NationStates Jolt Archive

OOC This is closed to all except those who have signed up here http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?t=538210 in various rolls.

IC

"I met a traveller from an antique land...."

Hills Above The Imperial Capital of Strinlistern


“Someone far more clever them our bishops designed this place.” Two men, hands stuffed in jacket pockets looked up at the huge silver dome of St. Michael’s Cathedral, Basilica of the Church, seat of the Cenobiarch the looming centerpiece to an otherwise dismally colored city. Entire blocks of 15th century housing had been demolished so a long avenue could stretch from the suburbs of the city to the ironwork gates of God’s own home. Sunlight, reflected off the snow tipped peaks of the mountains in the south illuminated the dome at all hours of the day, flaunting the wealth and power of the Church. “Here we are and here we stay,” it had been so for centuries.

“No more brilliant, no more feeble. The mere continuation of the grand uncertainty, the probing question of commitments and livelihood, gone unanswered by bishops and builders alike. By building a monument they embolden an idea, an idea of weakness, to feed the evil of weakness.” There was a pause, one man had pulled that out as if prepared, in a high voice he rasped it out speaking as though even here the Inquisition could come. A speech so eloquent not in form but in delivery, as fit for the famous orators of the old Church. A warm breeze of the High Desert to the north reminded them of their duty. Usually it was a burning bowl down in the valley on which they looked, today though it was slightly chilly. Where the capital of Streinlikstern opened like a not-to-pleasing flower. No matter what the architects did they could never remove the smoke laden factories, the dismal slums, the scent of poverty.

“Time to get on though, it’s a bit of a walk down you know. Damn me if I remember the path though. Somewhere over there yes?”

“I was laboring under the apprehension that you knew the way Trevor?”

“I suspect it doesn’t matter, one foot wrong and we’ll be down two hundred feet in no time.” The two picked an arbitrary direction and set off, they had plenty of time, their work had already been completed. To watch the deed which they had wrought would be worth more then the roof of St. Michael’s though.

Despite the grand schemes of the architect, you could never take Waldenburg out of the city. Once out of the suburbs the city turned into a uniform grey, as smog from the factories mixed with a constant breeze of the desert, huge clouds of pollution filled the streets. A man could approach you and stay hidden at twenty feet before the curtain lifted. It often was a helpful attribute if the Empire. The streets were lined with the homeless, occasionally offering their dirt-encrusted hands to the two men, as the pair gently strolled down the avenues of the Imperial capital. On occasion Dark Guards, Inquisitorial guards, would pass wearing the traditional high pointed hoods, with the more modern addition of an assault rifle strapped to their shoulders.

“Petri Verus, Identification please,” a dark hood swung to the two men, its black eye sockets starring them down. It had appeared out of any alley to their left, and startled the larger of the two men.

“Naturally, but may I draw you attention to a more pressing matter which my companion and I were just about to attend?” Given a slight inclination of the hood, the skinnier of the pair continued. “So you see we posses some of the faculties of the Church, my cassock would hint of my clerical bearing yes? If my credentials are sufficient in their very being I suggest you look heavenwards, where a whore even now hangs out a window, in a series of violations to long for me to innumerate.”

So much as a hood could look scandalized it managed, and flung upward looking for the practitioner of the world oldest profession. All he saw was the glittering roof of his beloved Church, and all he felt was the tiny stiletto knife puncture his newly exposed neck. The blood, after a certain working of the blade, expelled at nearly a right angle hardly getting a drop on either the murders’ or the victim’s precious clothing.

“You,” the skinny one motioned to a nearly naked boy of about thirteen, and his family who had watched the whole thing impassively. “Take what ever you can from this body and may God be with you.” He blessed the boy and quickly slipped out of his clothing, tucking the robe in a pocket of his new suit. It hurt him to give the urchins any sort of charity, but it was that or be revealed.

“In demon skins we do the angels work. The ever-lasting ennoblement of the works of the Divine cumulizied in one point in time, the righteous revenge on the decadent, the heart of moral weakness ripped out and revealed to the world, as the throbbing lifeline of our once noble spiritual guardians. There is not one decent man in this metropolis, one worthy to sit in endless salvation, to inhume the evil, to end its iron grip on the world is our greatest task.” His face, with its clumps of hair looked partially mad, his eyes never standing still but searching the street. “I wore these robe before, the darkness blinded me. As a don them again I become enlightened, the true work has begun.” He slid the hood down with what he believed was a dramatic air. “Time to light a candle. Or whatever that damn silly quote is.” The gate would open for them now, no one with one shred of brain looked into a hooded robe for identification.

“Your quite insane Felix.”

“No I just ate really,” he said distantly. He had eyes only for the Cathedral bursting from the city, and ears only for the warbling notes of the High Mass already beginning.


St. Michael’s Cathedral Strienlikstern

Red robes blossomed around the curtseying figures, huge splays of brilliant cloth, spreading rose blossoms on the floor. Mitered heads tipping subservience to the one strolling figure, his eyes fixed on an elaborate alter ahead. The sheer opulence of the hall dwarfed any of it occupants, cardinals looked naked when put against one of it’s walls. Pillars, eighty feet high, entirely in marble, with gold fretwork supported a domed ceiling where the entire battle of the Pearly Gates was depicted. St. Michael dominated the center, swinging the sword of God, the Archangel dealt out death as demons fell in every direction around. It total there were ten thousand named angels and demons in the picture, each of their eyes picked out in sapphires our rubies. The stations-of-the-cross which occupied the far wall was crafted rosewood and set with gold, pearls and sapphires. It was the greatest hall man could build.

Gloria rebounded off the massive silver statues of the saints who cast their benefactions over the hall. The room could have feed nearly two million of the starving indigent outside for a year, with the constant motif of Goldsmiths Insanity. Strangely though it’s building had been approved by an overwhelming majority two centuries earlier, such was the power of the Church. Clerical men would always dominate the mind; an Empire built in the soul. A dominion, which no foreigner could take, nor comprehend, a Divine power watched over the Waldenburg Empire in the form of its unshakable belief.

His Imminence Harold the Cardinal Thousis, Cenobiarch of the Holy Waldenburger Church passed the final row of bobbing Bishops, his robe was some considerable feet behind him supported by ten liveried servant boys. The Bishops, who had yet to sit, turned to face him and give a final bow, the Council was in session.

“Before we begin,” the cavernous room carried the stentorian voice of the Cenobiarch to even greater volumes, “I believe a quick prayer is in order, especially for our men serving against the Maldorians.” The assembled knew what a quick prayer was, twenty minutes minimum.

“Bendictus Spiritus Devin Eptine,” the words rent a gaping blackness in Felix’s heart, he sat in the Monks gallery above, not for the men he was going to kill but the beauty, which he was to disrupt, a fine speech even from tainted lips had truth. ‘Still the plan goes well.’ The Bishops were sweating after the first fifteen minutes, the Holy Men had never been that keen on physical exercise, and most of them were well into their seventies. Time slowed for Felix, despite his standard calm demeanor he was nervous.

“No power can stop us. We are Waldenburgers, we are the chosen of God and we shall triumph in this life and the next. Ut Deus Palma. Please be seated so we may begin.” The room gave an imperceptible collective sigh and sank to the ornate pews, newly refurbished for the Council. Felix let out his own sigh; he has studied the customs of the Council for hours and had got it absolutely right.

An ornate statuette of St. Ambrose removed half the grand alter with the explosion. Wafted up on a cloud of smoke miters fluttered down, their tassels streaming behind them like poorly designed snowflakes. The bomb had removed a good deal of the hall, turning once six foot, muscular members of the Divine Legion into bloody ribbons. Wood splinters and debris had caused more casualties in the galleries, monks rolled on the ground around Felix, who sat as composed as a still picture, starring out with a faint smile over the Council Hall. Mona Lisa’s smile looked like a tremendous image of pain compared to the all-knowing, smirk of Felix Albemier.

“To work,” Felix said softly, pulling a small knife from his robe. “Your Imminence!” He shouted in a baritone voice that barred no interruption. Harold Thousis did not seem to have grasped what had happened yet, his expression showed of mix of disgust and concern. Should he yell at them for being lazy or summon the guards? The cry from the minstrel gallery shocked him back to life, and he turned eyes red to the Monks gallery.

“My regards Cenobiarch!” A giggling monk shouted before throwing a fine bladed knife in a perfect arc, the Cenobiarch’s neck would soon be opened up, and the Church overthrown. A bejeweled hand flew to his neck, and the knife buried itself in the hilt to the Cenobiarch’s hand. Thousis gave slight grunt of pain turned to his old friend turned assassin. “Felix, you always were to good. An amateur’s throw probably would have fallen short and taken me in the stomach, a perfect shot is too easy to block. How are you by the way?”

“Keeping you Imminence.” Another knife flew from his hand, the Cenobiarch bashed it away with an alter piece.

“Glad to here it. I understand you’ve been on the run, stealing sheep and hiding in hedgerows all very exciting.’

“Quite so,” his last throwing knife punctured the silver, serving dish the Cardinal had been protecting his head with. It was lowered, and knife examined it, an eight-pointed sun had been emblazoned on the helm, and on either side of the blade the words “Good,” and alternatively “Evil” had been etched in bronze letters. On inspection of the gallery, Felix had fled leaving only a faint scent of what was alter described by the poetical members of the Church, brimstone. The Cenobiarch shook his head, reached for his staff and set out at a light jog, there were two ways out of the Monk’s gallery and a professional would not take the obvious one.

A hallow thud marked the falling of the last Divine Legion Guard, they had been good swordsmen, just not good enough. Felix pulled the rapier out of the Sergeant’s eye and wiped it on the blood red sash on the man’s waist. There had been three of them having a quiet smoke out of the way. In this tunnel the sound was dampened by the rows of old scrolls, deemed to valuable to throw away but too dull to read. The resting place of dusty words written by even dustier men greedily swallowed the heavy breathing of the surviving combatant.

“Trevor, come out I can see you hiding, I might add not very well.” Felix swung his blade around and pointed it at the Trevor’s heart. “There is a special circle of hell reserved for traitors, on which I dare say will grow slightly more crowded after my work. Was I a fool to trust you? Placing in you the unseeing trust of a newborn to your many faculties, that if I say so, does not include concealment. Should I have my petty revenge and satisfy my base urges or allow you a more merciful path?” Though their eyes did meet Felix could feel the pleading in Trevor’s heart, as it beat against his rapier. “Go with God.” This time the blood splattered everywhere flecking Felix’s face with the sweet claret of mankind.

“Some would call that mercy, which was it in your choosing?” Harold Thousis stepped out from behind a pillar to face Felix who calmly bowed and readied his sword.

“My base impulses I dare say are quite a bit more personal then those of lesser pallets. IF I had chosen my preference we would not be able to stand for intestinal juices. But my being, is hardly important. Why have you ventured here? For an epic duel to the death with your former secretary? Hardly the stock of legends and something I would have put below your Grace. How are you armed? Is this merely a distraction while seven hooded members of the Inquisition lunge at me from behind?”

“I would say something dramatic about coming with God but I’m afraid no one would write it down. So I brought a sword instead.” The Cenobiarch lifted the top off his white staff, producing a fine silvery blade, of excellent workmanship. “By account of some of the more old guard priests it is transfused with demon’s blood, once have stabbing some Duke of Hell. I personally have my doubts on that, but it is sharp.”

With a faint smile the Cenobiarch gave a flying lunge, slashing down at neck level. The attack was easily blocked and the two starred at each other eye to eye for a moment. Then as if some communal agreement had been made they both leapt back and began to spin ornate patterns in the air, blades smashing together, in near invisible skirmishes.

“Why did you come back?”

“Did I ever leave?”

“Yes.” Sparks exploded in the darkness, creating a white flash of light, which illuminated the pupils of the Cenobiarch turning red. “You were dragged away from that bloody child, that child with half a face. The one who had done nothing, the one who delivered the post, the one you tortured in my outer office. Do you recall Felix?”

“For a human to live without sin is impossible, very contradictory in nature, can the bird refrain from flying can the sea end it’s perpetual motion? No, and neither can we do nothing. Once I have completed my mission, this work set out for the chosen of the world I shall take my own life, and undoubtedly find a place in Hell. I have no illusions on that score, but evil must be combated with something worse, or victory is uncertain. Do not take the moral high ground for you know it lacking.”

“You haven’t changed at all.” The Cenobiarch snarled something in old Moldovan, an excellent language for cursing. From behind his miter a small disc of light started to appear, brightening the darkness around the two combatants.

“Do not attempt to cow me with your mechanical tricks. I was present at their installation, they are no miracle.” In one clashing movement both swords met in midair locked against each other, it would be a killing blow if the Cenobiarch backed away.

“Felix, is it not a miracle?” The Cenobiarch lifted his left hand and backed handed his former Personal Inquisitor across the face. Normally this would have thrown them back into combat, however the Cenobiarch had failed to remove the throwing knife from his palm. Its blade, made of blackened steel was sharp, very sharp, and cut Felix’s left cheek open. Again blood spurted into the musty room, sprinkling over the unread documents. Felix jumped back unlocking his rapier, still thinking though he brought it down on the Cardinal thigh’s cutting a deep gash. After some general stumbling about and half-hearted feints they faced off again.

“It seems we are at an impasse, too wounded to continue, and to proud to run. Will we both die here do you think?” The Cenobiarch dragged himself into enguard position, sword extended.

“Pide ist a shin,” Felix held his mouth tenderly his capacities in his prided speech were somewhat disabled. “I hast no shin!” He screamed, fleeing down the passage, with a billow of his robes and a trail of blood. Thousis tried to follow, tried a jog at least, but the wound to his leg throbbed with every step, so he contented himself with making a tourniquet and passing out.

Two Days Later:

“Your Imminence? Sir we have your soup,” Thousis’ eyes opened to the pleasantly plump face of some sort of novice with a steaming bowl. “The Bishop Andrews and Prince Andre von Waldenburg of the Divine Legion.” The novice reverentially placed the soup on a side table before bowing his way out of the room. Thousis sat up rubbing his eyes; he had been moved from his usual Spartan room to the Grand Solarium in one of the towers. Bay windows funneled in sun, and a warm breeze.

“Yes gentlemen?” He asked wincing with the effort of sitting up.

“You Imminence.” The prince gave hugely formal salute, “I thought it prudent to report to you as soon as you were able. The Divine Legion and police have so far been unable to find Felix,” he said the name carefully as if the word could set his Cenobiarch into a furious rampage. “Two squads were lost when we came across a group of Muslims in Peddler Street, they put up stiff resistance and set fire to the brewery. Additionally a gunship was downed near the Imperial Palace, with Archduke Conrad Brittle onboard.”

“Never heard of the man.”

“I suspect not, he was only recently granted a titular holding in the colonial possessions. His wife was with him, and their children.” Andre von Waldenburg, hardly eighteen had changed incredibly since the Cenobiarch had last seen him. Two months earlier he had been a terrified youth, sent to round up and torture Muslims; he had succeeded, and now held himself as a seasoned general.

“And what of the Council?”

Andrews, a barrel like man with facial hair to impress any general spoke in the rough-hewn accent of the mountains. It took seconds for the man to warm up his voice purring to life like a well-made car, “We’ve got a body count. 119 dead, 206 wounded that’s in the senior clergy alone. We’ve also discovered how he managed the attack, pressure sensors, the weight of two hundred sitting Bishops set off the bomb. The pews were recently refurbished, by Hewitt and Sons in Blünderburg, it was probably then that they were tampered with.”

“I assume they were punished?”

“Hewitt was held upside down in a vat of boiling furniture polish, Sons are in detention. I doubt it was them however, they seemed vastly incapable of anything not involving wood.”

“I don’t suspect them either, but it would look terrible to allow them off with this. Have their factory seized, the workers deported, and the family decimated. Em…Do we have any idea where the sensors come from?”

“Unfortunately sir they could have come from a fast food joint, a mansion gate or commercial electronics. The only variable we have is the weight and that can be changed depending on the device. Albemier is still in practice I note?”

“It would appear so, more so then I certainly. “ The Cenobiarch pulled himself and critically studied the soup, “Do you think it has any of those clam things?”

“Probably not your Imminence.”

“Even so Albemier has to be found. Obviously he is guilty of murder, attempted murder and a numerous range of other crimes. He also has in his possession certain items of tentative value to the Church that could pose a risk to our organization should it become open to the public.”

“I thought his mission was to kill you?” Andrews did an amazing perplexed, in which his massive eyebrows went up, chin down, and pulled his head back two inches. It would have put the crustiest admiral to shame.

“This time it was, but before that, when he was first tried and nearly executed he took two very valuable items from the library. The Book and the Vial.” He spoke the last words in whisper, ashamed perhaps.

At first Andrews went through a range of expression before settling on outraged.” You damn fool!” The Bishop shouted, and Thousis could only hang his head and sigh, “You told no one of this? The greatest treasures of the Church and you didn’t care to mention it to the Divine Legion?”

“What would they have done?” One man sitting in this bed seemed as far away from the snarling tiger of two days earlier as was humanly possible.

“March around in shiny boots and damn well be active! I shall go put out the word, discreetly, an issue the reclamation orders. If we do not retrieve these items you know what will happen?” Thousis nodded slowly, the implications of this all was to clear he could hear the bell tolling for him…

“You Imminence,” the Bishop bowed furiously and turned on his heel almost muttering against his superior, who now looked ready to die. Alone again the Cardinal attempted a bite of soup, it of course had gone cold. In his tower, sit by sunlight the Church experienced it darkest hour. The Vial perhaps they could lose, but the book? The great book, how could the Cenobiarch allow this to happen?

“Look upon my works and despair, nothing beside me remains.” Along in his tower with the endless desert stretching to the North, the sands enclosed him boundless and bare.


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General Notice: As Posted By: Imperial Inquisitorial Guard

A great catastrophe has shaken the Church. A cataclysmic event as yet unseen in modern history, that has unfortunately taken place. As private sources confirm, the Council of Bishops was violently attacked by former High Inquisitor Felix Albemier and at least one assistant. The nature of the attack suggests that outside help was the deciding factor of the attack.

At least 227 have died in this attack including many members of the senior clergy. Harold the Cardinal Thousis apparently dueled with Albemier and received a cut to the leg while doing so. The Cenobiarch inflicted a wound to the man’s left cheek before the coward ran. Anyone that comes in contact with an opened left cheek should contact the police immediately for his arrest. On the subject of arrests, the Holy Church along with the Imperial Government has issued a bounty for his capture. Anyone who captures, or provides information leading to the capture of High Inquisitor Felix Albemier shall be given a reward of Three Trillion USD and their weight in silver. His Imminence the Cenobiarch has also stipulated that Albemier must be brought in alive, and with two objects that he stolen from the Church. Those objects being: A small leather bound book, and a vial of brownish metal.

Martial law will be declared in the interim of the emergency. The regiments will be called up and will be policing the street for possible hostiles, and lawbreakers. It is believed that Inquisitor Felix is in league with an unknown group, with similarly unknown purposes bound to destroy the Holy Church. Their symbol, found on one of the assailant’s weapons, is as seen below anyone who sees it should report to the polic. They are quite obviously skilled to carry out such a bold attack, and we suggest that no one attempts to fight or detain any suspected members without police backup. Any information on this group, which leads to it’s enlightening, shall be granted One Hundred Billion USD for services to the Imperial Government. A list of the casualties of the attack and of Albemier’s description can been seen below as well. God Bless us all.

Signed:
His Highness Prince Andre von Waldenburg Divine Marshall


http://img210.imageshack.us/img210/6287/sakriandainsigniaim5.jpg



Look on My Works,Ye Mighty and Despair...

OOC more to come probably some afternoon.

OOC: So where do the other sakrianada come into this?

OOC: So where do the other sakrianada come into this?

OOCNone at the moment perhaps in a few more posts, but this has become open to investigators wanting the three trillion.

The smoke of oil fires cast a patina to the sky that normal pollution usually failed at. In a way it was a beautiful thing, a sort of rainbow heralding the end of some storm. Of course hundreds of years ago anyone with enough poetic inclination to make such a comparison who did not wear a miter had their hearts ripped out and shown to them under the banner of “It’s Just not Right.” Still a storm passed and the day beginning.

Felix Albemier walked a sheaf of papers clutched in his hands. His dress, then of an Inquisitor and a busy looking scrap of paper afforded him the greatest disguise in the universe. Smoke was pouring up from the Cathedral and around the grounds where the Divine Legion would be taking proactive revenge on anyone nearby. Already he could hear the rumbling of APC’s smashing through the Grand Avenue leading to the Church.

The Inquisitor was a bit concerned over his failure to kill the Cenobiarch, his prime target head of the Church and oppressor of millions. Combat between the two had been satisfying despite the scratch inflicted on him.

“All enemies of the Cenobiarch Die!” A voice screamed at the end of the road, which Felix had been proceeding down. Eight mounted members of the Divine Legion, yellow cloaks billowing behind double-breasted uniforms, raised sabers and began a trot down the street. After fifty feet they broke into a canter and lowered sabers, picking targets out of a screaming crowd, mostly the elderly displaced by poverty were cut down in bloody swathes. Felix couldn’t even imagine what was happening on the larger streets, if eight elite were sent for an ally, the boulevards must be packed with bodies.

Suddenly realization hit he was in front of the entire crowd who now packed the street in the attempt to get away. Even with the hood he would probably be killed, and there was certainly nowhere to run.

“Damnii,” he lisped, reaching for a throwing knife. Knives left scattered around the halls of the Cathedral and in it’s various members. Foiled in his attempts he pulled out his crossbow and the much-hated Glock 22 pistol. Slightly more skilled with the bow, the Inquisitor fired a devilish little dart into the forehead into the commanding Sergeant. He toppled forward dead on contact, his body thumping to the ground in an almost unheard of way in the Imperial city. Someone to dare stand up to the Divine Legion in our street?

No time to ponder such things, the Legionaries were still in a canter and getting closer, sabers pointed down, sunlight glinting off bloodied points. The pistol was raised and fired three times, all shots fired from a hand that regretted the inhumanity of killing at such a distance, with such a human device. A horse, by sheer luck was wounded in the forward leg toppling its rider into the paving bricks at high speed. The tight alley allowed little maneuvering space for the massive horses, and they had to be reigned in or collapse in a heap.

Tossing away the gun the Inquisitor ran forward drawing his rapier, Inquisitors robes flapping around him he jumped taking the stance of Absoltum Dominium, the martial style of the Church. One saber came to block his charge; Felix ignored it simply running his rapier into it and with his momentum pushing it into the defenders neck. Stabbing across he stabbed a rider in between the ribs. Landing slightly behind the slowly disintegrating cavalry line, he killed two more with wild sweeps left and right. Only two left, both dismounted and circling him, as best they could through a stream of milling horses. Using this Felix smacked a few with the flat of his sword and sent them running towards the two. Taken aback both were killed without even raising their blades, the rapier taking their necks cleanly and leaving them to puddle.

“Don’t you demon one more step and I’ll shoot.” A poorly clothed young woman held the pistol the Inquisitor had tossed away, shaking with the effort she trembled with nervous defiance. “More of them will come and they’ll reward me.”

“They have becoame more your Goud’s then you can imagine,” he tossed the rapier into his hand, and threw it javelin style threw the women’s chest. The short sword appeared in his hand as he walked forward, poking the wounded. “You will tell no one I waas here.” He collected he weapons the crowd stayed wordlessly, starring to the end. The High Inquisitors gun fire would not be heard, there were already spurts of it from around the city, some of it obviously the booming of quick fire cannons.

With a limp he set off south, there was no way he could make it to the mountains with his face in this condition, the blood splattering his robe. A way station, one of the small chapels built by the Inquisition to house supplies and victims awaiting transfer. Felix’s eyes closed he remembered the long walks, through the dark, victims screaming and thrashing nothing had changed. There was even the screaming, long bouts of it from different sections of the city. Insanity spread faster then fire, and soon the city would be rife with it

A cellar door banged open with a kick, St. Tristan’s Chapel, by the looks of it still in use. Even so sheets of dust cascaded off the door as he opened it. A cell phone and a few objects lay on the table, most of them were personal effects and of little use to the Inquisitor. Still he pawed through the items hopelessly searching for something to dull the throbbing pain on his cheek. Small chance though the Inquisitors, as a whole were not known for making their visitors comfortable.

“At least the armory will be stocked,” Felix mumbled and hurried of to a side passage. The name chapel was slightly misleading for the place, it had more restraints and knives then saints. The armory itself looked as though it had been picked clean before he arrived, the Guard must be out in the insanity. Still Felix pulled a few ill kept knives, and with a hateful sigh an MP-5 from the tiny pile.

It was arid, it was hot, and it was an economy class seat. It was human hell, as far as airliners went. Harry wasn't really much of a first-class person, but then again he didn't really enjoy living economy class seats. He should've taken the the premium class flight to Waldenburg. However, his wallet disagreed, and it always had the last words on these things. He never was good at managing money. Looking quietly up at the top of the metal roof in the tiny airplane (relatively for a passenger plane), he sighed before nodding his head down, the music in his ears pounding wildly. "I need new head phones." He said to himself, sighing loudly as the woman beside him looked to see what was going on. "Sorry." He apologized quickly.

Harry Jackson, that was pretty much his name. Harold Thomas Jefferson Jackson, though he never did hear anybody say his full name aloud, nor did he ever want to. Born and raised in some god-forsaken town in the middle of nowhere, he grew up on a hundred dollar education budget tilling soil on his parents’ farm. A farm, which, ever singe two years ago, has been doing not too well, forcing him to take a look in other fields. He was, by all means, labeled as ‘brilliant’, though he didn’t enjoy such honorifics, afraid it would turn him his humility into egotism. And, many times, it did, being nearly the end of his life, or perhaps more importantly, his career. Yes, his career was his life. But what was it?

An investigator, the papers say. A detective, the departments say. A young punk with a big brain, the constables say. A miracle, the law-believers say. A young man just trying to make a living with what he knows, what he enjoys, and what watching four hours of police dramas has helped with, he himself says. Why? Because that’s what he is; a detective, an investigator, a miracle, a young punk with a big brain, a hooligan with a taste for catching hooligans, a paradox of society. But they never called him Harry Jackson, oh no. They, upon whom will be referred to as the rest of the world, did not know that he grew up on a penniless farm in the middle of nowhere. They didn’t know that he was a young man with short, sandy blonde hair, wide eyes and wide lips with a cut on one side, looking like his mouth was drooping to one side too much and one side too little. They didn’t know that he had a boyish, soft face with a long gash running down the side of his face when he crashed his bike into a sign at the age of ten. They didn’t know that he has a light case of IBS and thus couldn’t stand spicy foods.

No, nobody knows this, because nobody researches on a nobody. As Harry Jackson, he was a nobody. He is a nobody. But he’s not entirely a nobody. Like some crime fighting super hero, he was somebody else. But there was no costume to change into, no special powers and no utility belt. He had no secret hideout or fancy gizmos, no attractive assistants or acrobatic underlings. It was just him, but it was enough. Within the world of crime, Harry Jackson went by a different name.

He was the Butterfly.

As one of the few who knew of the famous Jason Almer case years ago, The Butterfly was one of the few instrumental powers within that puzzle of a case, and for his efforts, Harry was renown, as the Butterfly, as one of the leading detectives in the world. However, no case could reach him – he chose whether such a puzzle was interesting enough to solve. Yet this wasn’t a case of interesting or not.

3 trillion. It’s a lot of money. Why not just blow apart an entire city instead of shelling out 3 trillion? If the incident had happened so quickly and early and thus found quickly and early, then the distance the man could have traveled wasn’t very difficult to discern. Given the waterways, the sewage systems, the underground tunnels and the building foundation placements, one man could only get so far.

Sitting down, his shirt a smoke grey navy shade, his pants, unfashionably, teal corduroy, he scratched his thigh unashamed, the elderly beside him shaking her head in quiet disgust. “Hmm? Is something wrong?” He asked; he had a young, boyish voice. Some could it was borderline effeminate, though that would only gain his ire.

“Nothing, nothing.” The woman croaked. She had twists of silver locks in her hair, an afro-shaped bunch atop her head, like some silver crown. Her cheeks hung down gently upon her face, creating long large flaps beside her toothless mouth, her nose large and puffy, her neck showing multiple chins as a pearl necklace and horn-rimmed glasses slung at her chest. If she had a pair of knitting needles and a half-finished sweater, she would have fit the stereotypical grandmother description.

“I’m sorry. I’m just really nervous. I apologize.” Harry said politely.

“No, no,” she urged, smiling brightly, as Harry smiled back. “It’s fine, it’s fine.” She said, taking out a half-knitted sweater and a pair of knitting needles.

Harry tried to stifle his laughter as best as he could, and she only looked back wondering what was going on.

As he got off the terminal, he sat down quietly in the lands of Waldenburg, the sun basking down gently upon his energy-filled back, his backpack placed on a set of stones near the airport as he sat perched himself carefully between them. Taking out a long black battery pack, he pulled his silver notebook from his bag as he locked it into place. A few splashes of wondrous colors later he was on, and he waited slowly for a connection a router, any router, to open up. Eventually he found one, and with a quick flash of fingers, he was borrowing one’s internet.

Taking out his tiny red cellphone, he took a usb cord and connected it to the side of his notebook. He placed a call on the computer towards the nearest police centers. As the phone clicked on, he sighed, ready for his message.

This is The Butterfly. He spoke in a godless, horrific tone; dark, deep, and unlike him at all. If you want the head of Felix Albemier, send an email back to 33452 @ cc.gn.com, with the letter ‘H’. Refusing my offer to help will warrant a letter ‘U’. More details will come once I have taken your decision into consideration. This is my first, last and therefore only invitation for help.

The plane shuddered as the landing gear hit the concrete and the airliner began taxiing to a stop. A man wearing a white cloak with a large red cross on the back was writing in a small book as it did so:

And so I arrive in the land of hipocrisy and darkness. The followers of Satan rule this land, clothed in the robes of the saviour, and shrouded by centuries of meaningless tradition. These men are worse than mere murderers and criminals, for they have defiled that which is pure, twisting good into their own wicked form. These "Cardinals" are unworthy of any such title, their thrones are built on lies, malice, and fear. Unfortunately, they are not my target. I go to destroy a mass murderer, a killer of hundreds who was once one of them. May i find him soon, and enact God's justice.

Sgt. "Johnson" was stopped from his writing by the realization that the other passengers were exiting the plane. He followed, ignoring any odd glances in his direction. After he had received his luggage and explained the presence of the various weapons within his non-carry-on luggage, he rented a car and exited the airport. He parked in a nearby garage, and continued to walk through the city on foot.

The Imperial Review, crashing symbols and the pizzicato strikes of the xylophone roared around the stadium. Thousands of boots smashing in beat to the Empire’s song. A once green field was muddy with a light drizzle rammed into the ground by the emphatic cadence of an army on parade. Banners rippled in a light breeze, the Divine Legion was on parade and its pomposity would not be spoiled by even rain.

A crowd of specifically chosen fans roared themselves into frenzy as every new regiment took the field. So far the hunt on Albemeir had turned up scare clues and more distressingly nearly one million witnesses so far, though the deluge abated when two men had been nailed upside down to the Prophet’s gate. In a corrective measure the Divine Legion put on a massive show of military strength, slaughtering nearly three thousand civilians and now parading about for the Emperor. His Most Gracious Imperial Majesty Wyatt von Waldenburg IV sat demurely in the Imperial pavilion, gilded in silver and draped with the Imperial banner. Beside him in a trundle bed the Cenobiarch snored away, his leg had taken badly to the penicillin and his fever had only gone up.

“Hrmph..” Thousis woke with a start; a salute of cannon fire had roused him from his siesta. “Have I missed the cavalry, they always look so presentable?”

“No,” the Emperor sighed patting the head of Government absentmindedly on the hand, “I think that was the His Imminence’s 105th Heavy Rifles, we’ve got an hour or two left. How are you?”

“Frankly a bit surprised. Any member of your family fifty years ago would have cut my throat crowd or not.” The Cenobiarch pulled himself up and peered over the box, some sort of armored regiment. “We have come along way.”

“Honestly I was tempted, anything to get out of here, I think my legs have fallen asleep.”

“Oh you poor man.” Both men held stifled a chuckle and held their face in a noble and commanding expression. Despite a nearly scripted public dislike they often could not help but enjoy the other’s company. When tradition demanded they bellow at one another from opposite a desk they usually sat down and had a quiet chat, occasionally ending in a game of chess or a walk through the gardens. For centuries the two figures had to be at each other’s throats to prevent their own from being slit, these new methods of government seemed an age of halcyon in comparison to the blood reigns of the earlier tyrants.

An aroma of armor polish announced the presence of a Logistical Member of the Divine Legion, carrying a sheet of paper and looking terrified. He could be executed and sent to hell for a faux pax. In light of this he gave off a salute that seemed to pull him off the ground in his eagerness to please. The two older men shared a smile and the Cenobiarch accept a proffered piece of paper, perusing it with a stoic manner. “It’s seems your majesty you may yet have use of your legs.

Imperial Guard House, Prescient 3, Stirenlikstern

“Isn’t it, that little moon like button in the middle?”

“I’m pretty sure that ejects the disk, sergeant.” A group of policemen were gathered around the stations only computer, the enigma of it had baffled ever single employee, except the children of the officers who had organized six months of rotas in one afternoon.

“Begging your pardon sir but what do we have to lose?” A man spoke from the crowd; his accent suggested he belonged to one of the old provinces that nearly exported talented policemen into the Empire. Whirring and clicking the button was pressed and the email center came up. A message was blinking waiting to be answered, and it took an equal amount of time for seven of the most experienced thief takers to figure out how to open it.

“Dad! Can I leave now?" A boy about thirteen entered he wore the sullen expression of all minor deviants when placed in the presence of large amounts of badge wearing men.

The Commander nearly fell over with relief, “Wait, just help us here and then your free.” With a moan the boy plopped down in the chair and read the message, “How do you want to answer?”

“We want all the help we can get.” The letter “H” was pressed and the email sent to the so far untraceable computer. “Bye,” the door of the office banged open and the boy left a huge smile on his face, he had something to tell his friends.

“Captain,” The commander yelled up a flight of stairs to were a few temporary bedrooms were, “Put a call through to the IT, and see if they can trace this mail thing. If they can I want you to lead the armed response team, be subtle, but make sure it’s not Albemier leading us around by the dick.”


Strienlikstern Imperial Airport Concourse C

Following the bombing of St. Michael’s security had been tripled, armed police, totting enough firepower to remove anything up to a charging elephant mingled at Starbucks, and sat at the round table provided. More officers were checking baggage and passports; hundreds of people were also being detained, heretical items being burned in sterilized rooms.

A group of three men stood around and old lady on the floor who whimpered profusely and tried to gather her dropped carry on.

“Now perhaps I walked into that one, perhaps I got what was coming to me for phrasing my question so. But when I said pull over, I did not intend to set up a little humorous interlude for the enjoyment of my men. The wrong answer was “no it’s a scarf” the correct answer was “Oh God oh God don’t hurt me.” As I said I may have walked into it, but you most definitely walked into your own needle there.” He gave the women a prod with his boot, revealing that she did in fact have a crochet hook protruding from her shoulder. By the pool of blood on the ground she had been receiving the Sergeant’s interrogation for quite awhile. “Now let me start again, why do you believe it’s alright to bring needles onto planes? Accident’s happen deary.” The squad roared with laughter, this was what being in the Divine Legion was all about.

Silence spread across the concourse, man with a white tunic had stepped off the plane, a cross on his back did not immediately signal for respect but, most definitely demanded it. “Follow him,” the Sergeant whispered to his attaché and corporal. “He looks different, any way holy men need all the protection they can get.” He winked at the corporal who stifled a laugh before saluting and ambling off in an arbitrary direction. He was by no means a expert at tailing but, and that was rather the point.

Mr. Johnson was a mere two hundred feet from the car he had left when he spotted movement out of the corner of his eye. In less than a second he had taken a carbine assault rifle out from under his cloak and aimed it at the offending person's head. He realized it was one of the nation's policemen and lowered his weapon, still wary.

"How long have you been following me, and why?" he demanded, his voice booming over the noise of the city in the background.

Mr. Johnson was a mere two hundred feet from the car he had left when he spotted movement out of the corner of his eye. In less than a second he had taken a carbine assault rifle out from under his cloak and aimed it at the offending person's head. He realized it was one of the nation's policemen and lowered his weapon, still wary.

"How long have you been following me, and why?" he demanded, his voice booming over the noise of the city in the background.

Corporal Splitzer threw up his arms before he remembered who was the soldier. "Since the airport, Sergeant Henter said as a Holy man," he pointed to the cross painted on the man's tunic. "You would need all the protection you'd need. I didn't mean you any harm sir but these are dangerous times. Got a evil murder stalking the streets and all that. They say he already killed twenty men in the warehouse district." The corporal, whose standard mode was that of aimless talker had already taken to this man whose only act so far was to point a gun at the corporal. "What's you name then and what's your business?"

Harry closed his eyes, sighing softly. He was now the Butterfly, and until Felix was caught and he was 3 trillion dollars richer, he would stay like that - utter melancholy. "So, this little puzzle begins now, doesn't it?" He said, taking his cellphone and holding it carefully as it searched for a signal. Finally, after such a long time of waiting, it finally clicked altogether. "Good." The Butterfly said, looking at his notebook as it showed a series of sequences, a list of numbers of available usable IP addresses. "This is a bit difficult, but let's see."

Immediately, he began. Since it would be suicide to hide himself against the government's supercomputers, he would have to use guerrilla tactics to outwit them, for the time being. He couldn't know for sure whether Felix had an eye in the police department's workings, so he had to be careful. Tracing towards a single IP address, he proceeded to slowly hack into it using a dummy explorer process, hoping the man would accept should his firewall pop up. There was no acceptance, forcing a sarcastic chuckle on Harry's end. "Why are people so smart?" He asked himself quietly, sitting amongst the stones. "First thing's first, then." He replied, linking himself to an open torrent, waiting for a seeding link to be established.

Immediately, a link was established, upon which he connected himself to a dummy data line, latching onto a router before slowly sending messages to the other router. Quickly, another torrent uploaded itself towards another seeder, upon which he sent from another router. From there, he sent that to a cell phone, virtually blocking his connection as it was solely the router's connection now. From there, he connected to another seeder through his torrent, waiting before a string of sequences appeared. So dangerous was file sharing, it seemed, as he smashed his keyboard quickly with his fingers, his eyes running along the screen of his tiny notebook, before taking his cellphone out of his notebook. The command was sent, and now, the connection was dead - to those tracing him, it would look like he was using a random IP address in the middle of god-knows-where.

Thank you for your reply. Central airport, terminal 4, 11:00 pm. Bring anyone you can trust.

It was all that was sent in reply.

"I am...Michael Johnson, and i am here to hunt down and kill this murderer you speak of. Unfortunately I am not ordained, this is the uniform of a christian man on a crusade for the Abrahamic League. Your caution is perfectly understandable, and i do not hold it against you."

Commander Peterson checked his watch impatiently; he was now sweating despite the air conditioning. He personally, the commander of one police station had received a call from the Cenobiarch, to take this matter. A whole crowd of IT people had also burst down his doors and spread their lard assess over his office chairs. It was really disgusting to see them, the Church would usually have had them drowned in a butt of wine as was custom for gluttony, but they wee so damn useful. The way they could tap on the keyboards like children saved them the deaths of men. Two officers had accompanied him, they were burly and didn’t say a great deal, they mostly tried to look tough and hold back rubber Neckers.

“Damn it. Where is this man?” The Captain asked huffily as he again fiddled with his ornate pocket watch. It had been a gift from his wife, comparatively useless seeing all the atomic cloaks that e could have, but he had promised to wear it. Mrs. Peterson often had such delusions of grandeur, where her husband would need a fine gold watch and fob. More and more people were began to flood the airport, average tourism was almost a negative industry but news of three trillion in rewards must be brining them it.

‘Smash the Heathen Smash the Heathen…” A jingly little tune came from his pocket with a throbbing vibration. Peterson reached into his pocket and pulled out a bulky cell phone flipping it to his ear. “Hello?”

“Commander Sir, Sergeant Batter. IT just left, we’ve nearly cleaned up the grease and doughnuts.”

“And? Did they find a trace?”

“Unless it was Cardinal Hobbrignerbatten of Dvelvenburg then I supremely doubt it.”

“Your trace got a Cardinal?”

“Yes Sir, apparently he was downloading something. Declined to say what. Perhaps he needs better protection eh sir?” It was a common and running joke amongst people of a certain class, one which Peterson did not need his wife to tell him he didn’t belong to.

“Bye.” The Commander ended huffily, he wouldn’t dream of reporting his most experienced officer to the Dark Guard, and the Sergeant knew it. It was a low grade of blackmail the Commander would have to deal with in time. “Where is he it's nearly 11:00?”

Street

“Really? Crusade eh?” The Corporal looked around nonplused, “where are your screaming hoards, relic train and armies of Holy Glory? Just you on a crusade?” Splitzer smiled manically, “well come along big man, if you’re here to hunt Albemier you better come see the commander. If you follow me, His Highness and the rest of the Legion will be pleased to meet you. “

"Our crusades are of a diferent sort, without maddened zealots or useless artifacts."

Sgt. Johnson followed the man, flipping the safeties on every weapon contained within his cloak as he did so. And why will they be so happy to see me I wonder?

"Well, message's sent. Now it's time for a visit to the closest ghetto." He said, arming himself in case.

There was no Butterfly. Only a child, and scraggly, poor-looking boy as well; he had a messy mat of hair and his eyes were too large for his face, his mouth thin and his body evidently malnourished as an already skinny shirt was too big for his tiny bony body. He held, however, in his hands, a radio. Not a simple one, but an extremely old one - it was massive, almost like a toy, it's handle clanking loudly as the microphone chattered and screeched. The boy said nothing, he did nothing - he just stood there, holding it out, his thumb on the clutch of the button. From it, an unearthly, demonic static could be heard, and words, although audible, seem only barely.

"Commander Peterson?" The boy's radio asked, the boy holding it out at Commander Peterson so he could hear it well enough. "My apologies for not showing my face. Forgive the boy, he does not have any real connection to me; just a child I picked up on the streets and paid to do this. You must understand, I have absolutely no trust in anyone within your government, whether they say they are friend or foe. Let me explain."

"The Harlem Garrison was considered to be the ultimate display of fortitude and defense. Using a crossing grid of 6 by 4 men, they display a sub-phalanx projectile-based shield that allows direct fire to be placed from the insides of the shield. A static position of the Harlem Garrison is able to turn twenty four infantry into the same power strength as a full fledged base, assuming they are properly trained in this aspect of warfare defense. It's angular fire is 35 degrees, meaning it never arcs upon the other soldiers, but almost always with a twenty four shot will hit at least two enemy soldiers. The Garrison also deploys tanks as anti flanks and moving artillery to provide creeping accompaniment." The Butterly alluded.

"Now, here's the problem; the defenses of your events of the bishops have a significantly larger amount as well as highly trained troops in a perfect Harlem Garrison styled defense. So, how could an enemy attack and get away alone? He can't." The Butterfly said, Unless he had help. He thought. "Let me be perfectly clear; I promise you one thing - I will catch this man, but do not expect me to put my faith in you or anybody else. Do you have any problems with this?"

Obviously there were, if The Butterfly sent a child with a walkie talkie to meet with the commander.

Peterson gave a theatrical sigh and held out his hand for the radio. It was a completely unnecessary precaution, the Inquisition were far more likely to kill a foreigner without a police identification, the man couldn’t obviously be that aware of what he was doing. Gently tossed the radio in his hand for a few seconds before mouthing ‘IT’ and giving a shrug to his nearest officer. The Lance Corporal on the receiving end of the shrug returned it and flipped out a cell phone.

“You would be much safer in our custody then walking the streets, especially now. The damn Divine Legion will kill anything no gibbering for mercy. Can you gibber well?” Peterson clicked off the radio and began walking towards a phone booth set up in the concourse hall. “The Council of Bishops convenes inside the halls of St. Michael’s Cathedral. You’ve probably seen it wherever you are. If you have seen it you’ll know that any amount of cannot hold the building. It was built by some damn architect who thought secret passages make the building, there are thousands of places to hide, Albemier could have been there for days and we would never have noticed.” A metallic door slide shut on the phone booth, the sounds of the airport placated as the Commander sealed himself in.

“The garrison on the evening of the attack was somewhere near 60,000 of the Divine Legion, and the usual staff of Inquisitors, monks, bishops, priests, novices. Nearly two hundred thousand people were in the building in some official capacity through the whole day. I refuse to believe he could have entered that way through conventional means, it’s either a secret passage or he was already there. I’ve chatted with the Cenobiarch himself who personally dueled Albemier in an ingress under the Monk’s Gallery. Of course the killer was dressed as a monk, and the Divine Legion does not often question them, vows of silence and that such thing. Same goes with inquisitors of course.” Outside the Lance Corporal was pointing at his phone and mouthing ‘nothing.’

“You’re a fool not to come down to the House. He may not have escaped alone but you sure as hell won’t find him alone. I’ve looked through his records, a stone cold killer. An impressive record, as Personal Inquisitor to the Cenobiarch, High Inquisitor, and weapons specialist of obscure weapons, it reaches the length of my arm. He personally dispatched two Muslims with a comb, a comb sir! And you with your ability hack to Cardinal’s computers plan on somehow capturing him. We have six divisions scouring the nearby cities and countryside, and you plan on catching him with your shiny noggin? I can’t continue this conversation, not over the radio. If you wish to speak meet me at the station. Anyway I look forward to seeing you, either alive when you need my help or when we send your garroted body back to your family.” In one languid movement he threw the radio to the ground and smashed with his foot.

“No more of this!” Peterson stepped out of the phone booth; one look sent the messenger boy scampering away. “Bring the car up, and somebody call my wife. I’m working late.”


St. Michael’s Cathedral Office of the Divine Marshall

Brass weights swung forcefully under a fine glass case as a grandfather clock ticked away time. The office of the Divine Marshall was a cramped affair stuffed with uncomfortable Victorian furniture, and tall ferns arranged in every corner. The man behind the desk was therefore a great shock. Instead of a tall brooding general of the old guard a boy, hardly nineteen, sat trying to draw attention away from his zits.

“Mr. Johnson. A crusader I’m told by the adorable Corporal Splitzer. Here to rid us of Felix Albemier eh?” Prince Andre von Waldenburg gave his best impression of said brooding general managing only squint and arched eyebrows.

“Your government was kind enough to send us a dossier, we have all the information on you we need. Our Cenobiarch who is a personal friend of your Hegemon requested the documents on your arrival and conformation.” Andre was slightly more versed in international politics then his superiors, and though no such event had happened, it sounded reasonably plausible. “Albemier is a trained professional, trained in the arts of killing. I mean no offense to you but unless you have a regiment tucked up in your tunic I doubt you shall be very much help.” The prince stood smoothing down his rumpled jacket.

“If you gaze upon the heart of Waldenburg,” he gave an all-encompassing gesture out of a picture window to his besmogged country, “There are two billion citizens in the interior cities, which is surrounded on all sides by deserts, mountains and tropical islands. Even if he stays in the city, you can barely see forty feet on windless days. As far as the Divine Legion is concerned, you can search all you like, but if you break our laws we will not hesitate to torture a confession out of you. Be forewarned, our internal laws shall be enforced with emphatic zeal. If you happen to capture Albemier, no the thought does not even bare contemplation.” The Prince gave a broad smile, “still you are welcome to read our records on Albemier, and all police reports filled on the subject. In the computer room you will have access to all information a regular officer would have. But if you excuse me I’m due to lead another afternoon of military posturing and I can’t be late.” Finding his hat from a pile of paper work on the desk von Waldenburg picked up a swagger stick and small bag before hurrying out.


St. Tristan’s Chapel

Saints and martyrs wheeled above Felix, forever immortalized by the peeling paint of long forgotten hands. When one feels their death is imminent, or when they are immobilized the mind begins picking up details it never would have perceived before. Tiny bared teeth marred otherwise angelic saints, long bladed knives appeared in angels hands, then faded from memory, as not actually having been there. Felix was dying, his cut to the face had not been grievous but there were no medical supplies, and even with a muscular spasm of the mouth blood would gush out and stain his robe. He lay on the only bed in the place watching the portrayal of Inquisitorial heroes; they seemed to speak to him in the delirium. In melodious and haunting tones his vocational ancestors spoke to him, through paint and time. “Really, really insane.” Felix passed out.

A bottle of whiskey under the alter.
Thread and needle in the grey crate
Clothes in the prisoner’s room
Food under the stairs.

As floating hoods danced about in the supple reaches of the former inquisitors mind, he screamed himself awake, blood slipping down his left cheek. The room was the same, slightly darker perhaps but the same statuettes and frescoes adorned the wall. ‘Time to leave, must find help.” Without apparent welcome a thought nudged it’s way into the High Inquisitors mind, ‘Check under the alter.’ This was an unusual occurrence, the Inquisitor always knew from whence his thoughts came. Still he picked himself off the bed and across the floor with an injured’s speed to the alter where he dropped to his knees, oddly displacing a worn down cobblestone.

Underneath a very dusty, and very old bottle of vintage still in the prime of it’s life. A dream had directed him to a bottle of whiskey? Where else were the items? He tried to remember, picking snatches of the dream out of his fading memory. He followed what he thought, and found several items he could have sworn were not there before. Still fortuitous, magic, God’s own work or not he set to work.

The first needle’s puncture hurt barely at all, adding only a sharper throb to the already nonstop agony of the whole ordeal, the thread slowly closed his mouth. He stood serenely pulling the thread though his injured cheek, gasping every time he took a sip of whiskey to sterilize the wound. In the nature of self-surgery his eyes became fixed on the cross, tarnished with age and ill care. Still the tiny face representing the messiah starred back, never endingly suffering the ills of the worlds. Felix’s resolved hardened, and with a scowl on his face he gulped down whiskey finishing his attempt at doctoring.

Packing in his old clothes and the surprisingly fresh food, he crossed himself at before the alter, mumbling a small generic prayer for success before kicking open the cellar like door into the streets. Hitherto it had been a dark night mist and pollution dancing for control of the city streets, but now morning slowly pulled up from the east. Dragging with it the problems of concealment. Still to early to worry about that, it was best to start the morning with something warm, a pleasant conversation or someone to kill. With the MP-5 slung over his shoulder and the robes of the Inquisitor tight across his back, Felix set out at a trot feeling the infinities of possibility in the city. Strienlikstern was his.

Few people were about this time of day mostly criminals and Police were the only to function this early, and Felix’s first victim stood out brightening sun tucked under store awning. Lance Constable Ryan Pelt did not much care for the Imperial Guard but stomached it for not having his family investigated. Mostly when possible he took early morning patrols, to sleep in one of the parks or simply to have some time to think. A gust of wind interrupted his warm and pleasant thoughts of young women, dropping small change near air ducts, while improperly dressed. Cardinals had even invaded his mind, dulling his once rabid fantasies. Still where could wind come from here?
“At the cessation of life, it is said that angels clad in the shrouds and trappings of the Divine come to earth bearing gifts and never ending glory to the righteous. The corrupt and wicked get a whole myriad of drastically different things. My coming here however is not to inform you of the possibility of letting God into your sundry existence but of to bring up a moral and spiritual dilemma which has been pondering me for some time.” A small blade had pricked the lance constable’s neck, drawing a tiny bead of blood. Ryan had been on the job long enough not to turn

“Does a collapsing constable make a noise if no one cares?” The knife entered his throat, missing the major arteries, and puncturing the trachea. The lance constable would not bleed to death in minute but slowly have his lungs fill with blood over the course of ten minutes. Felix caught the gurgling body. “Do not be mistaken in this, you die for a cause, a lifetime of veneration will sing you to your rest. Once the Church is brought down, and I may assure you that it shall be, a constable will be praised more then the Cenobiarch, and his hegemony of pompous playboys.” The body was dragged into a dumpster near a fast food restaurant, someone would fine him soon. In the lid he carved an eight-pointed sun, with the fine bladed stiletto he added the details of his sign.

“And in the daylight we are made enlightened,” the morning was till young; he would have all day to feed his growing hunger for blood.

http://i148.photobucket.com/albums/s30/lordmango3/seal.gif

Notice: As Issued by the Divine Legion

Felix Albemier, in a nonstop, but undetectable set of attacks has struck again. Six policemen, two priests, and four novices are reported dead throughout the city. The eight-pointed sun seen in previous attacks was found at the scene of every murder. It would appear that this man has assistance in transport alone or is possibly one of those monkey abominations the evolutionists speak of. At any rate the Divine Legion, in congress with His Most Gracious Imperial Majesty Wyatt von Waldenburg IV, and the Cenobiarch will now dispatch air patrols to sweep the city for the criminal. We would like to state again that anyone with information should come forward immediately so Waldenburg may suffer no further murders. Anyone found without proper identification within the Cathedral of St. Michael will be handed over to the Inquisition without leniency or exception. The Holy Church shall not suffer such invasions of it's sanctity, three division will be in place to hold out interlopers. Our God, and his servant's are safe tonight.

Signed:
His Highness Prince Andre von Waldenburg Divine Marshall

The Sergeant was barely able to stifle a laugh when he heard the man refer to the Hegemon. "I thank you for the story, but my government has no dossier on me. As far as any public records might show, i don't exist. As for Albemier being a professional, so am I. I can shoot a weapon better than any man in the Holy Empire, and probably better than any of your so-called 'Divine Legionaires' as well. This mad inquisitor may be a brutal killer, but he cannot dodge a bullet. And as for the regiment..."

The man opened his coat, revealing almost every kind of handheld weapon imaginable lining the inside: a pair of micro-uzis, a small shotgun, a carbine assault rifle with an attached grenade launcher, various types of pistols and sub-machineguns, even a collapsed sniper rifle.*

"If it makes you feel any better about my chances, i have not missed an aimed shot in two years. If I find him, he will die, for there is a reason i became the leader of the Sumguaian Royal Guard black ops. unit at the age of twenty. Besides, finding him shouldnt be that difficult, i only need follow the trail of bodies. Now, where may i acces the files on him?"

*OOC: about 60 pounds of weapons total

Andre slowed his step, turning on knee length black boots to watch as the man opened his coat. “Impressive, not quite a regiment, and the only effectiveness you will have is if you fall on him from a great height. The added weight should do a great deal in crushing him.” His Highness looked nonplussed for a second, dropping his swagger stick and patting his pockets, finally producing a small notebook. “As for your government having no dossier on you.. You believe you are to secret to warrant a small paper? I admit is wasn’t much but a sign of fine government is the paperwork.” He quickly scribbled a note into the small book and flipped in closed again.

“Do not underestimate the High Inquisitor, he still maintains friendships in this country and is as you say a famous killer. If you find him he will not need to doge your bullets for he will be behind you with a knife already in your back. I briefly knew Felix,” the Prince gathered his possessions from the floor, “His reason, his logic, his cold minded singleness frightened the very life out of me, and a great many others. Perhaps you will succeed perhaps where the Legion fails you can pick up the pieces, but I warn you once you threaten him he will never stop, you will lose everyone you love to finally lose yourself.” With possessions in had the prince touched the brim of his high peaked hat respectively, “Two Legionaries will escort you to the computer room. For the interim of your visit you will be deputized, it is the only way in witch to get you the information. All police reports an files will be available. Or system is rather lose you’ll find and the Legion will make sure you do not wander anywhere you are not supposed to.”

With a boot crashing turn the young prince departed the room waving at two Divine Legionaries and handing them the note. “Welcome to the Divine Empire, Mr. Johnson.” He called back over his shoulder.

OOC Any information assembled so far is now available including the most recent killings. Not much to go on but better then some.

"I have yet to see anything resembling divinity here... pimply little inbred swine trying to tell me how to do my job.." the Sgt. said under his breath, sitting down at a computer as he began combing over the files on Felix. Two hours later, he stopped to write in the same small book he had written in earlier:

After reviewing the files of the Felix fellow, i have come to realize just how evil and barbaric this government is. I almost sympathize with the mad inquisitor, as i would certainly have gone insane myself if I had lived in such a structure of hypocrisy. For some reason, they seem to doubt my abilities, probably due to an arrogant sense that they are superior to all outsiders brought on by the nation's isolationist foreign policy. The "prince" that spoke to me didn't seem to realize that the AL, which commands nearly three million men, would not have sent me alone if they didn't think i was more than capable of completing the task. I go now to the scene of Albemier's last crime, the hunt begins.

When he had finished writing he gathered two pistols, the pair of uzis, and the assault rifle, and walked out of the front entrance, heading for the site of the latest killing.

"Fine, fine, fine." Harry said, getting up, taking out his cell-phone as he placed it into his notebook, putting it carefully into his bag as a dummy signal sender turned off. "Well, time for plan two." He said, sighing slowly. With that, he walked.

It was a long way to the police station, and something, perhaps God Himself, helped him since there seemed to be a swimmingly well night as he walked, his earplugs drumming music calmly into his head. Hmm, let's see. He thought to himself, wondering. I feel like I'm playing Chess. Dear God, how I hated Chess. He complained mentally, before it was not long he bumped his nose on the wall, seeing the nearest police station wide open.

Walking in, he walked up to the nearest police officer he could find, tapping him on the shoulder. "Can you get your superior to tell Commander Peterson that a special someone wants to have a word with him?" He asked politely, his face somewhat blank.

“Commander,” the heavy breathing and low mumbling the officer made as he knocked on the door woke Peterson before the Lance Constable had shouted for him. “There’s a special someone down stairs to see you sir.”

“I told my wife I’d”

“Not your wife sir, a man.”

“Peterson flung himself out of bed taking the sheets with him. His hair, partially still wet from a shower stuck up at odd angles and in massive swaying clumps. As expected of all officers whence in the middle of an important case he had refrained from shaving, and looked more then a little insane. With bloodshot eyes Peterson burst out of his room trying ineffectually to flatten his hair for the perceived mystery guest.

On the first flight of stairs he composed himself as much as possible, walking now, serenely holding the rail as he approached the main office. “Good morning Butterfly.” He said in a sly voice smirking with a self satisfaction rather undeserved. He noticed slightly to late that he was in fact looking at a women, with a large wound in her shoulder who had been verbally assaulting and officer. “Um sorry..”

“In your office sir.”

“Thank you,” the door swung open, and indeed a man was waiting for the commander. “How does a man with the name Butterfly learn about the Harlem Defensive?”

"1 month. The Harlem Defensive used against the Freekish invasion against Kahanistan. In charge of the secondary divisions were a man named Jeremy Harlem. Although a captain rank, he outlasted against the Freeks longer than any of generals could have. Hence, the name of the perfect stationary defensive formation, in his name, the Harlem Defensive. Obviously, there are discrepancies and I myself am unsure on whether the defensive truly did get it's name from here, but it seems like a reliable story, if not for the fact that's its the only one." The Butterfly said, looking at the Commander carefully.

"Forgive myself. My name is Merrick Manson. I am the Butterfly." He said, without a hand to shake. "You must be Commander Peterson, correct?"

"Frankly I've never heard of it, news does not travel to quickly to reach the ears of Police Commanders in the Waldenburger Empire." Peterson slipped behind his desk carefully removing the picture of his wife from the desk with a few sheets of paper as to make room for the two. "Mr. Manson then. It seems you have a penchant for violence, studying bloody war and hunting our famous killer. What could I possibly do for you, to mutually benefit our goals? Have you been here long and had time to study the case?"

"No. All I know is that a man named Felix Albemier is on the loose for crimes against your government. All is know is that he carries two articles with him that are extremely important value. Are they worth 3 trillion?" He asked, looking at Peterson piercingly.

“I must admit complete ignorance as to the items that he carries. I have never heard of their existence, or whether they merit the capital letters.” Peterson continued to groom himself without allowing the man to notice. “The Church has stipulated that he be brought in alive, they do not take well to having their members killed, they will want to make an example of Albemier. As for the amount of money I can only imagine it reflects the difficulty in which the man is capable of protecting himself, that and of course His Imminence’s wish to make sure this sort of thing doesn’t happen again.

“Apparently it works seeing as you have come from somewhere, he will be caught I’m sure but how many more bodies will he stack up in the mean time? That is the great question and one, which I hope you, are in some way able to assist us in. As you say you do not trust us, that is fine, I merely wished to meet with you, Merrick may go his jolly way after this meeting if he pleases. But first I shall lay out for you all available knowledge to me I trust you can keep a secret you have done an n admirable job thus far. It’s common knowledge mostly.”

Peterson stood stretching a hugely arthritis swollen hip, even the walk through the airport had been taxing, and age was a terrible thing. “Felix Albemier, former High Inquisitor to the Cenobiarch, that’s the leader of the Church, was thrown out of the Inquisition two years for torturing the post boy in the Cenobiarch’s front office. He was sentenced to death by some torture that eludes my at this point, it would have been gruesome I assure you. Several members of the Inquisition spirited him out the night before his execution and set him on the run. It is generally concluded that he spent time in the Waldenburger Mountains, or in foreign parts somewhere, we can’t be sure but it doesn’t really matter.

Recently he comes back, bringing with him a new fixation with theses Damn Eight Pointed Stars,” The Commander pointed to a white board where one had been crudely drawn. “I’m getting ahead of myself. He appears back in the Cathedral of St. Michael’s, where he blows up a pew of Cardinals through a clever use of pressure sensors, and weight estimations. He then attempts to assassinate the Cenobiarch who had been presiding over the Council of Bishops. He throws three knives, all emblazoned with Eight Pointed Suns, missing most of the time, before fleeing into one of thousands of secret passages. There he dispatches three members of the Divine Legion, and one unknown man, without any civil or governmental markings. We don’t know who he is but because of bone structure we are going with a Waldenburger. All of them seemed to have been killed with a Rapier or similar sword.

His Imminence then, following the passage fights a duel against Felix using the head of his staff, which, apparently is also a sword. The Cardinal inflicts a would on the man, cutting his left cheek open and sending him running. The Cenobiarch then collapses from wounds received and passes out. During this time, as the secret passage was stuffed with old manuscripts, we believe Albemier stole the two items wanted with him,” The Commander paused effecting a air of ill conceal distaste, “The Book and the Vial. We fallowed the secret passage to the end, or more accurately ends. One exit is in a kitchen, another into a private chapel and another into a orchard. Because it was the Sabbath and also the Council of Bishops none of the areas was occupied. Though because of blood stains on the floor we are going with the Kitchen as his mode of escape. Apparently there was someone there that no one can account for I believe he is the missing link between all of this.” Peterson stopped, this was his first longwinded police evidence recital and he wanted good marks from the audience. “Any questions?”

"Tell me," The Butterfly said, looking and pointing to the eight pointed star insignia. He pulled out an image without a name, showing a clear picture of a car crash as upon the wrist of a bloodied corpse, was a red eight pointed star, exactly like the one shown to him by Peterson and his men. "Is there any symbol within your specific government religion that shows resemblance to this?"

"We looked into the symbol as best we could. There is nothing from the Imperial Government and only a very shallow connection to the Clerical side." The Commander fumbled around on his desk before moving to the floor and pulling a sheet of paper out. On it was a much more ornamented star, lacking two pronged points though.

"This is the closest we could come. It's a reference to The Eight Prophets a group of Bishops that went missing with former Emperor Felix von Waldenburg, about 95 years ago. It was said they spoke with God himself and gave Felix everlasting life or some nonsense and hid him in the high Mountains of Waldenburg. They apparently had some sort of power that they were to conquer the world with, but they haven't made anything apparent yet." The Commander looked far away for awhile, nostalgic for times gone by perhaps. "Strangely enough Felix Albemier is named after the Late Emperor. Heinrich Albemier, Felix's Grandfather was Minister of Information to Felix von Waldenburg, and though Heinrich was killed his family continues in veneration of the old Emperor. Still nothing official on the Sun, the Eight Prophets was a splinter group and never affiliated with the Church. So there are no actual official leads, unless you believe stories. Would you like some tea perhaps, or coffee?"

"No thanks." Harry said, looking at the symbols carefully. "I prefer hard evidence, and this seems to confirm a few things." He took out a sheet of paper from his bag and a pen, beginning to draw a series of complex diagrams; it was surprising and miraculous on what could possibly be in that bag of his. "Follow me closely. It's difficult to repeat. This photo," he tapped the car crash image, "was a police image of a man named Gregory Woodson. He was a mass murderer in Sumguaia. He, judging from the autopsy, carried no seeming mental or psychological illness, though he regularly spoke of death and destruction. This picture was taken a few days ago, and that's what sparked my interest."

"Now, with your note of this image, there is a stark piece of information that has reached my mind, and my theory is this; Albemier is working alone, for now." He said, stressing on the sound of for now. "However, there's a reason why he used this symbol, and it the message is clear - 'Those who stand in my way of my goal, know that I have backup available should I falter. You cannot win.' So it just so happens that he believes someone like me to come along and consider this message. So, he's blatantly intent on causing demoralization in the ranks. But now the question holds on why."

"These two items were taken, but since he has used a means to demoralize, it means that he has a need to weaken the police and military until he is in a safe position where there is no longer a need to demoralize. So, his business is unfinished, and I doubt his original goal is to take the two items. They are merely instrumental steps to his real goal. What it may be, however, is yet to be discovered. Now that we know his goal isn't complete yet, and since he needs to weaken your forces psychologically, it's imperative to assume that he will make another move sometime soon. Perhaps it won't be long before I catch Felix in the act." Harry said, thinking carefully.

"His first act is within St. Michaels', and so if his business isn't finished, he'll immediately have to return to ensure that it could be finished. With the increased security, it's likely he can't do what he just did before. However, he isn't so simple as to waltz in; he'll be thinking three or four steps ahead of everyone else; everyone but me." He smiled, pointing to another diagram. "Listen, I need you to prepare for a strike soon. He can't show himself, but he will deliberately send someone suspicious to the St. Michaels'. Upon that, he'll launch a diversion with an event somewhere else. However, you need to play along and let him think he's ahead. When he enters, the trap will act. I need eight regular men. If I use eight of your best men, and there are four of the best men missing at the scene, he'll suspect something."

Peterson watched the computer, as with all quasi-doddering police Commander’s he was infuriated that this man would come in here, and damn well one up him. He contained his anger, set the sheet with the star down and returned to his desk. “I am by no means a master of symbols and ancient texts, they give me quite the headache in fact. But the Empire has hundreds just lining up to be helpful, and a vast majority say he is insane. The Eight Prophets were a splinter group that claimed to have the ear of God, made highhanded statements on the morality of man then disappeared. As a Waldenburger he will be following his meaning of the symbol not a foreign one. Felix was, and is a very pious man despite the obvious proof. I in fact have been studying a list of confirmed kills he’s made.” The commander with a manic smile gave a derisive swirl in his chair coming to a clumping halt facing the white board.

“Miss Amanda Abotson, Nailed to Ceiling. Miss Amanda Accerson Strangulation, Baron Sir Thomas Acrea Set Upon by Dogs, Miss Geraldine Adams Stabbed with Carrot.” The Commander turned back to Mr. Manson, looking slightly confused but rallying wonderfully in the face of opposition. “He killed hundreds of people in the field and thousands in the Inquisition pits, to see and do the things he did must have driven him mad. Does his madness perhaps run in a concentric pattern to a common goal? If so I believe it linked with the Eight Prophets, or at least their religious teachings.”

“If I understand you insinuations correctly then that would imply that Felix Albemier had been out of Waldenburg, or is in contact with this organization involved in the murders in Smugaia. Waldenburg has only, within the last three months opened contact with their Hegemon. To have any outside contact with them before that point in time is difficult if not impossible to believe. Though we may disagree on the how I fully corroborate on your conclusion of additional violence around St. Michael’s. It seems a substantiated fact that Felix is mad and intent on causing some measure of retribution on the Holy Church, weather that is by the hand of cloistered and latent powers or mass murderer we shall have to see. As it is I can easily give you eight men the streets are in the hands of the Church now anyway, eight policemen will not be missed. For the moment in time I shall have to deputize you to get you anywhere near the Cathedral, once inside though you should have no problems though I don’t know what you plan on doing. If you will follow me outside we can just sign a few things and send you on your way. Although it will have to be a damn good distraction to get the Church off their guard. We can get you off to the fox hole eh?

OOC
Perhaps we all should get on AIM with LS sometime and figure out his part in this as well some time? Anyway consider eight men of your own naming under your command, though don't expect them to take orders well.

Harry only sighed. "Fine, fine. If my theory upon his mind is wrong, then my other theories should hold wrong then. Let's test that theory, shall we?" He said, getting up. "I'll prepare eight men. Do not tell your men anything; save for, possibly, tell them that when something happens, have all men go to wherever the diversionary event is. With eight men we should be able to catch him." Harry stretched himself slightly, looking at the clock.

"It's dark out there." He sighed. "Shall we prepare?"

Peterson continued to walk out of his office, leaving the glass door ajar for Butterfly to follow. “Quetri Supri, we move!” He shouted strolling out into the front office. Heads perked up, and the usual buzz of officers trying to hold a pen without snapping it came to an immediate and shocking cessation. “Armed Response Squad Two will assemble for active duty in fifteen minutes.” Peterson started to mumble to the telecommunications officer, who with a hesitant speed began opening calls.

“Mr. Merrick,” Peterson swiveled to face Butterfly and walking forward so as to whisper, “Is there anything you require? You do not seem entirely like the gun totting sort but we could provide something? You seem however, able to communicate easily enough so I will not bother asking any questions there.” Turning again he walked back into his office and came out with a double headed eagle cast in Bronze and inlaid with silver. “I’m giving you a field brevet as Captain, though don’t go giving orders to proper policemen, this is only to get you through security and assist you in St. Michael’s. Anything you remove from the police station simply sign it on that clipboard over there. Once the squad has arrived you are in command and hopefully ready for a little steak out.” Peterson did not salute and offered only a wry little smile to his newest Captain. “If you fail, as a foreigner, the Church will not be lenient,” he breathed out of nearly closed lips.


St. Caprum’s Chapel

The bloody walls of St. Tristan’s had abraded Felix’s precarious good mood, leaving was the work of a moment, grabbing the few possessions he had and packing them into a satchel that had belonged to one of his victims. Civilians still forewent the streets, preferring not to be slaughtered by the Divine Legion. It was incredibly easy to hide, from the occasional patrol; they stayed in the center of the street and did not venture into easily ambushed alleys. The Inquisitor robes wouldn’t last much longer, soon enough the police and military would completely take over and a hood would not be able to secure his anonymity but for now he was free to wander the city.

Wandering though was not the High Inquisitors intent, he had an ambition, an avidity to assail the abode of the asinine and apocryphal assistants of an outmoded and apostolistic ecclesiasts. His mind had begun to settle somewhat his usual stoic and impassive philosophy returning after his failure at the Basilica. Still work to do work to do. Felix had wandered Streinlikstern for quite some time, he had a need, and therefore the Chapel of St. Caprum came as a great relief. With the application of one boot to the door, the old wood latch came undone and the rotted wooded flung open to reveal a monk, head bowed in prayer. Felix took some amount of pleasure in walking as loudly as he liked to the man’s back slowly wrapping piano wires around his fingers, and grinning aimlessly underneath his pointed hood.

With a final gasp to his God the monk fell, beads breaking and scattering across the floor. Order of Jerusalem by the looks of it, and he had been strong for having such a tiny frame. Other then this one man, and another two prisoners, who chained to the wall were no problem to dispatch, the chapel was again empty. Relief was hard to come by, when being chased up and down the capital, fighting to the death duels with your former employer left very little time for proper nutrition. With a tight clench though and several minutes seeking it relief was achieved with a sigh.

“Felix rearranged his robe and sorted through his bag, his weapons most definitely refraining from gleaming in the twinkling light of one lit candle. This chapel had the same basic layout of that before, slightly larger but with the basic fang-mounted archangels snarling down at the heresies placed under them. Night was setting in again, the day had been fruitful in learning of things on the outside, and perhaps Felix had been reckless carving his sign into every wall and body it was unseemly. It frightened people as was obvious, and began separating them into clearly defined factions, those against the Church and those who could cry “All Enemies of the Cenobiarch Die” with moral impunity.

Looking at his knives, and feeling his cheek Felix whispered to the audience of angelic faces, “Tsarex, so harried and brutal master, gave me one useful item. One little thing out of all the unrestrained verbal furry and ruinous actions, who would thought that a man like that could have given me patience.”


Water Processing Plant East Strienlikstern

Unimaginative workers tallied the water flow charts and placidly scrutinized the waste being collected. Most of the process of water reclamation was automated, attempting to spare as many citizens as possible the knowledge that their drinking water had once been home to someone’s dinner. In the desert one does what one can to stay alive, and if that meant digesting the dregs of the next mans sphincter then trousers down everyone. Still it was considered impolite to discuss water reclamation, even though it was a honored job, one that Waldenburg could not last a week without, their were never employee of the months. It was again early morning, the shifts were changing, foremen nodded off, the computers ran this place and they merely occupied the desk. From all corners it was an excellent job.

Waste and more goldfish then could be counted flowed out of thousands of tubes into underground reservoirs, which then funneled through a larger tube into the processing station. For the sake of decency it was placed as far away from the city center as convenience allowed. Mostly it was an unconsidered placed, never bothered by inspectors or the police. Tonight though it would change, a tiny silver bullet speed under the ground. In a more metaphoric sense it was the hurled spear of God, in the more mundane it was slowly growing more uncovered, Tserax’s one gift being regifted.


Command Point Claxon

“Commander!” The scream was being repeated up and down the lines, ranging in pitch and timbre. Smoke and fire, no steam rose out of the corner of the city, huge wafts of it accompanied by the roar of air raid sirens and the faint murmur of follow up explosions. A few of the brighter officers had begun working out distances and wind speeds; the conclusion was not one that brooked contemplation. Soldiers starred up at the sky knitting their eyebrows in confusion, shouldn’t the attack be here?

“This is Divine Marshall Andre von Waldenburg, we have confirmed attacks on a water processing plant, near the south of the Imperial Capital has been hit by some sort of high explosive. It would seem the plant has been effectively reduced to rubble. Assailant still unknown, possibly Albemier, possible Maldorian surprise attack, move orders have been issued. The complexities and level of attack suggest that could pose a major threat to the city. Two divisions, currently stationed around St. Michael’s will be moved into battle lines stretching from the Grand Avenue to the Cathedral of St. Ambrose. General Thompson then shall then lead the general advance, detain everyone on the streets. The are will be cordoned off by another three divisions of the Divine Legion by day break.” The hand held radio crackled, and Commander Peterson robbed his hands together in an attempt to stay warm. After Merrick had been dispatched he took his fifty or so remaining policemen and joined the massive ring of men around the Cathedral.

“More reports to come,” The Divine Marshall crackled out for the last time, his petulant voice spurring frosty APC’s to begin a crawl through the city streets. Cars would normally be a problem but any that were out were given a minute to evacuate, or be squished under the steel treads. With bayonets fixed the divisions formed a battle line, screamed into movement by the sergeants. With breath hanging in the air they left the police and whatever guards could be spared from inside.

“You think Merrick I’ll have any luck?” Peterson had broke down and told his remaining officers about the diversion.

“I’m starting to half believe he will, if these fools march off with bayonets to catch one man in the wrong place then, perhaps eight will catch him in the right one. I can’t say I care though, it would be enough to get home.” He blew into his hands, “where is that damn wind we get all day?”

“Oh shit oh shit,” a Divine Legionary performed the most awkward run in the history of jogging down moonlight corridors, to be stalked by men in possession of blood soaked daggers. His progress was troubled by the man’s piety at every painting or crucifix he bobbed a small bow and continued to run. If he was to die, and he was sure he was, a few additional genuflections could only help things. A light tapping behind him made him turn bloodshot eyes to the billowing curtains surrounding the alcove of some statue, where the perceived footsteps of death glided. A very slight breeze caused the man to rush the curtains, taking them in what could be chest height with his bayoneted rifle. Several hundred meters behind his squad had been exterminated by what, at the moment he could only define as a soft wind.

“Oh God,” with a boot stomping turn, Felix now faced him a rifle between the two, and naval sword draining his blood. The gaping chest wound would cause some problems with the inheritor of the uniform but this certainly wasn’t the soldier’s, he slipped slowly to the floor greased in his own blood.

“How shall I accost his Imminence tonight I wonder? To the throat, or the bowels?” Felix glanced down at his feet as if the floor were merely a layer of gossamer of which he perched. Below, was the familiar pits of the Inquisition, ahead the Cenobairch all tucked up snuggly in bed. “Perhaps both, but a little confusion can’t hurt things.” The nearest stairway down was well guarded by a pair of gossiping nuns. The nearest stair case down was then slick with the blood of two nuns, it would take and army to kill the rest but Felix could find an army.

Harry sighed, scratching his head slightly as the eight cops stood there, looking at him with bored, emotionless faces, not a facet of excitement running through their expressions. "As you know, you have been appointed to be working with me in the capture of Felix Albemier. Since I have a bit to do, you will need -"

"Pardon me, sir." One of them said, a slick tongued pale man with short blond hair. "But shouldn't we be headed to the water plant?"

"No." Harry said monotonously, we're staying here in the main lobby of the St. Michaels' since Felix will return - "

"Criminals always return to the scene of the crime? Bullshit. You watch too many cop shows." Another said, a tall, well built man with a square face and long burgundy hair. The others readily agreed.

"For reasons I will not explain, Mr. Albemier will return here not because he had some sort of need to return to the scene of the crime, but due to the fact that the crime itself isn't finished yet. Can you please keep up with the situation?" Harry said, taking out a diagram. "Now, I have specifically asked for eight, since there are only nine spots where there is a complete blind view against the windows, so snipers or enemy fire will be nullified while you are in these positions."

"Why don't we just hide up high and shoot him from below? If he's going to follow your plan, wouldn't it be better just to wait for him to come in and then shoot?" One of them said, a blond haired girl with a long straight ponytail, her stare fiery and intense.

"If he was coming in the front door, yes." Harry said sarcastically. "But he won't. He won't pull off something so easy. It's likely he'll assume something, so it's a matter of acting before he does. Now," He clapped his hands together, anticipating the situation as blackness fell over the darkness of the main lobby of St. Michaels', "Into positions, please."

They hesitated, before Harry annoyingly tapped his feet impatiently on the floor, the eight cops finally taking the positions he had ordered. Harry sighed. Will Felix really be caught if they're not willing to co-operate? He went to his own hiding spot, and now, he waited. Stake-outs were terrible.

OOC
Perhaps we all should get on AIM with LS sometime and figure out his part in this as well some time? Anyway consider eight men of your own naming under your command, though don't expect them to take orders well.

OOC: I only have YahooIM. Perhaps all three of them could converge at or near the same piont?

Egregious sounds of exquisite tortures, filtered up through high vaulted stone passageways, reverberating off intricate pep holes. To Felix Albemier, his petite feet making only a minimal scraping pattered down the twisting stone stairway. Technically, according to all building plans it did not exist, nowhere had any builder made mention to these pits, suitingly the entrance would be hidden inside another staircase in the basement labeled on a amateur map “Experimental Theology.” Intoxicating memories of purpose and power flooded Felix’s mind. Why had he left?

“They were wrong.” His words, though said in a whisper echoed up and down the staircase, extenuated and made louder by stone funnels until through a round about root via several Bishop’s spines rattled the smaller bells on the Cathedral’s bell tower.

Nostrum Severus Livor sentio, and the double doors, appearing as more a portal then a mere doorway, how long had it been there? Its motto-slashed wood of the door, every generation carved again by the pious reminding the world “Our Stern Chastisement Feel.” The whip of God, the flaming poker of the soul, the doors acting as a palisade against conventional morality and religious teachings of the world above, beyond was an entirely different kingdom never spoken of.

Felix entered with a happy whistle, it wouldn’t be heard over the inventive lacerations below, and if by chance he was overheard it was quite common, at least in his tenure as High Inquisitor to enter a room with a jaunty smile. Felix, when in charge had always been a stickler for tradition, flickering torches and the chanting of monks were quite common, it seemed much more appropriate and loosened the lips of any victims. Flickering florescent light’s had replaced his beloved torches, illuminating what looked like a natural cavern, with more precise walls hacked out when the stone masons could find the time. Its sheer scale was enormous, the light’s only cast gloom where there should have been utter darkness.

Vast rows of cages, cast in steel and hacked out of stone created long, unbending lines of prisons akin to city blocks. Every one hundred meters or so a darker shadow signaled that a shallow row of steps lead to an even deeper pit where the Inquisitors probed very deeply indeed, out of some moaning and even a bit of giggling could be heard. Just to the left of Felix’s position was the High Inquisitors Compound, the only proper building in a stone city. Floodlights, blasting clean white light cast a lambent glow upon massive banners, nearly sixty feet in length, and woven out of fine silks. The Imperial arms, the double-headed eagle, bedecked in jewels trampling the enemies of state, the Church’s Holy Hierophant, the Cross intersected by the Divine Spear circled by a crown of thorns. Lastly and in the shadows of the others the arms and banner of the Inquisition. Cast on white linen the Eagle, head beset with a halo and a victim under talon and another in beak. Behind the eagle an audience of the archangels and God cluster granting their benefaction the Inquisition. The Spartan grey of the building conflicted hugely with the banners of silk and their Imperial finery. Hooded guards brandishing assault rifles line the ramps approaching the High Inquisitor’s office.

Felix turned to his left and began a solemn stroll, occasionally glancing to the condemned, towards the burning hub of the underworld. A silhouetted Inquisitor held up a halting hand, “Until we have Albemier off the streets we need identification for all personnel. Tertiary will do for now, seeing as everything going.”

“Isn’t the identity of the masked in it’s a self explanatory paradox? Besides the more obvious costmary classification of friend or foe I have neither as I am both in one, condescend of your greatest fears and hopes.”

Guarding was not the strong suit of the Inquisition and the hood looked temporarily perplexed by this definition. A gloved hand removed the veil revealing a tousle of blonde hair and a massive smile. “Felix! Your Grace! I knew, the High Inquisitor knew you’d come back. There are those of us who feel that things should be handled more radically. Oh, it’s good to see you back, all these lights eh?”

Felix was taken aback to a slight degree; he was expected to be taken in chains to the office, “an ambience lost certainly.”

“Quite so your Grace. Oh come with me please there are some people in the office that you have to meet. By the way my names Etteron, I was here on your last day sir, but they told me the stories and showed me the statue of course.” Etteron turned on his heel strolling of and calling to other guards, “Felix is back!” The cry went up all over the underworld, some of the prisoners remembered his earlier brand of pious certainty and began bashing their bars, and yelling. Stalagmites rattled with the cacophony of the jubilations of former employees and the cries of earlier heretics. Albemier wore a faint smile as he passed a statue of himself robes rippling, sword in one hand, demon in other. No royal reception, no Cenobiarch had received such an admissible admittance to any finer hall. Berobed guards dipped curtsies like the Cardinal’s above. A Council of Bishops in the dark, in a different world where ones’ vices became virtues in service to God, and the dark a grander opulence then the marble pillars and ostentatious halls of above.

“Through here sir. Though I imagine you remember all to well, we’ll just have to figure out what to do with you. We assure you though as long as you keep away from the upperworld your welcome here.

Two wide doors banged open the handles probably scoring light marks in the door. “If I were the sort of man you must be,” Felix said quietly as he entered reading the nameplate on the High Inquisitor’s desk, “at this point in time I would have removed any ramifications of your office before your predecessor walks in from the dead.” Gone was the old mahogany desk with its lion head’s legs and all walls covered in ancient works on theology and science. Now it hosted a few machines ticking and purring and press wood desk on which a ledger was sitting. A bland faced man sat behind it pen in hand scrutinizing Felix’s face. His office was of course entirely sound proof, the door closed with a little shudder heralding a very personal hell for those within.


“Felix, I sent some men to help…” The replacement High Inquisitor stood and tried to shield himself behind his pen and an upheld pen. “It was not my fault they came after you.”

Albemier walked casually forward drawing his knife, “I have not returned here for the benefit of myself, or under the influence of those upstairs. Revenge and retribution are not the adages to my character, which I pride myself, and in that spirit I shall not take action against you Thomas.

“Well I’m honestly relieved, you frightened my there. How are you,” Thomas Jerrison spoke slowly and carefully not wishing to allow his former superior a change in heart.

“You misunderstand me sir,” out of the robe Felix drew his compact pistol bow. “In my travels and meditations I have learned a great deal, my horizons have been expanded as they say. The complexities of civil and religious justice should not be decided in the dark, beneath the senses, and sight of a great and noble people. Fallacy is the greatest sin, to lie is to lead the world into weakness. As High Inquisitor I demanded unseeing and complete obedience. I do not seek revenge on you Thomas; I do however desire retribution on the office. Ideals and humanity perhaps do not mix all to well. I am sorry Thomas I truly am.” A steely blue dart lacerated the jugular of Jerrison, spinning him around and collapsing him against a fiberglass window.

From his body Felix plucked a three-pronged key from Jerrison’s neck. Under the desk a small button was pressed, a mechanic whirr began someway off; the generator was online and producing. With massive and all encompassing strides Felix took the door bashing it open and waggling the key at the guard, “I’ve got a little initiation to perform, it’s seems my skills are in some doubt?” They both shared a small laugh, and the guard followed to the control room, a small bunker under the Office spliced with the electric appliances of modern law enforcement.

Doors, hermitically sealed, slid open on a palm scan given by Felix’s companion. This was however the termination of his services, as Felix slit his chest open with a backhanded slash. Albemier slid behind the doors as they slid shut, already scanning the room for the three pronged slot, the grand gate control. Each section had it’s own gate key, about two hundred and fifty in each block, given to a lower ranked Inquisitor that could open a specific or all gates. From inside he could open all gates, or just one, releasing his army. With an electronic thrum and clicking the key was accepted and the computer began uploading the block names and offenses. Thousands of entries scrolled across the page, all of them hidden away from the world’s eyes. With the ease of practice, Felix opened the correct programs, his mouse hovering over the release button.

“And the truth shall make you free. When the shroud is taken away only the light remains,” the words again boomed out over cells, as claxons nearly drowned out even Felix’s magnified voice. He flipped off the microphone and pressed the button, which was followed by thousands of clanking doors being pulled back. Usually if this were to happen anyone in the room could activate the internal security systems, a haze of phosphorus would sprinkle down burning everything on the cavern floor. Usually the amount of men on duty could keep down any rebellion in the Pits, but with the reign of terror of Albemier more were needed on the streets. Usually no one could find their way in, and any Waldenburger that did would not disobey the Church. Albemier though did so with a faint smile, the prisoners, no matter how badly outgunned could find weapons, lots and lots of weapons. The premise of the Inquisitions existence was in the collection and utilization of such weapons. It was a wonderful thought, why had the Church, an organization meant for the ruling of souls had been given the security duties of half the country. Protocols for nuclear attack were to pray, assassins to excommunicate. Before a very short time ago Waldenburg had never been heard by even the smallest fraction of the world, its defenses mirrored that excellently.

A thumping from the glass paneled door brought him back from joyous revelry three men, unhooded, were banging on the walls giving the universal “what the hell” look. Each of them held a small devilish pistol, the privately designed automatic .22, a rioters nightmare. Usually not enough to kill but if aimed properly could inflict so much pain the heart would stop anyway. Felix returned it and waved for them to come through, showing both his hands as empty.

“What the hell is happening everyone’s getting armed? We’ve lost contact with three sectors?” The leader, small with black hair marched up to Felix pausing when he saw who he was. “Your Grace, what happened?"

“The occurrences that lead up to this point are somewhat beyond me seeing as my absence from employment. I could not accurately relay the course of events, I entered as the claxons began.” Again this seemed to pass muster, Inquisitors believing Felix a hero could not hear a word against him.

“Yeah but weren’t you with the commander just.” With snake like speed the MP-5 was out of Felix’s sleeve, spraying the room with lead and dropping all three after a slight interval. He threw the gun away, not used to grabbing additional ammo he had forgotten to do so. Instead he liberated two of the pistols and tucked them neatly into his many-pocketed robe. The sounds of battle did not filter through, shrieks of the dying and burst of machine gun fire failed to break the high glass windows. Still Felix would find somewhere to watch, he couldn’t fight his way up alone and there were few exits.

A high vaulted room, commonly called the Music Room where the seven-foot tall killers took ballroom dancing lessons over vistas of bondage, offered an excellent vantage of the battle below. Little bursts of automatic fire could be seen from here and thousands of sparkles in the dark were the glint of revolution. In a few minutes the Divine Legion would probably storm the area, but a fleeing hood would gather little attention in comparison to the mutilated faces of rebellion below. Even then the battle would be unclear. A little time and Felix could have another try at the Cenobiarch.

Sgt. Johnson walked up to St. Michaels, looking at the strucure from the outside. So this is where he last killed, perhaps he will continue his pattern of commiting murder in religious places. He opened a door and walked in, looking for any movement. He gripped his rifle tighter, as he couldn't help but feel he was being watched...

OOC: sorry for the bad post, my brain is not working at full capacity at the moment.

It had taken nearly twenty minutes, the bloody slaughter of the inquisition guards. The battle had been a slaughter, at half their strength and without override codes for the High Inquisitors key, no internal security could be raised, and the Inquisitors were no match for half crazed rioters. Only the Office remained, its large banners being ripped down, and a mob hammering at the doors. Wounded inquisitors held them firm firing when they could out of any orifice on the building. Sheer weight and manpower would open the doors it time.

Felix had believed the Inquisitors would run, scamper up the stairs, and he would join them when the fleeing started. This was not the case, as several prisoners had already taken that way up, and were probably storming the lower levels already. Flashes of light still indicated a running battle below, the Pits it seemed were in rebel hands. With an indecisive manner he walked to the bodies outside the control room, it seemed by several dents in the door that more had attempted entrance but had been denied, carefully, using the hood of one of his victims he dabbed a cross in blood across his chest.

Now moving with the skill of the killer, Felix glided through the hallways, most of them were empty, a few wounded paid him no mind and the rest were at the windows or doorways. Padding to the grand atrium, the low granite ceiling reflecting an unpleasant glimmer into the eyes of feverishly praying Inquisitors, Felix pondered them. They were armed to an extent mostly assault rifles and swords. The mob outside was massive most of it missing limbs, fingers, or as was the Waldenburger specialty, the face. Most of them held knives or chains but they screamed so hauntingly that most of the Inquisitors were shaking, their robes jittery along sweaty bodies.

Felix considered a witty condemnation before their death but decided against it. With tiger like speed he exploded off the stairs killing four Inquisitors with sweeps of his rapier. The doors, whose locks were constructed along the lines of this sort of thing being impossible, were giving way. Felix did not take time to consider this and cut down another two Inquisitors who had reluctantly raised their rifles. With his left hand he removed from his belt the automatic pistol, spraying down one side of the hall with the tiny bullets. One assault rifle was trained on him, and fired ineffectively; the High Inquisitor never stayed stationary and had back flipped towards the unwounded section hacking about with his rapier. Sabers were brought up to parry him, but the Inquisition school had been very old guard, not considering weapon with both a pointed tip and blade. Within another thirty seconds of battle the entire guard were either dead or wounded, most of them writhing on the ground.

“And the truth shall make you free!” Felix flipped off the internal microphone, from which he had uttered his hopeful and true alibi to the mob outside. Undoing several of the more archaic locks Felix jumped back allowing the mob some elbow room on the lines of hacking at everything, prepared himself for them. As the doors burst in he offered a rakish bow, his bloody rapier and pile of bodies said everything that needed to be said. The mob hallway through blood curdling scream paused shaking its chains at half their enemy’s dead.

“There are more upstairs,” Felix barked changing his voice and more clipped tone. “Once you are done with them we must go higher, take the Cenobiarch, and the Canoarch, the High cardinal and the Palatius all of them will burn for what they have done. Work quickly, for though we shall die tonight, we have been dying for the last decade our bodies slowly awaiting solace. If we do not move our work may be prolonged. Let us die knowing that we have done some good.” There was no cheer, there was no great call just a general movement in different directions. With angel like grace, about a hundred or so prisoners moved into the Office fanning out and arming. The other thousands, a black swath waiting on the steps and in the darkness below, moved at a motion from an approximate leader. They picked up speed gathering people and weapons from the floor and breaking around the doors to the upperworld.

Within minutes the first wave was in the lower levels breaking the minor resistance of cooks and nuns. Felix however walked patiently upwards following the trail, as the Divine Legion poured down he would go up. The main level was the furthest the passage went, and from there it would be a stroll to the Cenobiarch’s tower.

"Now." Harry said on his radio, as the eight cops pulled out their guns, aiming at Felix who had recently appeared within their sights. Immediately, they slowly walked down the stairs towards him, their truncheons still slung over their backs, their glocks held steady at him as Harry stayed hidden. From his microphone, he spoke upon the makeshift speakers he had set up around the large chamber.

"Felix Albemier, is that you?" He asked from the blackness of the safe shadows.

Out of darkness a voice, and the silhouette of figures advancing. The Grand Entrance hall to the convocation chamber was as looming a portal as the room in accessed. A domed ceiling supported by four large pillars, and a scattering of smaller ones arranged slightly off the wall. Some minor relics dotted the halls, sparkling in what little light there was. Anything other then full daylight or the electric lights only cast more gloom into this room. Felix paused allowing himself to sink into the shadows, how had the voice identified him so quickly? Of course he id not have his hood but to know that soon…

With what he prayed was silent grace he flipped himself backwards, overhand, his fragile body hardly breaking the air as it flew backwards. He then dashed to behind a column, to entirely consumed with adrenaline to notice anything the police or that man said. They might have been shooting at his disappearing figure but he didn’t notice. Out of his robe he pulled a long bladed knife, not one of his throwing variety, but one of the more robust daggers. With a fumbling grace he tossed it overhand across the room; it came to a tinkling drop on the other side of the cavernous room. It dropped someway out of the light cast by the tiny display light within the box containing the Orb of St. Salient. With calm hands he withdrew a second knife and twiddled expertly between his fingers, they would send someone to look and the games could begin. Did they think they could take him with police officers?

Between his teeth a little tune began to issue, it would be inaudible to anyone not standing next to him. It would only be subconsciously recognized, his position would not be given up for it. An old song, a little childish tune that everyone had had sung over their cradles, that everyone had sung over their graves. It was the desert calling all Waldenburgers home and Felix hummed it vaguely between his teeth, reminding him of what must be done.

Out of darkness a voice, and the silhouette of figures advancing. The Grand Entrance hall to the convocation chamber was as looming a portal as the room in accessed. A domed ceiling supported by four large pillars, and a scattering of smaller ones arranged slightly off the wall. Some minor relics dotted the halls, sparkling in what little light there was. Anything other then full daylight or the electric lights only cast more gloom into this room. Felix paused allowing himself to sink into the shadows, how had the voice identified him so quickly? Of course he id not have his hood but to know that soon…

With what he prayed was silent grace he flipped himself backwards, overhand, his fragile body hardly breaking the air as it flew backwards. He then dashed to behind a column, to entirely consumed with adrenaline to notice anything the police or that man said. They might have been shooting at his disappearing figure but he didn’t notice. Out of his robe he pulled a long bladed knife, not one of his throwing variety, but one of the more robust daggers. With a fumbling grace he tossed it overhand across the room; it came to a tinkling drop on the other side of the cavernous room. It dropped someway out of the light cast by the tiny display light within the box containing the Orb of St. Salient. With calm hands he withdrew a second knife and twiddled expertly between his fingers, they would send someone to look and the games could begin. Did they think they could take him with police officers?

Between his teeth a little tune began to issue, it would be inaudible to anyone not standing next to him. It would only be subconsciously recognized, his position would not be given up for it. An old song, a little childish tune that everyone had had sung over their cradles, that everyone had sung over their graves. It was the desert calling all Waldenburgers home and Felix hummed it vaguely between his teeth, reminding him of what must be done.

OOC: is he at St. Michaels?

OOC Yep, in the entrance hall to the Convocation chamber if that makes any sense. The original attack was originally taken about 900 yards from where they are no. And the Prisoners are storming the lower building. Just as a note St. Micheals is best measured in square kilometers, it really is quite huge. Also any foreingor caught inside the building will probably take the blame for all this. Hmmm Warpish

IC

The thud thud of heavy boots gave away Felix’s first target. By the light movement and stealth a women. A women in the police force? Albemier nearly laughed, like many Waldenburgers he had been brought up to look down on the gentle sex, no mercy tonight though.

With his throwing knife, he calculated distance and through some fairly random guesswork sent the tiny blade pin wheeling through the blackness. Without pausing to see if it had made contact he flipped himself backwards again, diving behind the next column in line. Noting that lack of finesse in this, Felix cast around wildly and spotted and old oaken chair cast about with royal banners. The chair of insert random clerical name he thought solemnly before padding behind it, crouching down and removing his crossbow. This was quite amusing for Felix as he huddled down to wait, and with a glittering smile he again began to hum.

There are too many spots for him to hide that can't be easily searched without giving our positions away. Harry said, frowning in concentration, thinking carefully yet quickly. I have occupied eight positions, but that's nowhere near enough to search them all. Another tinkle of noise echoed through his ears, and although Harry's eyes contorted in surprise, he calculated once more. Hold on, Harry. The entrances are sealed by the officers before, so he's got either a secret entrance or a back way, which is like a secret entrance. So, given the situation, he should be trying to divert my attention somewhere else. With that, one of the cops under his command rushed to the source of the noise, upon which Harry frowned.

Damn it! He said, frowning. Don't move! Don't put yourself in his line of fire! He said, smashing his fist upon the pillar silently in anger. "Damn it!" He said silently, talking into his microphone. "Unit 5, return to your spot immediately."

But it was not long before she was already there, giving Felix an open spot to escape quite easily.

OOC Yep, in the entrance hall to the Convocation chamber if that makes any sense. The original attack was originally taken about 900 yards from where they are no. And the Prisoners are storming the lower building. Just as a note St. Micheals is best measured in square kilometers, it really is quite huge. Also any foreingor caught inside the building will probably take the blame for all this. Hmmm Warpish

IC

The thud thud of heavy boots gave away Felix’s first target. By the light movement and stealth a women. A women in the police force? Albemier nearly laughed, like many Waldenburgers he had been brought up to look down on the gentle sex, no mercy tonight though.

With his throwing knife, he calculated distance and through some fairly random guesswork sent the tiny blade pin wheeling through the blackness. Without pausing to see if it had made contact he flipped himself backwards again, diving behind the next column in line. Noting that lack of finesse in this, Felix cast around wildly and spotted and old oaken chair cast about with royal banners. The chair of insert random clerical name he thought solemnly before padding behind it, crouching down and removing his crossbow. This was quite amusing for Felix as he huddled down to wait, and with a glittering smile he again began to hum.

"Scatter." Harry commanded as a counterattack, the seven police units surviving not actually scattering, but instead following a flanking formation that eventually filtered out into a staggered formation. "Wait for a blade to shoot, then two guys fire in the center of the origin, one fires three feet to the left, three feet to the right, and three feet diagonally down and diagonally right. " Harry thought carefully. By the age and height of this man, 3 feet should be his jumping distance, if not less. Someone else will die when he throws again, but I'll catch him then.

His enemy was apparently on the move. He couldn’t directly see who was behind this but he was damn sure it wasn’t a policeman. In a room this vast any sound that could be heard would vibrate and rebound off the domed ceiling, ping off marbled statues, reverberate of ornate pillars. As entrance chamber to the Convocation Hall it was indented to funnel the sounds of the choirs, sweeten their voices and project it out into the Basilica and the rest of the nearby city. Felix had no idea where the orders were coming from, an electronic crackle here, a whispered word there could have come from anywhere.

Still as he saw a shadow move across a display light he took careful aim and fired his tiny dart casting it’s usual steely blue menace across the glooming orifice. It was perhaps risky but Felix could not help gloating at his point, the thrill of winning was about him and hopefully the room’s dimensions would go some way to minimize his vocal location.

When Albemier had been young, to young for the cassock but to old for the nursery the Church had found his first gift. When placed in the Church’s children’s choir it was found he could sing any note, in any key. Albemier had never lost that talent with puberty, and still could sing the arias of High Mass in a beautiful and haunting voice.

“You think you can break me?” His voice did indeed bounce of every column and directly invaded the spine of every listener. It was a high soprano voice airy and light, dipping to faintly sad and weak. “You will die here. A mortality, weak and purposeless ended here, under the eyes of my God. You will die in the dark with no one to mourn, a sad death, an alone death. In a faint trembling voice he began to call again. “You must walk a lonely desert. You must walk it all alone. At the other end is justice, not a deed or thought forgot.” He melodic voice, heard through the floor below brought a standstill to battle in the kitchens. Cooks, knives in hands battering at Heretics paused for a brief moment, elongated by the drone of childhood. Hopefully the policemen would be feeling the same. Felix punctuated his song with another crossbow shot into the dark. Picking a crossbow bolt out of his robe he again tossed it to the other side of the room waiting for the tinkle before somersaulting backwards a few times to a enclosed display box of jewelry.

“Can you hear it sir can you hear it? The voice of the angels calling you home.” The soprano died and Felix reloaded his crossbow and waited.

Harry frowned. One of the stray shots had punctured his notebook's usb slot, and whether it was coincidence or Felix playing with him, Harry kept himself quiet. "Fire." Harry said, telling them to pursue the source of the fire. The distance between me and the corner it hit is 1.45 meters. The angle it fired off was 12 degrees from the wall judging by the tiny mark it made. So, working backwards, it would have to be 38 degree shot with a force of 774 Newtons at least. Convert that into net force regarding air friction, that would come to about 199 Newtons, I believe.

He's 33.6 meters away at an angle of 67 degrees from the wall. According to the map, that should be the 3 O'clock section direction of the wall 16 meters away from the team. He spoke into his microphone. "16 meters, 3 O'clock. Fire now." He ordered, as the team looked at the blackness. Nothing looked like it was there. "Do not hesitate! Fire!" He hurried them. Hopefully Felix would not move from his location.

Felix throwing caution to the wind now (I assume he can hear the microphone as hinted at earlier) he whirled up and dashed about three meters to a column, spinning at the last instance to fire another killer bolt into the gloom. He heard a gunshot, it might have been in here, outside, below. Felix, now though had probably been spotted, his dash, not giving any concessions to stealth had probably alerted the police to his actions. He stood back to the pillar, gently panting, the efforts and twinges of the last days were building, he was losing steam. Though the police seemed no problem, they were gormless ground pounders the voice seemed to know what it was doing however.

Tucking his bow away Felix withdrew a hated automatic pistol, the tiny bullets would not puncture the polices body armor, if they were an armed reaction squad, but it would at least cause confusion, possibly enough for an escape.

An escape suddenly seemed more pressing, the heavy trump of boots on marble steps outside suggested that the Divine Legion was back in force and rather vexed about the whole thing. The scream of APC’s pulling to a halt and half uttered curses definitely suggested the arrival of military men. Felix did not consider it for very long, only taking in the possibility of escape and his mission. As another screech echoed up from the street he took and running leap, firing a trail of .22 riot control bullets in a wild arch, he heard the shattering of glass and the splintering of wood before he was behind another pillar. The muzzle flashes were minimal and the sound barely a whisper but in the gloom it would be apparent.

The Divine Legion would secure the outside first before bursting in, but time was becoming limited. Albemier was similarly running out of weapons, although he was considerably closer to the end door leading into the Convocation Chamber. Directly to the left of the door was the entrance to the dressing room, if he could just make it through the door. One more flicker of movement and a blast of the pistol was all that it would take for Felix to be off. More waiting for the High Inquisitor, as he removed one of his depleted throwing knives and held it in sweating palms.

"Damn it." Harry said quietly, looking at the cameras before him, frowning and grinding his teeth quite loudly. "How are we supposed to keep this up?" He asked himself loudly, as his remaining squad were a mess, bungling and moving about in somewhat unorganized confusion. "Fucking low levels."

Skidding on slippery feet Felix hit the far door at a run. Smashing open fine oak double doors, they were by no means the main doors, who were some meters to the left, seventy feet high, and covered in silver, this was simply the choir room door. In the even larger casm of the Convocation Hall Felix spotted a few Inquisitors having a hurried and whispered conversation under the illumination of the Grand Alter.

Not pausing for even a moment, Felix hooked a hard right and belted for the choir dressing rooms. The Inquisitors who had been discussing wheather or not to enter the entrance hall and see what the commotion was, raised their rifles on general principle and began spraying the wall with fire. Due to sheer momentum the only casualty of the action was St. Ambrose who received several bullets to his jewel inlaid face.

A nun quivered in the choir hall, clicking her rosary and mumbling in fear. The High Inquisitor in flight, still recalled his duty and quietly and painlessly removed the young women’s head with a running swipe of the rapier. If he remembered correctly the passage, Felix halted panting in front of a seemingly unmarked piece of wall before bodily pushing on a brick, which lead, through a mechanical wiring sound to a dusty and cobwebbed passage. The end…The end was a lower kitchen, probably controlled by Inquisitorial Prisoners or being stormed by the Divine Legion, could be tricky. “But Why leave?” With a faint smile, and a dainty step, the High Inquisitor took the plunge into darkness, he could be there for some time.

The entrance doors burst open and laser dots reflected off the jeweled relic cases. Divine Legionaries, with tiny pencil lights attached to their helmets and the patent field mask of the church lobbed two smoke grenades into the door. After the initial dispersion teams of eight began to fan out their enhanced breathing mingling with a few moans coming from gloomy floor.

“What the hell is all this?” Commander Peterson srolled in on the arm of the young Prince Andre von Waldenburg, both looked quite in danger of popping multiple veins, or severely injuring their noses with curled lips. “Shit, who’s in here?”

In the ensuing chaos, all contact with those under his command was lost. Rushing down the stairs, he slipped slightly, his teeth crashing against the concrete (or at least, it felt like so) stairs, the painful raping feeling of his teeth going into his gums, blood spraying out as his nose was cracked. He was a delicate person, no doubt about it. But in Albemier's escape, he saw the shadowy figure of the man himself, shocked and surprised, though somewhat excited, exhilirated. "I'm gonna get you, asshole." He whispered, chuckled, murmured, whatever it may be. He laid there, like a corpse, lifeless and down. He was merely slumbering obviously.

But damn, his mouth hurt, and his nose wasn't so co-operative either.

“Oh damn it’s that foreigner, Mr. Merrick I believe, god where are my men!” Peterson taking slightly more prerogative then the Divine Legion and the Prince skipped ahead into the darkness his, wife had waxed his shoes this morning, as usual, and when he hit a patch of blood he was throne bodily against a relic’s case. Luckily it didn’t so much as crack, if it had death would have seemed enjoyable. On the subject of death… Peterson looked down two men, some of his best dead, both with crossbow bolts to the neck. Others, now that the divine Legion had stopped shouting at shadows were groaning all over the ground, blood and bullet holes marking the battles progress around the hall.

“Commander, the convocation hall,” one man, who had been ripped apart by the automatic .22 pistol rolled on the ground in discomfort clutching his gored chest and mumbling to the commander about angels and angles.

“Medic to this one, and you four on me,” he signaled to a group of Divine Legionaries who had temporarily put down their rifles to pray in front of the Sword of St. Hariz, probably the symbol of the regiment. They did not move immediately but spent another twenty seconds backs curved in silent pray, then as one they shot to their feet and began to obey orders.

It was one of the problems of commanding fanatics, God getting in the way of service. Still Peterson’s mind couldn’t stand on mere treason; his squad flew to the door of the convocation hall, the same side passage Felix had scampered through. Wisely they did not take it at a run, the party slowed taking note through the crack between door and wall that three inquisitorial guards had their rifles trained on the door.

“Don’t worry were from the Divine Legion, looking for Albemier we’re coming in.” Peterson nodded to a Legionary who opened the door with a confident and jaunty flick of the wrist. His body simultaneously hit with about two-dozen bullets was picked up off the floor and thrown backwards a lifeless lump by the time his rifle clattered to the floor. Against he warnings of Peterson the other three me, fanned out to the other doors and on a signal of command from a legionary corporal, threw fragmentation grenades through the door.

Peterson, who had seen video of the Council of Bishops attack on security detail, could very easily picture the floating scraps of robe drifting down, so recently buoyed up by a cloud of shrapnel. Indeed when the Commander hazarded a glance around the door not so much as a solid limp was left intact, and gore lightly covered the room. On inspection of the room nearly the entire wall facing the Entrance hall was pocked with bullet holes, didn’t seem feasible with the amount of time they were given to fire in, but obviously they seemed edgy, and Peterson was hardly going to wipe human liver off the wall for a closer look now. “There are 45 passages out of this room, two secluded torture cells, an a wine cellar under the alter. I want the mall searched by morning, and the other end examined for signs of Albemier’s exit.”

“Sir our manpower is needed to retake the lower levels, were already getting calls.” A private motioned to the crackling radio attached to his shoulder, “Even if he is still here, the Inquisition prisoners are probably providing an excellent cover, he could go anywhere as anything sorry sir but we must go. If we’re still alive at breakfast we’ll search the passages.” With a cocky salute the men walked off and joined a sward of low ranking soldiers piling into the lower levels. Lower levels, which had strong doors, arrow slits, oil flues, thousands of ambush points and contained many pointed weapons. Peterson very much doubted that he would have his request fulfilled by even a minority of the Legion.

Trotting out and finding the slumped body of Mr. Merrick the Commander peered down sadly, “Medic! Do what you can for Mr. Merrick,” and after a closer look, “and find him a bag for his teeth,

Enveloping darkness, the phrase circled through Felix’s mind occasionally depositing a small neuron of fright at the center of his brain still grasping tow wisps of childhood. In the dark was where the monsters lived waiting to eat up boys who haven’t said their prayers.

The High Inquisitor had made several sashays into the kitchens returning with quite a large supply of food and water, also taking the effort to choose a few more presentable knives. He could not risk leaving the tunnel, outside there were so many people who would not enjoy the company of a high Inquisitor or traitor to the state. It was ironic that if the time period had been reversed he would be accepted in either group with open arms, but now he must hide from all of them. Alone in the dark, in an ossuary the bones of his predecessor molding around him, he would wait for the heat to pass. One pulse, synonymous now in proximity with the pulse of the nation.

Harry woke up in a hospital bed, or at least that was what he desired when warm pearl blankets were softly pressed against his face, bandages in what seemed to him like random spots on his wounds, facing a hard, cold concrete wall as he found out he was on a cold, hard cot, and given the weather, cold seemed not too bad to be in. Groaning slightly, he awoke to a black, bleak top of a ceiling, the sunlight pouring in through a square window without glass. He wondered where he was; a prison?

He dearly hoped not.

Quite literally a bloody dawn crested the horizon, lancing threw the grey shadows of pollution and night. The Basilica, at least for the most part had be retaken; three divisions of the Divine Legion had burst into the pits and slaughtered everyone, then through a round about root killed every one in the lower kitchens. Performing to expectations, a division of the Divine Legion burst into the street, seizing every building within two blocks and quickly executing the denizens within.

Casualties of the night poured out for nearly two days, the tight ambush points had proven slaughter points for the supposedly crack troops of the Legion. Prisoners had fared hardly better and their bullet-ridden corpses were being burned under a torrent of acrid smoke on the front lawns of St. Michael’s. Those who had survived, and were not out in the streets, had indeed search the passages, without knowing passing within eight inches of their target, who had serenely slumbered as the heavy footed members of the Legion clopped their way through. No reasonable officers thought Albemier to be in the building, not a man like that; the patrols were cursory and vague. On the streets however armor, patrolled every night, and due to the depletion of the Inquisitorial guard the hood no longer spared it’s occupant searches, Albemier would be found, perhaps by the trail of bodies.

Mr. Merrick would also not be very pleased as things came to pass Commander thought gravely, his shoes ticking rhythmically to the drama of his vacant mind, the Divine Legion, uncharacteristically had no executed him on the spot. They had instead handed him over to a surviving order of nuns, who by dint of effort, and having built their underground nunnery with very thick doors, had been unaffected by the riots. It was a pleasant enough place, sun wells poured down light, and flowers grew in the windows. It was in this perhaps its most terrifying detail the bright cheerful and above all welcoming aspects of the order. It was not an order for those who would survive the year; the Sisters of Charity keep a clean house despite the ever-growing excretions of their patients.

“Ah Mr. Merrick,” an elderly nun who looked as though she had stuffed to live pigs down her cassock gave the prone man a bright a cheery smile, felling better are we?” Her face rippled, jowls of immense proportions dotted with morning shadow, she was most definitely a nun. “Good to see you awake you took quite the battering. I wouldn’t advise speaking yet dear, most of your teeth are new, a gift of the Cenobiarch himself, what do you think of that?” She put on a look of terminal, good-natured concern and totted softly, “shame though. You probably won’t be able to mount much of a defense with half your mouth full of soars. Their putting you on trial for something that happened upstairs, couldn’t say myself, but it’s all a lot of bother. Some men will be round tomorrow probably with some shackles is I know those lads.” She gently chuckled and patted her hair into place. “Let me go get you some soup, it’ll be a relief for your mouth.” She wandered off. For all the Church had learned from the last few days it had still not overcome the view that all people would gladly obey authority, that they could contain people with a group of elderly nuns.

Fingers running through his hair, Harry thought as words ran through his mind. Trial? What trial? No notification of a trial, so if there's no notification of a trial, then there must be some sort of influence. Additionally, if there's no way for me to determine upon any sort of influence, then there's no way I can see who's behind it. But wait, isn't Albemier behind this? Or is it another party trying to use me to get to Albemier? It can't be the police, since they shouldn't be needing to use these methods to put me on trial.

But wait, if the trials are scheduled soon, that woman didn't specify whether I would be executed or not. Considering the condition of this trial and it's suddenness, it might be possible that they're trying to kill me off before this trial? Not good, not good. I'll have to divert away from any food given to me. I'll bear with the hunger for now.

A good-natured bustle announced the reentrance of Sister Evail. The matron mother of the nunnery, n her ham-sized hands she grasped a tray of lunch piled so high as to nearly cover up her neck, and it’s associated ripples. “In a country starving all you have to do is look at me, we take good care of our patients Mr. Merrick.” With a metallic clump she set the tray down, mostly bread products, dried meats and nuts, and very soft fruit. Placed reverentially to one side was a roiling cauldron of soup, it’s edges thick with fat and grease.

Sister Evail tutted about for a while, straitening covers and fluffing pillows before, with a heavy clink of springs, she sat down on the bed opposite of Mr. Merrick. In a fashion only nuns could manage the Matron starred through Mr. Merrick and toyed around with his soul, most students melted away from this face but Mr. Merrick, either in honesty or incomprehension kept a fairly steady gaze.

“You thought you could come here and kill our Cenobiarch?” Evail asked at last, folding her arms across a massive chest. “Everyone tries, Albemier most recently. Some people say it was he last night, but your not fooling the Cenobiarch, he’s infallible you know, and he’s your judge.” Gently as her hands could handle, she brushed a finger against the invalid man’s forehead moving a lock of hair out of his eyes. “Commander Peterson stopped by earlier, trying to speak in your defense, the Legion threw him out, bloody great nuisance that man, patients woken from their sleep, I don’t know. Still, enough of my babbling if I was meant to be interested in politics I would have been born a man.” Sadness again had entered her voice, but she rose to the commands of her order and held up a pear to the man.

“Try this one, it shouldn’t hurt much. Should I cut it up for you? Just nod?”

Harry was at first perplexed, but then, deep down, he laughed. He smiled, he cackled, he howled with satisfaction and amusement, deep down into his darkened soul. But on the outside, his face, he was stern, quiet, acting tense and uneasy. He knew it. He knew it. There was no way he was going to get away free and easy, no way he was going to wake up in a wonderful cot, have old man Peterson knock him on the head, call him a lazy bastard and allow him to twiddle away on his notebook again, surfing on the web whilst he thought of another plan. No, this time he was forced to think of another plan while acting as if he didn't. But she'd know that he didn't, so there seemed to be little point in acting it out.

"I will call you Sister going forwards." He initiated the opening variables. "Sister, I have a few questions, and I would like you to answer them in one sentence altogether. I understand if you don't want to answer them, or can't, but I'd like you to do so. Who told you this? When did they tell you? What evidence do you have against Peterson's claim, what evidence do you have against my claim? Where is Albemier? What is he doing? What is he planning? And finally." He grabbed the pear.

"Where did you get this?" He looked, and waited. She would most definitely refuse, and there, he would catch her.

“You are a Godless barbarian, a liberal more likely then not, am I to beleive the Cenobiarch, the Prophet of God or a scrawny foreignor, do we need anymore proof? That’s the start and finish of it,” with her cinderblock hand she tried, as much as possible with a quarter ton of meat attached to one arm at the pear. “That my boy is a pear, it comes from trees, and you are lucky to have one.” Almost by definition the nuns could not lie, but they never actually had to tell the truth. “I remember Felix, when he was a young boy he used to come down and sing to the patients, his little voice broke all our hearts and men who had committed grisly crimes against the state broke down and cried. My little Felix would never kill Sister Adelphine, you did that.” She began to weep, a little trickly affair that oozed out of porky little eyes of an unknown color.

"You shouldn't be talking, you took an awful fall on the stairs," with a very slight and hopefully unnoticed movement a small peeling knife glinted in the women's hands. "As you seem to be doing better perhaps the trial could begin sooner? Or perhaps you should sit back and enjoy what time God has given you? Let's get that pear into you, or try some soup, it pork and vegetables. Not even the Cenobiarch eats this well, have some who knows you may just fall for it." For a mere moment the matronly stare of idiot duplicity vanished to be replaced by the snarl of a shrouded tiger, it was gone again before a second's breath.

"What evidence exists of me attacking her?" Harry asked in reply, not wanting to let go of his questions. She could be the last person he could talk to in a long time, for he was unsure how long of a languish he was to expect if he was not to be killed. "What makes you believe that I killed her? Are there fingerprints? Are there camera footages?" He thought carefully, looking at her. "Do you know how she died?"

He kept his eyes upon her, unwilling to flinch or let go, trying to keep his brave face in the deepest recesses of such a foreign hell. He looked at her, knowing that she, who had accused him of a godless barbarian, and spoke at him with such angry, discontent tones, likely had her own means to eliminate him. She had to have a weapon on her somewhere, though he kept himself quietly and in reserve, making sure his eyes didn't shift to her semi-hidden hand.

“Why do you all hate us so much? What have we ever done to you, you foreigners? We sit quietly here, praying, praying for your salvation everyday for a long a fruitful life. All you devils for is wait for us to fall, reject God and kill our women. Those who cannot not offend or fight back you butcher.” Sister Evail brought both hands to her face, clutching again at tear soaked cheeks, the knife was now clearly glinting in the light from the sun wells, it apparently was meant only for cutting soft fruit. “Your sort came before, we welcomed them; gave them gifts of silver and brought them in. When all we had to offer them was God they killed and killed, and would not stop killing until they thought we were all dead. That sir is my proof; you came earlier and now cannot have the taste of innocent blood from your lips. You and your damn rapier.” Tinkling with motion the old women stood up knees creaking like the joists of a ship and a small knife clattering to the floor.

“I was to care for you, as is my duty, see those into the next life with warm bed and clean sox. Well when the Cenobiarch reaches into and removes your heart, know that you deserve every inch of rope by which they will hang you. I will be at prayers, and the Divine Legion will be down in an hour to take you up to the Convocation Hall. If you have need of anything, Sister Linen will tend you. She is a bit deaf but all we have on hand.” The ship of women stood and sailed magnificently out of the room still sobbing through now mostly in control. As the door creaked open the very obvious signs of a kitchen could be seen on the other side.

Cracking with fatigue the dead rose covered in crypt dust, and aching with three days of placid waiting. Albemier cautiously pried the lid up off his hiding place, and was careful to roll up the original occupants skull within the burial shroud. As was apparent by the lack of assault rifles being leveled at his head, this was as they said ‘a clean get away.” With ears honed by three days of painstaking listening Albemier picked out the dull sound of dozens of hands rolling dough, chopping vegetables, the sounds of life as usual, the sounds of the lower kitchens finally at work again.

"I could attempt an escape, but that'll be too difficult, especially with my lack of strength." Harry said to himself, trying to recall anything. He clapped his hand on his head, swearing and cursing loudly in frustration, his hair catching into his eyes, hitting the wall with his fist as he recoiled in pain. His knuckles were red, and there was a tiny pebble embedded deep into his skin. Pulling it out, he sat back down on the cot, looking at what was left for him. He wasn't hungry, and thus there was no need to eat. If he had to make an escape, he would cramp up during the run.

But how long would it be before he could escape? How long before the hangman's noose was wrapped his fragile neck, the crackling of his spine beginning to be audible, loud, a booming echo in the imminent death that awaited him? No! He had to stay strong, stay adamant, stay cool-headed and calm. Otherwise he would lose his head. No other way to deal with it. "I need something!" He yelled as loud as he could through the thin bars, his voice audible as it echoed down a silent, empty and forlorn hallway.

It was a shallow scream, the sort mustered by tiny children when then are in pain. Even through it’s meager wail its resonance was a knife being rammed into Albemier’s back. After some slow exercises, stretching aching legs he had begun to walk towards the door of the passageway, the one letting out in the kitchens, and he heard it. That little voice, that little nerdy voice from who knows how long ago. God knew this entire Empire couldn’t catch him, not with sixty million men under arms, but that one voice in the dark had come within a breath of having him killed.

“Whereupon I was deaf before, the eyes have vanished and I was born anew.” Felix didn’t bother with the hood, if he was heading through a kitchen it would be stuffed full of women, and in that case would not dream of making eye contact with an unfamiliar man. Out of the debris of the Ossuary Felix pulled a fairly new looking piece of paper, and dusting it off with a ragged sleeve, began a brisk walk towards the passage door. If he remembered correctly, and he always remembered the little sashays of the Inquisition, the passage came out in a pantry, supposedly no way in but the front door. With an official air he peered around sweeping the room with an imperious glance, luckily there was no one inside. Grabbing an empty basket from a shelf he pushed through thick doors into the hellish under kitchens.

Around him hundreds of hands beat cuisine out of the earth’s bounty, this was not food for elegant Bishops, but for the thousands of working men and women of St. Michael’s breads mostly. And there is one constant in the universe, any person carrying a piece of paper and looking vexed will not be bothered in any official capacity, and Felix was by no means different. The women that bothered to look up carefully looked away, it was quite rude to look at a man who might be unmarried and if one did then there was little chance, after what the Church would do to the women, that marriage would be in the near future. One woman, curled up with age did look up from a boiling pot, her hands wrapped around a silver ladle. She could not stop looking and her withered mouth fell open into a toothless grin. Felix kept walking, turning his head slightly to look at her, before he turned the corner into a hallway he saw the women bob a quick curtsey and give a all encompassing grin that revealed an amazing array of dental decay.

Felix reflected as he strolled down the passage, there seemed to be an elderly women mumbling about young folk, that was always a good sign and he was resigned to follow it, but his main thoughts drifted to the country itself. Waldenburg, The Waldenburg empire, The Most Divine And Illustrious Empire of Waldenburger Peoples, a name that was thrown about with some considerable pride by those who lived under in flaming heel. Little old men capable of no more sin then eating all the cookies, could have a million people put to death before the plates had been cleared away, then sleep happily in a bed made by the down trodden poor. It was a country of contradictions, where Holy Men slept on sheets of silk and men who worked sixteen hours a day slept it flea-infested bunks.

The High Inquisitors thoughts were cut short as the old women dressed entirely in black, including little black thigh length boots, turned into and open door and waddled in. Though it took some time to make the door the High Inquisitor plainly heard, “Trying to seduce me are you?” Wafting out of the hospice on a voice that sounded about thirty years older then was humanly possible.

It was an easy thing to creep in behind the old women who was comically holding her hand to her ear in an attempt to hear what the bed ridden was intoning.

“You know I don’t have to do this, help you I mean.” Sister Riddle pulled at her veil, removing it from her ears, “what was.” She was cut short; both in speech and in height Felix’s rapier was out of it’s sheath across the small space and back in leather’s tender embrace before the nun had felt anything.

“Go with God,” a small foot steps over a spreading pull of blood, and removing a knife from his robe approached the bed. “And infirmity the equalizer to which no soul be secure. It seems odd that pestilence brings us together, perhaps we shall have to change our company to death?” There was no laugh, no smile that was not a joke. “Why are you here? Why do you hunt me, why do the nuns assist you, and how do you see without light? Tell me quickly, or the sheets that wrap you in downy comfort shall become the gentle shroud of internal sleep if the metaphor is not lost on you. Speak quickly, I have mighty works to perform.”

Rolling up his pants, Harry looked at his thighs as cut marks were visible all around them, like tallies of the flesh that no longer throbbed violently as he felt his heartbeat crackle in them all. He moved his fingernails around in his hands, before slightly dipping in untouched skin, harder and harder and harder and harder until! Blood trickled down slowly. Wiping it up gently, He smeared it all over his leg as another tally ran across his thigh, his eyes glazed over as he looked at his fingernails, flesh still stuck within them.

He waited, and waited, before it began to crust over, where he finally rolled his pants back down and resumed his wait. "I can't believe I got caught again." He laboriously lamented himself. "This case is going to be the end of me." He complained.

The High Inquisitor cocked his head, searching the face for a hint of realization, it seems the man in the bed was increasingly insane. No surprises there, he was a foreigner and hade been inside the Holy Basilica for nearly a week, or so Felix thought. A faint smile creased his lips; it was a pleasure, although a very hesitant one, to see his enemies crumble.

“I suppose that your coherence is equal to that of a senior Bishop, but the heart of the matter, the keystone of conglomerating analogies, and the thrust of my interrogatives, is why? This is not your nation, your loyalties are certainly not to the men upstairs, who for some reason are content in a dark world where they alone contain the ways and means of salvation. I doubt, from your ingenious display of some days ago, that you or any of your kind can be marked a villain or indeed lacking of intelligence. This I offer to that last spark of cognitivity that I know is there, the shred of humanity which hangs on in even the most corrupted minds.”

“Before I must end our drama perhaps I shall weave one more tale, speak one last one last paradoxical vexation to unheard ears.” The rapier was lowered slightly it’s violent tip glinting in a desert sun. It was a fine blade, slightly darkened and the steel showing signs of great and common use. In the dark metal it seems little specks arced from atom to atom, as if by constant action the blade was always in motion. “I believe that in the interests of venerating the ever lingering cliché I must. I met a man, at least the shell of a man, who like yourself has seen the flame. Yours sir in the more mundane, trivial sense of that employed by the purveyors of sanctity and the preservers of ignorance, his though his was of a more mental nature which flees the enslaving tangle of my humble attempts at verbalization.”

“His flame, the guide and interpreter, through which the world changes it’s very meaning, is somewhere where I shall never comprehend, behind his eye rests the tempest of insanity. We met in a desert, and there his flame burnt with the acquired passion of a super nova, and the eloquence and grace of the sparrow’s flight. In his eye the world changed from the order of today to chaos, bloody, bloody chaos with violence eternally in attendance. Such a force of total conviction cannot be ignored it’s origins and beginnings swallowed by all that his passion had become to hide the nature and convictions of the man. He was, and is insane. You sir with your bleeding legs, and piteous moans compare only to him in my contempt. Perhaps it is the equilibrium of madness that drives such men, to form groups of slaughter, or as you to slaughter the dignity and truth, which must be obtained through the sacrifice of ignorance, the goals of which I dedicate myself. I meander of topic most distressingly I am sure.” The rapier ended pointing downward in a blinding flick, extinguishing all hope of movement from the bed ridden.

“I must internalize such digressions in future, I speak merely of insanity. When one understands deserts sir one shall understand of what I speak. Still it is by such men that invigorate power, and revive the vitality of Empires and the thought of domination, and fear. I am the tool that acts against the ebbing certainty, where there is ignorance all must be made true. In the desert I met a stranger, who could look on the pillars of the world and wonder what will make them fall. I say this only to assure my own ego, to reinforce my own feeble assertions that I like all humans am correct. Like Dracula,” he smiled hugely. Though Felix was only in his thirties his eyes twinkled and he looked a man twice his age. “I may be conceived of darkness, and relish the shadow of mystery and the coquette seduction of subtle evils. Though I may run from the cross I shall always live under it. But now things are at an end, I wish you peace whatever you are,” the rapier was pulled back, though fear was the objective of the maneuver it was not that far, illusion would never be sacrificed for practicality.

“Oh the Hell it is!” A mountain of meat lunged out of darkness, like all fat women Sister Evail had moved with cat like grace to the door, carrying her huge bulk under swishing robes. Now she flew snarling, a rolling pin, still lightly dusted with flour towards the high inquisitor. She heart had been softened by the pining wails of her patient, she had returned to check on her ward. With her she had clung to her rolling pin and now was dragged across feet of cobbled floor by it snarling in primitive rage.

The hardwood connected with Felix’s head, smashing into his ear with an explosion of flour dust, which fountained around the room. Felix, who had been expecting something had removed a knife from his belt and flicked in gently as the women arced across the floor. It had struck and struck directly on target, and true to form stuck to the hilt in the flying nun. She did not even seem to notice the four inches of steel protruding from her chest.

“Felix!” The graceful attack once completed had ended in a sprawling landing, arms flapping onto the bed-ridden man. “You damn fool the Divine Legion will be here in a minute, run leave us to our vows.” She rose like a tigress her back arching into a combative stance the rolling pin twirling in her hands in the same fashion Felix did.

“Margaret, you have not changed. God is with you I’m sure.” One of Felix’s eyes was already swelling up blood pulling to his injury. Slightly woozily Felix skipped to the door where another nun was poking her head around the corner; she was brought down by the pommel of his sword. Casually as if he was only lighting a match, Felix lit a match, which had been stolen from the kitchens a day earlier. With child like duplicity Felix tossed the match into the room where flour dust still drifted through the air.

Evail, already in front of her patient took most of the explosion, the flames bursting in a small cloud around her. It would take more then a knife buried to the hilt and a small explosion to stop a nun about her duties. A small explosion however was out of place in the penitent silence of a nunnery, and hundreds of faces would be looking in soon enough and not look outward for it’s cause. “Mr. Merrick if that is your name,” Evail turned her veil and face blackened with soot, “That was probably proof.”


OOC You could go on as being freed already or still inside.

"Albemier!" Harry roared with maliciousness. "Do you take me with pity?!" He asked to the blackness, the darkness, the rays of void where naught of sunshine laid, but demons cackled. He bit his lip, the small, tiny, coppery taste of salty blood dripping onto the faint tip of his tongue, lashing out at himself with disgust. His fist clashing angrily against the wall, he frowned with utmost anger. "I swear you, Albemier." He spoke, his pride wounded, "I will catch you, I will catch you. And I will kill you." He threatened to him, and motived to himself.

Even if the office had not been in possession of a slowly ticking, grandfather clock, Victorian furniture and a faint smell of tobacco it still would have been considered stuffy, the one corner of the basilica that was not uncomfortably hot, or freezing with the reflected cold of marble. Andre von Waldenburg sat behind the massive desk, half moon spectacles rode low on his nose, he was trying to put on a show and hand not looked up from his paperwork yet. Unfortunately because of the size of the desk he had to squeak his chair nearly a foot in either direction to reach one of the trays.

“Danger, Mr. Merrick seems to follow you.” The Prince and Divine Marshall glared suddenly up a mild look of distaste upon his face. “Or it would have if anything had happened.” The Prince finally disposed of his perpetual paper and leaned back, the hard leather of the chair yelping in distress. “Please don’t say anything or I shall be forced to have your face ripped off, just listen. There are things that happened, enemies of state not caught, seen where they shouldn’t have been.

If, and let me make this perfectly clear, Felix had been here someone would have seen him, the High Inquisitor obviously escaped while we were busy retaking the kitchens, tragedy of course but there were priorities, and we couldn’t be everywhere at once.” The Prince leaned forward smiling benevolently, his fingers softly caressing the pommel of the saber at his belt.

“Several good persons reputation’s would be shattered should such information get out, so let me be absolutely clear, Felix was not in the lower nunneries for three days. Anyone who says he was is obviously insane and should have their eyeballs pulled out and their optic nerves slowly worked with pins for weeks. We can’t be having insanity or misgivings about what happened last night, can we? No, no we can’t.” From some distance away the sounds of near perpetual screaming could be heard, the Imperial Review cut above everything, it’s crashing symbols only occasionally punctuated by gunfire. It had become the Music of the Spheres as of late in Strienlikstern.

“For the moment, all accusations and charges have been dropped, however we shall be monitoring you. Commander Peterson suggested we just kill you now and spare the trouble, but he was smiling while he said.” Andre was by no means smiling. “Nearly twenty thousand people have died in this affair, not including the heretics in the cells whose bodies we don’t even need to start to count. It is a terrible mess, and though I am supposed to be giving you the “Godless Heathen” speech I would rather ask you for help. What is he doing? You’re the only one in this damn country that seems to know. Did he say anything while he was most definitely not menacing you at sword point? Are you ready to work to save a few lives? What did he say!”

----

“Do you think it is unbefitting, below the imagined social status and class? Good sister of indolence I need not tell you why I have turned your aside into a soliloquy, why I must cause an intermission in the thespian acts of your prostrations. However I should point out aside, dear women, for it is the cause and the effect of my work to whom do you pray for protection, to whom do your psalms ascend? All the darkness has ever held is me, and it all modesty I am more frightful then a deity of your choice, more benevolent then any seraphim. I will set you free.” High pillared halls glinted with the flash of a rapier and nuns, keeping vows to the last bled in silence, their bodies cascading to the ground around the alter. As always the saints, martyrs, angels and demons watched and could do no more then solemnly damn Felix to a deserving hell. It would have been better if Felix had been maniacally laughing, screaming on the joys of bloodletting, all emotion he wore was a sad little smile and eyes deepening with every murder. He goal was nearly accomplished, this was one of his last few stops, and by the faith the women had that they would be spared he had judged correctly, the Church was burning is it’s own bile. This was the end game, he had killed the leaders, he had killed the torturers, he had killed the victims, he had killed the silent women of love; he had nearly completed the dichotomy of death almost, this was the end game.

Just one more target and then the Cenobiarch, the voice of God, the unyielding hierophant and holder of the keys of heaven. Soon it would be time, The Book’s words would be amplified a thousand times by the death rattles of a crumbling church.

It was a mindless wandering, though he was also obviously unaware of the layout of the building, nor did he want to place himself in the dangerous care of the highly threatening nuns or pastors he assumed would run across. Taking a tiny shard of crushed up paint from the ends of the cots, he carried it in his hands the best he could; it was his only defense, and only worked against foes who were close to him, but he continued.

His footsteps down the long, dimly lit hallways, he rushed from hallway to hallway, doorway to doorway, dipping down occasionally when he heard the clattering of people's chattering and their shoes clicking upon the floor noisily. Frowning, he continued his search. "I can't let myself be caught by anyone at all. I have to get away somehow. Leave me alone or not, let me be free or not, someone will try and kill me." He whispered to himself, rushing through the bleak and damp prison-like containment centers, opening a creaking wooden door.