In-Depth Look: Anabaptists

PREFACE

The air in the ancient stone building is dry. Daylight paints a gaudy display of colors through the stained-glass windows onto the cracked marble tiles. Once there were rows of pews here, but now all that is left of the church is a gutted corpse. The religion it once catered to doesn’t exist anymore. Something else has replaced it, something powerful, something irresistible. A man crouches in front of the altar, thick fingers clutched in prayer. He’s part of this new faith.

Outside, a horn sounds, making the windowpanes rattle in their frames.

The man straightens. A ring made of steel makes his delicate nose seem broad, and he smells of sweat and earth. He nods towards the altar once again and looks to the door. The portal is wide open, spring air shimmers in the sunshine. The man takes a metal flask from his belt, opens it, smells the opening – a whiff of Elysium – and pours some oil into the palm of his hand. He puts the flask back.

“Strength, faith, insight,” he murmurs, rubbing the oil with both hands and then touching them to his hair, slicking it back and keeping it out of his face with a leather headband. Today, he will go to war, and everything he is as a common person and a farmer will remain in this church.

Outside, the others are waiting. Men and women brace two-handed swords, long spades, flails, and pitchforks – war weapons for farmers and the suicidal. Many wear loose striped pants and leather jerkins or are equipped with padded shoulder pieces. The broken cross is everywhere: drawn onto the leather in simple chalk lines or worn as iron pendants.

Some of the warriors avoid the man’s gaze and stare at the ground. Others are vibrating with excitement, their eyes blazing, their faces blotchy. Elysian fire burns within them, fueled by the oil in their hair.

Today will be the end for many of them. Who really believes in becoming one with the divine Pneuma? Harris over there has been recruited away from his land in Justitian’s mires: he was a Provider for his family just like Frenke next to him, both harassed by Spitalians and Chroniclers every day.

These men and women are not dumb, but they are simple people. The Emissary had promised them that they’d be absorbed by God, but he actually won their souls when he praised the strong community of the Anabaptists and promised an end to their hunger.

We will see who shall not have to go hungry anymore. The man grabs a sword someone hands to him, pats another warrior on the shoulder, laughs and makes his way to the front, to his pack. There is boasting, muscle flexing, and the ringing of swords. The weather is mild, he can see clearly. It’s a good day to be devoured by Pheromancers.

INSIGHT

Rebus the Baptist was a seeker. He felt the presence of something sublime that could be traced through the living and dying of people like a golden thread. But no religion and no sect brought him any closer to it.

He knelt by the side of dying people and asked midwives. He dissected corpses, weighing the hearts and brains of godless people and believers alike. He filled page after page with notes, sometimes leaning towards Christendom, sometimes towards the Jehammedans.

It didn’t matter. They all followed man-made beliefs: even the Iconides and the few remaining Priests were only pagans. If they had something in common, it was their blindness. If it was fed from a common source…

Rebus’ worldview shattered and changed.
On one hand, he saw the discord. It created chaos, which he had documented throughout his journeys. There had to be a counterbalancing force he had come close to over the years, the force that filled his mind with crisp freshness and kept him going yet had still remained intangible.

In the thicket of pagan faiths he finally found something called Neognosis. It was the tree in the Garden of Eden, it was the apple and the snake. It was pure, divine insight.

The Neognosis had hidden from him and from the world, had persisted between the covers of ancient volumes, when the archons of Christendom still gathered people around them. Their teachings were branded as pagan, infectious, and sick. The truth is never beautiful.

THE ROOT OF ALL EVIL

Creation: billions of fine tendrils shivered greedily, reaching out to return at once into the Demiurge’s slimy body. The creature dreamed. The Lord of the hosts – God – had once created it to expand the Paradise ensouled by the divine breath. But the Demiurge dreamed of the material world, hard and full of sin. As pollen clings to a bee’s legs, Earth got stuck within the shimmering net of tentacles. It felt good. The incredible happened: God’s servant mixed his Lord’s breath with the soulless matter and thus created the Bygone world. Like sticky slime, it surrounded the divine Paradise. The Lord watched and waited, wanted to see if his youngest creations, the humans, would be able to withstand the Demiurge’s corrupting influence.

They couldn’t.
They were caught in a quagmire of ignorance: happily, they breathed the intoxicating gases and hummed old songs when war cries would have been more appropriate.

Only one tribe did not bow to the deceiver. Rebus the Baptist was its leader. He implored the Lord to refrain from destroying the world as punishment for their growing pile of sins: day and night he fasted and prayed, chastised himself and his followers and cried to the heavens. Finally, God took pity upon him. He decided to give humanity one more chance. “Watch and learn!”

THE LONGEST NIGHT

There was a heavy thump. Break. Then there was another one. This time, the break seemed to last forever: the heart of Paradise beat like that of a mortally wounded deer, uneven and weak. Silence ensued. Paradise was dead. It was time for the apocalypse.

The Lord grabbed the Earth, buried his fingers deep into it. The mounting lava surrounded his fingers, but he felt no pain, only sadness. They tore the Earth apart. The Demiurge’s ilk had eaten into it like maggots and rose to the surface as pus. With a negligent gesture, the Lord of the hosts tore apart the Demiurge and threw the broken body into the seething oceans.

On one side, the demons and avatars of the Demiurge gathered, reminders of his evil, and on the other stood Rebus and his rebaptized ones. Between the lines were the ignorant ones, waiting to be seduced by one side and redeemed by the other. For that was the deal between the divine creatures and the nether creatures: the humans had to prove that they were still God’s people. Victory or death. No middle ground – God was fed up with the humans.

The final battle had begun, a war to be waged on the decaying body of Paradise.
From Doomsday to Armageddon.

FARMERS AND WARRIORS

Rebus wrote down his thoughts and deeds in dozens of tomes. He saw the Eshaton as a revelation, the last act of mercy of an angry God. He revealed the illusion of a perfect world as a Demiurgic veil, tore it away and opened up the view of the old Paradise. It lay in front of the humans, torn. The ground was burnt and poisoned, waiting for honest hands’ work. Rebus led, and his host followed. Armed with spades and humility they fought against the decay.

Years later, golden fields swayed again amidst broken cities, bulbs grew on the ancient battlefields. The land thrived.

The message spread. At first, there were only a few who begged for a fistful of grain and received it. But Rebus had underestimated the magnetism of his newly awakened paradise. Like locusts, famished skeletons attacked the fruits of the fields, eating until their bellies were fat and rounded and they could only crawl and grunt. However, they did not stop eating, striking down the workers, biting them, fighting for torn-out arms and gnawing at fingers.

Rebus’ host had always been working the fields with the stamina of horses, but now they behaved like children when they had to raise their hoes against the devourers.

That had to change. Rebus armed them with pitchforks, pikes, and spades, and had them attack scarecrows until they were able to handle their farmers’ tools like the weapons of a warrior.

Years later, the farmers were aided by a caste of warriors blocking every attack with a wall of spades.

In spite of all the skirmishes and the drills, Rebus’ host kept very much in touch with the people. They were simple people and were considered good workers. Rough men and women with their hearts in the right spot. Their community was strong, their religion decent. That death was supposed to bring salvation was easy to understand and got in nobody’s way during their lifetime. Let those who wanted to believe Rebus’ stories of the rotten Paradise and the eternal struggle – paradise or no paradise, this was about survival, and at that, Rebus’ host were experts.

NEOGNOSIS

Neognosis doesn’t need faith. It’s just there. Every being, every stone is part of the reality it describes. Those who ignore it get caught blindly and happily in the Demiurge’s tentacles. But those who accept it find salvation through insight. This insight can take many forms. To understand and transcend it takes a whole lifetime. According to the Neognosis, God and the world are opposites on a large scale, while mind and matter are opposed on a small scale. Once, both principles were separate: God’s breath, the Pneuma, was clear and good, matter was dark and bad. It was the Demiurge who mixed two opposites and thus sealed his fate and the fate of the world. Humans are pure divine breath caught in a prison of flesh. The Neognosis describes the body as corrupt and dirty, and this is how Anabaptists see and treat it, too. Only death breaks open this prison, allows the Pneuma to flow out and rejoin the source: absolute knowledge. But between death and the reunion with God, there is a long drift through nothing riddled with chunks of decaying matter. An unenlightened soul wanders aimlessly, gets stuck easily and devolves into a new physical incarnation. Anabaptists teach contemplation in life to find the way to enlightenment in death.

THE FOUR RIVERS OF PARADISE

There are four rivers in Paradise: Perat, Hiddekel, Gihon, and Pischon. Legendary powers are attributed to their waters. Supposedly long ago resin, cinnamon, and ginger floated on their surfaces into the glory of the garden, where they rooted and surrounded the tree of knowledge with their scents.

In his final years, Rebus roamed the land searching for these rivers because he wanted to wash off his old age with their waters. He could not leave yet, even if death promised salvation. It was too early! But all rivers he falsely identified as Perat, Hiddekel, Gihon, and Pischon had fallen dry, and their dusty sediments wafted across the land. Rebus’ salty tears fell on the ground.

But his search had brought him another insight: weren’t the four rivers actually metaphorical rivers within each and every one of us, carrying in and out the good as well as the bad? Didn’t people become unbalanced and hectic when they were exposed to the miasma of cities like the terrible Exalt? When they were ill, didn’t they reek of decay and pus? Rebus ground seeds and pips, experimented with herbs, had the concoctions massaged into his body. Several hundred people sifted through old texts and collections on his behalf and gathered recipes.

The Pneuma was already leaking out of Rebus, though. On his death bed he called for his faithful followers, and they came running. Pischon oil and Hiddekel extract: crucible after crucible he emptied over his companions’ heads. He anointed them all. The oil sank into the skin and mixed with their fluids. It cleared their gaze and gave them hope. No longer did they grieve for the upcoming loss, now they euphorically waited for their teacher and leader to become one with the Lord. When Rebus was finally absorbed into the Pneuma, he was surrounded by the scent of Paradise.

CATHEDRAL CITY

Even though Rebus never found the rivers and began trying to locate them in the human body, some of his companions did not give up the search. How would one recognize one of these headstreams? What were they looking for? No doubt the land around would be especially fertile, even if the river itself had fallen dry. Around it, even the heretic Bygones would have noticed God’s greatness and felt inspired to do great things.

When they were riding through the wild wheat of the river Rain one day with the ears of wheat caressing their legs, their breath caught. In the haze, they saw a giant tower, a cathedral. So often had they passed this spot, lost in thought or in conversation with each other. They had harvested the Rain wheat and sowed it in faraway regions. But that day, the cathedral seemed to them like a hint of God.

The insight hit them as cold as mountain water, and they stood and stared. The Demiurge must have stricken them with blindness and ignorance for centuries. They sank to the ground and buried their hands into the soil, rubbing the wheat straw and inhaling its scent. Gihon or Hiddekel, Pischon or Perat, this had to be one of the headstreams! The cathedral at its banks would become the center of their faith as it had attracted pious people ages ago.

But the building was afflicted with heretics and other vile people. A technology Cult calling themselves the Chroniclers had dug deep into the catacombs. Whatever they were doing down there, it surely helped the Demiurge rather than the Lord. Thousands of Neognostics armed with war spades and picks marched against an enemy that a dozen could have vanquished.

That day, the Chroniclers suffered a defeat that they would never recover from, but for Rebus’ host the liberation was just one of many successful skirmishes.

The host had been fragmented into several congregations, but now their religious lives became more centered. Rebus’ host dug wells and caverns to collect water and built aqueducts to channel it to the fields. They cultivated the wild wheat and sowed the city’s surroundings with it. The aqueduct artery grew. Pumping stations leveled out height differences, and even in remote enclaves, the fonts were soon filled with water from Cathedral City.

REFLECTION

The history of the Anabaptists knows no failure. Where God’s warriors took up arms, any resistance soon ended. Yet still, now and then the Scrappers find forgotten fortresses and dig Anabaptist crosses out of their walls. Not the forged pendants that are worn in battle these days, but precious little things made of wire. Rust has turned them into gnarled strands: they’re much older than anything that can be found in Cathedral City’s arsenals. Those who dig deeper, under the grass, may find iron crockery, rotting books, glass-like stones from wells, and corroded swords. There are entryways to the underworld. A network of pale roots hangs from the ceiling, and the air is damp and moldy. A font stands amidst decaying leaves, the water in it is black. Some explorers have claimed to have looted texts and sealed clay jugs from these ruins. Supposedly, these are the recipes of Elysian oil, including samples.

But how could that be? Those who enter the archives of Cathedral City and are brave enough to open up even the last doors encounter the name Cultrin. He must’ve been a strange man who did not really belong to this time.

Whole cities and armies perished when he and his entourage of the corrupted rode into battle. He almost destroyed the Anabaptists. But in Franka’s pheromoneladen air, he changed his mind, dropped everything, and disappeared. To the land, he left a civil war and thousands of secrets buried in the dust.

END TIMES

200 years passed. Rebus was gone, but his sect of warriors and farmers had spread far beyond the borders of Borca. His prophecies were almost forgotten when the first Psychonauts were seen in the Rifts of Purgare. Soon, reports of Aberrants reached the Cult from all sides. The parallels to the Demiurge’s ilk were too obvious.

Rebus had been right once again.
The final battle was near, and Rebus’ host had been chosen to fight for the cause of humanity. A jolt went through the Cult. They prepared themselves. They anointed their bodies and felt the four rivers of eden within them well up. They baptized people and land with water, the enemy with fire and steel. From that day on, everyone called them Anabaptists.

TWO HEARTS

Today, the Anabaptists present themselves as an invincible front of strength, will, and community. They are dirty and vulgar, and don’t shirk from any work. They fight their enemies passionately, sacrificing themselves for the greater good. Their principles are few, and almost none of them are set in stone. Come to the Anabaptists, and tomorrow, there’ll be more brothers and sisters at your side than you would have dared to dream. We are your family, your life and death.

The former farmers call themselves the Ascetics. Those amongst them who go to sleep with the Neognosis and awake again with a quick prayer on the lips detest the body as a carnal burden caught in sin. They work the land to help Paradise shake off its rigor mortis – only when the soil is strong will it be able to feed Rebus’ fighters in the final battle. Only late at night, when the muscles ache and the body gets weak, do they retreat to their chambers and give thanks for the work they are allowed to do. They dissociate themselves from their bodies through pain and meditation to finally break their chains and become one with the Pneuma. They suppress physical needs as if they were a blemish sent by the Demiurge. They starve themselves and deny copulation and other forms of sexual intercourse.

“Yeah, sure,” the Orgiastics say and start laughing. For them, this entire Ascetic talk is a big joke and definitely nothing to imitate.

They are what has become of Rebus’ warrior caste: they protect the Ascetics on the fields and attack Psychonauts and anyone who raises a hand against Rebus’ host in violent gangs. While those amongst them who follow the faith see themselves as marked by the Demiurge like the Ascetics do, they believe in the superiority of their spiritual souls. They are above carnal desires and get rid of their human urges via excessive violence and orgies.

SYMBOLISM

The symbol of the cross, coupled with the broken wheel, points to Christian Gnostic roots. It is worn as an iron pendant, forged onto pauldrons, and sewn to banners. The wheel symbolizes God’s creation; the missing quarter the human imperfection. Only when the circle is unbroken will God’s people find salvation.

SNAKE AND APPLE

The Anabaptists don’t actively recruit. They only open their arms wide, and the people come running, letting themselves be directed from their everyday quagmire into the torchlight of Cathedral City. The new recruits are called ‘Touched Ones’ when they become part of the gangs. They partake of the Anabaptists power and reputation with full hands. Not even Eve could resist the apple.

The teachings concerning the Demiurge are considered bullshit by many of these Touched Ones for many years. The Baptists in Cathedral City don’t care. Those who join the Cult at least don’t work for the enemy. Additionally, the community has a place for everyone, be it as an Ascetic working the land or as an Orgiastic on the battlefield. There comes a time when everyone has to prove his worth.

In the first year, Cathedral City pairs the Touched Ones with a senior Anabaptist who serves as a confessor and guide. He teaches his Touched One the basics of the Neognosis and how to recognize friends and enemies of the Cult. The Touched is the Anabaptist’s lackey, helping him get dressed and performing menial tasks.

In his spare time, the new arrival explores Cathedral City or the Anabaptist camp in which his mentor is stationed. For days or weeks, he joins Orgiastic gangs or toils with the Ascetics in the fields. He has not pledged his life to the Cult yet and can leave his current service at any time to explore another aspect of the community the next day. But he should not expect the Anabaptists’ patience to be boundless. He has at most one season to come to terms with himself: Where does he stand? How does he intend to gain insight? Does he want to liberate his mind through excesses and risk his life in battle against the Demiurge’s monsters, or does he want to gain entrance to heaven through hard work?

One last time, he chooses a gang, though he remains with this one until the end of his days. His new brothers and sisters embrace and kiss him and lead him to his quarters. They anoint him just as Rebus anointed his chosen – and then grab the tattooing needle.

INITIATION

Whether Ascetic or Orgiastic, every Anabaptist wears a nose ring. It marks him as a slave to his body. Another symbol of membership are the dots tattooed on the forehead. There are always three dots, but the gangs vary form and color to differentiate themselves from each other: some wear three circles, others diamonds or triangles, some add more soot, others red dust from Ferropol or crushed minerals.

The Anabaptist learns to slick his hair with oil and tie it back with a piece of leather. In battle, this helps him see better, and in the fields, he doesn’t have to stop to brush his hair from his eyes. In the first years, simple oil will have to do: rapeseed, mixed with a few Elysian ingredients. The oil tingles on the skin and vitalizes. The rivers flow, but it’s nothing compared to what awaits him. In the oil presses in Cathedral City, Elysian oils are produced according to Rebus’ recipes. They open up heaven and its powers to the user. The young Anabaptist will have to earn them – and he will need them.

THE SEED

The way into the Cult is simple; the way to its top isn’t. Without a modicum of Neognostic devotion, an Ascetic remains on the fields and an Orgiastic on the front.

Those who want more start searching for the Seed.

It’s a little thing, but if you water it, it grows to be something bigger that produces new seeds. This is how Rebus described his first divine insight, which led to many more. Seeds require hard work, however, just like a garden doesn’t thrive without the investment of energy. Only those who question themselves on a daily basis and try to see the big things in the small things will feel the Seed within them and be able to make it sprout – to partake in divine emanations.

The emanations are individual, and every devoted Anabaptist would be well advised to explore them in his mind. For some they are glaring visions, others believe to hear voices, and then there are those who feel an undefined mental change within their soul, as if they were keyed to a divine pole like a compass needle. Most reach this state during their days of hard work or seemingly lost battles, when heart and lungs pump and the enemies’ hot blood is still running from their fists. Some take a shortcut and invent visions. They should be as cryptic as possible: giant stones, a blood-soaked sky, hands reaching down from the clouds, burying themselves in Paradise’s heaving body. There are frauds, but their descriptions often lack the excited passion and transcendent qualities of a true emanation.

Still, it’s hard to tell if an emanation is real. This is why the commission of ancient Anabaptists resides in the cathedral’s great hall, weighing and gauging their brothers’ and sisters tales. Those who are called before this Council of Emanations are questioned for days. The Council takes its job seriously, for the emanations are seen as proof of the proximity to God and thus determine rank within the Cult.

With every new emanation, the Council listens a little bit more intently, exploring the soul of the enlightened one. The visions grow to become multilayered and contain mystical symbols, the existence of which is only known to Council members and the Baptists. In the end, only true believers or the truly cunning can reach the Cult’s top.

RICH ON EMANATIONS

The eight most insightful Anabaptists rank higher than even the Council. They are as close to God as Rebus himself once was. They are the Baptists, and they determine the path of the Cult. Their discussions in the high chamber in the cathedral are secret, but the old men from the Council whisper that the Baptists rarely agree. However, if the Pneuma only allows one way, why should the Cult need eight Baptists?

Outside the cathedral, the Baptists present a unified front. No harsh word comes from the lips of these enlightened people. Unanimously they push the Anabaptists forward and walk ahead themselves: those amongst them who once fought the Aberrants as Orgiastics still take up their swords and those who confronted forests of thorns with Spitfire and hoe do not refrain from lending their strength to the plow, even as a Baptist. Their actions soon make others forget the fact that they decide the destiny of tens of thousands.

ABERRANTS

There was never a shortage of enemies for Cathedral City. Six of the seven large Cultures bear the mark of the Demiurge, and in none of them is victory close at hand. Biokinetics and Pheromancers are especially repugnant to the Anabaptists: the breeding Queens’ bloated bodies or the malformed arms and legs of Pollen’s devourers prove at the first and most fleeting of glances that they are nothing more than soulless matter ripe for the slaughter. It has never been simpler to discern between good and evil.

The Sepsis, the plague of the present day, is just as bad as the Psychonauts. The Anabaptists consider it the affliction of Paradise. Only through great fertility of the ground can it be exorcised – in spite of the Spitalians claiming something different. What do they know of Paradise? They seem to feel pretty much at home in their own dirty little corner.

REVOLT

Borca was supposed to be an oasis of peace – at least someday, when the Rain river is swollen again from the waters of Paradise and cinnamon grows at its banks. For decades, Anabaptists have been skirmishing here with Jehammedans and Chroniclers. The conflicts have left deep trenches full of spears.

But the times, they are a-changing.
Liqua, one of the largest Anabaptist cities in Borca, only a few days’ journeys away from Cathedral City and her Orgiastic gangs, was under siege. The Exalter Clan claimed the city as part of its heritage, and the population opened up the gates without much deliberation. They even cheered the invaders. The Anabaptists remained calm. In fact, they did not understand what was happening there, and thought that the hubbub was a fun affair. When they realized that they had just witnessed the conquering of the city, it was already too late. Now, Emissaries travel to and fro between Liqua, Cathedral City, and Justitian as though Liqua were the most important spot in the world. Attacking the city is unthinkably bold if you don’t want to endanger the whole region’s water supplies.

The Exalters see themselves as and behave as legitimate rulers of Liqua. They point to centuries-old edicts and show documents signed by Rebus to the Emissaries. These are obviously forged, but the people don’t see that – or they want them to be genuine.

The Exalters stall for time and thus try the Baptists’ patience. If Baptist Amos’ gangs weren’t busy destroying pheromone vents in Northern Franka, the conflict would have long since reached its bloody climax. If only Liqua were an exception!

The Clans are rising everywhere, attacking Cathedral City’s water deliveries or conquering whole aqueduct segments. Day by day, they become more bold. They avoid the Orgiastics, set traps, and dig tunnels under the gangs marching routes.

BAPTIST AMOS

For decades, Amos fought Franka’s Pheromancers as an Orgiastic. Even as a Baptist, he did not exchange his spot in the battle lines for a chair in the cathedral. He still leads the attacks on Ziggurats and breeding mounts.

His Anabaptists look up to him and would follow him into hell. In fact, that’s what they do every day. They see Amos as a brilliant leader and an uncontrollable berserker in battle, and his Emissaries spread the stories of his heroic deeds as far as Borca and Purgare. Hundreds come every day to march towards heaven at Amos’ side.

The other Baptists are just as brave as he is – at least that’s what their Emissaries say. This leads to discord. Baptist Orphid and Baptist Trachees dared the unbelievable: they called the cult of personality around Amos Godless, and asked the Council to recheck Amos’ emanations. Amos only smiled at that. If he asked his Anabaptists to elevate him to a second Rebus – to an autocrat, even – they would do so.

OLD ENEMIES, NEW FRIENDS

When the Fragment Modus took off his Streamer Glove and offered a hand to the Baptists, they took it. Amos is said to have raged. Since then, the Fragment has been living in the cathedral as a guest. Modus is said to roam the archives together with Baptist Orphid, inspecting the documents that the Chroniclers left behind centuries ago. Once per day, Modus shows up on the steps of the cathedral to prove that he’s alive and has the right to hospitality. As long as this applies, there is peace between Anabaptists and Chroniclers.

The Jehammedans are a different case. Their demeanor, their cleanliness, their precisely shaved beards, and their starched garments expose the Anabaptists’ own crudeness. The Orgiastics repaid that arrogance a thousand fold: they killed their goat herds, dragged Abramis from tents, pushed them into the dirt, and shaved them clean with their swords. Hagaris and Saraelis were raped. The hatred has deepened the trenches between them to a bottomless hell over the centuries.

In the Adriatic basin, however, where the eons-old battle began, something new is rising. In the fight against the Jehammedans from the Balkhan, the Anabaptists converted the majority of the Purgans and built large fortresses along the river Adria. A year ago, heavily armed troops manned those bulky fortresses while the cries and moans of the wounded in the giant sick bay cities echoed across the basin.

But now, the Anabaptists’ sword arm has become just as heavy as the Jehammedans’. They still curse each other, but no one risks an attack for fear it might enrage the enemy and provoke a bloody counterattack. Still, the Adriatic remains a powder keg with a short fuse.

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