This was an Adept of the Doxology of San Destinakon. His gown swathed his figure in a drab but bewildering array of brown and black lozenges. The hood peaked to his right, for a woflovol perched on his left shoulder, the little batlike animal’s membranous wings now extended and fluttering in echo of the rage suffusing his master. The woflovol was chained to the Adept’s waist by a slender bronze linkage. In the sorcerer’s right hand, a hand devoid of ornamentation, a wooden-hafted bronze flail, a scourge, was uplifted, for the followers of San Destinakon are not above the outrage of physical chastisement. Now the bronze flail hung limp, but it quivered with the passions of the Adept.
Two figures in marked contrast, yes. But they held and controlled power, undeniably. Between them, shimmeri
