Kingdom of God: A Quest of Holy Revolution

Masters of Ourselves

In this life, so declared the great Pugilist sage Opernani Myriam, there are five evils: 1) ignorance, 2) impiety, 3) injustice, 4) disunion and 5) despair. Each represents an ill of the faith that has been corroded from the inside out by the force of darkness, identified with the immoral rich and the illegitimate mighty. Darkness, defined as the elevation of soul over soul, and chamber over chamber, is contrasted with light, the collective brightness of emancipated humanity. The world to come will be a rabinate, a rule of masters (rabins), where mastery of time and mastery of space will be lent to the collective control of the whole mass. Ties of obligation and demand will remain, but made through the order of the whole. The Rabinate is a dream shared by all of the latter schisms of Pugilism, Iconoclasm, and Confession, and they differ instead in the shape and form of mastery.

Masters debate and do not coerce. Masters vote and do not obligate through archaic bonds of fiefdom. Masters complain and masters laugh and masters disagree and masters still carry bonds of universal comity. Here, in this ridiculous place, this filthy crowded tenement, all of you were masters, for all of you sought nothing less but the success of the most extraordinary and powerful force of the collective dialogue. And when you broke down the middle, it was by the will of mastery that you were able to create unity from disunion. The sect meeting which dragged for hours soon turned into a phenomenon in and of itself, as the members of the flagellent section in the midst of this crowded tenement watched gobsmacked as votes were counted, then again, then again, coming over and over to a tie on multiple issues of the most key importance.

At last, a compromise was brokered by the Guru Wendam, and instead of coming to blows, the sect erupted into song, attracting the attention of the tenement as one disciple inexplicably belted out, in perfect pentameter, the old Vasp Song of Release, purported to be from before the flood, and Chedyanki Shevah, the disciple suddenly rocketed to prominence by the popularity of her proposal, composed and sang an early rendition of My Sister, My Sister, what would become the official hymn of the Gunpowder Eucharist. Later on, inspired by the heat of the meeting and his own realization that childrearing may be challenging, disciple Zeb composes an internal pamphlet which delights many of the women of the sect and causes Rector Qanam to remark in deadpan that there will be no squalling babes to menace man in the world to come (amen).

In the midst of a mad fervor that has some disciples quaking, performing elaborate angelforms or spontaneously breaking out into sacral wrestling matches, Qanam stirs the sect to action. He says to you: We will not do one thing, and we will not do four things, but we shall do every thing. Seven Things, in honor of the holy number 7, after the seven disciples of Amalgast, a Seven-Fold Offensive. To triumph in the tournament, to smuggle and rob back from the robbers, to put ourselves to holy work, to have our consecrated nuns anointed with black powder thunder out into the streets, to reach out to pilgrims below the mount to catch the Jurors in their cult-meetings and their ironshrines, and to secure funding from the pious high who would open their pockets to the world to come.

So it is said, and so it is done, as you, half-deranged, half-delirious, and all holy, vow not to rest until the rest of the world knows the mastery that you have shown today, over self and over sect.

The Fire that We Stoke

Old Strong Belman is called Mastodon, for none in the sect are larger and none are more feared for their mastery of angelforms. He is the sect's proctor of the punch, a man with experience in the underworld of criminal Pugilism in Yomri born again as a disciple of this faithful mission, and one of the most loyal of all the sect's disciples. He came to the sect, naked and bare, his monstrous tattoos of the angel of death the sigil of his former life in the mumarim, illegal and circumscribed criminal temples organized on the basis of shared sin, and now he is raised up to be one of God's foremost warriors.

Ultrapugilism, though its name might suggest otherwise, is a corrupted and degenerated form of the faith given over to a preference for the martial and physical over to the philosophical. Equality extends only within the school or dojo, and it is rife with hobbyists and leisurely gymnasts interested in its health benefits over any belief in the higher power of the moves they enact. But the fire lit by Pasan Ghadi still burns here, no matter how faint and smothered, and it need only be stoked for the flames to burn again. In the courtyard of Karogen Academy, ancient monastery founded by that glorious Rav, Old Strong Belman faces his opponents. One by one, they fall: Young and old, fast and slow, strong and agile. Feared among his opponents for his silence and his tattoos and his scars, Belman is a sensation, the Silent Seraph who will just as soon smite his foes as bring them back up after they have fallen.

Finally, he rises to the top of his tournament list, and qualifies. The tournament guru raises his arm and asks him what he wishes to say, and Belman responds: I wish only to say that I dedicate my wins to God, the HaKhofshim, and human freedom. And the onlookers go wild, for the silent, strong, Belman.

Belman is moving up, and so is the sect, for his prize money nets a significant sum to help cover a portion of the funds towards the temple, and his naming of the sect brings confused but excited young enthusiasts and admirers to its very door, some of whom thought it was merely a fan cult and flee in an immediate panic out of fear in getting in trouble with their parents.

Having done his part, Belman rests, and eats half a heffer's weight in meat at his victory dinner hosted by the Academy and passes out.

Results: Success (DC50, 1d100=49+5+5 [Player Bonus, Sect Bonus from Tie Fervor], +Popularity and +Wealth

The Most Holy Thief

To steal from the needy is a sin, but to take that which was never theirs is sanctified. That this justification may be used by brigands and highwaymen as much as schismatics does not dilute its necessity for the time ahead: A smuggler for a cause is a soul of god, but a smuggler for naught but themselves is a slave to greed. In order to prevent the sect from walking down the road of so many radical temples corrupted to become mumarim, petty criminals and perpetrators of evil, the strongest discipline must be applied to smuggling, and it must be for the cause.

The customs wall that separates Nachivan from the exarchates, physical or not, remains deeply porous to those who know its paths, and it is with tremendous success that Wendam is able to drop himself into the local smuggling networks, mostly conducted by the Marginalia, that clade of merchants, small shopkeepers, and other middling urbanites who have been either by accident or choice between completely excluded from entrance of their professions into the Low Priesthood. Unsanctified, unloved, and taxed into increasing destitution by the overlapping jurisdictions of Jurors, High Priesthood, Patriarch and even Low Priesthood, they form an example of a group that have turned enraged by the pointless insults every day inflicted to their dignity. In Yomri, these marginalia schemed to block Baba Tanda from influencing the prayers for the Sanhedron, but in Nachivan they have been pushed to the brink and now push back.

Guru Wendam and his smuggler's posse find this wedge, and tear it open, using meetings at the Sasan Bazaar as surreptitious opportunities to plan heists and midnight rowboat rides carrying salt and smuggled incense to the temples of the city. Mangari Incense, taken in secret from the furthest reaches of Vaspukaran, is often necessary for many sacral rites to have legal effect and also the target of the tithe regime as a valuable commodity more than worth taxing. But with more lust for lucre than the reach to enforce it, Guru Wendam not only exploits the loophole but establishes a stable route, and builds connections with the enterprising Amalist Yeladada merchant clan residing in the west of the Navel, the heart of the city's smuggling racket. This, he warns, is an unstable alliance, but one that for now is worth exploiting.

In the meantime, other members of the sect settle into working life, which proves both mundane and exhausting. Efforts to reach out fail mostly from a lack of familiarity from their colleagues; strange laborers appearing suddenly in your precarious and short-term positions and preaching to you about five evils is more suspicious than inspiring, but the flow of money is an assistance to the sect regardless, and the sect is able to afford supporting its children and elderly rather than pushing them to work as well thanks to the funds.

Results: Success (DC50, 1d100=86+5 [Bonus from Tie Fervour], +Wealth, +Connection/Alliance with the Yeladada Merchant Clan on smuggling. Flat failure on workplace outreach this early on. +wealth from wage-dues.

Woman's War

Less successful are the hopes of the Gunpowder Eucharist to win converts and sway the hearts of the women of Nachivan to their cause. For many, this militant, armed sect of dangerous ladies is simply a step too far: Although some of the laboring neighborhoods in Wickra are sympathetic, such sympathy comes with it immediate attention and attacks from their affronted husbands and local authorities. Much more than the general radical acts of the sect, the arming and militant defense of the rites of women as more than managers, more than mothers, disturbs and discomfits many within the ranks of the toilers, and especially the low priesthood, which prides itself upon the respectability and scholarly acumen of its women.

Woman rectors, surely, and woman Pontiff-Prelates and Abbesses - ideas whose time has come. But woman warriors? Woman marksmen? The idea provokes widespread mockery in the mainstream prayer bulletins, and satiric woodcuts are even put out by God's Own, a popular daily bulletin, of women throwing out their children and replacing them with machine guns, to their husband's consternation. The sect and convent's sudden appearance, and lack of established presence, even provokes conspiracies of saboteurs or spies pushing a decline of morality: one shouting hooligan, the teenaged son of a local High Priest, disparages them as 'witches in waiting', a serious insult to a believers that nearly provokes an attack by one of the sisters before others hold her back.

More ominous is that the convent also comes to the attention of the Exarch of Wickra, an absentee high priest by the name of Hulyara Bemin. Exarch Bemin, almost as an afterthought, issues an edict from his estate a few leagues outside the city near of the end of Yoshrei banning the carrying of arms by women inside the boundaries of his exarchate, effectively forcing the convent underground or out of the city if it wishes to conduct its sacraments. The extreme overreaction, however, also provokes more sympathy, and a flood of letters, as well as, usefully, donations. It is not enough to salve the pain of such a bland rejection, and Galavani Chana especially is dispirited, but it is a lesson learned for the sect of the challenges still faced to ensure that there is none within the world to come who will not be masters.

Results: Failure (DC50, 1d100=30+5 [Bonus from Tie Fervour], Convent of the Gunpowder Eucharist now known in outer Nachivan, for good and for ill, and has the attention of the authorities as well as sympathetic parties, but has not pulled disciples.

Beggar's Burden

Much more disastrous are the sect's attempts to reach out to a financier. Wendam first seeks to meet with Pontiff-Prelate Amalgani Samangan, High Priest head scholar of the Hastata Yeshiva and adventurer-archaeologist, one of the most famed figures and probably the most popular historian in the country. Months prior, his seminal work, A True History of the Society and Conditions of the Kingdom of God, was censored and blocked from publication by the Order of Silence, in one of its last spiteful acts before the impending order to end censorship took effect, and all copies including the originating manuscript destroyed. It was a decision they may soon come to regret, for Samangan was spurred by that cruelty to enter himself into the running as Elder for the Sanhedron, a spot he has easily secured, representing the south of Nachivan for the High Priesthood's Chamber and a thorn in the side of all his many enemies.

Samangan is known as a radical, a supporter of the period of Vasparak Illumination when significant reforms were made to social ills by Patriarch Amalgast the 38th Maravan, and an end to censorship. He is also a generous and open-handed donor to any willing to commit to transforming all that ails the country. He is also, however, as Wendam discovers, absolutely and completely in contempt of jurors as a chamber. During the War with the Mare, his daughter was assigned as a Hessenine nurse to the city of Ayikra, then under siege, and was murdered under suspicious circumstances which he believes was a conspiracy by the Jury of the city and the Metropolitan Prelate to prevent her from uncovering war profiteering and diversion of funds for the war effort. Before that, his own history with the Jurors was totally and resoundingly negative, dating back to his abduction by heathens in Kutan due to the High Jury of Dvarim revoking their garrisons from the railroads where he was stationed.

So when Wendam meets with Samangan, the high priest, for all his vestments and his power, is charming and open to this petitioner, but when Wendam outs himself as a juror deserter, and that the sect draws much of its support from many deserters, Samangan is apoplectic. The idea, he fumes, the very idea, of drawing from Jurors, as a radical proposition, is insanity. They are, as a chamber, foul beasts, scuttling creatures, the kind of animal that can be only be put down. One should only draw as they should quarter, when it comes to that foul order.

Wendam, for his part, does his best to try and salvage the situation even if he is chilled by the cold wrath of the priest, but although Samangan calms himself and apologizes, he admits he cannot in good faith support a movement which seeks to do anything but completely abolish that despicable order. Knowing the battle lost, and knowing better than to argue with one of the most powerful men in the city, Wendam departs, disappointed.

Ragata Sasai Habila is less unpleasant, but not much more helpful. The hard-nosed pirate-priestess of an Eykali merchant clan, Habila is discerning and focused in her radicalism, but despite being amused by HaKhofshim's story, remains unimpressed with what she sees as a threadbare and traditonalist doctrine. Serving as a captain during the War with the Mare, Habila sunk a Mare ironclad by ramming it with her own converted steamer, but none of her sons were so lucky, and she returned home having lost all four of her children to find the cutthroat and increasingly mercenary galleyhouse assembly had chosen her as one of the scapegoats of the sinking of their Holy Fleet, and sent her into an exile from which she has not returned. In exile, at least, she has constructed a shipping empire, exploiting the niches in between the privileges of Jurors and High Priests to transport goods up and down the Hadit at fine prices, and in a corporate structure whereby her own sailors share a portion of the profit. It is also from this revenue that she grants funding to a network of sects, having been always marked both at home and abroad as a radical and traitor to her lineage.

If you are to conquer heaven, Habila tells Wendam as she chews and spits some yamroot, you will need more than a hatred of five evils and a gun. There are many and many more in the Kingdom who agree with your hatred of the corrupt foundation, but have opposed of how to construct your world to come. What is the world to come? How would you define darkness? Light? By what form will mastery take, when mastery comes? A sect becomes a schism when the fundamental truth of its ideas align with the fundamental truth of a despairing society. This society despairs, but the academician also despairs of your ideas. Improve them, she says, and we may talk again.

Gracious in accepting her advice, Wendam leaves faintly baffled at having the particular of your doctrine critiqued by a pirate.

Results: Failure, (DC50, 1d100=3+5+5+5 for Samangan, 1d100=30+5+5+5 for Habila). Samangan is deeply unconvinced of Juror outreach, while Habila tells you to improve the quality of your ideas before she will be willing to extend alms.

The Monk's Relent

Pugilism has always been a sect of the mouflons. It drew its original power from the demands for a folk rite to protect the landholdings of the peasantry, and for protection from unjust law and prosecution. It seeks to level and make equal all of humanity into a single and popular communion, but in doing so it also necessarily attacks other lesser forms of privilege such as the lower priesthood's advantages. Rector Qanam thus faces heavy difficulties in reaching out to the artisans of the Lower Priesthood, and even some of the peasantry of the Lower Hadit who have come to see the parades and ceremonies of the holiday season. Many of them, wedded their own privileges, are loathe to surrender them, and the calls to outright abolish the triple tithe lead to some consternation among the artisans who wish to redistribute its apportionment, not abandon it entirely. In general, there is a hope that the Sanhedron will simply solve their troubles, and surely will rescue them without a recourse to such soul-disturbing notions as you offer. Without a printing press, either, Qanam is not able to hand out pamphlets as he'd like to.

Qanam's singular calls to a war against five evils, and his attacks on darkness and preaching of the light, of universal human freedom, also feel drab against some of the other sects among the processions and the promenades. As Hahahiyyim and Ohr, massive and well-organized Mystic Amalist and True Confessor Sects, have entire platforms and famed speakers, whereas Qanam is a single man standing atop a milk-bucket. His honesty, his piety, and his seriousness reaches some, but the majority are drawn more towards the Hahahiyyim who perform tricks of magic and have brought out an enormous barbecue, plying the crowd even as they hand out pamphlets decrying the practice of penitence and outlining ways to organize against it in several languages, and Ohr, whose powerful Cantor Ghadan Nasir, an enormously bearded and cantakerous man unmoved by his exile in the bitter cold of Tunturus, shakes listeners with lectures on the war upon the demiurgic and indulgent chambers, the history of struggle between material and spiritual, and the fundamental and key sanctity of all labour in the eyes of God, quoting effortlessly verses from his memory.

The Iconoclasts do not even bother with such theatrics: Instead, an enormous wood and plaster figure of the bull of heaven is carried through the city and then set on fire by the Hadit, while disciples of the Makabim sect silently dip supplicants into the water where the idol washes into and declares this the beginning of their time of freedom.

Qanam returns each day, but again and again he is outshone. He is too poor, and too outmatched by those who had resources he cannot possess. The normally level and unflappable man is almost pushed to tears. He admits to Galavani Chana, who comes to bring him some water and to take his place for the afternoon, that he has done the best, he swears to God, but it is not enough. He is a mouflon who taught himself to read in barns by candelight and narrowly passed the exams to enter the Low Priesthood. He does not, and is not always sure how he can compete with these great souls who were born into the scripture.

At this point, someone steps forward from amid the press of souls moving to and fro. A striking young woman, with a huge conical hat and a fine outfit, wearing a sharply tailored rancher's trousers and black jacket rather than the typical long girl's skirt, speaks up. She introduces herself Maryam Vashti, a petitioner from Ischak Circle, turned away four times from the Mount, denied an audience by anyone of note within the city, carrying a sacred-stamped copy of the deed of land nearly three hundred years old that protects the rites and territories of the minyan communion of Pugranasi. She admits, bashfully, that she has been listening to Qanam for days now, sneaking away from her betrothed Boros so she can listen more. She finds it all quite inspiring, but admits to being apprehensive. Can it really be so? Her own way of life, her whole world, is under a total and complete demolition. The Ischak Synod is planning to simply revoke folk rite and begin to clear the plateau where she lives, and no one will hear her own objections, the objections of those that reside there, in that ancient place. Can it be that another path is possible? That this is not the end?

And Qanam straightens up from his despair, and pronounces to her as if he was not on the edge of giving into the fifth evil moments ago, that is absolutely possible, by the acts of the worthy and the just, who raise their fists and push back against the crushing weight of evil. Not one, but a hundred, can surely lift the yoke of oppression.

And Maryam Vashti, after some thought, lights up and says that she will have to do her best to live up to that standard, then and gives Qanam a penny dirham for the sect. He holds it, lost in thought, and Chana says to him, it will start not with a hundred, but with one.

And so it will.

Results: Failure, (DC50, 1d100=8+5). Qanam fails to sway a hundred, but sways one.

The Standard of Our Cause

What does it mean to be a Juror without a Jury? A soldier without a war? A standard-bearer for a standard that has been reduced to nothing? Hallowed are the traditions of the Jurors, and hollow are their lives. The promise of another way, the promise of an escape that does not deprive them of their hopes and dreams and does not force them down but raises them up is electrifying, and Akov brings the zeal of the convert to the task. Organized in standard-cult meetings and in the manufactories of the city, jurors from across the country work and toil under circumstances that are so far removed from the original promise of their order as a deliberative holy order that the mind collapses in trying to reconcile the contradictions.

It is this which Akov exploits. Where once Jurors were the first line of defense against the threat of the peasantry that Pasan Ghadi mobilized, many of their number are now peasants. Where Jurors were first to defend against the urban ambitions of the Iconoclasts, many of them are now urbanites. Where Jurors were first to stop the expansion of the Low Priesthood into skilled labor, many of their number are now laborers, and yet their diction, their language, their scripture, remains outdated. Their language, of honor and brotherhood and martyrdom, is trapped within the reminiscing of a vanished age of glory and heroism that cannot exist, and if it would be reconstituted, would not deliver what they wanted.

Akov cannot offer them a restoration, but instead, a novelty. A way out of the plumbing despair to which they sink. And he strikes as if by lightning, and he strikes them twice: at their work and in their meetings. His flagellents, developing their own identity, strengthening their bonds to one another, have become the foot soldiers of the word of extinguishment. They find work in the factories and then broach the subject, or else come to the standard-cult meetings by invitation and whisper about another, greater standard to which they owe loyalty.

In the place of doctrine, they offer a place inside the soul of men who have been rendered soulless by their position. Their appeal draws hundreds, and where elsewhere the sect has failed in this it suceeds beyond its wildest hopes. The Flagellent Section doubles, then almost grows by half again, and Akov, to manage the flow and flood of Jurors, renames it in a ceremony inspired by his own excitement: No longer just the flagellents, no longer just Jurors, no longer men of standards without meaning. Now they are all servants of a new and terrible banner, the whip of self-sacrifice and relieved guilt, a banner that vows to fight evil and secure liberation:

The Scourge of God.

Results: Double-Success (DC50, d100=82+5, 70+5). ++Popularity, +Wealth, +Fervour, Flagellent Section renamed Scourge of God and grows much larger.

The Temple of the Free

The City of God is a house divided within itself. Within its bounds are held representatives of all the chambers, who control and grasp aspects of its governance. From Tzinhas Barrack, the Sword-Altar Standard has maintained an alliance with the Great Synod situated in the House of Creation to enforce the Scriptural Covenant, their twisted conception of freedom and liberty, the domination of the country by an overweening high priesthood on the one hand and a brutal and arrogant jury on the other. In the outer exarchates, this alliance is in full-force, with exarchs relying on employed thugs and criminlas armed with mallets and knives and the bayonet of the Sword-Altar when all else fails. They hold domain over the vast sweep of Mouflon neighborhoods, volatile and unruly and hardly governed but to crush.The sole exception to this is the domain of Tata Targon, a domineering mini-Patriarch who demands devotion and offers a well-structured system of benefits and alms to those who obey, while smashing those who do not. Ruling from Targon Monastery, the upper-east exarchates are his domain, and he exerts considerable influence over the whole of the east bank.

But cracks have formed in their control. The See of Nachivan, the formal holy city, owing loyalty solely to the Patriarch, remains hostile and sullen at their domination, missing its old glory as the center of all power in the country. The inner portions of the city, wealthiest and staffed with some of the greatest and most cosmopolitan dignataries of all of Vaspukaran, remain as firmly committed to the idea of the Infallible Patriarchate as they were seventy-five years ago. The Alangan Yards, granted long ago as an island fortress to the Order Karaban, the greatest order of the Navy in Vaspukaran, have become a flashpoint. This non-juror order, ancient and outside of the normal rules of recruitments, counts among its ranks orderlies of every chamber, and a massive contingent from the Autocephalates, where the covenant of God is far looser, to put it lightly.

Sailors, mostly from the Autocephalate of Usral, without pensions and having witnessed the collapse of their order's honor and reputation in the War with the Mare, now lay paid but unworking, rotting in their fine ships, or working in the island's many and capcious factories, where they witness what their labour is truly worth. Strikes here are common and vicious, and influenced by the increasingly desperate situation in the Autocephalate itself. The Stormcrown Barkaran Rab, a hereditary prince often called 'The Last Melik' after the abolished feudal nobility of old Vaspukaran, is the head of a declining court where his trueborn and bastard children prepare for a succession war whilst he funds his extravagance by selling monopolies to Jurors and High Priests.

And there is an infection at the city's heart. Sects, militant and pacifist, radical and moderate, have infiltrated the City of God itself. In Little Eykshir, the multicultural neighborhoods of longshoremen and dockworkers are the heart of historical Amalism in the city, with the Temple of Mirrors one of its most holy sites. In the west of the Navel, Pugilism has long been ingrained in the markets and the side-streets, centered around the hub of Karogen Academy. Across the river, Old Nach's workshops and artisan temples are epitomized by the edifice of Glastabar Abbey, a celebration of labour and the dream of the artisan conception of freedom as a society of self-producing souls. Here is the heart of old Iconoclasm, which still creates incidents of explosive anti-iconic violence and impromptu baptism on the banks of the Hadit. And finally, in Wisdom's Heart, the students of the yeshivas have turned confessor, professing their sins to one another in secret meetings that seek to expose the vulnerability of the individual to the whole truth and to purify the taint of the material.

Into this, you enter. With enough funds now to purchase a property within the inner city in order to house a temple, there remains a dramatic strategic question of where exactly you shall place it. Each neighborhood has its advantages and disadvantages. It is agreed by most that for now the Exarchates are simply not safe: Only Little Eykshir, whose exarch is not hostile to Amalism and is anyways terrified of disturbing the peace given the funds of some of the supporters of the schism, would be a shelter. It might be wise, some point out, to be as close to the Sanhedron as possible, but others are concerned that is also dangerously close to Tzinhas Barrack, a short walk for any juror force to take.

Then across the river in Wisdom's Heart or Old Nach might be better placed, but are somewhat further away from the Sanhedron, and are any case is dominated by other schisms. Wisdom's Heart's situating in the hub of the universities, and Old Nach's exceedingly winding streets, do make both even safer locations, however. The most obvious would be in the west of the Navel, near Sasan Bazaar, the heart of old Pugilism, while it is suggested by Akov that Little Eykshir is the most industrial of the districts, and not very far from Kentelken, the densest industrial park in Nachivan, housing the Pesselpan Ironshrine and many other of the city's largest mills and factories, not to mention the Alangan Yards, and so might be a choice to take.

Finally, a few souls who have come to like Wickra suggest Gabanna, at the intersection of the much more mouflon exarchates, the artisan neighborhoods, and wealthier households. Most importantly, though, it is relatively untouched by the irruption of sects and it may be easier to establish yourselves independently there, while having clear street access to the Sanhedron by the main avenues.

The choice is left to the sect. Other parts of the city have been deemed too dangerous or too expensive to live in, and so these districts have been singled out. Choose one at which to found your temple.

Please note that this vote has serious implications, and is not just for flavour.

[] As near to the Sanhedron as may be possible (S).
[] In the Pugilist Neighborhoods of the Western Navel (P).
[] In Old Nach, among the Iconoclasts and Artisans (O).
[] In Wisdom's Heart, among Confessors and scholars (W).
[] In Little Eyskhir, nearer to the industrial district and among the Amalists (L).
[] In Gabanna on the east bank, at the intersection of chambers (G).