“My Diminian brothers. It has begun: we have laid foundation for a nation governed by the peasantry. The Agrarians have been expelled from our homes, hiding behind the walls of their slave cities. Despite our newfound freedom we must not allow the continued oppression of our southern brethren. Tomorrow, any truly loyal to our cause shall heed the call to break the chains and strike south!” Thunderous applause surfaced from the invigorated crowd. Grigory stretched both arms out like a priest inviting the Lord’s presence. James noticed a small group within the crowd hadn’t followed the example set by the rest, yet one still raised his arm just as Grigory had done.
Screams sounded once the blood began to gush from above his eyebrow. His legs quivered, knees buckled until the stand before him grasped his arms, lest they ascend unto heaven too soon. Upon noticing the speaker’s imminent fall, scattered Agrarian supporters began to cheer. Blood from his head began to spill into his left eye, rendering aloof to the two groups formed beyond the wooden stand. On the left, the Agrarians congratulated the would-be killer while the right took to grieving their leader, their hero. The blood began to swirl around his fading sight, forming a thin veil.
They stood no longer in the small town but rather in a grand chamber flaunting the highest echelons of the society he left behind. Grigory stood at the room’s centre yet began limping towards the right side, pain stabbing his left leg. Before bridging the gap he glanced back to those behind him, their shocked expressions distorting to frowns, demeanors of disapproval and outrage. He continued his exodus while glaring at the walls and ceiling raised high above the withered assembly of the right, the dirt and mould a complete disparition from the left. Once done he assumed a seat amongst the group.
The image was replaced by a series of similar occasions however as they progressed, the right continued to deteriorate as more fled the sinking ship. These faded once several more flashed before his blood cradled eyes: the speech in Brithon; the march on Skenthorn; the first convention of the Peasant’s Congress. Each eventually ended, culminating into now. Despite the rogue arrow striking his eyebrow, both lowered so that their inner tips barely touched his eyes. He struck the stand with his left fist, quickly clenched before the impact. His other hand rushed to console the shattered resistor. Finally his grip was broken, letting his buckled legs carry him down before they too released their grip on him. Now both sides beyond the stand began cheering as his martyrdom had finally been achieved.