august
—« that boy went stone-cold crazy »
H
e’d laugh, not kindly, if he knew how Tenebrae had interpreted his words. Or maybe - being less angry than he’d been, back when they met in the dark of a mountain temple - he’d explain, almost gently, that he had heard no rumors of a wayward holy man. If he really did know all of the man’s toils and tribulations, he would certainly be interested. Also impressed. August had been trying, and hadn’t managed to get up to so much trouble.
But of course he doesn’t know. He only knows that the stallion’s smile is a bladed thing, when he lifts his head from the foliage to give it. Normally, such a smile would put August on guard - but in this case, he can hardly blame the man. He’d be pretty bitter, too.
The monk can’t see the way August’s brows lift, then furrow, when he explains his punishment. The palomino is no stranger to repercussions - there had been discipline given often enough in his time at the Scarab, and sometimes he’d been the one to deliver it - but it is difficult for him to imagine what sin such a man could commit that warranted blinding.
“That seems harsh. You seemed pious enough to me, last time we met.” He remembered it well - I shall get up when my prayers are done.
If this is the reward for such devoutness, August is glad he doesn’t pray at all.
