Kladimos Spatha, the most feared and ruthless tactician to ever live, is terrified of you. He dares not go outside anymore. Every messenger sent to his doorstep falls, a heavy dart sent from the sky to sever their spine. Food and water become scarcer and scarcer, even in his palace. He is turning against his subordinates, and whispers of rebellion stir. Erstwhile, Tsssite cultists have been dragged through the streets of urban Rome, pegged with perfidiously dull and rounded nails to crucifixes so smooth and soft they dare not splinter. Kiber knows not of Kladimos' growing... Affection...
What the spike? Refer to top of post for Event Actions.
>Develop the tongues of Tsssian missionaries and send them out to the nations. (Choose one to initiate, and where: civil war, traditional war, revolution, invasion, crusade, etc.)>Further inspire Tsssian (Tsssite? Tsssingi?) culture. (Suggested: what? sculptures, cuisine, language, prayers, music, routines, customs, etc.?)>Do something about the crucified cultists. (Suggested: what?)>Write-in>>6137472Nrudhu
After gaining recognition and some degree of immortality through his literature, the baron has a new apple of his eye: officiating the Festival of the Gates. Every visitor finds Feltershire a city of wonder. Even the industrial business parks are ringing out with joyful conversation and filled with so much art that foreigners find it worth strolling around in circles. The whimsical culture of Feltershire spreads further and wider, including into the land of the mime.
After a long day and night of healing the needy, "The Pontifex" dusts off his mortar-and-pestle-calloused hands, and gazes up at the moon. If it weren't for the moonlight, he wouldn't have been able to deliver that baby in this dilapidated shack, or found the shack in the woods in the first place.
Emperor Kiber II and the popular author Josephus Organus both have denounced your cult, yet Faith in you still grows, even in the home countries of these influential men.
Thousands of consecrated items of Tsss - extremely spiky objects - seemingly thrown away, wash up on the shores of Ireland. Like large, meter-wide urchins of tempered, sharpened steel - not at all brittle. Children take them from the beaches and rivers and into their schoolyards and homes of their parents, where many people prick themselves to bleeding on the sharp nuisances. Some succumb to their wounds. They are incredibly aesthetically pleasing, but impractical as anything. Some become so fascinated with these and other sharp objects that they forego worship of Nrudhu and observation of the moon... Some become dual-worshippers of the contrasting religions, and the natural war-like mentality of Tsssian cultists clash with the peace inspired by Nrudhu, his baron-prophet, and the people of Feltershire. After all, when you're a sharp, everything else looks like a soft.
(con't)
