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THE FIRST BULL OF THE MAGISTRATE OF LEMONSHIRE

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LordofCabbage

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Jan of Galahar rode for Rittersburg, a copy of this Harrenite bull in hand. He was a man of this "Khazavite Heresy." As was every Jorenite who did not yet warm the bed of a mongrel priest. As was every Man -- Raevir, Heartlander, Horen -- who had drawn breath in the past six centuries, from the lowest peasants to the Emperors they served.

 

The northern lord thought little on the fate that awaited him. Acceptance, death, it mattered not. His end was written long ago.

 

"See, and there is a bridge of many colors, and marching forth from the Skies are the virtuous dead, and the wicked have been cast down from high places. See, the World is changed, and the promise of Virtue is fulfilled."

 

The Scroll of Auspice (3:4-5)


 

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Darren rips the missive from the notice board in the village of Tarnavon, and returns to the church to continue his prayer.

 

 

 And Ishtar calls forth three deceivers in the guise of servants, and their wings are of obscuring smoke. They are called Famine, and Toil, and Defeat. And the last condemns faith, and doubt is exalted. So the world is a pit suffering...
 But, there are yet faithful...

 

 

The Scroll of Auspice (1:21-22, 25-27)

 

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The Hag of Adria sat atop her gaunt, elderly gelding, trotting down the dirt-laden tracks of provincial Idunia. The rather pretty missive found itself pinched between her gnarled, yellowed fingers and the rider began reading the fervid decree with reflection.

“... I must say, Priestly-Father, I did not know such intense zeal could come from such a small body.”

 

She dryly joked, only to the company of her decrepit steed and mange-ridden fox, which did not offer even a pitying snicker.

“...With some Imperial nobility being rumoured to have fallen to utter darkness, even vampyrism, perhaps it is you who can reunite human-kin under the gaze of your cherished GOD…

…Alas, in your devotion, you may come to only make enemies of your brothers.”


Tucking the paper away in her linen garbs, she prayed to whoever – no, whatever desired to listen to a forsaken soul. Whatever it was she mumbled now swept away with the autumn wind.

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