The prophet looked as slick as his tongue as I followed five-footsteps in length behind him. His long obsidian hair was streaked in silver and thick with grease. My lantern cast a rather sickly orange glow on his back from the feeble candle inside, causing the shadows on his robe to dance and sway to its flicker. We walked together towards the river in relatively silence, which only broke when he snapped an offending tree branch for me so I wouldn't be struck in the face. A kindly gesture, a thoughtful one, but such reckless destruction of nature by a self-described holy man was quite unorthodox. But then there were many things unorthodox about him.

For weeks he had made his celebrity debut in the streets of Radasanth, preaching to the unwashed mobs who thronged around him. Their sickly eyes were star-struck by his presence, their filthy hands clawed at his clothes as they begged to be rich, healthy, and happy. It was their weakness that drove them to him. Unworthy, unclean, uninspired - insipid little ants that trailed their way to discarded food and gorged themselves as if it were mana from heaven. They sought answers not from within, but handed to them on a silver platter –

Hell, they'd eat it up from a clay one. They weren't picky.

Not when the messages was so soothing to the ears of the slave. Suffering now meant rewards later, the gods were just even if the world was not, that every living soul mattered in their eyes – it was a maddening collection of fables and proverbs that riled up the blood and filled the limp and lame with hope for something better. Hope is such a terrible little thing. So many discount it, but it is a powerful weapon when laid bare to the masses. Hope sways them like an orchestral suite, before descending into the chaos of clangs and trumpets with no rhythm. Too much of it and you have a frenzy that law and order cannot hope to stymie.

We had reached the riverbed just as the sun had begun to crest the waters. Pink and orange played against the pallet of inky black waters that stirred ever so slightly in the calm current. A cool breeze scattered a few leaves about the brush around us, and the trees rustled just enough to keep any eerie silences at bay. The whole scene was reminiscent of a cheap oil painting one finds done by amateurs at the side of the road, the kind who find their work has some deeper meaning beyond the shallow attempt in front of them. Perhaps that's why he'd led me there.

“You spoke of some troubles,” he said to me, taking a seat on a hollow long just by where the waters lapped against the shore. His hand ushered me to come closer and sit by him, but I've always preferred standing on my own two feet. I shook my head as politely as possible.

“I spoke of doubts, troubles might not be how I define them.” My voice was clear in the night's air. The slight creak of the lantern's rope swaying with my magnificent timber. I straightened my glasses a bit, to catch the gleam of the flame just right on them. “But first, I must know. I had heard you were a sensation in the capital. What brought you out to such remote villages?”

He paused, gently stroking his goatee with thumb and fore finger and never making direct eye contact with me. It was a trick I'd seen philosophers do mid-debate. Don't focus on your opponent, look past them with some somber glint in your eye to appear deep in thought. He would speak slowly next, emphasizing each word like gospel sermon. It made the silliest ideas meatier, and added gravitas to the immaterial.

“The local constable didn't take kindly to me,” the prophet quickly said. “It was never on record, but I knew my choices were to leave town or enjoy a prison cell. There were many wealthy men who were none too pleased with my ideas.”

Ah, The State. Another sickly god for people to worship. In truth, it had more tangential power, but it was a poor replacement for the miracles and paradise simpering fools longed for.

“Tell me though, of these doubts. So that I may help you find some truth.” His voice was like honey warmed at the hearth. There was something so unnatural about it.

“I'm afraid doubt is my truth.”

“Do you not believe in The Thayne?” I caught his eye finally, and I could feel an actual pain within him. He wasn't incredulous, but actually worried about something. Sometimes my gift of empathy confuses even me, because I couldn't help but think he was almost convinced of his own con.

“They may well exist, but so do many things. Sorcerers who can move mountains, swordsman who can split arrows with a stroke of their blade, healers,” I pointed at him and smiled slyly, “that can convince a great many people of miracles. There are many powerful things in this world, but none I've deemed worthy of contrition.” He stood then. His dirtied robes dragging in the mud and forest floor. With one outstretched arm he pointed a bony fingers towards the setting sun.

“Do you see that?” He asked.

Of course I fucking did. It was the sun.

“Because it's not just what I see, but by which I can see.”

“I've brought a lamp,” I joked. He briefly frowned at me, before stepping closer and putting his hand on my shoulder.

“Is there nothing in this world you can conceive of as greater than yourself?” The prophet was close enough to me now that I could see the difference in our heights more clearly. He towered over me, and though it grew dark around us, my lantern could show the kindly wrinkles in his face. I thought back to my youth then, to a time when my father spared no expense on doddering old priests to teach me of The Thayne. Of The Great Calamity, which saw The Old Gods fall and the rise of current ones. Of The Thayne's all too human qualities.

“No,” I replied, slipping my straight-razor out of my sleeve.