The sun hid behind the skies like a cowering child, allowing pleasant pink light to shine down upon the city below. Dawn had just barely cracked and already tiny songbirds dazzled the waking residents with their voices. The birds of Ghaul chirped especially well, a known fact in Deruina, also one of the many reasons the inquisition’s insignia was a Sparrow. People cracked their windows allowing fresh, dewy air to fill their lungs. The Blackstone streets were still empty, absent from people and animal alike, after all the day was still young. But, despite the calming atmosphere encasing Ghaul’s upper district of Rensward, something still managed to feel off. A disturbance in the weave? Perhaps. But, a greater guess would be the man trudging through the street, lazily placing one foot after the other.
He wore the colors of Gray and gold and bore the insignia of a Sparrow on a metal pauldron that sat just on top of a long black cloak that draped down to his knees. Now that the light shone brighter, the man could be recognized as High Inquisitor Isaac Holt. In his left hand, he carried his silver mask which was still dripping blood that had yet to dry from earlier that morning. A hazy memory for him, but imaginably quite clear for the lesser inquisitor he had bludgeoned just hours prior. A disoriented face sat in place of a casual expression. As he stumbled down the street, he slid a pair of circular glasses on, brushing back a portion of his crimson-stained, navy blue hair.
His metal bootstraps rattled as he walked, a sign that they would need to be repaired after last night's conflict. What had he been thinking? Bludgeoning a brother of the inquisition? It was foolish at best. His whole life he’d tried to follow orders, and now? Well, now he had done it. If his head was still on his shoulders by midday he would be shocked, but there’s always worse punishment, he already imagined what that was. Though for now, all he could do was go forward, forward to the hall of questions, forward into Arch Lector Mormon's grasp.
People had gawked at him the entire walk there, sitting high on their window sills, curtains of white and lavender silk hanging comfortably. The buildings became more lavish as his feet continued to trace the black brick. Homes constructed of white stone, pristine, uncracked, and well kept filled with the pompous elite that populated Rensward. Shimmering vines of ivy hung from them, adding color to a palace almost as bleak and lifeless as its inhabitants. From the outside, it was quite the scape, a sight for the sore eyes of wanderers, passerbys, and merchants alike. The Casamer Palace grounds were quite something, what that something was would be left unsaid, but something nonetheless.
Marble pillars sprung into the air, and clung to both the ground and the grandiose cathedral in which they upheld. The black bricks that had paved the road were now nothing but white as the path became narrow. Statues of people that were important to the egos of noble sons and Lectors alike were spaced evenly and precisely, exactly fifty bricks apart each. Lorrin the Ember, Urimette the hand, Garrothis the leg, Morriseth the arm, Illimon the head, and Balor the body. A morbid way of titling, but then again inquisitors weren't known for their care and kindness. Two gilded braziers were placed generously between each statue to illuminate such alluring features as the bloody head Illimon held proudly in his hand, and who could bear not to see the expertly carved hands being crushed by Urimettes boot.
Inquisitor rangers became a more common sight the closer to the large cathedral Isaac walked. They sniggered as Isaac passed, knowing the sorts of wretched punishment that would be bestowed upon him by the three Arch Lectors once he walked the grounds of Casamer. Many others walked the grounds of Casamer as well, besides the inquisition. Servants and Seamstress, Mages and Masons, all employed by the Lectors. Usually, no one enters a snake pit unless they know how to charm, and judging by how most of them were common folk, they did. Their smiles of self-admiration were plentiful, and why wouldn’t they be? After all, they worked for the most powerful people in the land. It was pitiful. Not that Isaac had felt any different the first time he had walked through the gateway to Casamer, he’d smiled too. What a fool he was. The high marble walls, and the gilded arches, all a trick of the light.
The pathway then came to an end as the white bricks of the path turned into the polished marble patterning of Casamer’s own grand cathedral. The walls rang out with the soothsayers, choir, and monks all hyming rhythmically a song which Isaac knew by the name of ‘The Burned ones of Ester’. An unnerving tune about Vicar Lorrin, the first ember, Founding Lector, and slayer of Hyde; burning his family to ash for treason. A proper mouthful of titles for a man alive so long ago, and a rather dark tune to hymn at a church procession. Row upon row of expressionless faces, that sat upon heads, that sat upon inquisitors, that sat upon benches that faced an altar in the center of the room. Stood in front of it, Arch Lector Daven, leading the tune.
Isaac released an exasperated sigh as he turned towards the stairs, an ugly stack of spiraled stone that sat in the corner of the room, out of the way from everything else, unlit by torchlight. The inquisition didn’t much care for its upkeep as it was rarely used, most inquisitors never broke their oath nor needed to repent, the only reasons anyone would ever be summoned to such a place. Isaac had been there three times prior.
The click of his boots echoed as each stone passed under his feet, the slate walls a blur as he quickly rose the steps, not wanting to make his punishment more severe with his tardiness. He crested the top, and nodded to the inquisitors at either side of the doorway. His footsteps had lost their booming echo some time ago. Before him, had been a short hallway, stocked with torches that cast orange radiance along the black slate walls, recently lit. On his right side, there were three windows placed evenly along the wall. From the inside, you wouldn't even be able to tell this was Casamer. It's usual white and gold color scheme, replaced with the black of the walls, blue light from the windows, and the occasional orange glare from torches. It felt like a flameless winter whilst he stepped forward. His nose had become red, and breath visible as the wave of relentless cold hit him. The reason for the torches, no doubt.
He gazed out the windows, searching for something else to look at other than the four guards that stood like statues outside the large wooden door that led to the hall of questions. Isaac knew that behind that door sat Arch Lector Mormon, a face that was not welcoming nor kind, and Elm, a face that would not be welcoming or kind as soon as Isaac got his hands on him. Isaac wished his rage still burned, he might've been able to keep warm had that been the case, but oh well. He gulped as his clammy hand wrapped around the iron knocker. His left hand was so tense that his stringcaster felt ready to fire off at any moment.
He exhaled releasing a cloud of steam as his hand flung down, letting the sound of iron on wood ring throughout the hall, loud enough for Mormon to hear from behind the ten inches of wood. Shifting was heard behind the door, as well as the sliding of a chair and the smack of a desk.
“Allow yourself in, Inquisitor Holt,” An older voice commanded.
He pushed open the door, its rusted hinges creaking as the mold-infested door swung open. It made a crash as the slab of wood smacked harshly against the wall, rattling the door and causing Isaac to flinch. The sound of small pebbles and dust hitting the ground was quiet as blood rushed to Isaac’s ears. It felt as though he had immediately stepped upon a great mountain, the kind from the old wives tales that ‘reached to the heavens. Mountains that high? Bullshit. Every sound became muffled as a grand pressure levied against them, staying for but a few moments before subsiding with a painful pop, causing him to slightly recoil.
He had now officially entered the snake pit, except he couldn't imagine snake pits being in the tundra. Surprisingly the moment the door swung open and the uncomfortable pressure subsided, it was the cold that took the mantle of the thing most grating to him. It was even colder inside the hall of questions than the hall to reach it. It was no longer a simple chill, but rather frostbite. He immediately stuck his hands into his coat pockets. The same coat that had previously collected beads of sweat nearly every day wasn't even close to the amount of clothing he wished he’d come equipped with.
His eyes darted around the room. Every single object, from the bookshelves that surrounded the ring-shaped room, to the angular desk in the center, to the thin sheets of parchment lying on the moldy tables that were coated in a thin veneer of frost. Isaac never thought he’d see that day that there was snow in Ghaul, but low and behold, there is a first time for everything.
Sitting at the triangular desk in the middle of the cramped room was Arch Lector Mormon, a persecuting hatred perpetually filling his eyes. His chair had been crafted of old red-dyed leather, its legs rotted and weakened with age, a fitting chair for Mormon. Standing politely next to the Arch Lector was Elm, the rotten bastard. Elm’s face was covered by his silver mask, no doubt with his throat tightened by anxiety. Fucking coward. However, Mormon’s cold steely eyes drew him away from the glow of the weave lines illuminating the mask.
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Issac meekly stepped forward before the cripple, eyes straining as the birch flooring became a sore sight. He kneeled, removing his glasses as a sign of respect. The air in the room went still. Alone, the only feeling one could manage while kneeling on frosted flooring, before a man that could have your head on a spike within the second. Alone, what you felt when no one could protect you from a fate worse than death, the thing Isaac had feared ever since he’d entered the Casamer palace grounds for the first time, ever since he took his oath to the inquisition, ever since he’d been given shelter, a home some would call it. But, ever since then the thing he feared most, was demotion.
Mormon rolled his cane around his hand, “God, boy. Fucking stand.” His voice oozed with command.
Isaacs' body lifted itself off the ground, “Of course,” He quietly whispered.
The room's frost-filled pressure weighed heavily on his bruised shoulders, the stoic expression on Mormon's face providing no comfort.
Mormon stared coldly and shifted his eyes to a paper in front of him, “ High inquisitor Isaac Holt, 1st of the Gravedigger regiment, and hero of the Triss, you stand accused of the slaughter of one of your fellow brothers.” He stated robotically. He shifted in his seat, “Have you anything to say? Anything to plead?”
Isaac lifted his head, struggling to meet his gaze, “ Guilty.”
The cripple's eyes didn’t so much as seem shocked, “I see.” He sharply inhaled, “Well then,” The old man twisted his neck to the side to face Elm, “ Low Inquisitor Elemer Guiess, please recount the events of last night that lead to the death of Rinley Morr’n.”
Elm cleared his throat, “ It all started when Rin and I were making our rounds, we received a message from our company leader,” He motioned to Isaac, “He alerted us of a fiend down by the plaza, so we began our chase. We eventually met up with Isaac Holt and continued the chase together. We were coming up on a fork in the road when Isaac launched into the air via a street lens in his legs. He landed on top of the buildings and Rin called him, annoyed admittedly, but deserved-” Mormon motions for silence, “I'll be the judge of that. Focus on an objective recount,” The cripple says resting his hand on the table. “Yes, apologies Arch Lector.”
“Rin’s web was then severed by Isaac Holt. The two of us, Rin and I, decided to head directly for the plaza as we felt a large presence of mana. We arrived there within a minute. Isaac Holt jumped down from the rooftop and then got into an argument with Rin. The two argued until interrupted by an explosion from a nearby bakery. Two civilians stumbled out of the building, burning. Isaac then, out of nowhere, engaged the target in direct combat. With the use of his stringcaster, he was able to defeat him,” Elm shifted his stance and cleared his throat. “ Me and Rin then- Uhm, w-we witnessed Isaac bludgeon the target’s face in with his silver mask,” He paused, glancing over at Mormon. “ Continue! We don't have all day.” Elm looked back up pointing his head in Isaac’s direction. He stood there quietly with his head down, listening to the story of the previous night being told back to him as if his first time listening, as if his first time truly realizing what he had done. “Rin then attempted to pull Isaac away. That was when Isaac turned around.” Isaac’s eyes went dark and his mouth agape, “He tackled Rin to the ground- then… then proceeded to repeatedly bludgeon his face in. Inquisitor Rinley was unrecognizable.
Isaac did not move for a long time, approximately ten minutes whilst I was there, and sometime after.” He turned his head to Mormon, “That is the complete recount of last night's misdoings.”
The old man drew in a sharp breath, inhaling the frosty air of the room. He held it for half a second before exhaling, sending a cloud of steam out of his mouth. It covered his face like the mist in the wharf, covered buildings. The cripple then gently placed his hands on the table, touching them together, like he’d had a great victory. When the cloud dissipated it revealed a slight grin on the old man's hardened face. Hardly fitting. Hardly usual.
“Mr. Holt, do you regard everything that Mr. Guiess has said as truth?” He asked.
Isaac’s mouth hung agape, he stared wide-eyed at his hands which were folded neatly at his belt. Shocked clearly, with a hint of genuine guilt. Everything in the room slowed to a crawl, like honey dripping slowly from the bottle. Hundreds of questions were raised in his mind about the night before, it had all been so confusing and hard to believe. One moment he’d been sitting under the fountain, cowering from the explosion, and the next talking to Elm as he sat crouched above the pulped corpse of Rin. He couldn’t confirm anything Elm had just said, and after all the inner workings of his mind had finished, he was left with one final question: why are the books in the room all the same shade of green?
“Hmm?” The old cripple stared at him, his grin long faded. Had he just asked that out loud?
“Inquisitor Holt? Keep your damn wits about you for a while longer. You’ve been standing there like a fool for god knows how long and the first thing you say…is something as mindless as that? What does it matter the shade of decrepit literature, answer the fucking question!” Mormon said in a huff.
Isaac shook his head gently from side to side, readjusting to the room. What had Mormon asked again? But despite the confusion, an answer was warranted, “Yes.”
The room fell silent as Mormon adjusted himself comfortably in the red leather chair. He glanced over at Elm who stood there, the cold beads of sweat being frozen at the neckline of his cloak, probably grinning ear to ear under that mask of his. Then looking back at Isaac, his face solid and bushy gray eyebrows raised, “Good, then it’s settled.”
Mormon then cleared his throat as if he’d been waiting for this all day, which he probably had been. Execution, hopefully. Isaac waited for the words, the hope that a swift death was in order swelling throughout his mind as he stared absently at the ground, this time with his mouth closed, and lips pursed.
“High Inquisitor Isaac Holt, you are hereby sentenced…” The words were veiled in anticipation, Elm with execution on the mind, and Isaac with an opinion all too similar. A heavy breeze entered the room, and all of his limbs felt sluggish and heavy as if even a slight movement would cause strain. The rifle on his back weighed on his bones, and the vibration of his stringcaster as his hand shook rattled them.
“Demotion, three rank.”
Even the sound of howling wind silenced immediately as the words were uttered. The frost layer covering each thing in the room seemingly faded. Isaac raised his head inhumanly fast and stared at Mormon with a mix of shock, anger, and fear. Elm also turned his head quickly in Mormon's direction. It seemed that the cripple was the only one satisfied with the outcome. Typical. He rolled his cane around in his hand as glanced at the both of them staring, both wanting answers, both at a loss for words.
“Inquisitor Holt, you have risen our ranks from rookie, then Low inquisitor, and you now sit comfortably at High Inquisitor, you will be demoted to the rank below the first.” The old bastard said with his mouth curled into a grin, sniggering all the while.
Isaac felt his hand raise quickly; jabbing a finger at Mormon, no longer feeling that weight apparently, “There is no rank below rookie, what would become of me?!”
“Put your finger down boy, I’ll have no complaints from you, You have admitted to murder and treason, I’d have you hanged had the other Lectors been here. Unfortunately, it seems Daven could not muster getting his fat arse up the steps, and Serra seemed busy attending to her dead gardens like some gothic fairy! Consider yourself lucky that you stand before me with your head”
“I’d have preferred if it wasn’t!” Isaac shouted in retort, his fingertip still vigorously staring at Mormon.
“Well, then it seems that punishment is fit after all. You seem woefully discontent with the outcome, which is quite the point of punishment. I’d consider this a job well done. I'll hear not a word more of it from you. Do you know how many men get brought here, less than three a year, it seems you’re attempting to break a record on that front since for the last two years it had been you! Nothing but you! We’ve given you so many chances to keep yourself in check, and it seems this time god has run out of forgiveness. Demotion beyond rookie is unheard of, so I've even generously invented a process for it,” Mormon’s nose twitched as a large breath of air swelled his chest, giving Isaac a moment to think as well.
This was everything he had feared, the worst possible outcome. And for what? What was the purpose of Rin dying, it didn't help anything at all, looking back on it; it was indefensible. He had murdered someone in cold blood and these were the consequences. Even just a minute ago, whilst being told what he’d done, the life that he’d taken. Books? Fucking books? That's all he could think of? Really?
“You will be brought to a holding cell where you will spend the night, then in the morning you will be brought to the cathedral where there will be high-ranking inquisitors whom you may be selected to work under.” He paused, “If you are not chosen by any of them; you’ll be removed from the inquisition outright. Consider this a final forgiveness.” The words were hammered in like a blacksmith to scalding metal. This really was his last chance, and he couldn't say he deserved it. Elm glanced back from the Arch Lector, biting his tongue no doubt. The glint of his silver mask shone light glittering from the single window in the room. Orange light, the color of betrayal.