In the capital of Sussex, there was a young man walking down the street of Bonesaw. His watcher's cap tightly wrapped around his head, he looked around to see, embarrassed, If they also found the squeaking of his ﯽھﮍﯾر as annoying as he did.
Bonesaw was renowned for its meat and spices, business men and working class women from all over Nightgrave (Capital) travelled here, to squander and bargain over their cuts of meat. But, the market had been recently controversial for its authenticity, locals believing the sheep (Vile) being imported here under the rose tax. (etched in stone) Were diminishing the actual profit of the butchers, but in turn being more profitable to the farmers of Luxemburg, rumours about illegal breeding camps of the Luxemburg sheep in Bonesaw and its neighbouring streets spread like fleas. The mountains of Luxemburg were once blessed by Mercury (clouds).
For in Sussex, this was sacred, and the sheep that descended from the mountains were pure. So, the offspring that spawned; produced in Bonesaw were counterfeit. Therefore breeding of Luxemburg sheep anywhere but Luxemburg was a crime, punishable by severing; one finger. (of course, chosen by the appointed judge) Since laws were set in place by the rose. (etched in stone) Stone feared for his safety, surrounded in an area that hated rose's law. Half of which was home to the butchers, he had to be careful. 'Thank you, father.' The street was filled with protesters, holding up signs, who walked, ran, spilled over the ground drunk. 'Strange' Stone was not in the presence of the residents protesting about the sheep, but the bread.
"Down with Armenia, down with its grain,"
"BURN ARMENIA." Armenian bread being shipped in, lit many riots in other cities, this was a first for stone, since repulsive behaviour like this wasn't tolerated in Nightgrave. But, he did agree, why would his brethrens want to eat the enemy's bread? Subconsciously, the Luxemburg farmers needed to grow more bread rather than spend all their time catering to "pure" sheep; this would help the nation of Sussex prosper. 'Wait, wouldn't this make the butchers and the civil come together for protest? Let's not give them more reasons to invoke protest against us…' (long live the rose) At the roundabout of the street, the scaffold lay barren, save for the one man atop it. His arms were moving frantically, trying to get the protesters in order. "Bonesaw!" the man on the scaffold roared, his voice cracking with passion.
"They bleed us dry with their rose tax! They poison our tables with foreign
grain! They tell us our sheep—our Vile—are not pure enough!"
A roar of agreement ripped through the crowd.
"While we starve, the Rose feasts! While we toil, the Rose grows fat! I ask you, Saxons of Nightgrave, how long will we suffer their law etched in stone?"
Bonesaw was known for dealing with human and animal meat alike, since all prisoners were taken here to be laid down in Sussex. Giving the protesters courage, "The sun provides you with its life. Don't take it for granted, fight for what's right, make way for it, so that it makes its way to rise." Stone rose, kept on pushing his cart, he thought of hiding himself, anywhere and in anything he could find, since he had to go through the crowd. Lost in thought, he placed his hand on his watchers cap.
"Oh."
It was awkward for both stone and the protesters, a man hiding his face by his cap, pushing his cart, hitting people along its way. The drunks got it the hardest. "We Saxons need to march together into the Kingdom, this harsh crown and demand answers…" The man's speech was stopped by the crowd, staring at Stone. Holding his breath and praying. The man on the scaffold coughed. Stone kept pushing forward, now noticed by the crowd and had their full attention.
Stone kept pushing, his cart's wheel catching on a cobblestone. It lurched, jostling a burly butcher who reeked of stale blood. "Watch where you're going, you little rat!" the butcher snarled, shoving the cart back. The shove drew the scaffold man's attention. His voice boomed, silencing the crowd. "You there! The one hiding like a rat in the night! Hold your place!"
Stone froze. Every eye was on him. He could feel their collective hatred like a physical weight. He turned his head, but the thick wool of the watcher's cap blocked his peripheral vision. He peered into the wrong direction, a lost figure in the sudden, tense silence.
"Look at me when I'm speaking to you!" the scaffold man commanded.
"What are you hiding under that cap? Are you a spy for the Rose? A farmer from Luxemburg here to steal our livelihood?"
Stone's heart hammered against his ribs. He raised a trembling hand and pointed to his own sealed lips, shaking his head desperately. I can't speak. The man on the scaffold leaned forward, his voice dropping to a mad command that carried across the square.
"Take off his cap. Let's see the face of the man who's too good to look us in the eye."
A quiet calm settled over Stone. If this drunken mob killed him here, it wouldn't be so bad. He had little left to live for anyway.
He felt their hands about to grab him when a low roar shook the ground. The stones at his feet began to jump and rattle, and the harsh thunder of marching footsteps grew loud.
"They're here! Run!" a drunk screamed. The mindless horde scattered like disturbed ants, running in every direction. The man on the scaffold leaped down, only to be crushed under
their fleeing feet. Soon, many lay trampled on the ground, silent in their
pain.
In moments, the street was empty again. Stone, thankful to whatever thing that listened, finally pulled off his watcher's cap. He ran a hand through his short, black hair.
The shop sign read "Fort-buch," a name that meant both front-man and butcher. For centuries, the Zyler men who ran it had been famous for two things: providing the royal family with purebred sheep, and for being fierce vanguards. But that legacy was ruined now, Stone thought. Only one man of the name remained.
He arrived at the entrance, hit by the smell of blood and old meat. He had never found the scent appealing. Back in the royal barracks, all the men butchered their own animals. Stone never understood it; they used servants for everything else but butchered their own animal. Until he came to a conclusion: it was cope for them. To satisfy their brittle characters, they would play at being vigorous men by cutting down small game. Stone sat on a bench made of boulders in the shop that was by the entrance, waiting for the man to wake up.
The old butcher, Zyler, was sound asleep at the counter. Stone got comfortable, his eyes wandering over the jars of preserved organs and animal hides hanging on the walls. After a moment, he stomped his boot on the floor.
The old man jolted awake. Stone stood and greeted him. "Old man Zyler, how have you been?" Stone said, his voice cheerful. "Sir Stone Rose? Is that you?" Zyler stumbled to his feet, hurriedly
straightening his clothes.
"Yes. I'm here for the sheep," Stone replied, wiping sweat from his face. "Finally! You've gotten permission for the feast," Zyler said, his face breaking into a smile."Where at?"
"Blackberry Forest. If I do it—and I will—I will get to make decisions too,"
Stone said with passion. "Rabbit's foot? Yum," Zyler said.
"Yes."
"Oh, my apologies, sir!" The old man shuffled forward on his short legs and
bent to kiss Stone's hand. The softest of them all, Stone thought. After the kiss, Zyler hurried back
toward the sheep pen.
"Sir, it'll take time to pick the best ones for you. Please, wait." Stone nodded and sat back down. He was so privileged he had to wait in a butcher's shop. He had all this privilege, but for what? He was born with it and had nothing to show for it. That was exactly why this feast mattered. Succeeding here wouldn't just protect his own privilege—it would lay the foundation to change everyone's. That was the kind of nation he wanted Sussex to be.
It took the old man way too long, making Stone get up and go into the sheep pen, unsuprised, in seeing the man worshipping the sheep. At the same time.
The man from the scaffold woke up because of the chattering all around him. His face felt ticklisbut he waved it off, still dreaming. Finding himself under a horse shocked him so much so, all his
dreaming was washed away. His sweet dreams of "The cure" dominating the two families were taken away from him.
A man wearing a skull of an antler, was perched on a blackened horse. His face was hidden, but his silver long-sword spoke of bold claims of a clean Sussex. However may the filth be relinquished the beetle will, even if in death, they will eat away at it. Protecting the sovereignty of Sussex from endangers was the Beatles job, known as the butlers of the kingdom, but they surely resented the name for it brought laughter and with laughter brought total mockery.
The antlers goons, from within their wagons, brought out a man, shifting in unease, tied with rope and held against his will. Head covered with a thick cloth, curses the man from the scaffold could not understand were shouted by him. Bold he thought, for the man was bickering in front of the mighty Antler, the black raven of the Nightgrave.
The captive spoke, "I will not be touched, nor there and definitely not here, you're not the one to forget are you Antler?" The man almost spoke carefree, like talking to one of his old pals. His group ran piss wet, upon the ravens heavy cawk, is this foolishness or leverage? He was absorbed in thought like water in a well, only for it to run dry. Since, he had called in the Rakers. NOW, he was absorbed in prayer.
The Rakers were the soldiers of the Antlers's troop. They wore well… little clothes, they mostly wore hoods, ( the code determining it mandatory ) but they were rebellious, just like the Beatles themselves, for the Beatles in the west garden of the kingdom (existence, availability) loved
to consume petals. The Antler let the silence hang for a moment, enjoying the man's fear. He
spoke, his voice resonating from the antlered skull, calm and clear.
"You stand on your box and preach of a 'cure.' So let us test your
convictions. Are the Armenians your enemy?"
"They are a plague!" the man from the scaffold cried out, his voice cracking
with desperate fervor.
"A plague," the Antler mused, as if tasting the word. He gave a subtle
signal, and the Rakers tore the sack from the man's head.
"And when the armies march to cleanse this land, a choice must be made. A
man cannot serve two masters. So tell me…" He leaned in slightly, the
eye-holes of the skull seeming to bore into the man's soul.
"In your heart, who do you truly hate more? The Rose that bleeds you… or
the Beatles that will set you free?"
Alongside with his mind, now his throat had also ran dry. This time he did
have an answer, the men from the church of the cure, were bold, but always
cowered in front of god.
Time went by… Bastion had been unveiled, his
long black hair covering his hair, filled with sweat, his tanned skin showed
signs of many exhibitions in the sun. he rubbed his palm along his nose, to
just wiggle it a bit,
Antler sang sweet harmonic whistles, to mimic the trumpets of the rose, to
pay respect even with spite, for his hands had let known his troops, the man
from the scaffold had to be raked, the pitchfork of many deaths, was the
execution method of the Beatles, well spoken for this sect, the others did far
worse.
Bowing down, for the first time, and for his last, since the wagons had taken
off with him latched onto the back with the pitchfork locked into his jaw
and through his eyes, and the spilling blood to the courts, spoke gestures to
the protesters.
Sitting back down, Stone was exhausted because the sheep had driven him
mad, who knew a law twenty years ago made it mandatory for all rose
descendants and family members to be bestowed upon a sheep with the
testicles that could hold that most amount of seeds.
In the corner of his eye, he saw a young man walking up to the store,
"Another customer?" he asked the shop keeper. Who was busy shearing the
sheep. "Customer…?" the shopkeeper peered out the door to saw Bastion at
the door, "Oh, this is my son, Bastion zyler"
Bastion sat beside Stone, still snarling at his old man's shop, "Why does the
sheep have really big balls?" asked Bastion.
"Long live the rose." said his father, laying down the sheep on his back,
facing him towards Stone. "Rose?...oh" Bastion looked at Stone. This was
the place that the Rose brought from. 'Makes sense.' thought Bastion.
"Only the Rose would want the sheep with the biggest balls, to compensate
for their lack of any."
Stone rose too engrossed in the act of an animal being slaughtered in his
name, saddened was close to tears, when the screaming of the animal
being, heart aching, while Bastion was sat aloof.
Urknall ~ Hassan