Priest Dun

Pulling along his cart, the farmer reached the small village of Erisgate just before nightfall.

“Good”, he thought, “I’ll be just in time for the evening meal.”

The farmer, a somewhat older man with a nasty looking scar across his face, heaved for a last time and pushed his cart into place. Dropping the handles, he moved towards the local inn.

Upon opening the Inn’s door, a strong odor filled his nostrils. Meat. The smell of freshly roasted meat wafted out the kitchen door. The sound and smell of ale drifted over from the bar. Tobacco smoke you could cut with a knife hung in the air and conversations floated across it. The farmer’s attention fell upon a man in the center of the room.

He was bald, wearing a cloth garment that about twenty years ago would’ve been white. A rather lean looking man, he was. The man had a long quarterstaff resting against his right shoulder. He was surrounded by men listening to what he was saying.

The farmer turned around, walked to the bar and ordered an ale. He looked at the bald man again and asked the barkeep:

“Tell me, who’s that bloke over there?” The barkeeper just looked at him a moment and said:

“Believe me or no, but he’s a priest.”

“A what??”

“A priest. Me? I think he’s a little off, if you know my meaning.” The barkeep moved off to help another one of his customers.

The farmer turned around and looked the place over. A few dodgy looking figures in the corner. A couple of merchants in another. Most however were farmers and men-at-arms, from the Duke’s keep, all neatly arranged around the priest. Might as well see what all the fuss is about, he thought.

"...elling you, he’s a tyrant. All he ever wants me to do is live adventures. I mean, I’m supposed to be priest, for crying out loud. Take two years ago. Finally I got home, even had the chance to rest up a little, and what does he do? He sends me some young fool. 'What do I do with him?' I ask."

The priest takes a moment to catch his breath and drink a little ale. His eyes turn wide and he takes on an indignant look as he continues.

“You know, he actually snickered at me! One year later, I had been bitten by a bunny twenty times, stuck in the foot with a rapier three times and almost-hit by lightning when it struck the same spot four times! I’m telling you, sometimes I think He Who Chronicles, has the worst in for me.”

“He probably doesn’t even have a clue about what he’s doing. No Plot. No Dramatic Concept. Nothing. I actually believe he rolls a couple of dice around on occasion. Sometimes, just before something happens, I hear that earie rattling sound…”

He finishes with a pained look.

After some time, he stands up and says:

“Well, anyway gentlemen, thank you very much for your wonderful company, but I have to be off.”

He walks to the door, and looks outside for a moment.

“Thank goodness. Not a cloud in the sky. At least I won’t get wet whilst traveling tonight.”

He ducks out of the door and sets out off the village. When he’s about a mile from the village, he hears a familiar sound. A very faint and soft sound. A sound almost like a couple of dice.

“Oh, no..” he groans. “Now what?” Slightly quickening his pace in dread he feels a drop of water on his head.

When he looks up he sees a tiny cloud hanging directly above him in an otherwise empty night sky.