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<span class="mu-r"><span class="mu-i">*CRACK*</span></span>
You gasp aloud at the first strike, and the second, eyes shooting open as you take your first step forwards. The pain is sudden and blinding. They each take turns in the traditional self-flagellation of the Reclaimant sect at this stage, ritually striking themselves with their own whipped cord before passing the nine-tails on to the next man to strike you in turn. You thank Heaven for the small mercy of the gap in their rotation. Cain had no such luxury, each guard rained down one blow after the other without pause. Until the skin was stripped from his flesh, until the bone on his ribs began to show.
<span class="mu-r"><span class="mu-i">*CRACK*</span>
You are INJURED.</span>
You shudder at each kiss of the lash, the procession trailing behind you in horrified reverence for the extreme display of pious suffering. Their admiration or revulsion is of little moment to you, each snap of the whip inflicts blindingly new levels of torment. Your body registers this new pattern of pain shockingly quickly, your shoulders learning to flinch as the ear hears the next swish of the cord before the crack lays upon your skin.
<span class="mu-r"><span class="mu-i">*CRACK*</span></span>
You do not consider yourself a weak man by any measure, but even you cannot stifle a groan under this assault. How did Cain endure this, at such eager hands and such more frequent occurrence? How did a man survive such inflictions, and then bear his place upon the Cross for two entire days before the Dragon sought an audience?
<span class="mu-g"><span class="mu-i">“Με τον Μεγάλο Προστάτη, τι έγκλημα έχει κάνει αυτός ο άνθρωπος για να δικαιολογήσει τέτοια τιμωρία?”</span></span> You catch only snippets of the crowds in the streets you pass by, they blur together and shift into the corners of your eyes with each kiss of the whip on your skin.
<span class="mu-g"><span class="mu-i">“ Όχι, αυτό είναι αφιέρωμα εξορίας.”</span></span> A collection of bookish-looking robed men watch in unconcealed horror. <span class="mu-g"><span class="mu-i">“Λατρεύουν τον σκληρό θεό τους με τον δικό τους πόνο.”</span></span>
<span class="mu-i">"Tanrı çılgın sürgünler."</span> A dark skinned man covered head to toe in golden piercings gives you a strange look, jewellery tinkling as he shakes his head sadly. <span class="mu-g"><span class="mu-i">"Onların yolu böyle..."</span></span>
<span class="mu-g"><span class="mu-i">“Οχι πραγματικά? Βλάσφημοι βόρειοι βάρβαροι…”</span></span>
Perhaps you merely imagine the glimpse of a porcelain mask watching from the rooftops, the glint of a Stratiokas spear glimmering in the sun. The soldier caste now line the streets in much greater numbers than when today’s vigil first began, their silence an altogether grimmer and warier than the calmness of their scarcer Comitas counterparts.
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