Yakov’s Run

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A coughing old monk opened the heavy wooden door, creaking on mildewed hinges and entered a musty cloister, his quiet home.

Pressed against his nose, his long sleeves of cotton gave him relief from an incessant drip, while the other hand levied a softly glowing candelabra to illuminate the dark. His eyes, concealed behind heavy wrinkles, attempted to peer through the dust-filled air-twinkling specks of dust floated in the space. The enclosed cavern, clearly bereft of any human activity.

Smacking his ever-parched lips together, the man cleared his throat and pulled closer his tattered tawny robe, causing dust to fly about his leisurely gait.

"Abbot be cursed-damned, these younglings will ne'er learn." The strange old man quickly crossed his body and whispered an apology. "Aye, pardon my impertinence, O' Lord, for the words that doth escape my lips, yet behold, my heart doth burn with ire... aye, an ire ignited by thy initiates. We do provide sustenance and refuge unto them, that they