Mole Rider

Behold the Mole-Rider - bearded artist

Behold the Mole-Rider – bearded artist

The stink of the beast filled the chamber, musk and shit and old mud. The pink, groping fingers of its snout twisted and wiggled, serpentine and seemingly independent of one another. “Where did he go?” the rider’s face was shrouded, hidden beneath a chipped and vicious bird’s skull, radiating menace. The crowd surrounding him was unconcerned. They had seen this shit before. The haggling and bartering went on in the crowded chamber. “I asked you a question, peasants. WHERE DID HE GO?”

Someone scoffed, and waved a peppercorn in the mole’s sense organs – he only wanted to distract it, to pull it away from my trail. The beast reared back, and its barking cough echoed, its talons lashed out, ripping, tearing.

The plebeians paid a heavy price for shielding me that day, their tithe collected at the point of a spear.

As my knife kissed his throat my purse fell to the ground. I took his helmet, and his stead.

They can keep the coins.

Now I can take my revenge.

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