(Note: we allowed each other mutual control of each other's characters and stuff. There is no godmodding that isn't unintentional in this thread. We're thinking of going to church together. Like the covenant between the ancient humans and the noble wolf, we're cooperating here - right before I breed his descendents into distorted love machines. I'm gonna turn you into a pug, Aaron. A pug, and you're gonna love me unconditionally.)
21st Vhalar 717
The incident involving Gangui was only the tip of the proverbial iceberg when it came to the citizen response against the carriage with the ladies. Several rumors, all of them far too strong and spreading too quick to have been propagated naturally through the usual channels that were the taverns and bards and rampant wifey gossiping, had burned its way through the bay like a wildfire.
The strongest, most prevailing narrative that had come up was that the ladies currently cruising along in the carriage were shadow women from the depths of night’s disease come to steal young male children to groom and wed, and that they were the god-blasted servant spawn of some foreign immortal named Audrae, who ruled over everything that did not touch the sun, who lurked in every shadow, nested in every despairing thought and childhood fear, whose gaze revealed every secret big and small safely tucked away in even the most guarded soul-
Not much of a rumor when the gist of it was true, wasn’t it?
Naturally, the more enthusiastic citizens of Foster’s landing did the sensible thing and did what they did best: engage in disorganized, erratic mob justice. People came out onto the streets to jeer and hurl insults, to pelt fruit and rotten fish bits and throw suspiciously dirty-colored liquids.
“Go back! Go back to the cave!”
“Doran will smite you like he did the profaned disease-bringing immortal Xiur!”
“Their wombs house shadow babies to slay the Lord High Marshall!”
“Lies! They don’t even have cunts! Evil cannot breed!”
Splat.
“Hide your children! Hide your children!”
“My cuz saw one with wings in the city! They’re harpies in fell flesh!”
“Drag them out of their carriage! Strip them to the bone!”
Of course, it wasn’t like they were actually hearing or rebutting each other. It wasn’t an open forum of discourse in the town square; it was impulse begetting impulse. It was momentum.
It was each hornet in the nest buzz buzz buzzzzzing to greater heights of frenzy at the sight of an intruder.
It was hounds baying at a cornered bear.
It was, when it came down to it, a time-honored mobbing tradition that meant only one simple thing:
They were psyching themselves up into the lynching zone.
Naturally, the less than enthusiastic administration, hearing the rumors, reinforced the guard around the already travelling carriage. Then they doubled it. Then, as the rumors escalated further, they had added mages to the retinue midway through the journey.
And guess which two masked mages were dispatched to it.
21st Vhalar 717
The incident involving Gangui was only the tip of the proverbial iceberg when it came to the citizen response against the carriage with the ladies. Several rumors, all of them far too strong and spreading too quick to have been propagated naturally through the usual channels that were the taverns and bards and rampant wifey gossiping, had burned its way through the bay like a wildfire.
The strongest, most prevailing narrative that had come up was that the ladies currently cruising along in the carriage were shadow women from the depths of night’s disease come to steal young male children to groom and wed, and that they were the god-blasted servant spawn of some foreign immortal named Audrae, who ruled over everything that did not touch the sun, who lurked in every shadow, nested in every despairing thought and childhood fear, whose gaze revealed every secret big and small safely tucked away in even the most guarded soul-
Not much of a rumor when the gist of it was true, wasn’t it?
Naturally, the more enthusiastic citizens of Foster’s landing did the sensible thing and did what they did best: engage in disorganized, erratic mob justice. People came out onto the streets to jeer and hurl insults, to pelt fruit and rotten fish bits and throw suspiciously dirty-colored liquids.
“Go back! Go back to the cave!”
“Doran will smite you like he did the profaned disease-bringing immortal Xiur!”
“Their wombs house shadow babies to slay the Lord High Marshall!”
“Lies! They don’t even have cunts! Evil cannot breed!”
Splat.
“Hide your children! Hide your children!”
“My cuz saw one with wings in the city! They’re harpies in fell flesh!”
“Drag them out of their carriage! Strip them to the bone!”
Of course, it wasn’t like they were actually hearing or rebutting each other. It wasn’t an open forum of discourse in the town square; it was impulse begetting impulse. It was momentum.
It was each hornet in the nest buzz buzz buzzzzzing to greater heights of frenzy at the sight of an intruder.
It was hounds baying at a cornered bear.
It was, when it came down to it, a time-honored mobbing tradition that meant only one simple thing:
They were psyching themselves up into the lynching zone.
Naturally, the less than enthusiastic administration, hearing the rumors, reinforced the guard around the already travelling carriage. Then they doubled it. Then, as the rumors escalated further, they had added mages to the retinue midway through the journey.
And guess which two masked mages were dispatched to it.
