One of the many empiricists collected around him turned his way, gave him a sharp, disbelieving look before turning back to the one who had cried wolf. “Oh, no. Oh no no no. You are not pulling this shit in front of the honourable Captain. And even if he did some shit like that, who cares?! Didn’t we all agree that former allegiances and wars would be put on hold in this world?”

The man on the other side balled his fists together. “...What he did isn’t something that can be forgiven. Didn’t you hear how the keepers spoke the Language of Mould with him out there in the hall? If it was any other heathen cult it could have been forgiven! But that one-, you can’t stand on the side of such a disgusting heathen for this! How did he even escape the Basement? The number of seals we put down there…”

Something clicked in Kreig’s mind. He’d never seen the names or faces of those who locked him up. He had allowed himself to be sealed up, but those feelings of belonging left him too soon.

Vengeance. Yes, a freezing cold vengeance took hold of his chest.

For the first time since being surrounded by these filthy imperialists, he moved. He took steady, careful steps towards this man. This man who kept him locked up for twenty straight years. For once, he put the man’s features to mind. His skin was slightly tan, as all imperialists were, and though his eyes were brown, they were significantly lighter in colour than most, the rim of it having an almost golden. A crooked eagle-nose capped off by a scar on his nose. A former soldier, perhaps even chief of one of the guard sections.

A strong, large build. Though not as large as Kreig’s. And when Kreig had come close enough to him, the whole room muffled by a choking silence, this difference in size was all too obvious.

The man looked up at him, his face twitching in a fear that had awakened only now. There was a reason why Kreig wore restraints while everyone else wore nothing but ankle bracelets. There was a reason his jumpsuit was orange instead of their domestic blue.

There was a reason the Empire had sealed Kreig in the deepest dungeon they had, in the Basement where only a single monster could dwell.

When this man had left with his little army and his conviction, Kreig had still been kept down there. Safe and secure.

Clearly, he hadn’t been willingly released.

He had escaped.

“Inmate Wiedemann, refrain from harming your fellow prisoners.” A voice spoke on the giant metal collar Kreig wore, and suddenly, life and presence returned to his eyes.

“Ah… Sorry.” His voice was softer than what anybody in the room would have expected. There was an underlying strength to it, but in the most superficial way… It wasn’t hard. Not scruffy. Almost sweet. That was all he said. He left the man and lumbered over to an unpopulated table, where he sat down. Alone, and unbothered.

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Yet, the silence that had smothered the whole room was only lifted a full five minutes later. The people who had previously stuck to Kreig now shyly returned to their seats. Cards were picked back up. And somehow, everyone knew not to talk to the giant in the room. Even those who didn’t understand a lick of German knew that this man was not one to be messed with. At least, that was the case for all but one.

He hadn’t been sitting alone. In fact, he’d been sitting with the Empiricists, but with his blue eyes and blonde hair, he stood out a fair bit. Even then, he spoke his German well and he wasn’t making a fuss.

Until he stood up and tip-toed over to Kreig.

“Hi,” he said. Kreig did a double-take. “Forgive the intrusion. Have you any objections to my presence? ...No, I assumed as such,” he said, flashing a small, uncertain smile before sitting down. “Surprised, aren’t you, my Lord? Yes… I would suspect as such. After all, I speak the Language of Mould, don’t I? Horrible nickname.” Kreig simply stared at him. This man who had not only approached him, but done so while speaking English of all languages. “You must be wondering how they came to accept an anomaly such as myself.” The boy glanced over at the other people in the Lower Lever with such unbridled fondness that Kreig couldn’t help but listen to every word he spoke.

“I arrived before… Before the Holy War. And the resulting Unholy War. Never in my 24 years could I have ever assumed that our religion could commit such atrocities… But I knew my new comrades down here would never commit to deceit such as lying to me. I trusted them as I trust them now. Though… I must be honest with you, my Lord. You, the second of the Five Bodies… the sole survivor of the Holy Order of White Roots… You have been my only hope. The others have accepted me these past ten years, but every time a new one arrives, the stories told of you are… more and more outlandish.”

Kreig’s eyes softened. “...I’m afraid what you’ve heard is true.”

Kreig chose not to elaborate on what parts were true. He didn’t want to hear this man recount his days. He’d already done that once on this green Earth, and having to hear it again… He’d rather avoid it.

The young man looked at him, frowned meekly, and rose once more. Watching the one person in the world who praised the same God leave felt like a betrayal of the soul. But it was necessary. He could not retain such a relationship, where he was ‘my Lord’.

Being above someone… For some reason, he hated the thought of it. After all, he did not deserve such a title.

He sat alone for three hours, and then he was brought back to his cell. Craig asked him if he’d had any fun, and Kreig didn’t respond. Back in his cell, he spent his time wisely by drawing the people he’d met. One portrait of the former devotee. A sketch of the people crowding around him. A detailed drawing of the man who incarcerated him. For a brief moment, he considered drawing something unsavoury about the Empiricist who got him stuck down there, but after a few moments of thought, he decided upon another subject.

A round table, a deck of cards, a bunch of people from all the different tables and ethnicities including the boy believer and the Empiricist, and then… himself. All together. But, somehow… It felt off. The smiles on everyone’s faces were off and there was no true light in their eyes. He was doing something wrong, something that his Artistry skill wasn’t able to fake for him.

Something he had to do himself.

He reinvented his drawing. He had to think. Had to add true feelings. There was no warmth and no softness. But he could add that. A few well-placed strokes. Warm colours. The people touched each other. Had their arms on each other’s shoulders. People showed different emotions. And varying degrees of emotion. One man was upset at losing, another patting him on the shoulder and laughing. One was concentrated, another peeking at his cards. All of them were happy. The boy believer was happy, the Empiricism was happy, and… And he, Kreig, was happy.

Artistry reached Rank IV

Artistry (IV)

Rank IV: Evoke emotion

Rank III: Greater anatomy, perspective, shading

Rank II: Greater colour and design

Rank I: Stable hands, smoother lines