Day 1 Has Begun!
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| Not Voting | - 13 - | <cut for size> |
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“A Lannister always pays his debts!” He says with a flourish. Taking out a small velvet pouch, the man tosses it to the other with a soft jingle and a half-smile, half-smirk.
“Thank you, milord.” The other gestures to his mercenaries, holding swords at the ready, tall and plated in thick shining steel, who sheathe their blades. The curtain closes once more to thunderous applause, and the men quietly leave the stage from behind.
“Thank you! That was the end of the second act. We’ll return in a short while for the third!”
The mutter and activity in the square rises again to its normal volume and the crowd disperses for the intermission. The actors, who only a few moments ago held the entire public enraptured, are largely ignored as they sit in chairs among painted props and scenery set pieces. Theatrical helmets and armour lie strewn about.
“You know, Pierre, I’m sure there’s some sort of philosophical saying that can summarise all this.”
“What?” Pierre turns, and drinks another mouthful from his beer.
“The way we seem to just disappear after the play. ‘An actor lives a thousand lives – none of which are his.’ Or something like that. I don’t know.” He turns one of the mercenaries’ helmets over in his hands. Though it looked impressive on-stage, in reality, it was made only of a thin sheet of steel hammered out to paper thickness; it was padded with copious amounts of wool in order to give the appearance that it was made of heavier material. He fingers the edge. It wouldn’t be able to last a blow even from a wooden mallet.
“That’s because we’ve stopped entertaining. People know if we’re good or bad actors, but that’s it. They’ll never interest themselves in the lives of actors – our lives.”
They drink in silence for a while longer, feeling slightly contemplative.
“You think they liked it?”
“Liked what? The play?”
“Yeah, the play. They were fairly stolid when they left. I mean, even Nîmes had a better reception.”
One of the other actors mouths some words, but the words are drowned out in a sudden roar of hoofbeats. A chorus of bright trumpets cut through the noise, quickly followed by a throng of riders in real armour; in the centre rode several older men clad in dusty black robes. Each robed man held a polished staff with a cross atop it, and bore the ornate symbols of the Catholic Church and the Pope himself. They swoop down upon the stage, and one of the knights, mounting the platform, takes one look at the red curtain and slashes it open with his sword.
“Hey, sir! That’s private property! You can’t-” the stagehand, running down from the rafters above, smashes into the knight’s spiked fist. Blinking through the blood, he staggers backwards and knocks down the castle backdrop with a heavy
crack of splintering wood.
The oldest of the clergymen ascends the stage carefully as people begin flowing in to watch the commotion. Handed a rather foxed and dog-eared letter on parchment with a broken seal, he snatches the document from his retainer and makes a few quick glances through it. Then, satisfied, he holds the document up to the growing audience like some curio. “Good day to you all, citizens of Uzès! We are the Papal Inquisition, a force whose purpose is to combat heresy and witchcraft wherever we go! We’ve received troubling news of witches and use of magic in this town. After so many reports have come to us, we cannot afford to ignore this threat any longer! Look at the damage that the witches have done to your town – have you not had many poor harvests as of late? Have your winters not grown colder, and had not the snows piled higher than ever?”
Scattered whispers begin discussing these claims. None of the farmers could deny that the harvests had become poor the past several years, and few here could deny the observation that it had become a good deal colder, too. But witches, of all things? Was such a thing even possible?
“And has not the crime increased? The witches are putting sinful thoughts into the town’s paupers to encourage chaos; you’ve all witnessed it yourself! Look at what has happened in this town the past years, and you cannot deny that it is not natural. People go hungry in the streets because of the witches’ work with the crops, and what is even worse, they commit even more heinous crimes not to undermine this town but simply for enjoyment!” He makes a sweeping gesture with his staff across the audience. “Mothers of Uzès! Have you not suffered from an unjust number of miscarriages in the past years?”
“Yes!” Shouted a woman from the crowd. “I lost my firstborn only some years ago – he was a poor, wretched thing!”
“Precisely,” shouted the old Inquisitor with even greater volume, “these miscarriages are due to the witches! See what they do – they kill babies still in their mother’s womb with foul magic and poisons, all for their own evil enjoyment!”
At that moment, another group comes galloping in from a street, all of them armed and heavily armoured. The rider in front had on a polished and lean plate armour that seems to curve and contour like water around his body; the edges of his shoulders, bevor and his chest gilded in bands of golden vines. On his back, and on his horse, were affixed silken capes bearing the twin coats of arms of Crussol and Uzès; green, gold and red. It could only be the viscount; no other would have that heraldry, and the others had more ordinary plate with a green sash, indicating their allegiance to the Crussols – his personal guardsmen. He opened his visor wide and spoke angrily. “What is the meaning of this? Why are there knights blocking the gates, claiming the Pope’s authority? Why are soldiers and Inquisitors corralling my people into the streets? I demand that you speak your intentions for your actions or leave immediately for breach of the peace.”
“I have come to save your city, your Excellency-” the Inquisitor, while maintaining a firm gaze, bows stiffly; the wolf, bowing to the belligerent sheep. “-from certain doom. There are witches here that mean to destroy all of your livelihoods, everything you could ever hope for, and they must be stopped.”
“Preposterous! Everyone knows there’s no such thing.” One of the Inquisitor’s knights nearest the viscount quietly hands him a copy of the papal bull.
“You don’t think witches exist? Look what the babies end up as – disfigured and dead!” The Inquisitor points a shaking finger at the woman who mentioned her miscarriage. “This is cannot be the work of anyone but the Devil. There is no mistaking this; there are witches that have made a pact with the Devil, and all that they touch is turned to the same by their corruption. These failed harvests, these winters, the hunger, the death and pestilence is only a beginning! They can even possess people, and impersonate anyone; any person in this flock may in fact be a witch, whether it is truly that person or not. We must stop them, and stop them now!”
Some start to cheer. His polemic made a certain kind of sense – and him being a learned member of the clergy, he likely knows much and has seen many such things. It did seem trustworthy. Witches? Perhaps not entirely unlikely.
The viscount, after having skimmed through the bull, whispers to one of the guardsmen at his side, who rides off to the castle.
“And by this papal bull-” he shakes the letter that he holds up and down- “
Summis desiderantes affectibus, we are given approval by Pope Innocent the Eighth himself to use any available method to find, punish and imprison these heretics.”
He pauses for a while to look at the audience. Giving the letter back to his retainer, he rubs his hands together before speaking again. “In order to eliminate every last trace of the witches, we are hereby quarantining this town. Knights and soldiers loyal to the Pope have already surrounded it, and all gates are blocked. None of you may leave, and nobody can enter, until the demonspawn have been excised.”
“So you mean to lock us in here like cattle and kill us off one by one?” Another shouts. He pushes his way to the front of the crowd and glares at the Inquisitor. “Many of us have farms on the outskirts and business out of town. You can’t expect us to simply put down all this; we deserve-”
“You insolent cur!” One of the knights steps forward and half-draws his sword. “How dare you speak to the Inquisitor like that – you should be thankful we’re saving your town instead of leaving it to fester!”
“Restrain yourself, Sir Andry! We are not here to incite a rebellion!” The knight beside him holds him back; Sir Andry jerks his arm away almost immediately and retreats back into line.
“I will not allow you to hold this city hostage. I very much doubt the King will take kindly to wandering Papal armies in his land, either.” The viscount’s eyes narrow, and he draws his sword an inch with his thumb. Several other townsfolk take a step forward, encouraged by their lord.
The Inquisitor does little but glare. After a moment, he says – as much to himself as to the audience – “You know nothing. Nothing about what could happen later, the havoc that would be wrought in the centuries to come.” He looks down, silent. Demons were already stirring in their sleep - in men’s hearts, and within the earth itself.
He nods to his knights. “Take him alive.”
The viscount and all of his guardsmen draw their swords, but too late; crossbowmen appear as if from thin air in the upper windows of nearby buildings. In a blink, volleys of bolts are shot and the viscount’s men fall from their horses. The viscount’s horse crumples to the ground with a shriek and a whimper, shot in the neck, and he drops to the ground – only to be caught by the Inquisitor’s knights and disarmed.
“The viscount will join one of the groups for the trials,” the Inquisitor says to the knight beside him. “You know what to do. Divide the townsfolk into small groups and start the hunting.”
The Day will end Thursday the 8th of August, 8PM GMT.
4 players required to Extend, 7 to Shorten. 4 Extends left for the Day.
Author
Topic: Witches' Coven: In the Heart of Darkness [GAME OVER: 4/13] (Read 203845 times)