Jackal Posts

Jackal )) A shift in perspective from so many different directions. From the soul in Duat that accompanied the Jackal to the one and many with the Masks who stand in the lands enraptured by the constraints of time. A gaze into the past, a past none of them could comprehend or make heads or tails of and through words of power. The Prosecutor, Jury and Gallery were taken away. Far from mind and body. A shift that felt cold and inhuman; it felt wrong with the way the soul felt a strain that measured only similar to pain. Like fear took a malleable form and worked on ripping the body asunder. It wouldn't but the sensation was not for the weak nor the non-committed and should the mind fail to keep itself together, so be it. A risk the Cult were aware of and still stepped into, their best hope is that the Judge will show them mercy in the beyond. Within the Courtroom is where all the souls gathered to watch; a dark room, tall and cold in form with numerous tall chairs, roughly 10ft high at the lowest for one of them while Seth-Tarek who is kneeling down in the centre. Head down and the Mask of the Judged on his face. It wasn't pretty, not made of fine metals and gems like those worn in the court around him. It was heavy iron, uncomfortable and lacking any eye holes to be able to see. He didn't need to see. The ramblings of the Court had long began even with the newfound audience's arrival, words in Iremite long forgotten, the condemnation in their tone matched their sharp and soured expressions. It would be of note that several of the faces were Maskless but only Gallery and Jury Masks were being worn by the others seated at this hearing. "####-#####. Child of Gazmet-Tarek and First of his Blood." While the words in Iremite were suddenly understood by those present, the name was somehow absent and not only in words but in sound. The Judge of Duat would allow none to speak his name. "You stand accused-" One of the unmasked faces began as the doors to the Courtroom opened. Maat would be appearing through, much like that very day and he knew what would follow next. The guards that hid in the shadows and oversaw the court itself. The Executioner's Mask on each of their faces as they sprout from the darkness and raise weapons to hold the Sadikh in place. "Of the Murder of the 8 Noble Families of the City, including the soon to be Heir to the Empire." The condemnation brought whispers to the chambers, feelings of dread sweeping the members of the Cult and a weight slowly pressing upon their shoulders. "Evidence shows you butchered them one at a time, tonight of all nights no less." A recollection for the masses and one Maat would certainly remember, the Priestess would certainly read about if they poured through the handwritten lore and history of their beloved City. Where signs such as a blood red moon was taken seriously and when many Descents would come to be for the first time. A position that, typically, went to nobility or those in elevated positions of power, wealth or status... But such things were only a part of a greater whole that many don't understand. An Arisen may be chosen by the people but only accepted by a Judge, otherwise it would be just another soul. Would the Cult know of the Judge? Perhaps, though now the recollection is but a sliver of information as the condemning voice continued. " The slaughters within were met with apprehension, guards were cut down at every point and all homes that you enacted your heinous crime were brought to ashes by the spiteful blaze you left behind." The Jackal did not move. Didn't even wish to speak, the whispers in the wind never stopped and the air only seemed to grow heavier. "Before we pass off your clearly deserved judgement, do you have anything to say for yourself?" Silence reigned once more until the rattle of the chains and shackles signalled his first move. Once again, shakily getting up to his feet and steadying himself before speaking. Throat dry, raspy, pained and hoarse but even throughout that; the Judged is lifting his head up and back to give the impression of looking to the presumed judge. "Yes. I do." "Then out with it." With this mask, only the lower half of the face is shown and the rest covers over the top of his head. "This City... It's very lifeblood is it's people. It's buildings and structures the very bones that hold the muscle and mass which is... The very prosperity everyone thrives to achieve." Head lowered a touch, the mask feeling heavy. "But as I've learned... As many of you have also learned tonight, that the legacy of each individual that raised this great city from the ground up is tainted." The tone shifted, the anger came "The people who were put in the position where they can act as a voice, an ear, a hand to the people, were not who they said they were and haven't been for a long time." Even with the anger present, there's articulation and a steadiness to his voice, not letting passion get in the way of making his point. Punctuating it even by lifting his head back up. "Many called me naive, a child for thinking the life works any differently and that I was being petulant to speak up against it." Shoulders began to straighten, a fire was erupting and Seth himself... Knew where it came from, the words were lost to him throughout most of his journey through Duat but this mask and the moments spent in darkness to reflect brought him back to a simple question. Just who was he? What did he do all of this for? This was something he was learning every time this song and dance was done. "I wish not for your forgiveness when I say... There is something deeply fucked up with all of you to believe that stain can ever be hidden from our history like it never happened." There was an audible gasp and angry muttering among the Court but Seth-Tarek continued on. "My name used to mean something, as did all the names of those who sat in the same seats that all of you are now sat on and now it means nothing... As do your seats, mean nothing." The arms he had subconsciously lifted up to be level with his chest dropped. "You are all beneath me if this is your justice for the people of the City, your judgement means nothing and regardless of what happens to me today--" And that's when he spat on the ground, feeble, caked with blood and sand. "You will never have power over me, not in life nor in death and never in your memories, where I will be prevalent the most." Those words silenced the room. A white noise beginning to fill the heads and while there was a moment where a flow of guards began coming from behind the Sadikh towards the Jackal; he would clock all of their Masks. The Prosecutor and the Judge accompanied by more Executioners, all of which immediately circle the Jackal, with the Mask of the Judge wearer looking up to the Court. To the Gallery and Jury, directly in the eye with grey-gems of their own. Enrapturing them as their minds, once again began to twist and turn, to take them all somewhere else. Sadikh would become just as undone by the shifting sands in the vision but the familiarity would hit very fast and very soon, for they know what comes next.

Sadikh)) The figures in the painting begin to move, their jaws hanging open at their hinges as darkness spreads within their eyes. Hundreds of hollow gazes follow Maat's every movement, the sound of the damned---every soul judged and executed wails deafeningly loud. He is in no court, but an appropriation of Hell within the realm. A mocking recreation filled with fury. Maat's teeth clench together, a bead of sweat trickling down his temple while his fingers curl over an invisible force as he moves through the painting-become-life. A path unknown. For a second that stretches into the edges of forever, his vision blurs as the paint peels and then cracks. He sees it behind his eyes, the door to the courtroom where the figure of the Martyr kneels by the Traitor's throne within the Temple. The Sadikh refuses to blink, refuses to keel despite the echoes of a dormant god attempting to put him in place. There is no escape, the cycle continues; death, rebirth, the cogs of the machine spin eternal. 'Your punishment is to remember.' He drags his feet, shackles upon another, as the bodies amalgamate into one, howling wretchedly, clinging to his ankles that begin to turn into stone. 'And his will be to forget.' His muscles strain when he pries one of his blades out of its sheathe, time slowing down when he roars out a battle cry to sever the limb from this beast. A horror beyond his memories, a personification of his most intimate fears not even he knows of. Then, Maat brandishes the other, holding onto them in a blood-tight grip as ichor drips down the sharp length of his swords. He musters what is left of his strength, sparks flying from the clash of metal against metal as both Khopesh collide with one another. Maat swings, beheading the Traitor on his throne---and cuts through the canvas as it catches fire to reveal the door. Heat licks at his skin, threatening to burn, but he ignores its presence. Maat can hear them. The voices of the Jury, the voice of Seth-Tarek, the murmurs just beyond this great marble entrance separating him from the Arisen. But just as he pushes the door open and swings it greatly that it echoes---where there was once a crowd, there is only sand and a storm. In the middle of the dune, a single mask lies untouched. Golden and black with red gems for eyes.