But who prays for Satan?
Who, in eighteen centuries, has had the common humanity to pray for the one sinner that needed it most?
Who, in eighteen centuries, has had the common humanity to pray for the one sinner that needed it most?
“Are you alright?”
The question was asked softly, gently and with palpable concern.
The last thing Runaveig expected to see out here was someone shoved up rather unceremoniously against the side of a pine. The weather was nice, certainly, but she had gone quite the distance away from the Court without bumping into anyone else. So to suddenly see someone out here near the lake, grumbling and huffing and seeming terribly uncomfortable, the entertainer couldn’t help but grow fretful.
Was he well? Unwell? Injured? Had he stepped on a splinter? Runa recalled the discomfort she had experienced last spring when she had gotten a splinter caught in the center of the frog of her hoof and how very painful it had been. Her concern grew.
The dusk-colored lady paused a few paces away, not wanting to intrude if her presence wasn’t wanted. The shawl around her narrow shoulders glittered in the sunlight, and her eyes, round and golden earnest, looked upon the rich colored fellow with intrigue and worry. Upon her striped back was a striking Pygmy dragon, black as the night, but his hard, piercing stare was rooted upon the grumbling man.
Umbra did not know this fellow, and so he did not trust him.
Runa, however, her damnable bleeding heart already getting the best of her, took another step forward with telltale grace. Umbra bristled.
’Stop. He’s dangerous.’ The order came, and Runaveig obeyed. She hesitated but her eyes remained focused on the man, still concerned. Perhaps he was dangerous, but if he needed help, it was her duty to provide it.
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