Chapter 13. The God of Scribbles

“Izkhar med infect um.” It says with an incoherent voice before its muscles and bones start squawking again as another transfiguration ensues.

The loud groanings continue until it is only the voice of a grumpy old woman that troubles the night. I stand, watching the rough red physique recede into the flesh of an old woman. She slumps, naked and unconscious, and for minutes, no living soul makes a sound—not a cheer from the Amorites, not a word from my brothers.

Tiredness creeps in as the energy begins to seep out of me. Yet, I defy my body to remain on my feet, for I must not look weak at this moment. Seconds stroll by, and no one moves an inch until somebody in the crowd begins to approach. The folk make way for him to pass. He is the tallest and hugest of them all, clothed in oversized leather, a mighty sword dangling in his hand. My hair spikes, for I cannot handle another second of uncertainty.