NationStates Jolt Archive

The wind blew quietly, as the crowd gathered in the dead streets of the Ricco market. Hawkers rarely brought there trade since the rise of convenience stores and supermarkets; the competition was too strong. The old wooden stalls showed their age, and they showed it badly. The brick walls were chipped and crumbling. The ground was thick with white sand that covered the old paving, although how it came to be there was a mystery.

In a long white robe, an elderly man with grayed hair stood on the small platform. Guraga’s dry lips moved as he spoke with a booming voice, “An infidel sits in our palace. Satan’s agent.”

His tone contained a terrible darkness and a great undertone of fear. “Grey is always watching you. His presidency, an abomination.”

“To our great lord, the Holy Emperor Justinian, we pray. To the right hand of almighty God our cries of help go out. Mighty Justinian the White, Light of Heaven, hear this prayer.”

There was a general nodding in the gathered crowd, who felt oddly secure, despite the ever present threat of Moralist black-shirts deciding to have a random beating. Many waved banners with the face of Justinian, the cross and sometimes Justinian’s murdered companion Kerria.

Guraga continued, “Justinian, in the darkness you will guide us. In your light we shall shine. In your service we are humbled. In your absence we are blind.”

And the crowd repeated in a soft murmur, “Justinian, in the darkness you will guide us. In your light we shall shine. In your service we are humbled. In your absence we are blind.”

Guraga, again took turn to speak, “Justinian, rid of us of our enemies. Free us from these chains. Unite Farmina and heaven. Save us when we stray.”

Again the crowd repeated the call to Justinian.

The preacher raised his arms, “Our mighty Justinian has sacrificed so much to protect our land. The struggle cost his companion, it cost his spirit and in the end it cost him…”

Guraga’s words were cut short by a gunshot from the crowd. The preacher fell to the ground as the white of his robes rapidly turned red, his words turning into the gurgling of blood in his throat, then silence.

The crowd scattered in all directions screaming in panic. Other more loyal watchers however saw the assassin whom pulled the trigger and took pursuit. The attacker ran, but was outnumbered and outpaced. The weight of his enemies hit him from behind, throwing him harshly to the ground. Sharp blades tore through his back and deep into his mortal body. The blades came down again and again in a pointless fury. An ever expanding circle of the assassin’s blood grew around him as those who had ceased the beating of his heart; turned and fled.

---

In his small warm office President Tobias Grey looked at the pictures of the two dead men before pushing them away. He looked across the dark blue walls, his assorted art, before speaking, “This Cult of Justinian is getting out of hand. They now openly condemn our government and cause battles in the streets with hard-line Catholics.”

The President put his head between his arms as though to block out the world, “I should have crushed these trouble makers when we had the chance.”

Dan Rickhart, the President’s top lieutenant looked up from his note pad and spoke, “Perhaps, but now with this cult more unified and with more clear practices, I think we should abandon our plans to assassinate Justinian. The last thing we need to do his make him a martyr.”

Grey nodded solemnly, “I agree. Until these radicals are quelled, we can’t afford a martyr.”

“Or a crisis,” added William Stone the Chancellor for Internal Affairs, the light shining off his bald head.

“But do we move against the cult itself?” asked Grey, “We didn’t move earlier in fear of inciting them. Now they are far stronger.”

“But still not strong enough to challenge us,” said Rickhart, “We must strike now. Our only other option will be to allow the situation to get worse. We can’t allow lunatic cultists on the street praising a fallen emperor.”

“Bill, is there another choice?” asked Grey.

“Not that I see,” said Stone, “These Cultists aren’t going to go away.”

“Then order the preachers arrested and publicly flogged. Cultist gatherings are to be broken up by force and people listening to cultist slander are to be fined 5000 Haren.”

“I doubt that will be harsh enough,” said Rickhart, “Fanatics are a dangerous type.”

Grey gave Rickhart a stern look, “I have made my decision, I shall review it at a later date.”

Chancellor Stone and Rickhart nodded, but said nothing.

---

The young news boy, no more than ten at most, dressed in pauper’s clothes, though only for effect held up the daily paper. With his soft young voice, he belted out with all his might, “Grey uses emergency powers. Cultists to be crushed. Preachers to be publicly flogged.”

As Duncan Rider walked past the boy, he handed over two harens for a copy. The boy promptly handed over a copy of the Farmina Daily, which Rider promptly opened up and read as he walked. The cold wind caught his coat and caused it flutter in the air. Using his elbows, Rider pulled the long coat back around to his front. Then releasing the paper with one hand, he tied a small knot to hold the fronts of his jacket together.

Turning to his left, he entered Verica gardens; a secluded part of the huge city that attracted picnicking families and young loves. But as Rider read the paper; he became increasingly aware of the punishment for his crimes.

Deep within the gardens, the gathering had already begun, the news of the punishments barely out. Many cultists held up large poles; on one side a banner baring Justinian, the other Kerria; separate by the cross. As Rider approached the hidden site; he had a feeling of great unease. But the site was well hidden, even if it had been used before; simply a medium sized clearing along the path through the out of place forest.

But despite his fears he did nothing; not even warn of the new declaration. He just listened.

“Traitors,” declared the preacher, “Any man who throws off his ruler is a traitor. And a traitor is a sinner in the eyes of God. Tobias Grey is a sinner; a man unfit to rule. People who support his government are sinner. Sinners all doomed to hell. It is Justinian who rules us. Justinian was given to us by almighty God.”

The preacher came to a sudden stop. He had not been shot at; and was certainly not dying. But in the corners of his eyes, he could see them coming from both directions; black-shirts.

Duncan Rider turned to look and saw them too; blocking both main exits.

“This is an illegal gathering,” declared a black-shirt marked as a Lieutenant, “Surrender immediately.”

But as Farminans often do; they didn’t listen to what they were told. The crowd scattered in every direction; trying to flee through the forest or simply run past the black-shirts; Rider and the preacher among them.

The black-shirts begin to call out “Stop” but their rifles and pistols were already being steadied. Then the bullets rang out. Rider watched as people running every direction began to fall into puddles of their own blood. It was within seconds of the commencement of the firing that he felt the bullet searing in his leg.

Rider fell to the ground; the pain intense. Some people were beginning to place their hands in the air; but others continued to attempt to flee. But even surrendering didn’t make you immune to a stray bullet.

As the world begin to haze; Rider saw black-shirts running forward; securing their prisoners and chasing those still fleeing deep into the park’s green forest. Then the world went black.


The next day Rider woke up in hospital to find that he had to pay 5000 harens and medical expenses. He considered such good luck a sign from Justinian.

bump

{OOC: Tag.}

OOC: What he said. I am so supporting the Cultists

The Chorus looked over the information before them. They were the ones who held the ultimate understanding of Selesnyan doctrine, and thus were most suited to speak on behalf of the people. Indeed, when they spoke, they spoke as one with a seemingly single voice.

The air in the chamber stirred as all the members of the Chorus inhaled to speak. "Although our emnity toward the self-contradiction of Christianity is deeply rooted, these Justinians take it to a greater extreme. The Christians bear two of seven sins. The Justinians bear five. Send wing to Farmina that they have the moral support of Selesnya, and will take on any Justinians that they wish to have retaught in a less antagonistic system of belief. Make it clear to them that any successful converts will not be returning should they accept our offer."

The courier nodded as he finished writing down the statement of the Chorus. He pulled away one layer of parchment, which had an identical impression of the writing beneath. After pulling away four more copies, the courier distributed them to his peers outside so the people would know the decree. Meanwhile, a messenger hawk wearing a headdress with the Selesnyan seal took wing for Farmina.

OOC: For simplicity's sake, we'll assume we're on the same continent.

OOC: Farmina is a single large island; always has been.

IC:

“Tobias,” said Rickhart, walking into the President’s office, “Would you believe it, but we just received a message by hawk?”

“A hawk?” said the President, “Never had that before. Where and what?”

“A land known as Selsnya,” said Rickhart, “Just a pat on the back over our treatment of the cultists and an offer to take them off our hands if they need re-education.”

“Why are you bothering me with common courtesy Dan,” said Tobias, “Send them a kind thank you note as your supposed to.”

“Because of the hawk,” said Rickhart, who then returned to his desk and drafted a reply.


To: Chorus of Selesnya

We gratefully thank you for all your offers, but must most humbly decline.

Farmina looks forward to doing future business with you.

Dan Rickhart
Chancellor for Foreign Affairs

Duncan Rider hobbled across the wooden floor of his dull apartment, supported by his metal crutch. “Justinian saved me,” he thought to himself, “Justinian chose me to do his great works.”

The knocking continued, but Rider could hobble no faster. Upon reaching the door, Rider opened it, to see exactly who he had expected, Selina Harak. “Come in, my dear,” he said, “Take a seat, the others should be here shortly.”

Harak walked across the wooden floor, before sitting down on the cheap plastic dining chairs that surrounded, Rider’s antique oak dining table. Rider followed her, but at a slow, uncomfortable pace. “You look well,” complemented Rider.

“Thank you,” said Harak, brushing back her hair as she looked at the cultist banner on Rider’s wall.

“You still keep Justinian and Kerria is sight, despite what happened,” asked Harak.

Rider looked up at the two banners, joined but separated by the cross, “I shall not hide Justinian; I do not fear.”

Another knocking could be heard at the door, and Rider began to turn around, to trek his way back, when Harak said, “But hundreds lie dead in the Moralist crack down. You should fear.”

Rider did not respond, and simply continued back towards the door. Opening his final two guests arrived, Peter and Laura Warden. “Come in,” said Rider to the cultists, “Take a seat.”

Rider looked as the sling around Laura’s arm; where she had broken it in the early battles between cultists and the black-shirts.

“Drinks?” asked Rider, slowly approaching the dinning table.

“I think I better get them, hey Dunc,” said Dave, “So what is everyone having?”

“Tea,” said Harak.

“Coffee,” said Laura to her husband, though he already knew.

“Nothing,” said Rider, “I had a drink before you arrived.”

A few minutes later, Peter Warden emerged with three steaming hot cups, handing them out.

“So the cultist movement has been crushed,” said Harak, “The Moralists are again unstoppable.”

“The Cult of Justinian lives on,” declared Rider, “Underground and weakened, but it doesn’t die. We must rebuild.”

“The black-shirts will hunt forever,” said Peter, “Be reasonable Duncan; President Grey has the patience to destroy us one by one.”

“We have right on our side,” declared Rider, “Justinian came to me. He saved my life. Justinian wills me to do his work.”

“And what is his work?” asked Harak.

Duncan Rider responded sternly, “To destroy President Grey.”

“And what did you see, when Justinian came to you?” asked Laura, sipping her coffee.

Rider said in response, “I saw the son of God.”

“The son of God,” enquired Peter Wardan, “Do you mean as in the second coming? The end of the world.”

Duncan Rider shook his head, “No, not like that. He is the son of God; as we are all God’s children.”

“Barely worth commenting on,” muttered Selina Harak, quietly under her breath.

“We all live,” said Rider, “And for this we must pay our debt to Justinian. We owe him our lives.”

Harak gave a Rider a dark look, “Justinian didn’t save us. The Moralists just didn’t kill us.”

“Have faith,” said Peter, “Duncan is right, that we were saved must be a sign.”

“Join me in the prayer,” instructed Rider, “Let Justinian hear our call.”

“The prayer puts our life in danger,” warned Harak.

“Faith will protect us,” responded Rider.

He placed out both his hands, one to Harak and one to Laura Warden. Both took his hands, though Harak was reluctant. Peter, on the opposite side of the antique table also held the two ladies’ hands. Then in unison they spoke, “Justinian, in the darkness you will guide us. In your light we shall shine. In your service we are humbled. In your absence we are blind.”

There was a perfect pause before the four cultists said the second lesser part of the prayer, “Justinian, rid of us of our enemies. Free us from these chains. Unite Farmina and heaven. Save us when we stray.”

Then Duncan Rider began a new verse, one unknown to his guests and even to him, as though delivered by God through his lips.

“Justinian, man of white and fire. Politician and messiah. Bring battle against the black and the grey. Our one true lord shall save the day.”

Rider’s guests closed their eyes, embracing the new prayer, “Justinian, end the night. When Hell breaks, return the light. Act with glory not with greed. It is your leadership, we so need.”

Then as one, the four cultists echoed the first part of the prayer, “Justinian, in the darkness you will guide us. In your light we shall shine. In your service we are humbled. In your absence we are blind.”

The four then released hands in complete silence and stillness. There was a sense of euphoria and peace in the room; as though God and Justinian had passed through and promised everything would be well. Even Harak was calm.

The four cultists sat in silence, at peace with the world, waiting for someone to speak. It was Peter Wardan who was to break the calm, “Where did you learn those extra lines?”

The question caused Rider to snap out of his trance like state. He promptly responded, “They came to me; as though by the will of God that I call to Justinian.”

Peter picked up his coffee and began to drink it, but put it down promptly, explaining, “That’s stone cold.”

His wife looked at her watch, “My goodness, we’ve been here half an hour. I thought it had been only minutes.”

“But what must we do,” said the ever cautious Harak, “Even Justinian wasn’t a match for the dark powers of Tobias Grey. How do we stand a chance?”

“That is why we must work to help Justinian,” said Rider, “We must open the gateway for his return so that he can bring in an army of the light and slay the Moralists.”

“How do we open this door?” asked the eager Laura Wardan.

“We must go to the heart of the Cult,” said Rider, “We must call on the leadership to wage full scale war against the President. But not only against them, but also the traitors. We must slaughter the unbelievers. We must slaughter the weak minded Liberal and Socialist opposition. We must destroy the Church that brands us heretics. We shall have our revenge on all who betrayed Justinian and those who turned their backs on him after his fall. We shall take our crusade across the seas and bring war to all nations that dare co-operate with the Moralists.”

“Why must we do this? How can we do this?” asked Peter, concerned that these goals were certainly to expansive.

“Justinian has shown me this is the way,” said Rider, “The great Justinian has given me powers to do his work. Now I must find a way to unlock them.”

“Praise be to Justinian,” declared the usually cautious Harak.

Then the other three repeated with great vigor, “Praise be to Justinian.”

It was now Peter that gave Rider a cautious, concerned look, but said nothing. It was Rider that spoke, “I see fear in your eyes. I can hear your thoughts. You think I have lost my mind. But I have not. Can’t you see the way? Don’t you feel Justinian’s presence. You heard God speak through me. Understand brother! This is God’s will.”

Peter said nothing, but pulled back his chair and stood up. As the room sat in silence he walked over to the banners of Justinian and Kerria on the wall; the so-called triunate. Kneeling down Peter spoke quietly, “Justinian, in the darkness you will guide us. In your light we shall shine. In your service we are humbled. In your absence we are blind.”

Again there was a brief silence then Peter looked up at the portraits of Justinian and Kerria on the two banners of the triunate. Then he declared aloud, “I see the way.”

He then walked over to the table, retaking his seat, “Duncan is correct. The path of Justinian is covered with the blood of all.”

Peter’s wife was discomforted with their great crusade, her revenge for her wounded arm, being described as a path of blood. “I suppose we should be going,” said Laura, “We must meet up again.”

She stood up and her husband promptly followed, and they both said “Goodbye” as they walked towards the door, letting themselves out.

Neither Harak or Rider stood up or said a word. There was silence for a while, then Harak said, “It has been a long time since we have been alone together.”

Rider laughed, “There was the few seconds before Pete and Laura turned up.”

“You know what I mean, she said in mock anger, punching him in the shoulder.

“Yes, I know,” he laughed.

Then Harak’s voice fell soft and gentle. Gripping his hand, she said, “I still love you Duncan, I’ve never stopped.”

“Neither have I, Selima,” he said, leaning over, kissing her softly and quickly on the lips, before leaning back.

“Why do you hold back Duncan?” Harak asked.

“Our relationship failed before,” said Rider, “Why wouldn’t it again?”

“There is something else,” said Harak, “What are you not telling me?”

“I fear this path we shall walk,” said Rider, “Are you sure you wish to walk it?”

“I will do anything for you,” she said, pausing before adding, “And Justinian. I would even die for you.”

Rider looked down at the table, “That’s what I fear.”

The Offices of the General Council of the Reformed Baptist Church,
Cair Paraveal, Narnia and Archenland

Fritz Handler worked quietly behind a dark brown, oaken desk, which had been bequeathed to him by his late father (God rest its soul). It was a very old desk, scarred and maimed in numerous minor ways. There was the couple of chips along its edges, the scratch-marks left by the cat in the left side panels, the tarnished brass handle that remained attached merely by a thread. Yet, despite its age and semi-infirmed condition, the desk still retained a solidity and dignity that coincided nicely with the character of its present owner.

Fritz Handler had occupied the valuable office of President of the General Council of the Reformed Baptish Church and Bishop of Cair Paraveal for fifteen years now. He had come by that position thanks to the natural cycle of life and death (which had claimed his predecessor, the blessed Dr. James Bauer), as well as his own accomplishments as pastor and the grace of Holy God. Only thirty-three at the time, he had been the youngest man ever selected to head the Church in Narnia and Archenland, but had taken advantage of the opportunities God had afforded him to grow into the position.

They called him bishop; an odd title it seemed for a church known universally for its distaste for all manner of ceremony or hierarchy, but one which was nonetheless appropriate. It was derived from the Latin for "shepherd", and communicated the purpose and nature of Handler's job precisely. He was a shepherd, intended to attend to the needs of the millions who pledged their allegiance to the resurrected Lord. The words, "A good shepherd watches over his sheep," even hung on his wall in the empty space between bookshelves.

"Mr. Handler," a young man said sheepishly, poking his head inside the door.

"Yes, Bernie," the bishop replied with a smile on his face, lifting his eyes from the paperwork he then was considering.

"Something interesting from the Missions Office," the young man exclaimed, entering the room and placing a packet of paper on Handler's oaken desk, "about a new sect it would seem."

"A new sect? What of the church?" Handler inquired, turning his attention to the newly-arrived documents. "Where?" He then asked, adjusting his spectacles.

"In a land called Farmina. Nate Woodman is working there right now."

"Predominantly Catholic, if my memory serves me true?"

"That would be correct," Bernie replied, clasping his arms in a subservient position. (He was terribly nervous standing as he was before the leader of Christ's church in Narnia and Archenland.)

"Any idea about its doctrines?"

The young man, regaining his self-assurance for a moment, wrily replied,"That is what is contained in the documents I just gave you, sir."

Handler looked at the young man through the tops of his lenses for his moment, his face hesitating whether it was to laugh or rage at the young man. "When some one slaps your cheek, turn and offer the other one to him also," the words suddenly occurred to the Bishop. He laughed. "Touche," he replied, "but why should I care?"

"I believe, sir, the reason Missions has sent you this is because there's some concern about this sect. Apparently its adherents are fairly fanatical and highly politically motivated."

Handler's wondering look told Bernie all that he needed to know: He needed to elaborate.

"In other words, they are active in politics, working against the country's president, one Tobias Grey. The government recently cracked down on them, in fact."

Handler simply nodded. "Very well, Bernie, I'll look into it. You have a good day."

"Yes, sir." With that, Bernie departed through the same door from whence he came. And Handler was once again alone in his office forced to face some new religious entity.

He read the report for a few moments. New sects always intrigued him, whatever religion they might happen to be connected to. Though it must be said that he had a decided prejudice towards the study of offshoots of his own Christian religion. He scanned the documents, pausing for a moment on the text of a prayer that this new sect's adherents supposedly recited:

"Justinian, in the darkness you will guide us. In your light we shall shine. In your service we are humbled. In your absence we are blind. Justinian, rid of us of our enemies. Free us from these chains. Unite Farmina and heaven. Save us when we stray."

He mumbled the words to himself, hypnotized by their forceful elegance, but also disturbed. Although the origins of this new sect were well documented, the actual tenets of their faith were shrouded somewhat in myth. They objected to the government, were strongly tied to the personage of the deposed emperor Justinian as well as that of his dead consort, Kerria, and seemed to be rather apocalyptic in their manner. But besides that there were few clues to follow. The secrecy which was so necessary to the sect's survival also kept its doctrines from the knowledge of outsiders.

However, despite that, Handler was able to reach one conclusion, "They certainly do not appear to be in line with orthodox, Biblical Christianity ... no much precedence given this Justinian fellow. A martyr, perhaps, but messiah? No doubt, this is heresy." Then it occurred to him, this was not just heresy, but a militant, politically active heresy in a country where many young Narnian and Archenlander Baptists - his sheep - were laboring. "I think," he pondered aloud, "I best should call Nate Woodman to see what's going on down there."

"I don't like the thought of you going out there, Nate." Muriel Woodman, a young missionary's wife still in the prime of her youth, exclaimed worriedly. Her husband threw his thick red scarf around his neck, seemingly ignoring what his wife had just said to him. "Didn't you hear what I just said to you?"

"Yes," he replied in a crisp, almost-British accent, turning to face her, "I did."

"But you gave no response?" She returned sourly.

"But I gave no response," Nate Woodman replied, repeating the question word for word. "I'd rather not speak of this matter with you, wife," he continued, "it does not concern you."

Muriel Woodman was used to her husband being more than a little standoffish. For a man of intractable good character, he could be as elusive as a glazelle on the safari, showing little inclination for direct engagement. In fact, when they had been in college together only six years ago, this tendency had gone a long way to earn Nate Woodman the distaste of his classmates: They called him "wishy-washy", "cowardly", "flighty", and worse. She had, by God's good grace, seen pass that, indeed had come to love him for it. But this was too much for her.

"It does not concern me whether my husband might die or not - fie! for shame, Nate Woodman. You forget that the welfare of my husband is my concern," she declared angrily.

"I am well rebuked," Nate replied, his face crestfallen with shame. "It is simply that I do not wish to worry you needlessly. After all, you have much to get done here today, too much in fact to spend your hours fretting over what your husband is doing. And besides," he paused, reaching to pat her growing, rounded belly, "I fear that such concern isn't the best for the child."

Muriel Woodman's anger melted, and taking her husband's hands in hers, she replied, "I understand. But I want to know why is it that you must go. Bishop Handler only said that he wanted you to look into matters if it would be safe for you to do so." Her husband nodded. "Then why must you do this? Why seek out the cultists? If the authorities happen on a meeting while you are there, they will not ask questions and you will more than likely ----"

Nate Woodman calmly placed the forefinger and middle finger of his left hand of his wife's lips, bidding silence. "I muct go and seek out the cultists and interrogate them not only because the Bishop asks me to do so, but because the Lord commands me to do so. This cult of Justinian is a frightening proposition, Muriel, more frightening than even the Bishop or the bureaucrats in the Missions Office know. They are fanatics, lost in their sins and so proud in them that they will not refuse the light of the gospel, but actively seek to affect its destruction---- "

"And?"

"And if we do not learn to understand them, and speak to them in their own language so that they can see the error of their ways, life will become much harder here and, I fear, in places far from here. The Lord chose us to fight the good fight on this battlefield here, and we now must do our part."

Muriel bowed her head, closing her eyes in a pacific, obedient manner. She knew her husband was all too true in what he was saying. The violence and the chaos, which was attending the spread of the cultists in Farmina, certainly was a harbringer of future perils for the Church in Farmina. The cultists were as fanatical in the defense and advancement of their religion as the hard-line Catholics and the Moralist Blackshirts, even more so. If the movement was now slain, then it would be very likely that all the work she and Nate had done in the last few years would be undone; all the work the Holy Spirit had done left in the dust, to rot atop the giant ash-heap of history.

"I know," she replied submissively.

"Never fear," her husband replied, picking up his Bible and moving towards the door, "as Christ said, 'Fear not for I have overcome the world'."

With that, Nate gave his wife a parting kiss, then walked out of the door.

The wind howled with a great fury as Duncan Rider hobbled alone through the concrete jungle of Verica, supported by his flimsy crutches. His grey trench coat tried desperately fluttered in the wind; the collar sat up around his neck. He wore a dress hat to cover his head in Farmina’s bitter winter and sunglasses to cover his eyes.

He paused for a moment, not distracted by the cold or an inability to remember which way he was supposed to go. “Black-shirts,” he whispered to himself as ten or so Moralist Enforcers raced across the street, rifles in hands in his direction.

As they raced forward to cycled the prayer through his head, trying to calm himself so that he would not look suspicious, “Justinian, in the darkness you shall guide us. In your light we shall shine. In your service we are humbled. In your absence we are blind.”

The black-shirts ignored Rider; as suspected they would, running into a building not far in front of him. The noise of gun shots followed not long after; sounds of smaller arms as well as those of the larger Moralist rifles that Rider knew too well. Rider could sense that the black-shirts were hunting out cultists. Considering that he had a record and that he didn’t another five thousand haren fine; Rider decided he should continue his trek.

Moving forward with the aid of his crutches, he went passed the building which the Moralists had gone in, and kept going. When far enough down the road; he looked back. He could see the black-shirts dragging out corpses. And then he saw the triunates, the symbol of the Cult, gathered up and thrown aside. As a Moralist walked up to the pile, he realized they weren’t removing the triunates; they were destroying them. The sound of the splash of petrol, was quickly followed by the WHOMPH of fire, as Rider turned his head around and hobble left about the corner.

Halfway down the street; Rider stopped. He had arrived. Pushing the door open with his body mass he continued into the foyer of the apartment building. He saw stairs to his right; but he knew that would be too difficult. He continued forward until he saw elevators on his left.

Taking the lift to the third floor; he then moved along the corridor; before reaching number 36.

After a brief knock, an aging man came to the door.

Rider bowed his head slightly, “Lord Preacher.”

The white haired man responded, “Welcome, chosen one.”

Duncan Rider moved into the apartment one slowly before asking, “Why did you call me the chosen one?”

The owner of the flat; Servendes Martin responded, “I met Justinian once, though it seems a life time ago. The few short years he ruled, Farmina was reborn, reinvigorated, given new hope. Everyone felt the power that flowed from Justinian’s reign, his vision, his determination. When I met Justinian I could sense his great power and his great burden. You feel like Justinian did; as though a small part of him resides in you.”

“I see,” said Rider, “Justinian shared his gift with me.”

“Bah,” declared the old preacher, sitting down on his tattered lounge, “Justinian’s birthright is no gift; it is a curse, one which he shall always carry. As Christ died on the cross for man, Justinian shall suffer in life.”

“And what of me Lord Preacher,” asked Rider, “What do you see for me?”

“I see great potential,” said Martin, “But it is your vision and not mine we are here to discuss.”

“I see the path to Justinian,” said Rider, “But Tobias Grey blocks the door. Justinian wishes the wrath of the Cult to be brought down on him and all those who dare tolerate him.”

“What do you think the cult is for?” responded the older man, “We drive to the one goal of striking down Grey and his traitors.”

“But my vision goes further,” said Rider, “We shall lead a great crusade across nations, destroying governments and oppositions, replacing their law with Justinian’s law; with God’s law.”

“That is far beyond the cult’s resources,” responded Martin.

“Have faith,” said Rider, “I bring Justinian’s instructions to the cult. Who are we to question? Even you felt the power Justinian had vested in me.”

“Yes I did feel your power,” said Martin, “I’m just an old windbag, perhaps you should talk to the leadership about this.”

Martin then walked over to his phone, dialed a number and began muttering as he jotted down a note. He then hung up and walked over to Rider, putting the note in Rider’s jacket breast pocket, “They are interested in what powers you possess, do as this says and you will meet people who might listen.”

Rider thought quietly to himself, “They are interested in Justinian’s gift, not his vision; typical.”

Rider then noticed something he hadn’t realized before, “No triunate hangs from your wall.”

“Such a thing is dangerous in these times,” said Martin walking over to the window, before turning back towards Rider.

Rider turned red in fury, feeling as though he was on fire. “Coward, unbeliever, traitor. How dare you abandon the triunate? How dare you abandon Justinian?,” Rider through forward his hands as though a gesture of death, “You shall die for your treachery!”

Martin stepped backwards in fear and shock at the fury and velocity of the words. He slipped and smashed backwards through the window falling, screaming, all the way to his death.

Rider returned to his hands to his crutches, realizing that he needed to get over there. But then another thought came to him, “ I have the power to kill without contact.”

Nate Woodman wandered the dusty streets of the city seemingly without sense or purpose, turning up side streets and down. He was dressed in a heavy black overcoat and long, woollen pants (which were tucked into his leather boots) with a bright scarlet scarf wrapped around his neck and mouth.

It was a cold night for Farmina, and Nate Woodman was a man of sensitive constitution. As he went through the streets, he remembered that one time during his childhood when he had fallen into a pond that was frozen over with ice. He nearly drowned, his lungs constricting and collapsing from the pressure imposed by the freezing water. But by God's grace his brother Lynn had been able to rescue him, though his constitution had been egregiously weakened for life.

"Why am I doing this?" The thought occurred repeatedly. "I should be safe at home in the arms of Muriel, not here looking around aimlessly." But the conviction of the Lord was strong upon his heart, and I knew that however foolish the task at hand might appear to be, it was one that must be done. "Thy will be done on earth as it is heaven," he repeated the words to himself quietly.

"Zorn!" Nate suddenly called out, seeing one of the cultists who was known to him. The young man who was not yet twenty-five years of age nearly jumped out of his skin at the sound of his name. "Fear not," the missionary exclaimed, "Zorn, there's no cause for fear."

"Oh, praises to Justinian," Zorn heaved a sigh of relief, "I feared you were one of the blackshirts."

"No, God be blessed, I am not one of them. But my purpose is similar to theirs - at least, in one regard."

The young man's face wrinkled with confusion at this statement. The thought immediately occurred to him, like second nature: Not a blackshirt, but perhaps an informer.

"No, no, no," Nate exclaimed, raising his right hand in a calming gesture, "I do not seek your cult's destruction, only to speak with your leader whomever that is. There are leaders in my church who wish to know more of the tenets of your cult, so that we might spread the Word of God more effectively."

Zorn nodded. He owed his life to Nate and Muriel, having spent some time in their house while recovering from a nagging ailment, which had forced his parents to expel him from his own home. He knew the man's faith and, though he thought him mistaken for rejecting the truth and wonder of Justinian, respected him for it. Neither one of the two then speaking, you see, was a bigot.

"Who is the leader of the cult now? And where might I speak with him?" The Baptist missionary inquired calmly.

Zorn considered matters for a moment, then responded, "I know not truly. But there is a man called Martin. He is exceedingly knowledgeable. I will arrange a meeting between you two."

"The Lord bless you and keep you, Zorn," Nate replied, half-jokingly, parroting the words of the Benediction.

OOC: Thanks for the information!

OOC: This RP is in hold due to a severe computer malfunction. The effect on other RPs will be minor. Also, Rider isn't prominent yet; only about 6 other cultists actually know him. Send him Nate to the Preacher Martin; as he is more famous would be a better chioce.

As fast as he could hobble, Rider moved towards the door. A man falling though his supposedly secure window was going to cause more attention than a cultist would need.

Then a thought occurred to him, “Martin’s book had the numbers of important cultists in. That can’t fall into the wrong hands.”

Turning himself around, he hobbled back over to Martin’s phone. He was about use his hands to begin searching before remembering that the police had his finger prints. He quickly slipped his hands into his coat pockets, before clumsily using the wings of his jacket to push things off the table onto the floor. Then he saw the precious small red book.

In haste, Rider pulled his hand out of the pocket and grabbing the book; before slipping it into his pocket. Re-balancing his weight, Rider then again turned around, hobbling over to the door. Putting his hand back in his pocket he tried to open it; stumbling before finally succeeding.

Rider moved with speed, the sound of sirens getting ever louder. First he went to the lift, but at floor thirteen it would never arrive. Hobbling over to the steps, only one thought occured to him, “I must escape.”