It was a silent sort of day as they huddled together next to the fireplace. The run down tavern was quiet as the bar tender kept an eye on the door. The lot looked haggard and miserable as they ate from the wooden bowls in their hands. One grumbled, "What are we going to do?"

The barman looked to them for a moment, his mouth turning down in a deep set frown. The one had spoken had a bandaged up arm and was missing an eye. He continued, miserably, "It tastes awful."

Another of them said, irritable, "Shut up. We all know damn it."

The injured man growled, "When will we get some actual relief."

"I will throw you into the street myself if you don't fucking shut up," A burly man snapped back. The group sat quietly as they continued to eat. The food was barely more than a thick paste; only the occasional piece of tough meat changing the texture of it.

  "But he's not..." A smaller member of the group began to talk, but his voice faltered. A horrid burn ran up the youth's face. The burlier man put a hand on his shoulder, a deep frown on his face.

  The barman looked at the lot and then back to the door, his eyebrows furrowing. Through the heavy door stepped in a cloaked man, sword at his side. The air stiffened as the group looked to the man, their eyes universally widening. There on the man's chest was a symbol none of them had thought to see again. A circle of blue chains with a sword through it sat bold on his chest.

  From behind the bar, the owner cautiously eyes him, saying, "That's not a good thing to be wearing, friend. Are you trying to get the attention of the inquisition?"

  The man brazenly walked up to the bar, his eyes sliding to the group by the fire for a moment. He asked, "Don't you all think it's weird?"

  With one more glance at the men, the stranger turned to them as the bartender nervously eyed him. In the silence, they all looked back at the man they'd known for many years at that point. The odd man held out his hands slightly, saying, "The clergies have abandoned us here! Our town is left to fend for itself!"

  The barman asked, "What's got into you, Vince?"

  "In me? What about you? You would all let the demons and monsters and our possessed kin wander our old fields? You all know what the symbol is supposed to mean." He said, determination in his voice.

  The stronger of the men back, "One that the Hound of Sorrow wore, the very traitors who helped bring about this all?"

  "The prophecy said he would hound the world to repent. I was listening to Georgius. He was near Garnalt that day. He was at his brother's farm house. We all know this. He had seen the Hound FIGHTING the demons. The contritioners were following him to try and save the city! Yet the clergies were nowhere to be seen!" He declared, vehemency rising in him.

  The one eyed man got up and asked, bitterly, "And what, you plan to get them all to come burn our town for heresy? Go die and leave us out of it!"

  Vince turned and shouted, "So we should just die slow then? How many of us already died to disease and hunger since the start of winter? How many of our young men need to stand shivering on our wall? The women, the old, and the children all have left long ago to the city. We don't even know if any made it, damn it all! You want us to just let this all happen?"

  There was a heavy silence as no one said anything. Shame, regret, sadness, anger all sat in some amounts on their face. Finally he said, "There's nothing left here. Our farms are gone. The Hound is said to call the world to repent, right? Well I've damn well heard the howling. Any of you not coward enough can meet up with us at nightfall."

  WIth that Vince turned and strode out of the tavern. The one eyed man sat down, returning to his food angrily. The rest sat in silence. The smaller one with a burned face stared down into his horrid food; a tight frown formed on his face. WIth a shaking breath, he stood suddenly.

  "You ok?" The burly man asked, suspecting his voice. Touching his burn, he turned, walked over to the bartender, and set the bowl down on the counter.

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  He said, his voice shaking, "I...I'm sorry."

  Shocked, the lot watched him hastily walk out the door. The one eyed man grunted, "Well, guess he's dead then."

  The muscular man immediately punched the man, who fell to the floor with a clatter. He dumped his food on the sprawled out man and dropped his own food, saying not a further word. With that, the large man stormed out. The one eyed man rubbed his check and cursed as the others went back to their food solemnly. One who had been silent muttered, "We're all dead."

  Marindol sat at the desk, disgust drawn over his face at the message he was reading.

"Dear Olfred Marindol,

  I do hope you are not angry about our previous encounter on that beautiful night. It's a massive shame upon me that you failed to enjoy the festivities. All the same, I would love to invite you to enjoy another such party. You don't need to worry yourself with travel, though. I will at some point hold such a wonderful event at the very city you are currently staying at. I know it's hard for such an elderly man as you, despite the shocking aptitude you displayed. Tell me, how is that holy weapon of yours? Would you also be so kind as to give me some idea how you managed that youthful combat? Perhaps you found something in one of the Old Empire ruins. I hear you clergy boys love to hide that stuff away.

  But, I must admit, I am going on a tangent rather horribly. I write primarily to inform you of a funny little bit of information. Did you know there is an actual group of individuals who have, of their own free will, decided to stand against the king and church? Such a horrible little group. Why, they even do so in the name of our dear friend Lord Alexander Moores. Oh, by the way, I hereby give Alexander Moores a Lordship.

  My dear brother may dislike that, but it is a lordship of Abnaltis so he can't really do anything. I hear they've gained some ground, despite my revelers deciding to dance with both sides. I do hope you will continue being the best of health.

  With all due Platonic Love,

  The Silent Watcher, Former Spy Master, Former Baron and Current Baron, Your Best Friend, Altgastir Montiquen."

  The old inquisitor took a deep breath and sat the paper down. He motioned the hooded figure that stood quietly there. The figure nodded and said, "We are still trying to find the hideout they are using, sir."

  "I dare not imagine what they are putting the poor girl through. Misana's empathic nature is a practical banquette for demons, even if they are unable to possess her. Redouble our efforts," He grumbled, considering carefully what game Montiquen was starting here.

  It was clear and blatant provocation, but the twisted man never did anything for mere pleasure of it. No, it was all about the middle bit. Was it gloating that he had not found out about it? How would the man have found out? The inquisition had become extremely cautious. Why out his own allies otherwise? He shook his head and asked, "Any more info on the cultist courier?"

  The hooded figure said, "None."

  Marindol rubbed his eyes and looked at the letter again. It was handed to the very man before him by an otherwise completely normal courier. With a wave of his hand, the man left the old inquisitor. Perhaps this was a diversionary tactic. Yet surely Montiquen wouldn't use Alexander as a diversion again?

  He tapped his finger on the desk as he muttered, "I'll have it looked into anyways. For better or worse, I can just let such a blatant threat go without checking."

  Carefully he stood up and walked over to the window. The snow covered streets were empty of all activity. A deep frown formed over his face as he thought back to that day long ago. Then, he carefully touched the cold glass as every single face filtered back to him over time. He muttered, his voice calm but morbid in it's tone, "Whatever it takes to help the people. That was always our way. Alexander, do you believe in your actions too?"

  The Hound of Sorrow had tried to kill Morgan. That was the massive flaw in everything that was happening. Why help the baron and lady Lura'mi bring about these actions? If he had gone mad in these months, why did they still let him roam freely? The old priest looked at his hands as he frowned. He muttered, "Had I known, I'd have done worse. The threats must be stopped. Was I so wrong?"

  Slowly, he curled his fingers in and made a fist. All the destruction such champions had committed had been proof that they were right. It was like leaving an explosive in a hospital and hoping it just wouldn't go off. Yet, still he couldn't deny to himself that guilt was ever lasting.

  To save lives had always been his goal. Yet what price had they paid for them? Havar was younger than he was and had always desired to help people more directly. Of all the people, Marindol knew Havar deserved to pay the least out of all the inquisition. The clergy of the broken one deserved it far far more. Yet, he stood alive instead.

  With a sigh, he returned to his chair and pulled out a pen and paper. Even with all his doubts, many more lives would be lost if he did nothing. Worse, though, was that the dark age was clearly coming. That, out of all potential futures, was one he would not be able to just idly let happen. Marindol muttered, "Once we have captured Alexander, I'll be able to talk to him then anyways."