Wesh Zurisatro


Wesh’s arms were wreathed in flames. His would be executioners had already hurriedly climbed into their saddles, and were now galloping away. “That’s right!” screamed Wesh “Ride fast you bastards!”

Wesh had been a charlatan for years. It was easy to be one in Varisia, the entirety of the population longs for any feeling of meaningful spirituality. The death of a god leaves a vacuous space in the hearts of the faithful. Their hearts almost as burdened as their stretched coin purses.

Wesh never was a cleric; he did grow up around many clerics being a Varisian. Iomedae faithful love to evangelize the Varisians any chance they can get. So he knew many of the prayers, many of the hymns, most the mannerisms and religious jargon. But try as he might he could never seem to think like them. Some laws are so arbitrary he told himself. It’s not like Wesh made church “collections” from the poor or the needy when he pretended to be a traveling cleric; he only took collections from blubbering, selfish nobles. Or when Wesh would meet a lonely faithful woman of the flock and fill her with his own brand of Holy Spirit. Who gets hurt?

Wesh had been drifting form hamlet to hamlet in Varisia for years, always with an ear to bend towards anyone’s problem or confession for a donation, and several flasks of fake holy water to sell. Pretending to bless people, weapons, whatever they wanted. But you can only go to so many little Hamlets and swindle so many bumpkin famers before it catches up with you.

Six rode him down one fine evening. Noose in hand. Their leader much more concerned with the name his wife had called out last night, rather than the knock off holy water he purchased. They strung him up and as the rope constricted Wesh began to reflect on how things could possibly be ending like this. All the prayers he had ever uttered ran through his mind. His final plea sounded more like a bargain as the margins of his vision quickly turned grey.

He said “Iomedae, gentle goddess of righteous valor, justice, and honor. I devote my life to healing the sick, the wounded, and the dying in your name. I will be a vessel of your divine healing light.”

Nothing happened….

“Fuck you! I never believed in you. You couldn’t get this fucking rope off me if you wanted too. You’re just as dead as Aroden!”

To his surprise Iomedae was listening. Wesh’s arms suddenly erupted in divine fire his hands still desperately clawing at the rope above him burned through it instantly. His would be executioners had already hurriedly climbed into their saddles, and were now galloping away. “That’s right!” screamed Wesh “Ride fast you bastards!”

Then the pain hit as Iomedae unseen herald extinguished the fire. As Wesh swooned from the nauseating agony and the smell of his own burning flesh he also realized he could barely stand. His ankle was totally shattered from the fall.

He awoke in a nearby farm house after a three day coma. It felt like three years. His mind had been awash with visions of all the people he had lied to and cheated over the years.
The bargain had been made and Iomedae had accepted.

Wesh Zurisatro

Rise of the Rude Lords Tug