The Consensus of Istrians

[Kebab 120]

 

 The Dualities of Knowledge

 

It is a powerful thing, the influence of curiosity. The thirst for knowledge as innate within our human nature as it is may enlighten a man to seek refuge in God’s everlasting and divine halls or lead him astray from the path of righteousness, it can bring a man the riches of knowledge or fling him into the guttering holes of those who seek to withhold it. It is terrifying, but compelling. It is the bane of men, but also its saviour. Yet, how would one judge its nature? How ever would a man, limited in his foresight, see the consequences or rewards of acquiring knowledge? How could we understand its infinitely complex dualities?

 

It had been a time since your serendipitous meeting with the frail painter, the exact duration you’ve lost count of by now. As you recounted your brief time with the Guild, (Read this before continuing: http://bit.ly/1K642ks) you pondered upon this duality, whether you should have come here as instructed by the anonymous letter, whether such a blinded decision would tear you asunder? The mudded streets of Riga had grown dark by now as Night engulfed the lands with her absolute reach, few candles had been lit but the eyes of a number of shady alley men reflected its light, their fixated gaze cleanly piercing through your flesh like an arrow.

 

“I should never have come here.” you thought, turning on your heels to return home. Almost by design, an enigmatic figure reveals himself before you, justifying your suspicions. He was clothed in black overalls and a hood, his face was hidden as the moonlight shone behind him but his chest bore the sigil of The Raphaelite Brotherhood to your relief. The man did not utter a word as he led you away from harm. Gliding through the streets without a footstep to be heard, he was almost unnoticeable.

 

 

A sketch portrait of the enigmatic figure from what you could remember.

 

 

Through infinite alleysway did the man lead you through, the path seemed almost interminable. A myriad of emotions flowed through you with each step you treaded behind his lead. Suspicion became optimism. Optimism became anger. Anger became protest. The same Protest who saw many whom bore her in their hearts swept away by figures you knew little of but feared ceaselessly. In the eternal moonlight, he chanted and re-chanted a melancholic elegy:

 

“ In grandiose halls do these /gods/ reside,

Behind closed doors they are blinded by pride,

To the starving peasants of whom they rely,

Until Justice marches for those they vilify. ”

 

You understood little of what these words meant, yet morality overwhelmed you with dismay. It urged within you an irrational impulse to shun the words away, to stop the man’s almost cyclical /blasphemy/. It felt as if the words themselves had ‘stained’ everything you believed of this world, the inner turmoil grew ever more heated and forced a few words out of your lips- “I don’t understand! Why does it hurt so much!?” The man turned around, nodding in understanding underneath the shadowy cloak as he too, had felt this devastating loss of belief. It was reassuring, only to the extent that you’ve met someone who understood the imponderable pain.

 

Before long, you found yourself in a heavily torched hall, the illumination within the room juxtaposed with the bleakness of the streets, giving you a sense of security. You turned your attention to the walls, to which you saw many oil paintings with a common theme. One, in particular, struck you with awe. It depicted an almost nude man covered in his own blood crawling towards a crowd, many of whom were embellished with gold and silk, their faces either turned away or filled with disgust at the man. Noticing your interest in the painting, the cloaked man repeated the lines-

 

“In grandiose halls do these /gods/ reside,

Behind closed doors they are blinded by pride..”

 

 

One of the paintings on the walls depicting a peasant protest.

Oil paint on canvas. 178cm x 203cm.

 

 

He then gesture to a painting of an army, though not one of brave men clad in armor, but of peasants who held pitchforks and other tools as they marched towards an ever distant castle. Their weapons were laughable, but their numbers innumerable. It wasn’t long before you completed the man’s elegy in understanding-

 

“To the starving peasants of whom they rely,

Until Justice marches for those they vilify.”

 

The man heaves a deep sigh of relief. “You understand. The ever-growing disparity of the subjugator and the subjugated, the endless struggle of our own countrymen to survive whilst a handful feast in their pretentious halls, neglecting their own people,” said the man. “I too once felt the bewilderment you now feel, it is terrifying to be bombarded with truths you were led not to believe... If it may bring you solace, enlightenment is bliss.” It became clear to you how unfair the world was. Yet, for years had you been taught otherwise, to believe in the supremacy of a small number of people not for your own sake but for theirs. You stand there, perched against a small marble pillar crying for hours upon hours.

 

It was only the next day, when you awoke on a woolen bed that the man decided to approach you- “Do you know why I brought you here?” he asks. You looked out the window, the sun’s rays casting a warm veil over your legs. Perhaps it was true that enlightenment is bliss, you felt a tranquility like no other and a deep relief that you understood the reasons for your distress. “No.” you then replied. The man did not have his cloak on anymore, he had long hair of the hazel hue, a strand of which covered his blue eyes. His face was stern, but reassuring. He circled about the room as he spoke- “The old painter in Edgeware Lane expressed to me your interest in the Guild, I’ve taken it upon myself to show you our ways.” he explained. “You see, we are a protest society, activists against the cruelties of Oren’s hierarchical system. Only to the extent that our protests are justified, if I might add. Thus, our brotherhood’s words, art is truth.”

 

“So you seek to recruit me?” you ask. It was a few moments later as the man gazed out the window that he shook his head. “No, not unless you believe yourself to be ready to fight for our cause, the people’s cause. We are not very well liked by authority, our dealings in protest art have won us some powerful enemies that would have our heads on spikes. It is a life of fear our members lead, but also a passionate one.” the man says, his head now tilted downwards. “I’ve come to give you a taste of the injustices in Oren, to see if passion may overcome fear.”

 

“The dead must always have their stories told. Yet, a certain individual has made it rather difficult to do so. His Grace, Arthur Roswell.” he continues, to your shock. “Surely you do not mean to question a Duke? Especially one with an army!?” you ask. The man laughs- “A standing army of 40 men, hardly comparable to even a guard force. I watched him, watched him closely as he hid in his keep’s tower as his commandant’s life had been ended by an Istrian rebel. Dishonourable!” he exclaims, his voice grew more and more angered as he went on. “No, no! The man deserves his due punishments and the Falkenraths shall rest in peace.”

 

With each word the man spoke, you understood clearer the atrocities of the Oren you once believed to be holy, the treachery Duke Roswell had put on an entire township, you began to question the humanity of the nobleman. “False accusations were presented to the Emperor by him, claiming House Falkenrath as associates to the Dunamite scums, and of their plots to usurp the de Solas from their Ducal throne despite their long and faithful service to Titus. Yet, was it not him who took the title, despite the apparent objection of his rightful lords?” he laughs. “Was it not him that terrorized the people of Alsace despite their former lords, Falkenrath, not desiring a furthered conflict? Was it not him that continued the conflict despite attempts made for peace? Was it not him who accused an innocent House of treasonous plots against the Emperor when they did not even have the army to do so?” The man slams the mahogany table, breathing heavily as he attempts to calm himself down.

 

He continues in a milder tone- “Men like him hath deprived me of much sleep, his lack of honour and deceitfulness sickens me beyond cure. How he continues to live knowing what he’s done bewilders me, but he will receive judgement in due time by the One who sees beyond all facades.” The man then returns his focus towards you, his stern face ever more serious this time. You foretold what he wanted to ask, yet no answer came from your lips- “Do you have the courage to take on these men? Crooks who would, at the soonest possibility, seperate your head because you defied them or would you cower in the safety of ignorance?”

 

The rest of the story is in your hands.

- The Raphaelite Brotherhood 

[Gridlock 1033]

Richard would raise his brow as the man tells his tale, "Though perhaps it is best to keep things like they were. The good, old way."

 

((Really well written! +1))

[Kaelan 1918]

“ In grandiose halls do these /gods/ reside,

Behind closed doors they are blinded by pride,

To the starving peasants of whom they rely,

Until Justice marches for those they vilify. ” repeats Julian Argansi, dead for many years now after falling victim to the events that unfolded in Istria, in the seven skies.

"I was the victim of Roswells snake like ways. But I will now enjoy watching him struggle to crawl his way out of the grave he dug. I only wish that things could have turned out better for the Lady Falkenrath who he married. Such a pity. Though things are soon coming to an end and the Larians may rest in peace."

[Lojo613 1882]

Brutus blinks... Taken aback by all the manner of things which unfolded before him. A great book, once closed and bookmarked, left on a shelf in his great library of events and not to know his touch hence, has been opened wide and placed at his feet. Never have such feelings of hatred for the monster responsible for the death of Augustus of Alsace, of his brother in law, burned so fervently. He rose. And with a mighty roar slammed his fist onto the wall next to him. "BRUTUS SHALL AVENGE!"

[Joke 20]

Ser Uhtred, Knight af Morr and Baron af Bjornfort, Son of the Bear,Marshal of Lorraine would laugh lightly as he reads the book. "What a fockin' idiot. Am sure this man is too far up 'is own arse. Am pretty sure he could eat 'is own shite." He would laugh. Smashing his fist onto the table as roars of laughter would be heard from his keep. "So he goes to join the false Northerners! Isn't tha' fockin' funny. Ave Stauntonia."

[The Great Mongol Khan 1110]

Spoiler

 

 

Count William Karduin of Istria, Ducal Scribe to House Roswell would raise his brow at the writing, "All these men... so hurt by the might and strategy of His Grace, Duke Arthur Roswell. They die and resurrect as new men with new names, yet their passion for revenge still remain. Such hateful and vengeful men; I wonder if they know that these passions encompass the cycle of insanity. I pray for these men. Hopefully one day, GOD will grant their souls the ability to pass on to the Seven Skies rather than reincarnate into a new man with the same enemies."

[CheekyNolan 5420]

Moved to the Archive. It shall be sorted into the appropriate category shortly.