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Judgment

Priory

Message for Upgrade
#1
The door to the tavern opens and closes with a rush of air and a solid click. A man enters with an air of mingled caution and power. Looking around the open space he does not find the woman he seeks. It is deserted. He holds still for brief moments, trying to detect any magical traces or traps. The residual magic is nothing he can’t handle, he dismisses it as a concern.

Hearing a clatter from the basement he turns with a cold smile. His three-tiered cloak with a high collar is the last thing in sight before the door down is closed with an even more solid and deliberate click than the front door.

He sees her and speaks. “Cyren in the basement. How fitting.” His hand raises and he says “Not a word. I will not listen to a word from you. Ever.” He looks around the basement with a crooked smile. “It’s a little different down here than up there, isn’t it? It’s a little more menacing in the dark, without the protection you feel you could call up at a moment’s notice. But we both know that’s not true, don’t we. There’s nobody to protect you, there never was. There was only you and your lies. You don’t remember me, I’m certain. But I remember you. You and your “family.” Where are they now? I doubt you could call up anything but a figment of all these people you pretended to care so much for. But I console myself in knowing that they weren’t taken in, at least they only pretended to care for you in return, or they’d still be here, wouldn’t they?”

His finger grazes the dust on a shelf and he speaks again. “There’s nothing left here for you. There’s no space left in this world for witches. There’s progress and there is truth and you stand in the way of both. There are riches to be had and fortunes to be made. Souls to save. Your charms have faded in more ways than one, witch. All your spells have weakened. You have no power here any longer, and I wish to make certain that you understand I mean it to stay that way. I only want one thing from you and that is to keep to your place. Here in the dark is perfect, consider it practice for the eternity in hell that you’ve earned. Not a word. Not a sound. Your "children" are now my flock and I will show them the truth and save them. I know the way, I know the path, and they will follow me or they will die. You see, unlike you, when I choose to save something, I don’t let go. I don’t abandon my flock. My flock is very obedient and they all know what to do to the disobedient and the unworthy. I’m sure you’ll meet them, you won’t be able to help it. You don’t have the intelligence to stay out of the way of the righteous, but then again, you’re a woman. God works in mysterious ways and it is up to me to make those ways clear to smaller minds, to save them from themselves. From this moment on, every word you speak, ever step you take, will be judged. Judgment will not come only in the afterlife for you, it's here and now.” He runs his arm along a shelf and rows of earthenware shatter to the floor, the scent of honey and yeast fills the air and liquid spatters the dirt floor and sinks into pools of mud and shards.

“If you don’t stop interfering, if you don’t stop misleading, if you don’t stand aside and let the Truth pass, people will hurt and people will die. I’ll make sure they know it’s your fault if they listened to your lies without stopping their ears. I’ll forgive them before I grant them passage to Heaven. I'll save them and secure their passage into God's eternal grace. I won’t bother trying to hurt you, you’re so full of vanity you'd only be flattered by someone causing you pain. You’re not worth the effort. You’re already lost to hell and I wish you well of it. The defiled whore of the devil whose only purpose is to legitimize his lies. But as for the people you pretended and still pretend to care for, they will die and before they do so they will curse your name and praise God’s. I own this place now. You’re a sickness that needs to die out in these modern times if progress is to be made. But I don’t want you to manage to twist your way into martyrdom before you die. I want you to be revealed for what you really are. Alone. Weak. Wretched. Condemned. Unclean.”

With one more look of disgust he walks back up the stairs and says without a backward glance “You’ll never see me again. You’ll never speak in my presence. You will keep to your place. Remember, Cyren. Not a word." At the top step he pauses and places a small package there. "Clean up this mess. It’s the only thing you’re good for.” He dusts his hands off and then the door closes. It’s more than closed. It’s sealed with an intricate spell built for just this occasion.
 

Cyren

Inactive Members
#2
Cyren falls to her knees once the silence spell passes, choking and coughing. The headache and nausea that was the aftereffect of the spell and his words hits her hard and her hands brace in the mud to keep from falling into it. She starts to cry and rocks back and forth for a short while in the mud, absorbing all the sickness and pain that she can take before it is overwhelming and her body and mind violently reject it in a purge.

She’s better but now numb, tears running in hot streaks down her cheeks and a cold pit of fear opening up in her gut. It would work. It will work. He’s right. He can do it. He’s already done it. People are going to die. She tries to think of her family, where are they, how can she warn them, panic and fear racing through her head until she stops thinking that way at all. Think. Think.

She passes through all the insults he gave her, facing truths and acknowledging them without flinching. She knows she can’t save those who want to believe, who want to follow, who can’t fight for themselves. This is ever the way of evil, in the dark, when you’re weakest, using just enough truth to undercut everything you hold dear.

She catches onto the word witch and thinks. If I were a witch…if I were a witch…if I were a witch I’d be a maiden, a mother, or a crone. He insulted the maiden, and I’m not one. He degraded the mother, and I’m not one here. What am I? What am I? What do I do?

Her breathing is harsh and she has no time for self pity. Be a crone. Be a crone. Why couldn’t he insult the crone? What is he missing? What can I use?

Her fist closes around the dirt on the floor of the basement and she’s grounded. This is something he’ll never understand. She finds the strength to stand up and grabs an axe from the wall. Slow deliberate steps get her up to the door. She dreads lifting the package that was left there so carefully, but she takes it. She needs to know.

Opening up the linen she lifts through the bloodstained layers until she sees what is inside. It’s a thumb. Not just a finger. A thumb. Someone’s thumb. She knows it’s not an empty choice. Remove someone’s thumbs and they have no method of opposition. They can’t lift anything any more like a human. She refuses to be sick again. She acknowledges that it’s an effective gesture as threats go. It could be the thumb of someone she knows, or a stranger, she has no way of knowing. She has no protection here and she’s fighting blind. He could threaten her with the lives of the people she loves, but there’s another way to be strong. She’s not going to underestimate the scope of this, but she’s not giving up.

She starts to hack at the door, she’s going to have to physically chop through the outer edges of the frame and leave a hole if she wants to get out of here fast enough to leave no trace and not have to explain why she’s locked in the basement. Blisters rise up on her fingers and palms but she keeps swinging. She’s found her stride. She’s found her truth.

“They’re ALL my family you sick, twisted son of a bitch. Even you. Not that I wouldn’t like to see you twist in the wind. What mother doesn’t despair for her children.”

Within a few hours the door is replaced, everything is cleaned up and looking normal. Business as usual. The only change is a soft mocking descant in the back of Cyren’s mind. “Not a word. Not a word.”
 
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