The Cult of Prisoners

There are many nights where the dawn breaks over the walls of of some forsaken Bastille, walls painted red in places from the blood of inmates and guards. The strange essence of the scene is that it does not look as if the prison was laid siege to from the outside, but as if the guards were overpowered from inside the walls they patrol.

Many who owe their escape to "She Who Seeks" curry the favor of their savior-mistress (and the favor of He whom she serves), mainly by looking for clarity in whom she seeks to give sweet freedom. Many cultists even voluntarily allow themselves to be captured and interred themselves, so that they may be the man or woman on the inside, ready to act when the moment presents itself.

There are few who have laid eyes on her as she stalks the crooked, labyrinthine hallways; slaying those that stand guard over the judged and accused. Reports tell of her flowing white dress, that banishes the dark that seeks to enshroud and erase those locked away; of the many keys that hang from a strip of cloth tied around her waist. These keys can open any door, unlock any cage. Her hands stained red as her eyes constantly fretting over which key is which, for she has so many she can scarcely remember which one is the correct one.

For her prisoners and fugitives throw themselves at better armed guards. Though she needs no help in her wrath, she saves those she can. To her, nothing is worse than to be forgotten in a cage.
--
The boy had no name he could remember. He had always been simply "boy", but was called "child" by his cellmate, whom was the only one to show him kindness. That man lay dying now, ragged breaths seeming to tear at his throat with a clawing ferocity to live just a moment more. The man had taught the boy how to read by carving on the cell walls. He taught him history through story and mathematics as well, mostly as a method to count the meager food they were able to save when the guards threw them scraps.

"I have prayed so hard for this day, and I will never see its setting," claimed the man. He clutched a rock to his chest, which he had carved some symbol upon it. The symbol of a broken crown, pulled apart by chains. "In my dreams I was promised, promised he said".

Another scream rang out from beyond the cell door. It had been happening for over an hour, the screams getting closer each time. The boy was afraid and jumped each time, but then he was always afraid. Would he run out of food today? Would the guards forget to feed him? Would he get sick and whither away with no one left to look over him? He sat by the bed, watching the man, all these thoughts running through his mind.

"Almost here, almost time," he moaned, "though I go so must you, but on a different path than me."

"I shall go into the next, to search with those who have gone ahead, to search for Him."

"Live boy."

No more, the stone fell from his hands, a corner chipped off the cobble as it bounced. He could hear sounds at the door now. Keys jingling, one went into the lock and failed to open it, then another, and another. He finally saw the handle begin to turn, fear gripped him. The door opened and she came. He could see her bare feet touch the ground, but she looked as if she was gliding, with no sound of foot on stone. She stopped and he looked. Her dress was white, her hair brown, eyes red, face . . . absent? Why could he not see her face, she was so close?

"His blood." She said.

He would not let her have it. He could barely move, but he did have enough strength to grasp the rock the man had dropped, maybe fling it at her in defiance. What little he had. With barely an effort she closed the distance and gently covered the hand with the stone.

"Shhhhhh, he prayed, I free his blood."

"No," he offered futilly, "only friend I had."

"His blood," she said again, "grandson," she lifted him and began to walk from the cell.

"The king's only living blood."

~Excerpt from "The Return", the saga of Vinter IV, he who overthrew the Usurper.