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Roderik
"Actually good inquisitor, I had planned on examining this item in great detail before handing it over, There are many vile and dangerous candles out there, from the one, two, and three fingered hands to the darklight candles that fill the user with shadow, turning them into the undead while they burn (when the candle burns out the user suffers a most horrible fate) You can, of course, see my interest. If the purpose of the item is sinister it shall be dealt with appropriately, if it's use is neutral, then it shall be monitored with a blade readied to stop the bearer before he can bring harm to himself or those around him.
From the tales I've been told, Larry was always rash and foolish to say the least." Roderik rode in silence recalling tales he had heard, and finally stumbled across one that reminded him of a love lost, a girl of surpassing beauty and wit. Speaking the words quietly he said,
"It's the rain.
It's the storm we all
have to endure.
We hate it, but it's every
drop that runs down your face
that traces out
Who you are, Your shape.
This storm shows me so much
I accept all I see."
He'd been a youth then, stumbling over his prose, and not really interested in it, but it remained one of his favourites, from long ago.
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