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Taking place within the very heart of the Spanish Inquisition itself, So the Crow Sighs is a work of fiction revolving around a young boy by the name of Diego Cruz, whose father is murdered and whose mother falls dreadfully ill with an unknown illness. This is the story of his struggle for ultimate absolution, utter revenge, and above all: his true faith.
Constructive criticism is encouraged! It would also be monumentally helpful if any of you lovely people could provide your own knowledge of daily life/historical facts or events that made up the Spanish Inquisition. I know very little about it, in all honesty.
Rated PG-13/T for minor language.
Prologue
This was not what I had wanted. The quill that had previously lain stagnant against my damp palm dipped from the parchment and into the centimeter of oxygen that rested above. I pressed on. Pacing, moving about at alarming sprints… those cloaked figures pursuing conviction within the very recesses of nighttime... They moved, swiftly, from pew to pew, across the deep chasm that was left to awe at the spectating, picturesque spire atop it. I trailed listlessly, yet stealthily behind, my inhalation maintaining a rhythm which echoed my every tedious footstep. I slammed the aforementioned palm accusingly against my own cranium, guilt overtaking me entirely.
This was not a light matter, and a desolate shiver was thrown upon my aching spine in my reverie of grievance, and shot bursts of remorse through my veins. As I scrawled out each delicately arched word in sloping Spanish script, tranquility made its way into the cellar of my mind. I would no longer ride back burner to this skeleton, which was encumbering me at even the lightest of times. I slowed to a halt as the exhilarated gentries recognized my presence. This would be our battleground: the very home of that lackadaisical bastard Himself. I broke the cautious stride I held so dearly until then, and ran towards them, fury encompassing my eyesight, blurring my vision into brilliant palettes of crimson on violet. I felt the bittersweet sting of tear on eyelash flouting my aged facade, whisperings of my tale being told hushedly amongst the walls. This was our story, my father and I: the elegant narrative of a murder, the account of a setting so revered by its inhabitants, and the telling of an age that was as pitch-black as the hearts of men in reign during it. I suppose I should commence from the absolute, and utter, beginning…
Taking place within the very heart of the Spanish Inquisition itself, So the Crow Sighs is a work of fiction revolving around a young boy by the name of Diego Cruz, whose father is murdered and whose mother falls dreadfully ill with an unknown illness. This is the story of his struggle for ultimate absolution, utter revenge, and above all: his true faith.
Constructive criticism is encouraged! It would also be monumentally helpful if any of you lovely people could provide your own knowledge of daily life/historical facts or events that made up the Spanish Inquisition. I know very little about it, in all honesty.
Rated PG-13/T for minor language.
Prologue
This was not what I had wanted. The quill that had previously lain stagnant against my damp palm dipped from the parchment and into the centimeter of oxygen that rested above. I pressed on. Pacing, moving about at alarming sprints… those cloaked figures pursuing conviction within the very recesses of nighttime... They moved, swiftly, from pew to pew, across the deep chasm that was left to awe at the spectating, picturesque spire atop it. I trailed listlessly, yet stealthily behind, my inhalation maintaining a rhythm which echoed my every tedious footstep. I slammed the aforementioned palm accusingly against my own cranium, guilt overtaking me entirely.
This was not a light matter, and a desolate shiver was thrown upon my aching spine in my reverie of grievance, and shot bursts of remorse through my veins. As I scrawled out each delicately arched word in sloping Spanish script, tranquility made its way into the cellar of my mind. I would no longer ride back burner to this skeleton, which was encumbering me at even the lightest of times. I slowed to a halt as the exhilarated gentries recognized my presence. This would be our battleground: the very home of that lackadaisical bastard Himself. I broke the cautious stride I held so dearly until then, and ran towards them, fury encompassing my eyesight, blurring my vision into brilliant palettes of crimson on violet. I felt the bittersweet sting of tear on eyelash flouting my aged facade, whisperings of my tale being told hushedly amongst the walls. This was our story, my father and I: the elegant narrative of a murder, the account of a setting so revered by its inhabitants, and the telling of an age that was as pitch-black as the hearts of men in reign during it. I suppose I should commence from the absolute, and utter, beginning…