Cold sweat breaks out on her skin as Shyan pulls Fassn away from the growing crowd. Her vision swims and her joints ache, as though a virulent ifluenza were coursing through her blood. She doesn’t know what the poison is, but she knows she needs the antidote, and getting lulled into some sort of animistic rage-state by this preacher’s chanting isn’t in the cards. It’s working on the peasants, though.
Once Fassn’s ears are safely plugged again, Shyan finds a stone that fits snugly into her palm. She grips it, tosses it gently, gets a feel for its mass distribution, before arcing it beautifully through the sky to fall upon the unprotected head of the preacher. His chanting stops with a short, garbled noise as he sinks to the dust. His eyes glaze and he murmurs, shifting slightly. The peasants, no longer under the effects of the chant, shake their heads incredulously.
“Let’s go?” Shyan asks.
“Let’s go,” the princess says.
The gang, alongside the small grey princess, dart out of the town square, past the tree line and into the woods.
Logan Bright — Works 