[X] Support the Hendar Uprising.
Chailani Rostam, as one of the sect members who did not need much medical attention – and indeed, one of the many that managed to snag the small arms of the Jurors for themselves – didn't ask for much. By this point, he is perched like a moa atop some empty barrels, remembering the Starshy Ilyon's advice on keeping guns clean. He did not need to speak so loud to reach the crowd still resting on the Mukvad Mekdash. His acappellic tenor cuts through the din of the restive and wounded alike.
We have protected the present. The body of the august Sanhedral assembly is saved. But the task is not yet done. The spiral is ever-whirling and ever-winding to the conclusion of Truth. And for the Exarchate workers of Hendar, they have found meaning in the teachings of Ghadi. Rostam's tenor rings clear as he eyed northwards: All here knew within their hearts, what the mouflons of the exarchate suffered outside the city walls. They're an oppressed lot, kept under by the lash and shears and butcher knives of the Jurors at every step and turn. Many of them do not partake in this struggle and huddle within their homes and for that, we should never blame them. Here, Rostam is stern. They've been blood-let and slaughtered and stamped far too many times to be rise. For these poor sods, Rostam lamented, the teachings of Ghadi are written on books while the scars of failed struggle are written in their skins.
And yet, the spirit of Pugilism lived on. In Little Eykshir, the spirit of Myriam the Witch-Sage lives on, battling iron hulls with iron men atop a wooden ship of defiance. In Dhago and Vanu, Tata Targon embodied the second demand of Pugilism: To ally with the sacred. Even if some of us holds reservations on the Exarch, it is undeniable that he is a fellow abetter for the Coming World.
Yet what of Hendar? They embody the spirit of Ghadi, these kins a generation removed from the Metamoa, but they are not taught by Simurgh. They know not the sacred angelforms and the ways to fight. Theirs are resistance of brave poor sods who refused to be downtrodden. Theirs are a doomed resistance, a momentary thorn on the sheep-shearer's side to be decimated by bullet splitters and grape shots.
Unless.
Chailani Rostam did not speak further as the word hangs in the air. Having cleaned his gun and loaded both it and the stolen revolvers, the son of the Low Priest baker turned sect fighter stands to the attention of the now-rested Nachivanites.
Arise flock of the devoted
The World to Come is approaching!
With those sonorous tenor, Rostam walked towards Northeast, towards Hendam and their vision of the Coming World.