[h3]Gudermes, Grozny Emirate

10:45 AM, Sandek Fishery[/h3]
Chingiz counted his blessings every day that the Emir was in a position to keep food available for everyone. Chingiz made a tripe out from Gudermes every Thursday to the fishery, carrying away a few hundred pounds of fish to carry back to the city. But today was Friday; Chingiz had made the trip up to the farm the previous day, but Levi, the owner, was nowhere to be found. It was a hot day, even this early into the morning. 

Moshe, the farmer's son, was out in the fields, tossing food into the ponds. The boy's eyes darted over to Chingiz, and he waved over to him to come to the ponds. He was familiar with the fishmonger, and knew why he was here. His father had gone a few days ago, yet had not returned. A day late was normal, but three days was an anomaly, to say the least.

"Good Morning, Moshe, has your father returned?"

The boy shook his head solemnly, "Not yet, we haven't heard anything from him."

Chingiz was concerned to hear this, it wasn't like Levi to just hightail it somewhere without leaving his family at least a note to tell them he would be gone for an extended duration. The merchant's mind immediately drifted off to the worst case scenario, and he swallowed hard, hoping that it was nothing, and that he was just off somewhere. 

"I hope he will return soon," Chingiz mused, "How are you and your mother?"

"We are managing," Moshe responded, turning his head back to tend to the young tilapia. The fish weren't eating much, they seemed to be ignoring the food. "I'm concerned about the fish, these last couple days it seems like they don't even notice the food." 

"Are they sick?" Chingiz asked

Moshe shook his head, "I doubt that, they're swimming just fine, they don't seem sluggish, and there's no algae that I can notice." Moshe simply shrugged his shoulders, "Are you looking to get your order in? I can get it done in time if I start now."

The Merchant nodded, and Moshe motioned to follow him to the back of the ponds. As the net was lowered into the pond to catch them, it became immediately obvious that something was wrong. Moshe pulled against the weight of the net, tugging and struggling, but the net not rising up. 

"Something's in the net" he shouted, as Chingiz came to help him drag up the net.

As the two men struggled to pull it up, they finally were able to have the net breach the surface, with them dumping the contents into a tub to sort the fish.

Moshe immediately jumped back, with Chingiz gasping and turning away to avert his eyes, hacking and heaving at the sight. Among the fish lay, what one must assume was once a body. The bloated, blistering skin was ravaged, the marks of ichthyic mouths having cut chunks from the flesh, eyes sucked out of the sockets, replaced with gelatinous, putrefied blood. The blistered, bloated figure oozed as the fish squirmed, wriggling out from under it, bathing themselves in fetid fluids as they struggled, joining their guest in death soon after. 

Chingiz ran back to his truck, breathing heavy to clear his nose of the rancid odor, his nose and mouth dripping with saliva as he struggled to keep from coughing and hacking. Moshe simply followed behind him, white and speechless, as he looked over at the fishmonger. 

"I'm going to get the qadi" Chingiz sputtered out. 

[h3]Grozny, One Week Later[/h3]
Supian was getting agitated at this.

2 Days ago, the suspect in the Sandek Murder was apprehended, a Chechen named Movsar Maskhadan. Maskhadan was a muslim, nothing unusual for a Chechen. However, his victim, Levi Sandek, an Ashkenazi Jew. Maskhadan had further complicated the situation, and pissed off Supian, by committing the heinous act in New Zion, an autonomous Jewish commune set up by the local warlord, Kharon Geteyev, for the local Jewish teip. Typical of Kharon, the lazy bastard. 

Kharon set up a court hearing for Maskhadan with the local qadi. However, the Jews objected to the use of a sharia court, arguing that as the victim was a jew, and the crime transpired in Jewish territory, a halacha court was necessitated. Objections were raised, arguments made, but no consensus was reached. In keeping with the typical laziness of Kharon, the issue was transferred over to Supian, the Grand Mufti. The stake of inter-religious justice was at stake, and it rested on his shoulders. Seven cups of coffee were his companion in this decision process. 

The Mufti pressed the bridge of his nose, the tension of this was creating a nasty headache. If the emirate was ever to emerge as anything better that some minor warlords, there needed to be better laws than letting every big man with a gun decide his own laws. Ramzan would do well to put the people to the book, and actually govern his state like an emir, like a true Islamic ruler.

It was far from the first time Supian had propositioned Ramzan for greater application of Islamic Law. The boy was, however, a youth with little interest in the words of an old man. Osman was the usual recipient of his remarks, when the emir could not be bothered to listen. 

For Osman, the Gun was greater than the Quran. The damned kafir.

It was abundantly clear that Maskhadan was guilty. But the problem came, in Supian's eyes, in that while he was a murderer, the Chechen was a muslim, a believer in God, while the farmer was a Jew, a dzimmi. The Jews called for his death, for his blood to be spilled. And Supian, he could not abide the idea of putting a fellow muslim to death for this. It was suggested that he be put into the mines or the oil fields for the rest of his life, but slavery was not permissible for a believer either. 

The Mufti rubbed his temples, seeking some relief from the tension. What could be done with a low-life like Movsar Maskhadan, a low-life but a brother in Islam. That was when and idea came to him.

[h3]The Redoubt, Grozny[/h3]
Only the biggest pieces of shit ended up in the dungeons of the Redoubt. The locals called it Jahannam. Though that might be an understatement, for many said that for what they had seen, hell was cushy and comforting compared to the things in which Ramzan liked to put the worst criminals in Chechnya.

As expected, Movsar Maskhadan lay in chains, stripped of all clothes save a rough, burlap garment. The shackles left him sitting, lest he stand, struggle, and dig the steel braces further into his flesh. The wounds were starting to become necrotic, and the smell of decay was coming over him. The guards were commanded to keep him alive, but it was obvious they were doing the very bare minimum. 

Locks turned in the wall, and the two soldiers stood at attention, acknowledging the Grand Mufti as he entered into the room.

"Movsar Maskhadan" Supian spoke, as the shackled man's eyes drifted up to him. "I have come with your final sentence."

Supian unfurled the document, as he read it out loud. "Movsar Maskhadan, for the murder of Levi Sandek, I, Supian Inarkaevich, Grand Mufti of the Emirate of Grozny, sentence you to 25 years in service to the Emir's Army, and to make a payment of 54795 Dinars* to Moshe Sandek, for the blood price of his father."

Movsar coughed, "You're having me impressed into the army?"

Supian spat onto the floor, "If only for the reason that Allah forbids me to just kill you on the spot, and that someone needs to pay for the blood on your hands." Supian motioned for the guards to free the criminal. "You will be put to some use in society, and you will pay the family with your earnings in the Emir's personal military, since someone has to compensate him."

The guards forced Movsar up to his feet, the mans calling out in pain as his festering wounds on the ankles bent, and they dragged him over to the showers. "So get ready, first thing tomorrow, we're shipping you out to Mozdok."

[right][sub]*equivalent to 2 Million USD in OTL 2018[/sub][/right]