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Looking for myself in a poem...

He pointed as they came toward the corner. Isarin's temple was down that street. “I know,” his translator said, pulling his hand out of his mouth and turning. He glared at the back of his head but shook the blood off his hand instead of licking it, closing it into a fist against the rag, and followed. It was hard to yell at his translator when he wasn't looking at him. They slowed to a walk as the temple came into sight in silent consensus. Neither of them wanted to go in there... As before, ...

The Right Hand The priest nodded to the guard as he stepped around the body of the man he had just killed, wiping clean the small ornate dagger before sliding it back into the folds of his simple gray robe. The other man nodded back, shifting his helmet under his arm. "Thank you," he finally found the voice to say. He only nodded again and stepped around him, twitching his finger at his tall companion in the shadows. Together they stepped outside into the cool night air. He only really notice...