The Chief Weaver could not get them to look quite. Then, finally, he placed the head, molding the face. He wondered dimly what the Master was planning. This was a young human, younger than he had ever made for the Master before. He stitched on the hands-large hands with strong, nimble fingers. The Weaver wove together the slim torso, the strong shoulders, muscular arms. At least, not from a Prince Warrior that was alive and free in Ahoratos. The Chief Weaver did not know where Ponéros had gotten it he could not remember ever having true Prince Warrior blood to work with before. There was something quite unusual about this blood-it had come from a Prince Warrior. The Chief Weaver had made human suits for Ponéros before. The Chief Weaver knew there would come a time when his master would no longer be pleased-that would be the end of him. He was allowed his freedom, so long as his work pleased his master. The Chief Weaver was one of the lucky ones. Ponéros had promised him all that and more. But like many others, the servant had crossed the chasm in search of fame, of riches, of admiration. The Chief Weaver had once been a servant of the Source, the true ruler of Ahoratos, the Unseen Realm. He carefully pulled some threads of dark gray fabric that stuck to the scrap of metal and handed them off to another of the weaver slaves, who set about making a set of clothes. The Chief Weaver remained precise and methodical, unruffled by his master’s impatience. The process cannot be hurried, Sire, said the Chief Weaver. How much longer? Ponéros spoke impatiently. The slaves brought their work to the Chief Weaver, who added the pieces to his creation, entwining them skillfully. Ponéros had demanded this.Īround the Chief Weaver, dozens of other weavers lurked, fashioning fingers, hands, arms, shoulders. The legs and feet were most important-they needed to be quick and strong. The beginnings of feet, the mere outline of legs. He watched the shape unfolding before him: a human form.
On his massive throne sat Ponéros, ruler of Skot’os. The Weaver’s fingers were long and thin, clever fingers, twisting and forming the threads so quickly no human eye could follow. The Chief Weaver stood over the chalice, reaching in and pulling out slender threads of bright red. One drop, then another, slow and steady, into a large, crudely made iron chalice. Subject Heading: COURAGE WAR STORIES TRUSTīlood dripped from the edge of the blackened shard of metal. Unseen: The Prince Warriors 365 Devotional The Prince Warriors and the Swords of Rhema The Prince Warriors and the Unseen Invasion Part Two: The Pods Chapter 30: The Unleashing Part One: The Mountain Chapter 1: A Hole in the Water
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