Narrator – OOG Mercy 01

(Bregg struggles to maintain the grip he holds on their captive, but the strange nobleman has lost a large amount of blood. His eyes roll back and he begins to gag as if grabbed by an unseen hand. K’ain’s mind races through the various choices at hand. Instinct versus logic. Pragmatic action versus the deeply layered instinct he’s come to doubt.)

“You will never leave here, my dear uncle.”

(The words are beautiful in their speaking. Eloquent and rhythmic in perfect Cóng Manii…as if spoken by an ancient…)

(The hacking cough distorts….offends the purity of the words it proceeds. And then…it stops. K’ain feels his chest convulse as his heart releases a tear….sobbing in instinctual response to gift of breath given to one he cares so deeply about. Whoever surrendered to that vicious cough, now rests…and there is a justice…a gratitude…a relief, balanced on the edge of his being…his sense of self…his huma..human…humanity.)

“Uncle. Am I dying?”

(K’ain no longer considers the state of their captive. This voice. He knows this voice. There is nothing more important than this voice. This beautiful, delicate song, written for a being too kind for this angry, chaotic Wyrld.)

“Høryntheus?”

(The disbelief passes so quickly, replaced by the fear. He whispers with the edge of something shouted to a god without mercy. His Cóng Manii is crisp and formed with the sacred diction of a temple ritual.)

“Death. Take not this child. Hold her, please…for just…a bit….a bit…longer. (beat) I beseech you. Please. Take any other. Take the prisoner. Take the wicked that plot the taking of innocent lives. Her journey has not yet begun. Please…”

(And she coughs again. This time the brutality brings a shudder to K’ain’s spine. She falls to the floor. This child. This gift of hope. This gentle spirit…)

“Høryntheus!!!”

(Her eyes roll back and she begins to gag as if grabbed by an unseen hand. K’ain’s mind races through the various choices at hand. Instinct versus logic. Pragmatic action versus the deeply layered instinct he’s come to doubt. The love of one being for another. No rules. No code. No duty. No words…)