[Since his earliest memories, Miyano had been taught the same things by the priests and priestesses of the order -- if they were faithful and pious and dutiful in their prayers and sacrifices, the gods would never allow the kingdom to fall. Even as the borders are invaded again and again by the warrior king, even as their leaders grow corrupt and greedy, taking from the poorest members of the kingdom and cloistering within their castles and ignoring the rising panic and fear in the streets, these teachings remain: remain faithful, and the kingdom will not be overrun.
Orphaned as a very small child, raised by the strict priests to be a holy, untouched acolyte, to serve the gods, Miyano has never questioned these words. He'd never let the fear that ran rampant affect him, had simply kept his head high and kept the prayer fires burning and knelt night after night to pray. He'd never thought that the priests who raised him could be wrong.
But here he is, exhausted and shivering in his torn, ash-stained robes, having been alone in his cell when the temple was overrun, when the pillars collapsed and the building folded in on itself. Miyano knows it's some sort of miracle that he'd survived with little more than scratches and bruises, that it was surely divine intervention.
Yet, looking up at the helmeted, huge, imposing figure of the warrior king -- for who else could it be? -- he wonders wildly if it was the gods who spared him or something far, far more sinister.
Of course he doesn't struggle, thin wrists bound, settled into the saddle beside the enormous man, who seems as immovable as the now-shattered statues that once filled the temple. Miyano swallows hard, eyes wide and frightened and teary, but his mouth set in determination. He won't cry. This man won't see him cry.]
FUCK YEAHHHH
Orphaned as a very small child, raised by the strict priests to be a holy, untouched acolyte, to serve the gods, Miyano has never questioned these words. He'd never let the fear that ran rampant affect him, had simply kept his head high and kept the prayer fires burning and knelt night after night to pray. He'd never thought that the priests who raised him could be wrong.
But here he is, exhausted and shivering in his torn, ash-stained robes, having been alone in his cell when the temple was overrun, when the pillars collapsed and the building folded in on itself. Miyano knows it's some sort of miracle that he'd survived with little more than scratches and bruises, that it was surely divine intervention.
Yet, looking up at the helmeted, huge, imposing figure of the warrior king -- for who else could it be? -- he wonders wildly if it was the gods who spared him or something far, far more sinister.
Of course he doesn't struggle, thin wrists bound, settled into the saddle beside the enormous man, who seems as immovable as the now-shattered statues that once filled the temple. Miyano swallows hard, eyes wide and frightened and teary, but his mouth set in determination. He won't cry. This man won't see him cry.]