[IC] The Seven Vices of Vicaria [Casual RP] [Mature Content]

Pictured below is Vicaria, at the height of its power, some fifty years ago...

---

The Divine and Holy Theocratic Empire of the Heavenly Realm of Vicaria, is no more. You should've seen it my children, it was glorious. A monument to a time when virtue and paragons of virtue were prominent, champions of our faith, and holy rites were human rights. The temples towered over every hill, and our sacristies were the beating hearts of our nation. Legions were raised to fight for our cause, and across cultures, our faith was strong. Prophets spoke of times of plenty and profit, and their words were proven true. Our scriptures were copied down by our scholars and scribes, ruminated upon, and read aloud by Kings, Emperors, and Gods under our very own roofs. The empire was strong and healthy, but when sickness took root, we were too slow, too confident in the genuine goodness of our fellow men. Even tyranny would have been preferable to what came to pass...

---

The razing of an outpost by barbarous heathens in modern-day Vicaria.


Our vast and sprawling empire is sorrowfully reduced, to a single province from whence our Empire sprung long ago. The petty Kingdom of Vicaria, erstwhile capital of the empire, is a weak and grasping thing, full of holes and many thousands of cracks. Our Holy Scripture must now be translated into baser tongues, our sacred fathers and daughters of the faith are driven to roaming the streets more and more desperately. All the while unbelief and blasphemy bleed our kingdom dry of her heavenly virtue. Thieves and brigands own our streets, gamblers and braggarts claim the day, whilst whores and thugs have stolen the night from us. Even the most pathetic of our people are driven to laze about and suck at the gangrenous teat of what remains of our empire, never lifting a finger to help the state. There are seven vices in Vicaria, seven daggers thrust into our breast, that drive us to these measures. We must employ levied soldiers and mercenaries, and we must storm our towns and villages, hold inquisitions, burn away what is diseased, to cleanse our kingdom in preparation for its second coming. Our rebirth must be one of virtue, not vice.

---

"-So as you can see, my brothers and sisters, my sons and daughters, these miscreants and scum, these villainous bastards of evil, whoresons and devilbrides all, must be put to death." Father Jacobs proclaimed, his speech complete. He turned to the aforementioned whoresons and devilbrides, some of whom looked very, very tempting in their current state of undress. He licked his lips greedily, and walked along the platform, examining each one of them and introducing them to the crowd.

"This one," Jacobs began, "is known as Salim of Raydir! He was caught stealing from the coffers of the Church! For this heinous crime, he shall be put to death!" The crowd roared its approval, and Jacobs nodded, though he looked away in distaste from the boy in question. Far too thin and spindly for Jacobs to... tend to.

"And this one? He is an erstwhile knight, grown fat and drunk on the wealth of our holy divines! He has stolen not only from our revered protectors, but also from each and every one of you! He has stolen from your own favour with our gods! Aleksandr IIX will die, his greed given up for our entire empire's deserved glory!" Jacobs' eyes lingered longer on this one, his form much more suited to the... caress of God."

"Lastly, and of particular note, besides these other sinners and sold souls, is this one. This defiler of women, beater of the broken, and blasphemer of the blessed! He is worth less than the shit-smeared dirt underneath your feet. He is a vile, gods-damned heathen whose only solace will be in the FIVE PITIFUL SECONDS IT TAKES TO CHOKE THE LIFE OUT OF HIS CORRUPT BODY!" Jacobs roared, spittle flying into D'ren's face. The priest was close enough to bend down and kiss the man, and if it hadn't been for the damned constable, Jacobs could have stolen several moments alone with the deviant, to take his pleasure. There were of course, others in the gallows, women even. Whores, cutpurses, and histrionic hysterical sluts who had the lust in their eyes even now, tied up as they were. Their tears and cries of passion showed themselves to be so, Jacobs knew well. Despite their presence however, Jacobs felt that he would rather take this D'ren and ravage him with God's wrath. Men were more satisfying to break, and definitely far more satisfying to leave broken, waiting or even pleading for death.

Father Jacobs turned to the crowd, and the roars of approval he had expected were not forthcoming. Instead, a muffled applause echoed weakly in the square of the town. His lips turned down in a scowl and he turned to the executioner, an even rougher looking man than most of the criminals and heathens being hung. "Kill them. Bring me the bodies."

[Infamous Empath]

"Don't ya wanna know where I hid yer brother's body?"

D'ren's inquiry held just a hint of a taunt in his half-Irish accent. He had not brought up the brother to Jacobs before. He wanted to hold onto it, use it at the last possible moment to humiliate him in front of an audience. That was D'ren specialty after all: spectacle.

The corrupt reverend's brother was five years his junior, and the two had never really gotten along as kids. But D'ren was banking on blood being thicker than the rope that reddened the pale scoundrel's neck.

It was six weeks previous, just a few hours before his 8th match in the underground fight club. Finn Jacobs was an aide to D'ren's opponent, Delrick Smashhouse. Finn had been caught cheating, slipping drugs into Ol' Smashies drinks to make him move faster, punch stronger. D'ren and his friend Raylon had discovered this violation. Raylon caught the business end of a knife. D'ren made Finn pay for that in the alley that evening.

Then he made Smashie pay in the ring later that night.

[bloonewb]

Salim flinched at the mention of his failing. The roar of the bloodthirsty crowd deafened him, and he shuffled nervously in his place. The rope dug itself into his neck, somehow wrought painfully tight even for him. He was out one night, with a few elder monks in the tavern. They had run short on coin, and were already very deep in debt to the Vicaria City Mafia, so Salim, in his sleep addled brain, deduced that the church must have plenty of cash reserves in it's lower vaults. This, combined with the fact that any priest had access to the lower vaults, led Salim to the inevitable conclusion that the church was being weighed down by all those heavy metals and the best show of piety would be to relief the coffers of such burdens.

"Wait, my sir," he whispered to the executioner, just before his outstretched hand was about to reach the lever, sending all of them to an airless death. The next part of the plan is dependent upon the executioner being more corrupt than the preacher appeared to be. "Do you like being wealthy?" There was no response, but the hand did slowly retract from the lever. This was a good start. Salim looked over at the priest, who was being distracted by the man on the far right. Hearing no response from either the executioner or the preacher, he continued. "I have friends in very high places. Simply by not killing me, thus sparing you work, I will consequently owe you, and I always pay in untraceable cash. Interesting, yes?" Having said his part, Salim waited with bated breath for the executioner's response.

[Wadesauce]

As the Irishman taunted father Jacobs with his query, Aleksander noticed the thin brown man going to work on the executioner, and thought to himself "what's my angle.. where can I make my move." And what came over him next even he can't comprehend...

"Hey father!" bellowed Aleksander.

... As this turned father Jacobs head toward the unhollowed knight, Aleksander projectile vomited all over his mark despite the half dozen feet that separated them. The crowd instantly burst into laughter, jeering and pointing at the sin-riddled holy man.

[Kalleth]

Father Jacobs turned to the insolent man who was begging to be taught a lesson in obeying the lord's servants. His mouth was opening to command the executioner to leave the funny-speaking pretty boy for his own personal treatment, his hand upraised to wave off the execution when-

A horrible noise. A sickening smell. Hot putrid bile mixed with putrescent contents blasting into his face, nostrils, mouth, and robes. At first, he felt extreme disgust, his own bile mounting in his throat, then he knew nothing, as he fell off the gallows platform and darkness enveloped his vision. He knew nothing beyond that.

---

The executioner saw the spectacular fountain of vomit catapult the priest off of the raised stage, and then he looked furtively about. The crowd had jumped back to avoid the disgustingly sodden form of the unconscious priest. All the other guards were elsewhere, administering Vicarian justice to those who were not presumably, moments from death. Finally he made up his mind and stepped closer, pulling out his knife. He held it up in front of Salim's face.

"See this? You pay me in coin you have right now, locked up in the dungeon, for this knife." He gave Salim a look as though waiting to hear what money was being held up in the dungeon that the executioner could look forward to. At that moment however, a guard caught sight of the catastrophe at hand, and began pushing through the crowd, clubbing bystanders liberally. The executioner's eyes widened and he dropped the knife at Salim's feet, and made himself scarce.

The crowd was jumbled, and the lone guard was having trouble making headway, however it was evident to the three heroes of our narrative, and their criminal companions, that if they didn't find a way out of the noose now, their temporary stay of execution would remain just that.

Temporary.

[Infamous Empath]

The knife was too far away. Bloody hell. If only the executioner had dropped it a little closer, he could use his martial expertise to toe-flick the blade up to his hands. D'ren quickly decided to leave the knife to Salim or the other guy, the name of which he'd already forgotten.

Many hits to the head will affect one's memory.

D'ren deliberately looked around, as if unfazed by the chaos. It was during chaotic circumstances that D'ren felt the most at ease. Thinking quite clearly, D'ren caught sight of a guard holding a crossbow just a few meters away. He was watching the crowd, as well as the convicts. Now, how to get him to actually shoot at them...

"Oi!" D'ren yelped at the guard. "I fucked yer daughter!"

The guard looked up in terror at the gallows. "She's 13!"

D'ren blinked, but kept up the facade of indigence. "Yeah? Well she felt 30!"

That worked. The guard took aim and jerked the trigger back, perhaps not quite taking aim, so much as firing in a blind rage. The arrow whizzed harmlessly past.

D'ren rolled his eyes as the guard knocked in another dart. "No, I'm sorry. It was another...guard's...daughter...?"

The guard calmed slightly, but not by much. It was enough, however, for him to actually take aim at D'ren. He fired. D'ren dodged. The arrow hit the shoulder of the man in the middle, who D'ren had named in his head Vomit-Man.

"Cheers mate," D'ren said as he took the arrow in his teeth, yanked it out of Vomit-Man.

The head didn't want to come out at first. He had to tug a couple of times. When he got the dart out, he saw the guard locking in another one. D'ren dropped the arrow, turned to the side, caught it, and quickly tried to cut through the rope holding his hands behind his back. He figured he'd have to duck at least another arrow.

Halfway through the binds, the guard fired (roughly) at D'ren once more. But now, he was only about eight feet away. He couldn't miss if he was blind and on fire.

[bloonewb]

Salim looked down at the knife at his feet. It was definitely within the reach of his feet, but he can't bend over too far without strangling himself. Perhaps if he caught the blade between his feet, he could maneuver it up to his hands. However, when he went to do so, his legs had to give out beneath him, and he began choking as the rope constricted around his throat. Salim fought to keep conscious, the knife getting closer inch by inch to his hand. Then, salvation came when his fingers brushed the hilt. He grabbed onto it like a lifeline, plopping his feet down again and sucking in the air. The sharp edge made quick work of the rope, and soon he was free of all bindings. Then, a dilemma struck him. He looked at the rows upon rows of criminals he was to be executed with, all doomed to hang as he was. Should he rescue them? Opportunity was growing thin, and he only had time for one. He chose the closest and began hacking away at the bindings, soon freeing him as well. Some points with the Vicar Gods couldn't hurt. "You are greatly indebted to me," Salim said, as he freed Aleksandr from his bonds.

[Wadesauce]

thunk!

The crossbow bolt sinks into Aleksander's shoulder, then promptly gets ripped out by the scrappy hooligan.

"aaaagghhhh"
.
"Fuck the gods, that hurt"

Just then the thin brown man, Salim, cut him loose.

"You are greatly indebted to me,"
"Aye, that I am. Follow behind me, and maybe we both make it out of here."

Aleksander took off his burlap sackcloth, his makeshift cloths, exposing his muscular, if not also husky build. This action was not without purpose, for the lone guard was almost upon them, and had in his hand a mid-length blade, some sort of falchion or messer.

Aleksander charged the guard, and just as he anticipated, the guard came down with an overhand swing only to get entangled with the burlap cloth in his target's hands. Aleksander countered with a vicious headbutt, staggering the guard, Aleksander however, retained the blade.

[Kalleth]

This particular guard had been having a bad day.

Julius Mannus, of the Goldenhand Order, had not intended for his day to go quite so badly. First, that morning he had received a letter informing him of his mother's passing. Second, he had stubbed his toe on his kitchen table. Third, he'd been given guard duty first thing in the morning. Fourth, he had forgotten his extra quarrel for his crossbow. So, when fifth, some fucking heathen started talking shit about his daughter, he just about lost it. He fired the quarrels on hand, one missing and the other hitting some other criminal in the shoulder. Pawing his outfit for literally anything else to shoot, he mistakenly placed his glasses in the crossbow and fired in his rage. His specs flew with surprising aerodynamics to thump squarely in the criminal's chest, shattering utterly.

The criminals had freed themselves, and so Julius took a mighty swing at the nearest one, a man a whole head taller than him. This much like the rest of Julius' day failed miserably. He somehow ended up on the ground, seeing stars with a terrible headache and no sword. That did it. Julius was done. The world had it out for him. He staggered to his feet, and began to totter home. However he slipped on a puddle of vomit and landed in the stuff, bile splashing all over his clothes and armours. He decided to just lie there, and question his life choices.

---

So, you're free. Where to first? Also as a note, @Wadesauce, easy on the godmodding. Just a warning in case you don't know what that is, but just make sure you're controlling only your character and nobody else's. Thanks.

[Infamous Empath]

D'ren let Vomit-Man tussle with Glasses-Guy as he gazed down at the broken spectacles in his hand for a moment. If only he could get these things in a couple shades darker. Two more guards rushed up the back of the gallows, much to D'ren's totally irrational glee. He slowly removed the noose from his neck, pretending like he hadn't forgotten about it.

However, these guards knew of D'ren's exploits as a boxer. They weren't about to charge in there so he could disarm them and disembowel or decapitate them with their own broad swords. Instead, they tiptoed around a bit until the Irishman got bored of waiting, tossed the glasses at them, and then charged them, disarmed them, and disemboweled one before turning to decapitate the other.

"Yeah!" D'ren exclaimed jubilantly, swinging both broad swords over his head. "Who wants some good ol' deathsauce???"

By now, most of the area had cleared out. There were but a handful of guards, and most of them were smart enough to keep their distance, and also be prepared to scamper if D'ren got bored of waiting again.

[bloonewb]

Salim ducked low as the fight between his new debtor and the guard quickly resolved itself. He gazed down at the blade in his hand. It was a paltry thing, and his lack of body mass meant that if this fellow, now armed with a far more effective weapon, were to betray him, there was little Salim could do to stop it without the backing of his contacts around the city.

"Which way?" he asked, looking back at the crowd. It would be too easy to duck into the unorganized horde and become instantly anonymous. He turned, and found another alternative. The storm drains that can be accessed by night workers could provide an easy escape, and Salim knew the paths well enough to escape the inquisition. He left it up to his debtor to choose the path.

[Wadesauce]

As his adrenaline started to ebb Aleksander could feel his shoulder pulse with pain. Not feeling very much up for more fighting, he noticed Salim glance in the directions of the city storm drain system.

"good idea Salim. We take the drains."

Although a capable warrior, and quite intimidating as he was, a nude bearlike man, holding what was basically a battle cleaver, Aleksander was also wounded, unarmored, and threw up his paltry breakfast. He needed some back up. Although he didn't much care for him, the Irishman would do for now.

Hey.. Irishman! You gonna keep murdering these thugs all day or actually get out of here with your life!?

Aleksander waves for D'ren to jump from the gallows then gives Salim a sideways head nod towards the storm drain.