u/ImpossiblePool7214

Amathea stood at the foot of the great city gate and watched the corpse dangle from the stone crest above. A great, thick rope had been tied around its neck, a crude iron crown placed on the balding head and a crooked steel scepter tied to the one remaining hand. Amathea could not see it clearly from her vantage point below, but she knew that the skin and flesh of the scalp and palm had nearly been seared off to the bone and charred to charcoal. She had heard the screams herself in the square when the crown and the scepter, then scalding hot, were affixed to the man’s body as he squirmed and struggled in vain. She had watched silently as he was paraded naked through the streets towards the gate in a wooden palanquin with the top cover cut off. Covered her ears as the crowd roared and pelted stones and rotten vegetables at this parody of royalty, from the cobblestones below to the tiled roofs above. Now he swayed, still and silent, a band of crows enveloping his body like some massive and wriggling black robe, picking at the grey and seeping flesh. His name was Horstel, Horstel the blacksmith, Amathea thought she could recall. But he had many names, others far more likely to ring familiar in the ears of those who had witnessed his hour-long campaign. Names like the rotting priest or the lord of crows. The leper king. Even now the right half of his face was covered by a cheaply made wooden mask, his left hand replaced by a copper prosthesis. It was only three days ago that a handful of lepers had stolen into the main square, far from their designated quarters in the underground slums. A fight broke out, and they were all cut into pieces by the guards. The stones stained black with their blood, the city soon turned into a powderkeg. Horstel led his fellow outcasts in a desperate attack against the city guard, later known as the Rotters’ rebellion. Naturally it was quickly struck down, and now the smith who had become a dead man walking and rose to become a symbol of rebellion, was suddenly nothing more than a decomposing pile of flesh staining the city walls. A warning to anyone who might think to follow in his reeking footsteps.
Amathea could feel her hands burn and tingle underneath her white gloves, she imagined eyes searching her own yet unravaged face for burgeoning signs of corruption. Feeling the weakness in her grip she bent forward and set her small travel chest down in front of her, fetching the key from where it hung around her neck and turning it in the lock. As the lid clicked open she reached down and pulled out a small glass vial filled with a thick reddish liquid. She dipped her gloved pointerfinger in it, and smeared a thin layer on the point of a small wooden figurine that hung on a thread around her neck, shaped like the shaft of an oar and splintered at the top where the blade should have been. Then she reached up higher, after coating her finger once more, and smeared another thin layer on her upper lip. After closing the vial and putting it back in the chest, she placed one hand on each shoulder and began to recite a prayer. The first one her old master had ever taught her. 
“To the hungry, let us give bread. To the sick, let us offer healing. To the helpless, let us extend our hand. Let this man find peace, give him all we did not grant him. 
By the blood of one brother, by the strength of the other.”
Picking up the chest, she shot one last look at Horstel as the crows cawed and wrapped their wings around him far above, before walking past the guards and through the open gate into the city, the same way she had come only a few minutes before. The daughter of a stonemason, she had always marvelled at the tiered city of Kharxaz as an astounding feat of modern architecture and engineering. Even if the brilliance of its execution was tainted by its oppressive intent. The city was divided into five separate levels, each of the top four elevated sixty feet above the last and encircled by red stone walls twentyfive feet thick. There were several mechanical lifts available to those who weren't able to make the long journey from the first tier to the others by foot, for a handsome fee of course. Too handsome for most who called the lower levels their homes. On the first and in the catacombs below were the slums, the poorhouses and the simple laborers’ quarters. On the second there lived a greater share of skilled tradesmen and merchants. On the third and the fourth lived the richest merchants, the lower noblemen and members of the clergy. And at the very top you could find the descendants of the strongest houses and in the tower above them, the master of the city himself. The church and adjoining rectory where Amathea ministered and slept were located on the fourth tier, surrounded by one of the few gardens in the city. Fortunately for her numb and aching feet the prison of Tumbar-Holt, where the subject of today’s assignment resided, could be found on the first only a short walk away. As Amathea trudged on slowly through the streets she thought she could see people point and whisper to each other as she passed them by. Whispering about the potential penitent, the prisoner she was headed to see. The one they called the man-beast of Kentingen, a small fishing village on the outskirts of Kharxaz.  Once she would have been almost disgusted to have to walk amongst some of these people. The beggars, the cripples. The sick. Even now some of that aversion remained, but she tried with all she could to push it away. After all, one cannot hate that which is of one’s own sordid flesh. Not her, a disguised outcast in the making. Rounding a corner she could see the walls of Tumbar-Holt as the lone building loomed before her in the distance, propped up against the wall separating the first and the second tier of the city. 

Hello. I dont really know what to write here, but ive recently started writing as a hobby, fantasy mainly, and this is what I've written so far of a story called "Beasts and pariahs in the cities of men"

I would be immensely grateful for any criticism that you could provide, and would also like to add that I am scandinavian, so english is not my native language. if anything seems a little off, that might be why. Anyway, i hope you might find the time to read this, and if not iIwish you a good day. Here it is:

Amathea stood at the foot of the great city gate and watched the corpse dangle from the stone crest above. A great, thick rope had been tied around its neck, a crude iron crown placed on the balding head and a crooked steel scepter tied to the one remaining hand. Amathea could not see it clearly from her vantage point below, but she knew that the skin and flesh of the scalp and palm had nearly been seared off to the bone and charred to charcoal. She had heard the screams herself in the square when the crown and the scepter, then scalding hot, were affixed to the man’s body as he squirmed and struggled in vain. She had watched silently as he was paraded naked through the streets towards the gate in a wooden palanquin with the top cover cut off. Covered her ears as the crowd roared and pelted stones and rotten vegetables at him, from the cobblestones below to the tiled roofs above. Now he swayed, still and silent, a band of crows enveloping his body like some massive and wriggling black robe, picking at the grey and seeping flesh. His name was Horstel, Horstel the blacksmith, Amathea thought she could recall. But he had many names, others far more likely to ring familiar in the ears of those who had witnessed his hour-long campaign. Names like the rotting priest or the lord of crows. The leper king. Even now the right half of his face was covered by a cheaply made wooden mask, his left hand replaced by a copper prosthesis. It was only three days ago that a handful of lepers had stolen into the main square, far from their designated quarters in the underground slums. A fight broke out, and they were all cut into pieces by the guards. The stones stained black with their blood, the city soon turned into a powderkeg. Horstel led his fellow outcasts in a desperate attack against the city guard, later known as the Rotters’ rebellion. Naturally it was quickly struck down, and now the smith who had become a dead man walking and rose to become a symbol of rebellion was suddenly nothing more than a decomposing pile of flesh, staining the city walls. A warning to anyone who might think to follow in his reeking footsteps.
Amathea could feel her hands burn and tingle underneath her white gloves, she imagined eyes searching her own yet unravaged face for burgeoning signs of corruption. Feeling the weakness in her grip she bent forward and set her small travel chest down in front of her, fetching the key from where it hung around her neck and turning it in the lock. As the lid clicked open she reached down and pulled out a small glass vial filled with a thick reddish liquid. She dipped her gloved pointerfinger in it, and smeared a thin layer on the point of a small wooden figurine that hung on a thread around her neck, shaped like the shaft of an oar and splintered at the top where the blade should have been. Then she reached up higher, after coating her finger once more, and smeared another thin layer on her upper lip. After closing the vial and putting it back in the chest, she placed one hand on each shoulder and began to recite a prayer. The first one her old master had ever taught her. 
“To the hungry, let us give bread. To the sick, let us offer healing. To the helpless, let us extend our hand. Let this man find peace, give him all we did not grant him. 
By the blood of one brother, by the strength of the other.”
Picking up the chest, she shot one last look at Horstel as the crows cawed and wrapped their wings around him far above, before walking past the guards and through the open gate into the city, the same way she had come only a few minutes before. The daughter of a stonemason, she had always marvelled at the tiered city of Kharxaz as an astounding feat of modern architecture and engineering. Even if the brilliance of its execution was tainted by its oppressive intent. The city was divided into five separate levels, each of the top four elevated sixty feet above the last and encircled by red stone walls twentyfive feet thick. There were several mechanical lifts available to those who weren't able to make the long journey from the first tier to the others by foot, for a handsome fee of course. Too handsome for most who called the lower levels their homes. On the first and in the catacombs below were the slums, the poorhouses and the simple laborers’ quarters. On the second there lived a greater share of skilled tradesmen and merchants. On the third and fourth lived the richest merchants, the lower noblemen and members of the clergy. And at the very top you could find the descendants of the strongest houses, and in the tower above them, the master of the city himself. The church and adjoining rectory where Amathea ministered and slept were located on the fourth tier, surrounded by one of the few gardens in the city. Fortunately for her numb and aching feet the prison of Tumbar-Holt, where the subject of today’s assignment resided, could be found on the first only a short walk away. As Amathea trudged on slowly through the streets she thought she could see people point and whisper to each other as she passed them by. Whispering about the potential penitent, the prisoner she was headed to see. The one they called the man-beast of Kentingen, a small fishing village on the outskirts of Kharxaz.  Once she would have been almost disgusted to have to walk amongst some of these people. The beggars, the cripples. The sick.