Missionary

He walks through dusty crossroads at dawn, sandals dusted, robes trimmed in white and blue, bearing the sigil of Dhara. The Missionary carries no sword, but a book heavy with scripture, and words sharp enough to cut doubt. Under the morning sky of the Great Plateau, he preaches in square courtyards: promises of liberation, faith kindled in the hearts of peasants by the Church of Dhara.
  They gather: weary farmers, traders, lost youths. The Missionary’s voice rises: speak of Dhara’s mercy, the right of men freed from bondage to difference, the sin of silence.
  The Missionary knows that belief is more dangerous than steel—that awakeneda faith can sway kingdoms more surely than armies.