<div class="floatleft">(https://img00.deviantart.net/c62f/i/2017/260/f/2/felannar_commission_by_tamikaproud-dbm5te2.jpg)</div><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: impact;"><span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 14pt;">Oxenbridge Hewitt</span></span><br/>Character Sheet (https://www.myth-weavers.com/sheet.html#id=1383223)<br/><br/><hr/><br/>The chattering chorus of distorted voices offered no meaningful answer to his question.  Who was this creature that was communicating with him?  It didn't say anything meaningful as to its identity.  Instead, what it said was just different permutations of an echo of a regrettable question posited to the dark abyss.  But what did it mean when it said that he was hell?  Ox didn't understand.  Was it an insult?  Ox glared defiantly at the burning skull.  The brute would be damned if he let that infernal avatar insult him.  He didn't care if the skull belonged to Cris's father.  Ox brooked insults from no one.<br/><br/>He glowered.  He balled his fists.  He grimaced.  It was time to fight again.<br/><br/>Ox found that he could move again, but before he could do anything, he was accosted by the shoeless disciple.  He was hot, so he couldn't understand what was happening when she spoke.  Religious covenants were beyond his skill set anyways.  While the disciple made her proclamations, guiding hands led him to a wagon outside the jail.  Without realizing it, he climbed aboard.<br/><br/>He wanted to say something to the other women, but he couldn't think of anything.  How could he put into words how he felt?  They had just survived against overwhelming odds.  They had been... chosen.  But for what?