Sacrosanct

[Tobias Stalt]

Rated Aure. Following the events in The Light that Blinds. (http://www.althanas.com/world/showthread.php?28615-The-Light-that-Blinds)

Just tell me what I want to know.

Pitiful whines corrupt the air in the small home, derelict and battered by the harsh snowstorm. The children cower with their backs to the dilapidated wall as I hold their father's head to the table. Mithril drags gently across his cheek, and his sobs shake creaky wooden legs. "Where is the witch?" I ask him for the third time. The blade hasn't drawn blood yet, but it will have to the next time. Tell me what I want to know, and I won't kill you. I keep saying it in my head, willing it to be true.

But I know better.

He shakes his head violently and it takes a concentrated effort not to break skin. "I don't," he gasped through a dry throat, "I don't know! She wouldn't say where she was going, she said it was for our safety!"

My lips twist in a displeased frown. That was the wrong answer. The knife rends flesh and his face spills a steady stream of life giving fluid on the table below him. He sputters his surprise and glances up at me. "B-but I didn't...!" His children scream and cry, and I point to them harshly.

"Remove them," I command. "Now." Anton is with me, and he snaps to obey. The children are loathe to leave their father, of course, but two other members of the Order sweep the girls up and usher them away from the hell that has swallowed their home. Once they are gone, I twist the knife. He lets out a gasp. "Your admission of guilt alone is enough to condemn you," I tell him. "Not even Denebriel can save you now, do you understand that?"

The All Seeing Eye is not known for its kindness. It is an Order of rules and ceremony that span back for two ages or more. When a man confesses his sins, there are only so many mercies he can be afforded. I'm giving him one, now. As he nods pitifully, sniffing back runny snot, I speak again. "But I will give you this one chance to save your children. Where has your wife gone?"

"I don't know," he repeats. It's not an answer I wanted to hear, but I can't say it wasn't expected. "Please, the children-"

"Quiet." The blade sinks deeper, and his face appears to grow even more pale. The frigid touch is in his blood. Something colder than Salvar's winter heart has him now. I pray that ends him before I do. "Does she have family?" I ask. "Friends? Would anyone harbor her?"

His teeth chatter and I peel the blade back, which fills his mouth with more blood. He coughs and gags, then spits it out. "Fam... family!" he trembles and his body seems to lose the will to resist. His flesh is clammy against my hand. "Her family," he whispers now, ashamed that he has been broken. "Archen," he says, "a week's march at least. She couldn't have made it that far."

With a nod, I drop him and his form slinks to the floor. "My children," he rasps, "please. Spare them."

"I'm a man of my word."

His tears drip over a sad smile as he looks up at me with twisted thanks. My face is a mask of apathy. A soft click echoes from my hip, and seconds later I level the barrel to his face. "May you be judged justly," I say softly.

And I pray the same for myself.

With a forceful report, a father's blood splatters his family home. His spirit is free. I should be happy for him. The gun slides back into its holster, and I turn toward the broken door. His family is huddled in front of our wagon, peering up at me with a look I know better than they ever will.

They hate me. "Take them back to Knifes Edge," I snap, "feed and clothe them." I hope never to see these children again. I doubt there will be room for forgiveness in their hearts, despite what they might learn from the Sway. It never did much for me. Though they did not see him die, they know what I've done. Their tears salt my wounds beautifully.

"What of the Witch?" Anton asks, a hint of hope in his voice. My gaze quenches that unchecked flame quickly. "I mean, we aren't going to let her escape, are we?"

"Send a bird to the Cathedral," I tell him, "and one to our liaison in Archen. Have them cross reference the lineage records for the past hundred years. We will find her family before she does." I hope to abate the wholesale genocide of an entire family, but the most likely outcome remains the same. Fire and blood. Anton salutes in silence. Clearly, he has no taste for strategy.

"Stalt," a voice from behind me calls. When I turn, Brother Bailey smiles warmly at me. With a nod, I greet him. "Did you find find the Witch?"

"The Eye is on her," I assure him, "she will not evade us for long."

He claps me on the shoulder with vigor that betrays abnormal strength. "Good to hear, Tobias," I have never understood the kindness of Brother Bailey, honestly. "And how are you?"

The question is, as ever, unnerving. I wonder what he wants to hear. "I am nothing," I tell him, "my feelings are nothing. There is duty, and there is death."

His frown is a funny thing. "You take your work so seriously," he mutters, "it's inspirational."

It's certainly something.

[Tobias Stalt]

"Miranda Ravenhardt stands accused of profane sacrifice and worship of pagan gods," Bailey whispers to me in a low voice, "we should not abandon the chase, for the safety of those who might come into contact with her."

That thought had occurred to me; the Church does have certain duties it fulfills to the common folk. Among these are the removal and containment of dangerous forces that pose a threat to the people's safety. Of course, to give chase might force Miranda to evade us, and she might never go to Archen.

Hot breath steams from my lips as I consider the words before saying my own. "I agree, she can't be allowed to harm anyone, but we cannot allow her to overextend our reach. A runner ought to be sent discreetly ahead, and we can double security all the way to Archen."

A proper hunting party is out of the question. I will not tolerate the reckless endangerment of innocent people. Still, the Church has frowned on that convention in the past. They like their 'burn it all' methodology.

I have to admit. It works, far too efficiently.

"If we wait too long," Bailey reminds me, "it won't matter if we find her or not. We should loose the hounds and hunt her down."

"I've run away from men hunting me before, Bailey," an admission from my past astonishes the man, but he maintains a facade of calm. The alarm is in his eyes. "When they're searching every crevasse for you, you start getting desperate. People get pulled in. People die."

"One heretic can sow the seeds of dissent, Brother Stalt," he reminds me. "We must tread carefully here."

It pains me, because my mind screams that his logic is twisted. The danger to Salvar's population should not occur to me as such a side issue. That this even crosses my mind... it's...

It's unnerving. "Fine," I concede. "We will send a small party in the guise of clerics. They will move under the facade of blessing and the giving of rites. Under no circumstances will they harass the general population unless they harbor or protect the fugitive."

"And, if she proves too elusive?"

"Then we take her in Archen as originally planned," I reply, "and the people are better off for it."

"You have a kind heart, Stalt," Bailey places a hand on my shoulder, "you'll have to kill it if you want to survive life in the Order."

"Let's hope it never comes to that." Really. Let's hope.

"I've already sent Brother Davis ahead," he informs me, "in anticipation of the heightened security measures you've called for."

"You know me too well," I lie. I truly hope he does not. Something about his demeanor makes me nervous that he might. "That was well done."

"There is one thing..." his voice lilts, and I turn my gaze sideways toward him. "It is the opinion of the Church that you should hunt this Witch yourself." His words fester in my mind like venom.

Oh, they would.

"We will take your orders and put them into action, of course," Bailey whispers, "but you are to give chase immediately. If the opportunity to erase her presents itself, you are not to hesitate."

Erase. He says it with such finality. "Their Will be done," I concur grimly.

His smile is mocking.

[Tobias Stalt]

Hunting a person is easy while it's impersonal. You have no bond with your prey. All the schemes, traps, twists, and turns are just a game that has nothing to do with you. The player behind a chessboard never feels what the knight or rook does. If the pieces were in agony during their battle, no one would ever know it.

When you become a piece in the game, though, it's completely different. The game changes forever. Sacrifices and mistakes cost you more than just a piece of your army. The cost could be much heavier. I didn't understand at first why the Sway wanted me to go the hunt alone. Now I do.

Against my hand, the cracked leaves and tattered twigs in her footprints have lost their warmth. She could be days ahead, by now. Where I crouch at the nexus of four paths, one in each major direction, the eerie silence tells me only to be on guard. There are no telltale signs of breathing, nor can I hear anything rustle in the frozen foliage. It would be easy to discern, were I being watched. Salvar does not cater to the ones in hiding.

The tracks notably branch off on the northern path. I know they're hers because they are smaller, and because no one else has taken this path in days. Main roads are too well-traveled, and it would be much harder to maintain a low profile. Especially when one is on the watch list of the Ethereal Sway. What bothers me is that the steps seem so fresh, but they lack the warmth of ones less than a day old.

There's no way she's gotten that far ahead. Not unless she knew we were coming ahead of time. These tracks go on for some time, but never deviate from the path. The trees have converged overhead and blot out the sunless sky. "What sort of magic was this woman accused of...?" I muse to myself as I turn a leaf over in hand, studying it.

The edges are frayed, but not in the way they might have been under the weight of a foot. They seem well preserved, though it could easily be some trick of the cold. It stokes the fire of doubt in my mind, however. A witch could have easily veiled this labyrinthine forest in a thick illusion, and I'd be lost for days.

"Let's try this out," I mutter quietly as I take Calm in hand and press the tip to my palm. Blood wells up, and I dab the leaf against it.

With a displeased hiss, the leaf begins to writhe and wrenches free of my hand on the wind. It glides to the ground, but by the time it touches the snow, it is a withered husk. My blood drips to the blanket of white itself, and the path shivers and ripples around me. "I thought so."

The scope of what was dispelled is small, but enough. Most of the forest remains as it had been; the small area around the leaf has returned to normal, which consists of erratic footsteps that go in a singular direction: toward the northeast, into the flora. Not so cold as the illusion, but still not as warm as I'd hoped.

She stole half a day with that trick.

My map tells me that a village stands not far from this path, still days out from the Gateway to the North. Doubtless she'll take refuge there for the night, but be gone before I can ever arrive. Twilight has already fallen and I won't be able to navigate these roads without starlight. The wolves also present ever present danger, and it's been my clear instruction not to draw any attention to myself.

It wouldn't do for me to flee north and start an uproar. This night will prove nigh sleepless, and I'll seek refuge among the treetops.

It almost feels wrong to kill someone when you're forced into their mind. I feel that needs to be said. Every move she makes to evade me is is a gamble with her life. Every time I'm forced to play her game, and I somehow overcome the adversity, it tells me more about her.

What speaks volumes to me is the illusion. It confirms our fears about Miranda. She is a witch, and there is no plausible deniability. Is that what they wanted me to see?

That there is no such thing as innocence? There are only degrees of guilt?

[Tobias Stalt]

The dawn takes forever to come after a sleepless night. When at last the light bleeds through gray skies, I drop back down to the path and head hurriedly north. I doubt she stopped to rest for the night, unless she found someplace off the road. That just means the only chance I have of picking up her scent is gleaning whether or not she was seen.

Unfortunately, I have no idea what the Lady Ravenhardt actually looks like. What a wonderful predicament that puts me in.

The path winds for several minutes before a small flicker appears through the blizzard. The Sway's Aeromancy abates the torrent from swallowing the people whole, but it does little to placate what wrath does bleed through. It may as well be night; the wind obscures any visibility that sunlight offers me. Blurred lantern light draws shadows against the storm.

If I don't wait out the storm, it might cost me more than a few days. The thought is reinforced by a sneeze that escapes me unbidden. I need to get warm, quickly. Buildings line either side of the path through the town, and one sign tossed by the wind reads "tavern," barely visible. That should do it.

With a creak and a loud slam that I did not intend, the door opens to reveal a plethora of astonished faces. "Come in quick, lad," the bartender called out to me, "what possessed you to brave the blizzard alone?"

When I step into the light, the door closes, and my coat of snow falls away, the room falls deathly silent. All eyes are on me as everyone realizes who I am. What I am. Booze splatters the tabletop as the tavern wench pours a second to long at one man's drink. Her pale face bespeaks guilt that once upon a time, I would have mistaken for fear.

Every man is guilty, somehow. There is always something to hide, whether small or immense. Secrets are the precious currency of humanity, each one heftier in price than the last. My unsmiling face does little to dismiss her veiled terror, and when she speaks up to offer me a drink, I regard her with a pensive glare.

"No thank you," I tell her, though not unkindly. "I do not indulge."

The admission strikes me deep, actually. I hadn't thought about it since first setting out from the Cathedral, but now, it lingers in my mind like I've lost a dear friend. I haven't had a drop to drink in months. I don't want to. There is no comfort for me in bottles. Not anymore. Not after everything I've seen.

"Beggin' yer pardon," the bartender asks me in a low hiss, "but is there something you need, sir?"

The attitude in this room is one of fear and contempt. They know something about me that I don't. It's that, or they worry I mean trouble for all of them. "I'm looking for someone," I say plainly, and the collective intake of breath sounds akin to a chorus between notes. "A woman, in her thirties. She would have come through in the night-"

"We've seen no one," comes the quick and flat reply, "not since yesterday morn. The storm's been raging fierce since then."

It's a true statement, to a degree. It was not nearly as bad as it is now, though. The problem is that he wants me gone, more because I'm disrupting business and his customers are reckless. His attitude needs some work. Thankfully, the Order has given me a great deal of training in the area of compliance.

Crack!

In his surprise, he never saw it coming. The bartender's face hits the counter with a wet smack, and his nose bursts in a haze of red. "Everyone, please remain calm," I state in a perfectly peaceful voice. It may be at odds with the violence unfolding before them, but the severity of everything should paralyze them duly. A large scale brawl just would not do at all. "I need just a moment of your time. This is official Church business, you see, and any relevant information that you can offer me would be..." my gaze sweeps over a multitude of eyes, all fixed on me. Young women whispering low and old men with faces twisted in contempt. The youngest boy seems like to piss himself. "...most welcome."

Before, the thought of involving innocent bystanders repulsed me. As I lift the bartender up and glance over his wound, he spits at me and strains himself to breathe. Every time he tries, it visibly pains him. Every fiber of his being resists me. I understand that, though.

I understand pain. "You," I tell him, "tell me what you know."

"Do your worst, Witch Hunter," he curses me, and the scowl on his bloody face sends a ripple of something down my spine. But it is not disgust. No, what I feel is something far deeper, and far more difficult to deny. "You will get nothing from me. I have been bled dry by your Church. I'd sooner die than help you."

"That could be arranged," I tell him in a low voice, "but I think that would be far too good for you."

This man reminds me of myself, so long ago now. And I think that is what I hate most about him.

"Beat me, burn me, kill me," he spits with a harsh laugh that jumbles into a coughing fit. "It makes no difference. It's just pain."

Stifling the urge to laugh out loud, I take a bottle of gin from behind him on the counter and dump it idly over his broken nose. He screams out as the fluid cleans his wounds, but burns with each passing second. "You know nothing of pain."

His screams permeate the room as I turn and address the crowd. "Tend your drinks. First man who decides to be a hero gets a bullet between the eyes," I warn them all. Fear is a powerful tool, and it has served me well. Even the tavern wench is now trembling in horror behind the counter.

Sobs escape the errant barkeep as I return my attention to him. "Will you speak?"

"Ne... never..."

His defiance is admirable, if not annoying. "Fine," I draw the word out, but in reality, it just means more work. Now, I have to break a man, when what I need to be doing is chasing a bitch. "You're welcome to keep wasting my time. Just know, when I'm done with you, you will pray for death."

"Gods, please!" the girl cries out, and I slowly turn my attention toward her. "Father never did nothin'," she says, "gods' honest truth."

"The question is not what he did," I reply, "but what he saw."

"He didn't see anything," she presses. "He's trying to protect me."

"Leesa, no," he croaks from beneath my fist, and I slam his head into the bar.

"Quiet," I hiss, "you should be thankful to your daughter. She is saving you."

"It was half past midnight," she began, and I listened. "The woman was in a hurry. We asked what was wrong, but she wouldn't speak on it. Honest, we didn't know. We still aren't sure anything about her."

"What did she look like?"

"Dark, dark hair, eyes like the sea. Fair skin- lots and lots of furs. She dressed like a wild woman," Leesa took a deep breath. She looked on the verge of tears. "Please, let him go, he needs to see a doctor-"

"Which way was she going?" I ask. Only a few more questions, now. "How long did she stay?"

"Minutes, at most- oh gods, he's convulsing, please-"

"The direction," I repeat venomously.

"North," she gasped, "she left to the north."

Without another word, I drop her father to the ground and he gasps for air. His body writhes uncontrollably in pain, but not from anything I did to him. His heart was weak with age. The spasms belie a frailty of the body. He's got minutes left to live. With my head bowed, I utter a quick prayer over him. Not the the Sway, no- those spirits are useless. I hope whatever death he goes to is a peaceful one. More peaceful, at least, than the hell I'm going to.

As promised, I leave them in peace. The door swings shut behind me, and I glance north. Hours are all that separate us. Hours and many steps, distance that in a blizzard is only quantified.

I reach up quickly to the lantern nearest their sign, and in a single motion, I shatter it on the ground in front of the inn. Loose ends are best dealt with before they can unravel. The oil spreads the fire quickly, and the doorway is consumed before my eyes. The screams from within echo in my mind. They will haunt me forever.

What have I done.

[Tobias Stalt]

Acrid and stifling, the flavor in my throat is familiar to me. A byproduct of the hellfire that seared away my flesh, smoke is not unlike my sibling: born of hateful, all-consuming heat. That explains why my breathing seems unaffected. In the distance, I can already see the burning ruin of a small outpost.

The pathway north to Archen is plagued by horrors in the night. Because of the risks, the Church has built small rest stops for those who make a journey north or south. For all the evils that they do, the Ethereal Sway at its heart does seek to do great and benevolent things for the land of eternal winter. The nights I spent in study and my sleepless hours in the cell of penance gave me insight into every aspect of their world.

I am the enemy within, after all. The Hand gets what it pays for.

This is one of the northernmost posts, closest to Archen. Marked by posts that warned against nocturnal traveling and sigils of safe journey, she was never christened with a proper name. The clergy decided against proper settlement, given the nature of the establishment. Really, I think they were afraid it would be overrun, or become a safe haven for fleeing heretics.

To me, that makes this fate so horrifically ironic.

"This is your warning, Witch-Hunter!"

Well, that got my attention. In the midst of the carnage, she stands. Buxom and raven haired, she is the sort of sultry vixen men pine for in their wildest dreams. Ravenhardt is a demon, lording over ashes piled high. "I will be free of your church," she declares, "and I will lay bare all you hold dear if you stand in my path."

In silence, I draw the silvery steel from my back. The pale aura drips hungrily across its edge. "You dare to bare your blade before me, even after you have witnessed this?"

"Miranda Ravenhardt," her name drips unfeeling from my lips, more an accusations than a curse. I see the fear in her, wide eyed and unguarded. "Your witchcraft has claimed lives and homes in the name of your self-proclaimed freedom." With a curt motion, I gesture toward her most apparent handiwork. "My interests here are hardly divine. You are condemned to death for your actions against the country of Salvar and her people."

"Under what authority?" she scowled, her enmity growing by the moment.

My first step toward her elicits a flinch. Snow crunches beneath my weight. The second causes her to throw her hands up defensively. "Come no closer," she warns. I take no heed as she begins to draw infernal power from the inferno raging around us. Crimson and orange flames fanned by frigid wind twirl and hiss, crackle and pop. "This is my domain!" her final call bled into the mounting screech that was a pillar of flame stretching skyward.

Consumed by heat, the woodwork around us cracks and sizzles. Air in front of my eyes undergoes spontaneous combustion. My eyes waver for a half-second before I react. "Stand down, Witch."

Her words are a collective of screams. The fire around me is her voice. Growing discontent in my gut warns me that this magic is unlike what I have experienced. The skeletal frames of refuge buildings scatter like grains of sand.

This is fear.

I have felt its ilk. So many times in my life, I have faced uncertainty. I have known the urge to flee, and more, the inability.

I have faced far worse. With a deft motion, I raise my hand level before me. The heat squeezes now as flames lick my flesh. Though the heat is familiar, it is no less unkind. My body remembers this torment, and it reflects on the lessons of such pain. Like a sigh, my breath leaves my lips.

Dried and cracking, my throat rasps an unintelligible sound that seeps outward and joins with her evil fire. The air from my lungs began as a whisper, but within several seconds, it is a chorus.

Her flames waver for an instant, then writhe as if struck. Streams of color from across the spectrum, blue and green to gold, scatter from the epicenter of her spellcasting. The pyre dissipates, and she stands alone at the heart.

The buildings are gone with no trace. Beneath her lies charred earth with no sign of snow or vegetation. Her disbelief is plastered across her expression, as even the clothes on her back were burned away. "Impossible," she murmured, "that was not possible."

"Miranda Ravenhardt," I repeated. This time, my voice caused her to erupt in terror. It was a rasp, one I had barely managed. In truth, I am parched and sleep would be a kindness. "Stand. Down."

Her body moved on its own. The haste in her movements was inhuman, driven by pure instinct. I know the feeling all too well. This is why they call us hunters, and not finders. We do not simply find the enemy. We hunt them like game. We hunt them, and we put them down.

Now, the witch knows she is the prey and not the predator.

This is where the real hunt begins.

[Tobias Stalt]

Scraps and ash left over from her ruined garb litter the ground. The air is so cold that it bites. My tongue is like sandpaper against the roof of my mouth, but the gale that brushes across it offers little comfort. My body went from several hundred degrees to blistery in a matter of seconds. When a cough escapes me, it comes as no surprise. "North," I reiterate, intent on abolishing the thought of sickness from my mind. "I must press north."

Another cough, but this time, my entire body quakes. I am still not used to the harshness of my duties.

"Brother Stalt." A voice echoes in my mind, and my hand clutches my forehead. Fever dreams. What awful luck. "Tobias," it calls to me again. "Tobias!"

My eyes flicker open to the familiar sight of Brother Bailey. "This is bad," he calls back, "he's been out for several hours. It's a miracle that Salvar hasn't swallowed him whole." The warmth in my cheeks is deceptively hotter than I remember. The coughing was real, but beyond that, I don't recall ever falling asleep. How much of this has been a dream? "Tobias, can you hear me?"

"I hear you." My confirmation is weak, and riddled with notes of exhaustion.

"Mana sickness," another voice diagnoses me, but the condition is foreign. Mana? What does this mean? "He was exposed to a locus of magic. Something raw, ephemeral, but intense."

"Is that a normal response?" Bailey seems confused; the nature of magic is foreign to most Salvic men, but plagues induced by it must seem horrific to them. "Will he survive it?"

"He will be fine," the other man responds without hesitation. "It is a very rare condition, but I believe that the Clergy was aware of this prior to sending him."

"How do you mean?"

"If they did not anticipate he would be able to withstand this level of exposure, they would never have sent him on this hunt." The response is concise, but it feels cold somehow. Perhaps it has something to do with this wind. "Tobias displays a type of mana that is... anathema to magic."

"Anathema?" Bailey looks every bit as astounded as his inquiry suggests. "Explain yourself, Stalt."

"Leave off," the Cleric warns Bailey, "let him rest. It will take several hours to regain his strength."

"Then, pray, explain this sorcery by Brother Stalt, Warren."

Warren nods gravely, now applying a poultice to my face. It feels cool, almost soothing. The world flows back into my mind, and somehow, I feel like I am returning to it. "This type of Mana is born of a phenomenon that does not occur naturally on Althanas," he explains, "something either creates it, or siphons it into a vessel."

"Are you saying he is not human?"

"Not precisely," Warren holds up a finger, "more accurately, something has invested an alien force within Tobias Stalt. When and how this occurred, I cannot say."

"Does it mean that he is more susceptible to magical assault?" The doubt in his face tells me that Bailey is rapidly losing faith in me. Small wonder, as I doubt he ever had much to begin with. "Is he going to become a liability to us?"

"Quite the contrary," the Cleric states, "Tobias is not simply an enemy of Magic, he is the enemy of Magic."

"The enemy of Magic?" Bailey's doubt has transformed into skepticism.

"Here," the Cleric takes my limp hand, and without protestation on my part, he gouges me with the tip of a syringe he had secreted in his sleeve. This Warren strikes me as a most dangerous man, but I sense that he is not a threat to me. A crimson line drawn across my palm glistens as the sunlight breaks through cloud cover and shines on it. "Observe."

Warren murmurs something soft, and golden light radiates in an arc around his own hand. Bailey takes an uncomfortable step back- predictably so, as his family was slain by rogue mages- and watches guardedly as the Cleric applies the light to my wound. "A healing spell," he explains, and the warmth against my hand tingles just beneath the surface of my skin.

Magic like this is common in the world. Charms and wards meant to seal opened flesh and stem blood flow. Whereas I have seen it sew together tattered wounds, when this light touches my blood, the liquid in my wounds begins to... boil? The white hot pain sears and I let out an involuntary gasp. I watch as his brow furrows, and Warren reels back in sudden agony. The light wreathing his hand is tainted, and the soothing heat burns him.

"His mana," Warren hisses through gnashing teeth, "is opposed to every other type we know. It does not render him immune- not properly immune, at least," he tells Bailey, "but his essence destroys other forms of magic."

"Mana? I ask uncertainly, but my voice is little more than a whisper. "I was told... I had... no magic."

"Not strictly true," he tells me, "you do have magic. Your magic is just... well... it is meant for destroying other magic. Mana is the essence of a spirit that attunes it to magic power. Some people have an affinity for a single type of magic, some people are gifted and can draw on many of the elements. Some people can heal others, and some can bolster, or even seal away other forms of mana."

"And my mana?"

"Anathema." He repeats the word, and it sounds no less ominous. "Powerful enough to destroy even the most powerful wellsprings of magic. At least, it would be if you had control of it."

"I see." This changes everything. I can't let them see the emotions that are cropping up within me. This is a storm that I need to sort through later. "The Witch," I deviate from the direction of the conversation, and Bailey glances toward me, veiled approval in his gaze. "I've lost precious time. How long have I slept?"

"Our agents have placed her on the borders of Archen, if not already within the city." Bailey closes his eyes. "Your time for subtlety is gone, Brother Stalt. It is time that the Order takes action."

"No," I pointedly stare at him with blatant defiance. "She is mine. No one is to lay a hand on her until I arrive."

"It has become personal?" he asks, apprehensive. "That will not do, Tobias-"

"Hardly," I reply coldly, "she evaded me once. I sentenced her to death. Her sentence is mine alone to deliver."

Both Warren and Bailey are watching me now, and something in their eyes tells of both awe and muted terror. "Spoken like a true Witch Hunter," Bailey responds, "very well. Your orders are noted."

[Tobias Stalt]

Something within me is stirring.

Until now, I thought it was anxiety. The churning sensation in my gut has battered at me for days, but when Warren explained the nature of my spirit it began to make sense. Everything in Althanas is partially connected to the natural energies that flow through it. With this font of profane power, I may as well be a bacteria surrounded by white blood cells. The world wants me dead.

It was dormant before, but as I become more aware it burns hotter. My strength grows as I push myself harder. The pain grows more intense. Memories of those who fell beside me echo through my head, prompted by unseen powers hellbent on deterring me. Insanity would be far, far too easy an escape.

"Something troubles you, Brother Stalt?" Warren seems rather taken with me in light of his discovery. It seems uncanny that he is so versed in this rare phenomena. My simple nod is enough answer for him, though. It is less so for Brother Bailey.

"You will complete your task, won't you?" he asks me without the pretense of honorifics or pleasantries. I wonder if he has always doubted me, or if this brazen attempt at conversation is born of his fear. I have watched it grow in him since the talk with Warren. He distrusts me no different than any other mage. "You won't betray us."

I wish I could give him a taste of this power. If I can call this power, anyway. The force that has manifested in me is far from a boon. Every waking hour is a losing war waged against internal conflict. Wordless, soundless battles against faceless legions rage behind my eyelids in sleep. Screams haunt my eardrums when nothing else remains. I wish I could say I knew why.

"You must learn to control it," Warren mutters in a low voice. "It is the aura you exude. Brother Bailey is driven uneasy by it."

"Aura?" The surprise in my voice is palpable at the notion.

"Your mana flows within you like an energy source. Before, when you were ignorant of it and it had not been tapped, it was locked away."

Tapped. Gods beneath us, Leona prattled on about my being untapped, but I wonder if she saw this.

Or is that why she did not fight me when I announced I was leaving.

Ah.

"You have such an immense reserve, it teems up and seeks a means to escape into the world outside." Warren looks solemn as he explains this like it is a casual topic. "As I've already explained, your mana is opposed to the natural order on Althanas.
Those who are natural inhabitants of this world perceive that mana as negative emotion. By extension, the naturally occurring mana plagues you with similarly negative thoughts and emotions in an attempt to halt your emissions of power."

"Makes sense," I reply. "So, why are you not affected?"

"Willpower, Stalt," he replied."A good mage is not overcome by power. Power is what we do. Willpower is what makes us strong." He laughs. "But you knew that. You're a Witch Hunter. You exist to destroy mages, right?" My gaze is slow to turn toward him, but the grave weight falls on his shoulders still. "So many people have waited, Tobias, for someone who can undo the damage that has broken this world."

"I'm no hero."

"No," he says flatly, "and that's why we need you. No more damn heroes. We need a normal goddamn man to do the right thing, without any delusions of grandeur."

"The Witch," Bailey reminds us in annoyance. "Have you both forgotten, or does this tirade about heroes and magic seem more important to you?"

"The Witch is in Archen," I tell him, "and is not going to leave tonight. She fancies herself protected there." Bailey watches me warily. "There is a small, unmolested coven of sorcerers who practice there. The Church does nothing because they tithe and keep to themselves."

"Blasphemy," he utters.

I should remind him of the Magic within their ranks. I could speak for hours about how they fucked Erica, or give it to him about that behemoth beast Zazrath. But I relent. "Their protection is a well-known fact in circles where witchcraft is practiced. Until now, we have had no cause to put an end to it. Now, they're harboring a fugitive."

"N'jal take me," Warren gasps. "You planned this?"

"No," I admit, "it was the Archon's design. Ultimately, I did not want it to come to this, but I have orders I can't simply work around now."

"What orders?" Bailey asks quietly.

My jaw sets in a grim, flat line. "The Reckoning of Archen."

[Tobias Stalt]

"You cur!" Bailey is brimming with rage as he rounds on me. He does not believe that my orders came from the Archon. It's tragic the way some men can see no fault in their heroes. The Sway has always been run by cutthroat politics and played their hand close to their chest. "You dare to place this folly on His Highest of Holies?"

"Do not interfere in my mission," I warn him. It is the only thing I can say, though I do not anticipate compliance. Already he has a hand on his blade. "If you raise arms against me, you are my enemy."

Bailey is stunned. "You would turn on your own Sworn Brother." The awe and terror in his voice sinks in further, and his entire being wavers under the weight of my gaze. "Did you ever believe in it? Any of it?" he asks. "Did you ever commit to the teachings, or hold sacred your vows?"

Nothing is sacred. The underlying truth of what the Sway teaches us is laid bare in those words. Humanity is fleeting, and the existence that terminates is merely preparation for what comes after.

Nothing.

It is what we are, and what we ultimately amount to. His gaze is wide and childlike now as utter futility fills him. I have no words for a man who took this long to actualize his faith. Or lack thereof. "You would kill all of those people...?"

"And to think," I whisper as the gun slips into my hands. I close my eyes as I raise the weapon toward his head, level and steady. "You never questioned it before."

"Gods," he wheezed, his voice choking, shaking, and soft. "Please, no," he begs.

"This," I reply, "is what your Church has wrought."

There is silence between us. Steam billows from three pairs of lips, every man forlorn. Warren is dumbstruck. Bailey is broken. I am committed. "May your gods judge your justly," I mutter at last. The mocking prayer gives Brother Bailey no comfort as he stares into the empty, white snow.

"Nothingness," he whispers. Only now does he understand.

It is his final word.

Shards of skull and chunks of flesh pepper the frigid snowscape as I turn from the man I called brother. Warren stil stares at the body. "Why did you do it?" he asks me quietly. "Did he need to die?"

"You understand the doctrine of the Church," I reply. "You understand what you have subscribed to. You willingly give your humanity to this, in hopes that you might yield a better tomorrow for Salvar." A thin line. That is the state of Warren's lips. He nods. "Brother Bailey was indoctrinated into the faith at a young age. His family was slaughtered by rogue wizards. Through hatred, he became devout. He saw no evil in his actions. He never once asked questions."

"Faith like a child," Warren echoed painfully.

"Questions and doubt beget answers. They temper faith, and they strengthen resolve. But when faced with a single question, Bailey's faith was shattered." I turn to face him, but Warren is shivering now. "His life was made a lie in the span of an instant. He became the nothingness that the Church wanted him to be, but it was too much for him."

"Is this what we are, Stalt?" he asks, "Creatures devoid of morality?"

"We are forged to do what others cannot," I tell him. "The Oath of the Order is adherence. The moment you stray from that path, you are lost. There is no return to the life you had before. You slip away into madness and oblivion."

Warren falls to his knees. "I... I cannot..."

I extend my hand toward him. "Hush now," I tell him. "You do what you do for the good of Salvar. Continue that. Lead them out of this age of darkness."

He looks up at me in awe. "And you?" he questions, "will you plunge further into the darkness? Will you be consumed for this thankless crusade, for these people who care nothing for you?"

I smile faintly. When this began, it was about the money. All that mattered was a service and a payout. In my time spent on the continent of Salvar, I think something in my debauchery gave way. I grew up with a thirst for adventure and a desire to see the world. The things I saw, the people I met, the experiences we shared, it made me remember the home I gave up- a world away to which I would never return.

"I have nothing to go back to," I say with a sad smile, "and so, I will gladly fight to make sure someone else does."

"And what of Archen?" he asks.

The look on my face now is sour. "If I don't do it," I respond, "then the Archon will. And more people will die."

Those words stung him.

[Tobias Stalt]

"The loss of Brother Bailey is... unfortunate." The Archon speaks flatly, but with the practiced apathy I expect from him. It almost seems too convincing. "However, we cannot let the loss of a single Inquisitor deter our from our purpose." He sweeps across the tent magnificently, and every eye is watching. "I appreciate your honesty in this matter, Brother Stalt."

"He wavered," I respond, "and he became dangerous to himself and to our cause." The finality in my tone is jarring. To speak so solemnly about a man I killed- am I no better than them?

"Quite," the Archon said dismissively. He waves a hand. "Leave us."

The amassed group of Hunters disperses and filters from the tent. We are less than a mile from Archen. Warren and I arrived only hours ago, but he was swift about leaving me. I think he is still haunted by the fate of Brother Bailey. I do not blame him for that. So am I.

It is when we are finally alone that the Archon speaks. "Bailey was a weak minded boy," he says, but speaking ill of the dead causes my nostrils to flare. I'm afraid some old habits die hard. I wonder if the names of my friends ever reached him, or if those two mercenaries died in both name and legend. Togan...

"Stalt!" the Archon snaps. I look to him. "Focus. The Reckoning is at hand, and not a single soul in Archen knows. The midnight hour is coming. Will you lead the Order in this?"

He would place this on my shoulders. A genocide, not just of magickers and enemies of the state, but of an entire city. Women and children, sons and daughters, wives and babes. My head is light and my stomach churns, but my words are at odds with my heart. "Of course," I lie without hesitation.

I suppose this is the meaning of duty.

As I turn away, I feel his icy glare on my back. "I feel that your heart is not in this." It is a statement I did not anticipate. My words fail me, and I fight the urge to spin around in surprise. Sweat drenches my back. "Will you be able to complete the task that I have given?"

One heartbeat, then two. When I finally turn to face him, my expression is tired. "Permission to speak freely, Archon."

His brow lifts. He nods.

"You have beaten me and burned me. I have been forced to kill an innocent woman, raped into subservience by decadent holy men. I have watched my peers end lives for what they believe, people who also believed in things. I killed a father of two children within ten feet of them. I felt their gazes on me. I burned an inn filled with innocent people to the ground. I killed an old man who did nothing."

The Archon's expression never changes.

"There is no question of whether I can," I say quietly. "I simply will."

Finally, he smiles.

"I am glad," he replies, "we had this talk."

Those words mean something much deeper. This man saw to the core of me for a single instant, and he found great pleasure in my despair. He sees me as his greatest achievement, but I wonder if he truly understands the depths. "You are truly an inspiration to us, Tobias Stalt," he adds, "to give in so much to your hate."

He's baiting me. I see it now. "You want me to hate you," I say suddenly. The remark stirs something in his gaze. He looks almost elated. "I understand." He wants a slave. A neverending cycle of hate that he can direct, a force of nature. He wants to turn me into his little plaything.

When he does not speak, I turn my gaze toward him. I lean forward, inches from his face, and I place a hand on his shoulder. He shivers with perverse ecstasy. "Yes," he rasps, "I feel it. Give me your hate."

"I forgive you," I state simply. His eyes widen, and his face twists in disgust.

"Get out." His words are simple, but charged with emotion. "Return to me with the blood of Archen stained on your hands. Tell me of forgiveness once you have drowned in it."

"As you command, my Archon."

[Tobias Stalt]

As I walk from the tent, the air feels stale. A crisp, cold breath of Salvic springtime promises the same empty, unfeeling weather from a season before. I wonder how these people live with such a fate. To be damned with an eternal frost seems unjust, but what makes it truly saddening is the tyranny that it forces them to endure.

I suppose the world is full of tyrants.

At home, I considered the life my father tailored for me to be a life of shackles. During my earliest days in Salvar, I was slave to my finances, and became the unwitting pawn of a crazed wizard. Thrown to Alerar like a dog, I look back and realize now that my life has never been my own. I have chased and fled from the shadow of Lichensith Ulroke since the day my blood turned bad on his tongue.

Even now, on this venture, I am plagued by the doubts he sewed within my soul. Is there true justice to be served, or are we all pieces in a wicked game? Lye caused me to fundamentally question the truths of this world, and he cheapened the value of every single human life in the act.

I found the value again, but only through great suffering.

The problem remains that no man should need to bleed or wail in anguish to know respect and kindness from their fellow man. I was debased and broken down, and I witnessed that the rest of the world has come to wallow in that same drunken madness. Whether through rule of law or the church, or even by the bloodied coin, humanity has lost the love that once bonded it together.

Magic is a lie born of that ugly truth. The gods gave us the Tap in search of a means to enrich the lives that they blessed us with. They hoped to strengthen that bond by uniting us under a common cause, and with familiar power. The lack of understanding is ever born of human indulgence.

Instead of empowering his brothers, man deigned the act of self service a more valuable use of his time.

The reality is that strength comes from within, and no matter the man, the power of magic is finite without the will to manipulate it. Greed and generosity are two extremes on the same scale. Both are powerful, and both can lead to a singularity of will that harvests and strengthens magic to a staggering degree.

Unfortunately, men are predisposed to their own frailty and not nurtured to tap into inner strength.

"Stalt," Brother Warren seems to have found me. I leave these ruminations to you, Alyssa. Perhaps upon reading them, you might understand my struggle a bit better. I apologize that I have always been distant, and that I may always be. Please, understand that it is not a statement of how much or how little I care.

"Brother Stalt, I have heard the dire command. Please, I beg you to reconsider-"

"I have made up my mind, Brother," I tell him gently. Placing a hand on the man's shoulder, I offer the kindest smile that I can. "Please, return to Knife's Edge. Find the witches' children, and if you can, raise them yourself. Somewhere far from Salvar, if you can manage that. Corone might be nice, but somewhere further..."

"Tobias, this is folly! What heresy are you spouting?"

"Warren, please. Take them. Leave Salvar. Something far more brutal and ugly is coming than what is about to unfold in Archen. The Reckoning begins here, but a wildfire is coming. There will be no place for gentle men."

"...Tobias?"

For the first time since I was a child, someone has seen beyond the mask. Something somber and deep within me is evoked and brought to light, and I can see in Warren's face that he is stricken with both terror and grief. It is brutal honesty that has silenced Brother Warren. He can see there is no lie in me now, and perhaps never again.

"I will take them," he vows. "Far, far away from Salvar."

"There is a land, far to the South in Keribas," I tell him, "a golden market that stretches out to every horizon that sits on a sea that teems with gold."

"I have heard of the Merchant's Kingdom," he replies.

"I was born there. Perhaps it will be more to their liking than it was to mine."

"What will you do?" Warren watches me with an expression of concern, but finally I smile.

"Do not concern yourself with that. Go, now. Go before you are swept up in this."

Without another word, Warren nods and turns from me. I do not expect I will ever see him again.

[Cards of Fate]

Thread name: Sacrosanct
Participants: Tobias Stalt
Mood: Sleepy with a mild case of rainy day blues
listening to: sick wubs: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lh4ZrPK2Dqs

Plot: 14 out of 30
Story: 5- Your story was solid in the first half of the thread. You seemed to be riding the hype of “The Light That Blinds,” and it was a rush. You opened strong but you just…lost all of your steam and it began to drag and suffer. The end of the thread had me feeling disappointed, but hopeful for the next thread in your Salvarian saga.

Setting: 5- As with your story you were strong in the first half, and honestly your setting was the only thing that seemed to stay somewhat consistent except for the very end. A notable case that leaped out to me was when Tobias was following the witch’s tracks and you pointed out some actual details that he was using to track her. It felt very tense, but after the witch encounter things seemed less detailed. It wasn’t completely gone, but it took to the backseat and seemed to stay there.

Pacing: 4- You started fast and it was breakneck speed, but you lost so much steam and the last half dragged on forever, and then suddenly it was over. Much can be attributed to you losing interest in the thread, and there was a visible point where you just seemed to say “screw it lets end this here”

Character: 16 out of 30

Communication: 5- Honestly a great delve into the struggles of Tobias. None of your lines felt off the norm and you honestly portrayed Tobias and all of the other men well. You cast Tobias as his usual gruff self, struggling with the indoctrination of the church. You did seem to struggle with you first person style here, so a few things may have gotten lost in translation.

Action: 5- Nothing felt terribly hard to understand or follow, and most everything Tobias seemed to do was in line with his character. Again like stated before, your quality dropped over time but it never got terrible. Everything you did was easily interpreted save maybe the scene with the witch once more, my first reading of that post left me terribly confused, but this was the only spot I seemed to have any huge issue with action wise.

Persona: 6- Wow. This thread does a great job showing Tobias in conflict, he seems to be hesitant in his actions, and we catch a glimpse of him on the edge of the abyss right as he takes a swan dive. Having read TLTB everything here seems to progress forward and is excellently written. He flashed back to conversations with the Archon, we get inside his head in first person, it really gives the reader some insight to Tobias and his struggle to maintain himself and compartmentalize the propaganda he’s being fed.


Prose: 14 out of 30

Clarity: 5- A few parts I had to stop and reread, but mostly it was a fluid read that just seemed to drag at the end. Most of your issues came from you struggling with first person style or basic mechanics issues. There were posts with double words like “the the” or straight up missing words that often derailed me in the second half of the thread. Luckily by this point you had yielded over to the more dialog heavy portion of your tale, so action scores did not dip as badly as they could have. Remember to check your work thoroughly! You’ve gotten on to me about this in the past so you need to practice what you preach!

Mechanics: 4- The last half of your thread was where your mechanics slipped enough for word to start catching your mistakes. You obviously stopped caring, and you used mana somewhere around 20 times in about 200 words. At first I thought it was some cool literary technique you were going for, but then it devolved into lazy writing. Make sure you try to run everything you do through some form of spellchecker to catch things you had missed. Remember to come back with fresh eyes after a while and edit as well, you’ll catch more mistakes the more you sit down to fix it.

Technique: 5- Nothing to write home about, you used first person well but sometimes it felt like you were struggling a tad, but again you just seemed to stop caring so I’m not sure if it’s writing ability or you just giving up the ghost. In the first half you did an excellent job with page breaking into one liners to make them pop out. However, you did so much it stopped having an effect your writing, and became distracting at times. Your worst section where you did this was your explanation of your “mana.”


Wildcard: 7- You struggled with this thread but I’m giving you points for a number of reasons. For starters you forced yourself cross the finish line even though you clearly were not feeling the thread. I also know you did this whole thing from your phone, you crazy person you. While it wasn’t your best I watched you struggle from the sidelines and am impressed you finished where I would have thrown in the towel.

Final Score: 51

Tobias Stalt gains 1,150 exp and 150 GP!

[Lye]

EXP & GP Added!