№ files_lp_4_process_1_52485
Note: Prologue
Why, Vasher thought, do so many things begin with me getting thrown into prison? The guardsmen laughed to one another outside, slamming the cell door shut with a clang. Vasher stood and duste: land of Returned Gods, Lifeless servants, BioChromatic research, and--of course--color. The large guard sauntered toward the cell, leaving his friends to their fun with Vasher’s pack. “They say you’re pretty tough,” the man said, sizing up Vasher. Vasher did not respond. “The bartender says you beat down some twenty men in the brawl.” The guard rubbed his chin. “You don’t look that tough to me.” Vasher shrugged. The guard snorted. “You should have known better than to strike a priest. The others, they’ll spend a night locked up. You, though--you’ll hang. Colorless fool.” Vasher turned away, looking over his cell. It was functional, if unoriginal. A thin slit in the top let in light, the stone walls dripped with water and lichen, and a pile of dirty straw decomposed in the corner. “You ignoring me?” the guard asked, stepping closer to the bars. As he did so, the colors of his uniform brightened faintly, like he’d stepped into a stronger light. The change was slight. Vasher didn’t have much Breath remaining. The guard didn’t notice the change in color--just like he hadn’t noticed back in the bar, when he and his buddies had picked Vasher up off the floor and thrown him in their cart. He’d soon wish that he’d been more observant. “Here, now,” one of the men said from behind. “What’s this?” Those two were still looking through Vasher’s pack. Vasher had always found it odd that the men who patrolled dungeons tended to be as bad, or worse, than the men they guarded. Perhaps that was intentional. Society didn’t seem to care if such men were outside the cells or in them--just as long as they were kept away from more honest men. Assuming that such a thing existed. A guard pulled a long object--wrapped in white linen--free from Vasher’s bag. The man frowned at the object, then unwrapped it, revealing a large, thin-bladed sword in a silver sheath. The hilt was pure black. The guard whistled quietly. “Who do you suppose he stole this from?” The lead guard eyed Vasher again, frowning. He was likely wondering if Vasher might be some kind of nobleman. Though such things didn’t really exist in Hallandren, many neighboring kingdoms had their lords and ladies. Yet, what lord would wear a drab brown cloak, ripped in several places? What lord would sport bruises from a bar fight, a half-grown beard, and boots worn from years of walking? Eventually, the guard turned away, apparently convinced that Vasher was no lord. He was right. And he was wrong. “Let me see that,” t
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