The wooden pyres burned with an unnatural fire in the shape of Lathandars seal; the five spiked talismans adorned with the heretics and their traitorous brothers. The tripod base placed upon a rickety wooden cart that shakes as it is pushed forwards across the field.   The poor victims, even the zealous of wardens can understand their fate is one worse than death. Suspended above the ground, their ankles are impaled by thick spikes and their arms are inserted into the hollow recepticles of wooden barbs and splinters to keep their wrists from slipping, their necks bolted with cold metal forcing them to look towards the sky for Lathandars forgiveness in a sickening mockery of a faithful in prayer.   Their psychic screams echo across the battle field, as they are pushed further into battle hoping for the final release of death; disrupting the magic of those who fight against them