Ulfast fumed as he stomped through the smoke and mud. He'd been brought low by trickery and sin. The last day had been a litany of trials. They’d been sent to intercept some Knight Errant, who knew of the Hidden Divine Realm. This coward had robbed him of the opportunity to show the Paladins his power. He'd heard them bragging that they were sure to prove themselves in glorious combat against some demon bear that had emerged during the realm's purification.

The Inquisitor hoped a show of power there would stop them from spreading those foul rumours that stained his honour. No matter how accurate they were. Even worse, the pair he’d dragged along they’d then had to abandon. The Knight Errant, a known heretic called Gawain, had proven elusive, and his fae monster would’ve outpaced them if they’d let the Paladins weigh them down. He had enjoyed dropping them off and telling them to let their faith guide them.

That tended to shut down most complaints. Who wanted to imply their faith was not enough before an Inquisitor?

Now, his faith was being tested. His mount struck down, his ally apparently useless, and a witch mocked him. The Clergy would complain about the mounts, and his soul burned from shattered rites but it was their fault for picking ones that were so slow.

All of that meant he felt justified in showing the true power of his faith. A divine lightning coil formed about him, and burst forth as he unleashed the full force of his technique, ‘Fountain of Truth,’ spread out. The screaming white tongues lashed out, shouting aloud the wrath of his god.

He felt someone in the blinding smoke fight his technique, the taste of the corrupted divinity familiar. It was the Knight Gawain who’d led them into this loathsome trap. He'd been caught by the attack. The man's use of water and wind had consumed much of his blessing's power, having proved frustratingly effective at redirecting his lightning. Still, the man was now tired and weak. He would fall. Ulfast pressed his will and felt the man buckle, the Knight retreating before him.

He now had to be patient, this technique's one downside was that it anchored him in place. The seconds passed as he was forced to reel the arcs back in, stretching out the time before he could deliver final judgement. The holy light returned to the divine plane as the arcs settled down, and Ulfast turned to smite his wounded foe. He would slay the Knight first then the rest of these insolent scum, returning their stolen divinity to its rightful place. The very thought that they thanked the accursed Fae for its power and not the Guiding Star rankled him. It spat in every face of their god. He wished to draw out their sins, to wring them out of their sobbing forms.

A blast of flame and a shout demanded he be quick. He’d told Marcus his faith had always been weak, and this pathetic performance proved him right. Struggling against some lone Errant Knight. It robbed him of the time he deserved to take out his rightful anger. He took a step but halted. The Divinity of Mercy was surging again, he must be on guard!

The witch was back. What fresh trickery awaited him? He’d been wise to abandon his mount. He still wasn’t sure how the witch had slain it or altered its mind but he was Ulfast, chosen by the Ray of Truth. He would stand like a rock before this storm, an immovable rock before their petty tricks.

“Ulfast the Ugly, he’s a sight to see,

Scares all the maidens and even men like me,

With a face like a troll and a heart so cold,

Ulfast the Ugly, so the tale is told,”

Ulfast felt his jaw drop, his march pausing as the jaunty tune assaulted him. He’d been insulted often. In fact, as an Inquisitor, when he asked questions he felt he was doing his job wrong if those who sought his absolution didn’t insult him at some point. It generally came right before they started sobbing.

Those spat hatred and vitriol, oft cursing him, his mother, and all Inquisitors. A lot of them focused on his looks, he took extra pleasure in seeking the truth from them. None though had got under his skin as much as the little musical sting at the end of that verse.

Still baffled, he barely had to think to push off the mental influence of the foul sorcery. Its influence was weaker than the maudlin song whose echoes had barely died out. That had been a threat worthy of a choir of the dead. Behind it, he knew some great witch worked a spell against him, he'd prided himself on bucking that power. This song didn't try and dominate his mind, no its main threat was far more insidious. It spread through the smoke just as the last had, deadening his divine senses. The acrid air was again infused with the blessing of Mercy, enough to foil those powers that let him track those with the blessing. Worse yet, being a witch, his target wore no steel to guide his blessing.

The indignity continued. While the first had sounded like the refined instrument of their great foe, this one was just a peasant tune, sounding like a bawdy tavern song. He could practically hear mortals clapping along to it, stomping their feet and laughing at him. So baffled by the abrupt shift, the next verse began before he could silence it. A pulse of lightning sought the voice, aiming to expose the witch who mocked him.

“He tried to join many a merry band,

But none would take his hand,

With a voice that croaked like a dying toad,

He brought woes even to a lonely road.”

The lightning crashed into nothing. The barest hint of a shadow dancing away added to the mockery. The smoke was filled with flashes of different blessings. Even with the blessing of mercy infusing the smoke he began to sense others. He felt the Blessing of the Choir, used by to fill the Clergy's cathedrals, and there were also hints of a strange blessing that reminded him of the moon. This was not one witch, but an entire coven who sought to bring him low!

Of course, he should’ve known! One witch was not enough to challenge him so! They were weak and had to work together, relying on deceit and treachery. A shadow formed from the smoke, Ulfast readied his blade, but it was just more tricks. The smoke writhed and began to play out scenes to insult him. A pox-scarred and bulbous face, so foul it'd be an insult to the puppets peasants used to tell their stories, floated before him. It spat something at him. Reflexes fired, and he tried to carve it out of the air. Only to realise it was an illusion of a frog. The witches would die!

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Ulfast was a powerful, pious man. He walked the path to become a Grand Inquisitor one day! He was twice blessed with one of the two great instruments of Truth!! He would not suffer these corrupted liars to live!!! The witches would be smote!!!!

He could feel his eye twitching and he spat the froth from his lips. The Ray of Sacrifice was shining bright on him this night.

The next verse started and used his Levity technique to dash towards the source of the sound. Ignoring the risk of dashing through the smoke. His faith would guide him.

“In taverns dark and inns so bright,

He drank alone every single night,

For Ulfast's charm was in such lack,

Even the ale turned its back.”

Riding the majestic lightning, he neared a silhouette. Flooding the area with the Weight of his Faith, equal to any Witch’s Evil Eye, he immobilised his prey. The shadow quivered, and his blade slashed.

A trap! Rather than carving his way through blood and bone, he cut into through fabric. His momentum carried him into a void of darkness. The light of Marcus's fire quenched by something that surrounded him on all sides. Sparks gathered and for a second Ulfast panicked as a great horned elk loomed over him. He lashed out with 'Truths Brand', a technique that drove lightning-charged glamour along the edge of his blade. The sword brought down the elk, and with it the walls of the tent he'd been lured into.

Another trick! a hunting trophy the witches mocked him with. How well had they prepared for this assault? The music continued as he cut his way free of the heavy fabric.

“One day, he caught a witch of great might,

Asked for a brew of beauty to cure his blight,

They struck a deal, and she took a look,

But even the witch, in terror, shook.”

Lies! His face was manly and stern, his voice was majestic and powerful, and he had many, many, friends. The most heinous lie? He would never deal with a witch! He hunted the voice, his lightning crashing into hidden pillars of stone, lighting up smouldering trees or disappearing into smoke. The voice capered about, the Mercy blessing masking his movements, and sending whisps of corrupted divinity floating about him, the spirits chuckling at his misfortune.

“He sought love in every town,

But the ladies laughed and turned him down,

With a nose so bent and eyes so crossed,

Even his betrothed found ways to be lost.”

“You wretch, you heretical scum. You dare insult the Inquisition!” That last line hit a fresh wound, empowering him with waves of his god’s wrath. Ulfast poured his power into his divine technique, ‘Many smiting lances,’ launching five bolts of power to cage and slay his foe. The foul voice bounced erratically from place to place but it could only run so far.

The thunder roared, and the music went quiet. Shadows moved and twisted in the smoke. He pressed his divinity into the attack calling down the ray of truth to slay his foe. He heard things crack and let out a wry smile. Silence was his reward. A smile, a handsome, dignified smile graced his face.

“Ulfast aid me, the infidel gathers his power.” A wavering shout came from Marcus and a great gust parted the smoke. It finally wiped the irritating cloak from the battlefield and with it his smile. His last strike's only victim was a trio of smouldering trees. No witch in sight.

Laughter bounced around him. The witches toyed with him, taking his focus off their true mission here. He snarled, forcing himself to abandon the witch and head over to aid his pathetic companion. The weakened Gawain, his original target, had long since retreated.

Now the battlefield was clear he was more willing to use Levity. No one wanted to run into a planted blade in the smoke. He dashed over only to immediately retreat as a chunk of stone launched itself at him. He gathered his lightning, truly the Face of Truth tested him today, the enemy was an Earth blessed.

Ulfast sought to shake off foul magic that had angered him. He must, as it seemed this fight would require his full attention. The heretic was a giant, a man perhaps warped in some foul pact with the fae. His armour was of fine make, and he’d shed the heavy coat of stone he’d worn earlier. Now his armour was complimented with floating hexagonal plates of stone, ready to block fire or lightning. A crystal and earth blessed. A worthy test of both their blessings.

It had certainly been a great test of Marcus. His fellow Inquisitor was wounded in many places, his armour dented, his holy raiment torn. Ulfast spat, a disgrace, to think an Air blessed could be so pushed by—OH RAYS he was fast! The hammer came at him like a meteor. Ulfast had to use his lightning to pull himself away. Pressing his power into Levity allowed him to zip far beyond the monster's great reach.

Ulfast, now well clear of the monster could see his well-timed strategic withdrawal was a perfect aid to Marcus. He capitalised on his foe’s divided attention. The other Inquisitor sent out a lance of purifying flame. Only for the monster to use some cursed technique to glide backwards like a rock skating over a frozen pond. Dodging the flames, draining more of the holy power. His ally's supplies must be nearly extinguished.

Ulfast reserves were also now limited. Even with the immense power of a twinned gift, use had been heavy and his prayers few. He’d repeatedly sought to use his blessing to bring down Gawain, but it was all a trick to exhaust him for this fight. That and so far in this battle his use of his blessing had drained it enough to require great prayer to restore. It was far more than he’d planned to use but he was hunting an entire coven over here!

Ulfast didn’t have time for this. He had witches to torment. He clasped at his relics and blessed artefacts. He had a collection of tools for heretics whose corruption deserved unique focus. The Rays were wise and provided additional aid to deal with foes. Using them would still be his failing, a mark against his faith that his power was not enough. No, it was Marcus’s fault he must do this. The guileless fool couldn’t even purify one heretic when Ulfast fought a coven!

"Looking for a mirror, Ulfast? If you’re so keen to torture yourself, let me help! Your life’s the real disgrace. Three betrothals but no wife? I heard the last left you waiting at the altar!" The barbed voice whispered directly in his ear. He slashed about himself with his sword, eager to silence the witch. His only achievement was carving through a fresh pillar of smoke that had formed beside him. No evidence of the witches' presence remained, bar a strange grey plate that fell out of the smoke, crumbling into ash as it hit the floor.

“How dare you, Witch? Did you whore yourself out to the demonic fae for such secrets?” Ulfast screamed, ignoring how his voice cracked. How did the witch know of the betrothals or his most shameful moment? The wench’s insult was a secret. The Clergy had promised him those vile, repulsive, terribly accurate rumours were being suppressed! The witches had too much knowledge. They must die here and now!

“Brother Ulfast, help!” Ulfast turned, already snarling at the fool to hold on. Just in time to see the man get dragged out of the sky by a whip of water and slammed into a growing field of earthen spikes. Two heretic Knights turned to look at him. Ulfast felt the rage take him. It was not his fallen comrade that inspired such vengeful wrath. No, what sent his blood boiling, pushed his lungs to howl, and spurred him into a reckless charge was the third figure.

Over the fresh corpse, a Fae demon emerged from the freshly gathered smoke. A twisted figure, clad in red and black, with a harlequin mask. Fingers strummed on a lute, threatening to make it speak.

Artefacts forgotten, target found, Ulfast charged the monster who knew his secrets most foul. Lightning crackled, but it wasn’t enough to drown out the final verse.

“Now you know of Ulfast, poor and dim,

Let's toast the end of one so grim,

May we all remember, as we sing and cheer,

Beauty's a curse when it's nowhere near.”

The hammer flattened his chest, ending his howl. Whips of water dragged his lightning from its path. Ulfast fell, landing half-dead on the floor. His last breaths bought him enough time to see the smile on the lips of the demon as it finished its performance.

The lights went down, stars blotted out by a rapidly descending shadow.