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Sworn to the Scythe: A Peasant Quest

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Rakuhn said:
He may have just inflicted us with leprosy with that kiss as well. He has forgotten the first rule of getting people to do what you want. Provide a carrot and a stick, and don't make them believe that you are only ever going to make things worse for them.
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Leprosy is far less contagious than that. You can only contract it from a carrier's respiratory droplets and the vast majority of the human population is immune to it.
 
[X] Don't say where she is. [Halacha will escape and you may well see her again, but the village will be placed under a heavy tax. You and your family may suffer, and some families may be forced to surrender their plots and leave, further emptying the village.]
 
[X] Don't say where she is. [Halacha will escape and you may well see her again, but the village will be placed under a heavy tax. You and your family may suffer, and some families may be forced to surrender their plots and leave, further emptying the village.]

"And on that day, the great wise Mukhan did reprimand his followers for their boistrous folly. For on that great stone in the fields of Aruman did he speak, and his booming voice doth uttered the words of wisdom: "Snitches doth receive Stitches!" And lo! 'twas so!"
 
You know what? Screw it. If the village comes to hate us for our decision, then we'll learn to rise above them.
[X] Don't say where she is
 
[X] Admit where Halacha is. [The Maranine is caught and brought before the deacon. You may never see her again, but the village is spared a heavy double-tax.]
 
[X] Admit where Halacha is. [The Maranine is caught and brought before the deacon. You may never see her again, but the village is spared a heavy double-tax.]
 
[X] Admit where Halacha is. [The Maranine is caught and brought before the deacon. You may never see her again, but the village is spared a heavy double-tax.]
 
[X] Don't say where she is

Man, all these options suck.

Ah well, honestly I want to see where this leads, but also I'm not entirely sure that this guy really knows that we know? It might be a bluff, in which case, we might be punished if we do reveal ourselves regardless.

So stick to our chops! No slave-mentality!
 
[X] Don't say where she is. [Halacha will escape and you may well see her again, but the village will be placed under a heavy tax. You and your family may suffer, and some families may be forced to surrender their plots and leave, further emptying the village.]
 
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Supplement: Awakening of the Pusi Nation
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    • SUPPLEMENT: AWAKENING OF THE PUSI NATION
    ​
    Published by famed Pusi agitator Raga Nosanti as a pamphlet, the awakening of the Pusi Nation was written immediately following the coronation of Amalgast the 40th as a rebuke to those in the Pusi community who he thought was collaborating with the authorities. Pusi writing is notoriously known for being as much about the emotions of the page as the content, something that they perhaps share with the Honguls. Raga makes mention of his excitement and his feeling, a distinct rebuke to the rationalism of the Patriarchate. He has spent several stints in prison, most notably for tying himself to the printing press of a popular Pusi printing press as he felt it was giving in to assimilation and centuries of national humiliation. Although "Awakening" is ironically widely available outside of Jurist lands, where it is popular with the civic clergy and merchants, it is vigorously suppressed within Jurist lands, the only place where the Pusi can actually live.

    Nosanti is attracting a vocal minority of Pusi who are against any compromise, with one demand and one demand only; allow them to go back to their ancestral homeland.     ​

    ate is a strong word, but it is the word that I must use to describe my feelings for the Vasp. The most vile beings imaginable, they have no sense, aesthetic or otherwise. Their lives are in service to the state which they serve with the most slavish devotion, for a cause they do not know. Their system is a great evil that we have been forced to endure, for time immemorial. There was a time when, though, when the Pusi were free, and let us not forget that time. Today, too many are abandoning ancient traditions because of the empty promises of a Patriarch who is simply the longest in a line of hateful liars. Let us not forget what Mukhtarad, the wicked, the disgusting, the gluttonous, the fat, the corpulent, long may he rot, long may his bones be ground up by the spirits of the ground, long may he be crushed into paste and fed until the end of time to those which we have lost, did. He expelled us from the place we had always lived in, to wallow among Jurists and other filth, never even allowed to touch the "real" cities, toiling as workers for this decadent martial caste.

    What I am discussing here is not revolution, and indeed revolution is not in the nature of the Pusi. Nugal Pusra has always been a peaceful people, we have always embraced everyone as our brother, or we did, before it was all taken away from us. Imagine if you would a time when the land flowed with every good imaginable, when the moas were fat, when the river that was our lifeblood, overflowing with the wealth of the waters, that great river, oh mighty river, long may you flow. That is the land that I seek to recount to you here, but not its life, but its death, because soon will come our time of mourning. We will sit around the bucket of holy water, we will listen to the serenade of our singers, we will weep for the land that was once ours, but no longer.

    Nugal Pusra in those days was not a land of kings, but of Issaks, the stewards, who guarded over the river and its tolls. I will tell you that these Issaks, they did not think to abuse their authority, but ruled justly, even if the land was cruel and would not allow us rest in enlightenment. My quill quivers just to record this, shaking as the ink drips onto the page. How could this have happened? How could we have allowed this to happen? Disaster, calamity, destruction. Eight hundred years of exile. I will tell you, I will tell you.

    In those days our capital was Eykshir, but not the false Eykshir of today, built on top of the old canals. It was a beautiful city, dancing across the waters of the Hadit, supported by a rock of granite deposited by the prophet Gusan. Gusan had told us what we needed to do, so we built, and we built, and we awaited enlightenment. Gusan died, and imparted us wisdom for our own enlightenment, but then the day came for judgment and we were not worthy, so the land shriveled. It was not until our women, proud, with painted heads, brash, ready to fight, smashed the heart of the river, and made it give life again, and thus we were able to live in the delta of the Kumalkasam. That is what the name of the river is! Do you know what a man in the market of Ramayan once told me? He told me that the river was called the Hadit. And he called himself a Pusi! But he is not, and it is not called that. It is the Kumalkasam, whatever they might say. They force our children to their schools, force them to get sick and die for their God, for their heavenly bird, for their patriarch.

    But we must dissent. We must dissent. There is no other option. Look at the Grand Mare, how it has turned its people into clockwork soldiers for its schemes of worldwide subjugation. Look to Ginnugarap, whose people have turned against their kings, and slaughtered them in their palaces, and cut the tree that was the source of their power. We have no such option. We are scattered, we are scattered. I would wish we not be scattered, but it is so, and it is how I write it. Do you know what happened when we were scattered? We lost everything. They sacked Eyskhir. The Issaks were not enough to hold the gates, the ancestral seals were not enough to hold the gates, the waters of the Hadit flooding over their army was not enough. They came, and they saw, and they conquered us, and they laid us low, and they laid us low! They broke our women, and they shattered our statues, and although they did not burn our books, they took them all away, all to their archives, all to be locked for now and forever. They could have done the courtesy of burning them, but now we shall always live knowing that the enemy knows more about our past than do we.

    But I see signs of weakness in this state. It is old, very old. Eight hundred years and it creaks, and it creaks, and it heaves. Rebellions are breaking out more frequently, people are beginning to talk. The new Patriarch thinks himself capable of turning it all around again, of building it anew, but they cannot, anymore than the Hokonos can cease its relentless hunting. And just like the Hokonos, who befriends our children when it is simply a little fish, and nibbles on their toes, the Patriarch will soon show his true nature. He will grow an armored head, and he will grow great fins, and he will grow sharp teeth, and the temperament of a terror bird, and he will kill us, he will slaughter us, it must be so because it has always been so. You might say, why would he do this? No other Patriarch has done this, but I say he will do it not through the physical realm, but spiritually, emotionally. He will force our children to learn from the Maranines, and feed them candies so they can turn away from our traditions. Candies! Two thousand years of the pursuit of peace and oneness with the universe betrayed by sweets.

    The time has come to convene a council of the wisest sages, of the good men, of the ones who still know our traditions, of the rowers. I can barely write, I can barely write. Soon they may come for me, with their heads weighed down with boxes. They will break into my home and they will take me away, perhaps to the Cheshvans, perhaps to the Amalists, perhaps to the Kazakars, but like all detritus, like all who rebel, they will throw me out of my home, just as they have thrown us all out. Listen to me well, for I will not repeat this a second time.

    What we are facing is not another challenge for the Pusi, scattered as we are, to simply accept with gusto. In the past, the Patriarchs were foolish. They sought to break us by breaking our bones, but we all know that we return to the river when we die. They sought to break our spirit, but even if they fire us from a cannon as ashes, the rain will wash us away, into the river. They sought to break our will, but the Pusi have survived many challenges. When Babarak came for us, we were ready, and we threw them back. When the Gushans came for us, we threw them back. When the lords of the Rambam River Valley came for us, we threw them back. The river changed course, and it abandoned us, and we lost our ways, and our enlightened nature was turned to whimpering in the shadow of an awakened God, but our time will come again. A thousand enemies we have faced. This one is different, but each one had their own unique strengths, that we overcame. The Babaraki were cruel, the Gushans were swift, the lords of Rambam were cunning. And now? Now we face an enemy so numerous as to blot out the sun, locusts preying on the produce of the earth.

    I mentioned earlier that it is not our way to foment revolution. It is not our way to rebel. It is not our way to attack the enemy with violence. What do we have? We have will. They can take away our will, but only if we let them. Only if we let them, will we be destroyed. I ask every man, woman, and child, to conduct a campaign of blasphemy, as they call it. I do not want to commit High Blasphemy, because we must keep our traditions, and not harm the enemy physically, for so many of them, like little ants, do not know what they do. What we will do instead, is to disobey. We will dissent.

    And we will win. We will win, and they will allow us to come back home. They will break the Tablet of the Pale, and I will be there, I want to be there, please let me be there, when the Patriarch shatters it, and allows us home. I want remorse on his face. I want him to feel for what he has done for us, what his ancestors have done to us, to our ancestors. I want him to know, every day, in every hour, that he has defiled us, that he has wronged us. I want him to say it, I want him to look at me, and look at all of you, and to say, I have wronged you, Pusi, and I will return you to Nugal Pusra. Not to any other place. Do not forget your homeland, that they deny you. Never forget it, never let it out of your heart.

    They never even let my mother taste the waters. She was a sick, old woman and they never even let her even imagine the river. She cried herself to death, and they did not even mention her in their newspapers. She wanted to fulfill a wish she had held her whole life, and they did not even spare her a thought.

    That is why I hate them. It gives me strength, her memory, and the memory of my ancestors. And if we would only remember our history, it will give us all strength. The strength to disobey. The strength to win.

    (vote is still on, but I felt like writing something today)
     
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    • [X] Don't say where she is. [Halacha will escape and you may well see her again, but the village will be placed under a heavy tax. You and your family may suffer, and some families may be forced to surrender their plots and leave, further emptying the village.]

    Slave Mentality! Just say no!
     
    [X] Don't say where she is. [Halacha will escape and you may well see her again, but the village will be placed under a heavy tax. You and your family may suffer, and some families may be forced to surrender their plots and leave, further emptying the village.]
     
    [jk] "You fool! You tyrranical imbecile! Torture us if you like, but I'll never reveal her hiding place under the trap door in the shed! NEVE- oh fudge I messed up!"
     
    Cetashwayo said:
    "You have been…silent…for the past minute. Do you have…anything to add…or is…Mukhan…your final answer?" The deacon rasps slowly from the wagon.
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    Who Wants To Be A Millionaire Peasant?

    [X] Don't say where she is. [Halacha will escape and you may well see her again, but the village will be placed under a heavy tax. You and your family may suffer, and some families may be forced to surrender their plots and leave, further emptying the village.]
     
    [X] Don't say where she is. [Halacha will escape and you may well see her again, but the village will be placed under a heavy tax. You and your family may suffer, and some families may be forced to surrender their plots and leave, further emptying the village.]
     
    [X] Admit where Halacha is. [The Maranine is caught and brought before the deacon. You may never see her again, but the village is spared a heavy double-tax.]
     
    [X] Don't say where she is. [Halacha will escape and you may well see her again, but the village will be placed under a heavy tax. You and your family may suffer, and some families may be forced to surrender their plots and leave, further emptying the village.]

    Me loyal. Me good.:turian:
     
    17-6 so far. Geez, you people are rough. Do keep in mind that even if we find a way to avoid tradition, we still have to live with those people in the village for several years to come. And now they will all blame us for the ruinous taxes.
     
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