The First Priest was usually a jovial individual. When greeting pilgrims, priests and prospective parents alike, there was always a twinkle in his eyes, dancing joyfully at some hidden cosmic joke that only he was privy to. With a rotund body, a raunchy sense of humor and a boisterous laugh, even the grimmest of soldiers and the dourest of nobles would feel obliged to give a smirk or two. There was no sign of that now.
Within the inner sanctum of the High Temple, the priest was fuming at the failure that his organization had been dealt with. He paced along the stone-hewn floors of the upper pulpit, eyes steely and glaring at the line of armor-clad supplicants. The vast hall was cool, which made perfect sense as it was the dim hours of dusk that provided the last embers of light for the day. Yet, it made no sense that the kneeling warriors could sweat as profusely as they currently did.
“You failed.” The statement rang within the domed sanctum. Two words that belied the disbelief and anger in the clergyman’s voice. Two words that seemed to add a weight to the ashamed line of agents and sent them bowing their heads even further.
“You had a simple assignment. Protect the Blessing. That was it. You did not have to research about it, locate it, quest for it and then bring it back with hordes of enemies nipping at your heels. No,” accentuating this, the priest, who was standing at the pulpit with his back to the adherents, whirled about, his voice increasing in octaves. “You had to stand guard. Keep an eye out. On a single room. With a hundred of you. So how could you have failed so miserably?”
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The air was now wrought with the seething anger of the First Priest, his chest heaving furiously at the sheer incompetence of the Temple’s Inquisitorial Guard. Not a single paladin dared to raise their head or move an inch from their stillness. Only the Captain of their order, standing 3 arms away, could rightfully pledge their case.
“What say you, First Cloak, hmm? Why did the Inquisitors fail the Temple?”, spat the priest.
Given leave to speak, the grizzled old veteran raised his head. Scars adorned the man’s visage, but it was the jagged monstrosity that emerged from his forehead, gnarling its way through his right brow, eye and resting at its cheek that gave him a fearsome appearance and the moniker of Dead-Eye.
The First Cloak placidly looked at the outraged Head of the Temple and sighed softly before replying, “Your Eminence, it was him.”
“Him?”, came the puzzled response. The First Priest mashed his eyebrows as he furiously cast about his brains coming up with the most potent enemies that the Temple had made before inquiring, “Him who?”
“Martus Thar.”