardians had nearly passed by me like so many others in a row, their eyes sweeping beyond my stall walls without examination or pause. The crowds were thick with farmers, peasants, slaves, clerics, and all manner of folk from across the known lands—each on there way to fulfill all their needs at the bustling, "Madaba Town Market Bazaar..."
People of all colors, creeds, religions, and monetary stations came to the bazaar in their search for new wares, odds, ends, or to retrieve something special that would make them feel good. I often traded words with "Egyptians", "Greeks", "Hindus", and "Buddhists". Occasionally rarer patrons would also make an appearance like the—"Sikhs", "Zoroastrians", "Canaanites", "Philistines", and even the lighter-skinned "Christians" arrived on occasion via their ship-trips from across the far sea. Some visitors even came after their stop-overs at the great new city of "Constantinople", and others from the distant lands of "Persia".
To my way of thinking, it felt almost half-dreamy to realize how many people had lived outside of the "Holy Lands". I supposed the gods were not fickle and that they could indeed look after so many travelers—for they were the gods, and we were just people.
Most patrons of the "Madaba Town Market Bazaar", they were not from places so far-flung. A good number of them came from simpler localities which were closer to "Madaba", while others decended from the surrounding desert lands. I had traded with "Seljuk Turk" tribesmen and "Sunni Muslims" from "Syria" and "Turkey" alike. The "Seljuks" were known as aggressive warriors and fierce adversaries to the likes of all the "Shi’ite Muslims" from the "Fatimid Empire".
There were also lots of dealings with the members of the "Armenian Christian" sects about, and a variety of these people came from the nearby city-lands of "Shechem", "Bethel", "Gilead", and "Gaza"—most of maintained stations over across the "Jordan River". Others journeyed from the "Sinai" or even the "Edom Mountains", or from "Petra" over near the "Gulf of Aqaba".
To the vendors of the market they were all potential patrons—whether they arrived with wide eyes afixed on the choices of brilliant jewelry which were on display to the left side of me, or they would spend a moment or gawk longingly at the elaborate pottery which was showcased on my right. I felt if the gods would be willing, any one of them could be a prospective barterer for my scrolls or etched tablets.
Young women would approach vendors with their promised ones in tow, and after eyeing something of beauty which they liked, would speak with purpose and sweetness:
“Oh honored, do you see—look at the fine craftsmanship of this bracelet, can you believe how its beauty does match the true color of my eyes..?”
Or; “Oh honored.., that tray for serving tra food is of such quality and design—it would be perfect for our gatherings of family and friends..!”
The man, surely promised to that particular special love, he would often reply with a congealing smile and a fine turn of phrase: “If only the gods could provide me with enough talents for just such a gift..!”
Or even the ever-popular: “There has never been a more deserving goddess like you within the grasp of one's reach...”
No matter who played the role of the steely cat or caught mouse, the dance was always the same. These exchanges almost always came returned to him within gleams of affection and warmth. Whether the item was bartered or passed over, chosen or not, the betroved or hoped lovers would continue on their stroll with their gratified looks on display as they walked arm-in-arm, delighted in the rhythm of the market's display while they pondered and peered curiously at allotments of merchandise before moving on to the next vendor in line.
Diensun Magdalana had stood close beside Marianna’s mother, Marseda, his manly arm stretched protectively while high atop her orange tunic's right shoulder, he, himself, shrouded in a set dress of fine light-brown robes of bright color. Their movements reflected a serene, confident efficiency as their excited-eyes glowed out from their tan-piecful faces, the ivory-white of their teeth standing out in stark contrast.
One could have easily seen that he bore a sturdy frame—his physical structure clearly evident from the outer shapes of his robes. On his wrist, he wore a stiff brass-bracelet that was inlaid with aquamarine-topaz platelets that shimmered, the air of their flat surfaces being overtly caught up in the sun's reflective rays. His only other adornment consisted of a set of wide-leather sandals, their color in a shade that was slightly darker than the flesh of his skin.
In all, the loving group was just one of the many "Pagan" family hearths who would come out to the market on any given day.
"Pagans", they believed in the many gods of their ancestors, fine deities of belief which dated far back in time, these were patrons who also frequented the repeated rotations of religious celebrations and rituals that were held in honor of their more divine pantheons. The "Madaba Town Market Bazaar", it carried an abundance of the required icons, altars, idols, and other supplies necessary to enhance nearly any type of religious activity.
"Paganism", it being also an older and once more dominant religion of the area, it still found countless supporters who had traveled from across most cities and towns. But it seemed to me lately, that in this new age, they now found themselves in a fight for survival—and challenged by a growing array of newly founded faiths.
Diensun Magdalana shared slices of fresh avocado with his promised while their daughter Marianna sucked on a stick-candy as they gently strolled through the market. His dark onyx hair was combed slightly to the right and flowed freely in the breeze of the approaching midday. His hair was also cut short and parted to the side, this being one of the more fashionable styles worn by the many skilled workers who lived in the town. Most carpenters and tradesmen had wore their hair in this way—in effort to show their taste in the modern look and their awareness of the trends of the day.
The Magdalanas, like their ancestors before them, were neither considered wealthy nor poor. The group existed comfortably and securely within the complex societal structures in which they lived, working hard with one another to maintain a suitable lifestyle for all. This was not unlike many of the market's bustling patrons and their families who also attended the festivities—many of whom bartered or traded for things they might not really need, but had found their hearts in the desire to aquire such things. Perhaps some even attempted to keep pace with the growing accumulations of things which were shown off by others.
Diensun strode among the masses unhindered, his mindset and thoughts lost in the day while the thick of his arm slid down uneventfully around Marseda's thin waist. His arm held not only in a deep, resplendent compassion, but also conveyed the subtle mark of his ownership in marriage—foreboding, perhaps—to any would-be dissident or squatter about who might cast an eye from a hidden position...all aspiring views unaccepted...
Marseda Magdalana passed by me while posed in quiet grace, her presence wrapped tightly within Diensun’s large frame. His palm rested securely in its bid for new direction. The two carried on in the soft tease of play, and they paid me little heed as they moved on in their way. She gently leaned into him with wide-eyes of contemplation, and then nestled her cheek against his firm upper chest. Her beautiful black hair, golden-ringed in long braids, it traipsed down from her shoulders to the slight bulge of her stomach. Here, the flaring-frills of its ends then gently bounced side-to-side on the unfettered rounds of her hips as the two lovers in tandem continued their glide.
Her long legs remained hidden beneath her loose-fitting tunic, shorter cut only slightly before it reached the top of her ankels. I watched with entensity as the pair had approached—their palms intertwined intimately as they shared frequent glances. Marseda’s slender fingers pulsed forth with gentle squeezes in their effort to offer over subtle signals that would slow their joined pace.
With only the subtlest of hints being given, their small girl halted, she put immediate attentions at quick-shifing toward the front faces of my tablets. The strong clay of her interest showed through as the gray and stiff stones sat sloped while peaked carefully in presentation at the tops of my knees.
“Dionysus Falls..?” she smirked rather quantly in a most poetic tone, and then gradually stepped away from her guardians as she loosened her grip upon Diensun's tan garments. I caught the gleam of her dark-brown eyes as she leaned in and squinted, her eagerness showed as she tried to decipher the plates and their symbols—their early Hebrew texts now caught clearly in the light from the tempered rays of the sun.
“This etching is of the early tale itself..,” I replied eagerly, “which of course is one that has already been verified by a trusted friend and personal linguist who has acknowledged the script...”
I moved my eyes slowly across her tan-face as she provided a look that grew bright in its determination while capped with a firm upper lip, a view which was in contrast to the soft brown glow of her skin. I dared not linger my gaze too long, nor grope at my nervousness, but rather panned my view naturally to the arching sides of her cheeks, where the paired edges of large golden hoops now rested as they dangled from her earlobes. The thin metal rings they possessed danced within the day’s light and they flickered with destinct little flashes which drew me right in.
Quickly, and with thanks to the gods that my admirations went unnoticed, I shifted my gaze from the girl and back to Marseda, and the deep red dot which was centered on her forehead. A clear indication of a promised woman and honored lady of her hearth. And on the crest of her chin sat three small-black round splotches—one for each member of her household, no doubt.
This I determined was a much more appropriate point of focus for any young merchant who wished to deal with a potential woman of status, especially one who was clearly attended by such a large and obviously capable suitor.
“Would the lady of the hearth's-hold show out with some interest in such a fine goddess’s tale..?” I asked coyly, one's efforts to court her curiosity toward closer barter for my hard-to-find goods.
“Surely, young master..,” she moved in closer and replied with a smile, “this is indeed an etching in a more modern day Hebrew. If only it were in Greek or Old Roman style, then I might hold a deeper interest to commit to its acquisition...” She tilted her head slightly, before continuing in good spirits, “Still perhaps, such a good find might bring many to an offer, surely comes success to an astute young seeker like yourself...”
With deliberate grace, she stepped back and placed both a thumb and finger to her chin, she studied the display once more while a soft sigh escaped her, it slightly betrayed the hidden longing she displayed toward any aquisition of their possession.
“I’m sure the gods will bless the works of your palms young master..,” she countered, her voice rising slightly to overcome the day's bustle. “Possibly if on parchment.., she continued, "though with just such a crowd at market, fortune is near...”
“A second confirmation of this Isis in Hebrew might bring greater fortune..,” I replied with a hopeful lilt. “These etched tablets with their scribings...if not for their weight, would go quickly in time before the day's market should close...”
Being gracious I offered, “May the gods of your hearth bless you, lady patron...for clearly you lack no need of protection..!” I gave over a slight glance toward her companion and gestured subtly toward Diensun’s vast arm which now was held her waist.
Both of them smiled, shared in a held look, and then exchanged quiet laughter as they began to move past me and inched closer toward my older neighbor’s collection.
This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it
We all grinned in silence and a shared understanding. The encounter came to a close as they approached the wide corner where the old man’s pottery laid spread out in neat abundance.
“Yury! Yury! Yury..!, cups, bowls and fine spoons..!” the fluff-topped owl cried out loudly again as he noticed the two new prospects who arrived at his show of clay-wares. “What beautiful pottery, Diensun..,” Marseda exclaimed as they walked over much nearer. “Perfect for tribute to our family and friends...”
I smirked at the familiarity and couldn’t help but roll my eyes and shake my head while a heart-felt obvious half-smile crept over my face.
And as Marseda and Diensun completed their pace to reach the nearby corner vendor, I found my eyes now being drawn casually downward, and toward the retreating back of the young woman who had just been my patron. What came over me then was a puzzling effect, an unfamiliar feeling which pulled at me greatly, for something brand new had stirred deep within me. My adolescent body, it wasn’t entirely foreign to just such a rise—akin perhaps to the tight felt fullness that I’d wake up to after a long night of holding back water—but this was different. Sharper. Warmer. Alive...
A cool breeze touched my face just at that moment as a small bead of spittle dripped out from my lip. I didn’t even feel it at first. My gaze was fixed, transfixed, unable to pull away from the curves left behind.
At first, it was only the smaller dark hairs at the nape of her neck that held my attention—fine, silken strands which had escaped from the elaborate braids that ran down her back. Golden rings woven. Neat in their place. And traipsing long in their length like temple curtain adornments.
I found my attentions unbroken as she flipped her rope of black hair back over one shoulder. It tumbled in a slow, teasing fashion. Flailed to a stop at the slender dip of her back-side and then finally came to a rest at the bold, arching-rounds of her hips. The wind caught the loose silk fabric of her dress just so, and it set off faint ripples of excitement throughout my whole form. Each movement of her fabrics hinted at the body that was well rested and hidden just beneath—a body that was now etched into the walls of my mind whether I willed for it or not.
I flushed hot...my palms grew clammy...something between guilt and wonderment pulsed from within me.
"Times must really be changing..," I muttered under my breath. “Such a light covering would’ve never been acceptable in public just a few years ago...And when did high footwear completely disappear..? When did we last see a maiden’s full footwear—let alone a single or promised woman’s cast of bare ankles..? In broad daylight no less..?” I dared to whisper. “Oh, the soft ankles..!”
“Pardon...pardon..!-Vendor..," a high-pitched voice pounded out the sounds like a slung stone against my hard wandering thoughts. I turned with a startle, my face flushed purple in an instant of unheld black shame. Reflexively, I shifted my tunic, letting my hands drop naturally into a position that would cover up my groin area and mask what I feared now showed out too clearly.
“Pardon...pardon..!" came again in a tuffle as the voice chirped out urgently in its constant insistency. I scanned the passing crowd, expecting a scold from a matron or sharp-tongued elder of the watch, but no-one stood before me.
Then I looked down...
Kneeling before me near the base of my display was the small figure of a girl—her hair was as dark and thick as obsidian, and was pleated into heavy strands that poured over her shoulders and down her back in a so familiar fashion. The child crouched low, her tiny body nearly hidden beneath the flow of her garments and bulk of her dress.
The scent of lilac and lavender wafted up my nose and startled my conceptions. It hung out before me like a sacred offering, soft and natural, and captured my mind in a gentle confusion.
“Can I be of service to you.., young miss..?” I requested, my emotions still in recovery from the awkward moments from before.
A girl’s small hand emerged from beneath the curtain of her tunic, and with a practical swoop she gathered up her mass of black strands and secured them with one-arm in a quite deliberate grace. When she arose, I found myself taken-in by her quiet demeanor.
She stood barely to my chest, but her presence seemed to fill the space that spanned out between us. Giant green-eyes, impossibly clear.., they sat pressed within an oval-face that showed prints from fingertips which had lightly grazed the etched clay-tablets at my feet. Mirroring, she sent the rope of hair over her right shoulder and then brought her palms together in a composed, almost ceremonial gesture. For a moment, she stood like a statue—rigid and unreadable, as though she were a tigeress just waiting to pounce. There was something oddly feral about her poise and disposition. And one could hardly tell whether he should embrace her…or flee from her bewitchment and entirely get away.
“Oh, how I love this story of Dionysus..,” she said whimsically, her voice stern and certain. “But I hate the long, languished ending...It’s truly no fun when the gods are so cruel...”
“You…young patron...can cipher these scriblings..?” I asked out questionably with my mouth left agape, totally unsure whether I was more bewildered by her age, or that of her sensability.
“Of course..,” she replied briskly, with a hint of self pride. “The gods have blessed me with the gift for learning languages and I can decipher many dialects...”
Her confidence disarmed me...
“I am of the Pagan gods..,” she recounted, “but I was brought to the town temple when I was just the age of four by my guardians...” She pointed across the way toward the man and woman who, just moments ago, had stood out before me.
“They were going to pass me over entirely, those prejudice judges...But an elder named "Master Netramie", he saw something special that was held out within me...He had chosen me as his pupil...and taught me very well, I can see the "Hebrew" glyphs and read the "Greek" scripts of old...and some "Aramaic" linework...but now that he's growing older I have some new teachers in play which are surely less forthcoming...but I continue on with my studies just the same...”
She paused, looked me up and down.
“As a vendor, you should learn to be more observant—or you’ll lose valuable patrons. Even I know that much..!”
Her tone felt more like an instruction than an insult, though still—I felt reprimanded. This child of youth, she had somehow managed to turn the tables on me in just a few words.
I gathered myself...
“Well, my gracious young miss..,” I resonded, my voice slow and steadied, “I too am of a Pagan belief, though mine carries some Roman in its ancestry...The gods may not have chosen me for education at the fancy temple school...but they have not left me without seeing...and blind...I have taken to self-teaching...and to the study of old scribings just such as these...The gods...I believe...they have offered out with the many paths that some tread with fine sandals...and some with bare feet...”
She blinked slowly with confusion and then casually nodded, though whether in approval or mere acknowledgment, I couldn't tell for sure.
“I have been to many places..,” I said, slipping into a tone of a more practiced slyness. “Even journeyed to Noralbelus more than once in my travels to mine-out the caves there for any hidden treasures ...”
Like a cat ready to pounce, I slowly drew forth the three-lengths of gold-chainmail from the neck of my tunic. Within one fluid motion, I revealed the heavy pendant that had hung silently against my chest up until this moment.
Her green-eyes widened, her irises sharpened with interest as the sunlight danced across the fat garnet which lay at its center—deep red, and wrapped delicately within its delightful Persian filigree.
“The knight-men of Noralbelus took a liking to me..,” I went on. “They offered me protection as I passed over the silk-roads...and even taught me to cipher in "Aramaic", "Cuneiform", and some older strains of "Sanskrit"...It is my hope to one day learn "Hebrew", "Greek", and the full breadth of wondrous "Persian"—like that which is etched on this pendant so clear...”
I ran my dirty fingers gently across the fine lines of the text while letting her glimpse at its artistry before I slipped it back to hidden beneath my tunic’s dusty cover.
She shifted her weight and placed both hands on her hips, preparing to speak with a renewed plea of formality.
“My name is Marianna Elizabeth Magdalana..,” she said, the syllables flowed out within a proud new precision. “I was named in honor of my mother’s great-grandmother’s great-great-great-aunt...and I would like to trade with you for certain scrolls, texts and the like—assuming of course...that they are in "Hebrew", "Greek", or "Roman...”
Despite her frailty, there was something luminous about her—some quiet, emerging brilliance. I reminded myself that if Master Netramie had chosen this girl as one of his prized pupils, she might grow over time to have more experiance than it currently appeared.
“With some luck..,” I replied, “you’ll find me here frequently...I requisition this spot atleast twice a week...This third gate-station serves me quite well—the gods seem to favor it...and patrons come often to trade and barter for my wares...”
I paused, my voice softened as I gestured it over to her olive skin and curious smile.
“And I would be glad to make such barters with you little miss...but how might you compensate me for the goods that I offer..?”
“I’ll scribe their translations on a two-for-one basis..,” she said without missing a beat. “Each translation provided on fine piece of parchment—you can keep one for yoursel, and use the other for barter...”
I was struck silent with the idea. "Parchment..!, I thought, for it was truly the future, with papyrus and carved stone both being fleeted from favor, I knew that her offer was portrayed as being fair.
“Your barter..,” I replied, with uncontained ferver, “it would be more than generous...”
Even though I currently lived in the dirt, I prided myself on being somewhat savvy to the acceptance of new ideas. And lately—since the turning of the year three-hundred had passed—the alchemists had begun to flood the flea market with newer, more modern curiosities: kept steam in containers, liquid metal attraction, spirit-lamps of projection, and of course, the mysterious attraction of magnetism which amazed me so much.
I looked to Marianna again and saw the emerging quivers of joy that were patterned at the corners of her eyes. Her happiness lit the air, her smile like a flame. Still, concern crept in...
“A girl your size should never be caught off guard in a place like this..,” I said gently. “There are those among us—squatters and the like—who do prey on the week and anyone unguarded...Are your guardians always so near as to accompany you every time that you come to the market..? Surely any divine protection from the gods can reach its given limits...”
But her expression didn’t falter.
“You speak the truth, young master...and I thank you for that..,” she answered solemnly. “But as I said—my name bears the weight and stregth of the old spirits. My mother’s-great-grandmother’s-great-great-great-aunt, she was from Caesarea...near Galilee...and she was one who had been chosen among the many—an icon in flesh, a bearer of the light...”
Then, after a small pause, she added with perfect calm:
“If our dealings require I return...you at your best discretion shall take leave of my protection...But understand this...if any mishap should befall me while under your care...it will not go unnoticed...The strength of my ancestors' spirits shall fall upon you harshly...and the gods that do bless us will not be willing to look kindly on the growth of your fortunes.”
The air hung between us...
“Do we have an accord..?” she asked firmly.
We did to my thinking...
We sealed it with a pinky-clasp—it being her idea, of course. And though I had never performed such a gesture, the feel of her tiny finger when it looped around mine confirmed our new friendship; that, and it felt both unfamiliar and oddly sacred to me.
I stood stunned. Bewildered. As though I'd been swept up in a great wind and set back down in an altogether new world.
We spoke a little longer, and settled on our secret: when I wished to trade with her there would be a special signal, I’d leave a red cloth that was weighted at the edge of the water-trench which flowed behind the temple school. That would be our sign, something visible in the area which could be seen after mid-day. Then, after late services were completed, we could meet in the deep crevice which overflowed the area that passed behind the temple school's patch of wild gardens.
Her guardians' voices then rose up and called over for her to go join them.
“Coming, Mother..!” she replied instinctively in a tone not unlike any child who'd been interrupted at play.
Before I could reply, she grabbed up my palm, looped up her finger once more around mine, and gave it a firm shake. Quickly she unswung the folds of her hair back over to the front while she skipped toward the waiting embrace of the two parents who waited.
“Maggy..!” I called after her with a strange warmth in my chest—It was then that I felt the cruel yank of the future pull me back to the reality of the day...This day...
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Several coughs tore through me as I fell back from that beginning. My throat felt packed with sand and my lungs were dry as stone as grew pressed like a piece of scorched parchment...
“Mechukmak..!” I screamed. “Mechukmak, you yak.., don’t be so misgiving in deeds that you leave your master here to flail..!”
The world tilted..my body was crumpled against the sand of the ground...my hand still clenched tightly around the same small figure as before, the figure of the martyr who'd been strung upon the cross. Somehow, I knew, that this icon would matter—though I didn’t yet know how or why. It felt good to relax, atleast to finally fall and give out...to halt all my struggles and falter into rest...
Sleep then came quickly, it crept over me like a cloak. And as I slipped far asunder, I begged for the "ugly duckling" to make an appearance...The darkness of reality continued to press at my side, and with it came my last pillars of strength, I had a willingness to let the words tumble out—raw and desperate...
“Mechukmak, my friend…don't just leave your master here...lost, stranded and alone while splayed out amid floundering…!”
...Select Next Scroll...
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Scrolls of the Prophet...historical/biblical/adventure/coming of age
- Awakening
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- Binding
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