A hard rain summoned the dwarf and his pets inside the steeple. After sealing off the roars of wind with a shove of stacked planks (a solution he had begun to grow very tired of), the dwarf made a head count of his animals, coming up satisfied. He slipped out from his drenched clothes and went to hang them--where? Reliance on tree branch became apparent to the dwarf. Looking up, the dark spider crawling along the sealed ceiling (for the hole remained in web) brought him to whistle, an unintended effect bringing to halt the dripping flock as well. Variation in tone would be necessary, he concluded.
The dwarf would not reuse Tuskus. So smooth its fine ebony hair, absent all other color, he opted to dub the near spider Night Sailor. It was as learned as any other arachnid involved in the plot against Locust. Thus, when the dwarf gestured and produced the high pitch obeyed by pigsect, it, clamoring down stained glass sopped in rain, shot a load of silk from one panel to another. A stool would be required of the dwarf, but he nonetheless appreciated the move with a celebratory head rubbing and searched the room of debris. Back, his wet blue gi and equally soaked gold obi soon dripped from up high, sandals slipped off. The dwarf’s feet dried on what remained of the red rolled carpet, hesitating at the blank bible. Something unnerved the staring dwarf, errant thought unable to justify wet with suicide. ‘XP’ earned the day prior would not only demand recollecting (of which he enjoyed the aches in its aftermath): a frog would be yet eaten, a stomach yet filled. Not only was a reload out of the question, the dwarf felt fear at the cheapening of his own life. There of course was gratefulness. Had the dwarf never ‘SAVED’, he and Waspig would be dead at the bottom of a well. But if he thought so flippantly of his own life, could he maintain the struggle to live that guided him thus far? So many dwarfs had come and gone in the training of elf livestock. He’d truthfully not kept track and could not remember how long he’d been in this world. He felt lost.
A hurried knocking at the planks of wood shocked the dwarf from his trance and sent him to undo the blockade amidst the complaints of his flock. Doctor Mallow rushed in from the storm.
“Dwarf... no clothing.”
The dwarf couldn’t decide whether or not to be embarrassed. He felt worse about leaving the funguay out in the downpour and strange for feeling that way at all.
“The wrath of heaven is upon us... you are familiar with it, aren’t you? It is where He lives.”
The dwarf blinked and processed. Having already come to the conclusion of its worshiping no deitree, it seemed as if he’d just heard a confirmation of the religion his own self had been raised in. But it still seemed impossible the funguay could be speaking of God.
“I speak of God.”
The dwarf was silent.
“Up in Heaven He lives. Out of clay He formed us... funguay. And you, dwarf. And the elfs, fishfolk, even humans. It is said He wears a wide cap across his head of colors unfathomable. His many wonderful arms are how He aids all His children. But I’m sure to you, dwarf, He is something different.”
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To the dwarf, He had been time away from his animals.
“Whatever He may look like, you must think of Him if you’ve any hope of learning faith. Do you see Him?”
The dwarf only remembered the empty seats always between his father and the rest of the congregation.
“Focus. Your mind must be at peace. Must we endure another silent night?”
But the dwarf’s face fell. He began to resent the funguay’s coming, thought less and less of ‘FAITH’ by the second. For what use, argued the dwarf, would such knowledge be above ground? The dwarf did not wish to explore the ruin of his swindled ancestors and tangle with worse than the eater, if not a second despite the assurances otherwise. And he certainly beheld no apparition from one steeple to the next no matter how many ‘SAVES’ he loaded. So why not have the doctor thrown out? Why tolerate Mallow any longer? But though the dwarf could not will logic in its defense, he hesitated at an exile. No, realized the dwarf, in a world so dangerous, every advantage needed having.
Moonlight through silk panned and cast a deep shadow beneath Mallow. Its cap soaked up the luminescence basked in and shone as a result. In such a majestic moment of a figure so reviled, the dwarf’s eyes widened in acceptance of a truth he’d known all along.
“You look to have arrived at peace,” declared Doctor Mallow. “Now shut your eyes and listen to Him speak.”
But while the funguay’s lids shut, the dwarf remained observant. He looked at Waspig. He looked at Pistol, Bathiel, Cath, Blissey, Mustard, Joshua, Speedy, and the newly named Night Sailor.
“Feel your heart swell with His love.”
The dwarf’s heart did swell.
“Channel your passion for Him into thine hands like taut rope,” the doctor instructed. At this it allowed its eyes open and beheld blinding light crawl upon the dwarf’s flesh and bleed from his hands. The dwarf’s own eyes gaped, but he anchored his anxiety in the potential for this power; the love of which his ‘FAITH’ stemmed. The two of them indeed watched gold rise from the dwarfs sure grip. A part of the dwarf stayed keenly aware for messages announcing a level in the activity, but none came no matter the length grown. It was only as the dwarf felt a tightening in his heart and agony in his fingers that he released his hold on the braided whites and yellows lost to the ceiling air. The dwarf breathed heavy.
“Impressive. Your faith in Him is astounding. I don’t say it lightly. Practice this. I will return next week.”
Before the dwarf could stop it, the doctor excused itself from the chapel. Squeezed past boards, it left behind a stunned dwarf and his confused flock. Night still enduring, the dwarf rested with his back against tile. Though he’d not performed anywhere near a feat the same as wrangling undead, the dwarf had summoned gold to his hands the same way as his tutor. And no matter how complex his feelings towards it were, the dwarf accepted much more could be learned--he could not spend future lessons stewing in his hatred.
But the doctor was wrong. The dwarf held no ‘FAITH’ in ‘Him’. Threaded holy light formed from his own sure hands, the dwarf had realized a concept closer to home.