As usual, Pestifere was clad in a robe with a belt of braided hemp about his waist. Also, as usual, his feet, dirty and with long yellow nails, were bare. His staff clacked on the floor as he entered.
Broden could smell the man, as he reeked of burned incense, old sweat, and dried blood, resulting from his self-flagellations. His heart pounded at the thought of having to bear the priest’s presence once again. He’d known respite since Pestifere had left the group, back when Zarek returned from Darth with the entourage that had traveled there to oversee the opening of a women’s brothel of slaves for the soldier’s benefit. But now, it seemed, Broden’s nightmares would return.
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