That Flaming Night

[bahmboozled]

With the stroke of a brush, this letter crops up in the most prominent places where Regalians tread past. It also appears in the most unexpected of places like an intrusive pamphlet. Magically transposed, it could be pinned to a noticeboard, slotted away between the menu of a diner's, or lying on the porch of a house.

What is evident is that it's emblazoned with the powers of the Exist, and the contents behind it are fuelled and incensed. It reads the contents of a malignant past, and one that addresses the present's.
It reads the following:

__________________________________________________________________________
​

Recall the night when your younger brother was dragged away by the roaring infernos. Remember your weakness, your inability to do anything. You traipsed in front of the debris, waiting for the night's fire to pass, but at dawn, your brother returned to you not as a corpse - but of a heap of ash mixed with others.

​

Recall when you buried your brother's ashes, alone.
Was it winter? The ground was frozen, and it was hard to dig.
Did you dig at the stubborn soil with your fingertips?
Did your fingernails crack?
Did blood flow from your broken nails?

In the end, you couldn't even dig down to a nail. Did you put your brother's ashes into a pit?
Did you bury - what you thought it was - his feet first?
Did you put a pile of cold dirt over your brother's remains?
No, you couldn't bury him in the ground.

​

I ruminate about last evening; it reminded me of a bitter winter and, again, I was forced to relive its memories by interlopers, led by the nose with promises of gold and a sanctimonious mission to 'purify corruption' — trying to raze my home to the ground.

It is so damning on the soul to hear it after all these years and even then, I still hear it echoing: their death throes as they coiled, screaming and begging— not for escape, but release from the pain and torment of burning alive.

Even as I may amicably talk to some of you on that barricade I perched on earlier, I make it clear:

​

But, do not pity this story of mine, no.​

Rather I wish for you to scorn me.
Continue just as all of you always have, 'purifying' us.
Condemn me, my court, my kindred as monsters. After all, you have never seen us as anything more.

And thus will it make it easier on my heart to make my key sing.
It will make it far easier to enrich the land with flayed sinners' flesh.

I will continue my peace by the sword, just as I have always done after all these years.

Just as I had sworn to, on the night.
The night, 14 November, 309 AC.

Drulailmon.

 

[Sacerdotalism]

Many leaflets flew into Root Court the evening after someone had noticed what was written. Every note was made by hand, the lettering moderately calligraphed with bold strokes dominating as a stylistic theme within all variations of the message.





It was possible to have found these notes in other locations, many of the ones in the first spot being found dampened and only partially readable by whatever mud or puddle they fluttered into, some even making their way to the surface of the city, presenting themselves without context to the passerby.