Mark Anthony Tierno here with another Snippet from Maldene.

Candol is a coin-flipping priest of “the All-Mighty Indra”.  A key member of the group but one not without his own little eccentricities, as you can see from the brief excerpt below…

A voice cried out as small feet scampered down the street. Someone’s shouting about being robbed faded into the crowds as Quickfoot dived between legs and around people, nibbling on the stolen pastry as he went. He finally ducked into a shop full of marble statues, hiding behind one of a scantily-clad nymph with a bow and arrow, just as he swallowed the last of his snack.

“Why, yes,” he heard the proprietor say, “we have statues of all types. We even custom make them if needed. What kind would you like?”

“Well,” he heard another voice say, “do you have a statue of Indra?”

“Who?”

“You’ve never heard of Indra?” the second voice gasped. “Why, my son, you are truly missing out on one of the finer deities around!  Let me tell you of the might and majesty of the mighty Indra.”

Quickfoot groaned inwardly as he recognized the voice. Candol probably wouldn’t like it if he found out that he was stealing again. But, those pastries looked so tempting!  Covered in fruit, they were, there was just no way one could resist them. Just one, he’d thought. How was he supposed to know that the baker had made it special for some regular customer.

It was good, though.

“I’m quite sure, sir, that this Indra is a good deity,” the proprietor was trying to say, “but I just need a physicaldescription of what he looks like, not a telling of his deeds.”

“Ah,” Candol said with fervor, “only by hearing of his glory can you truly capture the essence of his magnificence in non-living stone. Only through enlightenment can you be divinely inspired to make the stone come to life.”

Fortunately for the store’s proprietor, a large man dressed in a baker’s apron chose that moment to come running in.

“Where is that little runt,” he shouted, “he’s got to pay!  I’ll take it out of his hide if I have to!”

Quickfoot cowered behind the statue, trying to remain unseen, as the baker looked angrily around.

“Excuse me a moment,” Candol said to the proprietor, as he turned and walked over to the baker, “What seems to be the problem?”

“I saw him,” the baker said, tightening the muscles on his broad arms. “He came in here. He owes me for one of my best pastries!”

“A thief then,” Candol observed. “You have but to calm down, and divine power will reveal the culprit for you.”

“I’m sorry,” the baker said, calming down. “I don’t usually show disrespect to a priest. Forgive me, but he stole a pastry from me.”

“Just a pastry?” Candol asked.

“It was a special one,” the baker said proudly, “my pastries are known all over the Harbor, and this was from a special batch that I made for a mayor down the coast. The best of the best.”

Oops, thought Quickfoot.

“Have no fear my son,” Candol intoned, “the offender shall be revealed.”

Candol raised his arms as he said this, as if beseeching higher powers.

It was then that Quickfoot felt a sudden, and rather painful, shock poking him in his rear in response to Candol’s request.

“Ouch!” he said, leaping up, rubbing his bottom.

“There he is!” the baker said, advancing towards him.

Quickfoot quickly backed up against the statue, his sudden movement causing the stone nymph to rock back and forth on its base.

Candol shook his head.

“I should have known,” he said to himself.

The baker went diving towards Quickfoot. Quickfoot slid aside at the last moment, bumping the statue hard as he went. The baker landed on the ground, hitting his head hard up against the rocking statue. Cursing, he shook his head and looked up. Quickfoot ran over to Candol, cowering behind his robes. The baker got to his feet and was about to advance on the small one, when something happened.

The statue of the nymph with the bow and arrow had finally been rocked too much and came crashing down on the man’s foot, point of its stone arrow first.

The man screamed with pain as his foot was pierced clean through. The proprietor, in shock, now realized that a man was about to bleed all over his store.

“Please,” he asked Candol, “you’ve got to help him. He’s screaming in pain. I don’t want potential customers to think that this sort of thing goes on all the time in my shop. You’re a priest, do something.”

Candol sighed, and then took a coin out of his pocket. Casually, he flipped it up into the air, watched it go round and round before he caught it in his hand and flipped it over onto the back of his other hand. He then looked down at which side was facing up.

“Sorry,” he said looking up, “not my cult.”