"I still don't know how I let you talk me into this. Especially since you barely speak Lomanian!" Voletne once again retied the cording that served as a belt around the black tunic. Benold rolled his eyes and grabbed them, tying them tightly which elicited an unmanly squawk from the rather wilted looking Volente.

After another muffled protest, Benold squatted down in front of the tied up man in his small clothes. Gagged, bound, and groggy, the old man was a poor sight to behold. This only caused Benold to grin at him, delighted to get the man back for the stab wound. Nevermind he was the aggressor in that scuffle. As far as the governor of New Karebryn was concerned, he was right in taking matters into his own hand, if it brought him closer to Trosyn.

Volente, however, had constantly shown he had other ideas on the matter with critical looks and constant sighing. "I don't think this will work. Anyone will know I don't belong here the moment they see me. And robbing an elderly man of his clothes? I just feel sick all over. Where are my salts! I need my salts."

Benold rolled his eyes as the researcher searched his satchel for some small glass vial which he opened and sniffed. Benold finished covering the tied up man with branches and leaves just outside the gate. Then he grabbed Volente's skinny arm and pulled him along. He let out a yelp in protest, nearly dropping his precious smelling salts.

Every step brought pain, but Benold was used to it by then. They re-entered the gate, locking it to keep the priest, or whatever he was, out should he manage to get out of his bindings. The two marched up to the front doors, and working together, they both pulled the doors open. Volente hesitated, but was helped along by a not so gentle shove.

The antechamber they stepped into was rather dreary and stark, with hewn stone walls and granite pillars. Other than the bronze oil lamps ensconced to the walls, there was very little colour. However, just beyond, through a grand, two storey archway, a chapel of sorts could be seen, with vibrant red and yellow light streaming in through a massive stained glass window, the likes of which Benold had never seen before. The only coloured glass he'd ever seen before was brown or green.

Rows of stone benches were lined up, with two aisles separating them. Natural light streamed in through high, narrow windows along the sides of the wall. There was a platform and an altar at the far back, with unlit candelabras placed upon two alcoves. The whole effect was simultaneously grim as it was ostentatious.

Benold approved.

However, he could not waste his time admiring the architecture. The pain in his heart spurred him to turn away from the place of worship down one of the two connected corridors, leading to the flanking wings.

"Do we split up?"

Benold furrowed his eyebrows at Volente then gave him a deadpan stare as reproach for not using phrases he understood.

"Oh... uh.. I go here..." Volented pointed down one hall, "...and you go there?" he made a walking motion with his fingers and pointed down the other.

Benold shook his head. He held up his hands, then clasped them together, and then with both hands he gestured to the corridor on the right. His heart raced as he took a few steps. Something felt oddly familiar about the way the light hit the cold, grey stone. Benold paused, waiting for Volente to take the lead. With a sigh, the fraudulently attired researcher complied.

Feet scuffled on the hard stone floor as the two made their way slowly down the corridor. It was eerily still and quiet, leaving Benold to wonder if an ambush lay in wait. He did not entirely understand the purpose or nature of this building, or the people in it. He peered into one of the doors while Volente tip-toed ahead. What he saw was a dusty room with a table, bench, and alcove cared into the wall large enough for a cot. Bits of hay were strewn on the floor and the table lay bare and unused by all, aside from spiders.

Slowed by his limp Benold did his best to catch up with Volente, whose breathing was audible. "Oh, calm down, you lily livered buffoon. You have a knife to defend yourself with if it comes to that," Benold whispered in irritation, although he knew the man could not understand him. It was somewhat liberating to not have to choose his words carefully.

Once they were halfway down the hallway, Benold heard voices. Women's voices in harmony, carrying a sombre tune heavy on the minor keys. Volente looked over his shoulder to catch Benold's eye, pleading as if he desperately sought unspoken permission to turn back. Benold shook his head and urged him forward with a sweeping gesture of his hands.

The melody grew louder, echoing off of the staid walls. Eventually the turned the corner and saw three doors at the end of a much shorter hall. One of them was left open, and flickering light streamed from inside. Volente again stopped and looked over his shoulder, opening his mouth to say something, but Benold quickly put a finger to his lips to silence him, and pointed to the open door. Looking as though he might ball, Volente smoothed out the black clothes he wore and stepped forward.

"Ask where Trosyn is," Benold urged quietly when Volente haled a third time, just before the threshold.

"This is a terrible idea. They'll know I'm not one of them."

"Ask!"

Volente cleared his throat and wiped his hands on the skirt of his tunic before poking his head in. Benold stood back, out of direct view of the door, listening carefully and looking from whence they came in case anyone else took up the rear.

"Ah, beautiful praises. Yes. Good afternoon, Godwives."

"Hm? You're a new face. Are you from the country?" a low, crisp woman's voice spoke, suggesting to Benold a woman of advance years.

"Ah, yes. I'm from a chapter outside of Beste."

"Beste? Ah, you must be from Poconnio," a younger, lilting voice filled in.

"Odd, we weren't expecting any Godmen from the interior. What business do you have in Floratti?" inquired the matronly voice.

"Well, it's something of a story, if you have the time."

Benold rolled his eyes and placed his hand over his forehead. There was a distinct lack of Trosyn's name being mentioned, and he was growing impatient. A sharp pain reminded him, as he shifted his weight to his injured leg, that he was working at a disadvantage. This prevented him from nudging Volente meaningfully with his boot.

"We do."

"Well, a childhood friend of mine from Beste sought me out for help. And although he is Lucidian, I agreed to hear him out. He fretfully told me about a woman he'd been corresponding with in Floratti that went missing. And you could say she was in quite a delicate situation, if you understand my meaning."

The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

Benold grit his teeth as he listened, trying his best to pick out the gist of what the old fool was saying.

"I think we do. Proceed." The hesitation and tension in the woman's voice made Benold uneasy.

"He showed me a letter from her where she had mentioned perhaps seeking help with a church, but she did not say which one. As it had been some time since I made a trip here to Floratti, I decided I would inquire myself if anyone had encountered a stout woman with red hair in such need?"

The suspense had a rather unfavourable effect on Benold's already erratic heart rate. The longer neither woman spoke, the more he was imagining them scowling at Volente with suspicion and preparing to attack, or at least scream for guards of some sort. His tension caused clenching in this thighs, which sent a renewed jolts of pain through his leg. He tried not to scream, but compromised with a grunt.

Mercifully, it did not seem either woman noticed. "I believe you are confused, Godfellow. This is Noneva House, of the Custodian order. You should be checking with Artalia House. That is where the Matrons manage such services as laying in."

"Ah. I see. I mean, no. I'm not confused. I tried there already, and was directed here," Volente stammered.

"By who?" asked the matronly woman sharply.

"Ah, um. You see, it was a young postulate, and I'm afraid I did not get her name."

"Hmm... and you said you were Poconnio?"

Volente noisily cleared his throat. "Ah, yes, Poconnio."

"How is Goodfellow Rossi? It has been a while since I've heard from Manio."

"Ah. Goodfellow Rossi... Rossi, ah yes, Manio." Benold swallowed hard, as if gulping down an excess of saliva could somehow cleans the storm brewing in his stomach. Volente's stuttering was not reassuring. He crept just a little closer, preparing himself should action be required as Volente meandered over his words. "Manio was well when - wait! Manio Rossi!? That could be any - oh."

Volente's tone suddenly shifted excitable, even exasperated, and then dropped to a plaintive noise. That was enough. Putting his injured leg forward, Benold walked into the doorway. There he saw Volente with his hands up in the air, and the two women standing in front of him, daggers out and pointed at him.

Just as the younger woman's eyes shifted to him, Benold grabbed the poignard that was fastened to Volente's waist, and had it out in a threatening stance.

"Who are you?" demanded the younger woman, as she turned to point her weapon at Benold. Volente staggered back, hands in the air.

"Apologies! He made me do it!"

The wider woman glared at Benold but did not move her dagger's point from its trajectory to Volente's throat. While clearly the more mature of the two, she was not as wizened as Benold supposed she would be from her voice, her nut-brown hair lacking grey and only minimal wrinkles forming upon her brow. Those wrinkles, however, deepened as she scowled.

"And who is he?" the senior woman shook her poignard.

"Ah, um, he's..." Volente faltered. "He's a man with a one track mind, and I tried to dissuade him from trespassing. But he's very persuasive, despite not speaking Lomanian."

"Trosyn!" Benold said the name, stepped closer to Volente, eyes darting between the two women. "I want Trosyn."

To Benold's disappointment, neither of the women seemed at all intimidated by him. He noticed one woman's gaze travel downward, and he briefly glanced at the dirty adhoc bandage around his leg, then back to the two darkly attired women. The younger woman looked pensive, but the other looked as though she could spit poison.

"You said he didn't speak Lomanian."

"Ah..." Volente took a step back, hands still raised in a placating manner. The younger of the two women edged forward. "...Well, he's picked up a few words."

"Where did he get that weapon?"

Volente glanced behind at Benold. Out of the corner of his mouth he quietly said, "put that down, Benold." He then turned back to the armed ladies. "He stole it. And these clothes. But I swear, none of this was my idea."

"No," Benold hissed through grit teeth.

"Your idea or not, you are wearing a Godfellow's vestments, you impersonated one of our own, you will be held accountable," the older of the two woman proclaimed, her nostrils flared and her head tilted up authoritatively.

"Ah. Well... I can't argue that, but please, I am at your mercy. I will try to convince him to put the knife down. I know no one here really wants a fight. He's just looking for his... uh... companion."

"She's not here."

"She is!" Benold took a step forward, watching as the two women adopted formidable yet defensive stances. He could tell they had some martial training as they turned their bodies to expose as little of themselves as possible from a frontal assault.

"Benold! Back! No! They can kill you! No law will persecute them! Please!" Volente's voice went up in pitch, taking on a grating level of desperation.

Squinting at the two women, envisioned them with daggers in their breasts, stepping over their slumped forms, and rescuing Trosyn. But he only had one weapon, they had two. Which meant he had one shot to take out the larger threat, and then could only hope between he and the fiddle-brained researcher could overpower the other. The obvious choice was to take out the older of the two women. But she was not yet at an age of frailty. While the younger had vitality on her side, she lacked experience, as evident by the tremors of her battle-poised hand.

A flick of the wrist. A dagger sailing through the air. Hardly a sound made as it tears through cloth and flesh, cleanly wedging itself into the beating heart of his opponent. A clean kill.

But that was not the way. Benold could also envision Trosyn, in his arms, seeing the trail of bodies leading to her rescue. And he could already see the disappointment in her eyes. The guilt she would wear on her already burdened shoulders for being the cause. He hated her nobler sensibilities because not only did it clash with his own, but towered above the false pedestal he'd placed himself on his entire life.

With a sneer, Benold let out a heavy huff and lowered his weapon. Perhaps if he pretended to surrender, he could find an opportunity to take them by surprise and subdue them in a less lethal manner.

The women looked at each other, the older nodding to the younger. She tucked her dagger into its sheath and cautiously approached Benold, hand out. The older woman kept her attention on Volente, who remained a useless pile of gelatin. Benold hesitated, loathe to give up the reassurance a weapon provided him. But with another heavy huff, he twirled the poignard around, holding the handle out to the lady who approached. She took it carefully, then immediately stepped back.

"Praise Caelum," Volente muttered quietly, his hands slowly lowering as his whole form eased into relief.

"You both have a lot to answer for." With the two men disarmed, the older of the two women finally lowered her dagger, but did not put it away.

Volente went down upon his knees. "Yes. And I truly am ashamed of the part I played in this escapade. I throw myself at your mercy."

Benold rolled his eyes and stood even taller, too proud to grovel for forgiveness as his ally seemed to be doing.

"It is not our mercy you ought to beseech. We will take you to Hierophant of Noneva." The older of the two women finally stowed her weapon and clapped her hands together loudly. "On your feet. Move."

Volente struggled to get to his feet, grunting and breathing hard as he did so, suggesting he was not used to adopting such a posture. The younger woman held back to bring up the rear, while the older woman took the lead. Volente scurred close behind her, and after a firm nudge from the young woman, Benold began limping after them. He kept ever vigilant for his next opportunity. He could not be thwarted this close to his goal!