babbysama — Roleplayer Guild

Autumn, Hágwen Swale, Outside the City of Letwijs, Duchy of Innes, Cordonova

They were burning her, by the river.

Through the thick fragrance of yeast and baking bread and drying fish, the sharp must of woodsmoke could be detected. Plumes of black smoke blinded the honeying sun, bulging to greet the dusky streakings of cloud that whirred in the afternoon sky.

By God! The madness has seized them!

He knew that his time had run out. That even this frantic haste would only to deliver to him the affirmation of his suspicions. 

By Fiorentino! They were burning her! 

I’ll tear apart their flesh and piss in their eyes! I’ll crack their bones and chew out the marrow! I’ll burn them alive, so they shall never know salvation! I’ll cut off their balls and throw them to the pigs!

Davoy girded his destrier to a furious gallop, the streaming press of the market district eyeing him wildly and mumbling curses or vain prayers under their breath. He rode with abandon, without thought, without apprehension, to his own ruin, towards the Trout-Mouth Portal. The guardsmen, leaning upon their halberds, started at the sight of the Castellan so nonplussed, startling at his red roan as its hooves spattered against the cobbles with the tintinnabulation of shattering glass. 

They were burning her, and none would dare to stop them. 

It was, after all, the will of holy God. Divine judgement had been passed, and now its punishment would be meted. 

May hellfire char their flesh and rats claw out their eyes for feasting! May they be forced to wander the hundred-hundred precincts of Hell!

Davoy believed in God. He believed in the hallowed benevolence of blessed Fiorentino. He had been baptized in the sacristy, had kissed the feet and the signet ring of the Bishop, had wept and prayed before the votives in the basilica. He was a small man, and faith granted him egress into a larger experience, a palliative to calm the wanderings of his soul. 

But what did any of that matter now? 

He was by the riverbank now, his roan, sweat lathering his haunches, kicking up clods of dark sand and cracked leaves between stands of black poplar. The smell of smoke grew thicker and thicker, mingling with the sulfur twang of mud. There was another scent, sweet, like roasted pork. Through the veil of crimson leaves and chapped bark he could make out the flailings of the pyre. 

Tears—of rage or of sorrow he knew not—blotted the edge of vision like ink spots.

The road rounded a bend in the river, and the trees fell away to reveal a swathe of windswept plain, bounded by a russet sky as vast as the world could hold. 

Davoy reined his destrier sharply. 

There they were, beyond the trees, on a decline of grass and river sand, beneath the sun and sky. 

The faithful stood congregated, gazing silently into the flames as the black smoke billowed towards the heavens. Father Odo, grim in his crimson-and-gold velvets, stood alone amongst them, his hands held out in benediction. 

Before them, his sister and her lover smouldered into ashes. 

He dismounted, and began to approach. 

He was already imagining his ignominious death. The penalty for the murder of a clergyman was onerous. He had not himself administered it, of course, but he had delivered its sentence as a part of his responsibilities as castellan. 

Castration, flagellation, mutilation, abacination, deprivation, mutilation...the many tortures described so vividly in the Codex Margarita. He had even heard of a footpaw submerged in a pit of rats. The privations that preambled long and painful death were limited only to the imagination of one’s torturer. 

He’d kill himself right after, then. Or throw himself onto one of the guardsman’s pikes. 

Davoy unsheathed his sword as he drew closer. Some of the assembled mob turned towards him as they heard it, the curious look in their eyes fading to one of recognition. 

He did not dare look at them, those enjoined to the pyre. He could not bear it. 

He thought of what he would say to him. How he would curse him and his forebears unto the depths of perdition. How he would laugh as he smote his bald head from his shoulders. How he would sing as he danced in their blood and rent their limbs. 

They were all looking at him now, whispering, moving to shield Father Odo. 

But the priest turned them aside, and matched Davoy’s gaze with cold grey eyes, his face darkening beneath the intermittent shadows cast by the smoke. A brief grin, rueful and full of invitation, dimpled his cheeks. 

He stood then, before them all, his sword in hand, as the inferno flared beyond them, and did nothing. 

At a gesture from the priest, they began to file past him, slowly, wending their way back to the tree shaded lane that led to the Trout-Mouth Portal. Odo was the last to leave, clasping his palms together and bowing towards him in a posture of blessing. Then, he was gone, in a swishing of skirts. 

Davoy did not recall precisely when he dropped the sword, nor when he fell to his knees. 

He wept, his face in the dirt, until long after the flames faded to glowing coals and the dying sun spilled across the purpling sky like an overturned goblet of wine. 

When finally his traitorous feet returned him to the city, the impossibly vast heavens were dappled with milk-white stars.

Autumn, the City of Letwijs, Duchy of Innes, Cordonova

“I will recount to you, Davoy, the tale of Farha the Virgin.” 

“She was the golden child of the House Janir, who, amidst the heathen, had taken up the mantle of the true faith. She was loved by, and loved, however, a pagan by the name of Absoud. They spoke, during their secret congresses, of fleeing to the desert and eloping. On the eve of their flight, they were discovered by their parents, who had found their beds unoccupied. 

“Absoud was chastised severely and sent back to bed. But Farha, the poor child, was dragged by her prized long black hair through the dusty streets of Fazal by her father. 

“He asked her, ‘Dost thou yet, thou harlot, maintain thy chastity?’ 

“‘Lord father, I doth!’ she exclaimed, ‘I hath lain with no suitor save the Lord, who cometh before all others!’ 

“He beat her, then. He tore her clothes from her, and endeavored, futilely, to investigate her maidenhead, in order to test the veracity of her claim. Yet she clawed at him, and swatted at him, and would not allow him to do so. 

“She cried, and cried, and cried, ‘I am a virgin, before God!’ 

“Farha’s mother interceded on her behalf, saying that as a man he would not know even were it the case, and properly so. Her father turned away, then, at his wife’s urging. Finally, she called out to him, and when once more he turned to face his daugher, he saw that her throat had been cut and her life flown from her. 

“He wept, and pulled at his hair, and cried, ‘She lay with the heathen! She stain’d her womb with wicked seed!’ 

“‘Nay, lord husband,’ the wife replied, ‘She wast a virgin unto death.’” 

Davoy listened to the Bishop’s story reticently as they walked the battlements of Castle Letwijs, the wide steppe stretching endlessly before them, dotted here and there with stands of poplar and low-lying shrubs. Guardsmen saluted as they passed, their bannered lances snapping in the wind. It was gaining on mid-morning now, and far below “The Rock”, the pinnacle upon which the citadel had been built, the city was alive with activity. Faintly, one could discern the calls of the hawkers in the market, and the aroma of baking bread. A hawk wheeled far in the distance. 

The silence grew between them as Barthóld stopped to survey the city. 

Davoy stared at the flagstones, a gloved hand resting upon the pommel of his sword. 

The Bishop, a frown creasing his pallid cheeks, regarded him with unyielding eyes. 

“Tell me,” he began, slowly, “What do you think it means, the story?” 

Davoy glanced upward, meeting his gaze. 

He was silent for a moment, then murmered, “It is a tale of the mercy of mothers.” 

Barthóld averted his eyes, scrutinizing once more some far quarter of the city. 

“If only that were so, my child. A better world it would be, I think.” 

He gestured, and they continued on their way. 

“Whether Farha retained her virginity or no, it is said, is of little consequence. Our God, one must remember, is a jealous god. Though Farha was a virgin of the flesh, her spirit was whored. In her perfidy she courted another god, and according to Ambrusian doctrine, was tried and meted her punishment.” 

“I understand,” Davoy replied hoarsely, “But why, my Lord, are you telling me all this? To what end?” 

The Bishop chuckled softly, his hands drawn tightly behind his back. 

“I apologize, Castellan. I am an old man, and disposed to my indulgences,” he admitted. 

“Certain precepts of our religion teach that we must judge none so severely as ourselves. Not only ourselves, meaning the individual self, but also ourselves as members of a shared faith, a shared ideology…” 

“This, Davoy…this is how they will justify it. What happened yesterday.” 

The Castellan snapped his head towards the Bishop. 

“My sister was no heretic! She was no witch!” 

Barthóld sighed, and nodded in pained assent. 

“I know.” 

“It was rumor,” Davoy growled, “A jealous rumor used to further Odo’s ends. Do you realize what this signifies?” 

“Only too well, Castellan,” the Bishop replied, “Which is the very reason I have come to you this day.” 

Davoy raised his eyebrows at that, and halted in his tracks to regard the cleric. His eyes searched the Bishop’s face, a lost light briefly returning to them. 

“I am summoned to Léonne,” Barthóld said, “by invitation of the Grand Duke himself.” 

“The capital…And for what purpose?” 

“To...give a mass,” the Bishop continued, crossing to the parapet. 

“But...meaning no disrespect...why you?” 

“I have my suspicions,” he replied softly, one hand resting upon the merlon. “In any case, I will be away from Letwijs for some time.” 

He turned to Davoy, smiling faintly, his chain of office gleaming in the morning sunlight. 

“I have a request for you, Castellan Davoy Ročtos.” 

He placed a ringed finger upon the man’s shoulder, peering through his umber eyes. 

“You are the true guardian of this city. We both know that. The Margrave lies abed, febrile, rarely quitting his bedchamber.” 

He tightened his grip, hardened his voice. 

“You must keep the faith, my son. This has been the first burning, and it will not be the last. Even whilst I am here in the city, their boldness remains unchecked. Who knows where it shall wander whilst I am away?” 

Davoy looked away, towards the undulating hills of the Veldt. 

“Keep the faith, Davoy Ročtos. And judge none so severely as yourself.” 

“I understand, holy one,” he whispered. 

At that, the Bishop released his grip. 

“I depart on the morrow. The feast of Saint Ogbas falls on the first full moon of next month, and the journey shall tarry some time. I fear that I am no longer the vociferous traveller I once was.” 

He paused a moment; then, “You shall inform the Margrave, I trust?” 

“Of course, lord Bishop,” Davoy said, nodding just-so. 

Another silence. 

“I…” the Bishop began, before halting abruptly. Instead, he clasped his hands together, and bowed, just as Father Odo had the day before. 

“May God be with you.” 

Then, he was gone. 

The sister of Davoy Ročtos, the Castellan of Castle Letwijs, accused of heresy and witchcraft, is burnt at the stake with her lover by the fanatical Father Odo, a Monsignor of the Church.
It is the first such burning in the Duchy of Innes to occur in some centuries.
Bishop Wenčel Barthóld, Duke Lirian's candidate for the Pontifical election, offers his condolences to the Castellan andd informs him that he has been invited to give mass in Léonne.
He will be departing the next day, as the journey to the capital of Cordonova will be arduous.
He warns that Father Odo is attempting to gather influence in the city, and cautions Davoy to be watchful, and to keep the faith.
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