29-11-2003, 20:51
The thick black smoke hung, as ever, over the dire land of Angagor. Gor, the capital, was as depressing and disgusting a place as could be imagined; true, there was no crime (thanks to the Guard brutality), but the city made up for this lack in other ways - such as thick smoke that clogged your lungs and made you feel light-headed, and dizzy; the Guard, who were as likely to smile and nod as they were to draw their swords and hack you in half; and of course, last, but not least... the locals. Dour-faced, depressed, and often stooped and thin, they were a depressing and - to some - disgusting sight, even more so than the city and the nation itself.
Today, the population was upbeat. Well - as upbeat as could be hoped for, at any rate.
The foreigners - the Outsiders - were lined up at the edge of the Istima Keep grounds, in full view of the population.
Shektar himself is not visible, but he is audible; his voice booms, carrying easily - and without amplification - for miles around.
Foreigners, the booming voice was stating softly, are welcome in Angagor, so long as they observe our Great Laws. Yet these fools felt that they were of calibre high enough to consider entering the Istima Keep; they were caught loitering near the wall which shall shortly become their home.
What verdict do I give?
Guilty! Let them recieve the only punishment that we have for all crime but treason (which, of course, they cannot be accused of under the Great Law): let their bodies burn and be consumed with The Fire That Cannot Be Seen; let their screams be a testimony to those that would defy Our Will; and when their broken shells finally shed their souls, let them remain on view, for all to witness.
As Shektar speaks, the thirty men - they are all men - are hauled up onto the wall. Stakes are driven through their shoulders - the screams are dull echoes in comparison to the booming voice of the Dominar Shektar - and blood oozes down the oft-stained Keep Wall.
And when Shektar's voice fades...
The screams are blood-curdling; rasping, forceful screams that seem to issue from the very bowels of hell itself.
Nothing visible is happening to the men; they merely writhe, bloodied shoulders tearing somewhat as they do so - but they are well secured, and do not fall - and quake as the agony of fire rends their bodies without touching or harming them physically. Their sanity vanishes within seconds of the onslaught, in truth, and they gnash their teeth and howl and cry and scream - all but one.
The man at the end of the line - in no less pain than the rest, and screaming no less than the rest - is nontheless quite sane. Howling, disconcertingly, he screams the words
"HELP ME! FOR GOODNESS SAKES, HELP ME! ANYONE-"
The mantra repeats, over and over, fading first into a moaning cry, a pitiful, hopeless plea for help; and finally into a rasping sound that issues forth from between cracked, bloody and broken lips.
And so their agony continued - and continue it would, for the next few days. And in the end, they would not die of pain, and nor would they be killed by the torture; no. No, they would die of dehydration; and in their minds - although their screams would long since die away as their vocal abilities vanished under the onslaught of their pain - they would scream until the very last beat of their heart.
But for now, the crowds merely watch, transfixed, terrified - unable to tear their eyes away from the disturbing scene, at first. Slowly, however - very slowly - the crowds diminish; and when the men die, it will be alone; except for their partners-in-crime - who, admittedly, are not the best company due to circumstances beyond their control.
[OOC: Anyone who wishes to may claim to have citizens amongst these... living dead.]
Today, the population was upbeat. Well - as upbeat as could be hoped for, at any rate.
The foreigners - the Outsiders - were lined up at the edge of the Istima Keep grounds, in full view of the population.
Shektar himself is not visible, but he is audible; his voice booms, carrying easily - and without amplification - for miles around.
Foreigners, the booming voice was stating softly, are welcome in Angagor, so long as they observe our Great Laws. Yet these fools felt that they were of calibre high enough to consider entering the Istima Keep; they were caught loitering near the wall which shall shortly become their home.
What verdict do I give?
Guilty! Let them recieve the only punishment that we have for all crime but treason (which, of course, they cannot be accused of under the Great Law): let their bodies burn and be consumed with The Fire That Cannot Be Seen; let their screams be a testimony to those that would defy Our Will; and when their broken shells finally shed their souls, let them remain on view, for all to witness.
As Shektar speaks, the thirty men - they are all men - are hauled up onto the wall. Stakes are driven through their shoulders - the screams are dull echoes in comparison to the booming voice of the Dominar Shektar - and blood oozes down the oft-stained Keep Wall.
And when Shektar's voice fades...
The screams are blood-curdling; rasping, forceful screams that seem to issue from the very bowels of hell itself.
Nothing visible is happening to the men; they merely writhe, bloodied shoulders tearing somewhat as they do so - but they are well secured, and do not fall - and quake as the agony of fire rends their bodies without touching or harming them physically. Their sanity vanishes within seconds of the onslaught, in truth, and they gnash their teeth and howl and cry and scream - all but one.
The man at the end of the line - in no less pain than the rest, and screaming no less than the rest - is nontheless quite sane. Howling, disconcertingly, he screams the words
"HELP ME! FOR GOODNESS SAKES, HELP ME! ANYONE-"
The mantra repeats, over and over, fading first into a moaning cry, a pitiful, hopeless plea for help; and finally into a rasping sound that issues forth from between cracked, bloody and broken lips.
And so their agony continued - and continue it would, for the next few days. And in the end, they would not die of pain, and nor would they be killed by the torture; no. No, they would die of dehydration; and in their minds - although their screams would long since die away as their vocal abilities vanished under the onslaught of their pain - they would scream until the very last beat of their heart.
But for now, the crowds merely watch, transfixed, terrified - unable to tear their eyes away from the disturbing scene, at first. Slowly, however - very slowly - the crowds diminish; and when the men die, it will be alone; except for their partners-in-crime - who, admittedly, are not the best company due to circumstances beyond their control.
[OOC: Anyone who wishes to may claim to have citizens amongst these... living dead.]