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26 And it shall come to pass, when your children shall say unto you, What mean ye by this service?
27 That ye shall say, It is the sacrifice of the Lord's passover, who passed over the houses of the children of Israel in Egypt, when he smote the Egyptians, and delivered our houses.
I hope this is not too simplified. But if I may offer something. Often these types of things require a paradigm shift. What I mean by that is, that reading it and thinking YHWH is saying He's given no commands nor instructions on sacrifices, we think "yes you have".
"But this thing commanded I them, saying, Obey my voice, and I will be your God, and ye shall be my people: and walk ye in all the ways that I have commanded you, that it may be well unto you." Verse 23
You see He's not saying I've never said anything about sacrifices and offerings. He's saying the point was not to that end. He's saying my point was not to command them in the ways of offerings and sacrifices, but to obey my voice.
Perhaps this indicates a tension between ritual and ethics in the formation of Judaism? The prophets often focus on social justice and emphasize care for the poor and the widows over ritual sacrifices (see Isaiah 1:13-17, 3:15, 10:2, Amos 5:21-24, Micah 6:6-8, Jeremiah 22:16). On the other hand the temple establishment was concerned with ritual sacrifices. Once the temple was destroyed in 586 BC, the religious leaders had to define a new Judaism if you will, without temple and without animal sacrifice. So they began to emphasize the ethical commands of the Torah and the idea that worship of the true God meant obeying his ethical commands.
The captives responded to their incarceration differently. The Kothian prayed daily for Mitra to grant him strength and resolution in the very den of his great enemy. The Kushite and the Stygian exchanged grumbling pleasantries, each stinging remark the gesture of a perverse seraglio dance, revealing the naked flesh of their contempt for one another until no threat was left unveiled. The occupant in the farthest cell crouched in the shadows, watching, inscrutable. The Hyperborean enjoyed the dark futility of his situation with the mirthless grin of a trapped wolf. The Gunderman, unused to enclosed spaces and fiercely prizing the freedom of his people, tried the strange, ornately-wrought cell door - but not even the fabled iron grip of Bori himself would have been sufficient to dislodge it. As for the Argossean, well, he was practical: he recounted as much detail as possible.
Every half-hour or so, the clang of a metal door on stone would shatter the uneasy silence: the clap of footsteps upon the floor would refrain, pausing regularly with a hushed jangle followed by a low grunt. Observation revealed that the Phylacist - the jailer - was trying the locks. "Every half hour?" thought the Argossean. The Kushite broke from his still-ongoing debate with the Stygian to note this weird regularity on the part of a paranoid jailer.
The Argossean was in no mood to extend his sojourn any longer than necessary. As soon as the loud clanging stopped ringing in his ears, he tore a scrap of his tunic free and jammed it into the lock. He waited, endeavouring not to interject on the sparkling repartee between the Kushite and the Stygian, for everyone knew the hatred between those two southern nations. The Gunderman across from him watched, understanding his plan, the spark of a new hope - escape - flashing in his mind.
In time, the terminal clang of the outer door sang again, and the Phylacist resumed his routine. The Argossean immediately dropped to the floor, face down, and feigned death with an ease that could only come from regular deployment. He heard the muted clink of a key fumbling in a jammed lock, the pained grumble of the Phylacist - and then a sharp silence. Then a scrabbling and louder jangle of keys, followed by the cell door swinging open, and the Argossean sprang to life, charging at the jailer. The big man was knocked backwards to the opposite cell, where the Gunderman lay in wait: great brawny arms thrust between the iron and held the jailer in place. Shouting in profane oaths, the Jailer flailed for his cudgel - and dropped the keys at the grinning Argossean's feet.
"Well, there's a man that needs fighting if ever I saw one" - the Argossean gesturing to the jailer thrashing and kicking against the Gunderman's vice-like grip. The Hyperborean nodded, and the Argossean swiftly unlocked the door. It was a timely intervention, as the jailer just barely extricated his sweat-slicked arm from the Gunderman's grasp: freed, he loped down to meet the two free prisoners. The Hyperborean was taller, but the jailer easily heavier, and the two collided like great bull apes as the Argossean slipped by. The Hyperborean was confident in tests of strength, having wrestled with bulls, bears, even mammoth calves in his youth - but the jailer used the giant's own height against him, pivoting with his lower centre of gravity and twisting the Hyperborean back into his cell. The Jailer, snarling triumphantly, reached to his belt for the keys - his grin dropping into an O of surprise, as he followed the jangling of his keys back to the Argosseon, who was now attempting to free the Kothian.
With a heathen oath, the Jailer was about to charge, at the Argossean, still trying the lock - only to find all was dark. He grasped at his face, screaming in outrage at the texture of a prisoner's tunic. Within a few moments, he had ripped it off, and beheld the nude Stygian, pointing and gesticulating as he cursed in his strange language. After the jailer cursed the Stygian with a remark on his unmistakable rank odour, the jailer grabbed his cudgel and raced up the corridor - but not before the Kothian stepped out from his unlocked cell.
The two faced one another, and the Kothian realised that his jailer was one of his own - a traitor to his people and his god, one of the "civilised" Kothians whose people were under the heel of Acheron and their Set-worshipping devils. But he did not pause: he strode purposefully towards the jailer, and as his larger countryman reached out his massive arms, the Kothian ducked. The two twisted to face each other again, and the Kothian smote the jailer square in the face. The Kothian heard and felt bones cracking upon contact - his own, as well as the jailer's. The Kothian recoiled and shook his injured hand as the jailer staggered backwards, steadying himself against a cell door. Slender hands struck out from the darkness and grasped the jailer's topknot - the occupant, a Zamorian, braced her feet against the iron cell door as she wrenched with all her might to hold the jailer. The Kothian and Argossean then rushed in to hold the jailer's arms, each the size of one of their own legs.
The Hyperborean, his pride bruised more than his body, emerged from his cell with a cold fury burning in his eyes. He walked, then jogged, then sprinted down the corridor towards the jailer, who could do nothing but kick his legs pathetically as three sets of arms held him in place. As he accelerated, the Hyperborean bellowed, and leapt into the air, bringing his massive iron foot up to head height, using all his rangy body weight to thrust it into the defenceless jailer's face. What remained of the jailer's already hideously scarred face caved in, the back of his skull making a sickening crack against the cell door, and the tensed quivering body suddenly fell limp. Even the combined strength of the Zamorian, Argossean, and Kothian could not prevent the mass of humanity from slumping to the ground. The Hyperborean lay prostrate on the floor, the enthusiasm of his vengeance leaving him open to hubris: he leapt with such height that he landed flat on his back, smacking his skull against the ground. The Kothian helped the giant to his feet as the Argossean freed the Zamorian, and in short order all the prisoners were released.
As soon as the group told the bickering couple to cease their yammering, their attention turned to the next move. The Argossean gestured towards himself, and spoke in the common Shemitish trading creole; "You alright there, friend? I'm Arcus, by the way," and extended his hand towards the Hyperborean, who was still cradling his sore head. "Dusan," the giant slurred. In turn, the rest volunteered their names: "Zafia" piped the Zamoran, "Kryxus" rumbled the Gunderman, "Tiberius" declared the Kothian, "Kenyatta" boomed the Kushite, and "Amatagt" barked the Stygian.
Arcus clapped his hands with anxious enthusiasm. "Well, now that introductions are in order, it seems good time to leave. Shall we?" As all responded in some way recognisable to the affirmative, Arcus was pleased that they could, at least, understand one another. What was of greater concern was exactly how they would leave. "I need my things," Dusan grumbled. "We go get my things."
The light from the small circular windows projected beams of amethyst light, but looking through revealed a tunnel stretching several feet - suggesting a very deep wall. What little light was permitted entry into this tenebrous void provided precious little visibility for the group, so they turned towards the only interior source of light - the gate at the end of the corridor. Beyond the ornately twisted bars of the gate, several sconces were lit - purple flames burning eerily in the darkness. But what was not evident on the gate was a keyhole - or indeed a lock of any kind.
Kenyatta took a moment to study the door. It was wrought from some form of metal, that much was clear, but the shape and the texture seemed wrong. Just as he was about to reach towards it, a dark memory struck his mind, and he recoiled with a start. His master taught him many secret arts, but many were kept hidden to him: one such art was in the forging of certain things - imbuing metal with a living essence, to strengthen it far beyond natural metal's capabilities. Whatever was living in those iron structures, however, did not want to remain trapped inanimate for eternity. "Sorcery! Do not touch the gate!" spluttered Kenyatta just as the Gunderman looked to open the it in his own muscular way.
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