Buren ascended the Central Citadel's stairs, Flynn at his side. The steps were alive with activity, a mix of the King's guards and the Faith's personnel. Knights in shining armor, unyielding Inquisitors, and solemn clerics intermingled with the royal sentinels, forming an imposing defense against potential threats.
In his Knight of Penance attire, Buren melded seamlessly into the throng. He overheard a familiar voice, one he recognized from the previous night. The guard, who had been aghast at the gruesome scene in the advisor's chamber, was approaching. The man came straight for him. Buren prepared himself as the man drew closer, readying his pre-planned alibies for the night before, as well as devising ways to silence the man in a way that would hopefully look like an accident to the many onlookers, as long as they weren't paying direct attention. However, to his relief, the guard passed him without a hint of recognition, sparing only a cursory glance at the Gauntlet. Buren relaxed, reassured that his identity had remained concealed during his covert mission.
As they reached the uppermost level of the Citadel's tower, where the King's bedchamber lay, it was the Faith who controlled access to the area. Their presence was even more inescapable than the lower levels, their scrutiny unrelenting as they assessed each person who approached. They had been briefed about Buren's arrival and directed him to the quarters of the King's closest attendants, adjacent to the royal suite. Buren noted how barricades had now been erected on this side of the bedchamber's door as well, to keep the thing inside.
Inside the servants' quarters, now devoid of its usual occupants but teeming with clerics, Inquisitors, and the occasional Knight of Penance, stood Grand Inquisitor Ruelle. Engrossed in her documents, she seemed impervious to the surrounding commotion. Yet, as Buren and Flynn entered, she whispered, her gaze still fixed on her papers, "Everyone out. I need a moment with the Bearer of the Gauntlet."
The room emptied swiftly. Flynn gave him a questioning glance and Buren nodded towards the door, and the squire exited as well, although not without a sigh and a drooped posture.
Once the door clicked shut, Ruelle's frustration became evident. "What a Flooded mess," Ruelle hissed. "Just what happened last night? I expected a report on my desk by dawn, and after seeing the remains in the advisor's quarters it seems you are the only one of the team in any state to give me one. Although one man is missing."
"I wouldn't expect him to show up," Buren said, thinking of the man who had disappeared in the warped hallway. He explained what had taken place in about three curt sentences.
"I see," Ruelle said. "At least the mission was successful in getting rid of the advisor, although we can't be he's gone for good. Who knows what dark forces he served, and what they're capable of. But there are more urgent matters to figure out, and your services are needed again."
Buren waited, attentive.
"Our scouts' observations align with your account. To glean more, our Clerics must approach the creature. For their safety, it must be incapacitated. You're the best man for the job. The quicker we get this done, the higher are our chances of containing the knowledge of this, which is easier said than done when the bellows of that things shake the Citadel itself. Even the threats of my Inquisitors don't keep the servants silent forever: someone is bound to talk, even when it risks them their tongue, and we hope to have dealt with this situation by then."
Buren listened intently.
"And keep in mind that you're simply to stop the creature from being to much of a threat to the clerics," she added. "So break the limbs you need to, bind it with shackles, but you're to no cause any damage that could lead to Duriel's death, and while he is connected with the beasts, it is to remain alive as well."
Straight away, Buren saw the difficulty of his task: the beast would hardly so him the same consideration, and with the thing's anatomy being so unnatural, he could never know which parts harbored important organs and arteries, so he would have to keep the damage he inflicted superficial. He would have to handle it with velvet gloves while it would be free to tear and grapple with the full strength of its claws and tentacles.
Buren though he had kept his face neutral, but Ruelle, practiced in more interrogations that could be found in the public record, saw through him, reading miniscule movements of his facial muscles. Or so Buren deduced when she remarked, "I see you're not pleased with your position, but maybe it will cheer you up to know that being part in such a high-priority mission is sure to bring you closer to being named a full Knight Commander."
Before he could even acknowledge her insight, she continued, "That's what I like to see. Now get to work. It should cause you no trouble to take the scenic route into the creature's lair." She gestured towards the open window.
Approaching the window, Buren collected the chains and stakes intended for detaining his quarry. While the Inquisition scouts had rigged ropes for swinging from one window to the other, Buren opted for a direct approach. He launched himself through the window, the once-lavish draperies, now stained with dried blood, billowing in his wake. He rose gracefully to his feet.
The creature was near the door, relentlessly assaulting the barricades, some of which were already showing signs of wear. While parts of the monstrosity acknowledged Buren's presence, its collective consciousness seemed fragmented, as if composed of myriad entities. This disjointed awareness allowed Buren a brief respite to strategize. He needed to incapacitate its more formidable limbs and secure it to the room's sturdiest fixtures. After a swift survey, he sprang into action.
With the Gauntlet's might, he hurled a stake into one of the creature's many joints. As it pierced the flesh, the attached chain followed suit. The creature groaned in a cacophony of voices and turned toward Buren. He now had its—their?—undivided attention. It came for him, but Buren launched himself at the ceiling, grabbed hold, and flung himself over the beast, clearing it easily. He grabbed the stake, which was now covered with slimy blood that itself writhed when he looked at it closely, and drove the spike deep into a wooden barrier.
The creature's approach was relentless, yet directionless. Its form lacked a discernible front or back, making its movements unpredictable. Buren slashed through its tendrils, clearing a path, and delivered a powerful blow to another joint, rendering it useless.
Buren had taken a risk by getting so close, but it had paid off. In addition to impeding its movement, he had located Duriel's head, now knowing which areas to avoid damaging too deeply.
An especially large eye bulged from its side, glaring at him. He grabbed a chain with hooks at one end and spun it wildly, then cast the hooked end at he eye. The aim of the Gauntlet proved impeccable once again and the grapnel caught on inside the bony socket. Nearby mouths bellowed in pain. Retreating to the chain's limit, he anchored it to the stone floor. The creature's resistance was fierce, but Buren's restraints held firm. He methodically immobilized the beast, ensuring its most potent limbs were rendered harmless.
With the creature subdued, Buren approached the pitiful sight of Duriel's face, grotesquely melded into the monstrosity. Nearby appendages clawed at the King, prompting Buren to brandish his sword. Duriel's eyes widened in terror, but he soon realized Buren's intent was to sever the assaulting limbs, not to harm him. Still, Duriel's countenance bore the weight of his torment.
Up close, the harrowing fusion of Duriel and the creature was even more chilling. The King's eyes were bloodshot, and his face was a pallid, sickly color. The veins beneath his skin throbbed with every pulse of the creature.
Buren's voice, deep and foreboding, resonated in the chamber. "Count yourself fortunate, Your Majesty. My patience wears thin, rescuing you repeatedly. At this moment, I could snuff out your life, and none would know if it was this thing or my own hand that dealt the killing blow."
Duriel's eyes shimmered with terror, and though he tried to articulate a response, only a strangled whimper emerged.
Unyielding, Buren pressed on. "If you're fortunate enough to be freed from this nightmare, I suggest you cease bothering me or face the consequences. Understand?"
The tension between them was palpable, the air heavy with unspoken animosity. Duriel stared back at Buren, his eyes conveying a mixture of fear and begrudging acknowledgment. He finally managed a weak nod, his throat constricted by the monstrous flesh that enveloped him.
Buren held the King's gaze a moment longer, ensuring the gravity of his words had taken root. He then rose, refocusing on aiding the Clerics in their examination of the monstrous entity ensnaring the King.
As Buren stepped away from the King, a thought crossed his mind. He realized that he had a unique opportunity to investigate the King's private chambers, a chance that might never present itself again. Seizing the moment, Buren deftly sliced off a tentacle hovering near Duriel's face. As anticipated, the ensuing spray of blood temporarily blinded the King, who let out a pained outcry.
Buren swiftly sifted through the remnants of a shattered writing desk. Amidst the scattered papers and inkwells, his discerning gaze sought anything of intrigue. He skimmed various parchments, pocketing those of interest.
He then inspected a series of lockers, unveiling not only personal belongings but also women's undergarments and some velvet ropes, blindfolds and like items that spoke of their regent's depraved tastes. Among these, Buren unearthed a collection of private letters. The thrill of discovery coursed through him; these correspondences could be invaluable.
Skimming the letters, he discreetly stowed the most pertinent ones. Though Duriel's vision was largely obstructed by the creature's mass, Buren remained vigilant, ensuring he remained undetected.
As Buren finished his search, he knew he had to act fast. He couldn't risk being caught in the King's chambers, rifling through his personal effects. With one last look around, he hurried out of the room, ready to report back to Grand Inquisitor Ruelle, his pockets filled with potentially crucial intelligence.
As Buren prepared to leave the King's chambers, he considered crushing the barricades and stepping out through the door. He imagined the surprise and intimidation it would cause the Faith's personnel guarding the door. It would surely leave an impression on them, solidifying his reputation as capable warrior, and everyone present would remember his as even greater threat than the repugnant monster, which was something he wished to signal to Ruelle, to keep her from becoming too arrogant in the intrusions she surely had planned for him.
With a nod of resolve, Buren opted for discretion. He retraced his steps, slipping out the window, and stealthily navigated back to Grand Inquisitor Ruelle. His choice favored strategy over spectacle, but he was confident in its wisdom. After all, his prowess was no secret to the Inquisition.
Upon his agile reentry from the window, Seraphine Ruelle inquired, "It's done?"
Buren simply nodded in affirmation.
She regarded him with a detached gaze, but her words were directed not at him, but at the subordinates who had reentered the chamber during his absence. "Construct a bridge from this window to the bedchamber, one that even the most timid clerics can traverse without plummeting or disgracing themselves."
The men acknowledged with a nod, dispatching runners to summon the necessary artisans and materials.
She turned her back, her eyes distant, yet her words were now for Buren. It struck him that her ability to mask her true intentions was so deeply rooted that it influenced her every gesture.
"I aim to limit the number of those in the know," she began. ""You're one of the few who has seen the thing with your own eyes, so I'm going to use you as much as I can. Guard the area. Should the beast break free or any unforeseen event transpire, you'll be on hand."
Her reasoning was solid, but Buren had resolved to question everything the woman said, no matter how convincing, and wondered what other, hidden motives she had. But he also knew not to think about his doubts too deeply, as she would undoubtedly read them on his face. As a result, he bowed, a gesture that both demonstrated his obedience and concealed his face—and thus his true emotions.
"This way, she knows exactly where I am," he realized as he thought about the issue while his face was still towards the floor.
"Very well," she responded, her footsteps silent as she approached the exit. "I'll dispatch a replacement when your vigil concludes." And with that, she glided away, reminiscent of a ship carried by a gentle nocturnal wind.
Soon, Inquisition-affiliated carpenters arrived, their aides laden with timber and an assortment of tools. They ascended the myriad of steps, their exertions evident. Buren assisted, facilitating the bridge's construction, acting as their anchor on the opposite side of the chasm they intended to bridge.
Hours passed as the work unfolded. The laborers' songs, hymns taught by Faith missionaries, harmonized with the rhythm of their toil.
Finally, the bridge was completed—an easy access point into the chamber, designed with a security mechanism that allowed it to be unhinged, causing it to drop in the event that the monstrous creature somehow managed to break free and attempt to squeeze through the window.
The chief carpenter, a burly man with a knotted beard and callused hands, made it a point of honor to be the one to test the integrity of the catwalk. He shook the wooden railing, tugged at the ropes that had been left for those needed extra balance, and alarmed his subordinates by jumping up and down heavily. They breathed a sigh of relief when the structure held. The carpenter gave the arch his blessing, took a swig from a flask in his breast pocket, and poured some of whatever was inside on the platform itself.
"I thought that ritual was reserved for ships," Flynn murmured.
"He's a traditionalist," a young carpenter replied. "If you asked, I'm sure he would tell you to call it Hannah. That's what he names all his works, after his previous wife."
"Good to see real craftmanship is not dead," Flynn said, nodding with appreciation.
Buren silently agreed, committing the man's name to memory. His plans would also benefit from a talented constructor.
Once Buren verified the chamber's security, the Clerics were beckoned. Three figures, each representing a different stage of life, emerged from the citadel tower: a man in his middle years, another bearing the weight of many years, and the last so ancient he seemed more specter than man.
Draped in billowing white robes, their attire bore the emblem of the Faith: a heart encased in a clenched fist, the design glinting with threads of silver and gold in the sun's rays. They bore hefty tomes and peculiar instruments, their satchels clinking with arcane devices known only to their order.
The middle-aged cleric was the first to brave the bridge, his eyes clenched shut and lips murmuring a prayer for safe passage. The elder cleric followed, his steps wavering with every gust, threatening to send him plummeting. Yet, despite the precariousness of his balance, he seemed unfazed.
Trailing behind, the ancient cleric moved with a deliberate slowness. His continuous, rhythmic chant melded with the whisper of the wind. Against the imposing silhouette of the Citadel, his fragile form appeared almost spectral, a phantom from ages past navigating the present realm.
The wind tugged at their robes and sent the loose pages of their tomes dancing in the air like ethereal birds. Yet, they pressed on, undeterred.
Upon entering the chamber and beholding the monstrous entity, a fervent debate ignited among the clerics.
"It's undoubtedly a curse," the middle-aged cleric asserted, his eyes a mix of revulsion and intrigue.
"Poppycock!" the elder cleric snapped, his voice quivering with both age and disdain. "This is the aftermath of a botched transformation spell."
The ancient cleric, however, abstained from the dispute. Instead, he requested a detailed description of what the others discerned with their eyes. Once provided, he calmly asked for a tissue sample.
All eyes settled on Buren, the sole individual armed and audacious enough to approach the beast. With a resigned exhale, he advanced, blade at the ready. He skillfully severed a small appendage, grimacing as he observed the creature's unsettling regenerative capabilities.
As he collected the sample, he realized something else: the severed limbs he had cut off earlier were nowhere to be seen. His eyes quickly scanned the room, spotting an arm with eyes on it, maneuvering up to the top of the fireplace.
He lunged forward just as the limb sprang towards the old Cleric. His hand closed around it mid-air, his grip firm despite the nauseating feel of its flesh. With a forceful throw, he hurled it against the wall, the impact strong enough to splinter its bones.
"That should stall it," Buren mused, observing the incapacitated appendage twitch feebly. He then presented the tissue sample to the ancient cleric.
From his satchel, the ancient cleric produced a device of antiquated design. Made of aged brass, it was a maze of cogs and gears, adorned with celestial engravings and mythical beasts. The craftsmanship was exquisite, a relic from a forgotten age. Embedded gemstones—emeralds, sapphires, rubies, and diamonds—glistened in the chamber's muted light. Glass tubes filled with vibrant liquids completed the arcane apparatus.
With unwavering concentration, the ancient cleric placed the tissue sample into the device and introduced a sequence of liquids into the tubes. As he manipulated a series of knobs, the device hummed to life.
The gears meshed in harmonious synchrony, and dials spun in response to the machine's arcane workings. Liquids danced within the tubes, their hues merging and separating in a captivating display. It was less a scientific endeavor and more a magical ballet.
The device's arm spun, blurring the engraved images until it hesitated between the depictions of a man and a daemon.
A soft flame ignited beneath a deep purple gem, its glow refracted by a series of mirrors. The resulting luminescence settled on an engraving of a moon nestled amidst stars.
The younger clerics exchanged puzzled looks. "I've never witnessed such a device," the middle-aged cleric whispered, entranced by the flame's ethereal dance.
The elder cleric's brow furrowed in consternation. "But what does it signify?" he inquired, his fingers clutching the hem of his robes. "I've never witnessed such a reaction."
The ancient cleric, seemingly untouched by the unfolding drama, ambled closer to Duriel. Raising a hand in a placating gesture, he rasped, "Forgive my intrusion, Your Majesty. I'd genuflect in your presence, but age has not been kind to my joints. The afflictions of time, you understand..."
For a moment, the room was filled with the ancient Cleric's chatter about his ailments, as he delved into the minutiae of his daily pains and discomforts. The middle-aged Cleric, growing impatient, stepped forward, cutting off the older man's rambling narrative.
"Your Highness," he addressed Duriel with a blend of authority and reverence, "might you enlighten us on what that advisor did to you?"
Duriel remained mute, his gaze flitting between the clerics and the enigmatic device. The room was thick with anticipation, punctuated only by the device's gentle hum and the soft flicker of the flame.
And then, with an air of finality, the ancient Cleric spoke. His voice was clear, his words definitive, as if a fog had lifted from his mind. "A pact was forged." His rheumy eyes settled on Duriel. "A pact with the mage to embed a daemon within. A bid for power, for renewed vigor. But at what price?"
The elder cleric's expression deepened with concern. "This is unlike any daemonic possession I've encountered," he mused, his voice resonating with gravity. "Typically, a full takeover by the demon results in a cambion—a hybrid of man and demon. But if the host neglects the necessary rituals, fails to satiate the daemon's cravings, they simply... deteriorate." His hands sketched ephemeral forms in the air, as if visualizing the countless cases he'd studied.
The ancient cleric, meanwhile, was engrossed in the device. His fingers, gnarled by time, traced its ornate patterns. "Observe," he directed, pointing to the luminescent purple gem. "The gem's radiance suggests an archaic power, dormant for eons. The light it casts upon the celestial engravings... it hints at malevolent intent or an otherworldly force—perhaps a confluence of both."
His gaze shifted back to the monstrous form that Duriel had become. "I surmise the advisor employed arcane methods beyond our ken. He enacted a ritual alien to our teachings, melding the daemon directly with Duriel's very essence. Their beings are now intertwined." He paused, his eyes scrutinizing the creature. "The advisor... he must have been needed to control the effect."
His rheumy eyes softened, becoming almost compassionate as he turned back to the suffering king. "Is this what happened, Duriel?" he asked, a note of empathy colouring his tone.
Duriel's eyes, awash with a blend of acceptance and dread, confirmed with a slow, agonizing nod. The weight of his choices, the gravity of his predicament, seemed to press down upon him, a burden he could no longer deny or deflect.
Buren studied the device, its purpose and mechanics still elusive to him, but its conclusions resonated with a chilling accuracy.
The middle-aged cleric's complexion drained of color. "This is an aberration," he stammered, his voice quivering. "Mankind and daemons hail from disparate realms, forged of distinct essences. Their union is as inconceivable as spirits melding with stone!" His gestures grew more animated, as if trying to physically grasp the enormity of the revelation.
"To accomplish such a fusion," he continued, his voice rising, "would mean altering the very foundations of reality itself. It defies the laws of nature!" His words hung heavy in the air, echoing ominously around the chamber.
The ancient cleric nodded, a twinkle of understanding in his rheumy eyes. "Reality as we know it, yes," he agreed, his voice soft and thoughtful. "But who's to say how reality functioned in the ancient times?"
The middle-aged cleric sighed, rubbing his temples. "We can delve into ancient enigmas later," he interjected, his voice regaining a semblance of its former authority. "Grand Inquisitor Ruelle expects a strategy, and that's our immediate concern."
The ancient cleric's eyes gleamed with renewed vigor. "I've already formulated a plan," he proclaimed, his posture straightening, a vitality infusing his aged frame. "However, I must revisit certain manuscripts at the monastery. We're on the cusp of deciphering a riddle that hasn't been confronted in ages." His voice quivered, not from trepidation, but from the exhilaration of venturing into the unknown.
"What are you waiting for, then?"
A chilling voice pierced the room, prompting every head to swivel in its direction. Grand Inquisitor Seraphine Ruelle stood framed by the window, bathed in the room's muted luminescence. Her entrance had been so stealthy that none had noticed.
Both clerics stiffened, their complexions paling under her frosty scrutiny. "We require further examinations," the middle-aged cleric stammered, clearly unnerved.
A hint of amusement played on Ruelle's lips. "Proceed as you deem necessary," she commanded, her voice resonating throughout the chamber. "I expect a comprehensive report at the Inquisition headquarters by dusk."
The ancient cleric, gathering his composure, stepped forth. "The younger ones can remain here for the tests," he proposed confidently. "I shall return to the monastery to delve into our ancestral scriptures."
Ruelle's gaze lingered on the ancient cleric, a momentary intensity in her eyes. "You do that," she said. "We need to approach this...situation from multiple angles"
She then shifted her attention to Buren. "Guard them. Ensure their safe passage to the Inquisition headquarters. We cannot tolerate any blunders."
Buren acknowledged with a nod.
Suddenly, a guttural growl emanated from the creature, its eerie resonance filling the chamber. All eyes were drawn to the source.
When they looked back, Ruelle had vanished, her exit as enigmatic as her entrance. Buren exhaled slowly. "She'd have been a formidable hunter," he mused, shaking his head.
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Buren hauled the only intact chair to the far wall, scraping its legs against the stone floor with a grating echo. He settled down, his gaze unwaveringly fixed on the grotesque entity that was once his monarch. The ancient cleric, his robes flowing gracefully, made his exit, his parting words a murmur about "primordial magics," with an assistant trailing closely behind.
The remaining clerics, their expressions resolute, began their intricate work. Chalked symbols materialized on the floor, forming a complex web around the beast.
Utilizing an assortment of lenses, they scrutinized the creature. Each lens revealed a unique facet of the monstrosity, prompting them to scribble notes or chant incantations that were foreign to Buren's ears.
Occasionally, they'd cautiously approach the creature, brandishing wands of varying materials. Their movements were reminiscent of maestros directing a macabre concerto. Whenever the creature retaliated, Buren was swift to intervene, neutralizing any emerging threats.
As the clerics continued their meticulous work, a thought crossed Buren's mind. He was in the midst of the clandestine operations of the Faith, surrounded by the very mysteries he had always been kept away from. This was a chance to gain some insight.
Buren cleared his throat, attracting the clerics' attention. "What exactly are you doing?" he asked, keeping his tone indifferent, like he was only making conversation out of boredom.
The elder cleric paused, a hint of mischief in his gaze. "We're conducting various tests, drawing from different magical traditions," he elucidated. "Our aim is to discern the creature's essence and trace the origins of its manifestation."
Buren frowned. "But isn't the Faith against magic? It is considered that no man should have that kind of power over their brothers," he said, recalling the many times he had heard such teachings.
The middle-aged cleric sighed, running a hand through his graying hair. "It's a necessary evil," he admitted, his gaze distant. "We use the tools at our disposal to combat the darkness, even if those tools are tainted."
The old cleric, on the other hand, let out a hearty laugh, his voice echoing off the stone walls.
"My dear boy," he said, wiping a tear from his eye, "it's not magic when the Faith does it."
There was a moment of silence as the old cleric's words hung in the air. His words echoed the very hypocrisy he had often suspected.
His curiosity piqued, Buren decided to press further. "These magical traditions you speak of," he began, his voice steady and measured, "do they share this knowledge willingly?"
The old cleric's mirth vanished, replaced by a grave, contemplative look. His eyes, still twinkling moments ago, now held a depth that spoke volumes of the weight of his responsibilities.
"No, they do not," he admitted, the corners of his mouth downturned in a somber frown. "When the Faith purges heretics, we extract as much information as we can from them."
"The Inquisition?" Buren said to keep the man talking.
The old cleric nodded, a grim acknowledgement of the unspoken reality. "Yes, the Inquisition handles the persuasion, for the greater good of all," he confirmed, his voice a low murmur.
"How is using magical means justified when the preacher declare at every street corner how it is to be rid from this world?"
"Because it's the only real alternative we have," the old cleric responded, his gaze distant, lost in thought. "Sometimes, fire is the only tool capable of combating fire, like when a patch of forest is burned pre-emptively to stop an uncontrolled forest fire. Similarly, we only use these magical means to eventually erase all magic from this world. As long as we toil towards that goal, are actions are exempt from judgement."
The unpleasant subject made him unwilling to share much more. "What I've just told you is on a need-to-know basis. Kept under lock and key, only shared when absolutely necessary. You're one of the order, but I'd still prefer if you kept this discussion to yourself."
Buren nodded. But the implications whirled in his mind. He could only guess how much occult knowledge was harbored in the Clergy's heavily guarded libraries and laboratories. With that kind of knowledge, and willingness to use it, who knew what the Faith was capable of pulling off in service of its final goals? Buren recalled the unidentified object they had found in the burial chamber of the ground-worshippers, which had been confiscated by a member of the Inquisition as soon as he had gotten above ground.
As the day wore on, the clerics took more blood samples, each time the crimson liquid was collected in a small, crystalline vial. They would hold the vials up to the light, studying the viscous fluid as it caught the sun's rays.
Finally, after hours of what looked like arcane experimentation, they stepped back from the creature. Their faces were etched with lines of exhaustion and their robes were smeared with chalk and blood. Yet, despite the physical toll, their eyes were ablaze with a strange, triumphant light.
"We've done all we can for now," the middle-aged cleric said, his voice hoarse. "We are as ready as we're going to be."
Duriel, who had been uncharacteristically silent all day, spoke up, his voice, hoarse and harrowed by the tortures of the day. The King, a monstrous fusion of man and beast, was a pitiful sight even to Buren's hardened eyes. The constant lashing and regrowth of limbs, the incessant coughing up of a bloody, viscous substance - it was a gruesome spectacle. Buren thought in passing how the best way to help might be as one helped a horse that has broken its leg and cannot get up: end its suffering.
"Can you help me?" Duriel's plea rings out, the desperation in his voice palpable. His words hang in the air, a desperate plea for salvation. The beastly half of his form thrashes in torment, but his human eyes beg for mercy.
The clerics exchange a glance, their expressions pensive, before turning back to the stricken king. "We will do all within our power, Your Majesty," the middle-aged cleric reassures, his tone measured. His words, however, do little to assuage the growing fear and despair etched on Duriel's face.
"I will grant anything...anything to the one who cures me of this affliction," Duriel promises, his voice barely a whisper between the hacking coughs. A tear streaks down his face, cutting a path through the crust of dried blood and filth, leaving a crimson trail on the pale flesh.
Duriel's gaze falls upon Buren, his eyes void of the usual hostility. Instead, they radiate a sense of defeat, a helpless surrender that gives Buren pause.
Rising from his seat, Buren meets Duriel's gaze head-on. He speaks with a blunt candor that is his signature, his words economical but forceful. "I'll help you, Duriel. Not because you beg, nor for a reward. But for stability of the realm."
He levels a pointed stare at Duriel, his words cutting through the grim silence. "You're the King. The land needs you... needs your rule, however flawed."
A glint of bitterness creeps into his voice as he adds, "You're a disgrace to your father's memory. I despise what you've become."
Buren's gaze softens, his tone shifting from harsh to resolute. "But the alternatives? They're worse. So, I'll help you. Not for you, but for the kingdom."
In the stark room, Buren's words reverberate, a solemn vow echoing amidst the grotesque spectacle of the cursed king and his monstrous plight.
Duriel, who first took his words like a slap to the face, seemed to relax a bit, his face sagging. Even when his hatred for Buren had not disappeared, he recognized him as his best bet for being saved, and having him help brought him some comfort.
With a curt gesture from Buren, the Clerics understood it was time to depart. They collected their strange array of instruments, packing them away with reverent care. The bedchamber, once abuzz with the peculiarities of their work, descended into an eerie silence once more.
Just as they were about to step onto the makeshift bridge, the middle-aged Cleric hesitated, turning back towards the monstrous bound figure in on the floor. "Are we... are we just leaving him like this?" he questioned, a note of concern in his voice. "Alone?"
Buren's reply was as icy as the night wind wafting through the open window. "He's not alone," he stated flatly. "He's got a whole throng of company."
With that, Buren turned away, striding across the bridge without a backward glance. His hard features were illuminated by the fading light, his determination evident. The Clerics traded troubled glances before following, their robes fluttering in the cool evening air. As darkness fell, so did the full nightmarishness descend upon the lone King once again.
Buren stood before the unassuming structure that served as the façade for the Inquisition's headquarters, his stern eyes raking over the stark lines of the building. It was a modest, low structure, lacking in any ostentatious display of power or wealth. To the uninformed, it was just another administrative building, a mundane cog in the vast machinery of the Faith, supposedly housing just leagues of shelves bearing records of the Faith's financials. A place for scribes to tally tithes, and for clerks to record the yields of the distant monasteries.
"And yet", Buren thought, "there's far more than meets the eye."
There was an austere strength to the edifice, a resilience born not of grandeur, but of practicality. Its doors were few and small, its windows narrow slits rather than grand arches. It was a fortress in disguise, designed to repel attack and to be easily sealed off from the outside world. A casual observer might miss these details, but to a veteran warrior like Buren, they spoke volumes about the true nature of this place.
"An ideal stronghold", Buren mused, "unimpressive on the outside, yet a veritable fortress within."
He thought of the other grandiose structures scattered around the city, edifices that were widely believed to house the Inquisition. Yet those intimidating, conspicuous buildings were nothing but decoys, serving to misdirect potential threats and to constantly remind the populace of the Inquisition's omnipresence. Only those with knowledge of the Faith's inner workings knew how things really stood.
"Smoke and mirrors," Buren thought with a grim smile. "The Inquisition's real lair is here, hidden in plain sight."
The fake headquarters had even misled him in the beginning, until his position as a Knight had made him privy to more information. More and more he recognized the Inquisition as using tactics he himself would apply on his hunts, like in this case having a hidden lair to watch the prey from. He had to admit that in these surroundings, they were on the Inquisition's territory, and they were the apex predator.
Buren led the Clerics through an arching tunnel that served as the entrance to the building. The tunnel was a cavernous maw of cold stone, its inner depths shrouded in half-light. No guards were posted, as one might question why they would watch over a humble house of records. Not that visible defenders were needed to keep a lookout. Small, dark windows were carved into the stone at intervals, and Buren could feel the penetrating gaze of unseen eyes scrutinizing them from the shadows. The sense of being watched was tangible, a prickling on the back of his neck that he knew better than to ignore.
Huddled near the entrance, a figure swathed in tattered cloth seemed to be a mere beggar. However, Buren's keen eye discerned the subtle signs - the vigilant glint behind drooping eyelids, the latent tension in the stooped shoulders. This was no ordinary mendicant but an Inquisition sentinel, artfully cloaked in the guise of destitution. Buren could only speculate how many such concealed agents the Inquisition had stationed throughout the town.
Upon entering, they were greeted by a grizzled official ensconced behind a reception desk. He was the very embodiment of tedium, his slouched form and languid demeanor bearing witness to endless hours mired in bureaucratic drudgery. His faded blue eyes held the weary sheen of one who had been inundated with paperwork and starved of genuine action.
"Present your permits for the documents you seek," he intoned, a rehearsed formality. Yet, a flicker of recognition passed through his eyes as Buren brandished the Gauntlet.
"We seek an audience with Ruelle," Buren stated, receiving a terse nod in return. However, the official's charade wasn't over. He slid a stack of papers towards them, indicating they should sign in.
The elder Cleric, ever impatient with such protocols, shuffled towards an alcove in the wall, illuminated by the dim glow of twin torches. "Engage the Flooded lever, Humphrey," he instructed with a hint of disdain. With a resigned sigh and an eye roll, the official acquiesced.
Hidden mechanisms groaned, and the wall pivoted seamlessly, revealing a passage beyond. The Cleric was quickly enveloped by the ensuing darkness, the mechanical hum and grinding stone marking his way.
"Proceed," the official motioned towards the concealed portal, barely concealing his impatience. Buren, approaching the alcove, discerned a discreet Inquisition emblem carved into the stone, perceptible only upon close scrutiny.
Sharing a brief glance with the middle-aged Cleric, they ventured into the alcove, the wall rotating once more to usher them into the clandestine bowels of the Inquisition's stronghold.
The ancient Cleric was already several paces ahead, his silhouette bent as he navigated the frigid stone steps. Buren and his companion exchanged a fleeting look before hastening to join him.
Walking alongside the old man, Buren caught snippets of his muttered grievances, which reverberated off the walls. "Cursed place," he grumbled, the chill of the corridor evident in his voice. "The cold gnaws at my bones. Yet, the lengths we go for knowledge..."
Seizing the moment, Buren broached a topic that had piqued his interest. "Rumors speak of prisoners held within these walls," he remarked, his voice echoing in the confined space.
The ancient Cleric's laughter, eerie in the stone confines, responded. "Indeed, the less fortunate souls," he affirmed, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Those from whom the Inquisition seeks to extract every hidden truth. They're brought here for arcane-enhanced interrogations. As are the... otherworldly entities we aim to comprehend. The specialized chambers for their examination lie within."
The middle-aged Cleric coughed pointedly, prompting the elder to bite back further revelations. Mumbling under his breath, the old Cleric pressed on, his breathing labored.
Buren's eyes roamed the dim corridors as they progressed. Stone-lined passages exuded the musty aroma of aged tomes and damp masonry. Offshoots from the main hallway revealed rooms brimming with desks, scrolls, and peculiar apparatuses. The omnipresent Inquisition insignias, whether carved, stamped, or suspended, served as a stark reminder of the formidable authority that permeated these walls.
From a nearby chamber, a familiar voice resonated, interspersed with fragmented directives and absent-minded ramblings. "Not that tome, but the one from the... ah, necromancers of the Floodswamps! The one bound in... frog skin, that's the one!"
It was unmistakably the ancient Cleric, engrossed in his scholarly pursuits, aided by the Inquisition's novitiates.
A young novice, his robe smeared with ink and eyes wide with trepidation, scurried from the chamber, arms laden with discarded volumes. His hurried footsteps echoed in the corridor, occasionally punctuated by a muffled curse as he tripped over the uneven terrain.
Within the chamber, the ancient Cleric was a tempest of frenetic energy. He was ensconced amidst a sea of books, each splayed open to reveal timeworn illustrations and dense script. They blanketed every conceivable surface, strewn across tables and propped open on lecterns. The air was redolent with the musk of aged parchment and the mustiness of time, underscoring the venerable nature of the tomes surrounding them.
A small army of novices bustled about, each striving to keep pace with the Cleric's erratic demands. Their movements were swift and purposeful, their robes whispering as they flitted between tables, retrieving and discarding books upon the Cleric's whims. Yet, their expressions bore the marks of bewilderment, their brows knit in consternation as they grappled with the Cleric's cryptic instructions.
The Cleric demanded one tome after the next, but while he knew what information could be found within the private library of the Inquisition, all the details seemed to have slipped his mind. Instead of providing clear titles or locations, he offered nebulous descriptions based on fragmented memories. This left the novices in a state of perpetual uncertainty, often returning with what they believed to be the correct book, only to be met with reproach.
The old man appeared largely unaware of their plight, his attention riveted to the pages before him. His finger traced an illustration, his murmurs punctuating the air. "The book with images akin to this," he gestured to a rudimentary figure sketched on a piece of parchment. "Authored by someone... the Third, or perhaps the Fourth? You understand, lad."
The middle-aged Cleric intervened, his voice slicing through the muddle. "He seeks the Illustrated Guide of Iconography of the Lost Peoples of the Valley of Skurm, penned by Hebarion the Third," he clarified, earning a sigh of relief from the novice and a nod of affirmation from the ancient Cleric.
"That's what I said, wasn't it?" the ancient Cleric mused, his focus still ensnared by the book. He blinked, momentarily disoriented. "Or did I? What was it again?"
The older Cleric exhaled deeply, his patience fraying. "Have you ascertained anything about the King's malady?" he inquired, desperation tinging his typically composed voice.
The mention of the King seemed to anchor the ancient Cleric's wandering mind. "Ah, the King," he pondered, his hands caressing the pages. "Devon was a noble soul. Equitable, just, and ever considerate of his subjects and neighboring realms. He did, however, set stringent boundaries for the Faith, limiting our influence. But his son..." He trailed off, his brow creasing. "What's his name again?"
"Duriel," the middle-aged Cleric interjected, his tone edged with irritation.
"Yes, that's it," the ancient Cleric said. "He has done away with practically all the limitations his father had in place, so it is sure to be a golden age for the Faith. But that's the only good thing my account in the annals will have of him. What a dolt! How is he, anyways?"
"We beheld his wretched state mere hours ago," the middle-aged Cleric retorted, his gestures animated with vexation. "You're tasked with devising a remedy for his...horrific transformation. You spoke of a daemon melding with his very essence, did you not?"
The ancient Cleric's eyes sharpened momentarily. "Ah, yes, Duriel. I have much to share," he declared, his voice echoing through the chamber. "If only I could remember what exactly it was."
The middle-aged Cleric, his patience exhausted, declared, "Our audience with Grand Inquisitor Ruelle is imminent. We must make haste."
"Of course, of course," the ancient Cleric concurred. "I shall require these volumes. Assist me." He gestured vaguely, and the novices, with resigned sighs, gathered as many tomes as they could bear, the precarious stacks wobbling as they navigated the corridors.
The middle-aged Cleric, his demeanor taut with the looming deadline, spearheaded their procession. The elder Clerics, aided by the novices, followed suit, their pace adjusted to their measured gait. Buren trailed, ever vigilant, absorbing every detail.
"Proceed," urged the middle-aged Cleric, gesturing towards the heart of the chamber. "The Tribunal awaits."
Buren arched an eyebrow in surprise. He hadn't anticipated encountering a court of law in these subterranean depths.
He trailed the Clerics and their retinue of aides into the tribunal chamber. The atmosphere within was dense with anticipation. He lingered at the rear, his gaze sweeping the circular expanse, absorbing its stark magnificence. Time-worn stone walls encircled them, their every step echoing on the chill marble beneath.
The chamber's design was acoustically masterful, ensuring that even the faintest whisper would resonate and be heard. Off to the side, mobile tables laden with maps and scrolls awaited use. But the room's focal point was a grand table, its surface awash with meticulously arranged papers.
An imposing pulpit, a judge's bench, loomed against one wall. Above it, a meticulously carved eye gazed down, its pupil a gleaming purple gemstone. The very air seemed charged with judgment, the eye's scrutiny feeling almost palpable.
"Trials convene here," the old Cleric intoned, his voice rebounding off the stone. "They don't last long, though. The verdicts have already been decided beforehand."
As if summoned by his words, Grand Inquisitor Ruelle emerged from behind a plush curtain. Her aura dominated the chamber as she gracefully ascended the dais, settling regally into the judge's seat. Her sweeping gaze silenced the room, signaling the commencement of proceedings.
She reclined slightly, her eyes appraising them from a lofty vantage. "Report your findings."
Her hushed command, though barely audible, was magnified by the chamber's design. It reverberated, enveloping them in an aura of quiet authority.
The middle-aged cleric hesitated momentarily before advancing, his fingers knotted in front of him. He cleared his throat, the sound echoing eerily. "Grand Inquisitor, our discoveries remain... nebulous," he admitted, his gaze darting between the gemstone eye and Ruelle. He swallowed audibly, the silence around him oppressive. "We... We believe further study is necessary, perhaps even consultation with experts from outside the city."
He paused, gathering his thoughts under Ruelle's impassive scrutiny. Drawing a steadying breath, he resumed, "Our current hypothesis suggests that King Duriel has transformed into... an atypical cambion. This is not a definitive conclusion, but our most educated supposition thus far." His voice waned, plunging the chamber into a tense hush.
Subtle movements and murmurs drew Buren's attention to the shadowed galleries encircling the room. Obscured figures observed from these vantage points, their identities concealed.
Ruelle, too, had discerned the stirrings of their concealed audience. "Elaborate," she commanded.
The elder Cleric stepped forward, exuding an air of scholarly authority. Though age had weathered his voice, it rang out with conviction.
"Typically," he began, fixing his gaze on a point just above Ruelle, "a cambion is birthed from the union of daemons and humans. Dark rites performed during gestation meld the essences of both—human and daemonic—into a singular entity."
He paused, his gaze becoming distant as he delved into his lecture. "The mother, the vessel, is usually either possessed herself or is held captive during this time, if the father of the offspring is the only one possessed. The resulting offspring carries a part of the daemon within them, inheriting some of their supernatural abilities as well as their inherent malevolence. They are essentially possessed from birth, never developing wills of their own. Free real estate for the daemon."
His gaze lowered contemplatively, his brow creased in thought. "However, in King Duriel's situation... if our theory is accurate... the fusion appears more profound, more... symbiotic. More seamlessly integrated."
The elder Cleric slowly raised his gaze to meet Ruelle's. "It seems to have transpired without any discernible control or guidance. This isn't a birth, but rather... a metamorphosis. A fusion of two entities into a singular being." His voice reverberated, the weight of his words ensnaring the attention of all present.
"And how might such an event have come to pass?" Ruelle inquired.
Both Clerics shifted their gaze expectantly to their venerable colleague.
When the ancient Cleric appeared momentarily lost in thought, the middle-aged Cleric prodded, "You discerned something in your examination of the ancient symbols, did you not?"
Novices approached, presenting pages from the tomes they bore.
A glint of clarity flashed in the ancient cleric's eyes. He leaned in, his voice animated. "The instrument we employed to scrutinize the creature has origins obscured by time. Its very name eludes us. However, the symbols inscribed upon it have crossed my path during my scholarly pursuits."
He paused, his fingers tracing an unseen pattern in the air. "These symbols have manifested across cultures and epochs. From subterranean caverns to towering peaks, they've been discovered etched in stone, carved in bark, and painted on archaic pottery."
He shook his head, a touch of wonder in his voice. "Every culture we've discovered them in has claimed the same thing - they did not create these symbols, but found them there when they arrived. As if the symbols were waiting for them."
His gaze locked with Ruelle's, fervor burning within. "These symbols, Grand Inquisitor," he asserted, his voice resonating with conviction, "may very well predate the Flood."
A murmur of astonishment rippled through the gallery.
"Absurd!" the elder Cleric retorted, skepticism etched on his face. "The device has been dated repeatedly. Its inception is decidedly post-Flood."
"But it could be," the ancient Cleric interjected, his voice calm yet insistent, "a product of knowledge handed down, remnants of wisdom from a bygone era."
A charged debate ensued, the clerics exchanging words with the fervor of long-standing colleagues. The atmosphere grew taut with the force of their contention.
"Silence!" Ruelle's voice cleaved through their dispute. The chamber stilled, every eye riveted on the Grand Inquisitor.
"While this discourse may fascinate scholars," she began, her tone icy, "we face an immediate crisis. How does this knowledge aid in reverting the King to his original state?"
The ancient cleric's demeanor shifted, a hint of optimism piercing the gloom. "The heart of the matter is that reversing the King's state is currently beyond our reach. The arcane methods employed are lost, their lexicon enigmatic. And the world has evolved. Reenacting the same rituals now might yield unpredictable outcomes, given the mutable nature of magic."
"But the advisor achieved it," Ruelle interjected, unwavering.
The middle-aged cleric swallowed hard, steeling himself before speaking. "We... ah... took measurements. Performed tests. There was a... a power within the King's quarters. Still is. An echo, a resonance that... that causes reality itself to quiver."
"And what does this imply?" Ruelle queried, her gaze sharp as a blade.
The cleric took a deep breath. "These anomalies... they suggest that the advisor wasn't acting alone. Something else... something powerful... was working through him."
Ruelle's piercing gaze settled on Buren. "Is this true?" she demanded. Buren met her scrutiny and nodded.
Ruelle's voice was steely. "So, you're asserting that the answers elude us, potential informants are beyond our reach, and you're powerless to aid the King? That you are, essentially, redundant?"
In the chamber's dim light, the middle-aged Cleric's complexion shifted to a ghastly pallor, the weight of Ruelle's accusation pressing heavily upon him. Yet, the ancient Cleric responded with a soft chuckle, his demeanor unshaken. "Oh, I didn't say we were useless," he corrected, his voice light. "I said we can't turn him back. There's a difference."
Ruelle's piercing gaze settled on him. "Clarify," she commanded.
The ancient Cleric leaned on his staff, his voice taking on a storyteller's cadence. "Long ago, there existed a civilization, now buried by the annals of time. When one of their number neared death's door, they would transfer their essence into a younger, healthier body. In essence, they achieved a form of immortality, albeit in ever-changing guises."
His eyes gleamed with enthusiasm. "And the body they received, well, it was based on how they had lived their lives. Good deeds were rewarded with bodies that had been treated well, given the best nutrition, plenty of exercise, and the utmost care. But those who committed evil acts, well, they received bodies that had been poorly nourished, bound tightly to cause deformities. Like many cultures describe how the way we live is judged in some kind of an afterlife, only with these people the judgment came in this world, and from people they had lived with all their lives."
The ancient Cleric continued, seemingly lost in his own world. "Those who were originally born into those bodies were seen as temporary custodians, caretakers until the real master returned."
Ruelle's voice, sharp and impatient, sliced through his narrative. "Your point?"
The ancient Cleric continued, his words a gentle cascade of information. "These people, whose name seems to have inconveniently slipped my mind. How unfortunate that my usually so trustworthy memory would fail me at this moment..." He trailed off, his fingers tapping thoughtfully against his staff. Buren, the other two Clerics, and the novices exchanged disbelieving glances.
The ancient Cleric cleared his throat, continuing, "They eventually met their downfall, not from war or disease, but because the rituals that had allowed them to transfer their souls, to empty the vessels they were born into, mysteriously ceased to function."
His eyes, though cloudy with age, sparkled with the thrill of storytelling. "They believed it to be a curse, that they had angered some deity. It led to a witch hunt of sorts, accusations thrown about, trust shattered... It was the beginning of their end as they turned against one another. They believed one of their own had grown jaded or vengeful, and as they had lived together for innumerable generations, there was a lot of blame to go about, a lot of axes to grind. In short, everyone could, and would, be suspected as the culprit."
He paused, drawing a deep breath, his voice gaining momentum. "Yet, ancient arcane scholars, corroborated by my own research, suggest a profound shift in the very fabric of reality. The universe's constants became... more constant. Reality solidified."
The chamber's atmosphere grew thick with anticipation, every listener hanging on his every word. The ancient Cleric's voice, filled with conviction, rang out. "The anomalies we've detected within the Citadel mirror those of ancient records. Reality, it seems, has become fluid once more. And within the Citadel's apex, we might find the key to the once-deemed unattainable."
The room was rapt, the very air seeming to hold its breath. The ancient Cleric's voice, filled with passion, continued, "Utilizing the rites of this long-forgotten civilization, we might transfer young King Duriel's essence into a pristine vessel. His salvation could be within our grasp."
A hushed awe permeated the chamber, and all eyes turned to Ruelle. After a moment of contemplation, she finally spoke, "When can this ritual commence?"
At this, the ancient Cleric threw back his head and laughed, a deep, booming sound that reverberated off the stone walls. "Perform it? My dear, the rituals are as lost as the people who created them!"
The galleries erupted in a tumult of voices, a blend of shock and disbelief. Even Ruelle's typically stoic visage contorted with surprise. "Then why," she thundered, her voice slicing through the clamor, "would you even hint at such a path if its execution lies beyond our reach?"
The ancient Cleric's response resonated, clear and unwavering, amidst the palpable tension. The room's collective ire seemed to merely glance off him as he prepared to elucidate his audacious proposition.
"In my younger years, when I was a mere spry septuagenarian," he began, a playful glint in his eyes, "I approached our revered Inquisition, seeking resources for an expedition. My ambition was to delve into the ancient territories these forgotten people inhabited, to sift through the sands of time and uncover their concealed wisdom."
His eyes roved the chamber, capturing the undivided attention of his audience. The room, now hushed, awaited his every word. "Regrettably, my plea was rebuffed. The Faith's patriarchs failed to recognize the merit in probing the failed arcane arts of a long-extinct civilization. They deemed it futile to investigate a society that had receded into history's shadows, especially one whose magic was documented as having waned."
His voice grew somber, his gaze settling on his gnarled hands that lay on the table. "Yet, the tides have shifted. The ancient knowledge is now our King's sole beacon of hope, and the prospect of reviving these archaic rituals is once again tangible."
His eyes locked onto Ruelle's, burning with unwavering resolve. "I've safeguarded the maps and the lore, ensconced in the recesses of my study. If we embrace this chance, embark on this long-contemplated journey, we might unearth the keys to decode these elusive rites and redeem our King."
The ensuing silence was thick, almost palpable. Every gaze was riveted on Ruelle, awaiting her judgment. After an agonizing pause, she finally responded, her voice resonating with authority.
"Your request is hereby approved," she declared, determination evident in her voice. The chamber seemed to breathe a collective sigh of relief. "When can you depart?"
The ancient Cleric's answer was unexpectedly blithe. "It will necessitate a few weeks," he stated, "I have a manuscript awaiting my review, and my niece's upcoming birthday celebration. And I mustn't forget my long-overdue pedicure appointment."
A sound of exasperation escaped the old Cleric. "We cannot afford to dawdle," he pressed, "Our readings indicate the anomaly's diminishing intensity. Like an echo fading when its source is silenced. We are racing against time."
Ruelle nodded, her gaze sweeping over the assembly. "Assemble your necessities and make ready to embark. Time is a luxury we do not possess." Her eyes settled on Buren, laden with the gravity of the task ahead. "You are to spearhead this expedition. Its success hinges on your leadership."
Buren acknowledged with a nod, his thoughts introspective. "Once more, an unsolicited burden is thrust upon me," he mused. "Fitting, I suppose, that it comes as a decree in a court."