“We work in the shadows cast by the burning flames of creation. To serve our god, conscience, and to ensure that a far, far darker future shall never come to pass.”
1st inquisitor Mattheis, Codex of Inquisition’s foundation
Clad in armor crafted from the steel of the abyss, forged in the fires of creation, and blessed with the ashes of a phoenix which had finally met an end to its eternal life, the inquisitor approached the cathedral of silver light within the temple grounds of the eastern protectorate. Under the command of Lord Commander Arkhos – one of Thurbard’s acclaimed children, if, the least impressive of either.
In the dark of the night, the blackened steel twisted and morphed with every step through the shadows of the street. The stars were concealed by a thin layer of clouds which hung over the cavern riddled desert, and, as the church’s name had suggested, a silvery, waning moon hung high in the sky, casting its gaze over the beauty which was creation. Soon, it would vanish, much like the stars. And to be expected, the cursed creatures and aberrations of Aarklash would find their way from their twisted realms once again.
Yet, as the inquisitor approached the cathedral’s steps of white marble – his attention and thoughts drifted towards another purpose other than hunting abomination and heretic on this night. An apocalypse had been averted – barely, by the hands of the temple, and supposedly, under the reign of the new empress upon the throne, Lady Mira – Thurbard’s other child and the chosen of Merin, a new age had set upon the griffon of Akkylannia. An age of light and purifying fire. Free of suspicion, darkness and the lies told and upheld by her predecessors since the days just after the prophet Arcavius. No, today his thoughts and fears were somewhere far, far distant. In the ashen ruins of another kingdom consumed by death, plague, and purged by holy fire. Icquor, once a thriving barony within Alahan.
He ascended the steps of white marble and the burning braziers exploded with the life of blue fire as he approached. A welcome to normal weary travelers. Looking for protection from the elements, from persecution, or, in most cases, from the suspicion of the inquisition. As even they had not the authority to apprehend a criminal or heretic within these sacred walls.
A fact, he would lament as he approached the towering oak doors at the cathedral’s apex, which Arkhos has well abused when sheltering representatives of the arachnid in the closing days at the tail end of the most recent war of fate. Right before Mira’s ascension, and the official end of his vigilant watch.
The doors swung open, and only the dimmest of candles on the inside of the pews down the main aisle of this sacred place were lit. Every 4th candle on either side, each spaced 4 feet apart from the next. It cast just enough flickering light that he could walk without needing to worry of tripping over his own two feet, or running into one of the colossal white pillars which upheld the arches and domed roof of the cathedral. Distant, somewhere far off, the main bell of the church’s tallest spire sounded four times to mark the hour. Faint, soft, and its echoes reverberating from the halls which were only interrupted by the sound of metal clicking against stone – the grinding of joints, and the solemnity in which the inquisitor had walked.
His watch, however. Against the darkness, against the heretic, against the abomination despite demand, had gone on. Just like so many of Merin’s most faithful. Never had there been the need to seek the utmost glory. Unlike many. Unlike the likes of those who abandoned their purpose the moment suspicion fell upon their ranks – he had truly believed in their cause. A deeper purpose than that of their empire. But of all of creation.
By now, he approached the altar. Stripping his sword off its belt and letting it fall to the floor. Its clattering, like the bell filling the hall shattering the peace with an unprecedented violence, and he would kneel at the foot of the altar, where the light of the moon fell through a small glass window high above to illuminate its entirety in beloved white purity.
And he would pray, if for nothing more, than courage.
Deacon Tiberius was not one to take kindly to the rumors and suspicions which hounded the imperial faith since the testimonies of the prophet Arcavius himself. Seeking lies to preach, or to find flawed logic to explain miracles and blessing bestowed upon their chosen people in ways that a common many may one day be able to achieve. Such lines of thought – to achieve perfection, godhood even, was what had left so many to fall to the temptations of the dark alchemy of the twisted, vile demon Arleth-tolth an untold millennium ago. Even before the exploits, and corruption of Dirz and his heresy only few centuries prior to the modern era. Caused, potentially by the shadowy hands of the inquisition some would have claimed. Most notably the more…fanatical of the templar order. But, in the case of the deacon’s own logical reasoning, it was merely an uncovering which led to the first, and most disastrous crusade against the darkness which gathered within the reaches of their northern borders. They had done their job diligently. Had served the very purpose their creation had set them to. And as such, had been allowed to continue their reasoning, their purging of heresy as a result. Even if, over decades and centuries, that oath to protect creation had warped and twisted and become malformed just as terribly as the heretics which they claimed to despise with such justified fervor.
The list, he had read. The list of the executed, the purged, the accused which the deacon had finally accessed in the closing days after the battle of the braziers, as the inquisition and its many agents lay in tattered ruin at the feet of the temple’s most faithful of Merin. Thousands of names, struck from honor, from remembrance, from acknowledgement on the merest hint of dissatisfaction which life, with the empire, with their daily struggles had broken something within the man who had let it go on for so long. Unchecked because there had been no need.
The executions, carried out by the monks of the order effectus. Silent, deadly assassins and those who carried out swift justice were plenty in the coming weeks. And the trials were ongoing for years as the empire of the Griffin had sought to rebuild itself closer to what it could have been. What it SHOULD have been all along. That shining, brilliant light which bored through the eternal darkness. The exemplar of what should have been.
The last one had been months ago now, and the order effectus had been sent on to their normal duties in each protectorate and hold and monastery which they had called home. And since that time the lady Mira had kept her oaths and words. And reconstruction after the war of conscience had begun in earnest. Where even old enemies, the arachnid most notably, had become an ally in a way which the deacon would have never thought possible. Although it was yet a strained relationship with the elves aligned with the dark…their purpose was…acceptable, as it lined up with Merin’s grand design. And, surprisingly, had little conflict with faith.
It also helped that they hated the heretics and undead just as fervently as the temple which now ruled from the throne. And honestly, had the deacon not known better, he would have accused Thurbard of some amazing play for power. But the elder soldier, commander of commanders, and consort to our lady of light had no hand to be played in politics.
A true templar, despite how much the deacon had hated his guts.
It was yesterday morning as a particular sheet of paper slid across the deacon’s desk. Just after his morning’s sermon. When a messenger, a fusilier in this case of the 23rd corps had come to his office and presented a sealed envelope bearing the seal of the inquisition. Upon dismissal – he pondered just throwing it into the fire. It would have been the wise thing to do. To not fall into the folly of whatever depths of disgust would come from any further involvement of this ruinous organization. When a whisper came to his ear. An ethereal, quite demand that he should open it.
A whisper, likely, of his own delusional pride. But he broke the seal, and only a single line was scratched in blood mimicking ink on parchment.
“The remains of icquor stir once more”
“Through acts we shall be saved. Through experiment we shall find perfection. Through perfection – ascension.” – Testament of the great prophet Dirz, 3rd Era, year 43
Tiberius knew the second that someone entered the premises of the cathedral the moment that the braziers burned to life upon its steps. Their blue fire as much a guide to the weary as it was an early alarm system for those within. This holy site was placed on the border of Akkylannia’s eastern protectorate, and when it was first constructed – likely out of spite to the elements and a testament to their hubris in the days after the first crusade – the invasion by abomination and clone was extremely likely. From above, below, or by simple siege.
While Many of the more fortress like elements had given way to the typical gothic architecture of the empire’s more ornate structures – the alert had always remained in place as such magic, despite its simplicity, had always been awe inspiring. Giving this place an aura of mysticism that inspired faith by most pilgrims. Surprisingly, however, the braziers used to burn golden-red prior to the appearance of the lady of light. An effect which only inspired even more faith and was a self-fulfilling prophecy of rampant fervor. A necessity, perhaps, but rarely would it lead to anything but disgusting amounts of eventual hatred which would lead to war again, and thus the cycle of this would repeat itself forever en eternum.
Reflection, now, would be ironic as Deacon Tiberius stepped into the church’s grand hall proper. Shutting the door in his stead to allow it to close without a sound breaking the hallowed silence. Even from so far away, the black armor stood out starkly in the flickering candlelight. A fiery phantasm lost in prayer to a god, which he knew stood at great odds with how reality truly presented itself. It knelt before the altar, unmoving. And even its breaths seemed still.
It, it. Because Tiberius refused to admit that anything wearing that armor was human. That it had red blood flowing through its veins. That any conscience could possibly be present within the evil that radiated from such an adherent.
But, this was a place blessed by Merin, and as such, no blood of the light shall be spilled by his hand. Even if it hardly qualified as such anymore.
His approach was quiet, and he could swear that phantom choirs sung through the darkness. The faintest of sounds ringing chants provided a cold comfort by the time he decided to stop several meters away yet from the inquisitor, still unsure that this wasn’t a trap set up to get vengeance from some perceived slight against them. His sword lay out of immediate arms reach, although it didn’t mean that something wasn’t nefarious. While they had claimed to serve the same god, clearly, the interpretation was…different.
So, the inquisitor prayed on. The blackened armor wicked in the shadows as the deacon watched. What did it pray for? Forgiveness? Absolution? It wouldn’t find it here of all places. Far, far beyond any forgiveness that could be granted by the hands of the church. And the pope was far, far past offering such to the tattered remnants of darkness which still plagued their beloved empire.
“Thank you for coming”. It said as it looked up to the ceiling one last time. To the thin glass pane that allowed the moonlight to sweep through the cathedral. Its prayer had finally come to an end as it stood from where it knelt. Drops of blood – a black, darkened ichor staining the stone upon which it had knelt.
“Against my better judgement” Grumbled the deacon as he made sure to let the disgust emanate in each word uttered. As fire burned away the darkness on the marble, and as the choirs of the ancients fell silent in witness. “But you’ve made a point that intrigued me. Tell me. What comes of icquor?”
For but a moment, the inquisitor remained silent in recollection of the events which led him to send such a desperate letter to the very man who had sent the command which led to the execution of his order. What he saw, and more importantly, just why he had seen it that dark day. Tilting his head up so that the deacon was staring directly into the abyss which was his helmet – the inquisitor would break the silence once more.
“I was tracking the templar Acadia” he announced before the deacon cut in sharply.
“The warrior” He corrected with contempt. “You and I both know that she’s been a long way from a healer for the longest time now.” He would pause – having to recollect his line of thought whilst the cold memory filled him with ire. “But I was tracking her because a divine wind told me to follow, to witness.”
The deacon looked unimpressed – having forgotten just how zealous the inquisition had been – quite the mirror image of the temple if somehow even far more extreme in their dogma. But hadn’t found the need to interject again. Not yet at least.
“So I followed her as she made preparations for a long journey. To the land of Icquor where of course there were remains of the dead still wandering. Cursed to that infinitude of suffering. Disorganized, empty.” He didn’t want to embellish on the facts which likely were already known to the deacon. The reports were distributed throughout the entire empire. To the church to study, to the military to figure out how best to plan incase the plaguelands began expanding, wandering through the realm rather than its little corner of nowhere. “And then she went to the old church of Merin – our little church of pilgrimage for wandering visitors to the kingdom of Alahan.”
By now, the deacon was nodding along by now – he knew of the events which took place there just after the Salvation of Arcavia and the appearance of the lady of light had occurred. It had been, for some time, consumed by the wasting plague of Archeron. Designed to wither and consume and twist the form until it bent the knee to their dark masters. Acadia, as one of her newly anointed honor guard had been present. And had been responsible for its…utter destruction for lack of a better term to apply to the situation. Utter, complete annihilation of an entire barony and its population.
The result, as reported by any who stood after the act, was a barren hellscape where even insects would never willingly tread again.
“But why were you following her? She’s one of the lady’ s honor guard”. It was a question which irked him, but the inquisitor would gladly answer.
“I was seeking to understand Arethenia more. Such as we understand Merin. Hopefully it would have led to a new understanding of the divine.” As the inquisitor spoke – Tiberius had no doubt there was more to it than simply a genuine need to understand how divinity worked. While the lady of light had been a boon – created as Merin’s holy light. There were secrets that she had refused to reveal to the church of her father.
“Nonetheless, you said that icquor stirred. What did you find there?”
“I found a creature of Shyhaar. An omnimancer of one of their great labs. It stood ten feet in height, and it stalked through the dark ruins in search of something. Through the silent streets and ruin strewn carcass of the city proper. It had the black armor of an inner circle, and a sword-axe that morphed in its hand.”
This didn’t surprise the elder deacon. Though his brows furrowed and at the mention of the inner circle of heretics – the few flickering candles dimmed – and a cloud had passed over the moon high above. Clouding the altar in a thin veneer of darkness. “This doesn’t sound unusual, what –“
“It bore the searing blessing of both Arle-tolth.”
“And the light of Merin. Though faint, was present”
A breeze shuddered through the church, and those few candles found their light extinguished as the deacon closed that short distance between them now. Such blasphemous claims filled him with the righteous rage of a thousand fallen souls. “You lying – “
“On the oath of what the inquisition should have been, and what is left of my tattered soul, I swear that what I say is true” The inquisitor said, unflinching in his resolve as he brought this dire warning with an unmatched urgency. “I came to warn, because one of their dark laboratories have found out how to artificially build his blessings into their abominations…and..and” He stuttered finally. Though fear had never gripped the inquisition, this was as close to it as it could come. “Acadia left, willingly, with it”
The deacon stopped. Blinked first. And once again. The holy warrior, chosen of the child of their god had consorted with such an enemy. It would require…consultation with their lady of light. Merin’s avenging star. She’d find this news. Troubling at least. And though not the first time consorting with the heretic had occurred. Thus, is how Sered convinced the eclipse laboratory to aid them against their former, tormenting masters. Something here shook him deeply. A creation so loyal to the scorpion’s claw that it bore such precedence to be that easily identifiable with confidence and stride so far outside of its boarders .and charismatic enough to twist the thinking of one of the holy incarnations -!
It was almost the worst news that the inquisitor could have brought. But it was not quite the horrible truth which he had expected. Afterall, the warrior was experienced, faithful to a fault. What she did always had a purpose. And yet, an example of such a hero had yet to come forth and offer betrayal to the empire. After all she had seen, sacrificed, and lost – Tiberius doubted that she would be the first.
Did she need therapy? Oh, by no doubt the woman was. Not even thirty and a veteran of more than four wars which included the razing, and salvation of Arcavia. Thus was the life of a templar, however. IF not saved through fate, then damnation of eternity, in life, and death it would then be.
He let the thought process. And debated his next line very carefully.
“I’ll offer you an order. One more and a chance of redemption” The deacon said with suspicion. “Under oath that never shall it be revealed what it is.”
As the inquisitor stood in the shadow of the still obstructed moon, the faithful could have sworn a wicked red hellfire rose behind the mask which obstructed the bastard’s features. It searched for a purpose. And suddenly the deacon understood just how far their own heresy had gone in those final days.
“Leave. Leave akkylannia and never return. Under the damnation of the abyss shall you ever cross into our boarder again. But continue your hunt. Track Acadia and find, root out this darkness and put an end to it. If you succeed, I’ll see to it that your soul enters the land of heaven, despite all you have done.”
It was his death sentence. The inquisitor recounted. He’d never see this land again and would likely be hunted regardless of what the deacon would or could even try to promise. Despite his misgivings – it would nod, accepting this one, small piece of absolution.
“I Shall leave in the morning then.” He answered, turning away from the deacon, as footsteps, armored. Heavy. Horses had come with them – and the deacon’s praetorian guard had finally found him.
The deacon turned to leave, without another word. Only looking back to the figure of twisted night made steel and flesh. Its eternally bleeding armor must have been a torment unbecoming. It was torment unbecoming. Designed as an ancient, arcane, disgusting penance for the sinner long ago before even Alahan had set its roots in the world. The inquisitor only returned, kneeling at the altar to resume its prayer, as the night drifted on and into dawn.
“Your duty is to ensure I get to Belial as fast as I can. Come, show the darkness what it means to be the avenging arm of Merin.” – Saint Arethenia, 4th era, year 83 – the reclamation of Arcavia
