From Clay to Life: An Exercise in Creation

by **Wrenmae** on June 27th, 2012, 10:54 pm

Shroud said nothing, watching Rayage as he rose from the earth and strode down the hillock to the workers lounging below. There was a certain disconnect between the two of them, and yet on that same level there was an almost imperceptible appreciation for the other’s notions. Despite Shroud’s attempt to remain firmly rooted in the practical, his idealism had risen briefly. It tasted awkward in his mouth, like dry cotton. Rayage was already speaking to the men, his raspy voice drawing their tired eyes. Like most men in Sunberth, Shroud doubted any of them actually saw Rayage. They watched his hands, his waist, the places where the worth of a man was measured, by what he did with the gifts the gods shackled him with. Finishing his water, Shroud draped his arms around his legs and chuckled. Inspiration, incentive, motivation. Rayage treated the symptoms like a doctor, temporary bandages for open, weeping sores. Yes, the men would work for him. They would bleed for him, and some would die for him…or at least it would appear that way. But each man worked for themselves, owing their allegiance only so long as the need of coin outweighed their dignity.

The alcohol would fuel their spirit, but it would never inspire their loyalty.

Standing, the murderer stretched and followed Rayage down the hill. Tomorrow they would work twice as hard but expect twice the praise, twice the drink, as if Rayage’s generosity was an earnable commodity.

Wordlessly he agreed to spin tales and inspiration around the tavern, each man to him what clay was to an artist, an unfinished project, an unshaped potential.

Behind him, the crow laughed, winging over the miners and out across the forest.

Shroud chuckled. The crow knew dead men when it saw them.

And so did he.