The day was cool in the capital of Gracefall. A slight summer breeze stroked the airs of the capital Navarilo, poor being shot by the rich. People continued life as normal; not knowing of the great tragedy about to befall their fatherland. A tragedy involving Improvised Explosive Devices and a most Satanic nation, that is. As the city worked and the homeless being devoured by the bullets of sporting wealth, a small cult of Quen'Thalan Satanists, dressed in normal, Western clothing walked together down the streets of the capital, on the concrete pavement, passing many a coffee ship and occasionally a shopping centre. Their leader, Robert Briham, sipped an industrial latte he had recieved from one of the coffee shops, before spitting it onto the ground and tossing the near-full latte at a passing car, covering it in it.
Capital Avenue was a small street of cafes and shops. Logos reigned high, the concrete streets covered in dried chewing gum. The ten men and five women who made up the cult were approaching a small governmental office, grey and flying the flag high. Cars illegally went through the street, driven by angry suburban mums who were wither shouting at their innocent children or humming to the shit played on the radio. Hilarious. This particular governmental office was being paid a visit by a prominent local politican whose name escaped the cult; but killing him before fleeing to the Free Lands would be excellent.
They passed through the gates unnoticed, the IED in Briham's bag weighing heavy. A small concrete path led towards the building's entrance, small patches of freshly cut grass surrounding it. The cult passed down it, unnoticed again. Briham led them into the building, no metal detectors installed as of yet. As he planted his foot upon the grey carpet, which matched the colour of the city, a young attendant approached him, smiling; "Good evening, sir. Shall I take your bag?"
One of his veins pulsed. "...Yes. Oh no, I left an item in my car. May I go back and retrieve it?"
"Of course, sir."
The cult ran out of the building they hadn't properly entered, sprinting down the now-empty streets. They had hired a small white van which transported all of them, about twelve people being forced into the van's boot rather than the front. Briham and two others jumped in the front, Briham starting the van as the rain came on. Tears.
Those tears were honoured; in five minutes, as the attendant was getting supiscous, the bomb went off. Concrete was sprayed, along with the remains of many. The entire building was turned into rubble, the grass being smothered in grey concrete and wood. The cult fled.
Fled to Lucifeles.
