Blind Faith in Fools

Somehow, it had become your fault that people were idiots. It never ceased to amaze you how the people of this land reacted to things they didn’t understand, things they could not fully comprehend. It was as if they could not see the things happening in front of their very eyes, or hear the things that you said. And yet, despite that, you were condemned.   It was an odd notion, condemnation. You were sentenced to spend your life in a forest so strangely close to your home, and yet no way of getting there. Perhaps this place would be better than here or there. Perhaps it was not obsessed with an Elixir, or fixated on problems of the self. Perhaps you’d actually find someone else to talk to, to understand, to debate or at least argue with. The arguments in the Kentasorte had been interesting, but that had been biased from the start – after all, who condemns an innocent man based on the uneducated ramblings of a man who fancied himself some kind of important “Mayor”?   And yet, here you were. All you had done was told the man that based on his weight and clear poor health, and based on the way that alchemical magics worked in the first place, you could not make him a potion that would resolve his cough. You were not a medical man, or even particularly interested in his problems. Rather, it was the construction methods used in the construction of the holy place in the centre of their town that had interested you. It looked as though someone combined an acidic compound with a basic component, neutralizing the mixture and yet rendering a precipitate which increased the bond strength within the mixture, creating a stronger type of mortar. It was quite an intelligent decision, though it occurred to you that if they had used lye instead of whatever base they used, it could produce a more intense reaction…   And then you were in chains. Manacles, specifically. This “Mayor” had claimed that you insulted him, that you slandered his person and his health and that you actively tried to poison him. It was a ridiculous notion given that most of what you said was not directed at anyone around at all and because you had already dismissed his misinformed request, and yet four days in a cell carriage just to be dragged before the Kentasorte and condemned to a life imprisoned in the Bandit Lands had somehow become your fate. It was annoying, at the very least, that the judges seemed to care little for your explanations of what you had actually said and if they could find that person who made the mortar, how you could easily create a much stronger material that would result in increased structural stability and produce a waste product which could easily be used for other purposes…but they cared little and soon the gavel fell.   You had not thought to mention your status as a person from Fréole, or to request the ability to speak with any ambassadors from your land that might be in the city, but the thought did occupy you as you travelled on the long journey to the Gnarled Wall. You were actually quite excited to see this living structure, to see how it moved and supported itself and to try and see if perhaps an alchemical application of any kind could either improve the wall or render it moot, allowing for someone to explore those lands for precious resources without being trapped inside…and yet.   Soon enough, a guard yelled that the Living Wall was just over the hill. Once the carriages had stopped, the world became a blur of motion and noise – the other side of your carriage burst open, weapons were drawn, people were thrown inside with you, and then the carriage lurched forward with a bolt of speed and the protest of horses. There was a jolting bump and as you slammed against the side wall, your head whipped back and cracked against the wall, dazing you. Once you could see again, you saw the Gnarled Wall looming before you, tall and imposing. For a moment, you marvelled at its beauty, its design, its prowess. Until you realized you were not on the wrong side of it, and death hung in the air.