"You entered a place of worship dressed like this, like a farm boy," he bellowed at you.
You bowed your head in acknowledgement.
"And what's your excuse?"
Your tongue is numb.
"Nothing. Silence. So, what can I do? Should I exempt you from punishment?"
Inwardly, you say, yes.
"I shouldn't think so." He locks you in behind a row of wooden bars. "Demora will come and get you ready. Then Klove will take you into the pit," Lurbasz says, just before leaving.
You lay down on the bench, and wait, in a swirling state of half-sleep.
14th place (out of 37) in the 5th Annual Interactive Fiction Competition.
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