Deus Vult [magyar] [m]

[Corvus]

— KATARINE—

CONTENT WARNING: Post contains strong language and mentions of hanging.

NEAR THE MAGE CAMPS OF BELLKRATH

The northern mountains jutted into the grey sky, ringed like cold sentries over the town of Farien.

Its square rang with the cry of temple bells; a gallows had been erected in the courtyard, three ropes fluttering in the errant wind. A caw sounded from above—already the ravens gathered, alighting on a gnarled tree with soft quorks and ruffling wings.

Katarine d'Arte set her mouth into a grim line.

A soldier from Reajh scowled as he marched beside her, prodding the prisoners along with the butt of his spear. Chains clinked as they shuffled—a straw-haired man and a weeping woman, followed by a lanky boy beat half to unconsciousness. The youth stumbled, kicking up the dust under his bare feet; after a wobbling moment he righted himself again, staring out at the crowd through a swollen eye.

Maven Falkheim did not want to die.

He sucked in his lips, inhaling hard as his gaze swept the gathered. Women hid their children in their skirts; the faces that stared back at him paled in equal parts fear and loathing—a few would not even meet his eye. Maven stumbled forward, heart pounding against his ribs, and came to a halt in front of the gallows. His Mother wept—Father stayed silent, his eyes elsewhere, mouthing silent prayers to the Lord.

The world misted. Swallowing a hard lump in his throat, the boy stared down at his bloody feet, unable to breathe.

"Maven Falkheim," barked a voice to his left. The soldier behind him wrenched his head up, forcing him to stare into the cold blue eyes of a woman. Trembling, the boy stood, fixed in horror and loathing, as she put a hand on the pommel of her sword.

"...You stand accused of freeing mages from the northern camps, colluding with the Unmarked, and practicing the Dark Crafts yourself. You have blasphemed the Lord." Heat rose in her voice. Her knuckles jumped, white where they clawed into the hilt of her blade.

"By the will of the Grand Duke, you are sentenced to death."

The words punched his gut. Of a sudden he couldn't breathe—the world was closing in—his head felt like a struck bell, spinning, spinning—everything looked so colorful, each detail carved with the precision of a master sculptor...

Mother gave a whimpering cry, sinking to her knees.

The crowd erupted into protest.

"—the boy's family did nothing—"

"—they have a babe, she shall be orphaned—"

"—what proof have you—?"

"Fair trial," a ruddy-faced man howled, his eyes bulging. "He deserves a fair trial!"

A murmur of assent swept through the crowd. Katarine's hand twitched instinctually on her sword, heart pumping.

"Take me instead," the boy's mother squalled, raising her wet, blotchy face. Her eyes shone with tears, hair frayed, her dirty hands clawing towards her boots in desperation. "Leave my boy—my boy— my son— let him live—" a sob hitched her throat. "Are you a mother? Then you'd understand—my boy— p-p-please—" she twisted her hands, face screwing up in a red rictus. "Please—have mercy—"

Katarine pursed her lips. Metal clinked as she moved her foot ever to the left, well out of reach of the woman's filthy fingers.

"Your son stands in violation of the Grand Duke's law," the Adhara boomed back, towering over the woman. "Let him be an example to all who oppose God's will." The rabble gave more howls of protest, buzzing like an angry hive. Katarine's heart pumped hard, jaw set as she motioned for another soldier to prepare the gallows.

Slowly, the boy's Father craned his head up. Nothing lived in his eyes—they had gone blank and hollow with acceptance, mouth twitching under his sandy mustache. For a moment their gazes met— the man's face crumpled, contorting as if he verged on tears—his lips twisted, pursed—

Spit flew from his mouth and splashed her greaves.

"Evil cunt," the peasant rasped, eyes wild through a tangle of hair.

The soldier behind the boy sprung into action, lifting his spear to hit the man, but Katarine rose her hand, shaking her head.

"No," she murmured, examining the prisoner as if she just noticed his existence. "Leave him." Confusion melted some of the hatred in the peasant's face, wilting his scowl.

"Hang him last," Katarine barked, lowering her hand. "Let him watch his boy and wife die."

To her satisfaction, the little color left in his face drained away. His wife wailed another sob, clinging to her trembling, dead-eyed son. The soldier wrestled her away, prying her from Maven's shoulders as she shrieked, kicking like a wild horse. Katarine flanked him as the boy was wrenched forward, nodding to a soldier standing beside the noose.

The mother screamed incoherently—the rabble howled, yelling for a fair trial, cursing the Duke, shrieking obscenities—should hang them all, Katarine thought, temple pulsing with blood—the boy sobbed ahead of her, writhing in his chains— I don't want to die, he was shrieking, making her head hurt—filthy scum, bellowed the crowd, the senseless buzz of insects, Duke's bitch— whore— savages— traitors of Ansgar—hang them all, she should—the soldiers barked orders to the crowd, spears flashing in the watery light—the boy was sobbing, sobbing as she looped the rope around his neck—

That's when the first rock came.

It bounced harmlessly off her breastplate, skittering across the cobbles like a grey rat. When she looked up, a sea of angry eyes met her—soldiers shouted— it happened quick as thunder: a flash of steel, a spurt of blood, and a man collapsed on the ground, clutching his shoulder.

The rabble roared.

[Magyar]

A riot in the town square, dozens and dozens of common-folk swarming the gallows...

Gwynne tightened the straps on his vambraces, deftly tying the well worn leather thongs more from muscle memory than active thought. His large fingers had once struggled with the straps, clumsily tying them one handed. What the years and stolen from him in the form of durability and endurance, they had returned in rather useful talents.

Rocks, at first, then fistfights, knives, swords, pitchforks and even improvised spears. They were fighting with anything and everything they could get their hands on...

Finishing the last strap, he slid his hands into his greaves, one at a time. Left first, always. The clinking of well engineered and masterfully crafted finger joints slotting together as he flexed his hands into position never failed to bring him satisfaction.

The stationed men retreated into the southernmost quarter of the city, barricading themselves against the tide of peasant radicals. Some reports even mention the leading officer, an Inquisitor, cutting a path through the mob to clear the way...

His helmet slid down onto the padded coif around his head, the chain-link aventail draping across his neck. He pointed his chin up and untucked his just too long beard. It would need a trim soon. After today, definitely. Maybe he'd even wash his hair as well.

All of the men who could say exactly what had sparked the conflict would be either trapped in the Southern Quarter, or missing in action - presumed dead until found otherwise - so it's unsure which specific action caused the skirmish to break out, but there was an administrative event scheduled for today, which might have caused tensions to rise...

Gwynne left his barrack armoured physically, and heavily so... but he wasn't yet mentally prepared. His apathy still needed time to set in, his bloodlust as of yet unattained. As he walked from his personal quarters down to the stables he ran through his mind all the memories that stirred in him deep anger, fear, and hatred. He fanned the embers of his simmering emotions until they began to eat at his calm on their own. He became twitchy, and his expression grew grim, his eyes hard. Today might even provide some new memories from which to draw in future.

Today, in the town of Farien in the province of Turgall, scheduled for three hours past noon, was the execution of a man, his wife, and his son, all for the interference in the incarceration of mages, to be killed by hanging from the neck until death. It cannot be known at this time if the execution was interrupted by the riots, or directly proceeded them...

Gwynne had brought with him to Farien five of his Black Allars, two Mordecai, and three Cavalrymen. They were there more to look intimidating than to serve a military purpose, as Gwynne had only taken station in the town for a few weeks. He was there on a working holiday, just off of a recent mage hunt in the local area and had the opportunity to reward some of his most diligent soldiers. He selected the hardest working, the most loyal, and the most sociable of his company to come with him, based on their behaviours pertaining to the last hunt. Usually, he rewarded his top five one way or another but this assignment had meant at minimum two and half weeks of what was essentially paid leave in a rainy little village in central Connloath. It wasn't on anyone's minds to be armouring up, much less against civilian unrest in the charming town they'd become acquainted with over the last week or so.

But it was what it was. Fellow soldiers had been attacked, maybe even killed by these peasant-folk and the town had all but revolted. Gwynne heard the news maybe an hour after it had happened but by then the only strongholds in the town were the Military Barracks where he stayed and the recently closed off Southern Quarter, now under the emergency command of Inquisitor d'Arte. It honestly didn't surprise him that she'd stirred up a mess, only that the scale was so enormous as this. These townsfolk were Connloathian, not some Serenian rabble or Thanati drunkards. They'd armed themselves with family heirlooms and the weapons of fallen soldiers and they'd fought - if the reports had been unembellished. It was imperative to make contact with the separated forces, regroup, and then bring this town back under control... by any means necessary. The Grand Duke would not be pleased to have every town this side of Sirantil thinking they could revolt and get away with it unscathed.

No. Gwynne would not allow that. Gathering himself up on his theocog steed, Zweibel - who was armoured in the same black painted armour as he and his compatriots were - Gwynne dug his spurs against the beast's sides. Zweibel took off at a gallop, followed closely by Gwynne's black-clad rearguard, tearing down the cobblestone streets towards the Southern Quarter. 

[Corvus]

In the end, Maven Falkheim did not die.

The last thing he remembered was the roar of the crowd--the villagers surging like a violent tide--hands ripping him away from his family--shrieking no--the returning surge of power he felt when the Adhara stumbled away from him, her head bleeding freely from a rock to her temple--power, sweet power--and hatred, hatred burning in his breast--he turned his face to the Inquisitor, stared into those pale eyes--hatred--he was burning--he was a conflagration, a roaring fire-- a blast of heat exploded outwards as he bellowed, staggering the woman and licking up the scaffolds--the gallows burst into flames, vomiting black smoke--people were screaming--he was dizzy, weak, legs trembling as they gave out--all his strength withdrew like the tide, leaving him empty--sounds became muffled, far-away--

And then the ground rushed up to meet him. Somewhere, his mother wailed.

—

"Bar the door," Katarine roared.

Men exploded into action. A bar thundered over the lock just in time: it jumped on its hinges under the hail of fists. Muffled yells and obscenities came from outside.

Her heart pounded. Shaking, the Adhara pushed a bloody lock of hair behind her ear; it still rang from the explosion, making her head feel like a struck bell.

"Archers," she yelled, jerking her chin towards the stairs. "You two, stay."

Two battered soldiers shambled to the door, cluching their spears. It bucked like an animal behind them, and they exchanged wary looks.

There was no time. She charged up the stairs along with two other men; they'd only brought one crossbow -- the rest were hunting bows— but nevertheless...

"Ready," the Inquisitor growled, kneeling to set a bolt into her weapon. The other men nodded, taking their bows off the walls and nocking arrows. They stole towards the open windows, peering at the seething masses below. "Aim..." One man brandished a torch, roaring.

"Fire!"

An arrow sailed through the air, catching the torch-bearer in the throat—he crumpled, flames spilling from his fingers and rolling away on the cobbles. Several people gave cries of anguish— another bolt whizzed through the air, biting into a woman's chest; she too crumpled, clutching her side and gaping like a fish.

Scum, Katarine thought as she loaded another bolt, teeth grit near to cracking. Her eyes swiveled past the seething crowd, trying to pick out any reinforcements in the distance. Another rock flew through the air, pelting the window as she ducked.

She'd sent a raven to military barracks... surely they would come at any moment...

[Magyar]

Gwynne's tight formation charged through the town square, the dust kicked up by his cavalry coagulating in the streams of blood that ran like veins from around the abandoned gallows. Several corpses laid at unnatural angles, some the victims of unsightly wounds and others clearly the bodies of town guardsmen - stripped of their armour and weaponry. The Gallows' ropes had all been cut, frayed ends swinging limply with each breath of wind. Gwynne would normally have stopped the unit there to investigate and formulate a plan of attack... but today he didn't have need of such a plan, or an investigation. All he had to do was follow the glow of riot-fire and the drifting towers of dark smoke above the rooftops. And the screams, the shrill cries of dying men and women echoing between the empty streets, they sounded very close indeed.

And so without even a pause to examine the scene of the catalyst, Gwynne rode through the square and on towards the southern quarter. The rhythmic jolting of his steed beneath him served to both steel his nerves and take his mind from what he was about to do. Ansgar knew he would need all the distraction he could get.



As The Black Allars came to the gate of the Southern Quarter, they saw where the inhabitants of the town had gone. Hundreds lined the streets between them and the gate, most actively engaged in sieging it, but some lingered around the back of the mob trying to procure what seemed like barrels and large wooden beams. Gwynne, still many dozens of metres away, was confused by their efforts. He reined in his steed and his men followed suit, falling into line beside him. The street was large, a main road intended for a bustling market crowd, but even then, their six horses just barely fit shoulder-to-shoulder across it.

It was only then that Gwynne saw their cannon. The iron beast, as long as a horse and as wide around as a man's head, was propped up on an impromptu axletree and aimed dead on for the centre of the gate. The barrels' purpose suddenly became very clear.

"They intend to blow the gates from their hinges!" He called to his lieutenants, who lowered their spears in response. They knew just as well as he what the consequences for the breach of the gate would be. The situation was already grim, but the moment they broke through that gate the fighting would become truly life or death. Gwynne would not allow that. And so he too lowered his spear against the peasant-folk.

"The subjects of Farien revolt! Let your blades run slick with the blood of these Apostates!" He cried, voice nearly cracking as he strained it against the racaous din of the crowd. In their roaring chaos, they couldn't hear him, though a few took notice of the armed Mordecai squad staring them down. "For the glory of Ansgar and Calent Allarick, Grand Duke of Connloath! Charge!"