FLASHBACK

       In my boy hood I had a good life by most standards, I worked in our small garden where my family grew fruit and vegetables to relieve the cost of feeding four children. My father worked as a carpenter in the village building or repairing homes and businesses. Sometimes on large jobs my father would take me with him to help. Waking me in the early morning he would say " get up now Woldar,... we have work that needs our attention." And so we would repair roofs or raise barns on the outlying farm lands. When my father woke me on my last night at home it was his words that first told me something was wrong "get up now Woldar,... you have work that needs your attention." The subtle change in words caught my ear through the bleary eyed haze. The look on my fathers face and the fact that my mother, so it seemed, could not bear to look upon my father said more than words ever could. From a dusty old tool box that my father kept near the hearthstone he produced a well worn footman's mace, taking it in my hands i could hear my mother softly weeping. As i turned to look at her she immediately turned away to the closet and brought me a new traveling cloak. I knew that they were preparing me the best they could to head out in to the world. After a very quiet farewell I looked in on my three younger sisters one final time. It crossed my mind that I would not be around to see them married off or have that talk with their husbands to be where I threaten their lives if they darken my sister's eyes even a little. Closing the door quietly as not to wake them I headed for the front door where my father met me. "Good luck. Woldar, I am sorry that this is now your burden to bare." With that I headed out into the cold blowing snow of that winter night. Arriving at the church as I had been instructed, I was lead in to a lower meeting room. It had the look of a room where a priest would prepare a body to be laid to rest in the tomb. Three other damned souls sat at the table with me. I could not bear to lay my hands on the table for I was certain that this was not a table for eating. In this room there is a door across from the one that i entered through. A large very thick door with heavy hinges, handles, and locks. Runes and symbols covered the from bottom to top, carved centuries ago before the Town of Lockheart was ever even thought of. "I have been in this room before," i think to myself as the door from which we had entered open again. This time it was Father Abadoax, with colorful robes of fine make and material, religious symbols of every precious metal known to any hume ( and maybe a few that aren't), and a whole cast of other priests in his wake, he swept into the room without speaking and sat at the head of the table. To me it looked as though he didn't want to touch the table either, I can only assume it was for the same reasons.