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[sub]"Heresy is like a tree, its roots lie in the darkness whilst its leaves wave in the sun and to those who suspect nought, it has an attractive and pleasing appearance. Truly, you can prune away its branches, or even cut the tree to the ground, but it will grow up again ever the stronger and ever more comely. Yet all awhile the root grows thick and black, gnawing at the bitter soil, drawing its nourishment from the darkness, and growing even greater and more deeply entrenched. Such is the nature of heresy, and this is why it is so hard to destroy, for it must be eradicated leaf, branch, trunk and root. It must be exorcised utterly or it will return all the stronger, time and time again, until it is too great to destroy. Then we are doomed."
[i]- Grandmaster Dauvignon[/i][/sub]

[i]21st of Rain's Hand, 1431AF
Beneath the High Cathedral of Maldoror[/i][/center]

The long, dim corridor that stretched out before him starkly contrasted with the polished marble of the High Cathedral above. The walls were made of black rock, smeared with centuries of grime, and flickering torches illuminated its length only at great intervals. Gregor Ravenor Nykerius, inquisitor, resumed his march into the oppressive darkness after a brief pause to steel himself. His jaw worked and his balled fists clenched and unclenched while he walked. Gregor hadn't deigned to change his practical, leather apparel for this visit to the black cells, but he had pinned his inquisitorial badge to the lapels of his greatcoat for the occasion. He would do well to remind the Templars of his authority. 

It had been years since he had last been in Maldoror. The great capital of Montgarde wasn't part of his assigned territory. Other inquisitors worked to root out the heresy in the bloated city, and Gregor was thankful for that. He had never much liked Maldoror -- the traitorous imperial court, the endless miles of crime-ridden slums at its edges, the holier-than-thou attitude of the insufferable ecclesiarchs... Gregor detested all of it. No, he operated further north, in the wetlands and forests that surrounded Couronnesbourg. That was a much more modest and agreeable city, and while its people were equally pious, they were humble. Gregor enjoyed protecting them, mostly from the ravenous monsters and wicked sorcerers that sought refuge in its dreary landscape every so often. Investigating his corrupt, fellow man was not his forte. 

Alas, he had been recalled to the capital for a preposterous, detestable assignment. The church had captured another witch of some kind at the empire's borders, as they did every once in a while, and insisted that the heathen be given a chance at redemption by using their dark powers to fight the enemies of Montgarde. Gregor hated that line of thought. The Templars and their friends within the clergy always blathered on about the Matriarch's mercy, but Gregor was pretty sure the whole operation was designed to weaken the inquisition from within by forcing them to work with dangerous heretics and sorcerers. As long as the Emperor was in bed with the church, the inquisition was forced to cooperate. Gregor didn't believe any more, but if he did, he would most certainly not see this as a holy task performed for the Matriarch's favor. [i]This is the Gravedigger's work,[/i] he bitterly thought to himself. 

At long last, the corridor opened up into a large, circular chamber. Hundreds of candles flickered silently in the alcoves that lined the walls, interrupted by at least a dozen doors. Gregor had never been further into the dungeon than this, but he knew that those doors led to the actual black cells themselves. This was as far as visitors were permitted to go. 

Four Templars waited there for him. A seated figure was in their midst, a hood of black cloth obscuring her face, but Gregor immediately knew that this was the witch that was supposed to accompany him. Gregor exhaled sharply through his nose and stepped forward. "Paladin Eritreas," he said, greeting the most senior of the Templars in short clipped tones. Gregor had met him before. Obviously, he didn't care for the older man. Eritreas returned the greeting with an unpleasant smile. "Inquisitor Nykerius," Eritreas replied in a sickly, honeyed cadence. "We are [i]so[/i] pleased you've come. The Matriarch smiles upon you. You know what is expected of you?" 

Gregor cleared his throat. "Yes, Eritreas. I know. Get on with it." The Templar raised his eyebrows, the smile never leaving his clean-shaven face, and shrugged. "As you wish." Eritreas reached out with a hand and pulled the black hood off of the witch's head. Black hair spilled over the woman's shoulders and Gregor met her eyes briefly. [i]The enemy.[/i] He looked away, shifting his weight, and grunted uncomfortably. "This is Loka Meissa ar-Raqis," Eritreas continued. "We captured her near Kopt. As we understand it, she worships a false deity named the Peacock God. She is misguided, but... potent. Use her wisely." Eritreas tilted his head, his dark eyes seeking Gregor's. When the inquisitor returned the stare, seeing it full of schadenfreude, he muttered an oath under his breath. "Fine," he spat. "Leave me with her." 

The four Templars bowed mockingly and retreated. Gregor stared at the ground for a while, processing his fuming indignation, before taking a deep breath and looking at Loka again. He took off his hat and held it in front of his chest, not unlike a man paying his respects at a funeral. [i]My own funeral,[/i] Gregor thought. "So," he said eventually. "Tell me about yourself, Loka."