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INFINITUS EST NUMERUS STULTORUM


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INFINITUS EST NUMERUS STULTORUM

UNENDING IS THE NUMBER OF FOOLS

 

On That Which Transpired in San Luciano.

Written by Jordan Bishop Reinmar

 

1st of Jula and Piov, 392 E.S

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We do not fail for a lack of knowledge, but for an abundance of hatred. Let this page tell of the demise of Basil Cardinal Allobrogum and Father Otto, and all that which preluded this tragedy. Let this page tell of the abomination within the Principality of Savoy, those misguided who proclaim to serve Godan within. Let this page tell of those fools.

 

I had walked along the road to San Luciano, first encountering the bridge lined with the defiled bodies of those who I can only assume slighted the fools of the city, their murders committed in wrath and false belief. Perhaps this was a sign of what was to come, those events that would culminate in the deaths of two clergymen. It is horrifying that such bodies exist at all, and yet, they are displayed as though they were great prizes – simple objects, to display the pride and violence that those in the city so embodied. The path which I, and those before me, had traversed that day would be one of death and sorrow. Those who proclaim their virtue in these actions flatter themselves in falsehoods, falsehoods that wound and kill.

 

As I entered the city, I was greeted with a sight most revolting. At least four were bound to a pyre, a crowd gathered before it. All were unbound, save for one, granted freedom only due to the pleas of Father Otto. The soldiers of San Luciano wielded ultimate power in this square, with little heed given to even the clergy that spoke against their actions. This city is one where Godan is all but absent in their minds, for they think themselves above those meant to guide them to His Virtue. We can only be thankful that they were guided to some semblance of reason, if only for a fleeting moment.

 

It was only following the next events that I was truly horrified by this city, for I had thought them ignorant before, but there is no ignorance in malice, in hatred, hatred which this city is built upon, hatred which seeks to ignore Godan’s Holy Word. As Father Otto attempted to release the final individual from their bounds, a Halfling, they were stopped. He who wielded the match to set the pyre alight moved between the Father and the Halfling, after which much debate occurred in regard to whether the Halfling – one willing to convert – should be let free. They could not be persuaded even by a Cardinal, believing their word absolute. And so, as one of their own took hold of Father Otto, throwing him to the ground, was the pyre lit, engulfing the willing Halfling. One can only pray that these people might be guided back to faith once more, for it is all but lost in this city where violence rules.

 

As another supposed heathen was stabbed near the entrance to the Basilica, naught but a passing glance reserved for this horrifying act, one of the city’s residents threw Father Otto to the ground, persuaded only by Cardinal Basil to halt – though, he was not yet done, as he took up arms against the Cardinal himself, beating him to the ground. Nothing was done to stop this violence, not by any who proclaimed their willingness to serve Godan and His Holy Word. I could do nothing but watch, unable to comprehend how such horrors could be committed.

 

We come upon the culmination of all the events preceding now, wherein these two clergymen perished. The pair entered the Basilica, Cardinal Basil tending to the unconscious Father Otto’s wounds. All seemed calm as I entered, coming to stand near the pair, alongside the Principality’s Lord Marshal. It was then which the wrath of this city bore its fruit. An unknown assailant threw what appeared to be a spear through Cardinal Basil’s back, an explosion of unknown cause occurring at the same time. One can only pray that the Cardinal had already perished at this point, lest he be forced to suffer unending pain from his wounds. I, the Lord Marshal, and Father Otto were blown back, and when Father Otto suffered from his final pain, a mortal wound. I remember little between then and the final breaths of the priest. Both the Cardinal and the priest were thought dead at that point. I searched the city for Father Otto, coming upon him in an inn, aided only by a single woman. There was naught that could be done for him. In his final moments, he had prayed to Godan, clutching the cross at his neck. He had died before me, his endless pains finally subsiding.

 

I know not who attacked us, nor their reasons for doing so. I know not the reasons for these trials we face. I know not the path which this shall lead us on. What I do not know shall be for others to discover, I am sure, but what I do know I shall write here. I shall address those who must be addressed, and comment on that which must be commented on, for without analysing that which has come to pass we can never truly discover the virtue which has been gained, and the sins that have been committed.

 

I address the Lord Marshal of the Principality of Savoy, Joseph Brandt.  You speak of your virtue, of your journey to wipe the world of sin, and yet you fail to see the sin in yourself. You observe others for you refuse to observe yourself. You bring wrath upon this world, you bring pain, you bring suffering, for your warped ideas of virtue and faith. You forge monsters of the faithful, for your mission to kill, your mission to eradicate. You are the cause of the demise of these two clergymen, not because you threw the spear, but because you condemned them the moment you began your false crusade against the misguided and ignorant of the world. It is not because the spear was thrown that they perished, but because of that which had led them into that Basilica, something of your own doing. You proclaim your innocence in your actions, and yet you allow the people of San Luciano to beat clergymen. You only aided that which led to this tragedy, for you let your citizens run wild, and you murder with little thought or discretion. You speak of your supposed successes, and yet you ignore your hand in this incident. Had these heathens never burnt, had your citizens not injured the priests, had you cared for Godan’s Holy Word at all, I am certain that the clergymen would not have died that day. Not a single soul should have perished then, and yet, your role, both direct and indirect, in their murders is apparent. I pray for you to return to reason, to return to Godan’s flock.

 

I address the killer of Basil Cardinal Allobrogum. You have committed a sin of great weight. I do not wish for your demise because of it, merely that you be granted some mercy in the way of guidance. I view you no worse than I view the city that had allowed you to be misguided so, that had carved the path for you to commit this sin. I pray for you, as I pray for the city, for you are no worse than those who set you on this path. I beg of you, do not let yourself be fully absorbed by sin, confess, and Godan shall forgive. We shall all forgive.

 

I address the city of San Luciano. You are misguided. You are driven to sin for those who lead you allow you to be. Your city is built on the foundations of hatred, but it does not have to be so. I implore you, read the Scrolls, search Godan’s Holy Word for meaning, for there is none in what you do currently. I pray for the city which has been led astray, I pray for the city which rots like the corpses that line its paths, for even in the worst of places there is hope.

 

I address the Church of the Holy Canon. As one of your own, I am appalled that such events could be allowed to come to pass. I have failed. We have all failed. We sit idle, too absorbed in the world of potentials than the realities that have come to pass, that will come to pass. We must do something, for a city which banishes its Bishop, a city which houses those who defile His Word is one that we cannot allow to stand.

 

I conclude in saying this: What has occurred needn’t dictate what is to come. We have sinned this day, atrocities have been committed, but all shall be forgiven, should we feel guilt, should we admit our shame, should we atone for that we have done. Though this was avoidable, we did not avoid it. We allowed this to come to pass. We are all at fault. We shall all learn from this, I am sure, and I shall pray that what is learnt is beneficial to us all. We are all fools, but we needn’t remain as such. Let us be guided back to Virtue once more.

 

Signed,

Jordan

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Cardinal Providentia fell to his knees in his chambers upon receiving the news of the deaths of the two clergymen. He prayed for his colleague Cardinal Basil; he prayed for his own Vicar Father Otto; he prayed that their souls would find peace and reach the Seven Skies. Tears rolled down his cheek for he had not only lost fellow clergymen, he had lost brothers.

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Everard would wipe away a tear as he read the letter. Even though the reconstruction of the Basilica of the Ascent of Exalted Godfrey had not yet finished, he lit a candle at the entrance to the Basilica's courtyard and offered a silent prayer for all who died.

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The assassin of that night was not pleased with his actions. Upon retrieval of a copy of this retelling, he took a seat in the shade of a roadside palm to read. The same rains of the night before pelted the dry parchment through the reeds and stalks of the tree. "Ugh." A complaint as he wiped the surface free of water drops.

 

"If Father Basil Moroul only had stopped running his mouth," He said somewhere along as he read, "Maybe Father Otto would not have died, too. My intent was for only the Moroul." Rolling up the scroll, he sat back under the tree against its creaking trunk to watch the passers-by. 

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Prophet of Lord Knox, and cousin of Bishop Jordan, The High Pumplar Jeannette sighed deeply, "Oi 'ate ter admit et... but oi 'ope Jordan's alroight. May nay 'arm come upon 'im fer wroiting of such t'ings."

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