Baharan
29-12-2005, 06:33
[OOC: Okay. I'm going to do this as an introduction, but once I make it clear what's going on (a few posts) there will be some opportunities for international involvement.]
The palace was serenely lit even at night. So bright, in fact, that even without his rifle’s scope, Abdullah al Rahman could see the guards pass by the each window’s high arch, darkening them as they passed. He tried counting the guards as they moved - an unnecessary task, but something to pass the time. With God on their side, the number of guards meant nothing, Abdullah told himself. And God had always been on his side.
He had always been a devout believer, son of an Imam, and shunned the unbelievers. Perhaps that was how he had become a member of An-Naziat, how he had learned to shoot and run and kill without malice or compassion. His affinity for God was such that he lashed out at the unbelievers and those who would shelter them. Even as a child he remembered looking with scorn on those of the Orthodox faith – now all but removed from his country’s demographics. Now, he stoned himself and readied to do battle for his God, to show the world that none were beyond Allah’s reach, not even Al Malik in the palace on the hill…
His hand now reached behind him, to the leather pack which dangled loosely on his shoulders. Inside, he quickly found what he was looking for, the tattered remnants of his father’s Qur’an stuffed between a holstered pistol and prayer mat. The book was handwritten and difficult to read in the twilight, but Abdullah opened it, listening to the pages rustle amid the stillness around him. His finger fell on the first verse of the chapter Al Fath - The Victory - and from there he began to read.
With the Name of Allah, the Merciful Benefactor, the Merciful Redeemer:
Verily We have granted thee a manifest Victory: That Allah may forgive thee thy faults of the past and those to follow; fulfill His favour to thee; and guide thee on the Straight Way; and that Allah may help thee with powerful help.
Abdullah smiled. His evening prayer already said, his life placed in order, misdeeds no longer remembered but wiped clean, he read this with joy. Already forgiven and walking the path of all true believers, all that remained for him was Allah’s favor and Allah’s aid, and with those he could accomplish anything.
“Abdullah,” Someone whispered loudly behind him. He slipped the tattered Qur’an back into his pack and followed the crash of footsteps through the brush without turning his head. When he heard the footsteps stop he responded.
“Yes, Mohammed?” The man stooped down not half a meter away. “Is everyone ready?”
“Yes, my friend. Allah willing, it will be done before the first shot stops echoing.”
“When do we begin?”
“You give the signal. We wait for you.” And Mohammed stood briskly and retired the way he came.
-----
Ten minutes later, Abdullah was back with his rifle. Like the Qur’an, it had been part of his family since the days of his father, and had even been fired by his grandfather during the first of the Orthodox purges in his day. Now, Abdullah would use it as his grandfather had, to purge his world of unbelief. His arm straightened, chest rose as he inhaled. As he breathed in, he brought the crosshairs to bear on one of the well lit windows, and, as a dark shape passed across it he exhaled and fired.
The rifle’s crack seemed to catch on the gentile slopes surrounding the palace, and somewhere to his right Abdullah could hear startled birds fluttering away over the gardens. Then, as if on cue, another crack sounded, and then another and another, until fourteen shots had pierced the darkness. There was a sudden burst of noise from beyond the palace’s vaulted walls, and a corresponding rush of bodies crashing through the foliage. Someone shouted their warning, and rifle answered. One of An Naziat reached the walls and vaulted through a window. Outside, Abdullah heard more shouting punctuated by rifle and pistol fire, and then it was over.
The palace was serenely lit even at night. So bright, in fact, that even without his rifle’s scope, Abdullah al Rahman could see the guards pass by the each window’s high arch, darkening them as they passed. He tried counting the guards as they moved - an unnecessary task, but something to pass the time. With God on their side, the number of guards meant nothing, Abdullah told himself. And God had always been on his side.
He had always been a devout believer, son of an Imam, and shunned the unbelievers. Perhaps that was how he had become a member of An-Naziat, how he had learned to shoot and run and kill without malice or compassion. His affinity for God was such that he lashed out at the unbelievers and those who would shelter them. Even as a child he remembered looking with scorn on those of the Orthodox faith – now all but removed from his country’s demographics. Now, he stoned himself and readied to do battle for his God, to show the world that none were beyond Allah’s reach, not even Al Malik in the palace on the hill…
His hand now reached behind him, to the leather pack which dangled loosely on his shoulders. Inside, he quickly found what he was looking for, the tattered remnants of his father’s Qur’an stuffed between a holstered pistol and prayer mat. The book was handwritten and difficult to read in the twilight, but Abdullah opened it, listening to the pages rustle amid the stillness around him. His finger fell on the first verse of the chapter Al Fath - The Victory - and from there he began to read.
With the Name of Allah, the Merciful Benefactor, the Merciful Redeemer:
Verily We have granted thee a manifest Victory: That Allah may forgive thee thy faults of the past and those to follow; fulfill His favour to thee; and guide thee on the Straight Way; and that Allah may help thee with powerful help.
Abdullah smiled. His evening prayer already said, his life placed in order, misdeeds no longer remembered but wiped clean, he read this with joy. Already forgiven and walking the path of all true believers, all that remained for him was Allah’s favor and Allah’s aid, and with those he could accomplish anything.
“Abdullah,” Someone whispered loudly behind him. He slipped the tattered Qur’an back into his pack and followed the crash of footsteps through the brush without turning his head. When he heard the footsteps stop he responded.
“Yes, Mohammed?” The man stooped down not half a meter away. “Is everyone ready?”
“Yes, my friend. Allah willing, it will be done before the first shot stops echoing.”
“When do we begin?”
“You give the signal. We wait for you.” And Mohammed stood briskly and retired the way he came.
-----
Ten minutes later, Abdullah was back with his rifle. Like the Qur’an, it had been part of his family since the days of his father, and had even been fired by his grandfather during the first of the Orthodox purges in his day. Now, Abdullah would use it as his grandfather had, to purge his world of unbelief. His arm straightened, chest rose as he inhaled. As he breathed in, he brought the crosshairs to bear on one of the well lit windows, and, as a dark shape passed across it he exhaled and fired.
The rifle’s crack seemed to catch on the gentile slopes surrounding the palace, and somewhere to his right Abdullah could hear startled birds fluttering away over the gardens. Then, as if on cue, another crack sounded, and then another and another, until fourteen shots had pierced the darkness. There was a sudden burst of noise from beyond the palace’s vaulted walls, and a corresponding rush of bodies crashing through the foliage. Someone shouted their warning, and rifle answered. One of An Naziat reached the walls and vaulted through a window. Outside, Abdullah heard more shouting punctuated by rifle and pistol fire, and then it was over.