Akrosmojad (Punishment)

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Akrosmojad (Punishment)

Postby Zanz » Wed Sep 06, 2017 3:52 pm

Ministry of Internal Affairs - Juliania, Arakhim and Kathuristan, Sltnknstat Brme

Reshd Qudsabeté had not yet grown used to the power granted to him by his new office. Men looked to him, now, to lead them to the great Ahmadi state promised by the new monarch. Qudsabeté, as Minister of Internal Affairs, was tasked with orchestrating the large and still growing security apparatus of the Sultanate - the police force, the Sultan's guard, the newly created Rndrmkjozuo Grsho (Purifying Group), and more. Qudsabeté wielded perhaps more power than anyone in the Sultanate but the Sultan himself, and now, with Ám'ádsrljiknstat, his arrangement must be played out, the orchestration must begin. Akrosmojad must be undertaken.

The border marches would be first to feel the weight of the Rndrmkjozuo Grsho. Already hundreds of men were prepared to bring the insufferable leaders of the banned sects in Ikegaru and Sisula into compliance. Their stubborn insistence upon resisting the rightful acts of the Sultan must be made example of. After that the cities, more likely to cause problems by the sheer volume of infidels, would have to be dealt with. By then his forces would be seasoned in battle, ready for the increased challenge. None would be permitted to oppose the Sultan in peace. Akrosmojad must be undertaken.
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Re: Akrosmojad (Punishment)

Postby Zanz » Thu Sep 07, 2017 5:28 pm

Small village near Kurban, Strhosíék'aiék Yntmk Ekérge, Sltnknstat Brme

Iskhaq Asur shook his fists once more at the sky, the silver bangles on his left forearm causing a satisfying ruckus as they settled down onto the widest part of his sinewy arm, just above the elbow. Below him, in front of the hastily raised makeshift dais upon which he stood, thirteen men in openly Hosian garb prayed and crossed themselves, in defiance of the Sultan's order that men must profess only the Ahmadi or Felinist faiths in Barmenia.

Around the square, which for hundreds of years had been anchored by the now-shuttered church behind Asur, where he had preached as a priest of the Barmenian Apostolic Church, not a sound was heard. The men and women of this village, except for this handful of true believers, had been terrified into cowering compliance by the infidel invader Sultan Jrl and his security forces. But these men, before Asur and before Akim, were holy.

As Iskhaq lowered his arms, basking in the glory of Akim and the silence of the open town square full of zeal and worship, his eyes caught a glimpse of metal glinting in the afternoon sun. Several others followed, arcing high above the buildings which surrounded the square and landing among his brethren. The metallic meteors landed with soft thuds against the earth at the feet of the Hosian men who had chosen to worship in public though it was forbidden by the Sultan's law.

From out of the canisters, Asur watched as a noxious cloud spilled forth. Tear gas, heavy and biting, cloyed at the priest's palate as he watched the men around him grip their throats and rub their eyes, sputtering and coughing replacing their prayers to Akim. Men in heavy black military garb and gas masks entered the square with precision and urgency, walking among the zealots and securing their hands with zip ties, every move calculated and practiced. Asur, too, upon his dais, was approached by a man in black, a Rndrmkjokai, they were called, a "Purifier." Unlike the sheep of his flock, Iskhaq Asur was not merely restrained - Iskhaq Asur's dark angel descended upon him with great malice and struck him directly upon the forehead with the butt of his rifle, and the world went black.
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Re: Akrosmojad (Punishment)

Postby Zanz » Thu Sep 14, 2017 9:06 pm

OOC: WARNING - graphic imagery employed.

Camp No. 3 for Revolutionary Infidels, outside of Sarazah, Jelbék Yntmk Sísle, Sltnknstat Brmestán

Iskhaq Asur coughed, and shit thin, watery gruel down the inside of his right thigh. The warmth of it did not startle him, and his eyes remained glued downward, at the gray rocks and gravel which he trod with bare, calloused feet.

Camp No. 3, or Akimpylz'sijokrza, "Hell," as it was called by its residents, had been hard on Iskhaq Asur. The former priest of the Barmenian Apostolic Church, accustomed to meager possessions and a life of sacrifice for Akim, had none of the Spirit of Akim left in him - he merely survived in Akimpylz'sijokrza.

He shuffled forward as the queue of haggard, starving, shit-covered men in decaying rags moved a step ahead. Ten men in front of Iskhaq Asur a guard spooned a different, but sickeningly similar gruel into the plastic bowls carried by each inmate of the camp, then moved the line onward. The guard was flanked by two others, one armed with a club, the other with a thick and dull reddened machete, who served as absurdly unnecessary reminders of the importance of not stepping out of line, not causing trouble, and not complaining about the food. Iskhaq and his fellow residents of Camp No. 3 were in no need of reminders now - months of nothing but broth to eat and hard labor on little sleep had rendered them all but incapacitated. The inmates could hardly lift the bowls into which their shit was ladled before it became shit in their bodies, much less lift a finger in defiance of the guards.

The number of inmates at Camp No. 3 was small, but growing - several hundred men lived here now, outside of Sarazah. Ten or so died each week - Iskhaq Asur had had associates here, once, men arrested with him, or men whom he got on with once acquainted in the camp, but all but two had died in the months since his arrival, and speaking was too much a waste of energy - Asur hadn't spoken to anyone in days.

As Asur shambled closer and closer to his meal, he coughed again, this time with no expulsion of shit, and he thanked Aki... He stopped himself mid-thought, eyeing the guard with the machete furtively, worried that his blasphemy might have shown on his skeletal face, or that his body might have betrayed his mind, somehow. He'd seen men lose fingers or toes for it before. The guard had been preoccupied, thankfully, and had noticed nothing. A sigh of relief was beyond the former priest - to expel air in such volume was wasteful and exhausting. Instead, he simply lowered his eyes to the dust again, wondering when he might join the rocks and the dust in tired decomposition.

He stepped forward. The guard with the gruel ladled a small bit into his bowl, gray as the ground and with thin strands of something to give it texture. Ishkaq Asur moved forward.
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Re: Akrosmojad (Punishment)

Postby Polites » Fri Sep 15, 2017 3:05 pm

Camp No. 3 for Revolutionary Infidels, outside of Sarazah, Jelbék Yntmk Sísle, Sltnknstat Brmestán

After Iskhaq Asur came Ismail's turn to receive his daily portion of tasteless broth. Iskhaq had told himself he would no longer be surprised by the young Kathuran's ability to retain his spirit in Camp No. 3's brutal conditions, but each time the two crossed eyes Iskhaq could not help but be startled by the youth's piercing eyes that betrayed an otherworldly serenity. "How the fuck can this guy remain so ... alive here?" Iskhaq would ask himself. Hell had yet to take its toll on the Kathuran, and Asur would find himself wondering if Ismail was even human at all and not some famine-induced figment of his broken mind. Just last week he saw Ismail give up his one daily meal to a sickly old inmate, without a second of doubt. The old man died two days later, and the Kathuran shed one tear for the stranger whose suffering he prolongued.

As Asur was slowly chewing his daily broth, he recalled his first days in Camp No. 3. Oh how lively he had been back then, proudly keeping his spirits up just to spite his inhuman tormentors. But those days were long gone, and there was not an ounce of defiance or even hope left in him. He once again crossed eyes with the young Kathuran, sitting right across from him, his eyes as lively as ever and his mouth betraying the faintest of smiles. Iskhaq had seen stronger men broken before, mighty warriors of God brought to their knees to their tormentors and reduced to mindless starving beasts. But not Ismail. When he first met him in Camp 3, he saw him as yet another heretical utopian reformer like so many other inmates of Akimpylz'sijokrza, coping with the uncertain times by delving into mystical speculation and self-aggrandizement. And indeed, during their brief early encounters, Ismail would ramble on about the need for humanity to adopt a single language, about the unity of religion and all peoples, about Eliyahu's imminent return and other such naive nonsense that he'd heard hundreds of times before. But an Osean notable arguing for the Prophethood of that cursed dog Ahmad and binging forth scriptural evidence from Yeudi and Hosian scripture, that he had never heard before.

Iskhaq painfully swallowed a mouthful of the brown goo, averting his gaze from the nearby guard and chasing away yet another blasphemous thought. But he could not stop wondering how long it would take for Ismail to break, or what miracle kept his sanity intact. Maybe it was hope - false hope no doubt, as Camp No. 3 was where hope came to die - that one day his wealthy relatives would pull some strings and get him out of Hell. He remembered Ismail's recounting how, because of his noble ancestry he'd been spared the early wave of persecutions, but all his connections and heritage were not enough to spare him the wrath of the Rndrmkjozuo Grsho once his father's involvement in an Osean militia came to light. If hope was what kept Ismail alive, then he was more of a fool than he thought. But maybe they all needed some foolishness, and maybe there was some strength in the Kathuran's madness. If so, Iskhaq thought it best to be spared such strength.
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