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Log of the Pyring of Justin ab Fairfield, 5/24/17.

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If you haven't been hamstrung before, Justin ab Fairfield does not recommend it. He is being half-carried and half-dragged by his escorts, bleeding profusely from the jagged wounds on his legs, and pain is etched in the lines of his face, written in his cerulean blue eyes. The dexterity of his step and grace of his stride, the hallmarks of the leonine Great Lord, are forever gone -- as his life will be soon too. There's bruise on his arm, but his upper-body is surprisingly intact, and he manages a half-smile when he sees the crowd gathered, the witnesses to a titanic rise and a titanic fall. [Justin ab Fairfield]


Farra arrives from within the dark spire of Ahalin Tower into this miserable autumn drizzle, walking with a firm approach just ahead of the trio of Justin ab Fairfield, Feye ab Gravespeare, and a pigeon-eyed guardswoman with a narrow build, the latter two holding the formermost up between them. The necessity for their assistance is quickly evident: the rain washes some of the blood of the prisoner's legs away, but multiple wounds are open on the man's slashed samite breeches, clean and fresh.

At a prepared location, a pyre has already been arranged, nearby to this a small construct enabling the very short Grand Inquisitor to take a step to be seen without -much- trouble by the crowd. She is dressed in a cascading liturgical robe of chalice-faced crimson velvet, a white-and-gold Inquisitorial bolero with a crimson lining protecting her eyes and face from the slow rainfall, and when she speaks her voice cuts through loud and clear, perhaps unexpected for those who hadn't seen the small woman address a crowd before.

"People of Lithmore!" she calls out, gathering everyone's attention, as if she didn't have it already. "Today we mourn the cowardice of one of our leaders, a man entrusted by the people to serve them as a leader of this great City and Kingdom, a man whose sins are too numerous to list, a mans whose crimes are too heinous to dismiss."

She pauses, giving a moment for the words to sink in, for the crowd to connect rumors with the man she's led from the Tower.


Feye ab Gravespeare works along with a pigeon-eyed guardswoman with a narrow build to keep Justin ab Fairfield secure and in a position somewhat resembling standing, letting him lean on one shoulder or the other should he sway too much. The young woman's face is grim, and she stares at the pyre that has been prepared for her charge, lips tightening up as Farra begins to address the gathered crowd.

 
"A Thief! A Criminal! A Traitor!" 

Farra's head turns away from the crowd to look with visible contempt upon her face. One of her hands lift; a bold metallic ring set with the iconic Inquisitorial seal sits as the only jewelry upon her pale fingers. "A man who took your taxes and funneled them to murderers. A man who took your voice and squandered it for his own ambitions. A man who took your trust, and with that built for himself a bed of flames." The Grand Inquisitor's voice doesn't shake: she's a powerful set of lungs, and enough confidence to face the stares both slanted with concern and wide-eyed with surprise. "A heretic, a mage who invoked magic in an attempt to ensnare the pious of the city to his command, who sought to weave a net of Taint and Corruption about our community so tight that he might choke us into submission, a submission that would see his demonic masters once again rule themselves over us with their abyssal powers."

All of that, for one man?

"Here is our Seneschal, Lithmore: Justin Fairfield." [Farra]
  Farra appears to be of Heroic charisma.

 
Justin ab Fairfield raises his own voice after Farra's introduction, his voice underwritten by pain. Still, his oration has been honed by long days on the campaign and he manages to attain a level much lower than Farra, but loud enough to be heard. "You see here today what happens when you cross a woman not fit for the Court and not fit for leading the Order." A quick bow of the head encompasses the looming pyre and the man says in a softer voice, perhaps not loud enough to cross the first ranks of the crowd. "One day I'll be forgiven for not killing her, but I don't think you'll thank me."

 
Farra's lips do twitch at Justin ab Fairfield's bravado, and she gives a signal to Feye ab Gravespeare towards the prepared pyre. Here is where a pigeon-eyed guardswoman with a narrow build releases the man into the Dame-Knight's solitary control, so that the Knights alone might ceremoniously lead the condemned the final distance. A torch is lit, though the pyre itself remains unburnt, merely prepared.

"Even for all of that, The Lord is merciful." The Grand Inquisitor's voice is more gentle without losing its volume, taking a placid, ecclesiastical moment to remind those present of the mercy they grant this condemned. "Justin Fairfield has confessed his sins, has accepted the Pyre as his fate. Through his taint the covered vestiges of his soul cries out for the peace the Lord of Springs can grant him, for the hope that one day we might find ourselves in a world absent of the corruption of magic, of the sinister influence of the Abyss."

The torch is presented to the Grand Inquisitor by a red-robed priest of more advanced years. He is given a grim nod from the small Holy Honour.

"Ours is a Kingdom of Peace, Lithmore. A religion of Purity, of Mercy. Though we fight when the wolves close in on us, let us always resist the madness of our beating blood and find refuge in our souls." The tone has changed of the speech, certainly, but the woman's eyes are still hard, her lips still pressed into a fine, dissatisfied line.

 
Feye ab Gravespeare notes Farra's signal immediately and nods sharply before adjusting Justin ab Fairfield's arm over her shoulder. With a faint grunt, the lanky maiden begins to escort the condemned over towards the pyre, taking time enough so that Justin ab Fairfield doesn't all over or stumbles too much along the way. When they reach at last, Feye ab Gravespeare begins to secure Justin ab Fairfield to the post, ensuring that his feet are tied and bound and that the ropes that keep him there leave no room for wriggling. She stays a bit longer to lean her head in and share a few words, then steps back to allow Farra to send Justin ab Fairfield on his way.

 
Farra's eyes flick to Feye ab Gravespeare in the final moments of Justin ab Fairfield's life. As Feye ab Gravespeare retreats she steps forwards, torch held high. It is lit. He burns; there's a poetry in that, but it's lost to the drying Square.