Violence, in much of the world, was abhorred.
Not in the Underark though. It was part of life. A piece of how they lived, survived, thrived. Even the Priests knew that. There was no end to violence, to blades across the throat, to those virulent and haphazard deaths that plagued the lands.
That was how it was.
How it would always be.
The Told Gods demanded it. Torture. Hurt. Pain and blood. Those were the sacrifices called for, and despite his exile
Nyros would stay to them. Their word, their call worth the weight.
Kami would awaken not within the dark. Not sequestered in a small room, but draped over the shoulder. Her hands and feet bound. Her mouth gagged with a knot of rope. Silence brought forth by the simple stance of her being.