[X] March on the Sanhedron and protect the Elders at all costs.
Bleary-eyed Chailani Rostam cannot shout– not from any disability but rather from festivities the eve prior, where he and other disciples had broken to acappellic rancour. Celebration, he said rather hoarsely, was far too ill-timed.
The son of a Low Priest baker beseeched his brethren with polished rifles and sisters with daubed gunpowder that now, we must remember that history does not repeat perfectly. The Infaillable Patriarchs were cast down by the Sword-Altar, and the divinity of Amalgast was shackled as a result. In this present, the Patriarch Santsarran – blessed be Him – is a creature of the cloister. Divinity and the majesty of change no longer lies within the vessel of Amalgast in full. Nay, Rostam clapped his hands in emphasis, it has since been bestowed to the Sanhedron.
This majesty may be imperfect, with its conformers and moderates and Autocephalate Elders that do not wish to sacrifice their all for the world to come– but it is real. Real enough to be a target of the holy-killing Jurors. Many among the sects of Nachivan, many among the mouflons and priests and witches would come to realize this too. But they, Rostam held his rifle aloft, have but zeal. Vashti's demise told us that zeal is not enough. To the attention of HaKhofshim and all bystanders, Rostam stomp his foot and takes the Arch-Angelform of Simurgh with feathers of sacred bullets jangling about him.
We, are Pugilists. Ours are the spiral that extinguished the serf-shackling Jurors with pike and shot. Ours are the spiral that brought the voices of Mouflons – of tillers and toilers all – to the House of God.
Ours, will now be the spiral that protects that House of God.