Every Shadow Burns My Face

[malins]

3
-----
In the wake of the war, they had taken in many broken things. Each of them broken in a different way. Some only needed care and time, and moved on with grateful hearts, and some joined the Order and were in due time initiated. Others were broken in body or spirit or both and would never quite heal, but they found a place for all of them.

Before the war, those taken in by the Sisters had mostly been dishonored women, fallen ones; those taken in by the Brothers often criminals. Sometimes it had occurred that one side of the monastery would come to house the violator, the other the victim.

But since in the end all could be purified, and all would put aside their old person upon initiation, to receive a new name, it was also not unimaginable that in the middle, both would serve side by side with the Order.

All of them were accepted as gifts. The war had brought many.

Then, after the spring of blood, that fearful flowering of white wreaths of Death and clouds of powder-smoke and that mad sound like a forest of trees all snapped at once at their base, had come a peaceful summer that never seemed to end, continuing far into the shortening days of autumn, Divine mercy not to follow the depredations of war with a harsh winter.

Sister Noiramas, who had taken the woman into her observation – 'care' would be saying too much as the hooded figure as of yet hardly interacted with anyone – thought with this one it must have to do with the war.

A late gift, from that cruel hand.

It would take time to find out though.
Time and patience were always in ample supply at the Order of the Merciful Redemption.

And as time passed, the hooded figure became a silent part of their community, rising with them, and soon falling unasked into the patterns of their duties. She recovered her strength, and never shied from demanding work, although her movements betrayed that many of the tasks were new to her, and her shroud hindered her in much of the work. Peculiar allowances had to be made – just think what a chore it was for her to take her meal in the refectory. Washing herself alone at night. And so forth.

Sister Noiramas saw well how she yearned to make herself useful to them, in return for their acceptance. She had been gradually opening herself to this world, the limited and well-controlled world within the monastery walls, reassuring in its regular rhythms.

She had begun to cautiously examine and then accept the idea of continued existence.

And she had begun to speak.
Surprisingly, she admitted to a name. Anri, she said.

 

[RacingRodent]

Foreboding is the first among my many and complex emotions but I am entangled and enthralled by this complex and mysterious tale. Well down Malins

 

[malins]

But does it matter though at all, she asked, resting on the hoe for a moment. She'd heard of namelessness, of 'When I'm nothing I am free'.

Everyone had always heard something, shards broken out of the beauty of the teachings, impossible to assemble into the shining whole without Godly guidance.
Some, Sister Noiramas knew, even scoffed at them as sacrificers for a death-cult.

It would take even more time to introduce anything of Doctrine, but then there was nothing True that could not be approached in simple words.

Sister Noriamas so explained, that, “Yes, on initiation, we receive a new name, a new person. But we don't discard our old self. It always walks beside us. We're free then from the chains of guilt, the cycle of retribution and hate. Free from that and bound to Truth.”

Anri agreed there was wisdom in that and here was the right place for her and she wanted to stay if they would keep her.
Of course they would.

However it would be necessary to broach the subject at some point, so she said right there that if Anri wished to be initiated, Gods and men would need to see her face.
Anri then was still for long, and finally said – though she thought it impossible, perhaps with the powers of Gods involved yes it might be possible someday.
She didn't mention any powers of men.

Otherwise could she stay even if not? - She could, but only as a novice.

From her speech it was clear she must be up from the Northeastern coast. Lokshada, Tjeremesd, or one of the other harbors. Not good places to go back, today.
They had another novice girl from up there, she'd been around some months and could help her settle in, help with so many things; perhaps she'd like to talk to her?

Anri repeated the name, seeming thunderstruck at its mention.

She knows her.

Things were beginning to fall into place now.
They were aware at the Order that the first girl had served as maid in the tent of Tsilsne.
Perhaps the maid had been present when the ministration of evil had been applied to Anri's face.
Perhaps Anri herself had served there, and fallen into disgrace.
Perhaps even the one had been forced to hold some instrument of the others' torment...

Sister Noiramas made no more mention of Tsilsne's maidservant, but it was obvious that Anri recognized her, and avoided her.
They never exchanged a word.

 

[malins]

(Thanks all for the encouraging comments, and those who don't comment but just 'Like' also. It's quite an experiment for me)

 

[malins]

However Anri observed all of the maid Mirasintsa's flagellations and trials in preparation of her ritual. When the girl squirmed and pressed herself against the post, eyes closed, mouth open, gasping lost in her penance – then Anri sometimes stood quite close, off to the left of the whipmaster, and while her face was hidden, her poise betrayed that she'd like to throw the lash herself.

That was an issue they would need to work through. Again, there was time for that.
They had undone more difficult knots than this before.

After the second or third time though Sister Noiramas understood there was no malice with Anri for the other girl. What it was, was that Anri couldn't bear speaking to her, but absolutely needed to see, see it done with her.

Also, she had observed Anri on the way to the millpond, how she went off the path, hitched up her shift and walked right through the waist-high nettles. She had challenged her on that, as a novice did not possess the privilege of self-mortification, which of course she couldn't know. Anri had answered rather gruffly that it lessened her other pain, that was always there, and anyway the nettles were good for her; not only had she lived from them when she was wild in the woods but yes, when the night was overcast or moonless she'd open her veil and bow down to bring her face to them. Feel their swaying caress. That lessened the burn.
From there on twice weekly Sister Noiramas caned her on the soles of her feet which she took well.

With that settled, it would be important to find proper tasks for Anri during her novitiate, something that was beneficial for the Order and according to her abilities. The work she was doing such as weeding the gardens had to be difficult with the hood and mask, and all in all was more a demonstration of willingness, than truly productive.

 

[malins]

There was the singing.

It was unsettling, unusual, but if she accompanied someone, she could earn good coin at the market. The Order did always have some need of that.

They agreed she might rehearse with Sister Vidrisit who went out weekly to sing.
It was useful beyond the coin, Vidrisit's songs had managed to put enough of Doctrine into some people's minds to make them sympathetic to the Order.
The words were simple but the music gave them the weight of Truth even to the unknowing; and for quite a few that had been the first touch of Godliness.
They would be singing a mixture of old heroic songs and religious tunes; no ribaldry of course, but the truth was that people welcomed something to lift them up, musically and morally, even more so after the war.

Anri's voice for sure would cut through all indifference.

Sister Vidrisit had pointed out on hearing her, that however gifted she was, Anri's voice wouldn't stand alone because she seemed to skip the middle register. She went from moaning depths right to belting out the high notes, and perhaps that had something to do with her speaking voice, that was so unexpectedly insecure and squeaky.
For Vidrisit it had been clear that while Anri knew to sing devastatingly, she had never learned to sing properly. That was no slight against her gift; no one came close to the effect she had. But alone, she couldn't sing anything else than her own peculiar songs.
Having her embroider another's song turned it into otherworldly beauty.

Upon discussing all this, about going to the market and singing in public, being out and about among all these people, strangers, Anri asked then if it was safe to travel, as the market must mean a town and how far was that?

She seemed unaware of how suddenly the war had ended. Alone in the wilderness so long?

 

[malins]

Sister Noiramas told briefly then of how it had been, with the pyre, how the warleaders and their sworn men watched the flames and the smoke, sifted through the rubble, looked on each other… and then went home.
As if a spirit that had possessed them had departed.
If so, one could only hope it was really gone.

That mercenary general, he marched back to the mountains with most of their numbers.
The rest... King Hastinbar, whose town it was over there, he hired some.
Some others put down roots. Settled round here.
Plain people, all asudden. No more drums and songs of death to all and everyone.
Also, no revenge, as if for once the world obeyed the Order.
People were tired. Wanted to get back to living. Wanted to get fresh air in their lungs instead of drowning in blood.

Anri soaked up the news and asked, no more of Tsilsne, no more of war, no more revenge?

Yes, so it seemed. That had been enough.
The root torn out, the bitter branches broken, and no more of the fruit from an orchard watered with blood.

And she explained then how important that was from the perspective of Doctrine.
It was as if the Gods had taught a very costly lesson once again to humankind. As it was necessary from time to time.

Because Tsilsne had been the perfect innocent.
And look where it led, the bloody bloom that flowered out of that injured innocence, because it was not guided by Godliness.
And so Tsilsne, the blessed and the blessing, the gifted and the gift, had become the Mad Queen.

They both pondered that, and Sister Noiramas understood that Anri was not an innocent. And that was good.

Then they went through what other tasks she might perform, and Anri mentioned that she could read and write.
The way she said it, she obviously meant she did it very well.
Perhaps a scribe in the tent of the Mad Queen, thought Noiramas.
The things she might know!

She should go to the High Priest after the midday chant.
For one thing He'd be glad for any help with the books.
Though He would test her.
More importantly He would know what further questions to ask, and perhaps she could help with the task of the Chronicler.

He was trying to put it all down, set the story right along the rod of Truth, make sense of the doings of the Mad Queen.
It was a very important work the Chronicler was doing.
Not just for the sake of setting down what had truly happened, which had much worth in a world of lies and deception.

Because before burning herself, the Mad Queen had set that world on fire.
And out of the ashes a new world was growing, green and quick.
You could see already - it would be stronger than before.

But whether that world would grow up to be straight or crooked when it was tall again - that would depend much on how you understood the burning.

Make a demon of her, and forget her innocence - or make a saint of her, and forget her devilry - and for sure you'd have a crooked growth.

Only the Truth would make it rise up straight and strong and let a future unfold with less of this suffering.

And here with this monastery of the Order was where that Truth would be found, if anywhere.
Here.

Downwind often of Peak Gaunabant from where her ashes drifted.
Right beside the battlefield, the Folly of the Nine Kings.
Right beside the town of the tenth king of the Middlelands, Hastinbar whom they'd scolded a coward in the morning and praised wise in the evening.

Because he hadn't rode out to challenge Tsilsne, instead he'd sent tribute. And she'd had her sign stamped on it and sent it right back, every single piece of gold, and said, Give sustenance to my wounded from it, as I march on.

And to once not being hated and charged at, she had found no answer than to march her army off into a bog and destroy it. And when she saw that the army refused to be destroyed, she marched the rest of it right back and went to undo herself under his very eyes.

And all of that, except the battle in the bogs, had happened right around here. And that was why quite a few of her former followers were now here with the Order, and quite some of her own writings in the hand of the Chronicler, and the answers were here to be found.

 

[Wragg]

[ a little fairytale of a story which will twist its way to the kind of end such tales have. The ingredients are all in the pot, such as kings and quens and knights and frogs, good and bad but it still needs some stirring. Though no dwarves or dragons - but fire, and, of course crosses. That might take a while because sometimes it's a long journey for someone until they learn to accept and appreciate the cross...]

Kings and Queens, Knights and Frogs, sorcery, witchcraft and war. Oh yes, these are the things that I love in a story!

Anyway, who needs dwarves and dragons as long as you have crosses?

These first instalments are beautifully written and crafted, a story well constructed, lovely, Malins

Don't say 'twist', though. It's not 'twisted', it's woven, just like a piece of fine fabric.

 

[malins]

Oh yes, these are the things that I love in a story! ... Don't say 'twist', though. It's not 'twisted', it's woven, just like a piece of fine fabric.

I hope there will be more to love (at some point also including what this forum's all about ) however I do need to work out some twists in the story before we get there. I hope I get to the crux before Easter Anyway it's obvious the different characters we're seeing all have their viewpoints and some agenda. So while it will sit unchallenged for some time while I work out the issues with the next parts, don't take the Doctrinal interpretation from 'Sister Noiramas' as the bare truth. As you notice, the clerics of that Order, while they may be peculiar, are basically good people (not the role clerics usually get in stories here on the forums) but that doesn't mean they're right. In the end it'll be the priviliege of the reader to see all the perspectives and work out were the story is heading just before it blows up in everybody's face...

 

[Primus pilus]

I hope there will be more to love (at some point also including what this forum's all about ) however I do need to work out some twists in the story before we get there. I hope I get to the crux before Easter Anyway it's obvious the different characters we're seeing all have their viewpoints and some agenda. So while it will sit unchallenged for some time while I work out the issues with the next parts, don't take the Doctrinal interpretation from 'Sister Noiramas' as the bare truth. As you notice, the clerics of that Order, while they may be peculiar, are basically good people (not the role clerics usually get in stories here on the forums) but that doesn't mean they're right. In the end it'll be the priviliege of the reader to see all the perspectives and work out were the story is heading just before it blows up in everybody's face...

Wonderful writing Malin. So much has happened since Pp last visited on Friday. Read through quickly but I will need to return many times over the next few days to absorb this all.

 

[Jollyrei]

I've usg read the whole thing, so far. It's wondrous, tragic, enthralling. It's a poem, an epic. Fine writing. I am your devoted reader.

 

[phlebas]

I hope there will be more to love (at some point also including what this forum's all about ) however I do need to work out some twists in the story before we get there. I hope I get to the crux before Easter Anyway it's obvious the different characters we're seeing all have their viewpoints and some agenda. So while it will sit unchallenged for some time while I work out the issues with the next parts, don't take the Doctrinal interpretation from 'Sister Noiramas' as the bare truth. As you notice, the clerics of that Order, while they may be peculiar, are basically good people (not the role clerics usually get in stories here on the forums) but that doesn't mean they're right. In the end it'll be the priviliege of the reader to see all the perspectives and work out were the story is heading just before it blows up in everybody's face...

Take your time and get it right in your eyes, Malin.
It's worth it.

 

[malins]

4
----
From the outside you might think the girl was in a prison cell, you'd see nothing but her hands clinging to the two metal bars vertical in the small square window, high in the wall. But looking from the other side of the row of cells, you'd see each had an open entryway, though you couldn't see inside through the serpentine vestibule. The cells were open to the air but offered some seclusion to their occupants.

In the leftmost cell the girl stood, arms outstretched, hands clutching the cold metal bars, knuckles white, head hanging down between her shoulders, coming up sometimes, throwing her head back, gasping for air, drawing in deep, shaking her chin-length light-brown hair, then sinking forward again, going under again, sometimes convulsing into sobs of utter release. Her back was arched and her feet wide apart and her body was trembling. Shivering from deep inside though she was hot all over, the heat pulsing and flowing through her, but goosebumps on her skin, the buds upon her small breasts raised, painful, and she felt the sin flowing out of her.

At least that's what they called it at the Order.

As the tremors subsided she was able to slowly let go of the bars, peeling her fingers from them, rubbing her hands, then tracing them down herself. On fire still.
As she began to compose herself she turned, and dug her hands into the iron pot dangling on chains from the ceiling, filled with fine white ash.
Handful after handful she poured over herself, rubbed onto herself, it would cling to the wetness of her body, everywhere, until she was a creature of pure white, the fire slowly subsiding, smothered in ash. The wetness on her skin, the wetness of their sin (as they would say), bound into clumps and ready to wash off.

Thus she emerged unrecognizable from the cell and stood before it.
Pail over pail of ice-cold water was poured over her, revealing her as human.
She was scrubbed down with rough, stiff cloth until she was completely clean.
Standing there, feeling suddenly strong, though shaken, entirely empty and fulfilled at the same time.
Her memory had deserted her soon after she'd pressed herself against the post and begun to scream, when she'd had to fight to find air between her cries.

On the way across the yard she felt, so it seemed, every pebble and grain of sand beneath her feet. But she was light-headed and walking on air.

She would rest and fall to sleep, sinking like a heavy stone in a murky pond, settling into deep and black and silt.

 

[Barbaria1]

4
----
From the outside you might think the girl was in a prison cell, you'd see nothing but her hands clinging to the two metal bars vertical in the small square window, high in the wall. But looking from the other side of the row of cells, you'd see each had an open entryway, though you couldn't see inside through the serpentine vestibule. The cells were open to the air but offered some seclusion to their occupants.

In the leftmost cell the girl stood, arms outstretched, hands clutching the cold metal bars, knuckles white, head hanging down between her shoulders, coming up sometimes, throwing her head back, gasping for air, drawing in deep, shaking her chin-length light-brown hair, then sinking forward again, going under again, sometimes convulsing into sobs of utter release. Her back was arched and her feet wide apart and her body was trembling. Shivering from deep inside though she was hot all over, the heat pulsing and flowing through her, but goosebumps on her skin, the buds upon her small breasts raised, painful, and she felt the sin flowing out of her.

At least that's what they called it at the Order.

As the tremors subsided she was able to slowly let go of the bars, peeling her fingers from them, rubbing her hands, then tracing them down herself. On fire still.
As she began to compose herself she turned, and dug her hands into the iron pot dangling on chains from the ceiling, filled with fine white ash.
Handful after handful she poured over herself, rubbed onto herself, it would cling to the wetness of her body, everywhere, until she was a creature of pure white, the fire slowly subsiding, smothered in ash. The wetness on her skin, the wetness of their sin (as they would say), bound into clumps and ready to wash off.

Thus she emerged unrecognizable from the cell and stood before it.
Pail over pail of ice-cold water was poured over her, revealing her as human.
She was scrubbed down with rough, stiff cloth until she was completely clean.
Standing there, feeling suddenly strong, though shaken, entirely empty and fulfilled at the same time.
Her memory had deserted her soon after she'd pressed herself against the post and begun to scream, when she'd had to fight to find air between her cries.

On the way across the yard she felt, so it seemed, every pebble and grain of sand beneath her feet. But she was light-headed and walking on air.

She would rest and fall to sleep, sinking like a heavy stone in a murky pond, settling into deep and black and silt.

Yikes...I think the sin would certainly flow out of me ...

"shaken, empty and fulfilled at the same time" .... I really like that line Malins!

 

[malins]

When she awoke she would find herself on her cot beneath a woolen blanket, someone must have come and draped it over her.
The tower bell rang the time and she realized her eternity of rest had been only from that morning till just past the midday chant.
No further duties would be expected of her until the evening ceremonies and so she had much of the day to contemplate the progress of her purification. Her mind was quite clear for doing so, much more so than before the application.

She would dress.

Novices were not granted the privilege of self-mortification, but the rules were for a purpose and not the purpose itself; as a reward for her exceptional progress, Sister Noiramas had allowed her to apply the cilice to herself.

This would be the first thing she put upon herself.

Sometimes she wondered.
Progress, they said.
Still, she had so many secrets.

She truthfully answered all the questions they asked, many of which of course had to do with the nature of her service for the Lady, others with the nature of Mirasintsa's own soul, her own passions and sins.
What they perhaps didn't understand was, that having served the Lady for near eight years, the two could hardly be taken apart.

She had answered the questions they asked honestly, but there were so many questions they didn't know to ask.

So she'd told them of the last that the Lady had spoken to her, in front of the fire, which had been,

'Go now, run! No-one who lingers any longer will leave unscathed',​

but she hadn't told them of the first words the Lady had spoken to her, in Belquemer before the war, Mirasintsa though well-dressed a wide-eyed pauper at the banquet, feeling utterly misplaced at court, standing holding a silver platter, the last good thing they owned after her father's ruin, and the Lady's words had been,

'I could have some more of that.'​

 

[malins]

Yikes...I think the sin would certainly flow out of me ...

observed all of the maid Mirasintsa's flagellations and trials in preparation of her ritual.

So that's just ... preparation ... you know. Though the good maid Mirasintsa seems to have some doubts about the Order's concept of sin. She's good at taking whippings though, for whatever reason. Maybe they are just mistaking that for spiritual progress

 

[malins]

And she hadn't told them of the thing the Lady had given her to take out of that dread fortress – for Mirasintsa's sake, and for memory's sake – before she'd dropped herself over the balustrade and into the flames, which Mirasintsa had not seen, and the Lady had not wanted her to see that.

The Lady had not used it on herself because then they would have her body; with the pyre, only the Sky would.

She thought they must know of it, as it was here in her cell, all wrapped up, and everyone was allowed to keep only exactly one thing out of the old life for themselves, and that was hers, but surely someone had looked. Oh she knew they knew. Once it hadn't been quite exactly where it should. They hadn't asked though and she hadn't told. That slender blade that had tasted drops of blood but never from an enemy.

And there were other secrets she'd brought with her, on the inside.
She knew she should confess them all.
She did as she could and what they called her 'progress' was in part because of that.

The cilice, that was a help for her with those secrets for which she hadn't yet found the strength to confess them. As she began to go through her unconfessed secrets, she closed it around her upper thigh, welcoming the familiar hold.

Some of the girls who'd started their novitiate very recently where a bit frightened, when they saw there was pain, there was so much whipping.

Girl-whipping especially.

You'd see the men flogged too, but it was done much more quickly, much more harshly, awash in blood but over soon. The men cried a lot less. All of the whipping was done in the middle court, where Brothers and Sisters and novices of both sexes commingled in the time when it was opened. The ones who were whipped were always naked: the sin had to be seen when it came out.

So they said.

Mirasintsa understood the girl-whipping much better than the others and it didn't just have to do with what they said when they talked the Doctrine about the difference in sin among the sexes.

What they said was that the sin of men was closer to the surface, quicker, rougher and more common, which is why it would mostly be men doing the cussing and the drunken beatings and robbings and bludgeonings-each-other dead and such. While the sin of woman was deeper and more subtle and need to be brought out more slowly. In their words. Which was why it would be women who would be spreaders of rumors and gossip-mongers and poison-mixers. Which might be true and she remembered how during the war, when they lived in a tent instead of a palace, the Lady had told of the exact one time she'd put to death a man with her own hands, and that he had demanded that of her. And then after being still a long time she'd added that, once she'd killed a man without touching him; Mirasintsa had been quite terrified when she'd said that, but the look on the Lady's face was such that it seemed the memory distressed the Lady even more. Mirasintsa guessed that the way they talked about the sins of men and women, this would be something only a woman would do… a witch.

But in the tent there were always a lot of books and while Mirasintsa could read well enough, she preferred those with pictures, she wasn't such a literate as the Lady or her General.

She knew a secret about the General too. That a secret everybody thought they knew about him was wrong.

But the books, she looked more at those with pictures, and there was 'On the Methods of Justice in Manifold Times Past & Present and Realms Near & Far'.

 

[Barbaria1]

And she hadn't told them of the thing the Lady had given her to take out of that dread fortress – for Mirasintsa's sake, and for memory's sake – before she'd dropped herself over the balustrade and into the flames, which Mirasintsa had not seen, and the Lady had not wanted her to see that.

The Lady had not used it on herself because then they would have her body; with the pyre, only the Sky would.

She thought they must know of it, as it was here in her cell, all wrapped up, and everyone was allowed to keep only exactly one thing out of the old life for themselves, and that was hers, but surely someone had looked. Oh she knew they knew. Once it hadn't been quite exactly where it should. They hadn't asked though and she hadn't told. That slender blade that had tasted drops of blood but never from an enemy.

And there were other secrets she'd brought with her, on the inside.
She knew she should confess them all.
She did as she could and what they called her 'progress' was in part because of that.

The cilice, that was a help for her with those secrets for which she hadn't yet found the strength to confess them. As she began to go through her unconfessed secrets, she closed it around her upper thigh, welcoming the familiar hold.

Some of the girls who'd started their novitiate very recently where a bit frightened, when they saw there was pain, there was so much whipping.

Girl-whipping especially.

You'd see the men flogged too, but it was done much more quickly, much more harshly, awash in blood but over soon. The men cried a lot less. All of the whipping was done in the middle court, where Brothers and Sisters and novices of both sexes commingled in the time when it was opened. The ones who were whipped were always naked: the sin had to be seen when it came out.

So they said.

Mirasintsa understood the girl-whipping much better than the others and it didn't just have to do with what they said when they talked the Doctrine about the difference in sin among the sexes.

What they said was that the sin of men was closer to the surface, quicker, rougher and more common, which is why it would mostly be men doing the cussing and the drunken beatings and robbings and bludgeonings-each-other dead and such. While the sin of woman was deeper and more subtle and need to be brought out more slowly. In their words. Which was why it would be women who would be spreaders of rumors and gossip-mongers and poison-mixers. Which might be true and she remembered how during the war, when they lived in a tent instead of a palace, the Lady had told of the exact one time she'd put to death a man with her own hands, and that he had demanded that of her. And then after being still a long time she'd added that, once she'd killed a man without touching him; Mirasintsa had been quite terrified when she'd said that, but the look on the Lady's face was such that it seemed the memory distressed the Lady even more. Mirasintsa guessed that the way they talked about the sins of men and women, this would be something only a woman would do… a witch.

But in the tent there were always a lot of books and while Mirasintsa could read well enough, she preferred those with pictures, she wasn't such a literate as the Lady or her General.

She knew a secret about the General too. That a secret everybody thought they knew about him was wrong.

But the books, she looked more at those with pictures, and there was 'On the Methods of Justice in Manifold Times Past & Present and Realms Near & Far'.

so the distinction between girl whipping and men whipping is that the girls' sins run deeper ... interesting idea

 

[malins]

so the distinction between girl whipping and men whipping is that the girls' sins run deeper ... interesting idea

They would say that, wouldn't they? Pick your Doctrine so you get to whip the girls the most. Though the flogging of the men is a lot harsher. Mirasintsa will have more to say about whipping before she's finished.

 

[Barbaria1]

They would say that, wouldn't they? Pick your Doctrine so you get to whip the girls the most. Though the flogging of the men is a lot harsher. Mirasintsa will have more to say about whipping before she's finished.

Loving this so far ... will wait high anticipation to learn more of what Mirasintsa will have to say.