NationStates Jolt Archive

Recordare (http://www.music.columbia.edu/collegium/recordings/Mozart%20Requiem/06%20Recordare.mp3)

By the Will of the People the Revolutionary Anarchist Commune of Kell (http://img291.imageshack.us/img291/5965/kellmapkn8.png)

The Quakers sent me books, from which I learnt how they had, years ago, established beyond doubt the duty for a Christian of fulfilling the command of non-resistance to evil by force, and had exposed the error of the Church's teaching in allowing war and capital punishment. Further acquaintance with the labors of the Quakers and their works[...] showed me not only that the impossibility of reconciling Christianity with force and war had been recognized long, long ago, but that this irreconcilability had been long ago proved so clearly and so indubitably that one could only wonder how this impossible reconciliation of Christian teaching with the use of force, which has been, and is still, preached in the churches, could have been maintained in spite of it.

No longer able to believe in the Church religion, whose falsehood they had detected, and incapable of accepting true Christian teaching, which denounced their whole manner of life, these rich and powerful people, stranded without any religious conception of life, involuntarily returned to that pagan view of things which places life's meaning in personal enjoyment. And then among the upper classes what is called the "Renaissance of science and art" took place, which was really not only a denial of every religion, but also an assertion that religion was unnecessary.

The error arises from the learned jurists deceiving themselves and others, by asserting that government is not what it really is, one set of men banded together to oppress another set of men, but, as shown by science, is the representation of the citizens in their collective capacity.

- Leo Tolstoy

5th of November of the Second Year of the Kell Revolution, Evening, 21:00

Change was too much of a superficial word to describe what happened with which once were the Principality of Kell in Paloni, as for a paradigm that lasted for thousands of years to go asunder at such short time, by the force of a new vision for the world which challenged not only the status quo of monarchy, but far beyond, for it was a paradigm which challenged the way human society has developed since the dawn of civilization. For such events to be categorized under a mere "change" was a gross underestimation of what became known in Kell as the Year of the Long Knives (http://forums3.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?t=552920).

Equally, the reactions of those who realized how their power and wealth would vanish could not be considered only a counter-revolution, but a total, even if secretive war between those who wanted power to rule and those who wanted power to share to everyone equally. Both wishes were in essence means for selfish ends in their own ways, for on one side lied those who wanted a worldly power, which would fade away with their deaths, and in another those who sought everlasting glory: to truly write the history of humanity, and thus become forever immortalized as heroes and freedom fighters.

In truth, the urge to risk their lives, to put themselves into the lists of hitmen, to challenged thousands of years of reactionary stagnation was driven not for a selfless purpose, but for a collective delusion of grandeur, of men and women who once were young and hoped to turn the status quo of the world upside down, but who would by chance have a new chance to achieve such old, egotic dream. It was ironic how those who had extreme and diametrically opposed ideals were driven by the same basic motives: the fulfillment of a personal pride, of a vision to create a great social order and civilization. And thus, what truly separated men like Edward Vaughn from men like Hitler was not good and evil, but simply a matter of circumstances and other individuals conducting the few able to generate their own ideas into following a path and a goal. Extremists might have entirely antagonistic goals, but there is an universal rule, whether they stand for a Thousand Year Reich or for an eternity of anarchy: their paths would be tainted by the blood of both innocent and corrupt, good and despicable, allies and enemies, friends...

And traitors as people who once were held as best friends, who once were beyond any suspicion, for sometimes, other selfish desires would manage to override the desire for revolutionary grandeur, or perhaps, it was much worse: for perhaps it was Power itself which was slowly corrupting every one of them, turning them, day by day, into what they despised the most, for it was too tempting, to have an entire country over their hands, to then abdicate of such power. It was no coincidence that the first, and most troublesome year for Vaughn as he hoped to revolutionize Kell, was marked by betrayals among those who once were his closest friends which nearly had the loss of his life and the revolution as consequences, forming a nightmare of paranoia and fear. Gusmán, the one once responsible for the gradual delegation of police power to the people, his eyes, his frighten could not yet be forgotten, as Vaughn pressed the trigger, killing a man he had as his best friend for decades, watching the lifeless pupils staring at him as the corpse fell on the floor, decayed of more than just life, decayed of integrity, a casualty provoked not by the finger of Vaughn over the trigger, but by power. It was no coincidence that during his short term as a prince, he would be nicknamed by his peers in the way a historical figure of the Hundred years' war was known: Edward, the Black Prince, a man who was both feared for his draconian measures against snakes and loved for all he did for Kell, and yet, a war lasting a hundred of years wouldn't be necessary for them to achieve their ultimate goal, or perhaps such goal could be questioned.

The casualties of power would bathe Kell in bloodshed for an entire year. Nearly half of the former police force, including its Magistrate were executed for conspiring against the people and committing atrocities against the innocents. The remainder had to either change of career or stand the challenge of being the embodiment of justice, and thus became freelance vigilantes directly funded by the growing cooperatives and remaining capitalist business rather than by taxes. Many left Kell, disillusioned with the new "government" as they watched their friends die due to their unswerving loyalty to the former Magistrate and to what remained of the Paloni aristocracy.

In their lust for restoring their dying power, the nobles and wealthy would soon begin to fund criminal and terrorist organizations to wreak havoc into Kell and disrupt the new order, and the more they became desperate, more ruthless became their plots, culminating into the infamous terrorist bombing of the Marksland downtown, where multiple edifices were imploded and collapsed, leading to the death of eighty thousand civilians, followed with a nearly perfect planted evidence to frame Vaughn for such atrocity, carefully laid beneath the obvious evidences the nobles were the responsible for it, in a manner that would back up claims that such attack was done by the new government to slander the upper classes. Initially, rebellions and protests erupted into Kell, and nearly everything was lost when an armed multitude, driven by inciters allied with the reactionaries, was about to storm the now called Palace of Nil in Fennel. Shooting at such misguided people could be enough to justify a direct military intervention of the government in Paloni, and such was exactly the goal of the local aristocrats in such conspiracy to make their attacks seem part of a false conspiracy perpetrated by Edward.

Sometimes they could be considered to have a Waldenburger spirit rather than being average Paloni nobles, such was their cunning and ability of hiding themselves. The Northcoast Putsch, the New Flanders Secession, the Blackwater Coast red sea, the Bovine rampage of North Rivendale were carefully laid as plots to gather support of many single-cause activist groups. Environmentalists, animal rights, affirmative action and many other movements became nothing but puppets to destabilize the new government. Conspiracy after conspiracy failed, due to only one reason: whereas the old regime sought to manipulate minority groups and activist groups for their bidding, the new regime was seeking active support of the lower and middle classes. As the MilNet, the AEROCON, the InF Meals and many other cooperatives began to settle in Waldenburg, an "economic miracle" was beginning. It would be only a matter of time as unemployment, essential for preserving the privilege of the capitalist over the work, would fade away, and as the multinational cooperatives, although lacking fixed salaries, allowed for much greater earnings, soon the local corporations would find it much more difficult to find people for hire, and as expected, many would seek political means to defeat such new competitors, while others actually belonged to the very men plotting the demise of the Black Prince. Even many who supported the Republicans in Paloni were plotting against Edward as they realized the threat of his socialist ways and of the cooperatives he brought to their traditional businesses.

What was known as the "Corporate Pogrom" by the enemies of the new rule would then happen as well. Every major corporation in Kell either went bankrupt or had its regional unit closed, while many suits who drank and sat with the conspirators were executed. Corporate buildings were sometimes even razed to the ground, and soon Edward would resort to a weapon he knew well how to use: the people. Mansions, chateaus, villas and sometimes even churches which belonged to those who were seeking to return to the status quo ante revolutio or which were fronts for the Waldenburger Inquisition were pillaged and sacked by a mass of people who saw their standards of living rise dramatically during the brief reign of Edward. Even opera houses known for their scheming, with centuries of history and tradition as symbols of the moral decadence of the nobility and of the inferior form of art as pleasure, were destroyed by the will of the people, while construction cooperatives from Third Spanish States were eagerly taking such opportunity to revitalize and modernize Kell. Old buildings were being destroyed for the new, with no care for history. A few castles would have to fall so in their place, massive maglev monorail stations could be built, fiber-optic and conventional telephone cables were being laid everywhere, as the communications infrastructure was expanded. Perhaps the entire revolution was nothing but a ploy of greedy collectives who used Vaughn in their seek for more wealth. But now, the dark times were over, and after enduring the reaction, Kell has finally become an anarchist civilization, at the toll of hundreds of thousands of lives, where the only thing that did not change, was that most continued to believe in the existence of a God and of a messiah, only this time they no longer held loyalty

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1812 Overture (http://lincolndietrichs.org/svd/music/111-%20Tchaikovsky%20-%201812%20Overture.mp3)

The night was clear and lit with stars, with a diminishing moon enlightening the streets of Fennel. Downtown, an orchestrated music echoed through the streets, a music which shifted feelings between tension, glory and victory. On his seat, Edward Vaughn observed the Palace he once resided at right ahead, now dwarfed by the skyscrapers built around, from the top of a row of comfortable seats built for the event, as the Symphonic Orchestra of Kell played 1812 Overture, a masterpiece of Tchaikovsky between him and the palace, originally composed to homage the victory of Russia against the Napoleonic army, a victory in open battle. Only now, it was played in honor of Guy Fawkes day, and as an homage to the victory of the revolution against enemies which wouldn't show their faces, or move to arms and fight openly against them. As the music progressed, with a cautious passion rather than with the typical apathy of those who once played for nobles rather than for everyone, Edward bobbed left and touched the shoulder of a middle aged woman with graying dark blonde hair, as he spoke:

"Felicia, you know what is happening."

The woman immediately turned her head to him, as her amber eyes aimed at him. Her features were noticeably Germanic, and her English slightly accented. Her face was demonstrating some clear lines of worry, and she seemed to have been struggling without proper sleep for weeks:

"Our allies are dedicating nearly all their forces against the People's Republic of Spain, the Freekish have unleashed their sycophantic dogs and traitors, who may come against us, after Waldenburg," a deep, considerate sigh came from her, as she tried to relax by paying attention to the music for a while. Vaughn simply nodded, giving her time to conclude her thoughts.

It was not a position cherished, but Felicia was the individual with the largest amount of experience in combats during the Spanish Revolution from all of them, and thus, as the former MilNet head of defense proved to be a traitor, now Felicia was tasked with suggesting what the people of Kell and public interest cooperatives should do regarding Education and Defense, besides having by extension the responsibility over hunting conspirators and schemers who may have yet survived and be foolish and stubborn enough to not give up. The excess of responsibilities was taking a clear toll on her, but Edward knew that he could trust nobody else for security and defense.

"where the words of a prophet named Hegemon have stirred a few to fight against the reactionary Church of Ceno and against their government." Felicia concluded, as the segment of the overture where the hymn of France was played for the first time occurred.

"While we sit here," Edward replied, looking down in self-criticism, "we sit here listening to vainglorious operas, or dance there, in dull balls pretending to be official diplomats, to please governors of neighbors our people export goods to."

"An opera is not vainglorious if it has a meaning Vaughn," Felicia answered as the climax of the presentation was only about six minutes from the moment, as anyone who heard it so many times could memorize. Looking at the night sky, she pointed at the fading moon and continued her thoughts:

"Music is a way of communication, a symbol where we attribute meanings, and like all, it transmits messages, only with a much greater degree of emotion. Most people won't listen to a simply rational message Edward, but will be enchanted by a truly emotional one, even if such is devoid of any reason."

Nodding, Edward grabbed a cup of orange juice and took a few sips from it, as he interrupted the conversation, until two old pieces of towed artillery, already loaded with pyrotechnic shells, were fired by young enthusiasts of the new regime, signaling the climax. It was not uncommon to spot people eating popcorn around, for the event was as informal as watching cinema, lacking the elitism and falsity of the former... although perhaps it was not devoid of plotting in itself, and both used a lower volume of voice to speak than usual, while all rows surrounding them were taken by other members of the new "government", making the possibility of eavesdropping their conversation extremely low.

"I see an opportunity. Paloni is a satellite state of Waldenburg," Edward reaffirmed, and suddenly shifted his voice to a more serious tone, "we cannot change a man by arguing with one of his arms, but with his mind."

Nodding, Felicia smiled for a change, as she pointed out, like if the entire event was somehow funny to behold:

"To think this was inspired by a graphic novel you browsed when you were a teenager..." she interrupted her train of thoughts, as the final part to the climax began, and smiling concluded, "remember, remember, the fifth of November."

"Well, I cannot say V is not a role model for every one of us." Edward answered with a smile, "Corrupt Church, tyrants, the graphic novel could be said to depict Waldenburg. Perhaps we will be able to give a finale to this tale."

"Now, why are we talking here and doing this?" Felicia asked in the few seconds that remained, as she moved her ear closer to Edward.

"Because our enemies might think we are a joke rather than a serious threat."

Then both became silent, as they awaited for the so antecipated climax of the Overture. When the largest clock tower of Fennel pointed at nine o' clock, every spectator looked at the palace, which walls remained undisturbed by years. The large stones set in perfect harmony and order, hierarchically built, one above another. The presentation would become partially silenced, as every men's eyes stared at the chain of explosions that began to shatter the old palace. A symbolic march over the victory of the new order destroying the old order, as one of the last remaining symbols of the world government was categorically imploded, explosives set together with fireworks. Stained glasses shattered, one by one, their splinters falling over the derelict garden, and soon, floor by floor the palace began to collapse, its tower falling diagonally and impacting with whatever remained of its garden while fireworks lit the skies at high enough heights to be seen anywhere in Fennel.

As the carefully controlled and pyrotechnic demolition ended, applauses began to fill the sounds once occupied by explosions and music, and people slowly prepared to return to their homes. At least, Edward no longer feared for his life, for he knew that he was no longer needed to ensure Kell would remain an anarchy, but only to help defending it against more direct forms of aggression through his contacts with the MilNet, where he wasn't irreplaceable. Thus he prepared to finish his conversation with Felicia:

"Now it is clear that sending Christian anarchists was a double-edged knife," he affirmed, regretting of a past decision, "it made the cultural transition easier, and was far simpler than convincing most of them there is no God, but now those who did not convert to Protestant denominations are staunch pacifists, right now that our freedom may be at stake, and none of our possible enemies would see disadvantages at massacring 'nonviolent resistance' "

"Not all Christian anarchists follow the views of Tolstoy, Edward," Felicia answered him back, with the look of someone breeding the idea for a plan or plot in her face, "in fact, we will not be able to understand Waldenburg enough to earn the love of their people, we are too rational, too skeptic for a place where spirituality and politics intermingle. We would be too inept to start or support a revolution, but I believe I know who would be perfect, to bend to our goals, or remove the influence of such Hegemon from a revolution."

"And who would such person be?" Edward asked for amusement, already knowing the answer, as he prepared to leave.

"Only one individual would be able to lead a revolution in Waldenburg: a Christian Anarchist. And I know where we will find this individual." Felicia then reconfirmed, getting up as well. Both then left the event, followed with their friends who sat around to prevent a possible spy from sitting right behind, ahead or at one of their sides. The ruins of the Palace, and the ladders of seats where the spectators were then became empty, enlightened only by the night, devoid of the prestige, glory and pompousity they once donned to their residents. A placard was left next to ruins, where it was written a message interesting enough to be put in a conspiracy theorist webpage:

"From the ashes of the old order, a new order shall arise."

Their ambitions no longer searched for glory at Kell, not even at Paloni. As the people of Kell swapped the Book of Ceno for the Holy Bible and Church, dogmas and preset prayers for their own view and interpretations on a new God and His son, they hoped to find a man that would serve as a preacher for the idea that men must not live under material kingdoms, but only under the spiritual, sublime rule of an all-mighty and all-loving God, whose name has been tarnished by many who in their selfishness, used His name and corrupted teachings of His first followers to achieve political power and farther person from the idealized Kingdom of God.

Whereas Third Spanish States sought to thrive in open war, Kell would seek to thrive through the true anarchist spirit, by making the very people of nations fight for their freedom, rather than by fighting for them. All they needed was their messiah, their messenger, an anarchist counterpart to the Hegemon, who even post-mortem exerted influence over the slowly awakening people of Waldenburg, who in confusion resorted to less than effective procedures. They needed the guidance of a prophet, not only of the words written by a now dead man who would only lead them from one corrupt system of government to another.

A prophet who only gave nothingness, to whom fate was nonexistent, one of many who sought to make people free, spreading prophecies without meaning, for the people themselves would have the task of giving meaning to them, for anarchy would abolish fate.


(OOC: This is a continuation of Kell: of Anarchists and Snakes. Waldenburg, you may roleplay a spy watching the "fireworks" or a extremely resourceful noble thinking up a plot, who survived the mobs and hunts disguised among the crowd, if you wish. Also, I hope the way I described the happenings has been satisfactory.)

Rex Tremendae (http://www.music.columbia.edu/collegium/recordings/Mozart%20Requiem/05%20Rex%20tremendae.mp3)

"For the laws of nature, justice, and equity of themselves, without the terror of some power, to cause them to be observed, are contrary to our natural passions, that carry us to partiality, pride, revenge and the like.

Another doctrine repugnant to civil society is that whatsoever a man does against his conscience, is sin; and it dependeth on the presumption of making himself judge of good and evil. For a man's conscience and his judgment is the same thing, and as the judgment, so also the conscience may be erroneous.”

Thomas Hobbes ‘The Leviathan’

It was not a room meant for the vile collusions of fattened barons, over the diluted masses; it was not a darkened cellar where the haze of cigar smoke clotted otherwise sensible minds to beastly and malign intrigue. This was not a room set aside for the roiling proletariat and their speeches of faux patriotism and their dissertations on the rights of man; there was something fundamentally wrong with the large open room, where the drapes were thrown aside to let in a fading November sun.

“…And they came up to the front door and bellowed and knocked and when I did not answer they broke the door down and stormed into the vestibule, smashing as they passed the nativity, and the reliquary of our beloved St. Ambrose. Brother Muridor died as he was trampled underfoot whilst carrying the Bereverent Shroud of Lady Mideen, and Brother Asos perished at his prayers, stabbed through the back.

I can hear their poundings and squeals of pagan delight as they tear down the tapestries, smash the windows, and destroy the alterware. How they revel in their newfound power, how they rave now, and in the morning how they will weep. I can hear their feet passing through the nave; I have very little time left, and yet I cannot be afraid. I may never be afraid. The day I kissed His Imminence’s feet was the day I cast aside my own feelings; it was the day I accepted the responsibility of my flock. And though they come to kill me for all that I would have saved them, I must smile, I must love them, and when they club me down I will forgive them their sins, and in due time welcome them to heaven.

Brother Fastus has just perished over the alter defending the sacred Virgin’s image. The mob turns their eyes to me and approaches; oh, how they have vengeance in their eyes, and pain in their heart. I will rise and bless them; I will always rise and bless them.” The book was closed reverentially on a thumb and tapped lightly against and opposing hand, “from there the blood makes in illegible.”

From outside the worn stone windows a lone sparrow chirped morosely as the room was sunk in a heavy pall of disheartening silence. About a slightly raised dais, as one might find at a university, a scattering of overstuffed armchairs had been spread. Each one was occupied by a suddenly pensive clergyman of some denomination or another wearing the full vestments of their order. It was now such a rarity to wear the gold and silk of the ancient offices that each man held now that the Black Prince sat on his humbling throne.

“I remember that night,” one chair volunteered, “They say the bishop was colluding with the reactionaries and they bust into the chapel and well…”

One man, the one who had been reading from the small personal journal, did not take his seat on the dais but stood, arms folded behind his back, looking out into the courtyard and the bare trees of the abbey. “They say many things,” he muttered vaguely without turning. “And the world keeps spinning.”

“What is that Your Excellency?” The chair, which spoke, put some relish behind the title; such things were only to be said behind closed doors in Fennel in this time.

“A thousand years ago we thought the world was flat, and the sun a orb amongst smaller orbs that rotated around us. Five hundred years ago we knew the world to be a dish, which angled about a sun. Today we know the world is a perfect sphere and all the people’s there on held on by the grace of God alone. Do you ever wonder what it will be tomorrow? What will it be tomorrow?” Abbot Cecil Terzo rubbed an emaciated hand over his pale face and turned back to the chairs. “Yesterday, five years ago, Kell was the happy jewel of an imperial crown, two years ago, it was the personal possession of a feudal lord, and today it is a commune of the worldwide revolution.”

“And it was created so by the thousands of bodies. How many have the revolutionaries killed in the name of the so lauded ‘social freedom’?” The comment came from the chair of Inquisitor Hess, the sole remaining person to claim that title alive in Paloni. Whatever could be said of revolutionary zeal or efficiency the mob had hunted the inquisitors like rats, and fettered them out from holes across the country and repaid them in kind for all that was done in previous generations.

It was only a passing thought of Abbot Terzo that it was a shame that they had not finished that job, “Yet I shall temper justice with mercy. The mob is an animal and the socialist it’s keeper, and penultimate antagonizer. The revolution is not one of the men of the factory or the field rising from his lowliness on the blood of the managerial class, but blood stained demons of the pen as they call for the extermination of the occupants of positions, which they so desire. Our Prince Regent, His Highness,” Terzo fawned slightly at the mention of the man he had watched anointed with holy oils and now spurned them so, “is he the counterbalance on which the freedoms of the proletariat balance? Or is he merely a monarch of a different shade? A trade of red for purple, and crowns for sickles?”

“I do not follow.” A chair spoke out in a tone that suggested he had only turned up for the free lunch afterwards.

“No… I cover my nakedness with but a sheet and I am clothed, but underneath that sheet I am still naked and ashamed.”

“But you’re wearing quite a fetching..”

“Father Hobbs, the Anarchist and his entourage came to Paloni with a handful of men. The magistrate could simply have massacred them on the first day and seized control and that would have been the end of our revolution. He did not, as to the wisdom of this I am yet not entirely undecided, “Terzo held up a silencing hand, “the matter is however, a group of a few dozen has successfully turned the Ancien Régime upside down and produced for it’s efforts the model of anarchy: the happy worker mixes on the street with the former lord but underneath their ‘sheets’ they both realize that the other is the enemy. Despite what dear Edward hopes we do not so easily forget the inequities of ten thousand years of human history in a few wild nights. Underneath his new façade, Vaughn is human, and greedy, and vain, and stupid; all we must do is pull the illusion away.”

“We should kill him, it would be easy; I’ll do it myself.” Hess rose from his chair slightly and elevated his tone to a most distressingly belligerent shout.

“That would prove only that he can die, something however tempting, is not required. We too must pull away his sheet and look at him without pretense and let the world see what it will. “ Terzo paused and adjusted his lovingly embroidered sash about his shoulder, “As you all know I have, over the last few months been keeping in painstakingly secret correspondence with the mother Church in Blünderburg. They are not deaf to our pleas, however the situation within the mother country is degrading rather quickly. The invasions are common knowledge and in appears mass killings are occurring amongst the senior clergy; the Pallintius was murder along with several others not even a month ago. The Mother Church is concerned with the deaths her inquisitors and certainly the laity, but it considers Paloni a problem for later. As I am sure you do not know I have also written the Regency Council of Imperial Paloni, and have received no reply, the Waldenburger Emperor also is silent.”

“Then there are nine of us.”

“All our brothers are moderated in the hands of the revolutionary, or dead by them. We all saw what happened to the palace last night. True it was only a building, stone and mortar laid down hundreds of years ago, but it was a symbol of the fast fading empire of peace.”

“There was never any of this when the Littorol-Ausbachs were in power; things were much better when we had an Emperor.”

“Quite.” Cecil rubbed his hands again: the arthritis pained him terribly sometimes, and he had no idea where it had come from, or where the wrinkles and the pain came from, “We are going to rebuild it all from the ground up. The Empire, the Church, God himself. I have written to the Cenobiarch and he has obliged me with one request, several million Reichmarks to form our own little cabal. We will need a few weeks, perhaps precious, to gather supplies but I assure the day will be ours. ”

“Hah!” Hess was on his feet now and pacing around the abbot, “have you seen Kell recently? There are no more policemen, no more lords, no more wealth or duty. These people do not understand why this is wrong! They have abandoned God and his mother church! They trade security and law for easy comfort. We should just wipe them out, kill them all and start over. The anarchists are bathed in blood and our flock follows them with a comfort they never had with me!”0

“And neither do they spin my brother.” The abbot smiled weakly, “our greatest enemy is in illusion; the socialists do not know with what they temper; we’ve been dealing in illusion for two millennium. Follow me Father Hess and I will once again make you a fisher of men.”

Domine Jesu (http://www.music.columbia.edu/collegium/recordings/Mozart%20Requiem/10%20Domine%20Jesu.mp3)

Again, the devil took him to a very high mountain and showed him all the kingdoms of the world and their splendor. "All this I will give you," he said, "if you will bow down and worship me."

Jesus said to him, "Away from me, Satan! For it is written: 'Worship the Lord your God, and serve him only.'"

-The Holy Bible, Matthew 4:1-11

A few blocks away in the city of Fennel, now bustling even greater with nightlife than before, in part due to the lack of strict work shifts in the cooperatives, and in part due to the cultural liberalization, or libertine shift that occurred, a line of people who witnessed the Guy Fawkes Day or were nearby due to other reasons was slowly diminishing as they boarded a monorail far above the streets, one of many infrastructure investments done by the foreign cooperatives into Kell. The infrastructural project founded by the former minister of infrastructure and energy, before his abdication as Kell was turned into a direct democracy, was extremely radical and in certain ways futurist. Office and Residential buildings side by side, connected by skyways in multiple floors and in the terraces, monorail stations built next to connected terraces and linked with metro, bus and ground based trains were proposed. Only the monorails were implemented for now, for a direct democracy ran by a mostly conservative population would be naturally conservative, and people were skeptic, refusing to allow their buildings to receive the reforms needed to support such project. Yet, the renewed mass transit systems would significantly ameliorate many of the traffic issues Fennel and other cities suffered.

An inconspicuous figure browsed a thick, black booklet, avoid the distractions of conversations around and of the sounds of the tracks, the Christian Bible has already succeeded the Book of Ceno as the most printed book in Kell, and its New Testament, with words evoking passion, forgiveness and peace, coupled with a set of similarities between both religions, has soon managed to sway many to replace their faith in Ceno for their faith in Jesus Christ, to replace their Church attendances to personal and spontaneous prayers or informally arranged meetings of faithful in their homes. The churches of Ceno ehivh remained intact and open were ever dwindling in faithful as not only multiple Christian denominations came, but religions like Buddhism and New Age movements also were making their incursions into the local society, albeit with much lower success than the Christian missionaries.

However, his book wasn't conventional. It was direct transliteration of a original Greek Bible rather than a translation, and as he used his knowledge of languages to translate it himself, he would confirm that some of the Commandments have been translated wrongly, or perhaps feed an inconclusive interpretation of the book.

"Thou shalt not murder," said a womanly voice amidst the noises of the train while he was distracted reading one of the Gospels. His memory and his acute hearing tried to recognize the voice, nearly immediately, as he, without looking to his right, said:

"My friend, what brings you to this servant of Christ?"

"Perhaps," the woman said, in a paused, and apparently honest manner, "perhaps there is a part of me who questions my disbelief in the existence of a God."

Closing his pocket Bible, he finally looked at the elegant woman next to his seat, and taking beads with a plain wooden cross from his neck to his right hand, as he placed his hand over hers and held it, putting the cross over her palm, as he spoke plainly:

"I am listening. Please accept this as a gift, for you are the purest of your flock."

Felicia gratefully accepted the wooden beads and cross, and unexpectly wore it over her neck, for she found it as a symbol more universal, for since remote ages, the cross has been a place were both messiah and freedom fighters, seeking peace, liberty and a better world, through either faith or battle, were placed to suffer for their courage, and die as martyrs or religious leaders.

"Thank you. I may not wear this for believe in Christ now, but I will wear this cross, in homage to other men who also died at the cross, as they gave their lives for the cause of freedom."

Nodding with a brief sigh of disapproval, the men finally explained, citing the Holy Book:

"The path of the sword, when walked by those who are faithless but pure of heart, shall bring greater suffering and temptations than the path of faith and nonviolence."

Felicia choked as he said the words, but soon recovered her stance, although her expression was less cheerful than when she first talked to him, as she reminded, how decades ago her father has died during the siege of Seville:

"I know," she explained, sighing again to let it out, and yet refusing to weep as if it no longer affected her as much as back when it happened, "I have lost my father to a war, but now I moved on, and to think he is still somewhere, thankful for what I have done, would be a comforting delusion."

"Woman!" then the man said, in a way that managed to be loud without being impolite due to its tone, something that only one skilled in oratory would be able to do, "how do you claim that something neither you or I can understand while we exist in flesh is a delusion?" and he then agreed partially, "yes, believing in God is a question of pure faith, however, neither the existence or the nonexistence of God can be proved." he explained, lingering his hand over hers, as he finally added one last saying before giving her a moment to reply back:

"And, we would not have this conversation if you were entirely sure on atheism."

"Yes, I feel unsure, because pastor," Felicia said, referencing to his formal title, something increasingly uncommon across Kell, "logic would dictate that what my friends did in Kell should have failed, and that I would be dead by now, if not worse. Attributing success to randomness and our efforts only seem to leave a gap in logic, as logic does not differentiate between good and evil."

Confident, the man finally smiled, seeing that seeds were already planted, as he explained to her:

"I expected you to be a moral relativist. I see you can notice parts of the pattern, of the Lord's plan for this world. He cannot directly intervene, but He can inspire people to great acts of goodness, even people who do not believe in Him."

"Moral relativism is only an excuse to avoid calling both sides of a conflict evil," Felicia answered to the anarchist pastor, "only because most wars are waged for conflicting interest of proud and corrupt clergy or politicians, it does not mean that morality is relative."

"And, do you assume that your side is good?" the pastor rhetorically questioned, as he pointed to the view of the cityscape outside the windows, "I have warned you about Edward... he is misguided. Evil means drive people to evil ends Liz, and should he have focused only on killing those who sought to ruin his works and forget about the primary reason he came, he would have been corrupted."

"In fact," the pastor then explained, shifting to a broody tone, "he came very close to such point. Your friends Liz, they have killed misguided innocents as well as the true evildoers of my, I mean, our nation. Your friends still have many sins to atone for. The worshipers of the false prophet, Ceno, many of them were initially pure of heart, but in your ruthlessness, your ruler has burnt the wheat of the Church of Ceno in Kell, letting the tares proliferate and grow stronger."

"And when Edward formally forgave the remainders of the Church of Ceno for those corrupt among them," Felicia nodded in agreement, "it was already too late."

"You understand Liz," he then finally said, releasing after a long time his grasp over her hand, "I am not a pacifist, but the way of the sword must be pondered, and few can have balance when given a sword. You know that you could have achieved everything with much less grieving and mourn..."

"... and that we have planted the seeds of dischord and revenge into the hearts of the children of the men and women they had to kill," Felicia again completed, as she sighed and tried to comfort herself as she remembered that of all of them, she was the only one who never ordered or killed anyone, and the only who wanted for Gusmán to be forgiven and simply exiled instead of executed.

"However pastor, I fear I am too compassionate for politics..." she said, as she was assuming it would soon be the time to explain to such young man of faith and friend of her the primary reason she scheduled a meeting with him in such place. Yet, among the tracks noises and chatter, she awaited for his reply.

"You all are too compassionate for politics, or you would not be anarchists at all," he explained, pointing to one of the passengers, a man browsing with a laptop a visible "Kell E-Democracy Networks" title, "you all have felt the sensation of being able to control others, the way it boost your pride, the wealth, you all have been tempted by power, not in the same extent our Lord Jesus Christ has been when he traveled through the desert, but I have never seen in my life, smart and wealthy people like you, with the resources to create a dynasty and perhaps forge an empire, step aside from power and give it to the people."

"Pator," Felicia then decided to open herself, "my friends have never renounced to their true power, for even if they wanted to, they wouldn't be able."

Pointing also to the man acessing the electronic "government" of Kell, she argued:

"They can no longer directly rule over Kell, for now the people rule it, but they have the power to influence the decisions of her people, and such power will only end with their deaths."

"Perhaps," he insinuated, "perhaps they are as selfish as others, but feel themselves more fulfilled to perform acts of benevolence than of malevolence. Yet, they have risked their lives for changing Kell, and after all their effort they abandoned their privileges. They would never do such if they were selfish, but instead become easily corrupted by power, regardless of what they believed before their rise."

And with clear wisdom, he soon signaled that he knew the true motivations behind the conversation, as he again held her arm:

"Yet I know you have come for more than discussing faith and morality. What do you wish to achieve?"

"Nothing really," Felicia replied to him, while making a tactile gesture on his hand, "I just wanted a moment to talk." the monorail began to brake, as it was about to stop on a station, the closest one to Felicia's home, "and to invite you for a visit," she finished, as she got up, earlier to get ready before a crowd was formed in the midsection of the train. The pastor immediately got up after her, as Felicia smiled and offered him a friendly hug.

As their hands reached their shoulders, Felicia whispered to his ears as fast as she could:

"To discuss a chance of conducting a new revolution without excesses of the sword."

Pretending she never spoke with him as she finished her hug, he followed her towards her home, with both now simply observing and listening to the surroundings instead of speaking as they went down the station and back to the streets. A typical middle class house with two stores, painted in a nearly unnoticeable orange, was nothing standing out, but such was the home of a former minister of education, defense and national security. For some frivolous reason, someone photographed both as a flash came from the street, and for a few seconds Felicia became dazed of fear.

"Do not fear Liz," he comfortingly said, touching her shoulder and holding her hand, "It was just another tabloid journalist."

"Or a spy," Felicia replied to him, "this would not be the first time, but if he was one there is nothing we can do now but move on...," she lowered her voice, "somewhere else than my house, I will have to call a counter-espionage team to check it for bugs, just like I have all my clothing checked every day."

While at first Edward was the only complete paranoid among them, years fighting against every possible scheme led them to acquire a shared paranoia that sometimes verged on insanity. Photographs, planes flying through Fennel skies, and even insects suspected to be robotic miniature spies were checked, and bug sweeps were as much of their routine as brushing their teeth and waking up.

The pastor did not comment on the way he noticed her paranoia, as he understood the reasons behind such excess of suspicions over even the most mundane happenings. walking around, while looking behind without a timed pattern Felicia headed towards the only safehouse she could go through, one not even her friends knew, a secret she held very carefully. An ancient site, dating from the times the Church of Ceno was attempting to convert by force ancient religions, the ruins of a hidden temple for a long forgotten god, or perhaps for many gods. A press of a sequence of eight cobblestone, inside a dark alley of one of the oldest streets of Fennel, and Felicia would move through a secret, underground passage below the old cobblestone street with the Pastor, watching as it closed again behind them.

The old stone walls were littered with moss, and as they walked, sometimes an unfortunate insect would find itself under their shoes. The place seemed to have been undisturbed for ages, and Felicia looked at several spots, lit with her flashlight, as she said, carefully comparing patterns of spiderwebs and footsteps:

"It is still safe, we are almost there."

Finally they found the "temple". It was actually similar to the improvised temples the first followers of Christ build hidden into catacombs and into the underground to avoid persecution, and totally devoid except for a slab of stone which served as an altar of sorts, for heavily rusted and empty torch holding frames bolted into the walls, of which many have fallen, and for some undisturbed cups of bronze set over two stone slots on the wall behind the altar built similarly to those in mausoleums, relics of an age long gone.

Felicia casually sat over the altar, and invited the Pastor:

"Take a seat Ovid, this is only a slab of stone now."

And thus the pastor sat next to her, as Felicia began to speak with him, their only source of light being her flashlight, which she pointed to the entrance of the hidden temple they came through, and to another passage across, littered with cobwebs like if it has been centuries since it was last used, if used at all, which likely was a backup entrance or emergency exit.

"Ovid... you are the only person of the world I would trust to tell this," Felicia then began, as her greatest secret, a secret she swore her life for, seemed n longer relevant, for she couldn't bear herself to manipulate a man like him for the interests of her friends, as Felicia felt it was immoral to do so. He had to know everything before embarking, before the plans could be made.

"for if someone ever discovers I have broken the oath to not tell this, being crucified and skinned alive would probably a more pleasant fate than what I would have." she broodily explained to him.

"Ah..." Ovid then finally realized what she wanted to tell, "you belong to a secret society, and they are behind all that happened in Kell, and behind such revolution you wish my aid to do."

"Yes..." Felicia said, "and I trust you to prevent me from ending executed by scaphism. I belong to a secret society named the Network. And in truth, we never renounced our rule... instead we use key individuals and opinion makers and continue ruling Kell in secrecy."

"A shadow government?" the pastor asked, even if already knowing the answer, "now that you told me this, the fact you haven't become corrupted raises no doubts on your integrity. And do not fear, I have never had this conversation. Now, it makes no difference, but like I said, I will not help if you are not willing to seek balance."

"Pastor? Do you believe in the Illuminati?" Felicia then asked, as the moment was opportune to ask. Meanwhile, her flashlight continued to scan both entrances, and her ears did her best despite her age, to capture any suspicious sound, yet the place remained as silent and unchanging as if it did not exist.

"They might exist," Ovid pointed, "and if they do, your Network would have a powerful enemy. You seem to conspire for anarchy and equality, but if what they claim is true, they have conspired for the rich and powerful for centuries, and they probably exist for much longer than your Network. But maybe they don't really exist. Maintaining the status quo is much easier than changing it radically, I doubt a secret society would be necessary for the former."

"I see, I suppose I became too paranoid," Felicia replied, smiling, "now, I will get to the point Ovid, the more we stay here, the higher the risk" and thus he awaited for her to answer the central piece of such carefully hidden meeting:

"You have all the traits to lead a revolution Ovid, and we need your help," she said with exacerbation, "a nation suffers under the oppressive grip of god we both agree that is false, under a corrupt Church led by a man named Cenobiarch, but we need a man of faith to achieve it, and a man of balance. I know I am making a very demanding request, and that perhaps we do not deserve your help, but think about the innocents tortured by their Inquisition, about the horrors we might yet avoid..."

"Yes Ovid, yes," Felicia then muttered, as she held his hand for a shake, "We, no I request your help to liberate the nation of Waldenburg from its earthly thrones, we need you as a messiah, as a prophet of freedom and Christ."

"I understand your request, Felicia, but I cannot make a decision before I listen more about the situation," Ovid then explained, gesturing to the darkness like if symbolizing he was not completely enlightened on the circumstances.

"Very well," Felicia then answered, "I will tell you the events from the very beginning.

Ovid and Felicia would still have much to talk about for such plan, even after she explained to him about the words of the Hegemon, the insurgency and the incoming threat of Gholgoth, and thus they remained in the temple as she finally said:

"I need some time to think, could you wait?"

"Of course Felicia. I am extremely glad that you have put such trust on me." he then explained.

Whether to guide herself on the Machiavellian means of Edward or on what she believed to be the best way to achieve what she dreamed of, would be the decision she would have to make. A glorious revolution however, was on the realms of Utopia... yet Kell equally could be classified with such definition.

Perhaps, perhaps, there were greater forces behind such happenings, and their success perhaps was more than a question of probabilities. Meanwhile, tomorrow the tabloids of Kell would probably print something about an avid atheist having converted to Christianism.

Whether tabloid journalists had second jobs as spies was another question, soon to be answered.

Kyrie Eleison (http://www.music.columbia.edu/collegium/recordings/Mozart%20Requiem/02%20Kyrie%20eleison.mp3)

"My goodness, and my fortress; my high tower, and my deliverer; my shield, and he in whom I trust; who subdueth my people under me."

The Holy Bible, Psalms 144:2

In a putrid haze the incense rose, clinging like mist to every surface and billowing about the chamber with every pattern and shift of the air. Red-rimmed eyes stared through the cloud as the chant took on a deeper timbre and the psalms grew in intensity till they were almost shouted to the stained and faded walls.

“…Quax Dinimum alt Abbesecies,” with a finality that suited and with a slowness that stretched the regality of the moment the miter fell and gently graced the point of the head, fitting as if every stitch had been lovingly chosen and every thread had simply been created for this one moment. “In the name of his Imminence the Cenobiarch, and with the powers granted to me by his Holy Church, I confer upon you the title Archbishop Superior, Primarch of Kell and Primate of his Imminence’s Church in these lands.” Without hesitation the assembled lesser clergymen fell to their knees respectively and waited to kiss the outstretched ring of the new Archbishop. It was an odd ring perhaps, not the usual golden affair of most Archbishops but one of silver and set with a dark ruby or garnet that alone twinkled amongst the incense.

All other accoutrements and decorations in the tiny circular chamber had faded; frescoes five hundred years old were dark and crumbling with years of ask and smoke. The robes themselves were a dirty off white color, the ceiling an expanse of black marble picked out with pearls and in the shape of the heavens had even begin to show its age. Light however played mean tricks with the eye and the Archbishop’s ring twinkled a merry twinkle all of it’s own.
--

No one amongst the remaining clergy could quite remember why there was a portrait of the presumably late Emperor Celestine III hanging under a large picture window in the solarium of the Abbey of Kell, or why a bowl of incense was placed before it every morning and a small devotional chanted. This mattered very little to the remaining staff, as it was a tradition, one begun years before any of them had been rotated into the abbey. Indeed many of the daily routines of the Old Church were fading. The nine remaining clergymen in this particular building were hard pressed to say their nine daily prayers let alone revere the saints and keep the pews dusted. And yet every morning a bowl of incense was placed before the picture, and the world continued to spin.

“Ring the bells Father Hobbs,” Abbot Terzo had called the priest to his office where paperwork had once lined every inch of his great oak paneled desk, now the room was spotless and every surface free of administrative detritus. “As if it were a feast. Happily, and very, very loudly if you can manage.”

“Why Your Grace? It isn’t a feast day is it?”

“No Father, but it will be. Ring the bells and at noon, and send a runner to the other Waldenburger churches, all the bells are to be rung together.”

“Very well Your Grace.” The priest departed at his normal obese waddle to leave Terzo in peace and a state of mind some might find troubling. Circulating through his hands a pen was poised over a blank sheet of paper. It seemed as those he had written out the openings and the various salutations but the body of the letter itself seemed to elude him. With a mulish rigidity he scrutinized the paper and his mind to find the words to express his situation.

It was a well known fact that beyond the borders of Kell the Imperial States, as well as the Republic of Paloni still stood, and were either supportive of the Church or vastly in favor of seeing Vaughn swing from a pole arm. “Tenuous at best.” Terzo commented as he cautiously licked his lips and put his first few thoughts to ink.
--

The Revolution and Year of Long Knives had changed very little the atmosphere in The Merit office, where sweaty overweight and harassed partners bellowed at one another at cross purposes and generally tormented the interns for a bit of sport. A stench of stale coffee and too many people in far to little space mingled with the smell of ink and damp paper. The newspapers still came out as they did before the Palonian Civil War even, daubed and dressed as a whore of Babylon and shouting fallacy and hyperbole to the point where hysteria was a pleasant afterthought.

In this way the system had been kind to Inquisitor Hess who sat peaceably at his desk penciling in a story about a woman and her supposedly clairvoyant cat. When the system had collapsed and being an Inquisitor no longer brought home any bread but rather screaming mobs Hess had been quick to change profession and name in a hurry.

“Min!” A harried looking woman poker her ahead around the office door and found herself in a sea of calm serenity in comparison to outside. Most of the newspaper staff was in awe of Albert Min, he had a most peculiar knack of finding stories that even the most veteran and hardened journalists could not even begin to scratch. “What do you think of this? One of the rovers just picked it up.” A few sheets of newspaper were pressed onto the table along with a set of photos showing a woman almost arm in arm with another man guiltily turning their head from a residential home.

“She looks stunned.” Min commented as he immediately realized who the woman was. He had almost killed her a year ago, though she may not have even noticed the attempt, as his bullet went some distance over her head as she was exiting the palace. “Guilty almost.”

“Exactly!” His coworker cried happily, “a member of the ‘government,’ well sort of, taking a pastor home with her! She’s converting! An avid atheist turned pious Christian by mysterious vicar. That’s what we have so far but maybe you have…”

“Whose house is that?” Min asked without looking up from the pictures.

“Well, she opened the door, so we assume hers.”

“’How about Sex-Crazed Spaniard defrocks Holy Man?’ It has a certain ring to it.”

“Well yes… but we don’t know that.”

“Nor do we know she’s turning Christian.”

“Well no,” the woman looked slightly disappointed at being shot down so easily but rallied herself, “It doesn’t do to antagonize the government.”

“Mary!” Min rolled himself back in his swivel chair; any of his former coworkers would have been surprised in the roll Hess was now playing and playing so well, “We are the government! We can say whatever we want and this looks like a good story. Ask management for the go ahead and put it to print.” She left Min pondering the ceiling with a faraway look, and after perhaps just a little more chatting with the receptionist than was strictly necessary, passed the new story to the writers.

If there were any free Inquisitors in the future of anarchy, Hess noted that even one was such a thorn in the side of the ‘people.’ Vaughn needed to depend on people doing the morally correct thing in his new order and if any one individual acted out he would cause waves of discord, great and terrible waves amongst every level of a truly free society.

Min smiled.
--

Waldenburger was very different from the rolling and pleasant hills of Paloni; the ancient buildings still stood but the green had gone away, the grass had died, and the trees withered. A sky clogged with industrial smog and the sounds of ringing foundries beating out the seemingly endless supplies of iron, steel and coal that powered the nation.

On the west side of the River Strein however no factories had been built and a gentle wind pushed the clinging cloud of pollution away from the Basilica of St. Michael and the various relics of the Church, It was a very odd panoramic transition from the glistening domes and cupolas on the west bank to the streaming smokestacks of the east and beyond that the homes of the indigent, and yet further the looming ice peaked crags of the mountains. Out to the west began the roll and expanse of the High Desert, an expanse of three thousand miles of the blasted sand and long forgotten and abandoned chapels of the old religions. Gods once clad in shimmering light and wielding lightening as their spears had been blown away by a gentle wind and the constant action of the shifting sands. Their temples remained amongst the great seas, their names forgotten, and their congregation whittled to spiders.

It was in the desert the prophets were made; Ceno walked into the desert and when he returned the peasants fell to their knees and worshipped him and the idols fell and cracked. When the first von Waldenburgs walked out of the desert they were made kings.

There was something in the sands it was said, and when the body was so close to collapse there was a little voice that spoke secrets into a sickened heart, and when, if, the body returned from the desert it was much changed; a sense of purpose and pose entered him and with every move, step and each flickering of hardened and gaunt eyes a religion was said to be born.

From a small throne placed on the stairs rising to a much larger and ornate throne the Cenobiarch sat pensively, tapping his fingers against the plain wooden arm rest of the traditional throne, not a seat of great majesty in it’s gilt and design but in it’s lack of ornamentation and indeed stirring motto left that imposed a sense of immense power. Harold Thousis had always appreciated this touch and when he had been consecrated as the Cenobiarch he had spent several hours just circling the old chair to catch even of glimpse of some inner majesty.

Outside a great set of crystal windows a breeze was whipping up sand crystals from the desert and blowing them about in great sheets and in dense veils. Cardinals clustered around the man and pressed sheets of paper before him while clipping out rapid and rehearsed speeches. The Cenobiarch merely tapped the side of his cheek and bit his lip slightly.

“The wind is fierce,” he said sullenly, “something has whipped it up,” red robed figures turned irritable to the window to join their master in scenic appraisal, “I wonder what angers it so?”

I looked at heaven, I found nothing. I looked at earth, I found little. I looked at my once best friend, I found lies. I looked into myself, I found emptiness. But as I looked at the people, I found God. With this newfound knowledge, I journeyed through the worlds, weaving a fate with His aid I could not understand. I have stared at the eyes of evil, of greed and lust, I have tended to the meek, however, the hopes I have given were in vain, and then I realized, that love alone could not set everyone free, that prayers shall not stop the murder from killing, the thief from stealing or the beggar from starving.

God needs not further people to put words in His mouth and twist the teachings of His son, neither to speak with Him, to ask for boons and thank for the moments of happiness in their lives, but to speak for Him, to spread His truth rather than twisting it into serpentine lies, to perform actions worthy rather than blasphemous to His name. God does not need churches, nor prayers, nor to people to bow to Him like if He made man proud at his image, rather than as mankind's very choice to dwell in pride. God does not need governments to tarnish his name while serving the adversary, but mean to cleanse such blasphemies, to balance the way of sword and the way of love, to show the way to those shrouded by the shadows of kings, emperors, presidents and the demons behind and inside them. Such is the mission a true evangelist should dedicate a lifetime for, to spread His word and dignity across the world.

The kingdom of Heaven will never come for those who simply await for it to happen, but only for those who fight and love for its dawn.

Unknown

The beam of light shone ancient stones of the secret temple, but not the darkened faces of the man and woman who conspired in its silenced indoors, whispers exchanged into one of many alike conversations that the peoples of Paloni and Waldenburg blindly followed on while happening, unaware that sooner or later, one of them could become a pawn for the games of men with opposite goals. Or perhaps, the players were even more unaware of those who used them as pawns, tracing an infinite cycle of scheme after scheme which end was subjective to the degree of a paranoia of who investigated it.

"Look at this," Felicia suddenly pointed her flashlight to a section of one of the walls of the crypt, "can you spot the odd placement of those stones?". Indeed, the stones she indicated were not perfectly matching the pattern of the other stones, like if they have been added after the original construction rather than as part of it, perhaps for reasons long buried in history, yet the way Felicia precisely pointed to it confirmed she knew about it before.

"A secret passage, I presume you have explored what lies beyond?" said Ovid, while he rose from the slab of stone and began to carefully observe it as she lightened it. The stones had a mosaic of small ridges, forming a long weathered image of what might have been a deity.

"Whoever built it is extremely clever," Felicia explained while laying on the forgotten altar. "Water is not dense enough to reach the activation mechanism, and will just pass straight, while moss would jam it and condemn its seal to last for years... but they had a flesh supply of what they needed to open the door."

Observing the way Felicia stood prone over the altar, Ovid realized what she meant, nodding in answer. Meanwhile, staring at the darkened ceiling, she began to relax, trying to get off some of her tiredness of what has been a long day. Eying her oddly, the pastor questioned:

"Why does it not bother you to lay at the exact spot thousands of innocents have been murdered?"

"Because Ovid," Felicia replied, strangely dragging a knife out of her pocket, "a place in itself is meaningless, the people around it are what give it shape."

"Felicia? What are you going to do with this knife?" the immediately worried man said in a louder whisper than usual, while Felicia began to drove the knife next to her left hand, Nearly immediately, she sliced her palm slightly, barely wincing, like if dulled from such mundane pain, and blood began to flow slowly from it. Arising again, she headed towards the strange pattern on the wall, and extended her bleeding hand over it

"You are crazy."

"Ovid, as you know," Felicia explained while her blood slowly flowed through the ridges, "Sometimes, we cannot choose between forgiveness and bloodshed. For sometimes, the door to the way of truth and freedom can only be opened with blood."

"Fine, however, we did not come here to discuss ethics,"Ovid tapped his foot, for they were deviating too much from the primary subject of the meeting, "what is the purpose of showing me this door?

A rumble of moving stone began to echo through the room, as slowly the wall began to lower. The light Felicia brought illuminated its faint insides slowly, as shocked, the pastor stared at a golden statuette that was flashed. What first seemed to be golden pikes were instead horns, horns of an otherwise entirely normal sculpture of an extremely well dressed, imposing human. The dress recalled ages long gone of mankind history, however everything was very clear.

"Yes... this place was used for demon worshiping," Felicia confirmed as she touched the solid gold of the statue with a clean cloth like an archaeologist rather than like someone giving any meaning to such sculpture, and with her left hand bandaged, she would snidely comment: "but with a Church like the Church of Ceno, there is no need for demons. Unless," she said, placed her head over the head of the statue, giving the illusion the horns were hers.

"It is convenient for the establishment to label enemies as demons."

The pastor was shocked, silent, as he saw how mundanely Felicia treated important religious matters. For her, it seemed God was nothing but a construct of governments to ensure their perpetuation, a fraud, a tool of the rich to control the poor, rather than a being who, after giving to His creation free will, had to endure His creation inventing books and claiming them as His word.

"Do you really have no religion, Felicia?" the Pastor immediately asked, with obvious undertones as he seemed to demonstrate a certain suspicion about her, for perhaps she delved into the occult.

"Yes, you know I would fall for any New Age occult bull just because it sounds cooler than watching a boring mass." even her laughter was whispered, giving an mismatching sinister tone to their conversation, as she again turned to face the idol.

"Ovid, for me, this is meaningless. Probably an old pagan god labeled evil," she complemented, "by a new religion those in power forced their people to follow."

Nodding, Ovid sighed as he muttered:

"For you, religion is nothing besides a tool which I have no doubt you would willingly desecrate, using even the symbols of my faith as toys for your personal amusement. And despite all, you want to use religion as a tool. Why should I help you? What will you achieve?"

"You did not ask what I seek to truly achieve, Ovid. I seek to liberate Waldenburg from both public and hidden governments, for us to prepare it as a truly free nation, and if necessary, to fight against the Freeks as well, till the bitter end. I ask you not to follow me, but to help me in such achievement, and take your deserving merit for it."

"How?" Ovid immediately asked, while Felicia mounted over the horned head of the statue like a man mounting over a bull in a rodeo.

"Culture is made of symbols and meaning. That fireworks was just a fancy entertainment and nothing more, as it has long been bereft of any meaning and purpose in the culture of Kell, being only a reminder of a past most wish to be stormed by the future. I lack the mindset to understand the people of Waldenburg," Felicia dismounted from the statue's head, and finished, "only a man of faith would have the heart and mind for it. A man like you. I request you to simply meet me again next night, I will find another safe house. I will find you."

"Very well," the pastor replied as he began to move away from the secret passage, "I do not see why we cannot discuss this further. I will think about it for now."

"You wouldn't understand Ovid, there is more at stake than the fate of nations," Felicia drove her hand into a stone pulled by the mechanism, and pushed it back, as again the wall closed off the secret passage. Immediately, she began to stride towards the same way she came in, not before handling a spare flashlight to the pastor and saying:

"Leave through the passageway, it will be safer and we better not be found together again."

"Wait Felicia? Are you at any risk?" he asked willingly offering his help to protect her through his tone.

"Do not worry about me, move!" she whispered back hurriedly, her footsteps becoming ever more distant. The man of faith then turned towards the other way, and slowly walked through the stony corridor, through what could be counted as at least three entire blocks, until finding himself next to a wall shaped door seamless built next to a cramped sewer access. As the wall closed off behind, he took further steps, trying to ignore the stench, and climbed the ladders to a manhole, and back to the streets of Fennel, from where he would make his way into the wake of the night.

Meanwhile, Felicia would black out one block before her home, as all of a suddenly, an unknown assailant would take her by surprise, knocking her down with a stiff prod over her head.

It was not a follower of the old traditions, only an opportunistic thug, not a part of an intricate plot, but simply a pure matter of circumstances, of Felicia being at the wrong place at the wrong time, an ironic twist of fate that a completely spontaneous kidnap would get her caught unprepared after the train of conspiracies she has gone unscathed through.

The thug, smiling as he wondered how much he would profit from it, then grabbed a set of hemp ropes from a bag, and tied up tightly the victim, dragging her afterwards inside a sack. The deserted streets could still pose a danger to him, as at any moment an armed passerby could attempt to kill the thug, but luck was to his side, and soon he dropped Felicia inside the trunk of his car, and closed it down, as he headed towards the still standing, old Church of Ceno. His car parked at its otherwise empty lot, and cautiously ensuring nobody watched him, he dragged a black sack over his back, and stood next to the door of the Church. It was almost midnight as he would knock over the door. the footsteps at the floor indicated someone was inside, which meant his bid for a quick cash wouldn't go wrong.

"Who is there?" asked a voice from behind the doors, while from a minor glass, it was possible to watch the outside of the church.

The thug, without ceremonies, simply untied the sack, exposing the tied up woman, one of the most proeminent members of the new government, her closed eyes, her unconscious state giving away her defenseless against the very men she once demanded for Edward Vaughn to show mercy to. The irony was bitter, on how the only person who opposed the persecutions against the clergy of Ceno would now end at their mercy.

As the thug came inside, he immediately explained, simply and straight to the point:

"I hope that I will be given proper compensation for such service."

The gearworks of history spun, and sooner or later, results would come. The life and future of the still unconscious Felicia Jaumann hanged on a thread. Even her cyanide pill would abandon her, for everyone in Kell knew that they had such pills, and safely removing it from a visibly hollowed teeth would be trivial.

Only the refusal of them to reward the thug could change the situation.

Nevertheless, Felicia has accomplished her mission, seeding a potential revolutionary. From now on, liberating Waldenburg would depend upon him alone.

Lacrimosa (http://www.music.columbia.edu/collegium/recordings/Mozart%20Requiem/08%20Lacrimosa.mp3)

"Look at the lands and people I have given you to govern. Look at their wonder, and their works, look at their hearts and you shall find courage. Look to sea to find her colonies, look to the sky to see their destiny. This is yours, O' child of God, fall to your knees and worship Him. Look at the worlds I have given you to conquer."

The Book of Ceno 3:12:12


“Father Abbot?” A rotund faced hove into view over the doorframe and a rather worried face red appeared. It was red and puffing from previous exertion, “There is a man at the side door. With a woman.”

“Hah!” Terzo laid down his pen delicately and with relief stood up whilst stretching his tired limbs; it was somewhat of a relief to be removed from the letter which was as far along as it was at the start of the evening. “They want us for marriages and to put their bodies in the ground but beyond that they are entirely liberated. We do not marry anyone in the night; you know this Brother Rudolph.”

“Yes Father Abbot the woman was in a bag.”

“Well at least some old traditions are being kept up…”

“No, Father Abbot, the man is offering her to us, for a price. She is that woman, Felicia,” the foreign syllables fell of his tongue as if rudely dropped, “the Spaniard. I can get the silver from the vault if you like.”

“Is Brother Hess in yet?”

“He phoned ahead; apparently something is happening in the newspaper, and he has not returned for the night. Shall I call him?”

“No,” Terzo pulled his crosier from an umbrella stand near his desk and strode towards the open door and Brother Rudolph. “Follow me.” Walking down the stone corridors of the abbey was in itself an education, stoic saints, and sinister demons were woven in the very stonework and fine oil paintings recounting the patrons and former abbots of the building stared down long noses at the two striding figures. No matter the time of year the stone was cold, and even in the high summer, there was a ubiquitous chill to even the most well ventilated rooms. A door however at the end of the hall allowed in slightly more of a draft than was common and a figure could be seen stamping in the half-light outside.

Without hesitation or any forewarning a pistol was drawn from the folds of the Abbots robes, leveled at the head of the figure standing outside and fired twice. Brother Rudolph, who had only joined the Order after the Revolution and thus never seen the violence of the old Church, swooned at the sight of the sudden wave of blood that drowned the doorstep. Terzo continued at pace, stepping daintily over the spreading puddle and examining an unconscious figure and another dead one.

“Brother Rudolph?” Terzo spoke in a tone that suggested this was all quite normal and everyday. “Let me make one thing perfectly clear; beyond any shimmering of a doubt, we do not torture the innocent, we are not murderers.” Brother Rudolph made a sound that suggested he disagreed and nodded slightly to the evidence, “Human scum. Detritus of the socialist agenda, a criminal in both worlds, and dead now in ours. May the Lord Keep and protect his soul. “Terzo pocketed the pistol and stepped further aside to avoid the ever expanding sea of blood. “Take her inside to the hospital pallets, put her in a bed, and find some clean sheets. Post a guard on the room, but do not lock the door. Tend to her with what you can. As for this one,” a well-placed kick was aimed at the recently deceased kidnapper. “Take him to the catacombs and throw him with the others.”
--

The entire continent from the rolling mountains of the south, to the rivers, and the plains, which pervade out beyond them had once been the sole property of the Waldenburger Emperor. All of Paloni, the Ram-Marches to the North, the Rimwald, Ibblesguard, had once been subdued and paid homage to a far removed sovereign. That time had long fallen, and hegemony had shifted; there were however shards of the old Empire still hanging on.

Most noticeably the Church still held the captivated minds of most of the continent and her cathedrals towered from every city, her bishops consecrated every priest, her monuments and traditions hung on in every town square. But before Ceno walked the High Desert and spoke with God there had been others; different churches had sprung from the ground and some still remained, in the far reaches of the desert, or carved into mountainsides, or in the lyrics of song. Deep within the ground there was another, another Church apart.

When, at the time of the catechism Ceno had signal handedly torn down the religions of the old world and built his own he watched with admiration as former devotees turned on their literature and idols, and pagan dress. And they asked to burn it in a great bonfire in a remission of their sins, but he denied them stating that that would give some value to them, and instead they were tossed aside without much care where they would land. Some of it was buried in dark caves, some simply left to the wind.

Brother Rudolph trundled a wheelbarrow along and tried to whistle cheerfully to himself however with every measure of ‘God Divines’ the cheery tune turned ever more towards a funeral dirge. The body of the kidnapper was tucked neatly, it had been sanctified, into the metal compartment and was being pushed along the labyrinth of tunnels and natural caves that constituted the catacombs of the abbey.

A small candle affixed to the front of the cart and hand torch grasped in one hand was the only source of illumination to be had. Normally the little slots which penetrated into the wall would be filled with human skulls here however the morbid display had been entirely eradicated as only stacks of papers, old parchments, and scrolls were stuffed into the walls. In some ways this was much worse. On occasion a bright sparkle would catch the beam of his light and Rudolph would hurry his steps; he had played here when he was a child, a total of once, and he knew perfectly well the silver medallions set with amethyst and sapphire that hung limply from the alcoves, and even now after so many years he could still remember the pattern of serpents…

His thoughts returned to the task at hand and from somewhere up ahead the light tinkle of water dripping methodically, as if it would for years, reverberated down the hallway. Pushing the wheelbarrow into a large open area the closeness of the passageways seemed to fade away and with the faint stabbing illumination of his flashlight he could make out the walls of the cavern. It was overly large and runoff from the river had carved it over the millennia.

A pool of water about six feet deep though had condensed over the ages around the floor and though the occasional lance of rock protruded from it remained placid barring the occasional drip of water that plunked regularly down from the ceiling. Without hesitation Rudolph tipped the body into the pool where various bacteria would deal with the corpse in due time. As the body splashed down to the cave floor the flashlight swung and a shaft of light shot through the crystal clear waters; grimacing back was a pale white face locked into a visage of lifeless vacancy. There were other’s hundreds of other’s in various states of decay and floating lifelessly, silently, away from the world.

With a shiver Brother Rudolph scuttled from the room.

Bad Amburg Castle, Waldenburg

“Blink your eyes… Good. Follow the light with your eyes…. Excellent.” A white masked face peered through the corona of the blinding surgical light. “Now if you could just raise your right hand… Your other right hand… Yes. And the other. Good.” The mask disappeared for a moment and returned with a tongue depressor, which was applied without resistance.

“Everything seems to be find.” There was a snap of latex gloves. “He checks out perfectly your imminence. A little dozy I imagine, at the moment, but in a few days, he’ll be right as rain.” The two voices continued to speak in low murmurs until they dissipated into incoherent whisperings and then, with the slamming of a door, nothing at all.

From the surgical table a hand was raised and examined, with great muscular difficulty, and inspected at eye level. It was a good hand.

OOC Sorry for the delay

Men in Black (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BgvA0IwZj38)

Section 51 is an Internet Myth. There is no elite force dedicated to Black Ops in the Confederacy, or in any allied Commune to Third Spanish States.

Cecily Lockhelm, head of State of the Confederacy

6th of November of the Second Year of the Kell Revolution, Morning, 11:05

"Attention passengers of flight one hundred zero five, fasten your seatbelts for landing." a voice announced through the passenger's plane, echoing through the single cabin, undivided between economic and first class, for even in facts as trivial for the greater picture as the layout of airliners, the revolution has brought changes. Sitting in a lonely row, the pastor was at last to reach his destination, and quickly fastened his seatbelt as instructed. He woke up four hours earlier, and still remembered the encrypted, eyes only e-mail he received. It was simply a request for him to come at a given address, Rudolph Schnaubelt street 157th, and the unmistakable digital signature of Vaughn.

And thus, he simply walked outside the airplane, cautiously keeping the pace of the row of passengers as they moved through and down the stairs. The tarmac he walked seemed pristine, and much of the airport was clearly renewed. A massive monorail station stood next to the airport, bringing back and forth passengers towards the city. There was virtually no check out, only check ins, and no sign of security, although the sight of handguns at one of each three persons walking by was a good enough deterrent for possible madmen. Inside the airport, a few small stores existed, most completely untouched by the revolution, although an old fast-food franchise, still existing, has changed. As he walked inside the lobby, the most obvious changes came next to his feet, as a pair of cleaner robots moved through the floor, wiping it with the resolve of mindless drones. Many stores have been fully automated, while some, where paranoia reigned, had machineguns with cameras mounted on their roofs, serving as very strong deterrents to thievery attempts. Fast-food services were literally automated services, as the Pastor could see the small group of persons grabbing their fries and cheese-barbecues from vending machines rather than from underpaid laborers, where the revolutionary automatic kitchen appliances brought from the far away Third Spanish States were making their job.

However, he didn't have time to notice the changes, and thus, amidst the crowd, Ovid headed towards the station, moving to one of the ticket machines where a screen with touchscreen interface lied. Inserting credit chits inside its slot, and selecting the closest station to his destination with his finger, he took a ticket from it, climbed through the platform, entering inside the train, and moved towards his designated seat.

As the train passed, the coastal city appeared through the windows, quickly its motions blinking into Ovid's memory. People moved on, always, but not desperate, not hurriedly. There were no longer oppressive schedules and time tables, and paradoxically, people still worked harder, being far better in four hours of work than they once did in six or even more. The heavy automation and gradual switch of menial to intellectual roles as truly automated machines slowly replaced the first, may have a large influence over it, and now some mechanics graduated in Mechanical Engineering, construction workers were given the opportunity of learning Civil Engineering, and every hard worker given the chance. A few preferred to remain, and thus they did.

The train halted again, and Ovid, this time, left to walk through the street, which was just next to the beach, one of many in Paloni north coast. The cold weather made the coast line virtually empty of tourists, as he walked through the streets, observing the sea extending through the horizon, and marking the numbers of the residences to his side, block by block.

Eventually, the distance between the number he was informed in that e-mail, which was scripted to erase itself after he read it, and the number of the building he saw to his left, became far smaller, and he knew there was probably one more block in his walk. The area also shifted from a residential set of houses and apartments next to the beach to an industrial set of old warehouses of cinder block and red bricks, which he couldn't help but judge as somewhat seedy. The pedestrian movement on such streets was far smaller, although some pickup trucks moved in and out some active warehouses, carrying industrial materials, and in a few non automated ones, workers helped to offload the trucks and carry their contents inside, all in preparation for shipping them to containers in freighters and export them to the world.

Eventually, he found the warehouse he was looking for, one that occupied an entire block, which number showed 157th. It was seemingly closed, its front door locked with two pairs of thick chains binded with the largest padlock he ever seen, and all windows to its sides were boarded with steel grates. Something extremely valuable must be held inside, he deducted, and perhaps something more valuable than material wealth: a Secret.

Pondering on something proper to knock the steel door, which seemed extremely thick, he reminded of his precautions, and took a P70 pistol concealed in one of his thick pockets in his elegant pants, checking if its safety locked remained in place, and rapped the door with its butt, placing it again inside the pocket right after.

"Come in," a male voice said without hinting anything that the pastor could ponder about, "we are expecting you."

Suddenly the steel door began to slide down, as if the chains and padlock were nothing but ways to trick possible invaders into thinking they were holding the door in place. A discrete sound of its movement could be heard, and doubtlessly, it was a sort of mechanism that was activated. As it slided, Ovid noticed the man inside the warehouse and the inner layout of the room just ahead. The room was a large corridor, with two sentry guns mounted over its roof, ready to shoot down intruders, further emphasizing that it wasn't a normal warehouse, and the man was clearly dressing a military uniform, and armed with a FA-65 assault rifle, he motioned for him to follow as he walked through the corridor, seemingly unwilling to speak more than what was necessary, and thus Ovid did. Half the way, the door closed behind again, and Ovid's curiousity increased at every step he took, following the soldier, as he at last asked:

"If I may ask. What is stored here?"

"Unassembled components for fractional orbital ballistic missiles," the man surprisingly gave away the information, "Kell will not survive or, at best, see peace for much longer, without any deterrent of imperialist pigs."

"I see, so Vaugh has been arming Kell with nuclear weaponry," the pastor nodded along the way, considering cautiously how to deal with a man like Edward, "how many are there?"

"You ask too many questions," the soldier shrugged, but still continued,"but let me tell you one thing: it was not Vaugh who had the idea to covertly bring nuclear weapons to Kell. Not at all"

By then, the soldier was next to a door in the left, next to the end of the corridor, which was clearly adjacent to the actual warehouse. Curious, Ovid asked:

"Then, who did it?"

"Felicia, after she took the ministry of Defense. I'd watch out for that woman if I were you. I heard she is far less compassionate than she appears to be."

"You are telling the truth, aren't you?" the pastor indulged, as he couldn't believe that a woman like Felicia was doing something like that, considering the possibility of causing millions of death, if necessary. It couldn't really be the truth, for she seemed more focused at peace than war.

"Felicia doesn't like to resort to violence, but only of the unnecessary type," the soldier grumble as he opened the door, "she is more pragmatic than you think. And I bet she conned you with some 'I am not really sure that god doesn't exist' bullshit."

"Don't speak this way of my friend!" the pastor said in a less serene tone than his usual, "Felicia is a woman of integrity, and I have stood with her far enough to know that. She feels for all she does, and if she did this, then I know she would feel the deepest sorrow in her heart, should ever these weapons come to use."

"Yeah, yeah. Nevermind, the prez want to speak with you," the door revealed the warehouse itself, where inside enclosured domes with clear radioactive warnings, men wearing NBC suits handled a few parts, while cranes moved with their larger parts towards some sort of gorge burrowed in the ground he couldn't see, while smaller parts were being placed inside black vans.

"I wouldn't be surprised to see a black helicopter here," the pastor joked as he noticed the shady operation.

"They only land during the night," the soldier then explained, "we have enough conspiracy theories to make daylight airlifts. Now, just watch your step and follow me."

Finally, they came to an office, which one-side mirrored windows made it impossible for what happened inside to be seen by those outside the room. The soldier then approached a small bookcase, and began to pull several books from it in what seemed to be a strange sort of password, as the books were moved, the soldier then took a flashlight and began to flicker it towards one of the walls, where nothing strange could be spotted, in a way that indicated a pattern of sorts.

As the soldier finished such procedures, a set of the linoleum floor, which seemed completely seamless, suddenly began to slide forward into an unseen slot, revealing a perfectly hidden staircase below. The soldier then moved towards the staircase and Ovid followed him as the floor slided back, over his head, covering again such secret passage. The corridor below was very short, and just ahead, a bunker-like door stood, with a keypad, a pair of fingerprint and retinal scanners, and possibly cameras recording everything.

The soldier then placed his hand over the two scanners, his face over the other, and two beeps announced something, then he began to type a code in the keypad, as another beep came, and the door began to slide to the left.

"Welcome to Area Fifty-two," the soldier decided to joke, "we only don't have UFOs and black projects here. I swear."

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VhOlpgQgQNo

"I see," the pastor nodded, as next to the large blast door, an elevator stood. The soldier then typed a code in a keyboard inside the elevator, as it began its ascent.

"You must have an excellent memory. How many passwords are here?" the elevator began a rapid descent, in a vault dug deep beneath the Earth, until it finally stopped, and its internal doors slided open again. Massive was not enough to describe the facility ahead. Catwalks were around a massive room, where a gigantic mainframe stood, likely processing countless data at once. Glass sliding doors were everywhere leading to adjacent, smaller rooms across the catwalk, and massive screens arrayed to the center and around such mainframe, where images of spy satellites were shown with great accuracy, one of them fittingly locked at the seat of power of the Cenobiarch, and even capturing with exactness the people and clergy moving through the building. Another image showed from a bird's eye view the massive fleets of Gholgoth moving through the western seas, the incoming threat and primary reason why the already secretive build up of nuclear weapons above was being made, and perhaps it was only a part of all measures taken to secure the sovereignty and freedom of Kell.

"There are passwords beneath passwords, beneath each secret lies even greater secrets hidden, truths within truths, like in an onion, where it is impossible to know whether we are closer to the outer or to the inner layer at a given moment," the soldier then explained, "it is impossible to know how many passwords, secret passages and facilities exist here, and how far this operation goes."

"And before you ask," the soldier interrupted the pastor as he was going to speak, "this is a Panopticon facility."

"Panopticon?" the pastor then asked.

"Yes, Panopticon is the ECHELON (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/ECHELON) of the Confederation, and here also ELINT, SIGINT and the intelligence gathering and counter-intelligence operations of many of our operatives, both inside and outside Kell, is processed and filtered. We cannot lie in ignorance of the urges of tyrants and enemies of mankind freedom. Every telephone conversation, everything that reaches the Internet that has matching key words is tapped and analyzed by this system, and if proved critical to the interests of the free peoples of the world, given to one of many operators for analysis."

"So, is this the reason why so many attempts to overthrow Vaughn failed?" Ovid asked right away, as he began to amaze himself with the structure of such place. How could a place like this have been constructed in secrecy was something unfathomable for his mind to guess at such moment. A message lied at the center of the massive room, and at last he noticed the words "Darkness breeds both crops and plagues", which were indeed, very fitting for what he was seeing. A question remained in his mind however, "Would they eventually breed their plagues instead of crops?" and that only time could tell.

"It was only one of many reasons," the soldier said, as he began to lead the pastor through the catwalks. People moved around, most dressed in quasi-formal black attires, and he could see many in offices working with computers which had three screens, besides a telephones and the occasional beeps of incoming messages. As he followed the soldier, he tried to listen to the occasional conversation around.

"These Intel updates regarding the Waldenburgen's Hegemon Rebellion..."

"Did you see that? It couldn't be an aircraft of..."

"We lost another contact in Gholgoth..."

The conversations seemed to have far interesting contents, but he didn't have time to listen, and they were none of his business, and probably, whatever was known about the rebellion already happened would be informed to him later. Instead, he followed into another elevator, as it went down to the bottom floor where the mainframe's base lied. A covert intelligence and electronic surveillance facility was probably only the tip of the iceberg.

"What is your name?" the pastor decided to at last ask to the soldier who escorted him through all such secretive ways.

"People who don't exist don't have names," the soldier replied with a smile as he came one of the sliding glass doors, with the label "Meeting Room #1" above. Such door was together with three others to its side at such side of the walls of the base floor, made of mirrored glass and every one of them had a keypad and a retinal scanner. Again the soldier typed another password and placed one of his eyes close to the scanner, as the door slided open, revealing a large corridor. Soon they closed again behind them, and the soldier opened a plain wooden office door to reveal nothing besides a fancy meeting room, with large panels with screens on the roof, in the middle of a round table, with large, leather seats layered around and computer terminals set for each of the seats, and some sort of inactive holographic projector right in the middle of the table.

The soldier began to clap his hands in patterned intervals of what could only be a code, followed by whispers the pastor couldn't understand, and then one of the walls slided open, and there would be virtually no way to notice the secret passage as well.

"Are you all that paranoid?" Ovid remarked because that was really too much. Light codes, sound codes, biometrics, numeric codes exceeding ten characters and sentry guns at every two meters. An army would probably have difficulties to gain entry, and it seemed so deep beneath the ground that even bunker busters would be out-of-range.

"No, but better safe than sorry," the soldier said,"we have ran simulations of possible attempts to invade this facility, including of course, infiltration attempts by spies impersonating members of this place."

"I suppose you are right," the pastor replied, "now, how far are we from where I should go to?"

"Not too far," typing another code in another keyboard, the soldier answered,"just one more ride down and a few meters of walk."

Then, the pastor finally considered one thing. There was only one reason for such facility to have been built so close to a beach, and like in classical spy stories and movies, there should exist something in this facility, and immediately he asked, already expecting the answer:

"How do so many people leave this place without calling attention?"

"By submarine, of course," the soldier replied,"and to be frank, we already arranged our travel to Waldenburg. I believe I don't need to explain how."

Nodding as another elevator ride ended, he moved towards the corridor, with another glass sliding door giving away the large facility ahead: a massive submarine pen, where a handful of refitted Tiburón II Class high depth nuclear submarines were moored. Multiple soldiers dressing black uniforms and wearing helmets with gas masks and dark glasses that covered their entire faces, were moving around, and their uniforms gave no doubt to their origins, although they lacked any type of identification symbol.

"Blackguards?" Ovid the asked about the soldiers moving through the place.

"No, the soldier explained, as he began to demonstrate some pride as he continued,"Section Fifty-One. Only the best of the Blackguards join this force. We are specialized in the art of Secret Warfare. The Questarians and Praetonians have their great navies, publicly renown and respected, the Freeks and Kravenites have their feared armies, the anarchists of Vault Ten have their powerful Air Force. But the Confederation isn't really remarkable in any of such branches, as you see."

"Are you implying," he then asked, "that the greatest strength of the Confederacy, and by extension, of Kell, lie in intelligence, and in operations that nobody knows that happen, in men who fight without expecting any glory?"

"Yes," the man said with pride, "the Confederation has some of the best Black Operatives of the world, taken from the best of the Blackguards who already stand among the best special forces of the world, and nobody knows it!" he smiled, "because if they knew, then we would be the worst of the world."

"I see," Ovid replied, when at last, among the soldiers in the docks of the pen, he spotted the old leader he hoped to meet, Edward Vaughn. The soldier then escorted him to Vaughn, as both stood next to one of the submarines, close to the ladder to its entry. The soldier then moved away, and he could listen from afar:

"No, that is not enough to impersonate a Sentinel. It would be too obvious that it wasn't an uncalled Freekish slaughter."

"So you have answered the call, I see."

"Ehm... am I hearing what you are hearing Vaugh?" the pastor asked, surprised.

"Don't worry about that," the former prince of Kell replied as he extended his hand, "we plan too far ahead sometimes, and sometimes long term plans are never executed. But yes, we have the resources for, when necessary, conduct false flag operations."

"And you are giving away everything to me..." the Pastor wondered, as it seemed the sense of paranoia was getting into his mind as well.

"So you know too much to give up by now and just be answered with a 'I hope you change your mind'," Edward answered with a certain, cynical smiled, "call me a bastard, but we cannot risk leaking the existence of this place."

"Edward, I came here, you magnificent bastard!" the pastor answered casually, clearly not afraid with the indirect thread, "if I wasn't willing to go through the end with this, why would I have come?"

"I see, now I believe I should brief you better about our knowledge of the situation," Edward said, smiling, as he stood between him and the submarine, and then shifted his expression to a more serious one, "there is a revolution breeding, as you may know, incited by the words of a man known as the Hegemon. But it will in the end, should it succeed, lead Waldenburg to just become another false democracy."

"And you want me to help changing that" Ovid answered back, nodding to what he already knew.

"With the help of an ally," Edward answered, smiling again, "or not, should another critical mission not succeed, but regardless, I'd like for you to meet personally our ally: Brigadier General Stoffer himself!"

And then, from the submarine, climbed an old man dressing a perfectly like Waldenburgen uniform, whose facial and bodily features matched exactly those of the man Edward has mentioned. At close inspection, he could easily pass as such man.

"General Stoffer has read the prophecies of the Hegemon," Edward smiled even deeper, the wrinkles of his face becoming more apparent, "but he realized they were flawed, and now seeks the council of another man of faith."

Then, taking a small MP3 player from his pocket, Edward slowly handled it as a recording with the mentioned General's voice played.

"Yes, Ovid, I have seen the error of my ways," the other man answered, his timbre matching perfectly the one of the recording, and speaking fluently Waldenburgian language, matching even the accent,"I have seen that Waldenburg can only become free without rulers, that we should only serve to the kingdom of God, and not to the Earthly kingdoms."

"This, pastor," Edward then explained, showing how the man's eyes also were very close to a picture of the General he was highlighting, "is one of our operatives who volunteered himself for a risky surgical operation involving biometrics alteration, so he could become the General."

"It is not up to you, but to another of our operatives," he then explained,"to ensure the misguided General Stoffer is seamlessly replaced by the enlightened one, without any perceivable difference between both. Or any suspicion."

"Are you joking Edward?" the pastor then asked as he began to realize how absurd things were going over.

"No jokes!" he then emphasized, "there are risks of course, and that is why I mentioned you may not have such ally for our true revolution, and that is why there is a plan B. It will be more difficult, I admit, as it will involve either siding with the rebels, or running a concurrent revolution. Regardless, I will bring you what we managed to take from the journal of the Hegemon. It is not much but it will help you doing your part in this challenging task."

"What will be my part?" the pastor then asked.

"To become the next Hegemon, to prove that you are the prophet, the bearer of his words to these misguided revolutionaries, and to slightly, discretely change their goals with time. Of course, if we get our Stoffer there, this will not be so difficult." He then pointed to the end of the pen towards a flickering lamp hanging on its tall ceiling, "you must bring them hope, a new light through which they can better perceive the world."

"And after it?" he asked.

"You can trust me, pastor Ovid," Edward explained, "that once the time is ripe, the people of Waldenburg will not be alone in their fight against their oppressors. But one thing at each time. For now, take this submarine, and you shall arrive at Waldenburg, where one of our few allies shall settle a safehouse, and you shall be informed of the result of our other operation, to take the right actions depending upon it."

"This is one of the most convoluted plans I ever seen. But I believe it will work, because you may work in shadows, but so far your goals remain pure" Ovid replied as he carefully stepped through the ladder, to reach the submarine.

"If you think this is convoluted, my faithful friend," Edward then answered, "you should know that we actually wanted for those foolish Paloni nobles to conduct that cheap, ineffective biological attack against this city and try to blame it on us, so we could quarantine it and send our man to build this facility without being noticed during the forty days the needless quarantine took."

"Holy Lord, how can something like this exist?" Ovid then said, right before he went down, and was escorted by one of the sailors inside the cramped confines of the submarine to his bunk, where all sailors seemed to also wear a helmets hiding their faces.

Sitting at his bunk, he began to read the papers regarding the Hegemon.

Meanwhile, the submarine began to go through the pen, and headed towards a large rocky underwater passage, six hundred meters beneath the sea, until entering amidst a massive pressure chamber, which kept the large pressure of the outside sea away from the facility. It would soon began to move through the seas, a submarine which took every possible sacrifice and design compromise to be able to go as deep as modern technology would allow.

And thus Edward began to head away from the pen, his mind pondering on how to further such conspiracy, as he moved towards another area of such base, and, in a parallel, thought he muttered to himself:

"Where could Felicia be?"

--------------------------------------------

Elsewhere...

A massive headache was the first welcoming sign to another day, and indeed it wasn't a good one. Opening her eyes slowly to adjust to the light, Felicia immediately spasmed as she saw herself in a medical mattress, fearing that she was perhaps taken, and noticing that they took away the cyanide pill in her hollowed teeth. A primal fear came to her as she noticed the guard next to the door, but considering the fact they didn't lock her into the bed, perhaps they were not seeking to harm her. Perhaps they knew that doing so could be more helpful for her cause than for theirs.

Looking at the guard, she rose slowly, still dazed by the headache, and asked politely?

"May I inquire about what happened during the last?" Felicia then looked at a beam of sunlight from a stained glass, "six or eight hours?"

(OOC: Yes, I know this is so far-fetched and conspiracy nutcase-grade stuff that all that remained was for a grey alien to appear, but I just like too much Illuminatus! Trilogy grade stuff. I hope you don't mind. If you have any issue with this stuff, just TG me about)

Bach's Psalm 12 (http://www.ars-antiqua-austria.com/musik/bach-psa12gr.mp3)



May 17th, 2008

"Reports from our agents in the Zambistan Sea confirm that the PIS Constance has been sunk in an apparent false flag operation by Gothic raiders. The elderly battlecruiser was the last surviving commissioned ship of the defunct Palonian Empire of the Littorl Ausbach line. Most notable the ship was supposedly the vessel in which the emperor, Celestine III, fled from Paloni on the abolition of the Monarchy some 28 months ago.

It is unclear whether the emperor was aboard the vessel at the time however it is known that several members of the Regency Council have been killed in the action.

The Waldenburger Emperor has issued a statement that decries commerce raiding and in retaliation has order eighty prisoners to be hanged in Blünderburg and promises further retaliation should any other act of war be carried out upon members of the Waldenburger continent and Hegemony.

Celestine III has been at the center of a highly publicized political scandal which reports that the counties of the former Empire were auctioned off to the highest foreign bidders and the money transferred to offshore accounts and business where the Emperor is supposedly rebuilding his base of support amongst Palomian peoples. According to the Merit newspaper…. Wait wait…

We have a feed of bodies in the water. Dozens of bodies burned and left floating…. Oh God, is that him?”
--


In imitation of true nuisance and subtlety of the psalms their faint reverberations reached even the gloomiest cellars and shook the crystal in the Cenobiarch’s solarium in a rhythm and time that set the building and the Church itself to the devotions of Empire and God. Under the silver dome labored thousands of the clergy attending to devotions mass, and the more temporal practicalities of running the Church. Fifty-Five Billion parishioners were spread across the globe and their donations were carefully tallied, and reinvested in work farms, mines, shipyards, satellites and brothels across the known world. One felt, after some time to be only another column amongst the great facades or another window perched high amongst the marble.

Along passage halls which dwarfed cathedral naves, cardinals walked in their elegant choir dress, bishops in gold embroidered vestments of ancient precedence and gilded past, and even the most humble parish priest wore the silk sash of his order. Along amongst the swirling opulence the Cenobiarch strode, his staff clicking upon the stone floor as hurried shoes trundled behind. Four cardinals, scarlet capes set a billow with their passage, hurried along behind the striding figure.

“In here Your Imminence,” a cardinal held open a seemingly random and ubiquitous door amongst a corridor of others. The five men filed through the oaken portal and with a finality that boded a sense of fraternal secrecy the latch clicked behind them. A fire had already been built in the hearth and contrived to force back the shadows that bit at the room from a single light well built into the wall. Five minimalist armchairs were arranged pleasantly about the fireplace and they were occupied silently and it felt as though there was a palpable taste of anxiety to the air.

“We have identified one of the members of the revolutionary cabal.” There was silence but for the crashing of a log into embers. “One Prioress Charlotte Duban, a laundress and hospice member within the basilica. She has been implicated by members of her staff as an accessory to the assassination of the Paliantus.”

“Can we confirm that?” Another chair asked without making eye contact.

“I am sure in time she would confirm it.”

“So we have captured the Revolution’s dirty laundry?”

“She is a murderer. The Dark Guard will pick here up in a few hours…”

“I would suggest against it Your Imminence. I have placed amongst her staff a few loyal agents; perhaps we should play this out till it’s conclusion and find the true brains behind the murders.”

From the rectory above a soprano hit a most troubling note and sent the men again to silence.

“Hegemonic speech is increasing in areas of the Old Empire as well. I have reports from a Bishop in Ibblesguard, and another in Wittenschau that hand written copies of the Hegemonic Prophecies are being handed about underground circle of followers, copied then past on again.”

“Should we assume that the Revolution is then based in the Empire as we have not seen such concrete evidence of seditious rumbling?”

“Your Imminence one hundred and seven senior Church officials were killed last night by gunmen in this very city. The Revolution is at our door.”

“Were we able to determine the origin or genetic similarities between these gunman and our own citizenry?”

“After extensive questioning we were able to determine that al but three of them had never before been seen; we took only one prisoner of the actual shooters and have not yet sieved and useful information from his gibbering. I am with Cardinal Indaulsi that these attacks are not coming from within the Empire.”

“Where, then, would you suggest?”

“Leistung. They have already Activated their silly Case Red on the Strein.”

“We are screening all Leistungi nationals, and have been sweeping profiles of incoming on legal tickets. We have database hits on over 70% and have been able to identify a majority of them. We have no fly orders with but a select few nations who in turn perform heavy screenings. I severely doubt that over two hundred agents could be thus inserted without a single security alert.”

“Ghogoloth then. An insertion team from a warship perhaps.”

“Frankly impossible in the Strein delta and unlikely with the natural environment of various other landing areas.”

“Then on the continent perhaps.”

“That begs another question…”

“Has Vaughn learned from a more impetuous scripture? He would not dare order the killings.”

“Who else? The Republic is in our pocket, the Imperial States dependant to us, and our enemies far removed from the continent. The socialist in as insidious one. Surely everyone has read the reports from Paloni? Thirty Bishops killed in two years and thousands dead in the purges afterwards. He clearly maintains a vendetta against the Church one not so clearly defined; a subtle affair certainly and one that has not gone without some consideration by the Council of Bishops I assure you.”

“Kell would be an easy proposition to defeat; an organized state, predominantly and undoubtedly controlled by civil militias and foreign mercenaries, with simmering tensions of those who long for a…” a white veined hand was waved about in a pool of light, “return to previous values. If the Divine Legion were to be landed in force in Wittenschau, or one of the Imperial Armies reactivated I’m sure we could topple, well, everything…”

“With less than one hundred men Vaughn subdued an entire population; what can he do with a few thousand? We must not tip our cards to heavily on any play; if we can be definitely blamed, and Vaughn is not killed outright, then we open a wound. Either destroy entirely or let alone I believe in the saying. That or change the nature of the game, bring a new deck.

As you are all aware, Dr. Retirun has once again surfaced after service to the Emperor at Rassenholm and has been of some use in the last weeks. As you do not know however is that I have been in contact with the last remaining hierarch in Kell, one Abbot Trezo, and he reports a grim situation that darkens day by day. His Excellency the Archbishop Throm has been made aware of the situation and has given it a considerable amount of attention, even in light of the internal problems. He has suggested that Project Battenburg be put into effect, and has ordered two models to be produced by Retirun. They will be inserted into Wiitenschau then driven covertly across the border where we will see the effects.”

“Your Imminence,” a thin face leaned forward from its chair to reveal possible the gauntest flesh seen upon any living creature, “Battenburg is a waste of time. Let the Legion sort the upstart out.”

“Nothing would give me more pleasure to see him hang, however in due time a promise you a much more satisfying victory over that man. IF we do not see success in four months I will suggest that you lead a strike team to eliminate him and his cabinet ministers. Is this an acceptable compromise?”

“Yes, Imminence.”

“Very well. Then you all know your places. Of course the Canonarch has prepared your briefings and a dossier of all those involved. We have much work to do.” Four frames rose from four chairs and the cardinals, one by one, dipped to kiss an outstretched ring softly.

“God’s will be done,” they muttered softly before filling away and allowing the door to swing one more shut.
--

A little crack and then the scuttle of fatty fingers hungrily digging out the tasty nuts with in; a sucking as two smacking lips were applied to the briny shell and every last molecule of taste was sucked from the little thing. Then it was discarded; it’s two halves dropped in a mounting pile by the worn chair.

Father Hobbs nodded to himself he mulled the taste and picked some delicate morsel from his mouth. He had been chosen to guard the woman as he was by the least threatening. Weighing just slightly less than one hundred and twenty kilos he passed for a particularly docile teddy bear and with a naturally jolly complexion he had often been the subject of malicious pranks at seminary until he had politely picked up one his tormentors by the ankle and calmly hung his outside the window and explained the situation.

Trained and taught in the Basilica of St. Michaels he found the comparatively peaceful and relaxed air of Paloni a godsend, and his already fatty frame had grown heavy with rich dinners and he had grown sleepy in the tired old building. Even the Revolution had barely rustled a response from him, and now he was left in comfortable old armchair in an airy room of the hospice wing, which, in according with medical tradition had been painted white, and in the tradition of pious monks, the floors unscrubbed. A pile of peanut shells lay beside the man as Felicia finally awoke and eyed her captors and felt the comfortable sheets she had been pressed into.

“Good morning miss.” Hobbs cooed, “before talk you need breakfast.” Hobbs bustled to the window and pulled a late pear from a tree and removed a plate of various cold meats and cheeses from the window ledge. “I’m afraid if you have heart conditions you might as well go down to the iron maiden than stand for my cooking.” He laughed to himself and bustled about Felicia, fluffing her pillows, examining her eyes critically.

“A man brought you in last night, in a sack, unconscious. He was under the apprehension that we pay for prisoners and hostages. You were hurt and unconscious and we have dozens of spare beds and so little company. You’re free to go when you like of course; that is after I bandage your head; there’s no concussion but you’ll be looking like an eggplant for a few weeks.” Hobbs clicked his tongue and reached to his chair again and removed a roll of bandages, and some painful looking ointment. “The Abbot also wishes to speak with you, but he does not wish to press. If you are up to it he is down the hall in the fourth door on the right, the large study. There is a washroom behind the curtain. Thank God there’s no mirror eh?”

Departure (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=26-migpeVJM)

I have been asked many times: and what about Kell? That land is no way like our Spain, where the people are simply waiting for the outcome of our liberation to become clearer before they raise to arms against the brutal monster that took their dignity and liberty away with his government, where all we need is to push deeper into Madrid before the most powerful force of the world awakens, before the people raise in arms to destroy the Communist Party of Spain and pave the way for their continued freedom.

Kell is not Spain. Paloni is another culture, with entirely different events in their past, with other fears, hopes and worries. In Soviet Spain, the war for the minds of the people has already be won, and without his army to threaten and coerce the people, Cavallo will be nothing. However, in Kell, a war of ideas rather than bullets remains being fought even now, let us not be deluded by the superficial transformation that happened there, the old reactionary culture remain under shadows, only waiting for a chance to resurface. Violence has been and will be only an extension of such conflict, and I fear that during the final stages of such struggle for freedom, it will be much more prevalent than the subtler ways of fighting. Although no actual war has happened in Kell, like when the Second Spanish Republic was at first formed, let us not ignore the wise words of one of the many posters of the First Civil War, ironically the truest words ever seen in a piece of propaganda, words saying that, different from the delusions of pacifists, a truth remains proved again and again by history:

Revolution and War are Inseparable.

Cecily Lockhelm

It was a massive room, at least five meters tall, half-lit with eight fluorescent lights shining from the top, symmetrically distributed over the ceiling, and screens cascaded across all its walls, where scenes across the world appeared, scenes of oppression and of strife, scenes of many of the things the creators of such room struggled to fight against, giving the sensation of total awareness to every man who entered the room. For inside it, there was no way to look away, for the horrors of the world, were displayed all around, children being killed by ruthless conquerors, soldiers with the banner of a fallen Spain shooting at innocent civilians, death and tyranny from all corners of the worlds, be them in Gholgoth, Mediterranica, Nova, Haven, in the Earth the Confederacy of Third Spanish States belonged to or in the very past of Kell, ridden with poverty, before the revolution came. At the center of the room, a circular lectern, wide enough to allow for at least twenty man stand and speak their words, with no distinction between hierarchies in its uniform shape, covering all corners of the room, stood at its middle, and a camera high above, covering an angle where the images of the room were not caught by its lenses.

It is said that even the most jaded liar would be unable to make a convincing speech, tricking his people, while he stared at such images, everywhere, where people of all ages, of all races, of all places, of all riches, were shown suffering. A fitting room for Edward Vaughn to invite those who wished to state their opposition to the revolution to slither lies with their snake tongues, for only a monster would be able to become completely desensitized to such images.

And Edward never demonstrated any uncertainty during his speeches... either he was completely certain of the greater good behind what he stood for, or perhaps, behind all facades, he also became a monster, although for now, all evidences reinforced the former possibility.

Nineteen among the millions of original inhabitants, who lived in Kell decades before Edward arrived, were in the room, looking at Edward like their equal now, rather than as a prince. There was no visible security guard, nothing at all, like if he now personally dared to invite murderers, as if he no longer found his life critical to the success of the revolution, and as if he no longer cared about his own survival, even though he was a staunch proponent of the lack of an afterlife. Like if in some way, his death would be now more beneficial to their cause than to their enemies.

They were too blind to see that what they have built was not at first an anarchist society, but a cult of personality, particularly strong among those who once formed the underclass of Kell, centered on the charismatic figure of the Savior, of the "Miracle Man" who eradicated poverty and starvation from Kell and brought its people to a new era of economical prosperity.

The footsteps echoed through the marble floor of the room, as a man shunned at the images being displayed. Immediately Edward turned his attention to him, and with a resolute voice, he asked fluently in their own language, tapping his shoulder in a friendly gesture:

"Comrade, does the reality all around us disturb you?"

"Why have you chosen to surround the room you use to speak to the people of Kell with such despicable scenes?" the man took his hands away from his eyes, seemingly surprised at the choice.

"To remember, Fabian" after recalling the name of the man, he waved his hand across the room as his tone of voice raised, "to remember the consequences of lies every time we stand here, for many have closed their eyes to the truth, as they promise dignity and prosperity that will never happen. As they close their eyes to the consequences of betraying those who trust them. As they forget their people, the peoples of the world and the consequences of their acts."

"The mass media makes of these images nothing but a merchandise to show," Vaughn then took a few steps back, as if waiting for everyone to enter inside the lectern before going in himself, "they have twisted human compassion in the bestial lust for money, into the enslavement of men to wealth, so they can maintain themselves alive."

"Vaughn... what are you going to say?" a woman, now in the circle of people who was formed inside the lectern, asked.

"Actions have always spoken louder than words, Line, but sometimes the people need words to inspire their very actions, for people are not yet ready to live without any form of leadership, and for too much time" he then sighed as he walked towards the last remaining space in the space in the middle of the round lectern, "for too much time we have hidden ourselves, ignoring the threats that are yet to come. For you can be certain Line, that we have not yet paid the price of freedom, that right at this moment, men plan to take over the control you rightfully have over your lives by force."

Twenty microphones were line in the lectern as the camera above began to record the scene. Never in the history of Kell a head of State has allowed for the people to speak together with him, like equals. Never in the history of Kell the very enemies of a government were allowed to speak against it in the front of its leader, even though most could not manage to speak as the images of poverty in Kell before the revolution were displayed all across the room. And those who could were carefull watched, as they could only be monsters totally desensitized to the horrors the government and Church they defended have provoked.

As the image of the bald man's blue eyes appeared, dilluted with more nineteen people, and yet he did not speak, as if waiting to see if the people have been sufficiently taught the value of using their freedoms for the betterment of their land. The speech began to appear in many screens, as Vaughn purchased the right to broadcast such message from many politically rival TV stations, rather than enforced it through coercive laws, as even supposed enemies could be purchased, temporarily, and many of their followers except for their most fanatical, were far easier to be bought to his side than anarchists to theirs.

Suddenly the man he addressed, Fabian, another of many civil engineers inside Kell, who had a heavy influx of the new concepts brought with the new government, of their revolutionary technological principles, took the courage to be the first to speak, as he looked towards the camera above, but could not avoid seeing the horrible scenes all around.

"Greetings, people of Kell, my name is Fabian Heinrich, and I am here to say that I know," he seemed a bit uncertain on what exactly to say, and he began to hesitate, suddenly silenced by his own limits in oratory. Vaughn did not intercede, for he did not want to deprive him from the right of speaking, and yet an impatience was building up. The people who watched could notice his worried, uncertain expression, as he gulped, until the engineer coughed, and refusing to apologize as to not demonstrate weakness, he continued, even if a bit uneasy.

"I know what happened to our Kell. Like all of us, I have been faced with more changes in he last year than in the last twenty years of my life. I have seen men I believed to be holy doing the very actions they attributed to demons, I have seen starving beggars becoming great and willful men, I have seen the very foundations of my job crippled as the corporation I worked for became bankrupt, as their creators could not accept the changes."

Edward made a discrete thumbs up gesture to the man, as he could see a man whose inhibitions were being broken at such moment, a man who used to censorship once was afraid of speaking his mind, but now afraid no longer. For it was in such minor details that the revolution in Kell was operating, in elements that at first glance could be considered trivial, but which were together keys for shaping the entire culture of a nation.

"But yet, in the end I cannot condemn Edward for the stress he provoked in my life, for it was like the stress of healing a wound, which has happened for the better of a man rather than for stressing him, yet change, even when for the betterment of every one of us, is difficult and turbulent, as we are conditioned to the way things have always been, as it is convenient to know the routine, the never-changing way of life than to brave the unknown. And when such change means the lap of luxury will be over, those who stand over such lap will not hesitate to use those few who are afraid of change that will disrupt their selfish goals achieved by the injustices committed against many. And today I am closer to my family and happier, as I no longer have the desperation of achieving ever inhuman deadlines those who seek to exploit the work and intellect of others for their selfish and unjust hoarding of wealth once imposed over me."

Taking a breath, Fabian allowed an enthusiasm never seen before to surface, as he could still remember of the injustices, of the humiliations supervisors and corporate suits inflicted over him, of the personal experiences he had with the hierarchical social order, for even if he never starved or saw necessity, his dignity has still been challenged many times, and his voice silenced by the fear of losing his job rather than by the fear of the Inquisition. He now could appreciate personally what Edward meant when he said "Capitalism is a tyranny of its own, and by its very nature against democracy". And thus he said with clear conviction, for even seeing the suffering of many, he knew that steps were being taken... and believed the greatest dream of such man called Edward Vaughn was for one day, a member of a future generation to walk into such room, and see no more the horrors shown into it.

"Today I am no longer an employee, but an enterpreneur who have mastered money, rather than being mastered by it, like most of you, and today I feel much more freedom of choice than before, as I no longer can hear the threatens of conditioned drones that "so many want a job like yours", for now everything has changed, and we will no longer gulp in face of humiliation, we will no longer hold your tongues in fear of those who are turned into arrogance even the most insignificant position of authority, and more than ever, we can see right around us, how authority breeds suffering and unhappiness for the majority. And yet, I also know of the burden of the responsibilities that multiplied three-fold for us, for now we are the masters of our own destiny and of our own lives! Our future as a people, and as individuals, is no longer shaped by the goals of governments and corporations, but by our own goals and pursuit of happiness! Like men who leave the smog of cities to breath the pure air of the country, we now have been given finally the wonder of feeling the touch of true freedom, and never again we shall bow to conquerors! Never again we shall bow to hypocrites who speak about a loving and just God while murdering innocents and committing injustices! Never again we shall bow to cowards who conspire against our freedom rather than challenging us face to face! For we must not and shall not let them destroy all we have achieved! We shall not bend to tyranny and lies! We shall not even bend to the very men who brought us such gift!"

Edward looked with admiration at the engineer's speech and slowly began to clap his hands with authenticity. He could see how the majority of people have been benefited, and that even many still adhered to reactionary tendencies out of fear, ignorance our sheer malice, he already have a very powerful support base among those who once belonged to the middle class and to the lower classes, with those who once were far richer and powerful than most being his enemies: power-mongers and greedy corporatists, the very foundations of doctrines like Nazism and Fascism, the "enemies of the people", although even among them a few have seen there were better ways to achieve personal fulfillment than being richer and more powerful than most, by being better in their skills than most rather than by the mere act of accumulating wealth. Most of those minority were those who achieved their wealth by their own rather than by inheriting it from rich progenitors. And as they once were familiar with the "upper society", they have always been key allies in the fight against conspirators, and also the least trustworthy.

Vaughn then awaited, but it seemed nobody else was willing to speak, as if afraid of not meeting the expectations created by the inspiring speech Fabian gave. And thus, as nobody seemed willing to proceed, he finally looked at the camera, and began:

"It has been four months since I last spoke, four months since I have announced my resignation from a position of power for our betterment as human beings, for I know you are now completely capable to defining your own fate through the best means necessary, and thus I have simply watched, and I would like to thank everyone who contributed to make of Kell the free and prosperous land it currently has become, for without your help, those dreams of a better world I wished to share would never extend from my mind to reach our lives! For the very fact you have succeeded to accept the burden of freedom, yes, the burden of freedom, for like I once was told by a man far wiser than myself, absolute freedom equates absolute responsibility, and now that you have succeeded in taking such gift, I can only thank you, for in the end, I may have started the revolution, helping the comrades who I came with, but you are the ones who should be proud: for making the revolution a reality, you have proved your strength as a people! A strength you also have to not cover your ears to the truth, for otherwise we wouldn't have achieved all we did."

Then, the camera, in an unusual movement, leaned towards one of the walls of screens inside the room, focusing on the image of a massive Gholgoth fleet advancing through the oceans, behind the bald face of Edward and the heads of other people in the room.

"However, there are those who do not wish for us to be happy, to be free, to have dignity in our lives, to have unconditional pride of ourselves as truly free people as we don't require vain hierarchies to feel proud, for we are capable of weaving our own fates. You have already seen the works of those who seek such goal inside our very nation: terrorist attacks and biological weapons outbreaks tainting a faith many of you still believe with the hypocrisy of those who twist the sacred for their very ends. We should not hate these men, but pity them, for they think that power and wealth are the only means of personal achievement and of an illusory happiness. The only remain of humanity many tyrants with the blood of millions at their hands had was a perpetual sadness, for in truth, although inviting, power destroys as much of the man who has it as it destroys those he has power over, until he becomes nothing but a sad man who lost all faith in friendship and mankind, and can never sleep, afraid of the time a knife will backstab him. For a man, to be corrupted is more than to lose any empathy and sense of justice, to be corrupted is to lose to every hope of achieving joy and peace, sinking into pleasures the despair knowing everyone will betray such man if the time is ripe provides."

Edward's thick brows lowered, like in an expression of pity, and he turned his back to the camera to face the images of Freekish Sentinels that replaced suddenly the image of the Gholgoth's invasion fleet, and for a while he observed, making occasional gestures, before turning back to the audience:

"You may think of them as monsters, you may think that behind those masks there is no more humanity. You can feel the difference in your daily lives between the times you had no true freedom and now. Try to imagine them, if at the very moment you were born, men punished you for doing anything you weren't ordered, and claimed you were fighting for the best possible goal. I know it is difficult to fathom this, but any human can be bred into a machine to kill others, into a heartless monster incapable of flickering at the greatest horrors. In truth, comrades, these are not villains, but innocents, for unlike the enemies of mankind, they did not choose to become monsters, like many of those who stand against us in Kell, even now, they were forced to become monsters, and now there is no more hope for them."

Then the image of the Gholgoth invasion force appeared again, as in a screen above it, the display of a map with the position of Paloni, and by extension Kell, in the continents cluster of Mediterranica.

"I know many doom sayers are already spewing that there is no hope for our people, that every territory in Waldenburg, in Paloni, and in Kell is to become a province to feed the hatred and inhumanity of the Freeks and their servant nations, that there is no hope... let History give a lesson.

Then immediately, two videos from past history in Third Spanish States' Earth were shown simultaneously, in one, soldiers with dark uniforms marched unchallenged over Prague, the capital of Czechoslovakia as people withered in suffering, while in the other, a handful of men, under the freezing cold of winter, with the Finnish banner under their stead, stood against an horde of soldiers with the flag of the Soviet Union, relying on both their tactics and courage against such massive invasion.

"Here you see the history of two nations far smaller than our Kell, besieged by much more powerful and tyrannical nations, two nations called Finland and Czechoslovakia, of which only the former now remains as it was in our world, and as a free nation. The people of Finland have defended themselves against a much larger army, with thousands tanks and airplanes, while the people of Czechoslovakia fell victim to their own inertia and dependence of their leader, and to the cowardice of their leader, who accepted conquest without a fight instead of having the courage to guide his people to defend themselves. An hypocrite may say that Czechoslovakia wasn't under winter when it happened, but many historians of my world have said that they had many chances of defending themselves, if they had the courage to fight for their freedom while they had the power to challenge the enemies of freedom. The free men of Finland on the other hands, have achieved one of the most heroic military victories of mankind's history! A victory achieved not only by their army, by the courage of their people!"

Then he finally raised his tone to an exalted glory, as he spoke of the historical example of what he was trying to teach.

"As history have taught, freedom requires unyielding courage of the people to be maintained, and thus I ask of you: will we follow the path of bravery, victory and freedom, like Finland did, or will we follow the path of cowardice, defeat and enslavement, like Czechoslovakia did? As I have said, you now are masters of your future, and I have no right to force any man, anywhere, to be courageous and have determination against every possible threat. For we have the shared power to defend ourselves from foreign tyrants now, if we have the courage to match such power. The path of courage is a path of hardship, as I have personally felt in my youth, as I have personally felt during times when our enemies tried to divide us. However, while the path of courage have moments of hardship and pain, the path of cowardice offers nothing but a lifetime of suffering, slavery and despair. We must choose wisely, as people of Kell, which path to follow. But rest be assured, regardless of the path each of you choose, I will do my best to help us to defend our freedom, and I promise to every one of you, by my freedom, that while I may not have the same strength of my youth, I have not lost one inch of courage from the time there was no certainty if true freedom was even possible during my lifetime."

His voice was so loud and passionate, that a cynical could compare his passionate speech to that of men who sought antagonistic goals, like Hitler and Stalin, and yet, there was a certain courage and warlord-like daringness that shaped his speech to extremes, sometimes arguably frightening for their implication, extremes that could inspire even an eight years old children to take a pistol and fight against invaders, should one day the predictions about a future invasion against the Communes of Kell realize. However, it were in the lasting moments of his speech that his passion became the greatest, like if he was a revolutionary giving a speech in the middle of a battlefield rather than a resigned prince offering advice to the people from his room:

"I swear to my freedom that I am not like the weak scums who depend upon henchmen to convince the people of following what they believe! I am not like the decadent rulers who are so weak, corrupt, traitorous and coward!" his voice raised to an extreme rage, as if his following words would channel a powerful hatred in the people of Kell for the old regime "coward enough to sell their own nation's sovereignty like if people were a merchandise!"

The hatred of his voice then subdued, but it remained as passionate as before, as he finished his promise to the people of Kell, a promise he knew he was completely able of honoring, and that he would honor, for his life was no longer relevant for the success of the revolution, and he was ready to die for the cause of anarchism, to lead his people to be strong and never surrender by example rather than by words, should one day it happen as he said:

"I am not like these mockeries of humanity, and I swear I will personally stand to arms to fight against those who might seek to destroy our freedom! And by both ours and God's will, if he exists, we will never again turn back to the dark times of our past!"

As the lasts words of his speech were enthusiastically shouted, across every corner of Kell, people among the average civilians, men, women, teenagers, and disturbingly, even a handful of children, some with barely six years old, of which many proudly waved massive black flags, black banners and black medieval-like flags which became the symbols of their new paradigm, raising pistols, assault rifles, automatic shotguns, light machineguns, pieces of light mortars, grenade launchers, sniper rifles and ADATS missile launchers to the skies in enthusiasm to the speech given by Vaughn. There were two armies inside Kell, its regular army, and an army without an uniform, which couldn't be separated from the civilians, which was still in formation, built of ideas and passion for freedom rather than from discipline and training, to shape the people of Kell into a proud, strong people who would fight to death over accepting conquest, and once such army was finished, even if the land could be conquered, they would never be able to conquer the people, and the war would only end once the last man or woman able to fire an arm dies. As of now, revolutionary militias already far outnumbered the regular military, as unlike soldiers, they were self-sufficient and thus independent of funding, and it would not be a far call to guesswork that there were at least one hundred militiamen for every regular soldier in Kell. Ironically, it was becoming far more militarized, even if culturally rather than formally, without governments than when it was under the rule of an authoritarian government.

A logical adaptation of pragmatic Darwinian views of society, Vaughn encouraged everybody to become strong rather than weak,to become courageous rather than coward, to become willful rather than weak of will, and to prefer death over slavery and tyranny. While the opposing extreme to their ideology claimed the weak and inferior, in their racist viewpoint, should be exterminated, those who stood for eugenic anarchism claimed the weak, in a definition untainted by racism, should be motivated to become strong, and the inferior to become equal to others, and if possible, surpass them in their competence.

Such achievements they believed to be possible through both a change of mindset and through the embrace future advances in genetics and germinal choice systems that would in a near future give to every family the chance of ensuring their children will be born genetically predisposed to become strong of both mind and body and willing to be free. Such vision, in many ways, challenged religious traditions in its technological part. However, what mattered most was not the genetic predisposition, but the capability of an environment to breed such strengths. It was essentially an inversion of the concept humans could be selectively bred to become loyal to a totalitarian government, for they believed humans could be selectively bred to embrace freedom and naturally refuse injustice and oppression rather than conforming to them.

If the shoddy generalization of an immutable "human nature" is incompatible with the ideals of anarchism, they would make it compatible, if instincts made man unable to refuse seeking hierarchy, they would free man from primitive vestiges of their animal ancestors. Such was the long-term goal they have set, and if it was truly necessary to change the very genetic code of humanity for such goal to be achieved, one day, it would be done.

-----------------

Felicia was still confused as the overweight priest came to offer her a breakfast, although she still smiled as he commented about his cooking skills, her head was still dizzy, and the sunlight seemed to shine over the stained windows, she could sometimes see the patterns forming something coherent, and her pupils weren't dilated or unequal enough as they would be if she had a traumatic brain injury. Eventually she heard from him about the way she ended in their Church. The priest explained about a thug who dragged her inside a sack as he prepared to bandage her head. Felicia winced a little, making her wrinkles more visible, as he applied the ointment, and her mind was thinking about the whole matter, as to how they have changed. If such thing happened six months ago, when the people of Kell still were dependent of the "provisional government", her fate would not have been as pleasant, but now the advantages of renouncing to power became obvious.

However, paranoia doesn't vanish easily, and in her mind, a thought was being constantly reminded. They could probably extract information from her in far subtler manners than cold-blooded torture, and in ways she would not even become aware of if not careful enough.

"I better pass another check for bugs and wiretaps before I say anything that could be used against my cause"

Yet for now she simply forgot temporarily of such thought, and smiled honestly to the priest, who seemed simply a man of faith, who wanted to believe rather than to be another player, for she knew that not everyone in the Church of Ceno was a corrupt crook, that there was a very strong chance that Vaughn has tainted his hands with innocent blood, driven by the extreme sense of paranoia he had, even greater than the sense Felicia maintained, or by ruthless efficiency of a vision where the ends justified the means. However, as she thought about the innocents caught in the crossfire, she could not help but feel the same inner sadness of when she saw the photograph of a woman and of a child in the pocket of a soldier she once killed, decades ago. She could not help herself, but feel empathy for the supposed "enemies":

"Thank you very much, Father," she interrupted her words to take a sip of a mint tea in the table, "I hope some among you have taken your legitimate right of exerting justice over such dreg, but anyway, I am very interested at speaking with the Abbot... I..."

Felicia allowed for a polite sigh to be made, as she tried to consider all the ramifications, and even though in her mind they were just aware that killing or trying to interrogate her would be pointless and hiding their game, she still felt an irrational guilt over the fact those who followed a faith her friends nearly annihilated were helping her at such moment, she then, to amend her guilt, said something she was afraid of speaking, although her mind was already brewing that, perhaps it could be beneficial to play dumb about their real intentions, and yet she remained feeling bad about the past:

"I am sorry for all that happened to your Church in Kell, father," she ate another piece of the bread, as she acted in a way as if apologizing for her friends rather than for herself, "I tried to convince Edward it was not necessary to promote such brutality, but he refused to listen and just did what he thought that he had to... and" her voice became less obsequious, but still diplomatic and soft enough, filled with a compassion that seemed too authentic to be a pretense.

"Things would have been different if everyone among your Church sought to adapt, like for example, Churches which have outlasted kingdoms transformed into republics in my own world, instead of trying to bring Kell back to how it was through violence, but it seems that some people are naturally inclined to adapt the world to their beliefs rather than the contrary, and when those of such people with opposing beliefs encounter," she seemed saddened by the very facts she spoke of, as she saw in the father an human being rather than a caricaturesque priest with a monstrous form wearing a cassock filled with swastikas and dollar signs with a fat humanoid pig wearing a top hat and carrying a large money bag with a green dollar bill holding his left hand and a fat king carried over the hunched backs of legions of starving workers holding his right hand, one of many images that circulated around Kell to smear the enemies of the revolution.

"Yet I still prefer to think it is possible for changes to happen without bloodshed. If all those sad incidents and exchanges of violence didn't happen, if provocateurs inside your church haven't acted," it was impossible to know whether her sadness was also from realizing the Church of Ceno was terribly corrupt and thus extermination the only practical mean of succeeding with a revolution besides the fact she felt empathy for the man, even if he could not be as innocent as she initially thought, "Vaughn would never have promoted foreign faiths and started his campaign against your faith. But it is not your fault Father, and now the past cannot be changed. Excuse me for bringing such painful facts, but I can't help but admire that Vaughn was wrong about what would happen should I come to this place, after all that happened."

By then, she had already finished her breakfast, and the thought of not forgetting to check for bugs occasionally resurfaced during all the time, like a paranoid mantra of "better safe than sorry". And yet she could not resist asking one last question:

"I am willing to speak with your Church's Abbot, father, but first... I'd like to ask something from you, and I don't really intend to offend you with this question, I am simply curious about your answer: do you think Ceno would approve of men who sold parts their nation, of their people, of their culture and of their traditions to anyone who could afford them?"

As she heard the answer to such question, she thanked the father again for tending to her wound and for the breakfast, and headed through the hall, not bothering to wash her bandaged face, and looking for the study. As she opened the door, she saw the Abbot and immediately offered her greetings in a very polite manner:

"Good morning Abbot, I am Felicia Jaumann, what matters do you wish to speak about?"

Before the Abbot could listen properly to her presentation, the echoes of a massive march began to happen outside, and immediately Felicia reached for her pocket, hoping it was not taken away or damaged. Fortunately her palmtop remained intact, and as she took it and began to handle it, she politely said:

"Excuse me Abbot, just a moment. I believe Edward is giving a speech right now, and that such speech is of interest for both of us."

Suddenly, she opened a web-based broadcast, where the face and shoulders of Vaughn appeared as he began his part of his speech, at the exact moments after Fabian voluntarily gave his own. The speech reached to a very... interesting moment, as Felicia avoided making any comments so far, when the harsh, but perhaps truthful words came directly to the Church of Ceno.

"You have already seen the works of those who seek such goal inside our very nation: terrorist attacks and biological weapons outbreaks tainting a faith many of you still believe with the hypocrisy of those who twist the sacred for their very ends. We should not hate these men, but pity them, for they think that power and wealth are the only means of personal achievement and of an illusory happiness. The only remain of humanity many tyrants with the blood of millions at their hands had was a perpetual sadness, for in truth, although inviting, power destroys as much of the man who has it as it destroys those he has power over, until he becomes nothing but a sad man who lost all faith in friendship and mankind, and can never sleep, afraid of the time a knife will backstab him. For a man, to be corrupted is more than to lose any empathy and sense of justice, to be corrupted is to lose to every hope of achieving joy and peace, sinking into pleasures the despair knowing everyone will betray such man if the time is ripe provides."

But perhaps, his words about the Sentinels were more fitting about all the atrocities done in the name of Ceno, that sometimes men did not choose to become monsters, but were forced to become monsters. Eventually his passionate speech has ended, while the marching of militias was right next to the church, some of them passing right through its door, but obviously, they were not targeting the church, but instead demonstrating their willingness to refuse any authority, and if necessary, through violent means.

"Abbot," Felicia finally guarded her palmtop computer back into her pocket, as her mind crafted a potential idea about how to channel Vaughn speech in her cause's favor, and her politeness remained "I suppose my former question was already answered, in part. It seems Edward is already thinking about the Freeks as well, and I wouldn't blame him, because if Waldenburg falls, Paloni will be the next. Regardless of any assumptions Abbot, is there anything you would like to tell me or ask me about?"

"The enemy of my enemy..." the old adage crossed through Felicia's mind right as she spoke, an impressive con, specially as she never forced emotions, somehow, she has learned how to, in part, evoke authentic emotions when convenient, and hold them at bay when not.

However, a new question triggered from Vaughn's speech continued to repeat over inside her mind.

"Were the clergy of Ceno forced to become what most of them are, or have them chosen to be like they are?"

OOC: Sorry for the long time I took to post. RL is just like that

Violin Concerto in G, KV 216"]Violin Concerto 'Adagio' in G KV 216 (http://www.mozart-weltweit.de/08a08.wma)

"In this, our age of infamy Man's choice is but to be a tyrant, traitor, prisoner: No other choice has he."

Aleksandr Pushkin

November 26th 2009

Coruscating like a great pagan idol under heathen suns and malevolently twinkling out illegible messages the plane touched down on the rural runway; its great silver body glinted off secret moonlight and blew piles of discarded leaves from the runway. Around the cracking tarmac a shivering host of clergy and laymen held electric torches to guide the plane to a graceful stop.

A small boarding ramp was rushed to the hull of the plane and placed reverentially underneath the gold embossed seal of the Cenobiarch, which boldly proclaimed the plane to under the protection of more than simple temporal power. The side hatch popped open and the chamber decompressed with a hiss. Flight attendants and pilots pilled out first before a few Divine Legionaries stumbled to the ground as they regained their land legs.

Behind them though were two slim figures, dressed in subdued black, and stepping carefully down the gangplank.

“Oh, sweet savior,” one of the runway attendants murmured to himself and removed his soft cloth cap, “I never thought.” He searched for words for a moment, “ I never thought I would see you two together.”

“We,” the words came difficulty from one of the black clad figures as if he were reciting words in a language he was not quite sure of, “are not together.”
--

As Felicia entered the study she found Abbot Trezo hunched over a laptop computer, peering over tiny spectacles and typing slowly with the index fingers of both hands. He paused as she entered and he stood, bowing. “I am glad to see you have recovered so neatly, and quickly, usually we’d call a hospital but it was late, you will accept my apologies.” He sat again and licked over his top set of teeth as if in thought. He opened his mouth slowly before the woman interrupted him and reminded him of the blasted speech which he had been trying so hard to avoid. To say anything would be rude however, so he settled into his leather backed seat and listened with his eyes half open to a man who had single handedly killed thousands of his brothers.

The speech dragged on, there were rhetorical flourishes and self aggrandizement the likes of which the Abbot had not seen. He found himself smiling though halfway through the speech as he listened to Fabian declared himself an ardent anarchistic and changed man. As the words grew to a fiery finish however the abbot’s mind wandered away from the present to different days, of small mountain brooks and green grass stretching out for hundred of miles, or his mind would shift to burning deserts, hot and gritty with flying sand, and baked under thousands of years of unyielding sun.

“Very nice,” Trezo added when the thunderous applause died away, “He certainly speaks like a prince.” The chromed cover of the laptop was shut quietly, the power clicked off and suddenly the slight noise of great bodies of apparently jubilant people could be heard a long ways off and growing closer. “But he’s wrong. On so many things, on so many things.” For the entire speech Trezo had stared at Felicia without blinking and aimlessly spun a pen between his fingers, now the pen was set down, and the abbot leaned forward over his desk. “The man who brought you to our door was wrong; he thought we would torture you and he would be paid well for our sordid pleasure. He was wrong. And you sitting so innocently in front of me, you are wrong.

I am not from Waldenburg, I was born in Ibblesguard, in a small village, Rassenholm, where the parish priest smoked a rosewood pipe and the only picture I ever saw was in the stained glassed windows of the little chapel.” Trezo smiled slightly, “and the picture of the Cenobiarch in our own home. All others were forbidden, all likeness of humans, besides a select few, was forbidden. We thought so at least. When I was ten we found that canonical law had been changed nearly two decades ago and what we thought was holy writ turned out to be only ignorance. Powerful ignorance and when I was eleven I saw the ocean for the first time, I saw a city for the first time, and when I was twelve I saw my first war. They were far distant things; the conceptualization of bloody conflict was a few lines of type and a blurry photo of great battle. And in reporting it the newspapers were wrong.

When I was fifteen the Church built a huge concrete structure above the village, we were told it was a quarantine hospital for ill missionaries returning from tropical locales and in the arms of some great virulent disease. That was wrong. We could hear the screams. I never went up to the building, I did as I was told, and for all the years I lived there it was referred to as the ‘hospital.’ At age seventeen I was drafted into the Imperial Army and six months later I was part of General Findus’ last stand at Hieddlezeim; in blood soaked rage I slashed down Anagonians as they poured over the ridge and I was one of the lucky few to be taken prisoner. I was wrong. And three weeks later the war ended. It was wrong too apparently.

When I was eighteen I was repatriated to the Empire and the Cenobiarch himself pinned a medal to my chest and made me a prelate, and sent me to sleepy Paloni to live my days in retirement. It seems even the infallible can be wrong. So I have only one question for you,” Trezo leaned forward and his eyes were just a few inches away from Felicia’s and lined heavily with sadness, “Have you ever considered that you were wrong? Wrong to come here and do this?”

A desk drawer was opened and a small piece of paper withdrawn; it was heavily creased and it was opened one more and laid in front of Felicia, “as far as I can tell, this is the death count of the two years of the civil war.” It was not a small number. “I heard their confessions you know, both of the rebels and the reactionaries. They begged me for mercy in the confessional, they told me of the people they had killed because they were told to, or because they had wanted to, or simply in the passion of the moment, and they begged me for some sort of peace, and all I could give them was damnation. Then the people stopped coming and the killings continued, and the parish dwindled until Mrs. Romani was killed in her bathtub three months ago, and then there was no one to come and light the candles or say the prayers, and that, that is very wrong. So I do have one question, it has burned in me for some time.

What do you about us? Our Church that vindicated you in its destruction? What do you really know about the Book of Ceno, and of the billions who hear his and God’s word everyday? You came here, and hand full of you, and by the end of the year hundreds of thousands of blameless people are dead all in the name of freedom, and justice? It’s the little impish voice that haunts all liberators ‘what if we are wrong?’ It’s the ‘what ifs’ that keep Vaughn up at night, and make him paranoid for that knife in the back. When Felicia first came here she looked at only what she wanted to see, and when the suicide bombers attacked the convoys of People’s Militia units all Felicia saw were the explosions, she did not see the men and women who loved their God so totally that they took his loving embrace. So I wish for you to impress me, tell me what is wrong with the Church, tell me everything you know about the Church, and tell me without rhetoric, or apology. Hold back nothing.” Terzo paused his voice had never gone beyond a loud whisper even when the mob outside had approached the abbey.

“Plans have been made,” Terzo whispered softly, “and put into effect. Waldenburg will not fall’ Paloni will not fall. Plans have been made. I have faith.” He did not finish the statement, as it would rather have ruined his point.
--

Father Hobbs spun a sausage between his fatty fingers and picked the remains of some past meal from his teeth. The woman, the entire Spanish people had frightened him when they had first arrived, and the resulting bloodshed had certainly done nothing to improve that image. He had tried to make himself as affable and present as possible but Felicia seemed more interested in searching for escape routes and checking her teeth. Then she had asked him a question “do you think Ceno would approve of men who sold parts their nation, of their people, of their culture and of their traditions to anyone who could afford them?”

He had laughed and replied jovially, “Not a bit! He was absolutely insane by the time he made it to Waldenburg, desert sun you know; took an hour to ask him what he wanted for lunch, and two hours to explain what a fork was again.” Hobbs felt like he should add a slight addendum in defense of his faith, “of course the prophecies came is a great rush we are told, in a different voice, and he would writhe for days once the great commandments had been written.” She had left him on his kitchen chair by the bedside and he thoughtfully consumed the remains of breakfast.

Deacon Thurndel had warned about this in seminary, introspection, loose cogitation, if the hands were not busy, if the mind was not steeped in prayer then any number of dreadful thoughts could creep into one’s mind. Father Hobbs clicked his tongue over a hunk of rye and squinted his eyes to remember the great mosaic of The Holiest of Holies, the Greatest Prophet of God, the First Cenobiarch, Hierarch of the Holy Church, and Primate of Humanity. The Robes of State were there, brilliant white, whipped in a holy breeze, the crucible and the tome, the Staff of Ossury but the face… Despite a great deal of attempted recollection Father Hobbs could just recall the faintest curve of a smile upon a pale face.

With an aggravated sigh Father Hobbs looked at the formerly cleaned and pressed sheets on the infirmary bed; there was thin coat of blood over the pillow, and a coil of bandage, which he had changed in the night. “Time for work,” the fat priest removed a small plastic eyedropper from his pocket and sucked up a bulb full of the deep red blood. With great care he squeezed the blood into a small glass vial from another pocket and sealed it tightly with a rubber stopper.
--

Cigar smoke hung blue in the air and low voices murmured through the haze about nothing in particular. There was an indeterminable number of people amongst the room and stuffed armchairs.

“Colonel Dench? Is there any more of the brandy?” A brusque voice bellowed from a corner of the room.

“No general,” Stoffer had grown somewhat belligerent and had taken to carrying a bottle with him to his bed after the ‘Konigplatz’ Massacre; no one was quite sure why, even Lady Dench who had actually been present at the massacre went to bed with a headache for a week then returned to normal, “you had the last just last night. However now that you’ve opened your mouth I must inquire as to the disposition of our agent in Scant?”

“Not now colonel! We will have time for business later.” Several of the other chairs cast an uneasy glance at the brigadier general, and loosened their collective collars slightly. “I think,” Stoffer stopped lifting a swollen eye to his raised glass, “I am due for bed.”

“General in is ten o’ clock!”

“Early to bed early to rise and so on and so on.” Stoffer rose from his chair, bowed hugely and roguishly to Colonel Dench and stumbled out a pair of oaken doors.

Silence reigned for a few moments before a hesitant voice shrilly offered, “He is becoming a nuisance. His drinking must stop; loose lips end revolutions Colonel.”

“The man is a hero; Captain Lindly and Stoffer are and were the backbones of the movement, and I will not have a word said against them, despite what you may think of them. He will not expose our plans or operations; I have total trust in him.”

Zengjük a dalt (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NT3ueiNtFOE)

“The passion for destruction is also a creative passion.”
- Mikhail Bakunin

The words of the Abbot Trezo were the words of a fanatical, of a man who was shoved to become what he is, was the way Felicia interpreted his passionate reaction against Vaughn's rhetoric, but she could not help, despite suspecting he was lying or exaggerating his past to her, but feel pity about such man. As she heard his voice trying to blame herself for the deaths, she grabbed the paper where the number was annotated, and reading it, Felicia grabbed a pen from her pocket and drew another zero after it, remarking in a cynical she hasn't previously demonstrated, as if his words have stirred some nerves inside her, what they truly have done as her voice raised to a more convincingly hostile tone:

"As far as I can tell, this is only a speck of the death count of the hundreds of years the Church of Ceno has done their task in the name of the rich and powerful. Do you ask me what do I know about sheep? Indeed I am ignorant about your Book, for I have never been taught to cheat millions with lies, false hopes and illusions to avoid them revolting against their masters! And your Church and their corrupt allies in the noblesse have been responsible for nine tenths of that toll brought to Kell! We were not the cowards who hired thugs to launch biological weapons! We are not the ruthless power-mongers who murdered woman in children by destroying buildings in Fennel! And know this," her tone of voice was very aggressive, and there was a strange combination of pity and hatred in her eyes, "I am not here to judge why you serve men who deserve nothing but death, and if it existed, Hell! For their ruthlessness and willing to cause misery upon millions so they may thrive in luxury and power! And how do you dare to blame the innocents for their sins?"

As her rage subdued somewhat, Felicia then said in a lower voice, making a wry smile which meaning could not be interpreted with precision, as likely of sarcasm as of actual joy:

"No matter what the scum behind you does, they will not win the war. And know that I have the legitimate right to kill you at this exact moment, Abbot Trezo, for you have just given your confession you are still conspiring against us, and for the cause of the rich, for the cause of men who mind not about how many people they have to kill or make suffer to ensure their luxury and power, and it doesn't matter whether your intentions are noble, vile or simply sheer obedience, neither it does matter your past..."

She simply turned her back, and began to take steps to move away from the room, her mind still closely revolting against the hypocrisy of such place and of the Abbot's words, regardless of his own words, making it clear her belief in the way her cause was right was perhaps as great, if not greater than the Abbot's own beliefs about his cause:

"And I am no fool Abbot. Were I still an important target right now, you would have killed me. Do not try to hide it. I have seen enough already of what your people were willing to do for their perpetuity in power." a sigh and with a hand she reached for her bag, ignoring his replies over her aggressive arguments, "but I will not kill you. Others among my friends may had, but I will not lower to the level of savagery your Church practices to maintain its prestige at all costs. God bless you Abbot."

Before leaving, Felicia took a small, black leather booklet from her shoulder bag and carefully placed it in the Abbot's desk, leaving no words beyond another wry smile, but simply making her way back. The entire book was made of blank pages, and what Felicia meant with it was not exactly certain. Maybe a sort of charade, or perhaps a metaphor to her real religion, certainly not sure.

As Felicia reached the outside of the Church, the march of militias was already gone. There was another monorail station a few blocks ahead, and thus she simply made her way back home. No longer an important element in the unveiling of things, she could now finally find some rest from some very stressful years.

Meanwhile, a submarine continued to lurk beneath the waves, it would have some weeks before arriving in Waldenburg. The chess pieces were being moved in a large board, being pulled back and forth, pawns being sometimes sacrificed on the course of the history of Kell. But what if there is a third player wishing for both sides to lose?

"Dream no small dreams for they have no power to move the hearts of men."
Göthe

Terzo could not stop himself from nodding as the woman let out her soul, washing back and forth from rage to the peaceable state on the other side, and back to rage again. The words ‘And know that I have the legitimate right to kill you at this exact moment’ hung heavy in his heart; not for their truth but for their utterance.

“Every right?” Terzo folded his hands and leaned back in his chair while smiling sadly, “you have every right… And what give you this right? A morale code derived from implied political and social circumstance, the justice of the victor over a defeated enemy? Or simply because I have done wrong? It is the ultimate failure of humanity, and every time I saw the executioner grip his axe, I wept for he alone had the power for what needed to be done. And they said it was right, because they had done wrong.” The Abbot groped for words as the woman stood, and began packing away her items.

“You did nothing to liberate the oppressed souls of the world, but heap upon them a different shade of tyranny, and start a terrible war in the process. You have the right now to kill, and kill you have, and in time when all vestments are ripped away you shall be so mired in blood that you shall no longer see your heart. What right have you to take to your heart the responsibilities of morale arbitrators? Who are you to tell me who lives and who dies?”

Felicia was almost out the door, and the Abbot only whispered now, “Put aside your pride, Set down your arrogance, and remember your grave. You know nothing of my faith; you know nothing of my God; you know nothing of any man and that shall be your undoing.” The woman was someway down the hall now, heading for the outer doors. “For all that though, I forgive you, with all my heart and in time you will see, in time you will open your eyes in glorious epiphany.”

There was a final from the doors and a sense that there was said all that needed to be said; a finality that augured no new words.

“Hess?” Trezo spoke through clenched lips. “Please come out.” There was a slide of well oiled hinges and a bookcase was pushed slightly out from the wall; a slim figure stepped through.

“We know where she lives?”

“Yes,” Hess responded happily, smelling a plot on the air, “it is all over the newspapers. And I certainly could find out if she goes anywhere else.”

“Could you arrange a press stakeout around her house, I need her followed but not by our people?”

“Yes your Grace,” Hess bowed slightly from the waist, “we have been for some time working on the idea that she might be a heroine addict, sexual deviant, and incarnation of Satan himself. I can have two reporters on her at all times.”

“Do so, find out where she goes, find out her schedule, I want to break into her house one of these days, once the blood work comes back from Blünderburg, and we have assembled all the needed items.” Terzo fingered the little black book that the woman had left for him; blank pages; how arrogant. “Find out what you can about her family to; her father most importantly, how he died, what he was, his beliefs. I trust you with this.”

“Very good Your Grace. By the way our ‘reinforcements’ have arrived and are waiting in Wittenschau for a moment to cross the border. As of yet we have not ascertained a location but I will call Inquisitor Fenir to have the border raiders open a hole in the border if needed and bring them across.”

“Thank you. See to it.” When Hess had left Terzo opened his pen with a decisive flick, and opened the blank book somewhere towards the middle and scribbled in a date; he began to writes slowly, very slowly and neatly.
--

The reporters were not even candid about following Felicia; one of the truly liberating feelings of an anarchist society was follow behind someone and taking their picture, or rooting through their trash with a garden fork; there were those who might have stopped a young photojournalist, but they weren’t out simply for that purpose any more. Liberation did have its advantages, and there were always a few people prepared to work against the common good despite the grudging evidence to the contrary that in fact the common good was just that, good.

Probes had been put in at the local library and in Waldenburg to access any information about Felicia’s family, her life at all really, anything that identify her, or with her.

Far away, in a dark cellar a vial of blood was being put through an electroscope and measured carefully; it was an odd fashion in which the directives of God were carried out, but there was always a reason, there was always a way. He worked in mysterious was as it was said; and he never spoke, and alone amongst Gods deliver the answer directly into your head; there was always a way. If there wasn’t that what was there?

OOC Sorry for short post but I do need information about Felicia before preceding her family ect.

I know what you are all of you, from first to last - you are the people in power! You are the police - the great fat, smiling men in blue and buttons! You are the Law, and you have never been broken. But is there a free soul alive that does not long to break you, only because you have never been broken? We in revolt talk all kind of nonsense doubtless about this crime or that crime of the Government. It is all folly!
The only crime of the Government is that it governs.

G. K. Chesterton, The Man Who Was Thursday

Felicia drove her old TdC Link Compact SUV carefully through the busy streets of Fennel, always watching, looking through the mirrors of her car for anything that could be behaving too suspiciously, following her. There have been so many attempts for her life in the past that her mind would never be cleansed from the utmost paranoia that grew into her. Sometimes, sometimes it was perhaps better to die. But no, dying would be cowardly, to leave everything behind, the people, the suffering of others.

Few people had the level of challenge and enemies those who defied the injustices of the world had. There was little, very little evidence of something strange going on at such exact moment. The chaotic streets, where people drove safely because otherwise they would end in a mess, for killing someone in a car accident due to reckless driving was considered the same as murder, and thus, people were very keen on stopping drunk people from driving. There was no written traffic laws, but the people actually cared about how others were driving.

Of course, the transponders also helped much. Felicia carefully paid attention to the LCD screen where the map of the streets she navigated was ridden with dots indicating every vehicle detected in close proximity. Such technology helped to avoid many accidents, and Felicia had other uses for it.

"Go back home?" she knew that the Church of Ceno was plotting, conspiring against her cause. And sometimes she wondered whether Vaughn wasn't after all right at all but one thing: to not have wiped out entirely the Church from Kell. From what she saw, so far, perhaps Edward was not really a ruthless man as much as a man ready to do whatever becomes necessary for his cause: the enemies of the people were the ones who forced him to either be ruthless on his means or meet the demise of the revolution. Her compassion for the Abbot quickly vanished, although her pity did not. Nor did her paranoia, and thus Felicia, went to a very little traffic street, hoping to tag a potential stalker. She has stood very little time in her home, although she has no left it unprotected. It was long gone the time an electric fence was the deadliest defense a civilian could use in his home against thugs and political enemies. Her home seemed welcoming at first glance, and there were no walls, but the "Keep Out! Intruders may be subject to lethal force." message was clear enough, although the exact means of such force were hidden, hidden in places where they could surprise and kill an intruder like a spy. The house certainly has claimed the lives of a few pawns of their enemies already, and whatever secrets it hid, nobody has yet managed to find.

But somehow, despite the inner fortress of deathtraps, Felicia could not feel safe in her own home. Her most valuable things were now in her car, as she sought to find a safer place, a panic bunker where no spy could enter... her delusion was broken about how she was no longer important for the game. Her most valuable things, photographs from her family, very personal belongings and anything that could be used against her, were now going to be safe from the enemies.

The house was still there, and for someone just looking for a theft, it was definitively inviting: many next-generation home appliances existed, and there was enough to call it a day for any bandit. But for someone looking for something to use against them, all that would be found was death. Felicia, stopped her car mid-way, checking for anyone who may be following her. One of her hands reached her right hip, where a P70 pistol was holstered. Her Link was armored, but that was not the point.

The point was that... there were times for compassion and for forgiveness, and these times were long gone. Felicia became less violent and aggressive after seeing a real war, but eventually reality would kick in and shout "KILL", shouting, whispering that there ethics were folly, that she has made a terrible mistake from convincing Edward to not destroy entirely the Church of Kell.

They were very like them, very like the "emergency" government of Germany years ago, the very government who led to the death of her grandfather only because he was a communist, despite the fact it was doubtful a sixty-five year old man would be much of a threat to their power, and perhaps it was not due to power, but due to pure malice and sadism... her tears would be a speck of a puddle compared to the blood Felicia had to shed, but she has suffered. Her family took a long way through the seas to seek freedom, traveling through a Europe in the verge of social collapse, and taking a boat towards the so called Commune of Seville. They ran out of food in the middle of their travel, and they starved for three days before arriving in the Spanish city where anarchism was flourishing, but where the signs of war in ruined buildings and sandbags were clear... they were fighting against the government, outnumbered they still persisted.

Felicia's father has joined them, to fight as well for the freedom they shared with him. There were shortages of everything: food, water, clothes, electricity. And yet the people were willing to endure the hardships, to see the promises of total freedom that the idealists have given.

Those who did not die in battle against the government, at least. Those unlike Felicia's own father, who once went to fight, and never returned to the squats they lived at. The loss has been terrible for her, and perhaps she was actually wanting to die, for soon she has joined the militias and went to arms, even with little real experience and no military training, to either die or live. Whatever she might have heard about war did not prepare her for what she experienced. Death could be seen, heard and smelled everywhere, with reckless brutality as slain corpses could be seen rotting into the battlefield, and bodies were crushed by the tracks of tanks. Felicia saw as a friend of hers was captured... she had to hid to avoid meeting the same fate, and simply watched, powerlessly, what the soldiers of the People's Republic of Spain did to her.

Sweeping tears that mingled with dust, she hid until the soldiers left, leaving a dead and brutally abused corpse of the mother of two orphaned children behind... and had it been the only terrible thing she had witnessed. There were far more, visions that even today haunt her dreams sometimes... and her own actions. The men she had to kill, one of them she took a photograph from, the photograph of his son, a person she took away the parents of... a pain she knew personally. It was not everything, and even today the photograph of the son of the man she killed lies closely to her. Felicia could only see the blood in her hands when she realized what she has done many times during the war. The decapitated heads of men she was too frenzied to kill in less brutal manners were reminders, had the war lasted a few more years, she would either lose her sanity or her humanity... and perhaps, perhaps a part of them has already been lost.

Not even the drugs could help her forget the past, as they progressively grew. Marijuana, cocaine, crack, LSD, nothing ever worked to rid her from the depression, not even the good deeds of the present could drown it completely, and now... she could not stop it, she just had to hide it well, but at least twice a week, Felicia would need to smoke at least some weed or the hangover would come.

Most of the times she wouldn't think about the past, but sooner or later it would surface. Sometimes it would take months for her to remember. But the scars the war left over her mind would never be healed... and yet, Felicia has learned with the war. In some ways, it made her more compassionate rather than inhuman, it taught her that the men she had to kill would be missed by someone. And thus, that she would have to bear the burden of actions that would not bring immediate good but immediate suffering, or fail. And somehow, what she has done for Kell has alleviated much such pain, far more effectively than the drugs she grown addicted to in her mid twenties.

How ironic the history of families is perhaps, to consider that a person like Felicia Schreider Jaumann suffers and fights for the cause of anarchism, while her great grandfather, Ludwig Schreider, was a loyal servant to the Reich of Adolf Hitler with a stable and happy family, who was lucky to live in the western Germany, and to have never done any accounted atrocity, at least not directly. He was only a bureaucrat, who helped accounting the Jewish population of occupied nations, so they would later be tortured, abused and exterminated, but he was too low profile to end in the Nuremberg trials. One of his sons, Felicia's grandfather, ended in East Germany after the war, and although deluded with the Soviet model of communism, remained ironically a staunch Marxist for his entire life. Perhaps that was the common link in the small Schreider family: their tendency to embrace radical ideologies.

"No, I will never lower to their level!" she tried to counter as her thoughts conflicted... well aware that she might need to add yet another unfortunate pawn or willful corrupt to the list of people she has killed if her car was being stalked. Sometimes life gave no choice other than kill or be killed. For revolutionaries, such situations happened far more often than for average people. Liking or not, Felicia would have to lower to their level, and cause pain to sons who would lose their parents, to those who would lose people they loved. Perhaps it was a curse, a strange curse of a world of injustice, unlike rosy depictions, where were the good people the ones who suffered, and who sometimes had to do things that went against their principles, while the rotten thrived... unless they were killed.

(OOC: You can invent as many first names for her family as you'd like other than those mentioned because I never bothered with them. The part of this RP involving Waldenburg will have to wait for now as I'm trying to make a solid, day by day RP here, except for completely uneventful days, of course)

"It is old magic; magic which most have forgotten is magic; but none the less powerful."
The Omnis Dunum Paquitis


An unfortunate and somewhat troublesome effect of the socialist revolution was the streets, devoid of life about noonday, were now filled with white collar workers in their lunch hour, children out from school or simply citizens taking in a cleaner air of the afternoon, and as such following Felicia was increasingly difficult.

Grand Inquisitor Hess however was a master, and over the course of the revolution and for twenty years before he had stalked the streets, and he knew its corners and byways; the woman was making herself conspicuous as well, her black was like a floating mountain amongst the traffic.

“Oh, sorry sir,” a young woman clicking away in black high heels knocked into Hess, spun away muttering apologies before she stopped amongst the sea of humanity her mouth hanging open, and her coffee cup falling to the ground. “Hess!”

The Inquisitor paused, not recognizing the woman but realizing the threat he pulled close to her, standing on his tip toes to put his mouth beside her frozen head, “My dear, Hess is dead, and has been for many years. So let us reexamine what has happened. All that you have seen is a dream, a dream that should I hear even a whisper behind me will turn very nasty. I know where you live my dear, I know where everyone lives; so go home to your bed, slip under the covers and forget me.” Hess twitched open his coat to reveal a rather intricate set of pistols and other weapons of the trade, “The Church is dead. God is dead, and so are his servants”

Hess slipped back into the crowd, not checking what the woman was doing, cursed under his breath as he had lost his quarry, and turned his head down to study his watch. Maybe three hours till sunset, and Felicia was already at least two streets away.

A cell phone was flipped out of Hess’ coat pocket and applied to his ear, after a single button was held down for the speed dial. There was no wait until a pleasant female voice announced that he had reached the office of the Canonarch in Waldenburg. “Put me through to the Canonarch.”

“I apologize, Inquisitor Hess. Of course you would not know; His Imminence the Canonarch has unfortunately perished. I will transfer you to Prelate Släter.” There was a silence from Hess as he fell into a state of confusion. George Patrin dead?

“This is Släter. Hess?”

“Yes sir. May I inquire what happened to Cardinal Patrin?”

“I don’t know,” the prelate was obviously lying, Hess knew that from years of training, but could say nothing, “A lot has been happening. What was it you wanted?”

“I need a full surveillance satellite over Fennel; and a data stream to the abbey; we’ve almost got her, and our two packages have arrived. We’re following her and we need to follow any movements,” there was a great stress on the word, “there is a black SUV with a kilometer radius of Pollner Street. Felicia must go home tonight.”

“I’ll order it. Are you prepared to enter stage two?”

“We’re ready when Felicia. Does the Cenobiarch have any last commands?”

There was quite a pause, “No,” the Prelate answered quietly, “there is nothing else. Good night Inquisitor Hess.” The line went dead, and Hess flipped the phone back into his pocket, flipped up his collar and slipped amongst the sea of pedestrians.
--

Scribbling madly now the words flowed easily from Abbot Trezo as page after wrinkled page flicked under his hands; he had never considered himself one for socialist rhetoric but it was easy, the strive for social justice and equality could be explained in such hot, emotional words, in which monarchy could never be explained. Religion could never flow so easily; the mysteries of the world, which he daily tried to explain, were black enigmas in comparison and a few times he felt his faced become flushed with the heat of his own words.

Hours flooded past and even more pages, all neatly arranged, dated, and inked with details taken from public records, interviews, all the resources of the formidable Inquisition and its intelligence allies across the seas was poured, with a due amount of embellishment and figurative language into a story, a touching story, if Terzo would allow himself the compliment.


To punctuate a particularly heated paragraph two double doors burst open at the end of Terzo’s office, doing some severe damage to two plaster molded angels. To the Abbot’s mild amusement Edward Vaughn strode through the door, proud as a prince, and glowing like a sunrise. The pen was placed down and Terzo stood bowing. “Your Highness: it is a pleasure to finally meet you.” With a wan smile the abbot looked up from the ground, “your ear is hanging off though, no the other one. You must follow me,” Terzo said slowly as if speaking to a child, “we have work to do. I have a coat for you.”
--

With the sun finally giving up to the effects of gravity and falling behind the horizon Father Hobbs began his drudgery in his assignment. Of course the mutton joint had kept him busy sucking at the bone, and every so often he would pass the choice scrap to the bundle of cloth laying squirming beside his feet.

“It looks dark enough,” the priest happily sucked a portion of meet from a gap in his teeth.” I guess it’s time for you to get cold.” Reaching under a tarp Hobbs pulled a figure to shaking feet and examined it, “You’ve had your pill, your jacket’s strapped on, and your clothes are nice and insulated. I know you can’t swim but keep your head above the water. Yes?” The figure nodded slightly sniffing as it did so. Hobbs nodded, laid the man down and pushed the throttle of the rented skiff to a gentle putt which propelled it silently out into Fennel harbor, where at this time there was only a fraction of the usual daily pandemonium. About halfway out into the harbor, Hobbs jammed the wheel and stood, gaining his sea legs, and walking once again to the figure, whom he easily lifted in his meaty hands, “See you soon.” As gently as possible he tossed the body over the side. “Now that is a first.” Hobbs whispered before pulling the boat around and heading for shore.
--

Three figures slogged through the street turning off the occasional street urchin with a snarled threat or thrown coin. It really was too much trouble though; there had always been children without homes but they had never been this bold, and for members of the Holy Church it was quite disconcerting to be approached.

Terzo of course had not wished to leave the abbey without confirmation that Felicia had found her way home, but as Hess reminded him there were no police, there were no watching eyes, and high traveling cloaks protected the faces of the three men from any followers.

With growing apprehension the three men sighted the house belonging to the Spaniard and approached warily. Hess had been most adamant to step only clear ground and only very lightly. Having lost perhaps a platoon of his finest inquisitors to shifting roof tiles alone, he had learned caution. Night hid them as the three approached the front stoop, climbed a few steps and paused before ringing the doorbell.

One face was revealed as the cloak was flipped up; the other two remained shrouded. Prince Vaughn, Regent of Kell, rang the doorbell again and wiped the tiny trickle of blood from his lip where he was biting down.