Baalist Tirade

As Phoenicia drifted bereft under New Laws, agents arose to foment the yearning for Old Ways. They chose for their nadir the village square, where people would pretend not to hear them.

One such, a baalist, by a name forgotten, ranted on into the night, afraid of no man. The yarns he spun rivaled a spider's. His barbs stung. He lashed out at men who lacked traction, mere mortals who would try to shape the gods to their will, mold these gods of stone. He swore oaths to the pious pushers of One God, the Dutiful One, to those blind to spirits in trees and brooks, birds and fish, in us, yes, you and me my friend, they're here, all around us in the wind and in the rain in the soil in the air we breathe, don't let the righteous deny life to earth, to banish the ghosts of our ancestors from our lands and our lives, this cannot be allowed, we must not...

And on he must have intoned past curfew had there been but ears to hear.