<hr/><div class="floatleft">(http://24.media.tumblr.com/a16483c2858f862945634d46b9ad41b9/tumblr_mh480oybdg1r64urio1_500.jpg)</div><br/><strong>Name:</strong>Jaelyn Scot-Jones<br/><strong>Faction:</strong>n/a<br/><strong>Date:</strong>May 3, 1876<br/><strong>Time of Day:</strong>dusk<br/><strong>Location:</strong>stagecoach trail<br/><strong>Tagged:</strong>the priest<br/><hr/><br/><br/>It would have been so much easier if she had hit her head in the carriage hard enough to have slipped into some semiconscious delusion.  So much less terrifying when that wooden cross moved in her direction.  He had duped her and now had her well in hand  to be turned into some withered thing, a pathetic shell of a human.  "uuuhhhnooo."  She whined, attempting to pull away, unwilling to face the wrath of God for her sins.  It was a feeble attempt against his firm gentleness; he was old, but he was strong, and held fast while Jaelyn's mind raced.  Is it possible the thing infected her?  She pleaded for God's mercy then, an inaudible prayer of moving lips and clenched eyelids.  How quickly one turns the coward.<br/><br/>It was soon apparent that she was far from writhing in expected agony.  Those strange sensations then, warranted a peek.  That curiosity had got her into trouble more than once with the Reverend, who would then send her to The Prayer Closet.  That was a dreaded place where she was made to kneel for hours seeking 'forgiveness' and 'guidance'.  Not just once had someone thrown a handful of uncooked rice to scatter across the hard floor.  The time spent there didn't appease her curiosity at all, but worked very well as a deterrent.  Here in the middle of the Maze, she was far from closets.<br/><br/>Through a sliver she saw the dark cross pressed to her blood-smeared skin and knew for a certainty that yes, she had hit her head so very hard.  That must  be it, she assured herself as torn flesh healed before her eyes.  Yet, while there was a fair amount of fear in her, natural for a young woman on her own in the deadly desert who was injured and seeing and feeling the strangest of things, there wasn't terror or screeching or pain.  Had all those prayerful conversations - Grimme's punishments - earned her God's mercy after all?<br/><br/>Moments later, a dumbfounded Jaelyn sat snug in the man's coat, pondering this sudden reversal of circumstances.  The most she had hoped for at the start of this 'trip' was to manage the task without loss of life.  It would be tricky, but she had no desire to go as easily as her mother had nearly a year before.  Eyes large and round followed the man - God's man - as he moved around the small camp site.  It was evident he was comfortable living life on the trail.  She watched him quietly, unsure of exactly what these new circumstances had brought her to.  Finally, he began to speak...<br/><br/>“That – that man, and the horses on your coach – they were servants of evil.”  A truly unbelievable explanation went on, as unbelievable as the twisting, pleading husk of a being she'd just been witness to.<em>The horses, too?</em>She wondered at how such things came to be.  "The gates of hell’ve been thrown open."  Jaelyn shivered in the safety of the fire's glow.  It was not from cold.<br/><br/>"... Jaelyn?"<br/><br/>Startled, she finally spoke, "Ex... excuse me?"  It wasn't just that he knew her name, it was that he spoke it, as if she was a human being rather than some sort of tolerated vermin.  She hadn't heard more than 'girl' or a 'young lady', with a heavy sneer on the lady portion for months now.<strong>"I avoi.... um..."</strong>She blushed slightly, and finished with a half truth.<strong>"I am usually working on feast preparations during Sunday service."</strong>The truth was the Reverend's communion table left a horrible taste in her mouth, as did the next words she spoke.<strong>"The good Reverend Grimme lays out a generous feast for the city's citizens every Sunday."</strong>It was a waste of food and - surprisingly for Grimme - money, when that same amount of food could be spread out over the days of the week with less waste.<br/><br/><strong>"How...  how do you know my name?" </strong>Searching his kindly face, she sounded so very young, with a hint of hope, much like some London urchin wanting a second helping.<strong>"Who ARE you?" </strong>