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Kingdom of God: A Quest of Holy Revolution

Reader mode
More seriously, something about the Mare is putting me on edge and I do not trust them.

But I'm also willing to acknowledge that this is likely some personal reading making a whole bunch of their everything hit differently from intended (probably), but until further notice, I do not trust them.
 
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Cetashwayo said:
Notorious troubadour, madrassa bully, and war hero Hari Rashman
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Harry Flashman but as a Sultanate of Women era Janissary...

I don't know how to quite put my finger on it but the whole "Tallyhoo, lets all die in a valiant-and-yet-futile charge and show those savages what for, old chap!" bit that Flashman stuff takes from actual Victorian adventure novels to mercilessly satirize, then combined with the elements of passionately loving big women in ways other then the kinda gross Bond girl-y way of them always falling at his feet makes Rashman feel like, peak memey French? Like that stuff with men being boors, bores, or boars and women being rational, romantic or ruthless has such "quote popularly misattributed to Napoleon" energy that I feel like it will just now start manifesting into our reality regardless of its fictional origin.
 
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Voikirium said:
More seriously, something about the Mare is putting me on edge and I do not trust them.

But I'm also willing to acknowledge that this is likely some personal reading making a whole bunch of their everything hit differently from intended (probably), but until further notice, I do not trust them.
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It's because they're a Britain expy (specifically an Angevin Turk expy) and we're a foreign power in 1800's time wise.
 
the fusion dance of Lustful Albion and the Perfidious Turk, into a fez-wearing monocled machine for taking other peoples shit.
 
Tabascoheath said:
Interesting tid-bit is the reference to the Great Western Coven as "the arsenal of the princes", perhaps a HRE type thing going on? also that the world armies of the Mare dreaded facing the vaunted jurors and were genuinely surprised when they broke, goes to show just how far the juries have fallen, also "Outremare" is great.
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Worse, they are Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth.

Cetashwayo said:
To the northwest of Vaspukaran, the Great Western Coven, land of Yuhwan witches, is a theocratic commonwealth ruled by a Celestial Sejm in which half of Camad holds seats by way of some obscure blood title, and led by the elected Eoraha Witch-King, the antithesis of the great Patriarch.
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Rolen von Keng said:
This was why Mare was the true enemy all along! Because of cursed names and stealing our recruitable prophets! :V
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Nah, we it will be fine, we are the one stealing their ambassador.

Cetashwayo said:
It is therefore natural to assume, and I did, that the corpswoman, the wife of the state, is obviously the dominant partner. [...]. A romance to sigh endlessly over for years after, of course, but one in which she is surely in control.

I was very mistaken.
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On a different note, let's hope this would not be prelude for some sort of foreign intervention. We have enough problem already.
 
Cetashwayo said:
Sneaking out of the legation quarter was no easy business. The mothguard assigned to guard the Arsenal of Princes' embassy (or as the Vasp call it, the Great Western Coven) was in particularly ill shape, with Sword-Altar testing its defenses and angling for a pogrom. Truth be told, I doubt Leyla would shed a tear if a stray cannon from Fort Karnak should strike true and eliminate the whole pack of scurrilous magicians, though she would surely draft a moving condolence after laughing hard. Moving on I found the Guarded Domains' embassy completely unharmed, which I found both completely characteristic and infuriating as it meant that they will have further excuse to do absolutely nothing at all and continue to ignore everything beyond their borders.
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I like the implication here that the Grand Mare just reflexively Agrees with the Patriarchate about the Great Western Coven.
 
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3rd Carnations Regimental Banner (ArvisPresley)
  • Media

    • The 3rd Carnations "Burning Bush" Regiment of Foot was a line infantry regiment of the Garden Corps.
    ....
    The War of the Reeds
    The regiment embarked for Vaspukaran and saw action in the swamps of Nesra. ..... Was notorious for the burning of temples in the region in an attempt to weaken enemy morale firstly and to enrich its commanders secondly.
     
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    • i would like to raise a few observations for the crowd as a whole

    we have now assembled

    the High Confessionists shouting it's high noon somewhere in the world
    the street samurai looking for one last ride
    the Anglo Museum representative diplomat

    we're just missing the French pirates and then we'll have the squad of a Victorian thief, Old West gunslinger, former samurai, and french pirate from Prokopetz, all fighting on the same side

    c'mon cetash you have the power to make this happen
     
    ArvisPresley said:
    It's because they're a Britain expy (specifically an Angevin Turk expy) and we're a foreign power in 1800's time wise.
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    Ottoman culture. British arrogance. French knighthood. What's not to like?

    IamtooSleepy said:
    Worse, they are Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth.
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    Chehrazad said:
    I like the implication here that the Grand Mare just reflexively Agrees with the Patriarchate about the Great Western Coven.
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    BORN TO TRADE
    WORLD IS A SIKTIR
    BATTLE OF GAUDATA 1593
    I am Outremare man
    410,757,674,530 DEAD Cadı
     
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    Turn 4, 822 Tislev: Last Fight for Freedom
  • Threadmarks
    • Turn 4, 822 Tislev: Last Fight for Freedom

    ​

    Dread Reprieve

    [X] Escort the Sanhedron to the House of Creation.
    13 Sectpower

    The winter sun rises high above the bloodied cobblestones. On a main avenue, Sword-Altar's artillery fire has brought down a tenement. A girl no older than ten pushes a pram with her baby sister inside, wandering in circles. Her brother, seven, digs through the rubble. He is calling for his mother, but he will never hear her soothing voice again. At the Muvad Mekdash, bodies lay splayed and motionless across the ground of the plaza that not two months ago was filled with crowds cheering the start of the Sanhedron. Massima Rachel stands among the dead, hair matted to her face with sweat, spectacles cracked, lips quivering with rage, but the mournful Abbess Tessel Tori places a hand on the young elder's shoulder and guides her to the escort column, banners of the six-shin aluf interspersed with menorahs of Kedesh and now the metatronic sigil of Melecha.

    It is a grim procession, a rump of a Sanhedron cut down by absences and deaths: in all, twenty-two elders have given their lives for the sake of their defense. With the Patriarch still cloistered and the Noyan refusing to reveal him, no matter the demands of the Abbots and Abbesses of the Heavenly Mount, the Sanhedron is the closest thing the city has to leadership. It is the bloodiest day in Nachivan since the Weeping Years. Even the Temple Coup was nothing of this scale: The attack itself was bloodless, and it was the purges of High Confessor leadership after that incurred the greatest casualties. This is something else. This is a war against the city itself by its erstwhile protectors.

    There is no time to celebrate the defeat of their blasphemous trickery, or account for the butcher's bill, for a second wave will surely come so soon as the equipment of the three Sufgar standards are unloaded. There are some who may have hoped to derail the trains or sabotage the tracks, but the exarchs of the northern exarchates have deployed swarms of thugs to guard the railway lines, and shoot any who dare approach. With guns distributed to them by Sword-Altar, they add a potent garrison force protecting the flanks of the four standards even as they prepare for a last offensive to smother freedom in its crib.

    Choir of our Liberation

    But the spirit of the city is unbreakable. A young disciple of HaKhofshim, escorting the Sanhedron along with Sarbadgar sings a holy tune atop a cart-moa, and his energy is infectious even as he botches the names of the standards, esoteric as they are. Hold fast against the Mastodon, hold fast against the jackalopes, hold fast against the Ophidians and hold fast against the sword and altar! The song travels up and down the column, and as the mob swells, it echoes through the street, his bellowing bass sung in harmony, men and women of HaKhofshim performing walking angelforms even as they march alongside. The elders of the Sanhedron watch in bafflement as HaKhofshim inflates the morale of all assembled, and even some of the elders break into song: Sarbadgar, it turns out, was a choir boy, and his baritone is not unimpressive. Akov and the Scourge of God join in, and soon return to an old song that makes some of HaKhofshim dry their eyes of forming tears of memory:

    A pond of Eel
    and a heart to steal,
    three smart daughters.
    And three strong sons
    a mount of bread
    and a vale of rum

    Many of the Kedeshim, themselves from Nesra, look up in astonishment, and then join in as well, singing that most favored of the Nesri fisherman's tunes. And as the procession decamps at the House of Creation, the mood has changed: No longer is this a grim retreat, but an addition to the deluge's legend, a journey to a redoubt that was once held by the enemy and has now been overcome by the power of the people. The legal scholar and high priest Elder Tobara Jegersan walks to the door of the House of Creation. The elder knocks three times, and asks if any archdeacon of the Great Synod objects to their entry. With nothing but silence on the other side, he backs up, says the Sanhedron thus claims it as its property, and kicks the front door off its hinges.

    The elders file in. The last to do so, however, Samangan, the new Nasi of the Sanhedron, first turns about to HaKhofshim. The Pontiff-Prelate of the Hastata Yeshiva, distinguished High Priest, great and mighty theologian removes his turban to gasps among onlookers, for such a thing is never done in lesser company. He walks among the disciples of the sect, who part as he approaches, fearful not to disrespect, only for him to lower himself to his knees and bow before the nearest disciple, an old washerwoman nicknamed as Clean-boards Yulda. He asks Yulda reach out her hand, and he kisses it with the sloppy gratitude of a man spared from execution, then looks up to HaKhofshim, and says to them:

    "You found me in the dirt, naked and bare, kicking in my blood, and as I lay there in my blood, you said to me: live!"

    It is a quote from the Tesserateuch, said by a famed pauper, Horo, to Amalgast, who raised him up from nothing to a position as a general. For a High Priest to say it is the world turned upside down: it is not the pauper who looks to the priest, but the priest to the pauper. The metaphor is understood, and as Samangan rises up he is mobbed by affection and adoration by the sect. Wendam claps him on the back, Bukak gives him a firm handshake, Dvorah kisses him on the cheek as he remarks, red-faced, that his wife Dina would have things to say on this as the HaKhofshim chuckle. He even locks eyes with Akov, still in a juror's patchy uniform, and he apologizes, says that he sees now that there are those among his chamber who will stand and fight for freedom, gesturing also to Sarbadgar. Akov bashfully shrugs his narrow shoulders and mutters indeed, some try, attempting to hide his grin from ear to ear as other disciples of the Scourge dance and perform angelforms in euphoric joy. Baba Tanda looks on ruefully and mocks that the young have no sense of discipline in celebration even as she joins in.

    As he begins to walk back inside, the sect lifts Samangan up, calling out "Nasi! Nasi, the prince of freedom!" carrying him into the House of Creation on a cloud of worship.

    As the doors close, Galavani Chana, returned from the victory of Vikrag, addresses the HaKhofshim and says to them: The people are the heroes now, and it is up to us to save the world to come. Let us go now, and make war upon the bloody men, and gird ourselves for this last fight for freedom.

    Drums on the Water

    [X] Support the Sailor's Uprising [As Hahayiim will be supporting this action].
    53 Sectpower

    Bambisnan's Revenge is sinking. No matter how skilled, no matter how capable, the hull of this fine old frigate cannot deny that its time has come. The time of wooden ships and flapping sails, of grand rigged masts and walls of wood shattered by the fire of the cannonball, is over. Blasts from the Yugarana pierce below the decks, and the Revenge lists to the side, filling rapidly with the chilly water of the muddy Hadit. Even as the crew evacuate, and onlookers from the shore board barges and rowboats to save them, Edagar Teoch remains watching at the helm. He is not gazing at the treacherous Yugarana, but beyond, to Alangan, and as he spots the office of the Grandmaster go up in flames, he cannot help but smile, smoke billowing from the pieces of paper burning in his beard.

    There is an old Eykanani truism: that the captain must go down with his ship. But Teoch is an elder of the Sanhedron and is needed there, and he recalls another, convenient truism he kept more faithfully: that the captain should be a good swimmer. So, as he secures the last members of his crew onto the boats guiding them to the shore and safety, Teoch puts away his spyglass and dives deep into the fast-flowing water, aiming for the Navel.

    On Alangan, Grandmaster Trevagon hangs, his body hoisted from a flagpole, sailors taking turns firing bullets into his ragged corpse. With his death, the Order Karaban's esteem plummets down to nothing. The Order which once saw combat across the shore and sea, that battled up ancient rivers and dueled on far-off coasts, had become a puppet of interests industrial and financial. Its ships to be stripped and sold, its abbots to be enriched, its monk-sailors sentenced to decline and humiliation. But the men doomed by this knew one truth that would let them break their masters: that there are many of us, and so few of you. With cutlass and saber, with pistol and musket, with rifle and with cannon, the sailors of Alangan seized control of the arsenals and shattered the thugs the Grandmaster had paid off.

    When the trance-knights of As Hahayiim arrive alongside the columns of souls from Nachivan, they find the sailors already cleaning up the last remnants of resistance and fortifying the drawbridges. The new arrivals are welcomed with celebration, as the sailors proclaim their loyalty firstly to the Sanhedron, and second to the city of Nachivan to which they owe the inspiration for their uprising. Without Nachivan's spirit, its rough and tumble challenge to the idols of the old order, without the fire seen rising from Vikrag Prison even from the island - none of this would have been possible.

    And neither would have been possible, without the help of Nachivan, the most extraordinary naval battle in Vasparak history. For from its drydock, a beast awakens, stirred from its slumber by the intrigue of heroes and the audacity of its stalwart crew.

    The ship Sakarog is setting off to war.

    Monster of the Deep

    They sing a shanty, the crew of this great and modern vessel, wrought in iron, belching steam, smoke bellowing from its central stack. The foghorn blasts like the roar of a leviathan as the ship storms out of its dock. It is a conspiracy wrought by the young Elana of HaKhofshim, the undertaker Gabbi Nurgalam of As Hahayiim, the Friar Muri and Cannons Canassatego. With the use of small rowboats they sneak the crew aboard behind the guard assigned to the ship, and then attack them from behind. The triumph of the plot is the unleashing of the greatest warship in Vaspukaran, the only one of its vessels to challenge and brawl directly with the Mare and come off without a scratch. Consigned to be mothballed and then scrapped, punished for its victory, the Sakarog's revenge upon its attempted scrappers has begun.

    Captain-Abbott 'Rough and Ready ' Regura Kook takes the ship directly on course with the Yugarana, the near-mute captain signalling to his trained crew with nothing more than whistles and hand-signals repeated down the line. Captain Erganom of the Yugarana tries to pivot to face his broadside to the Sakarog, but too late he realizes that Kook is not looking for a gentleman's exchange of fire: Instead he proceeds at full speed, and rams the Yugarana with a vicious screech of steel. The sailors taunt and jeer at the traitors down below, as they consign them to their graves:

    Great Ship Sakarog
    Gruesome Monster of the Deep
    Great Ship Sakarog
    It's your souls she's come to reap

    Withdrawing from the Yugarana as water rushes into the gap that the Sakarog has left, Kook turns about and aims for the Dread Tagami, eager to finish off the smaller vessel. Knowing themselves doomed for their sacrilege, and facing the greatest vessel of the age, the Tagami's mostly Kusri crew nevertheless bravely face their fate, firing broadsides against the Sakarog and denting its side-armor. Kook circles them for some time, even as other ships begin to set off from Alangan flying the sevensquare, or the spiral of truth, or the Patriarchical banner of the grail of flame. But none of them will have the kill, and neither will Kook: instead, Muri and Canassatego, having set off in a war canoe, lob a smuggled torpedo from their boat at the Tagami, and distracted as it with maneuvering in the narrow water the ship sees its coming death too late. The torpedo collides, the explosive triggers, and the hull is breached. The crew mutiny, hoping for at least some small mercy, and either jump to shore or try to tear their standard the better to surrender.

    With Tagami fallen, no further ships block the way for fighters ferrying one way or another, and workers and sailors from the warehouses of Sosi begin rowing north - to aid the sailors, and to defend the Navel from the invading Sufgar standards. The Sakarog, meanwhile, turns its sights on other prey, as Kook orders them to proceed downriver, aiming straight for Mushad Bridge.

    The Glutton for the Good

    [X] Attack the Hanagra Bridges.
    36 Sectpower

    Elder Verata Maya considers herself neither particularly brave nor very elderly, and yet still she fights inside the Hazzan Conservatory in Gabbana, behind a desperate and militant row of students wielding a different kind of percussion instrument. Wadahara Mina commands an orchestra of rebels holding out inside the opera house even as squads of Sword-Altar press their way inside, pushing before them the piles of theater chairs and double-lipped trumpet cases used as makeshift barricades. Wielding her conductor's staff, Mina orders the students, armed mostly with revolvers, prop muskets, or string instruments wielded as warhammers to prepare to open fire, even as Maya proposes perhaps she might give herself up and save them all. Mina gives her a withering gaze, insisting simply she is a member of the audience and it is the Conservatory's duty to ensure hospitality.

    With a trembling hand Maya commits to writing everything she's seen, and wonders idly if her mother would be proud or disgusted of the path she's taken. Perhaps a bit of both, but she can say, as she shatters the mask of a juror trying to clamber up with the clangor of a thrown sungi horn, that she is doing her very best and damndest either way. And yet it is a shame, she notes with that nervous sardonic thoughtpath which she uses so well in her sets, that they will all die here: she would have liked to have perished outside on some major barricade, perhaps in the strong arms of a dashing monk, as she wishes him to remember her spirit of defiance and pretty face. That would have been much more romantic than being executed amid an overdramatic orchestra and its strict-to-the-point-of-shooting-jurors famous composer, though maybe less interesting. One of the students is shot dead as they try to throw a chair down, and another is broken and crying, huddled in a corner. Yes, Maya, surmises, the death-in-arms would be preferable to this.

    But then amid approaching shouting and popping noises from outside, the jurors begin to retreat, and then even flee, and after the sounds of a quick scuffle and some bloodcurdling screams, there is not much more than silence. A few moments later, Maya has to jump when a trousered workman in suspenders, carrying a revolver in one hand and a stick of dynamite in the other, barges in. He tips his turban to the huddling students and the composer, and remarks simply that the conservatory's safe and that the boss is coming by, with no further explanation. There's nothing more for a few minutes, and then a huge man with a well-trimmed beard, as wide as he is tall (and he is tall), walks slowly into the conservatory flanked by muscular guards, wearing a high priest's turban but the same workman's suspenders and trousers. He slaps his suspenders up against his chest, and chuckles in a register so low it impresses even the orchestral students.

    They know who he is. All know who he is. He is the ruler of the eastern bank, the Padishah of paupers, the prince of poverty, the grand old round hound of the Dhago Fields. Mogul of machine parts, the man with a plan, the priest who loves to feast, the glutton for the good.



    Personal banner of Tata Targon, now undisputed Exarch of the entire Eastern Bank​

    Exarch Targon, who all know only as Tata, the doting father of the subjects who he calls his charming children. The savior of the eastern exarchates, who has swept aside the old and promises a 'lamb and roll of bread' to every 'god-blessed toiler of this toiling world'. Who even now marches for the bridges. Already, he announces, they have been broken: Kardon Hadi, that leg-starved lunatic, has broken through with nothing more than mobs, cannons, an armored and carriage, and the help of some artisan friar named Dorion who has to be the angriest cabinet-maker he has ever seen.

    Tata Targon is of course pleased to have saved an elder of the Sanhedron, not to mention such a wonderful composter. And they'd better not forget it, he tells them with a wink, as he puffs on a cigar and walks northwest at the back of a column growing up to fifteen-thousand. With them comes the artillery of Kannakerib Hill, fallen thanks to the efforts of both underminers and the stupidity of the starshy of the fort, who charged out for glory rather than holding his secure position.

    His aim is simple: chase the dogs and their western mutts right outside of the city, and purify Nachivan of evil. All in a day's work, for the greatest exarch in the history of Nachivan.

    God, he says to no one in particular, but does he love this city.

    Break the Bridge of Evil

    [X] Charge Mushad Bridge [Pale Horse will be supporting this action].
    53 Sectpower

    The Pale Horse is a people as much as it is a standard. As with any truly ancient standard, it is the product of centuries, an artifact of a different age carried forward to the present by the careful preservation of its practicioners of faith, who maintain the cult for time immemorial. Those few officers and men of the standard in Nachivan, gathered together under Sarbadgar, thus hold a bond primeval. Theirs is the cultivation of a special fear, not the fear of the reaper, but the fear of true and honest justice. The pale horseman rides carrying a scale: his coming is the death of tyrants. God is his shield and his sword, and he feasts on even the marrow of the wicked, leaving nothing of their cursed blood.

    With their faces now covered in the skull facepaint of the standard, Sarbadgar, also painted, leads them with a gesture of his sabre to the final victory against the fools who have dared incite their own arrival. His men carry with them a chiming spear of hanging skulls, gilded with past komandirs, and rifles from his stockpile of single-shot bolt actions, prepared for modern war. With him is Galavani Chana, vanquisher of Vikrag and standard-bearer of HaKhofshim, and the column reciting a poem composed by an Ashareian student trapped with HaKhofshim, exiled with them to Kutan, and now as much a disciple as any other, in her home away from home. As the cannons are moved into position, as the bulletspitters are prepared, they sing.

    Awake, the sky is reddening.

    According to Abgar Ben Hadam's proposal, alongside the modifications of Sarbadgar, they bring forward a considerable number of artillery guns, rolled out from Vikrag, prepared and aimed at the toppled carriages and sandbag fort at the northern tip of Mushad.

    With flowers of war,
    with the trumpets of fire

    The bulletspitter positioned on the bridge is targeted first, by both sharpshooters and artillery, and as it explodes, the signal is given for the men and women of HaKhofshim to charge. Not to die, Sarbadgar declares, but to live! Not to throw yourselves against bullets, but to cut down those who dare unleash them! He who is the bringer of death is loved for he does not waste his men in senseless charges, but instead preserves them for the best attack. Chana, on the other hand, has been prepared to die for weeks, and does not hesitate as she sings more lines of that sacred verse:

    Be merry, you righteous:
    we know that it is true,
    that we must perish.

    The Jurors respond with massed fire and with retreat to a deeper position, having cleverly blanketed the bridge in stages of fortification. Members of the faithful drop. Disciples die. Nuns of the Eucharist scream as they are cut down. But the Jurors cannot resist the irresistible, and as the first line of fortifications fall, and the Pale Horse Standard's marauders break through, riding on their horses or marching through on foot, the melee that this all descends to cannot help but be against them.

    Exert yourself,
    give yourself over to war,
    Grand Mouflon, Pasan Ghadi,
    the Jurors have come out of their hiding!

    They are not alone. In Fort Karnak, a dramatic explosion, fire rising up, debris raining down. Someone has tunneled underneath the fort's arsenal, and blown it to the sky. The Jurors there, who could be raining cannon-shot upon the attack, are distracted. From the south, an acapella choir screeches sounds of war. A banner flies from the first line of the southern fortifications of Sword-Altar, then from the second. A flash of scarlet hair, and orders yelled out in the language of the Mare, and the rupturing explosion of bombs thrown up against barricade walls. On the north side, slicing, punching, bruising, stabbing, the column pushes on. Sandwiched in, the Jurors of Sword-Altar have no choice. There will be no relief. Below them, on the river, the horn of the ship Sakarog comes like an angel of their judgment emerging from the underworld.

    Starshy Orgayan lights his last tobacco leaf and burns it onto the Sword-Altar Standard. Immolation. But as he does so, Sarbadgar breaks through the defenses, tramples Orgayan below the hoofbeats of his great destrier, and grips the flaming standard in his hand. Even as Jurors try to reach up to grab it from him, other members of the Pale Horse leap forward to support, killing all those who dare come near with deadly skill. Snipers from the south target Starshy officers of Sword-Altar, and they drop like flies against the combined assault. Sarbadgar, stabbed in the leg, takes the standard and thrusts it, flaming, to the water. The remaining Jurors watch in despair as their hope for martyrdom plummets, to be washed away. Some jump after it, gripped by desperate insanity. Others fall to the ground, and surrender.

    The battle for Mushad Bridge is over.

    Meeting on the Bridge

    A new sect-banner flutters, carried forward by a young unshaven boy no older than eighteen. Beside him a tall young woman with brilliant hair like burnished copper tied behind a makeshift scarf, a foreigner who looks as though he is very much trying to fit in, and a short and middle-aged bald artisan monk of the radical Iconoclastic sect of Makabam. With cockades on their hearts, they wear the same symbol as their banner: the six-star and the six holy knots of God by whose untying is man brought ever closer to the state of creation. Behind the emissaries are trained streetfighters of the idol-smashing men and women of Old Nach, near all of them low priests, and all of them whispering prayers to themselves and thanking God in unison for victory.


    The Six-Star and the six-knot of Makabam
    ​
    The woman introduces herself as Esterkezy Oshana, scrutinizing Sarbadgar and winking at Chana, who is absolutely unsure how to take the kindly gesture, so she merely does an angelform pose and Oshana quirks a brow. The bald man bows and says that he is the elected cantor of the sect of Makabam, Tokarati Fordo. The third man, clearly a foreigner, mustering some poor attempt at a Nach accent, says in a sneezing tongue that he is Hari Rashman, and he is here on a special mission. Sarbadgar frowns at the man who is clearly from the Mare, but accepts them all in turn. He asks about the explosion in Karnak, but Oshana admits it is not them, but instead -

    Music introduces the true perpetrators. Approaching from the rubble-made streets near Fort Karnak, they announce themselves accordions, harmonicas, war klezmer and the fiddles of errant students who skipped their classes for the sake of radicalism. Beside them, a smaller core of hardened timekeepers, all of them wearing black headbands across their faces, the center of each a third eye emblazoned in white. Ohr, the largest sect of True Confession in Nachivan, has come. With them, an ominous banner: painted lights emerging from a watchful prism, the prism of knowledge by which is filtered the darkness of creation into the brilliant spectrum of the soul's output.


    The Prism of Knowledge, sigil of Ohr
    ​
    Among them is Ghadan Nasir, who cannot help but be smug even as his arm is in a sling, his huge beard as flowing and unkempt as ever. With him is Ohr's explosives expert and new gabbi, Eghuli Baharan, who by way of certain tunnels and certain caches of explosives smuggled in from connections in mines well beyond the city granted an ironic punishment to the Jurors who dared take the life of their beloved and deceased former Gabbi on the night of 14th Tislev.

    All at this meeting come from vastly different walks of life, and yet all are now united in their singular mission to save the city. Sarbadgar informs the southern sects of the situation, and they advise him in turn of their own, that they have managed to fight back the Juror attack, seize Doshan Castle, undermine Karnak, and destroy its arsenal The fort remains untaken, but it will no longer pose a great hazard as its garrison fights the flames, and even now the Sakarog bombards its walls, drawing fire away to the river.

    Sarbadgar asks for the aid of the southern sects to defend the Navel, and they grant it. Chana declares bluntly to them that they are now all allies in the fight to save the world to come, and in their own fashion, Oshana and Nasir suppose that they agree, Oshana amused at the straightforward Pugilist and Nasir vaguely annoyed he was not the one to announce this alliance. As the high sun begins to crest into the early afternoon, Oshana proposes that the four might take a vow: That they not let the sacrifices of all who have come before, all who have fallen before, for a better world, be for naught, but that they take this opportunity now, to further the cause of universal freedom.

    Sarbadgar agrees, and takes blood from his still cut leg, rubs it on his hand, and offers to shake upon an oath of crimson that delights Oshana and Baharan, makes Nasir somewhat dizzy, and to which Chana and Fordo neutrally assent. All shake on it, and Nasir declares, to the cheers of the crowd gathered:

    Forward, all, to the spiral's root, to the world's rebirth, and to the coming eschaton!

    The Punishment of Hope

    [X] Support the Hendar Uprising.
    33 Sectpower

    [X] Fortify and hold the Central Navel [Kedesh & Melecha will be supporting this action].
    53 Sectpower

    [X] Fortify and hold the Western Navel [Ma'on will be supporting this action]
    50 Sectpower + 39 from Barricades Vote last turn

    The juries of Sufgar are standards that date back to the time of founding of Vaspukaran. Backbone of what was once called the Fossil Antique Banner, they are the most venerable defenders of the old, and the orthodoxy that refuses to yield before all sense and reason. In Sufgar, they are the breakers of strikes, the despoilers of possibility. They are the mailed fist of the Great Synod, eternally loyal and unbreakably obstinate. For years, they have watched the march of degeneration of the country not with horror but with relish, believing all the more that in time they could seize ever greater power from its rotting corpse. In Sufgar, they held down penitents, held down toilers, held down witches. Defined by their resentments, they despise the flock of mouflons who they see as having grown unruly, and the orders who have expanded to believe themselves important, and the low priests who think themselves anything more than the servants of the high.

    So theirs is an eager role in this conspiracy, and their arrival the end of mercy. Whatever reverence Sword-Altar held for the institutions of the city, even for the physical buildings of the city, Opabinia, Gore-Mastodon, and Jaekelopterus have none. Their komandirs, the wealthy Gharan, the cruel Verto, and the stuffy Sheranam, come with the accumulated jealousy of Harasdad for its usurpation so many years past, its replacement as capital by Nachivan.

    The first targets of their ire will be the most familiar: the lightly armed and ill-prepared uprising of Hendar, that the exarchs bray to them to cut down to stop the toiler mouflons from claiming control of their own destiny and grasping the illuminating light of God for themselves. The three komandirs, joined by a hesitant Reganan of Sword-Altar, agree, and declare that they will shear the sheep. The time for mercy, the time for focus, the time for coup, has passed. Now is the time of righteous massacre.

    Their columns thunder down the major throughways of Hendar even as HaKhofshim's volunteers stream northeast to try and save the uprising at the beseeching of Bukak. Bukak himself leads them, and they are in the midst of building barricades when Opabinia deploys its artillery. Unlike Sword-Altar, these are not small field-guns to break through civilian walls: Opabinia has brought the earth-splitting cannons that can break down fortress walls, and is aiming it at neighborhoods.

    Whistling, they rain down, again, and again, and again. Toiler's committees and study circles formed in the morning elation are broken up as shells break down buildings and fell apartments. Hundreds stream out of the dense center onto the throughways, only to find either fighting as Bukak's Ravs try and hold open corridors to escape or the waiting bayonets and firing lines of Opabinia. Those without arms are not spared. Those captured are made to confess under torture the ringleaders of the revolt: when they point out other random prisoners simply for the sake of making it all stop Opabinia's starshy officers shoot the pointed and ask the pointer to name another.

    Bukak's is a desperate and heroic defense, but it cannot stop the depth of the attack. The standards seek to breed terror and set an example, and Hendar is the most obvious of targets. The throughways in the Exarchates are intentionally wider, and the buildings in between so fragile that they fall easily from siege-gun fire. They are designed with the strangling of uprising in mind, slicing each section into small portions easily managed and bombarded, and those attempting to flee branded as clear dissidents and heretics to be justly cleansed. Hendar's mouflons, who are some of the oldest communities of workers in the city, many of them native-born and a truly settled laboring class of Nachivan, are made to suffer the supreme punishment of the hopeful. The only consolation is that enough of the leaders of the uprising and some of the workers manage to escape to the city by the river-streets with Bukak's redoubtable effort to defend them, and thus stream into the Eastern Navel, where the trousiers of Tata Targon take positions.

    The Wall of God

    The massacres in Hendar do not cause the flagging of popular morale: Instead they invigorate it, as inflamed and enraged trousiers from the eastern bank merge with Iconoclasts and Confessors streaming from the south and the remnants of Hendar and the Ravs of Labour. Bukak vows that he will 'break their skulls in with my own god-damned hammer', and the Sanhedron passes a resolution demanding that the Patriarch excommunicate the 'hellhounds of Hendar'. But when a representative attempts to see the Patriarch in his chamber, the Noyan brusquely pushes him aside, and says the Patriarch is not yet prepared to meet with his Sanhedron.

    Even with the continued cloister of the holy ghost, the final defense is prepared. The offensive starts in the same way as it did in Hendar: simultaneous attacks down the throughways, but now with less artillery fire in acknowledgement they cannot totally level the Navel as they did an exarchate. But here the Jurors of Sufgar find themselves not facing a lightly armed uprising but an omnifarious amalgamation of every armed faction in the city, thousands upon thousands strong, with time to fortify and time to mobilize half the population of the city. On every front they are stymied not just by sects but by soul-militias of the metropolites of Nachivan: the Sasan Silver-Slicers of the Bazarr, the Krink Street Killers, the Godan Avenue Rippers, all of them with access to the arsenals of both the Heavenly Mount and Vikrag.

    Advances down the Eastern Navel's avenues are blocked by Tata Targon, who spits out to the trousiers that there shall be not one step back in this holy city yielded to the western mutts. In the center, Guru Wendam, called by those he leads as Wendam the Wall, holds the center along Baba Tanda the Terror, as columns of the interlopers funnel themselves into the killing fields of cannons and bulletspitters prepared for ambush in the alleyways, and ambushes led by the most trained sect-fighters. The Muvad Mekdash is abandoned, but at Septuagant Square Melecha holds the line, and their now revealed cantor Burakana Qolop, daylighting as a librarian, concentrates fire down the avenues with such ferocity that he declares 'they fall before my arms like wheat before a sickle'. Kardon Hadi, still from his stretcher, issues commands to barricades, and for every layer broken by artillery, another is erected.

    Bayonet charges are repelled and thrust back. Firebombs taken from chemical factories are tossed down. Spotters on the Heavenly Mount feed information to scouts about the movements of the enemy, now able to see new columns forming and regrouping from leagues away.

    Guru Wendam, shouting from a barricade in the center, shouts down what many are thinking, as the Central Navel so decisively holds against the storm: Behold the Wall of God, that denies you beasts a path to heaven!

    The Fight for Creation

    In the Western Navel, however, the situation is more difficult. Cutting off Little Eykshir from the west, columns use the open space of the Park of the Pillars to flank barricades and push southeast, ever closer to the House of Creation. Ma'on puts up a stiff and ferocious defense, and the Guru Bluff himself appears, using his grappling technique to snap the neck of a Juror who came far too close, but the concentration of Juror force, and the lack of hesitation of Jaekelopterus and Gore-Mastodon to level whole blocks, proves too much to be resisted. Block by block, street by street, room by room, Ma'on and the HaKhofshim fall back in your own territory. And every block comes with it fear: fear for children, fear for the HaKhofshim Mekdash, fear for the Sanhedron. The elders can be evacuated across the bridge or to the Heavenly Mount, but what of the holy temple of the free and its disciples? The Ma'on Mekdash falls, and those fighters inside who stayed to protect it are butchered by the swords of Jaekelopterus. The Ship Sakarog bombards columns from the shore, but hesitates for fear of leveling the blocks that the Sufgar standards do not worry for.

    The Iconoclasts and Confessors provide their own support, but too many are still needed to hold back sallies from Fort Karnak. Dvorah, with some experience as a nurse, organizes much of the retrieval of the wounded for the sect, but soon the number becomes so high it is becoming difficult for the Hessenine Order to keep up. In the Sanhedron, there is growing concern as Samangan discusses further evacuation, and Massima Rachel, overtaken by emotion, yells down at him from her seat within the square inner chamber that too many have died for their sake for them not to do the same, before walking out of the chamber and going outside to take up arms. She is only talked down by Akov, a fellow Nesri, who holds the defensive line around the Sanhedron. He begs her to sit down, and advises her that their role is meaningful as well, that they dare not lose more Elders to the threat of battle. Finally, she accedes, and goes back down, pacing back and forth.

    Seeing an opportunity, the standards in the Central Navel begin shifting strength west, pushing deeper into the dense fortifications surrounding the House of Creation, closing in on which their intelligence now advises them is the Sanhedron. If they cannot immediately seize the Patriarch, then they can at least eliminate those who challenge the Synod by trespassing in its holy ground, and eject out their souls from this world to face judgment from the God that eats. Sarbadgar and his Pale Horse rush to reinforce the west, and there are rumors that the sailors have burst from Alangan and are now on their way to flank their positions in Little Eykshir, but still, the fear remains: That HaKhofshim will save the city, but will not be able to save themselves, and will perish as martyrs into history. Dvorah, meeting with Akov as he issues commands to the Scourge to reinforce a barricade that has almost fallen, shakily admits that she would rather live. The two, watching shells bearing down on the HaKhofshim Mekdash itself, with the sun setting, can only pray to God and Pasan Ghadi that it will not end like this.

    But then, from the south, an instrumental tune like glass running along the strings of a violin, and the explosion of fireworks.

    The First Alliance

    In the first age, in the first time, when men wrestled with mastodons for dominion of the earth, a copper merchant was struck by the lightning of God. Literally enlightened, he answered the challenge of the thunder-demon by gathering an army and conquering the plains of old Kokab, and in God's name glorifying his laws and his commandments. In time, his kingdom fell and his people were defeated by the hated Babarak, exiled from their homes to a place of wet soil and great forests. But in time, God sent his punishment to Babarak, and safeguarded his people from his flood. From this was born the first Melik of Usral. And in time, God gave Usral a message to uphold his word in defiance of the storm, to never surrender, to never yield their traditions. Against the Gushans they warred, to preserve themselves, and for Amalgast they fought, to secure themselves. And when seven Ravs came to them and said: Melik of Usral, will you heed the call? Usral did naught but do what it had always done, and answered faithful to the challenge of God.

    With muzzled thunder, and cannon-fire did Usral bring low the gates of Harasdad, and with the blackenblade did Usral's greatest champion, the Rav Karogen, brother of the Melik, slay the last and vile guardian who held the holy ghost hostage. Usral, the first, and Usral, the last.

    And so it was then, and so it is now.


    Banner of the Blackenblade​

    It is the eclipse of Sword-Altar, the revenge of the truest orthodoxy of them all. An army of 10,000, with hats conical and sandals and arms rifled stream in from the south, having dismounted from the railway just south of the city so as not to threaten themselves with the artillery of Fort Karnak. At their head, with a helm of a smiling lion, riding atop a war moa, the bastard Prince Sen, his eyes purple as his mother's and hair black as his father's, has come to make his mark on history. Well-feasted, well-met, and well-prepared for war, the men of Prince Sen's Black Army, partaking in the Melik's melee touranment were ordered to go forth and conquer so soon as news from Nachivan came to Ondan Usral. To the west did Prince Narem embark, to destroy the Kazach Palatine, but as for Prince Sen, his target was the city eternal. Now, after hours, they have come, and they have come to conquer evil, and to save you all.

    Shattering the landward gates of Fort Karnak with their huge Brekek guns, the Black Army storms into the depleted garrison and put them to the sword without remorse or hesitation. Thousands more stream north, trained veterans all, and storm over the barricades into the confused and panicked lines of the Sufgar Standards. Ululating screeches and firework symphonies ring out across the front, as the Sufgar Standards, so close to the House of Creation, break and retreat. Prince Sen himself, atop his war moa cuts foes down with the Blackenblade and raises the spirits of all around him. The Usrali Elder of the Sanhedron, the cousin of the Melik of Usral, prostrates himself before a dismounted Sen, and calls him heir to glory, but Sen does not accept the implied designation and points his meteor sword northwards, to destroy the infernal columns of these evil beasts.

    But even as he does so in the evening light, an even more extraordinary intervention shakes the city:

    The Patriarch is not here, and the Patriarch has issued a commandment.

    On a White Horse

    A commandment, arriving at last with mail-trains to the eastern bank of the city, and spreading as fast as it can be carried through the city with tens of thousands of copies printed and placed upon the official letterhead of the Holy Patriarch.

    My name is Amalgast, prophet of prophets: Heed my immortal words, and rise.

    Deception and deceit are the province of my enemies, but the Lord does not grant such tools to them alone.

    I live, and I live in defiance of my tormentors, in the High Jury of Kedarkan, protected by my mystery.

    My enemies have revealed themselves to me, and so I reveal myself to them, in glory and in dread splendor.

    For those who take up arms to save the Kingdom of God from the Originating Heresy, will come the fruits of an age of miracles.

    For those who take up arms against God and his Kingdom, will come only an orchard of bones.

    I invoke the Bull Obliterative, and utter the names of those enclosed for the last time.

    For those so named, you will be erased, consigned to oblivion. Your souls shall not ascend, but will instead dissipate to nothing.

    From dust, to dust, fading from a world that has forgotten you.

    For you, there will be naught but ash. For me, there will be a thousand years times a thousand more.

    I command the faithful:

    Bring down the sky, and tear to pieces these creatures who have trespassed in the home of God.
    ​
    Inside, an exhaustive list including the Sufgar Synod, much of the membership of the Great Synod, the Sword-Altar Standard and the Fossil Antique Banner, the Alanar Synod, the Ischak Synod the Kazach Palatine - in effect, all who stood with the Originators, along with the northern Exarchs of the city. It is the first invocation of the bull in hundreds of years, and its most wide-ranging ever done. With its declaration, thousands of enemies and several ancient bodies of the Patriarchate are consigned to death, destruction and damned memory at once. Even though in many cases whole institutions are named, sparing some from execution, the list remains immense.

    And with the commandment, a komandir, upon a white horse.


    The Standard of White-Gold​

    Riding at the head of a flying column, Akabar Morsi is the doom of Origination. This is his third battle of the day, hurtling as he has from Kedarkan, and the men of his standard, wearing their brilliant uniforms of white and gold, with wide and floppy hats, and with glazed eyes that see for a thousand paces, are here to kill. They do not slaughter, do not butcher, but disassemble, using expert sharpshooters and small specialized companies of artillery and infantry to break through the northern bridges of the Hanagra. Of the Exarchate thugs he thinks nothing, for they flee before his handsome visage, and those who dare take shots are wiped out by riflemen on rooftops, moving sweeping south and west with practiced ease.

    In a panic, and with it now clear the Patriarch is not here, the Sufgar standards begin to retreat from the city to the railway stations and Tzinhas Barrack, but it is not fast enough. A burning railway car loaded with gunpowder and rigged by Morsi's engineers slams straight into the waiting trains at Tzinhas: an enormous explosion blasts cars into the sky and blows open the gate of the poorly secured barrack. Jurors scrambling north from the city walls are shot by firing lines waiting at Yovan and Yataryn gate, while artillery crews left without sufficient escort are ridden down by cavalry.

    From within the Navel, as news spreads that the Patriarch is in Kedarkan, huge crowds surge forward, abandoning barricades and chasing the Jurors down, trapping them in alleyways, capturing those who drop their arms and cutting many down with work-knives and mallets as revenge for what they did to them even as Sarbadgar and Akov try to preserve some semblance of the laws of war. Sen's own forces rush north to try and beat Morsi to Tzinhas, even as the families of the Jurors Sword-Altar ttake flight and flee for the railways west of the eradicated Tzinas station Tzinhas. Exarchs and their thugs flee with them, as Jaekelopterus and Gore-Mastodon race to follow the railway line out of the city and to Warabad, where news has stopped coming after the initial declaration of support for Origination.

    Morsi does not give chase, leaving that to the sailors who try and cut the lines at Pesselpan and force the standards into an outright flight on foot west towards Sufgar. The allies of Sword-Altar abandon them even as Reganan demands that the komandirs stay, but Gharan has already been mercilessly sniped by a White-Gold sharpshooter on his way out and the others are not inclined to share his fate. Retreating as many of his units as he can to Tzinhas Barrack, Reganan tries to open terms, but Morsi replies from atop his horse he does not negotiate with corpses.

    Shaking, trembling, and knowing there is no other option, Komandir Reganan immolates the sacral standard of Sword-Altar. A standard as old as Vaspukaran dies, as Morsi orders a bombardment of the barrack, to deny even the honour of a fight to these accursed animals.

    The Grand Session

    Even as Tzinhas falls under siege and night begins to slip over the city, the Sanhedron is in frenetic activity. What felt so recently as a near-disaster has become the greatest triumph of all time, and by the intervention of both Akabar Morsi and Prince Sen the city's siege has been relieved. The possibilities erupt within the minds of all. The Patriarch is alive and well in Kedarkan, and the Noyan opens up his chambers to those demanding entry to reveal that it was empty all along. There is equal measure of relief and outrage: if the Patriarch knew about the plot, then why did he not warn his city?! But the Noyan defends the Patriarch before the Sanhedron, explaining that there were far too many within the Heavenly Mount who were suspect and could not be trusted, and the Patriarch was not entirely sure when the enemy would attack.

    On the night of Orlachag, he, Kenturah, their children, and Akabar Morsi traveled by train to Kedarkan, and by doing so were secured. His purpose was to hold the Heavenly Mount, and make it seem as though nothing was amiss: By doing so, they could trick Sword-Altar to focus all their attention on the Mount, and ignore the rest of the city. He was not prepared for the other juries, but they appear to have arrived too late to ensure the success of a coup: in any case, they were doomed from the start.

    Impressed by the Patriarch's manuevers, but also worried now for the future of the Sanhedron, the elders call a special and emergency grand session. Acting as Nasi for the Sanhedron, Samangan seeks to "make the sacrifices of all those gathered today mean something for us all." Even as fighting continues across the city, the doors of the Sanhedron are opened, and proposals fielded for a grand reform bull to put before the Patriarch that will go far farther than the original intention of the chamber.

    Immediately, the following reforms are committed by near-unanimous decree of the Sanhedron:
    • That the Sanhedrons outside Nachivan will be recognized as equal bodies to the synods of those circles
    • That the Great Synod is abolished now and forever, as is the Jury of Nachivan/Sword-Altar Standard.
    • That the Mass Jury is formalized as a unified body of holy warriors sworn to the Sanhedron.
    • That vote by chamber is ended, and the Sanhedron shall hereby vote by head.
    • That all taxation within the Kingdom of God will be comprehensively reviewed by the Sanhedron.
    • That the Sanhedron will not end in six months, but continue indefinitely.
    • That the Sanhedron will not restrict itself to financial matters.
    • That the Nasi will not step down, and will be elected to the Sanhedron on an annual basis as a speaker for the assembly.
    The Sanhedron is overwhelmed by mad emotion. Elders dare one another to abolish one thing or another, to ensure that whatever is delivered to the Patriarch is the grandest symbol of reform that they can manifest. And they have opened the doors to the outside: To you, HaKhofshim, and the other sects. Every section of the House of Creation's interior is filled with people, in the galleries, the wings. Sailors, toilers, tillers, artisans, scholars, bureaucrats, Jurors, merchants, sectarians, all together.

    Their imagination, you think, still remains closed within the contours of their elite upbringing, and for all that you are thankful, you cannot help but demand more, and you are just as gripped by the madness of victory. The battle is not yet won until committed into record are the hopes and dreams of those who perished so that this could come to pass. Can you not make manifest the hopes of ten thousand years of humanity to push forward the Spiral of Truth so near to its completion?

    And what is it that you all shout to the Sanhedron, that it must pass into its reform bull to present before the Patriarch? How will you make this worth it?

    Riot-rules apply. Choose one. The chance of this being included increases the more people vote for it, and the proportion of voters who vote for it. Difficulty tags indicate how hard it would be for this to pass the Sanhedron. It would still also need to be approved by the Patriarch afterwards.

    [] Declare a Communion of Nachivan elected from the congregation of the city! [Easy].

    Communions are a dream long unrealized especially by Iconoclasts of fully self-governing assemblies of the cities of Vaspukaran and a respect for their self-government. Metropolitans, the compromise of the second Grand Sanhedron, concentrate too much power in the hands of the high priest Pontiff-Prelate and elite low priests, forming civic cliques and denying the voices of the wider congregations.

    [] Lift all restrictions for schismatics in public life! [Easy].

    Schismatics remain blocked from advancement in the High Priesthood and restriction from many of the higher ranks of Juries. In some circles the rules are even more harsh, and in general schismatics are made to hide their status in the presence of high company. Break the restrictions on schismatics, and let the flowers of our faiths bloom again!

    [] Obliterate all Customs Walls! [Medium].

    Vaspukaran has sixty-two circles, four missions, seven autocephalates and dozens of Metropolitans, and all of these have customs walls erected between them. Although a source of revenue, these customs walls needlessly divide the country, drive up the cost of goods, and make it exceedingly difficult to trade over long distances when not trading between Juror palatines.

    [] Strip the tax privileges of the High Priesthood! [Medium].

    The High Priesthood has huge tax exemptions on almost all major forms of tithing in Vaspukaran while simultaneously claiming from the threefold tithe. By revoking their tax privileges, a major blow would be struck against their wealth, and a portion of Vaspukaran's fiscal crisis alleviated by the imposition on those who are most able to pay.

    [] Enact Free Silver, and implement a silver standard! [Medium].

    Vaspukaran labors under a bifurcated standard by which god-backed and gold dirhams exist simultaneously, the former of which is inflating rapidly and the latter of which is deflating. The silver standard will surely help resolve Vaspukaran's currency crisis by ending the division with a plentiful but stable store of value. Free silver is a free Vaspukaran!

    [] Expand the rites of witches and end their persecution! [Medium].

    Although Nachivan has long since ended many of its restrictions, the Bull Maleficent still allows many circles to restrict witches in ways outrageous and inequitable. In honour of their service to the city in this battle, the bull must be amended. This will not affect the Perusian Rite of Gushanaram and Hamayan, but will emancipate witches elsewhere from their quarters and many legal restrictions from professions.

    [] Abolish Penitence and free millions from bondage! [Hard].

    Millions upon millions of Vasparak mouflons, low priests and Jurors have been stripped of their rites and forced to be indentured servants in either the cities or the countryside, including a huge number in Sufgar itself. By ending penitence immediately, we may strike an incredible blow against the forces of iniquity, and emancipate millions with a single stroke.

    [] Expand the Folk Rite to all of Vaspukaran! [Hard].

    The folk rite secures the rite to arms for the mouflons of Vaspukaran, enshrines minyan communions as legal entities in their own right, and contains considerable protections against unjust prosecution for the mouflons of Vaspukaran. In those areas not currently under another rite (tranquil or vernacular), folk rite must be expanded, to extend the protections of the Pasan Ghadi to millions more in the Hadit valley and beyond!

    [] Abolish the Threefold Tithe! [Hard].

    The Threefold tithe is the single most outrageous tax in all Vaspukaran, taxing the mouflons for the sake of the three other chambers and by its nature reflects the subjugation of the flock. By abolishing the tithe we will force its replacement with something far more reasonable in the eyes of God, and free the whole of Vaspukaran from the tyranny of this vile thing!

    [] Abolish Oblate Serfdom! [Hard. Warning: Prepare for unforeseen consequences].

    In the south of Vaspukaran millions upon millions are in a slavery renamed as serfdom, and yet we children of Amalgast the chainbreaker do nothing. Who will stand against this false system, and at last liberate those multitudes underneath its yoke? Shall it be us, or future generations, looking back at us with disgust at our denial of this chance?
     
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  • Threadmarks
    • [] Abolish Oblate Serfdom! [Hard. Warning: Prepare for unforeseen consequences].

    Down with the coward dogs who dare keep the people of god in chains!

    No?

    C'mon, I hope you were at least a little surprised.

    [X] Enact Free Silver, and implement a silver standard! [Medium].

    THE #SILVERSWEEP WILL NEVER DIE
     
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