Najid had always been told tales about the old Seer. The wise men recanted lore of his frail, abused body and disturbed eyes. Made skeletal by the vigorous fasts said to be sanctioned by the Prophet himself, it was said that if one listened intently enough, one could hear his bones cracking as he moved. They said that no man, now or ever, had endured the pain that was inflicted upon the Lunatic by his own patron god. Upon laying eyes on him, one is forced to wonder how a benevolent entity might shame someone as such. These musings are always muttered by those who have been in his presence… But they were only tales still.
Seeing him enter the cathedral ward’s courtyard briefly troubled Najid. He was unsettled by the striking truth delivered to him by men known for their embellishments and exaggerations. The Lunatic shambled through the sand, past the cathedral’s guardians, who were garmented in shining steel and navy sackcloth. Najid noted that the Lunatic weighed no more than a starving desert dog, and looked as if he fed as such as well; scavenging after even the vultures. He dressed in heavy, beige robes, but the parts of his leathery, sun-dried skin that were visible to Najid looked as if it had been loosely stitched around his weak bones. For someone so revered by the church, he certainly did compel those who were witness to his presence to consider their belief.
Using a palm wood cane dependently for support, the Lunatic awkwardly seated himself on the violet silken cushion across from Najid. Between them was a high, faded sandstone table, decorated with exotic flora and shaped wax candles, some that were punished by use and nearly extinguished. Occasionally, the wind would rush by, battering the priests with sand from the courtyard floor. The dusky desert sky looked down on them, and seemed to eagerly wait for their conversation.
“Najid, servant of the Patron,” the Lunatic rasped, “My cleric.” He feebly attempted to adjust his cushion to better allow his fragile body to slump against its back. Najid lowered his head in a bow, hiding embarrassment that his own divine patron would allow one so devout to wither in such a manner as the Lunatic had.
“Old Prophet: how is your health this warm night?” Najid mustered, still in awe of the prophet.
The Lunatic heaved deeply, “My health and my soul are much older than they’ve been up until now.” With his response, a curious smirk bled across his sun burnt lips. Najid briefly chuckled, mostly out of respect for the pious, old man. He had been taught that it was unwise for a cleric to ignore a prophet’s jokes.
At the height of Kurish summers, the sweltering heat was known to last throughout the night, and the wind to attack brashly and vigorously, like a western army. A heavy breeze made its way through the granite archway leading into the veranda. Using the short opportunity to limply hang his head, the old man pushed back his hood and fished around in the burlap sack he brought with him. Also taking down his hood, Najid motioned to the priests at the arch to close the portal entrancing the veranda, which they did, briefly shadowing the stone table as they walked with the brilliant torches they had been stoically holding. Ever slightly, one of the blades they carried slunk against the sheath it was carried in, and the Lunatic perked his head. Najid noticed scarred flesh on the Lunatic’s face, some of it creeping over deep wounds, and he wondered by what means a scholar would take such a gash.
“The priests are armed?” the Lunatic whispered, lowering his eyes to Najid.
Najid took a moment to respond. “You must remember our place, great seer. In this land, once a holy one, we now represent scarcely more than a cult. The Templars of the west have stylized, or, may I say, degraded our religion in such a manner that one would wonder whether the priests here serve the same patron. While their acolytes teach assassins to wet the sand with their blades, we are forced to suspect our own priests of treachery at every turn…”
“The Shet’ian is the serpent to our chalice. It has become the way of God,” the Lunatic stammered.
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