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The Purge
Posted: 22 Dec 2005 05:37 AM |
Not since the first appearance of the Righteous Swords during the inauguration of Vidus Khain had Midor seen such an exodus.
The Day of Light, the most holy day in the Midoran year, dawned red. The sun blazed like a bloody eye. The sky was gloomy and portentous. And red. Everything, everywhere, red.
The parade of the Dawn of the True Light was glorious. It had the whole city abuzz. The golden light that already surrounded the holy city—the visible proof that the Just Hand was at home—shone brighter than it ever had at the conclusion of that parade. The entire city crammed into the Central Temple, full of people eager to renew their vows and declare their faith.
Later that day, darkness fell. A darkness so deep that it seemed to those inside the city that the only light that existed was here, in Midor. No stars shone that night. A storm swept through the city in the afternoon. By dusk, it had cleared, but the clouds remained and smothered the stars and the moon.
And then The Purge began.
~*~
There were no Paladins in the honour guard this year. Not a single one. Twin rows of red flanked the fountain in the Central Temple district. And red was the colour the White Bishop wore when he strode out of the Temple and addressed the crowd.
“For the past week,” White Bishop Vidus Khain proclaimed without preamble, “we have meditated upon our sins. We have thought of how we have wronged others, and prepared for ourselves a list of our own inadequacies. For we are all inadequate in the eyes of Midoran.”
He looked out upon the crowd, letting none escape his piercing gaze.
“Do you relinquish your sinful ways, and all the darkness that comes with our damaged nature?”
As one, the crowd proclaimed, “We do.”
“Do you reject the temptations of our time? The heathens that foist false gods on our young? The malcontents that teach of ways that are not of the Just Hand?”
“We do.”
“Do you accept Midoran as the one and only true God, complete in power and majesty?”
“We do.”
“This is our faith, the faith of our Church and God. You have declared your intentions, you have spoken the Truth.” Vidus paused then, and deviated from the normal Mass. “As always, enemies of our people, of our pure faith, sought to destroy us. This time in the form of rebels, paladins, even! Corrupted by false teachings.”
Vidus gave a heartfelt sigh, while the crowd began to buzz with anger. “But our God returned to us, and he smote ruin upon those that betrayed him.”
At some unseen signal, the crowd grew hushed and expectant.
“My people, I tell you this, the old ways show us truth,” Vidus told the crowd in a low, earnest voice. His gaze swept intently over the crowd. “The ways of our forefathers shall again be our ways. Midoran sheaths us in holy White, but during this time, as we remember the fall of evil and the rise of Midor, we must bathe ourselves in red. For the colour of Purification is Red. The color of penance is Red. The color that washes away sin and iniquity is Red.”
His voice rose and grew in intensity, echoing majestically off the acoustically-configured walls of the Central Temple District.
“Tonight,” boomed the White Bishop of Midor, “we return to the old ways.”
Heads were beginning to turn in the crowd, towards the pile of wood that was beginning to form before the gates leading out to the Northern Avenue. A massive pile of wood, pointing up to the starless sky.
Vidus’ voice grew cold. “Bring them forward.”
A small group of people were herded through the black-clad crowd by a single Inquisitor. One was an aging, nervous man, sweating and trembling profusely: Kens Baja, a humble parchment trader who resided in the Western Districts. Another was clearly a Paladin, for he wore his white armour with pride—little more than a boy, really, he couldn’t have been older than fifteen. Then there was a sultry woman, who appeared determined not to show fear; her eyes, gleaming with unshed tears, kept searching the crowd. Her skimpy garb and garish make-up marked her as a prostitute; the ring that gleamed upon her finger marked her as a married woman, possibly a mother. And finally, there was a priest: a man of indeterminate age with a kind, open face, and smile lines around his eyes. Judging by the ripple that ran through the crowd, he was a well-known and respected man: whispers of “Surely not Father Ranji” could be heard sweeping through the congregation, like a perfectly executed game of Maldovian Whispers.
There were murmurs in the crowd. Confused murmurs, accompanied by a general sense of unease.
“Before us,” Vidus intoned, “stand the condemned. Guilty of the worst crimes in Midor.” He looked at each of them in turn; only the Paladin did not avert his gaze. “Of heresy. Of demon worship. Of treason. And,” he concluded, his gaze resting on the woman, “of preaching lies about the past.”
“As was done in the past, so it shall be done today,” he continued. “A sacrifice will be made, and the fire shall burn away our iniquity.”
The tension was so thick, you could have cut it with a butter knife.
“Bow your head in prayer,” the White Bishop commanded.
“How can you let him do this?” The Paladin demanded, his angry glare sweeping across the black-clad crowd. “How can you let him do this and live with yourselves? You call yourselves—”
“Oh Midoran, you are the God of Justice and Mercy. Tonight we also remember your discipline...” Vidus’ voice, calm and serene, played counterpoint to the Paladin’s indignant rage.
“You will be SILENT.” The Inquisitor who had brought the group forward slashed at the boy’s face with a dagger.
He did not flinch from the blow. Glaring at her defiantly, he spat squarely into her face.
One of the nearby Mystics stirred and uttered an arcane chant beneath her breath. Her voice, crackling with magical power, haunted and unearthly, rose in intensity. She made a motion with her hands, as if casting a net. The Paladin froze on the spot, paralysed.
“May this sacrifice Purge our sins,” Vidus continued calmly, as if oblivious to the display. “We wash ourselves in red, so that we may shine, white and pure, in your service.”
He began to cite the thirty-second Psalm from the Book of Midoran. “I shall walk close to you, my Lord, and be ever vigilant. Justice shall be your right hand, and in it a sword of Fire. Come and burn away our iniquity, and clease us of our sin, for we are unworthy in your presence.”
The city blazed with an all-pervading light. It was like standing on the inside of a giant lantern. Over and over again, the White Bishop chanted the Psalm, leading the crowd in prayer. Their voices echoed off the walls, thousands of voices as one voice.
And there was a feeling. A feeling of being watched, as if the sky were nothing more than the gigantic, black eye of a god, staring down straight into the hearts and minds and souls of those present. And there was no hiding from it, for the light was everywhere, in very corner, and even the shadows shone like dim gold.
If there had been any doubt—any doubt whatsoever that this was what Midoran wanted, that it was his will that this should happen—it ended in that one, blinding moment. Right there, right then, it was clear that Midoran was watching. And that the procedures had his full approval.
The chanting died down.
Very calmly, Vidus told the Inquisitor, “Put them in.”
She herded the four onto the wood pile without question. Her face was hidden by her mask, but her swagger said it all: she wasn’t just taking pride in her job. She was enjoying this.
Stepping well back from the wood pile, the Inquisitor said in reverent tones, “Midoran’s Will Be Done.”
Vidus began once more to chant the Psalm, his expression impassive, his unblinking eyes gleaming with cold passion and... something else. His voice rose again in volume, although this time, he said the Psalm alone. There was a sound, a low rumble, that seemed to come from everywhere at once. For several long moments, the city grew dim.
And then there was light.
A terrible, golden light, descending from the heavens, aimed straight at the heart of the funeral pyre. It exploded spectacularly upon impact, the searing heat of it causing the crowd to gasp and recoil in awe and terror and pain. The wood pile, of course, caught fire at once. It went up in a magnificent blaze, the roar of the fire accompanied by terrible shrieks as the four accused were roasted alive.
In the shocked silence that followed, one man said one word, very quietly. And the word, though softly spoken, drifted out across the square for all the crowd to hear. In the days to come, some wondered whether it was not the White Bishop who spoke it, but Midoran himself, speaking through the man who was unquestioningly believed to be his hand, his heart, and his voice.
“Beautiful,” murmured Vidus. |
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Fear
Posted: 22 Dec 2005 05:52 AM |
People are fleeing Midor like rats scurrying from a sinking ship.
Shops stand empty. Some have been abandoned by their owners, who have gone to seek their fortunes elsewhere. Others stand ransacked, their owners having quietly and mysteriously vanished.
Not since the Righteous Swords made their first appearance have so many people fled the White City.
Unbelievers in the city feel uneasy—more so than usual. Any who do not worship Midoran feel as though they are being watched, by some unseen eye that stares straight into the secret depths of their soul. Visitors to the city keep a low profile, or stay for as short a time as possible. Some stop going to Midor at all.
There is fear in the city.
Fear of being considered imperfect. Fear of doing the slightest wrong. Fear of losing one’s life over something as simple as not worshipping the great and terrible god of light.
Tension between the Righteous Swords and the Paladins is growing. Never in the history of Midor have the Paladin Order been exempt from performing the duty of honour guard during The Purge. It’s clear where Midoran’s favour lies. It’s clear whom he trusts to perform his divine will.
The sign outside the city gates sums it up, really:
Lawbreakers Beware |
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