#( bonch.. )

     IT HAD BEEN SOME TIME since he’d indulged in a mere pastime, often busied by labour relevant to the circumstances at hand or at another’s behest. There was always a weight to his work, something dire, and while this too held meaning, it was of a far different nature. Indeed it could not saved a life, nor did it serve any tactical or magical purpose-- it was just a doll, unremarkable in every way, nestled in his palm.

     Carefully he weaved this needle in and out of the burlap, tethering the final touch-- a pair of small black buttons to resemble eyes-- to the fabric. It was simple, almost nondescript; a shoddily-made child’s toy, composed of aged and ragged materials, head filled with beans, string for hair and cord for legs. He'd never the eye for this sort of thing, but in this case, it hardly mattered.

    Caster paused, a few threads shy a finished stitch, to inspect his work. It was not the craftsmanship he dissected in his lingering regard, but the screams behind its featureless face, like ghosts in the distance. He could hear his people crying out for freedom, for salvation-- and he could never grant them that. 

                                                                     ---He could never give them that peace.

     Avicebron lifted his gaze from the doll at that moment, in time to witness a warm light spill over the horizon, and bathe the land in gold.