>SELECTED: “Δεν φέρνω το σπαθί, αλλά τον Λόγο...” An ancient psalm, the majority of the pilgrims will only know the choral refrain. While the languages of Cathagi are much removed from their ancient roots, it is not impossible that some of the locals might recognise the lines. [Idealist] https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HGvMXgIr6js&t=199s&ab_channel=AdorationoftheCross - Psalms of the old Cathagi dialect <span class="mu-b">+1 Step on the Path of Adam [21 Steps]</span>
The boon will be revealed one the eve of the final holy vigilYou stand armoured in your full-plate, your duties as an escort take precedence over donning the penitent pilgrim robes like your compatriots. You would have drawn a few eyes in the hustle and bustle on the docks, even without the throng of pilgrims following in step. Brother Rousseau in his Comitas whites takes the leftmost side of the street, guarding your flank. You have not sighted Jess or Orin since you disembarked, but you trust they are taking up the rear. Behind you, Mikail cups your helm reverently in his hands like an altar boy entrusted with some symbolic artifice.
You’ve never held yourself up to be much of a singer, boasting a voice more suited to hearty laughter and shouted commands on the battlefield than the sanctified notes of a holy song. But you try to do the psalm justice, crying out at with heartfelt effort as you begin your march into the city.
<span class="mu-i">“Δεν φέρνω το σπαθί, αλλά τον Λόγο...”</span>
The words go on. When the Brothers first returned from their wandering in the desert, the hand of Almighty heavy upon their shoulders, they came to liberate the City. They brought with them the Word, the divine truth. Not a man’s mangled version of it, not a scholars lofty interpretation, but the Truth. When Adam preached to the masses, the huddled multitudes yearning to breathd free, there were none who could remain deaf to it.
<span class="mu-b"><span class="mu-i"><span class="mu-s">Λέει την Αλήθεια!</span></span></span>
Comes the choral refrain from the procession of pilgrims. Bodies part to either side of the street on the busy docks the procession forms its own lane of traffic. Most locals pay it little heed, just another throng of faith-mad foreigners. But a few heads do turn, perhaps they are those transient few not used to this sort of spectacle.
<span class="mu-i">“Σας λέω, αυτός είναι ένας Πεσμένος Κόσμος...”</span> Beggars crowd this street, wrapped hands proffered out limply for alms. They are miserable even the standard of beggars from your homeland, those too old, too diseased, too maimed or infirm to even turn a profit in the selling of. If they register your passing, it is only to raise their begging hands up a little higher in the hope of something, anything, being placed there. You can imagine Sister Ignatius weeping at the sight somewhere behind you.
[1/2]
