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Crusader

Page history last edited by Anonymoose 4 years, 8 months ago

Along a lonely, long and winding path, the man walks beneath towering canopies of old growth forest. With tree trunks several men could not join hands around them, he is minuscule by comparison. Above that ceiling of green, the dimming orange dusk shines through. A yawning sun greets the imminent night as the twin sister moons, red and blue, crest over the valley. A sympathy of colors, both cosmic and earthly, graces this Duchy of Pembrook. It is an inconsequential, yet homely, parcel of land tucked away in the South-East Empire. Twenty-five leagues west lay of the Celruelian fields, the heart of the entire Empire, but these valleys house a mere thirty thousand souls. Such is the fate of land off its ancient and ailing railway system. Forgotten by both time and men.

 

The solitary figure, shrouded in a long brown robe and cowl, sports a cane with a lit oil lantern dangling from its head. He passed by the nearest village at the bottom of the mountain no more than an hour ago. Night was fast approaching, yet he turned away the offers of hospitality with a dismissive wave of his hand. His destination was elsewhere, the crest of Mount Jawlow, the valley's highest peak. There the residents of an old monastery would take the traveler in for the night. The village folk slumped their shoulders and let the mute man continue on his way. None were too boorish to get in the way of this pilgrim's journey. They bit their tongues and resolved to speak no ill words in spite of the rumors.

 

His sandals were caked in mud and have nearly disintegrated from wear and tear. Dark clouds loomed on all four horizons and the moderately clear skies above were a temporary respite from the inevitable summer downpours on this corner of the continent. Harvests were bountiful now and it will be nearly another twenty years till troubling news from the North causes the people here concern. The man continues along unawares, staking the muddy earth with his cane and pushes onward up the winding hilly trail.

 

As the last flickers of dusk gave way to twilight, the man finally had the monastery within sight. Nestled at the center of a small clearing with the cliff-side of the mountain behind it. It looked as if many decades had passed since the masons had worked their tools of the trade on it. There was no surprises since the surroundings areas were so poor that their tithe could hardly keep it standing, let alone have it shine as a beacon to the Almighty's glory. So there it stood stubbornly, but worn and dilapidated. The vines appeared to be all that was holding it together. Despite that, the monastery grounds beyond the waist high walls which marked its perimeter were well kept.

 

Bird song gave way to the chirping of insects and frogs as the celestial hosts transverse overheard. Echoing from beyond the walls of the monastery was the faint music of a choir at practice. It reached the traveler and sounded as if cherubs were filling the night sky with music from heaven above. A pair of resident monks were busily sweeping the dust off the front steps when they noticed the man approach. Their heads were shaved bald and neither possessed distinguishing by design. Drab non-dyed robes, a simple rope belt and old sandals is all they owned.

 

     They both looked at the other, one dropped is broom and he cried out, “Father Hancock!” as he disappeared into the monastery.

 

The other monk rushed to unbar the gate. By the time the pilgrim had slogged his way into the monastery's front garden, the head priest had emerged from within. His scalp had been shaved leaving a crown of brown hair. A common penitent hairstyle for those of the faith which had caught on quickly in the recent decades. The priest's eyes were squinted nearly shut above his bulbous nose despite the fact that the sun had long since descended. His robes were black, with red trimming and white undercoat and collar. He pat the younger monk tailing him on the shoulder, leaned down into his ear and whispered instructions. Wasting no time, the monk obediently scurried off.

 

     “Welcome, pilgrim!” The priest's voice croaked like a toad's. “Have you come to stay the night?”

 

The pilgrim kept his chin tucked into his chest, so his head tilted down and preserved his anonymity behind the cowl. Father Hancock took no offense to what could easily be mistaken as a slight. His smile did not falter, rather, the man nodded understandingly.

 

     “My apologies, good traveler. It would be unsightly of me to violate any vow of silence you may have taken for your journey. Please, come in,” he said ushering the pilgrim in with outstretched arm. “And Dominique,” he said to the other monk still escorting the pilgrim, “prepare some hospitality for our guest.”

 

The other monk fumbled an affirmative nod and a 'yes sir' and scurried off.

 

With a hunched back, the pilgrim set foot on solid ground for the first time in days. No one paid mind to the mud he dragged which had been caked to the bottom of his sandals. He was instead quickly led inside. Once the old wooden doors creaked open, the choir sang out unabated. At the end of a long nave was a gathering of boys belting their angelic voices from the diaphragm. They sang hymns from rote. Their eyes watched the newcomer with both curiosity and trepidation. Their attention, however, followed the priest more closely,

 

The priest shut the door behind him and threw the latch over it. The pilgrim paid it no mind. He passed his walking cane to the priest and continued onward to a waiting chair. There the youngest monk had prepared a bucket of water with a rag. Meanwhile, the priest did a quick inspection of the cane and traced his fingers over a trio of lines etched onto the wooden surface. Satisfied, the priest propped it up against the door. Upon sitting down, the young monk began washing the pilgrim's feet clean. Looming above them both was the priest with hands crossed submissively.

 

     “Here at Jawlow monastery we possess a reliquary of modest repute. A knuckle-bone of the famed heroine Franderline, the lady who slew the Nallrown Mines Minotaur five centuries ago. Its blessings are said to bestow upon the faithful renewed vigor in their ailing joints.”

 

Taking the hint, the pilgrim fished out a small coin purse, retrieved a few small disks from within and held his clenched fist toward the priest. Elated, the priest bowed as he held out his hands cupped in a makeshift offering bowl. The coins clanked together slightly as they passed ownership. When the priest slowly peeled back one hand his eyes opened wide for the first time since their meeting. There were no mere copper coins in the palm of his hand, but a trio of solid gold coins. They glistened as if delivered straight from the Imperial mint itself.

 

     “Your generosity knows no bounds, good traveler!” the priest's voice croaked, but more shrill than before. “Come. Come now!”

 

Such was the power of the Imperial mint. They were not the mere paper notes which had come into popularity recently, but the real deal. Second only in circulation, and value, to the various Free Port silver and gold Dramehai. Once more, the priest also took notice to three grooves carved on the tails side of each coin. He bowed repeatedly toward the pilgrim, but at the same time violently tugged at the sleeve of the monk still washing his feet and being in the way.

 

     “Brother Grant, if you be so kind as to take our guest to the quarters.”

 

The younger monk's eyes quivered upon hearing the priest being so specific. He knew better than to dally, so he bowed his head once before scurrying away with bucket and rag in hand.

 

     “I shall be with you momentarily, good traveler. I must finish my lessons and then instruct the boys back into their quarters.”

 

     The other monk from before had returned and made nervous strides to step before the pilgrim and called to him, “T-this way please—”

 

Hobbling more so than before, the pilgrim appeared to struggle without his staff and barefooted. The monk led the shrouded man into a waiting room. Minutes felt like hours here for the increasingly nervous monk. He dared not strike up a conversation with their guest. His salvation came when Father Hancock returned. He bid the boy away and took over escorting the guest to his quarters. Dominique was more than happy to oblige and scurry away, fists clenched, but was stopped by a firm hand on his shoulder.

 

     “Have Grant see to the records!” Hancock whispered into his ears as he tried to pass by.

 

The head priest led the pilgrim into the sacristy. There a desk with two chairs were waiting among all the vestments, vessels and records of the parish. Along the walls a selection of half-a-dozen choir boys from before had likewise assembled. Their faces were downcast and stoic. They purposefully sought to minimize their presence and mimic the silent stonework of the walls and decorations of saints and heroes of old. Standing out amongst them were caskets of wine. All of this did not escape the notice of the pilgrim and his presence, his mere aura, had everyone on edge.

 

     “Bring us my special reserve,” Hancock commanded as he circled around his desk and pulled the chair out from behind it.

 

One of the boys, with fiery red hair, who looked to be the oldest, a mere thirteen by the pilgrim's estimation, cradled a bottle of wine in his arms. Another boy, no more than ten years, and followed suit with two golden goblets. The pilgrim remained standing. Hancock noticed and circled back around his desk to stand with his guest. Both took the goblets handed to them while the boy tipped its contents into them. First the pilgrim and then hesitantly to the priest.

 

As the red wine began to fill the other goblet, the priest's smile widened further. As the boy sought to retreat, Hancock placed a firm hand on his shoulder, stopping the boy in his tracks, and leaned over to whisper something into his ear. The boy froze awkwardly in place, but when released gradually made his way back over to the wall to the others with legs like a rusty tin soldier.

 

     “Please, be seated,” the priest said while waving his hand to his guest's waiting chair. “You have no doubt traveled long and hard to be here.”

 

     “On the seventh day our lord, protector, and father did say: he who keeps it holy shall honor me,” the pilgrim spoke at last.

 

Hancock remained frozen in place, but gradually he returned to his limber welcoming body language. A knowing smile washed over his face and replaced his apprehensive one. Not a mote of confusion was felt on his part when his silent guest violated the supposed vow of silence so suddenly. The goblets were left to be as the priest came back around from behind the desk to confront the pilgrim directly.

 

     “And on the eighth manna shall fall to quench your hunger, thirst and extinguish the flames which seize your fields that were despoiled by evil.”

 

And the pilgrim responded accordingly, “Fear not the evil hidden in your heart, for I bless it. Sin not, for I have marked the days of our enemy and made you my sword.”

 

The polite smile across the priests face transformed again into a jovial one. Hancock let loose a belly laugh and all the tension left his body. He had heard all he needed to hear. He approached the pilgrim with a hand extended in friendship.

 

     “You have indeed journeyed far, my friend. I applaud your tastes. A man after my own heart. Do you intend to stay the night, or perhaps you had negotiated a longer sojourn? I can assure you my solemn guarantee of quality and of selection.”

 

Father Hancock's hand was left to hang in the air. With each passing second the priest's brow began to furrow bit by bit in confusion. They were now standing a mere three meters apart, yet the pilgrim did not step forward to greet his hospitality. The Pilgrim took a swig of the golden goblet instead. A technical acceptance of hospitality which put the Hancock more at ease.

 

At last the pilgrim seated himself across from the priest and began a tense but roaming and well studied conversation. They quickly emptied their glasses and eventually the bottle. Another was procured, this time one which is visibly more valuable than the last. The boys filled them to the brim once again before returning to decorate the wall behind the priest. The pilgrim need only take a single swig before his eyes sparkled with nostalgia.

 

     “Nelvowncian,” the pilgrim noted after sampling the wine.

 

     “A fifteen year old bottle,” Hancock replied. “A stellar year, I might add. And I must say—to have noticed from only single swig... I take it you are well versed?”

 

     “In?”

 

     “Nalvowceen vintage, friend,” Hancock slurred while raising his cup in toast and then downing a near full mouthful all at once.

 

Hancock did not notice, but the eyes of the pilgrim watched closely while his own eyes were obscured by the goblet. His eyebrow had cocked slightly as well, suspiciously.

 

     “I lived there for a time in my youth,” the pilgrim remarked.

 

     “Ah ha~I suspected as much,” Hancock chuckled. “You really have to breath in the air there to truly appreciate the full body their vineyards produce.”

 

     “The soils there are far removed from the black taint of the Monster Lord that plagues other lands, or those neighboring it,” the pilgrim remarked. “Such pollution causes it to taste too sweet. Without a hint of this proper earthly flavor... If that were the only malady that such corruption breeds. But, I do have to say—” the pilgrim added, pointedly, “I do not recall seeing many Kalderians there during my time.”

 

Father Hancock, still with the goblet tipped back, froze in place.

 

He slowly lowered his goblet and asked with a warm expressive smile, “I beg your pardon?”

 

     “Nalvowceen—” the pilgrim repeated what the priest had said earlier. “A Kalderian dialect if I've ever heard one. The Fredrick Hancock I recall is from Faldowin, not Kalderia. You hide your accent well, stranger, but appears the bottle has disagreed with you.”

 

The pilgrim lifted his head high enough for the first time so that his green eyes were visible behind the cowl. They were piecing enough that it shocked the priest to action. His movements were well practiced and on the level of instinctual. Belying the kindly priest-like attitude of before, the man snapped his left arm rigid and dislodged a dagger which had been hidden up his sleeve. Within the same second, the man vaulted forward over the desk and closed the distance between them with a single thrust. Perfectly aimed at other man's throat. It stopped an inch short.

 

Hancock had intended to go further, but his arm was caught in something no unlike a bear trap. A single hand had intercepted his lunging strike and grab hold of him by the forearm. An inch more and it would bite flesh. The priest's eyes shot open wide. There was no way he could have failed to deliver a fatal blow. It had been ages since last taking matters into his own hands. A whole other lifetime ago. But he had made sure to never lose that edge. Not even a single day of practice in his most private hours had been neglected. It is when he tries to pull his hand back and retreat that the true nature of his predicament befalls him. He could not budge. Not forward to press the attack and not backward to retreat.

 

A symphony of creaking bones and snapping vertebrae echoed in the small room as the pilgrim shrugged off his false limp and returned to his rightful posture. He stood up slowly from his chair and dragged the priest off the desk. The stoic faces of the boys along the wall shattered and they tried to retreat into the corner of the room where they huddled together in fear. Suddenly, the pilgrim was now towering nearly a full head worth of height over the priest. Like a rusty lever, the pilgrim wretched his arm upward and the sleeve of his priestly robe folded back to reveal old tattoos lining his arm.

 

     “The Lost Fleet Syndicate,” the pilgrim said while deciphering the symbolism of the intricate tattoo. “You are not only a long way from home, but have taken up a rather odd profession—for a Kalderian cutthroat.”

 

Like a rat caught in a trap, the fake priest reaches over with his other hand and tries prying at the fingers currently wrapped in a death grip on his left arm. Try as he might, his fingernails, cracking and bleeding from the effort, do little against the pale leathery skin of the pilgrim.

 

     “What have you done with Father Hancock?” the pilgrim asked.

 

A second later, the room was once again filled with the sound of creaking bone. This time it came from Hancock. Slowly, methodically, the grip on his forearm tightened. Now the priest was acting like a fox with its leg caught in a snare trap. His eyes were flared wide with panic.

 

     “Boys! Help!” he cried out to the choir cowering in the corner.

 

None of them budged an inch. The pilgrim's grip tightened further. Hancock howled in pain as the dagger slipped free and clanked against the floor. Hancock tried in vain to reach down and grab it with his other hand, but the pilgrim merely kicked it aside. The priest tried once more to pry the man's hand free, but it only tightened in response. It was quickly resembling a clenched fist rather than a vice grip. It did not take long until the sickening crunch to come.

 

     “Grant! Dominique! Help!” he screamed as the radius and uina bones broke.

 

Hancock fell to his knees, but did not reach the floor. The pilgrim held the limp body aloft by his broken arm. The broken bones were quickly becoming bonemeal as the grip was getting progressively tighter.

 

The pilgrim asked one last time, “Where is Father Hancock?”

 

     “Gone! He's gone! I'm here to replace him!” the fake screamed out, pleadingly.

 

     “Since when?”

 

     “Eight years ago!” he wheezed, now with tears in his eyes.

 

     “By whom?”

 

Despite the pain, the fake priest clenched his mouth shut and refused to answer. As his arm was quickly becoming a limp noodle of meat, the man refused to name his master. In response, the pilgrim lifted the man's entire weight up to bring both their faces together. A crackle of bone and rending of muscle retched.

 

     “Answer me!” the pilgrim yelled right into the man's pain contorted face.

 

Another sound came echoing down the halls from behind closed doors. The pilgrim turned his attention away from the fake priest, but did not seem at all concerned.

 

     “He's faster than I gave him credit for, despite his old age,” he mumbled and let his victim's arm go.

 

The fake priest collapsed in a heap onto the ground and curled into the fetal position. He nursed his shattered arm which was already turning red and black from the bruising and breaking. Meanwhile, the pilgrim stood stalwart and faced the door as the trundling of footsteps grew louder and nearer. There was no knock, the door was blown right off its hinges. Two armored men came barreling in after shoulder tackling the wooden barrier. Another two followed suit and secured all four corners of the room. Another pair came in and pinned the priest against the floor. One of the armored men securing the corner loomed over the terrified choir boys. All while the pilgrim watched emotionless. He is not at all concerned with the men adorned head to toe in plate armor and armed to the teeth. His eyes were fixed at the door and waiting for their leader to cross the threshold.

 

     “He's mad! Help me!” the fake Hancock cried out as one guard kept a knee to his back while the other pointed his longsword at his head should he dare move.

 

At last the old, weathered and battle scared old man came sauntering into the small now overcrowded room. His face told stories of a hundred battles and the wrinkles of well over sixty winters. A head of few gray hairs remaining and a nose broken in every which direction over the years. Yet his shoulders were as broad as his arms and legs were bulging with sinewy muscle beneath his thick plated armor. A large bucket helm with decorative plume was tucked beneath his arm as his sharp brown eyes surveyed the scene with what looked like disappointment.

 

     “You called me and my men so far out into the boondocks for this?” he grumbled while approaching the pilgrim.

 

     “I suspected you wouldn't perceive much more than that,” the pilgrim replied, cracking a wry smile.

 

     “Boy, don't think for a minute I will forgive your disrespect just because of who you've become, or who you knew to get there.”

 

     “Of course, Commander Wallown. I wouldn't dream of it. If you would so kindly afford me your legendary patience, all will be made clear very soon.”

 

Patience was not something Wallown, Commander of the Church Templar of the Western Star, was known for. Yet the sarcasm in the pilgrim's voice, not being lost on the old man, warranted only a sigh in response. Most other men would have received a violent rebuke at the very least.

 

     “Wallown?” the fake priest began to shudder at mere mention of his name.

 

     “Get him up!” Wallown bellowed at the men currently pinning the broken man to the ground.

 

They followed his orders with well honed and practiced precision. Each stood at one side and held him up off the ground by the shoulders. Wallown handed his helmet off to a squire who slipped in from behind and then slithered away, all without being seen for more than a second. The Commander then reached over and tore the sleeve off the robe of the man presented to him and traced his eyes over the pilgrim's handiwork, the mangled arm. His attention was instead drawn toward the tattoo from shoulder up until the man's wrist of his left arm.

 

     “I believe you are more familiar with this syndicate than I am, Commander,” the pilgrim said. “You spent your youth from sergeant to lieutenant hunting them down, correct?”

 

     “Is that why you brought me all the way out here, boy? To allow me to reminisce about old times?”

 

     “You ought to be asking me why the syndicate would have an agent so far out in the boondocks instead,” the pilgrim replied.

 

     “You had better have a good explanation... You might be calling up favors from an old dearly departed friend, and your mentor, but I wont tolerate you wasting my time. Certainly not in his name,” Wallown said pointing right into the pilgrim's face. “And stop disrespecting me by keeping up that charade of yours—”

 

As the pilgrim pulled back the cowl for the first time, the Commander grumbled his true name.

 

     “—Grand Cardinal Ol'een.”

 

Ol'een, the youngest of the Grand Cardinals, the youngest ever. His jaw was square and rock solid, the rest of his head, round and solid as a boulder with a mat of unkempt brown atop it. It matched the rest of his physique. A pair of brilliant emerald eyes crowned a pearly white smile which gleamed at the old man as if reuniting with an old friend.

 

     “Ol'een?” the broken and defeated false priest muttered while straining to lift his head.

 

     “Wallown,” Ol'een said, now frowning a little, “I am not here in any official capacity. I'd appreciate it if you made it easier for me to stay off the record.”

 

     “Don't think you can do whatever you want after taking up a position so lofty as yours. Grand Cardinals are not free to act as they will!” Wallown replied while prodding Ol'een in the chest with his finger.

 

     “I work as the Almighty commands me. Not by the rules of mere men...”

 

Wallown growled. He wanted to keep playing the sensible elder and lecture the man who's still no less a child to one so seasoned as he. Yet he knew that when Ol'een spoke about such things he is not one to exaggerate. His blessed strength alone was testament to that. The Commander had already deduced that the poor sod had tried to attack Ol'een. His mere loss of an arm would be a mercy.

 

     “As for this...thing,” Ol'een said while cocking his head in the fake priest's direction. “The most curious part of it all is that the syndicate did not send him here.”

 

     “No member of the Lost Fleet goes rogue,” Wallown interrupted. “He'd be dead in mere weeks, no matter how far or how fast he runs.”

 

     “Try eight years,” Ol'een replied.

 

Wallown's eyes widened. Never in all his years of hunting down criminally heretical elements within the Empire, on behalf of the Church, did he ever hear of such a thing.

 

     “Eight? Are you certain?”

 

     “He is not in a position to lie, Commander.”

 

     “It's been fifteen years, but I don't believe they've lost their touch,” Wallown mused.

 

     “You made yourself a legend by whipping them back onto their hiding holes along the Eastern coast, but no, the bastard here has masters who make even the syndicate slink back when one of its members are repurposed... Come. I have something else to show you.”

 

Ol'een brushed past Wallown and made his way back toward the monastery's main hall. The Commander silently signaled his men to gather up the prisoner and the choir boys huddled in the corner.

 

     “Is this why you became Grand Cardinal, Ol'een, so you could hunt down petty criminals?” Wallown called after Ol'een as he marched double time to catch up with the man. “Because I swear to the Almighty himself, if this is why you burned every bridge and spent every shred of goodwill and favors Bishop Ciel left to you, I will personally—”

 

Wallown was cut short by Ol'een raising a single finger upon reentering the monastery's nave. Here the rest of the Commander's men had filed in to secure the location. Through the visors in their armor it was clear to see their confusion. Surely the Commander had briefed them on some sinister threat, but they had apprehended a handful of grown men, the priests fellow monks, and nothing else other than young boys who were clinging together in terror. Each were shocked to silence with dead expressionless looks in their eyes.

 

     “Andrew—” Ol'een said, with voice heavy and serious, turning to face the old warrior. “I have brought you here today so that you might bear witness the fruits of crimes most horrid and heretical.”

 

Off-put after being addressed by his first name while not in private, the Commander took a deep breath. He then regained his composure enough to scoff back.

 

     “Boy, I have lived many more years than you. I have shouldered many more wounds and carry with me the weight of sins that drive the strongest and sober men insane. Many lives have my blade taken, whether they deserved it or not. Do not try and impress me.”

 

     “One can grow accustomed to tooth and claw bared, but one can never become numb to those which are hidden. The enemy without is not so dangerous as the enemy within. I fear rot more-so than I would fear fire.”

 

     “Your holiness!” A relatively young blonde haired woman shouts and approaches.

 

She salutes with a clenched fist over her breast. The woman is dressed in a duster and wearing a tall pointed hat, both part of the inquisitorial uniform. A younger bronze skinned and black haired man, wearing an identical getup with fewer seals and badges, slips out from behind her as if he had been her very shadow. He likewise salutes.

 

Ol'een nods to acknowledge their arrival, and asks, “You have it with you?”

 

     “Yes, your holiness,” she replies while motioning for a pair of squires to step forward.

 

A chest supported by two rods of wood comes into the nave, carried by two visibility worried scribes on their shoulders. What lay inside had them on edge to the point that after hastily setting the chest down on the ground, they scurried off to safety. It was the inquisitor who knelt down to unlock it's enormous brass lock which fell to the floor with a loud clank. Golden chains keeping the chest tightly bound likewise slithered loose and coiled onto the floor. Sweat was pouring off the woman's forehead, blonde hair sticking to her scalp. From within the chest she produced a simple object, wrapped in cloth adorned with holy sacraments for cleansing and purity. In her black leather gloves, she transferred it into Ol'een's possession.

 

Ol'een strode over to the command and passed the artifact over to him. Wallown had a suspicious look in his eyes as he tested its weight in his gauntlet clad hands.

 

     “What in the all the hells is this?” He asked

 

     “Unwrap it and see,” Ol'een replied.

 

It was far smaller than expected, because the cloth swaddling it had been over cautiously thick. Beneath it all was a curved horn. Not all that indistinguishable from a young calf's.

 

     “Very good,” Ol'een nodded as he appraised it himself from afar. “See to it the boy is justly compensated.”

 

Dominique, the young monk from before, is brought forward by some of Ol'een's junior inquisitors. The lady inquisitor produces a bag of silver coins and delivers it into waiting hands. His nerves are trembling as he counts each coin through the burlap fabric. A pair of terrified eyes shoot over to the priest pinned to the ground as he screams.

 

     “You bastard!”

 

The fake priest once again tried in vain to break free of his captors. His anger surpassed the pain of his mangled arm. The lady inquisitor directed her squires to cart the young monk back out of the monastery as his former superior continued to rant and rave.

 

     “I'll skin you alive you little shit! I'll—”

 

The male inquisitor, moving like a shadow would, slipped in front of the screaming man. The priest had not even a second to notice his presence before a steel toed boot connected with his jaw. Teeth shattered and blood, along with ivory fragments spilled onto the floor.

 

     “You'll pay for what you've done!” the young inquisitor bellowed.

 

Wallown's men were quick to act though and restrained the man by his arms before he could take another swing. They dragged him back, kicking and screaming all the while. The priest coughed up more teeth, but had mellowed out, punch drunk. It took several more attempts to wrest himself free of the Commander's men before he slumped in their firm grip.

 

Ol'een had appeared before him and slapped him hard across the face, “You disgrace both me AND yourself.”

 

     “But—” the inquisitor yelped back, but was quickly silenced by another slap to the other cheek.

 

     “You want your vengeance, but it isn't here. Our lord demands he live a while longer. It is not by your will, nor will it be on your time, nor mine.”

 

Ol'een waved his hand to have the Commander's men release him. The inquisitor made himself small in front of his master and hide his face in shame. Ol'een glared at him, but eventually sighed in resignation.

 

     “I had you here merely to observe... But you can see to our informant instead.”

 

The young man raised his head, clenched his teeth to hide his emotions, and gave an energetic salute across his breast before storming out of the monastery.

 

     “My apologies, Commander,” Ol'een says to the old man with arms crossed over his chest.

 

     “Your men lack proper discipline,” he chastised.

 

     “They are, however, full of passion. I beg your forgiveness. Our sojourn here today has no doubt dredged up many bad memories for the lad.”

 

Wallown clicked his tongue in disapproval, but turned his eyes toward the horn in his hands once more.

 

     “And is this why you brought me here today, boy? I hope you don't intend to reveal this all to be an elaborate jest after this show you've put on.”

 

     “To whom that belongs to is the headliner for this whole farce,” Ol'een replies. “Our young monk had a conflict of conscience, preserved it, and made sure it eventually found its way to me. It is why we are gathered here today. Many crimes have been committed here for eight long years, commander. But to take these men to trial would have been a fruitless endeavor. They would be found guilty, to that I have no doubt... However, those truly responsible would escape justice. These men are a slimy and slippery bunch. As vile as they are wily. It is a business of their which they have centuries of experience, passed from master to apprentice. If this fake priest here had their blessing I doubt he would see true justice either.” The Grand Cardinal turned his back on the old man to shout orders to his men once more, “Bring them forward!”

 

Ol'een's blonde haired inquisitor led a procession of the monastery's choir, all the boys trembling and terrified of all the heavily armed and armored men gathered in their quaint little abode. There were two dozen of them in total. A couple as young as seven, the oldest being no more than fifteen years of age.

 

     “Inspect the stores,” Ol'een issued new orders to the woman who bowed, saluted, and scurried off back into the monastery's back rooms.

 

Ol'een stepped forward and paced back and forth along the assembled children. On his second passing he stopped before one slender and almost invisible figure clad head to toe in a brown robe.

 

     “This is the one,” he said as he directed two junior inquisitors to pull the child out from the rest.

 

     “Ol'een,” Wallown seethed through clenched teeth.

 

     Ol'een raised his hand to bid him silent, “What do you suspect has taken place here these last eight years, Commander? You told me you've witnessed a great deal of evil. I would think you might be capable of imagining it.”

 

Wallown remained silent with a furrowed brow. He did not appear willing to play along.

 

     “Very well. I won't delay any longer,” Ol'een replied. “Hold it tighter than that,” he said to the two inquisitors who held the child by both arms.

 

They exchanged a look with one another before obeying their master. The Grand Cardinal did not wait a moment longer and he grabbed hold of the robe and tears it free with one swift pull. Fabric ripped and the sound echoed in the acoustic halls. Bared before everyone, naked as the day born, was a malnourished little girl. She could not have seen her twelfth birthday yet. Her eyes which had been dead to the world before were suddenly filled with shame. It gave a weak whimper while trying to cover up. The two junior inquisitors were incidentally surprised by the strength and were almost pulled along before getting their footing back.

 

The fake priest regained his consciousness back in time to witness what had transpired and an elevated level of terror splayed itself on his face.

 

     “Ol'een! What is the meaning of this!?” Wallown screamed in genuine anger.

 

     “Did you know, Commander... That no two fingerprints are identical? Dip them in ink and apply them to paper. What patterns are left are different from one person to the next. Their differences may be minute, and invisible to the naked eye, but closer inspection reveals the truth... Did you know the same is true for a devil's horns?”

 

Ol'een grabbed the child harshly by the hair and yanked it back. He pulled it back to reveal two nubs along the forehead which had previously been hidden by the forelocks.

 

     “Come. Confirm it yourself, Commander,” Ol'een said while staring the grizzled old man right in the eyes.

 

Wallown turned the horn in the palm of his hands over. He stared at it for what felt like hours, but was quickly filled with disgust and threw it on the ground. The gauntlet soon followed suit as he wrenched it.

 

     “So long as you understand, that is enough, Commander,” Ol'een said. “But here is your further proof regardless!”

 

He bid the two junior inquisitors to spin the child around. Ol'een was the only one present whose breath did not escape his lips with a gasp. Two nubs along the back and one further down jutting out from the young child's tailbone. Satisfied, the Grand Cardinal stepped away. The knights struggled to keep the mere child restrained. A few squires slipped in from the sides to cover the young girls shame with fresh rags. Ol'een turned toward the one armed priest and towered over him. Menacing him with his mere presence and seething anger. That charming smile and jovial nature from before completely evaporated.

 

     “You are sickeningly naïve, Fake Priest,” Ol'een spat. “You thought you could hide what happened to this poor boy. We of the higher houses of the Church learned such boorish solutions were futile over a hundred years ago. There's no surgery which can undo what you've let be done. Clip those horns, wings and tail and they will grow back. Rake its face with knives and they will heal into exotic scars. Such is the horrifying powers of seduction borne of the Monster Lord herself! Now you are both damned!”

 

While everyone was distracted, one of the choir boys lunged out from the lineup. A boy with fiery red hair. That boy with fiery red hair Ol'een had noticed from before. He had time to look back and see the fake priest's knife in hand. One second to see it before it was pressed against his throat.

 

     “Your holiness!” came the flurry of screams from all directions.

 

Panic set in quick. Yet when the boy pressed the boy hard enough that any further it would cut, the Templars and Inquisitors froze.

 

     “Let him go,” the boy repeated. “Let him go and you get to go too.”

 

     “Brave boy,” Ol'een croaked, speaking softly as to not get his throat cut by its timbre. “Brave, but lacking in faith.”

 

Ol'een did the unthinkable. He reached over his shoulder and grabbed the boy by the top of the head. With a firm grip he wrenched the boy over his shoulder and slammed him onto the ground in front of him, but not before the boy punished him for such reckless action. He followed through on his threat and raked the dagger across Ol'een's throat. From one jugular to the other, ear to ear, a torrent of bright red blood gushed out and began to pool onto the ground at the Grand Cardinal's feet.

 

Wallown, the veteran soldier, was the only one with the presence of mind to charge forward The young boy had landed on his back, and was winded, but avoided having his spine shattered on impact by taking the fall like a professional. The boy tried waving the stolen knife to keep the withered commander at bay, but he simply grabbed it with his leathery bare hand. Not a single drop of blood from his calloused hands were shed. Wallown ripped it from the barely teenaged boy's hand and unsheathed his dagger with murderous intent.

 

     “Stop!” Ol'een gargled with surprisingly clarity

 

The bedlam ceased.

 

He shook himself free of two inquisitors that had rushed to his side. Ol'een was covering his throat with one hand, but the blood had already ceased flowing. He pulled it aside and saw the wound glowing with a radiant light. It was closing on its own. A miracle of self healing.

 

Divine healing is not uncommon and many go to their local church seeking treatment for what ails them. Yet it is unheard of to reverse such an egregious injury so quickly. Magic can accelerate the body's natural healing. Alchemy and surgery can repair damage. A miracle is not bound by the laws and limitations of nature. A throat cut so deep, an area so sensitive, healing so quickly. The young red haired boy looked bewildered. That had to have been fatal. He was sure of it. To close a wound like that without the ability to utter prayer was unheard of... Yet Ol'een merely nursed the wound with an open palm and everyone watched dumbfounded as it closed by divine intervention. Only the fresh blood pooled onto the ground and staining his robes remained of the deed.

 

     “A well placed strike. If I've ever seen one. I didn't believe you had it in you. That was surely fatal, for any other man.”

 

     “What the hell are you, boy?” Wallown gasped as he pinned the boy with one arm while staring up at the unharmed Cardinal.

 

     “The next Patriarch of the Almighty,” Ol'een replied with a wry and inappropriate smile. “The next lord of his Church and his mouth on the material plane.”

 

     “There hasn't been a Patriarch for over eight-hundred years,” Wallown said and shook his head.

 

     “Times change, Commander,” Ol'een said as he turned his chin toward the young demon girl. “And you, child.” Ol'een said turning his eyes back to the red haired boy. “What hole were you pulled from in this festering and rotting empire? To be so young, but so ready to kill another man in cold blood... In anger? No. That was not in anger. That was an act of love, of desperation, no?”

 

The red haired boy pried his eyes away and Ol'een grinned wider smile in response.

 

     “Either way, I thank you, boy. You've saved me the trouble of interrogating your peers—to find you.”

 

His eyes rubber-banded back, “H-how?” the boy whimpered.

 

     “Despite what you have suffered here, the Almighty does indeed bestow favor on man,” Ol'een said, without a hint of anger on his face.

 

     “Ol'een, explain yourself, now!” the Commander said with enough anger for the both of them.

 

     “This boy here is the catalyst,” Ol'een replied.“I now have it the catalyst,” he said whilst looking back at the priest whose face had gone pale white, a whole other level of terror. “I'm missing but one more piece of this puzzle... The most important piece.”

 

     “Enough with this cryptic bullshit, Ol'een. What is the meaning of all this?!”

 

The Grand Cardinal showed a pity filled glance toward the commander, “How do you hold power over your men, Commander?”

 

“Ol'een!” Wallown's voice raised another decibel.

 

     “Answer me!” Ol'een screamed back.

 

Wallown winced and was forced onto his heels. There's a presence behind the younger man that the veteran soldier could not deny. Something else was present in the man. The Commander understood what it's on a subconscious level.

 

     “Discipline,” he growled in response. “I trained them myself.”

 

     “A relationship based on trust. You hold power over them because they know that you know better. That your guidance will not lead them wrong. Commendable... But you know there are other means to hold power over men... Force. Violence. Fear. And of course the lowest of all: bribery and blackmail.” Ol'een said as he glanced once more at the priest. “Not all men can be bought and not all men have sins they hide. No... If you want to exert power over men by such means it takes great effort and cost... But what if you controlled what manner of men held these lofty positions? What if instead of finding their faults you installed broken ones. Complete with strings already attached. What if you could make them dance as you wished from the first day to the last?

 

Ol'een stepped through his own puddle of blood and menaced over both Wallown and the red haired boy.

 

     “This is not a monastery, Commander. This is brothel for things I'd never dare call humans. A resort for wicked creatures. A reward. A leash. This is a blister of rot on everything we both care about and violates the decency of us all. This is the consequence of a great deal of power all in one place. Like moths to a flame, the wicked, the power hungry and the degenerate swarm toward it. That much power needs a proper steward to wield it. Anything less will see this Empire of Man crumble into dust. But before it is through, after all the crimes, the taxation the moral decadence and decay, the common man will suffer the burden of their sins, their greed. And when the collapse comes, they will cheer it. As the world of Men ends and the Demon Queen picks it apart one by one and sublimates it into her domain, the common man will celebrate. Drunk with pleasure and false promises of happiness. They will forget our Lord Almighty and submit themselves to baser soulless creatures... Because they will have only known their masters as evil men who took from them everything and gave back nothing. That is the future for this Church, this Empire, if men such as we do nothing. The horrors which have been allowed to happen here will not be a secret, but the torture all young boys must endure. And in turn they will become as monstrous as their captors and usher that evil onto those who were just like themselves.”

 

Wallown's expression grew grave. A knot filled in his stomach. He looked at the fake priest and then to all the boys.

 

     “Bishop Ciel knew. He taught me all about it. Yet he was powerless. A man of genius and vision, but of no means. Now, no doubt against his wishes, you know too. Since he never dared tell you about it. Not even one of his closest friends. I threw everything your old friend had built and passed onto me for chances just like this. A chance to put an end to tragedies such as this.” Ol'een waved his hand over the naked inhuman girl and peer right into the red haired boy's eyes. “Castrati... I am not mistaken, am I?”

 

The boy shook his head, but out of lack of understanding instead of refutation.

 

     Ol'een glanced back over toward the Commander, “Castration, to preserve the young man's castrato voice, and his youthful effeminate features.”

 

     Wallown shouted out, “But that was...”

 

     “Outlawed? Why yes. Because my predecessors thought taking such extreme actions would keep men in sensitive positions safe from the temptations and exploitation of monsters and their seductive wiles. It did not, however, stop monsters from extending their idea of mercy. Nor did it stop the emergence of Alps. Men who undergo transformation into monsters themselves. Without the primary source of male vitality, and with a myriad of other circumstances, a poor boy can find his form twisted, his soul obliterated... Damned.”

 

     “Then what of the others?” Wallown imagined the first paragon he could think of, “Of Lady Ulmpher, or—”

 

     “A hypocrite,” Ol'een spat. Do not take her for being so naïve to not know what goes on here today... You did choose wisely, however. I know of two of the other seven Grand Cardinals who are responsible for what you see here today... She is not one of them... But she would think nothing of offering tribute, such as these children, to them if it would advance her own machinations. That coward cares for nothing more than stability. Not at all about justice or the Almighty's will.”

 

No one dare speak a word. Not until the lady inquisitor returned. The expression on her face did not fill Ol'een with confidence. His face had been stoic until now, but for the first time it twisted into despair with one look at the woman.

 

     “Y-your holiness... I couldn't find a thing.”

 

     “You are certain?”

 

     “Y-es,” she bowed her head, as if presenting her neck to be cut for failure.

 

Ol'een's face contorted with fury. He did not take the offer to lash out at the woman and instead clenched his fists and swung it with a furious bellow at a nearby stone pillar. With his bare hands he sent a chunk of stone flying off and the monetary shook from the reverberations of his scream. He ignored his bloody knuckles and began to breath heavily to calm himself.

 

     “Ol'een, what is the meaning of this!” Wallown screamed himself once coming to his senses and witnessing the sacrilege of damaging a holy building like that.

 

     “I failed,” Ol'een replied. “I was too late,” he said while dragging his feet as he walked away. “Bring the priest, the boy and it.” He ordered as she made his way to the exit. “Everyone else out!”

 

Wallown's own men did not wait for his orders and the force of will in the Grand Cardinal's voice had them jump to attention and clear out. The Commander could not muster a protest as he followed. He was the last to leave and not long after he did, Ol'een's inquisitors began to wrap chains around the large oaken door's handles. He also spied the monk from before slumped over the wall nearby. The small bag of silver coins had been stuffed into his mouth while his throat had been slit from ear to ear. A bloody stain on the ground beneath him.

 

     “The circle was prepared in advance, as you ordered,” the tanned skin inquisitor says as he emerges from the shadows.

 

     “Very good,” Ol'een replies. “Commander, call your men back behind the line.”

 

A squadron of Ol'een's own inquisitors, armed with repeater crossbows, trains them on the priest and his small cadre of other monks. They sit in the dirt, confused and dazed, as the commander's knight Templar abandon them. Yet they quickly spy the crossbows pointed at them and remain motionless. They see the alp loaded onto a nearby wagon and led toward a gilded cage. The young red haired boy is dragged off in the opposite direction at the tail end of the assembling procession.

 

     “Tom!” he cries out while struggling futilely against his wardens.

 

     A faint glimmer of light appears in the girls eyes as she raises her head and utters, “Xavier—Xavy?”

 

Few bother to watch their drama play out. All eyes are on the priests and the old monastery. It is not surrounded by a circle of salt. Intricate scripture lining the blank space between the two concentric circles surrounding the once holy site.

 

     “Ol'een... What are you doing?” Wallown asks as he oversees the last of his men clear the area.

 

     “I will consecrate this place,” the Grand Cardinal replies. “I had hoped what had happened here was by some series of errors... But this place has been visited before me. A contaminated wine bottle, some contraband food from some demon realm. Passed from some criminal who partook in the crimes here... and passed it onto the boy... Now I see that this seed was planted here. She will return. Should I uproot this place and seek to square it away... I cannot stop it. This place is marked. They will return and not rest until they have completed the task they set out to do.”

 

     “Then why the other two?” the old commander asks.

 

     “They are of use. Beyond evidence, mind you... And he is key to ensure we can control it... A hostage, if you will... Useful enough to justify the risk. As for the rest, they are in the Almighty's hands now.”

 

A silence descended and oppressed the gathering. Broken by the haggard laughing of the fake priest.

 

     “Ol'een. Ciel. Now I remember,” he said with a hoarse voice caused by a no doubt fractured jaw. “Nothing done here violates the Treatise of the Holy Sepulchre. You can't prove otherwise. But you... You think planting a monster here is gonna fuck us all over, right? Big talk from the man who uses monsters to do his dirty work for him!”

 

In these final moments the cutthroat and secret fake priest finally found his words. Perhaps only in madness. Ol'een did not reply. He rolled up his sleeves and prostrated himself on the ground. He laid his hands onto the circle of white salt piled an inch high. He bowed forward and touched his forehead against it. The men gathered together watched, under the blue and red twin moons, as Ol'een mumbled a prayer. He spoke a language no one else could decipher. One which no ordinary and mortal man could. He spoke celestial. When the last holy word passed his lips, the Grand Cardinal raised his head, kissed the star emblem hanging from his neck, and placed it onto the ring of salt.

 

There, the white salt began to glow with a golden light. It spread along the outer ring, then lit up the writing and finally the inner ring. A faint wall of light reached up high into the sky, above the canopy. Not even the twin moons could compete and the clearing was bathed with golden light. All the men gathered watched with awe as the inner circle of salt began to crawl inward toward the empty center of the circle. Like a shifting sand dune. Eventually it converted into pure light and kept moving inward on its own.

 

     “If I am the man you accuse me of being—” Ol'een said as she rose back to his feet. “—Then why would our Lord, and our God, bestow upon me the honor of being his conduit?”

 

The fake priest and monks saw the crossbowmen lower their bolts, but no one dared to make a break for it. They were all captivated by the beautiful sight. Yet as it grew closer something primal told them to stay away. An abject terror gripped them. They backed away until the wall and door blocked their way. It was still barred with chains. They ran out of room in which to huddle and began to struggle. Eventually one lost the fight and got pushed forward. A young man, no more than twenty-five, stumbled face first into the light. He caught on fire immediately. It did not burn like any normal flame. He screamed ever so briefly as the flesh was incinerated off his bones instantaneously. A skull and bones being all that remained. As the remains could not be kept up without muscle and sinew of the skeletal legs, it collapsed onto the ground and turned to bone ash on contact.

 

     “You should know as well as I do, fake priest, that if you were correct, this light would have burned me as readily as it will you.”

 

Now the real panic set in. Cries of fear, of anguish and pleads of forgiveness and mercy filled the air. The sinners struggled to keep away the longest. One by one they failed and were caught in the constricting circle. One by one they met the same fate. Each and every last one of them reduced to ashes. It did not stop there either, because it soon reached the walls and the stonework itself erupted into flames. The large oaken doors shuddered and muffled screams escaped from within, but the crackling and burning monastery drowned it out. Everyone gathered had averted their eyes after the first victim fell. Everyone but Ol'een. He continued to watch with an expression conflicted between anger and sorrow. In his heart he wished it had not come to this. Yet he was now forced to watch the fruit of his failures. It was out of his control and his lord worked in ways mysterious to him.

 

The pallor mood was disturbed by the whinny of a horse. A bustle of men were frantically scrambling too.

 

     “We have a runner!” Cried out one of Wallown's men.

 

Ol'een turned around in time to see one of the monks riding off with a stolen horse. The commander's men tried to pursue, but as they stepped into their stirrups they gave way and the men fell into the dirt. Someone had cut the saddles underneath. The momentary confusion gave the escapee quite a head-start as the Commander rushed to restore order. Just before the man had vanished into the woods on horseback, Ol'een recognized the monk as one of the two he had first seen. The last thing he noticed was the book he had tucked beneath his arm.

 

     “Dammit!” Wallown bellowed into the night, louder than the burning monastery behind them. “We cannot let a single one of them escape!”

 

     “Recall your men, Andrew,” Ol'een replied, calmly.

 

He silently blinked twice before blurting out his confusion, “What?”

 

     “The situation is under control. He will not get far. Organize your men, secure the prisoners and send an envoy ahead to secure the next train for official Church commandeering at Vale Station.” When the commander did not reply immediately, Ol'een's green eyes pieced the grizzled soldier with a presence that made the old man's blood freeze. “I expect your cooperation from here on out, commander. Your assistance, and that of your men, have a great many evils to root out and destroy. You surely found it strange that a young page for an obscure, yet well connected bishop, could rise so quickly as I have... Tonight you have learned that I have allies in even higher places than the others. I operate above politics. Now that I am a Grand Cardinal, I care not if it takes me decades. Not if I am an old man by the time I am through, I will be Patriarch. And when I am, when my Crusade is through, the wicked of the world will tremble. Evil will be reduced to ash. All will be reminded that in absence of our Almighty's love, there will be his wroth.”

 

Commander Wallown did not hesitate twice.

 

***

 

Brother Grant clung to the reigns of the pilfered horse and spurred it onward deeper into the woods. His heart was beating fast as he ducked and weaved around the branches. The horse was well trained and obedient. It navigated the thick woods with relative ease. It would be extremely difficult for a search party of other horse to give chase and stay organized. He did not have much knowledge as an actual man of the cloth, but his array of other skills would come in handy here. No prison on this continent, or the east, could ever hold him. He had escaped numerous times before from situations not at all unlike this. That is why he had been put here. A contingency. To gather up incriminating documents and flee. He'd no doubt be well rewarded. What he carried under his arm were very sensitive indeed.

 

A record of all those who had visited the monastery over the last seven years.

 

Right when Brother Grant thought he had passed the point of no return and whiz came flying through the air. An impact slammed into his shoulder and knocked him clear off his stolen horse. It reared up on its hind legs, but rather than stop, as it had been trained to do, it took off into the twilight woods. The monk hit the dirt hard and had the wind knocked out of him. He next noticed that his shoulder-blade had been completely pulverized. A meter long arrow, snapped in two, lay on the ground next to him. The man could not immediately constraint his screams of pain. For some reason the arrow head was blunted. It had not been intended to kill.

 

     “Nice shot, Yellow,” came a woman's bubbly voice from the dark to the man's right. “Straight through the forest too.”

 

     “It was nothing,” came another woman's voice, cold and taciturn, from the man's left.

 

Grant froze and his voice trembled. For a moment he had his spirits lifted by the sound of hooves, but they came from his left, not from ahead where the horse had fled. Through the moonlight, the fake monk saw a yellow orb of light emerge from the dark forest. It appeared before the woman it belonged to. A strange device, a brightly glowing monocle, large and round, half a pair of thick goggles. It moved and clicked with mechanical precision and enchanted crystal altered the magnification and low light visibility. He would never understand the magic at work within it. A range finder and magnifying device for the archer who had felled him from the horse. And from that darkness a woman's torso attached to a horse emerged. With long flowing blonde hair and a massive compound longbow. A centaur going only by the name of Yellow, the Sylvan.

 

     “Awww, did our little runaway think he was going to get away?” Came a laugh from the other.

 

This creature was more frightening than the last. A pair of red glowing eyes emerged from the woods first. With pupils like a predator, a large carnivorous cat. A lion's. Yet she was a chimeric creature of nightmares beyond that. With white braided hair, furred hands and feet like that of a lion's. But from her back were a pair of leathery bat wings. From her backside a long scorpion tail tipped with a bushel of long spikes dripping with venom. An impossible creature in the form of a beautiful woman. A manticore. A man-eater: Red, the Mist.

 

     “Ol'een said we could do anything we wanted with the runners, didn't he?” Red cooed as her eyes narrowed menacingly on the helpless prey beneath her.

 

     “Our primary objective is complete. I am done here,” the longbow wielding centaur replied. She melted back into the nighttime forest with fake monk's cargo, the book, stowed safely away in a saddle bag. “I will scout for any others till morning. Do not be late for our rendezvous with Master”

 

     Have fun, Yellow,” Red said and waved goodbye. “And I will have mine,” she licked her lips.

 

The monk's terror was keen. It filled his very being while watching this monstrous woman's tail move as if it had a mind of its own. Its dangerous needles glimmered with poison under the dual moonlight.

 

     “Wait, stop!” the fake monk cried.

 

Red obliged with a gentle smile and begged him with his eyes to go on.

 

     “I know where Cardinal Alendrea keeps his tithe. Not the one, but the other one. His personal stash. I worked under him for two years. It can be all yours if you let me go. He'll not be able to do a thing. He can't admit it's gone. Not ever. I'm sure a big strong monster like yourself could take if you wanted to. No one will ever know. I can change my face. My name. No one will have known I was here, or recognize me ever again. Please. I beg you!”

 

Red's smile twisted into a sinister one. She could not hide her delight in the fearful squirming as the man writhed with fear. He began to push himself along the forest floor until his back hit a tree and could go no further. She planted both feet, lion like paws with claws, astride the man's legs and peered down over her large bosom at him.

 

     “N-no! You won't get any meal out of me. I drink too much. I smoke too much. You wont enjoy me either. I'm cut. A botched job. Not pleasant to look at!”

 

Red's smile was wiped away, an expression that yelled: insulted.

 

She cocked an eyebrow at the pathetic man, “I'm not interested in you, worm.”

 

     “Huh? No? You're not. You got the book, yes? Maybe rough me up a little? Leave me to the elements. I can manage my way out on my own with a couple working limbs yet!”

 

     “You misunderstand,” Red said blithfully. “I'm not interested in you. I'm after your screams.”

 

He watched with horror as it opened and revealed an orifice as well dripping with mucus tainted with neurotoxin. He could utter only the briefest of screams before it descended. There were many more after that. The wildlife of the forest would be spooked till night had past and would never dare approach. By morning there would be nothing left but a red mist where his remains ought to have been.

 

***

 

Come morning, where the monastery had been before, nothing but dust and ash remained. An oppressive silence hung over Jawlow mountain. Not even the wind blew through these verdant valleys today. Of course this verdant field had been blackened by fire. A fire most supernatural.

 

Standing among the ruins a lone woman draped with a long flowing robe. A white spaded tail slipping out from underneath and making indentations in the blackened soil. She squats down and sifts through the ash, only to find few trace remains of mementos and belongings to the boys who once lived here. She holds them close to her heart, tears falling from her eyes onto the now barren earth. She does not stay long. The demon comes upon a single golden coin with three scars on its back. The woman clenches her fist tight and crushes the gold in the palm of her hand. A moment later she is gone.

 

Not even the birds begin to sing today in her absence.

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