Bog's World

Altogether elsewhere

A year in Immorean. But earlier... - Torendra

Torendra landed in Caspia, the bustling capital of Cygnar. There she found a lot of opportunities for one with her talents to make a very comfortable living. Just across the river sat the Protectorate of Menoth, the product of a religious schism within Cygnar just over a century prior, wherein worshippers of the ancient god Menoth began to contest the state religion, the Church of Morrow. Menoth's followers were relatively small in number, but their faith and piety were unrivalled. The devout and vocal group felt that the Church and the Kingdom as a whole were sliding into corruption and decadence. They warned of the price of wickedness, and of the coming Armageddon, producing portents and prophecies to support their claims. The common folk put little stock in their alarmist tales, and the matter was given no official attention by Morrow's Primarch. Ultimately, this was a critical mistake – the worshippers of Menoth, weary of being ignored, decided to take action.

Their discontent simmered for several years while they assembled a secret army of zealots. What once was a good intentioned (though misguided) movement began to take on sinister cult-like traits. The extremist group began a campaign of sabotage, designed to destabilise the state Church and provide "evidence" for their prophecies of disaster. Their campaign was not wholly successful, but it did touch off open hostilities involving the Church of Morrow, Menoth's followers and Cygnar's standing army.

When the dust settled Menoth's followers were in control of a fragment of the eastern region of Cygnar. After weeks of negotiations it was decided that Cygnar would officially retain control of the eastern territory, but that the state religion would be different there. The arrangement persists on paper to this day, but in practice the Protectorate of Menoth is a separate kingdom, ruled by a strict theocracy. Any citizen or visitor who breaks the strict rules of conduct is punished severely, and the worship of Menoth permeates every aspect of life.

Sul used to be a slum quarter of the city of Caspia, it was referred to as ‘the menite ghetto’. But had ceded long ago and been given a civic makeover. It was now girded by whitewashed walls and golden crenellations. And stuffed full of Menoth-mad zealots, all tunnel vision and purifying flames. Poor in resources, they would buy anything. And with her experience at arms and cortex smuggling, the opportunities to make money were too good to miss. However, after her first ‘transaction’ she’d swiftly decided that the Menites were the most zealous and intolerant bigots she’d ever encountered (which was saying something).

And so, with her purse heavy from one successful venture, she found a way to contact an agent of the Cygnarian Reconnaissance Service. Unlike the cloak and dagger spying organisation of the other states within the Iron Kingdoms, the CRS often worked in tandem with the Cygnarian military. They had a reputation for efficacy which she liked.

At this point, Torendra was still fairly confident in herself. She’d acquired a new coat (a ‘provocateur’ coat – reversible and with lots of hidden pockets), a flick knife, and a pair of goggles to keep the soot and smog of the city out of her eyes. One of the things which the deserts of the Protectorate of Menoth was famous for was diamonds. Just wishful thinking.

Her CRS ‘handler’ was known as ‘the night watchman’ (did he not have a name ?! Secret yes, she could understand but this nickname was just a bit childish…). Two months passed, during which she was put up at public expense in fairly nice part of town. At his instigation a ‘sting’ operation was set up. A booby-trapped load of blasting powder was sent across. Again, she received a cut of the monies from the Menites and a stipend from the CRS.

Torendra found out the hard way that there are still many Menoth worshippers within Cygnar. Being able to trade on the name of Father Pandor Dumas meant that she was taken to a hospital at all, rather than left in the street to bleed to death. The Solovite Monks (a healing order of Morrowans) had her back on her feet remarkably quickly. Now alert for assassins, she was very soon complaining to the ‘night watchman’ about the almost successful attempt on her life.

At first, he didn’t take her seriously. The Menites launched four more attempts on her life over the next fortnight, so she started hanging around in the district where she believed the night watchman was based. Sure enough she was eventually contacted again. By now she’d also gained a holdout pistol on a sliding rack, strapped to her left arm. With a flick of the wrist, the tiny weapon was in her hand and with another, it was back up her sleeve.

Once again, the persuasive CRS agent had a solution that would not only benefit Cygnar but also harm the Menite insurgents. Torendra found herself as bait for their assassins on the streets of Caspia. After six days of nerve shredding stalking and sulking, watching her back, not knowing who was a fishmonger and who was a potential backstabber, someone bombed her digs.

This was the last straw, it was time for a boat trip from Caspia up the Black River to Corvis. Stuff any chance of diamonds, it wasn’t worth the risks. Curiosity still burned her about the identity of ‘the night watchman’. She’d never seen his face and had a hunch he was brutally ugly, but quite frankly was no longer bothered. She was tired of having to constantly watch her back. And if she could possibly find someone she might trust to do that, they’d most likely be in Corvis.

The boat was of course, ambushed by the Protectorate. Menites swarmed all over the place; she shot five and then disappeared under a flurry of blows. Fortunately who ever was in charge was one of the casualties, as they didn’t seem to equate her four empty pistols with the five dead raiders.

She and the other passengers were lead to somewhere called “The Tower of Justice” where a man in a stained white robe and a pointy brass face mask summarily tried and sentenced each of them as they disembarked. Torendra spat at him. This defiance earned her a beating. It turned out that honesty really was the best policy. A few of those captured claimed to be followers of Menoth anyway. Some others converted on the gangplank. Whether by actual divination or cruelly at random, one or two who tried this were denounced as having borne false witness and were taken away to be burned to death.

Torendra was stripped. The menite soldiers were not gentle. She fully expected to be abused and raped, but with the sinister ‘Scrutators’ watching everything, she was simply beaten insensible and thrown in a cell so small that she could neither stand nor lie. Given bread and water, she estimates that she was left in there for nearly four months. By the time they let her out, she was malnourished, wasted and caked in her own filth.

The place was full of Protectorate soldiers, chanting prayers to Menoth before dawn and singing hymns ‘till after dark. The sun beat down like a hammer during the day and it was freezing cold at night. The smell of burning was everywhere. There were steamjacks here, burning oil and fitted with steam reclamation systems to preserve precious water. And of course, Menoth’s fire – the test of the faithful and punishment of the heathen. The screams of those tested would keep her awake for the first few weeks, before she learned not to hear them.

Torendra was disappointed that she actually found herself looking forward to her daily gruel delivery. This was made by Keriun Cabridge, who was some sort of penitent, living a life of drudgery for some forgotten offence that wouldn’t even be an offence in any normal religion. He was quite hard to talk to, as his faith had so twisted his perception that he believed that anything which was not given to man by Menoth was an aberration. It made any philosophical discourse extremely hard to initiate. So she settled for his life’s story.

He had been a member of the ‘Flameguard’. From his descriptions, she deduced that this was some sort of heavy infantry unit whose spears had hollow tips. The hollows had some sort of volatile oil or fluid piped into them and the inside of the head itself was like some form of firesteel. Questioning Keriun closely over a period of months, it became apparent that the Flameguard, despite their desert home, were heavily swathed in wool under their armour, treated to be fire retardant. Similar insulation was applied to the lining of their huge shields. Discipline amongst the Menites appeared to exceed that of any other army she’d heard of.

Evidently he’d crossed someone called an ‘Exemplar’. Some sort of knight-errant for the cause of absolute law. She could not persuade Keriun to detail his crime, or provide any more information about the Exemplar. But he’d been sent here for five years of flogging, wracking and hard labour. He said that he was grateful for this as it gave him a further chance to serve.

She asked him about the incessant dirges. He told her that the church approves certain forms - so all the iconography or musical recitals, whilst expertly performed by masters of their art or craft, are the same as they were last century. And all the centuries before that.

Anything new is a deviation from the word of Menoth. Anyone singing any minor variation on the things they've been learning by rote since infancy better just be practising, or the Scrutator will want to know where they've been getting their ideas from. Anyone who paints ancient saints in any manner other than the ones already shown is likewise guilty of similar blasphemy. After all, the artist was not there to witness the scene and therefore should follow the pattern, content and detail of the previous artist. At some point, there would have been an original picture by an eyewitness. An eyewitness to Menoth's truth; therefore, the arts within the Protectorate illustrate faithfully Menoth's truth. And so any deviation is blasphemous. And they had the same enlightened attitude to music.

This means that there are no secular arts in the Protectorate. Any picture that was not religious iconography or work of music that was not a hymn to Menoth would be superfluous to the need of man, according the Cannon of the True Law. It's only purpose would be to distract the faithful and lead them astray. Woe betide the whistling delivery boy in Sul...

It was a much thinner Torendra who had to helped (dragged) from her cell four months later. Complaining that they’d left her bent double for months, the Menites then strapped her to a rack, informing her that normally the faithful were stretched like this at their own request. She told them what she thought of that and they flogged her under the midday sun, until the blood ran down her legs and stained the sand. Four days on the rack and an afternoon of flogging were a welcome break from the cell. The whole process was overseen by one of the Scrutators. Questioning (considering she had worked for their enemies’ intelligence service) was haphazard and ineffectual. The actual torture seemed to be by numbers as well. There were thousands of prisoners here and not enough Scrutators. Torendra supposed it was a choice between attending to them all or attending to some of them effectively. Somewhat selfishly, she was glad that those in command had chosen the easy route.

Back in the cramped cell, she recovered a little. Although she was sure that the lack of medical care and dusty conditions in the cell would result in the weals hardening into an impressive set of scars on her back. She guessed at the passage of time, nearly another three months passed. She was asked if she had been ‘cleansed’ of her heresy. Once more, Torendra gave the Menites a mouthful of abuse. This time, after they’d finished the stretching and flogging, she was branded, on her left buttock, which made positioning herself in the cell awkward and sleep impossible. Every time she drifted off, the brand would touch the wall or the floor and she would wake in agony.

Cross questioning Keriun again, she found out that the Scrutator was one Hadi Rohbukhari. Scrutators placed no intrinsic value on life, compassion, mercy or any of the other things that Thranduil went on about. Coercion, torture and ‘making an example’ seemed to be their area of expertise. They existed to increase the strength of the Established Menite Church, by destroying all of its enemies. By removing the sins of doubt, debate and freedom of choice they ensured obedience and loyalty from the population. Keriun insisted that their essential and important work kept the mainstream clergy free to concentrate on godly matters. The Scrutators took care of internal security, they did the less pleasant things that required dedication beyond the call of duty. And a strong stomach. The citizens of the Protectorate are terrified of the iron masked Scrutators and obey them without question.

Torendra was not convinced. As far as she was concerned, Scrutator Rohbukhari already knew that she was an intractable foe of his faith as she screamed at him that she’d shoot him and all the other Menites one at a time when he’d been flogging and branding her. So keeping her alive served only one purpose, to give him something to practice on. She was not encouraged either when Keriun assured her that one-day, she would repent.

They were due a visit from someone called Feora. Torendra knew that this would be unpleasant because they were scared of her themselves. Weeks later Feora arrived. And so did her boss. At that moment Cygnar attacked the fortress. The attack was spectacularly unsuccessful. However, it shattered the walls of her cell and in the confusion, Torendra escaped. Seeing dead and wounded soldiers and priests around she painfully unfolded cramped limbs and creaked into action. Wearing a stinking white robe and a heavy obscene brass mask, she collected her possessions from their storage place and walked out, following the crowds milling about.

Looking haggard, sweaty and beaten was so obviously this season’s look in the Portectorate. She made it to the Black River. Throwing the mask into the river, she wrapped her belongings in the sheet and making sure that it had trapped enough air, she used it to float across, drifting with the current.

Cygnarian soldiers pulled her naked and shivering from the river. She was taken to a military hospital and cared for. The Cygnaran military doctors kept her there for over a month, feeding her steak and eggs and huge portions of stodgy puddings with cream. They were pleased with her progress and encouraged exercise as she began to put on more weight. Torendra was informed that when she actually filled her clothes again, they would discharge her from the hospital.

Well fed and with a comfortable bed, she met Lt Caine, the warcaster who had led the raid which had resulted in her freedom. Evidently he’d lost the entire infantry detachment that he’d landed with and had to walk north for weeks to Fort Falk, being stuck on the ‘wrong’ side of the river. Everyone thought it amazing that she’d even tried to cross in the way she did, it was a mile wide and full of undertow currents at that point. But his mission had been a success, he’d uncovered hard evidence of the protectorate building a force of warjacks. He was very nice and very interested in what she had to say, writing everything down and then getting her to sign it. In return, she was put on a boat to Corvis.

With trepidation, she boarded. There was a thank-you card from Lt Caine, with some Ordic chocolates and twenty rounds for her pistols. By the time she got back to the city of ghosts, she was feeling quite herself again. As she disembarked, Torendra was handed a vellum sheet, folded and fastened by an ivory toggle. On it, in Flanne were instructions to find a sacred grove to the south of the city.