the sorcerer

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Fantasy  |  House: Booksie Classic


a short story about an adventurer in a post apostoliptic, fantasy-type world. (i may have spelt a few words weong here)

Submitted: November 21, 2017

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Submitted: November 21, 2017

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He walked over the long path, over dust, skeletons, and other old dead things, decomposing into the black, rotten earth. He began to open his mouth, to welcome the rain, and quench his deep thirst. He stopped himself quickly, remembering the irratiated rain here was poisonous. If he pet it into his body, he would die a quick, painfull death, feeding the starving rats. He felt his nub where his arm had once been, knowing the things the rats could do.

If this was a normal trip, he would have stopped hours ago, at the inn. But this was no normal trip. It would be a hard, dangerous one. He neared a large tower, and drew his short blade, rusty beyond repair. He neared the building’s front door. He looked up, keeping his mouth closed, and counted the floors. 97. Closer still, he walked. 1 stair. 2 stairs. He tripped over his own foot, and dirt, falling back into a pile of garbage. The rats were on him like flies to moldy food. He cut one in half. Then another. Another still, but to no avail. There were too many rats to fight off. Not wanting a torturous end to his life, he turned his head to the sky, and with a quick hope for a peaceful afterlife, opened his mouth.


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