The man did not walk. He moved, yes, and his legs propelled him, but it was not walking. The movements were those of a doll being yanked about by an unseen four year old puppeteer. His knees pulled up nearly to his chin, glancing off his chest at odd angles and then flaring outwards in femur wrenching ways. His feet flopped like fish, long dead, pulled from the bottom of a rusty barrel.
And yet he moved. Forward he went, closer and closer to the silent white clad priest.
“Are you lonely?”
“With my faith in Throm, I am never alone.”
“You look lonely.”
“Throm speaks to me.”
“As a master speaks to a slave.”
“He is my guiding light, he is my truth.”
“He puts you in darkness and feeds you lies.”
“What do you know of the truth?”
“I know there is no truth.”
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