2nd of Saun 612
"Wars teach people to obey the sword, not the truth." The impassioned opening to what promised to be a rousing speech was spoken by the man on a soapbox. His name was Marius, or so Rakvald seemed to remember. Rakvald's grandfather had been in the crowd that day, he remembered it through his ancestral memories, gifted back to him from Vri as consolation, when he'd more or less cheated him of his reborn soul.
"And who decides the truth? Is it the contradictory dictates of a self-deceiving cult running the Theocratum? Bleeding our sons and daughters for the sake of an avatar of an invisible god? One that has been long promised, but presented as nothing but a corpse on a set of strings?" Marius lifted his hands up in false bemusement. Chants of no, and 'fuck that' rose from the crowd, various slurs and effigies against the powerful hurled at Marius, as if he for that moment embodied all that they hated. Although they knew well how his speech would end.
It was always more or less the same idea. Those above, bad, those below good. Rakvald had to wonder why they couldn't just vote with their feet for once. But he supposed it was either some misbegotten pride in where they were from or else malice toward the very earth that their rebellious feet tread. Rakvald didn't care, either way, he just wanted some booze, and knew it was the Theocratum's fault he had none. "Or perhaps it is the Dukes and their Dragoons who wield their might against their own people? Because they think might is right."
A loud raucous sound of disagreement rose from the crowd assembled outside the gates of the Fortress, just beyond the intersection of Arkenstone's Thoroughfare. Marius was far from the only speaker, and not even the greatest among them. It seemed at times that all the man knew how to do was complain to Rakvald. Unfortunately, perhaps, for Rakvald's grandfather, he hit the right notes of a lack of stress relief. A crackdown on vices and sin stirred the populace to rise up and show their strength for once.
And Rakvald, lost in their midst, could sense their strength just by dint of being among them. Great waves of people gathered along the perimeter of the gates of the Fortress, all along the curtain walls, not far from the Church of the Wounded God itself.
Nervous soldiers could be spotted overhead. Rakvald's grandfather could barely make them out through the morning fog. Their great purifiers stood inactive on the parapets, tilted skyward so that they didn't misfire by accident.
Rakvald could practically smell the rebellion on the air. It smelled of a mix of sweat, smoke, shit, and blood pumping through their veins, yet to be spilled. He could only imagine what was going on in the heads of those dragoons stationed above the walls. Their will was chained to the dictates of their commanders, who in turn were controlled by their Duchal loyalties.
For Rakvald's grandfather's part, he only knew one thing. He was far too sober for this, something had better happen, and soon. He was angry, and far too deprived of all the comforts of sin. Passion stirred in his heart as he listened more to the tone of Marius' voice now than any of his words. Rakvald's grandfather had little appetite for words now, having listened to the speeches for days on end. He wanted action now. All it would take is a little spark, a stone thrown through enough windows, one soldier too-many savaged by the crowds' angry riot.
Rakvald gripped the stone in his hand and threw it straight for the Dragoon stationed behind the parapet. It hit the wall, but the ringing of rock against the wall echoed with a thunderous reprise. Perhaps louder than the impact should've seemed. Then, almost as if by magic, more people began throwing things. Rotten produce, empty bottles, rocks from the ground, and even a few wooden articles.
There was panic behind the parapets, and angry commands issuing from them. And then, the piercing flash of fire, as the Purifiers were activated from the walls of the Fortress.
The Heap's Rebellion was only starting.
