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Pale as a corpse, his face was gaunt, almost skull-like.
Lank, wispy hair - what could be seen beneath his helm -
was plastered to his head. His eyes were colorless; had they
always been that way? A faint, sardonic smile briefly
touched his countenance. "I look like a ghost. How
appropriate now," he said to his reflection.
The water continued to flow past, and he recalled the
purpose for which he had paused. Again he stretched forth
his gauntleted hand. The water might rust the metal, but the
parched knight did not care. All that existed was the hope
that this once - just this once - he might be allowed a sip.
His fingertips reached the surface of the tiny river,
passed through it without even touching.
He cursed, cursed the gods who had doomed him to this
wretched life. In frustration, he thrust his hand as deep into
the water as he could. The stream flowed on. He didn't
create so much as a ripple.
Growing more desperate, the knight thrust his other
hand into the water. He tried to cup some of the liquid, but
each time his hands came free of the stream, they held
nothing. This land might have been a desert for all he could
drink.
His head lowered. The sound of mocking laughter came
to him, but he did not know if it was real or his imagination.
He had never known.
"How long must I pay?" the knight demanded of his
unseen tormentor. "What must I do to earn a sip of water?"
He pounded his fist against the ground, but even that
much comfort was denied him
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