The Scribe. My Purge. I hate – hate – hate talking about my emotional ordeals, and this will be the closest I’ll ever get to doing justice to the subject.
This is Vunderkind’s Purge.
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Only the soft scratch of quill against parchment, as The Scribe wrote determinedly on the roll of parchment in front of him. His forehead was cut open, but he paid no mind – although he had to pause occasionally to irritably wipe blood from his eyes. Nothing would distract him – not even the silhouetted woman at the other end of the room.
“A shadow you have become, Manuel,” she breathed.
Icy mist swirled around her mouth in the cold November air, quickly thinning and disappearing as soon as she shut her mouth again. Manuel didn’t hear her, or if he did – he ignored her.
Still he wrote.
His tangled mane hung wetly against his sweaty face, and blood and sweat dampened the parchment he was so bent on filling with words. If he cared about the mess his blood…
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