This face mask is as useless as our politicians face mask


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Tyrus smiled, relieved. He turned at last to Paedrin, who had stood strangely quiet. This face mask is as useless as our politicians Annon always remembered him as being jaunty and opinionated. He was staring at Tyrus with a look so intense it bordered on hatred. The look was confusing. It was not what Annon expected. Why? What had he expected? He felt a little growl inside of Nizeera. “And you, Paedrin. Your master swore he would accompany me on the next journey, or train one to fulfill his vow. The Bhikhu Aboujaoude was from your temple and he perished on the journey. He died so that Annon and Hettie would live. I need you as well. Your master told me of a sword stolen by a pupil. A pupil known as Cruw Reon. I need you to find that sword and use it in the Scourgelands to defend us. With it, you can restore the Shatalin temple from the dishonor of Cruw Reon.”

Corona virus and face mask

I know your price, Kiranrao, Tyrus replied. And it is not information. This face mask is as useless as our politicians He reached into the folks of his cloak and withdrew a silver blade. It was the blade Iddawc. The moment it emerged, Annon heard its whispers fill the chamber, making him go cold. If you join us, I will give you this. Even the Arch-Rike fears it.

Annon recoiled at the notion. The look that filled Kiranrao’s eyes bordered on madness. He was mesmerized by the blade, his eyes suddenly feral. Multiple emotions flickered across his face. “You tricked me,” Kiranrao uttered with emotion. “You tricked me when I stole that blade for you. You never paid me what it was worth.” “True,” Tyrus replied. “It is no good in my hand. It requires a special master. One who can tame it.”

Something as useless as our politicians

The feeling of blackness that washed over Annon made his stomach twist and his insides roil. This face mask is as useless as our politicians The blade no longer spoke to him, begging him to take it. All of its efforts were being directed at one man. Giving the blade to Kiranrao was an awful mistake. Whoever held it would certainly go mad. He stared at Kiranrao in disgust and horror, saw the subtle transformation in his face. He wanted that blade. He had wanted it for years. It was just within his grasp if he accepted.

A popping noise filled the chamber. The sound was familiar. When Annon last heard it, they had been confronted by the Quiet Kishion seeking to kill Tyrus. This time, it preceded an avalanche of men. Everywhere he looked, there were those of the Paracelsus order, with gleaming necklaces and dark cassocks. Rikes of Seithrall as well. Soldiers wearing hauberks and carrying swords and shields emblazoned with the crest of Kenatos. There was no way to count so many quickly, but there were probably a dozen Paracelsus, holding cylinders, each bringing six or eight with them.

This face mask is as useless as our politicians face mask

Paedrin reached Tyrus in an instant. Annon brought up his hands, ready to incinerate him with fire. This face mask is as useless as our politicians His heart groaned with pain at the thought of destroying his friend. With the Dryad’s kiss, he remembered every comment, every precept from the Bhikhu about injuring and not killing. How could he kill his friend? He knew that unleashing the fireblood would not harm Tyrus, but Paedrin’s skin would burn. How could he do it? The hesitation unnerved him. The flames quivered on his fingertips, nearly guttering out.

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Face mask

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