“You stand accused of betrayal of the inquisition. What do you say in your defense?” The room was filled with a dour, oppressive silence. It hung in the air like sickness, a tenseness that pressed against the human mind. A man in ragged clothing, beard hanging to the floor kneeled before three regally dressed men. The room was lightly decorated, fitting of the temporary logistic centers set up by the Empires advance forces. One of the three old men stroked his beard, staring down at the kneeling figure.
“I’m not lying! My statement was the truth!” The empire scribe cried out desperately. Still, he didn’t dare raise his eyes to meet a member of the inquisition.
“Enough. I’ve read your statement. You’re telling me that a boy slaughtered an imperial platoon?”
“That was no boy. It was a monster. It… it was smiling as it ripped apart our men. Not just once, or twice. It didn’t stop when they were dead, or when it was covered in blood. It cut them into pieces.” The scribes breath fell ragged, as he collapsed from his hands, grabbing at his hair. “It didn’t stop at our soldiers. It killed everything that moved. There was nothing left in that city. Nothing left....”
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The elderly inquisitor leaned forward. “And then you return, years later, the only living member? The one without any military training?”
“I hid. I watched them all die. I had been travelling with them for years, city to city. I watched them torn apart in front of me, locked in a closet, as the village burned around me.” he shuddered.
“And what did he wield?”
“What?” The grovelling man finally looked up.
“What did he wield?” The old man spoke, his voice tinged with impatience.
“I… I’m not sure. I don’t remember. It was like he tore them apart. He was too fast… like a beast.”
“I’ve heard enough. Execute him.” The man looked up, beginning to shout. His ragged, unwashed beard clung to his skin, even as his head rolled from his body.