[center][img]http://img05.deviantart.net/da17/i/2012/312/0/1/swamp_house_by_jake_labz-d5ju796.jpg[/img]

[i]23rd of Rain's Hand, 1431AF
Near Oaksheart[/i][/center]

And so they left. After Gregor paid the bill they made their way through the dwindling masses out on the streets as the sun started to set behind the buildings. Maldoror was large and horses weren't allowed in the city center, which meant that Gregor and Loka had to walk quite a ways to get to the stables. Carriage was the most popular mode of transport across terrestrial Montgarde for the wealthy and powerful -- and Gregor was glad he could afford their services every time he had to undertake a substantial journey. Riding on horseback didn't agree with him and walking the entire distance back to Couronnesbourg could take up to a month. Often considered the last bastion of proper Montgardian civilization before the Ironbone mountains and the white wastes beyond, Gregor would be glad to see Couronnesbourg again. 

Gregor managed to haggle one of the carriage drivers down to a reasonable price and held the door open for Loka. The two of them stepped inside without a word; Gregor could see that the Koptic priestess was sullen. Perhaps the reality of her situation was only setting in now, properly, after Gregor's last remark about his work. Whatever the reason, Gregor didn't disturb the silence and instead unsheathed his sword, placed it sideways on his lap and started sharpening it with a whetting stone. The blade of the weapon shimmered in the faint twilight -- it was obviously more than just steel. Gregor caught Loka looking at it, perhaps disapprovingly, and spoke for the first time since their departure. "The rimefire forges of the Isle of Faces produce exceptional swords. All inquisitors are gifted with one upon their inauguration. It cuts a man like any other blade but it has a remarkable effect on less savory entities," he said and held up the sword to admire the twinkling light that danced around its keen edge. "You'll see."

The rest of the night passed without incident, as did the next day. They paused for food, a drink and fresh horses at a roadside inn called the Smiling Friar. Neither of them said much during the meal and Gregor ordered them back into the carriage as soon as possible. He was eager to make progress. His plans were interrupted when they came by the small town of Oaksheart in the middle of the night. A crowd had gathered on the road and forced their carriage to a halt. Gregor slept with one eye open, so to speak, and woke up immediately. "Sir?" he could hear the carriage driver say -- there was a nervous twang to his voice. "They're carrying torches and pitchforks. What shall we do?" Gregor frowned and gripped the hilt of his sword. "Stay here," he ordered, and looked at Loka. "And you -- stay inside." 

Upon stepping out of the carriage, Gregor was greeted by a wary silence as the crowd turned to look at him. "Hail," Gregor said tentatively and took a few cautious steps towards the villagers. A few mumbled greetings were his only answer. "What seems to be the problem?" 

"See for yourself, stranger," one of the men said, a tall fellow in a long, hooded cloak, and stepped aside. The rest of the crowd followed suit and parted. Gregor approached slowly, his hand still resting on his sword, and saw what the problem was -- a corpse. Or several. It was hard to say. The blood was almost black in the darkness of the night and the orange glow of the torches. "Matriarch's mercy," Gregor said in attempt to break bread with the villagers, and some echoed the call. The crowd seemed to relax and accept Gregor as one of their own. "May I?" Gregor asked, looking at the hooded man, who acquiesced with a barely perceptible nod. Gregor crouched down next to the gory mess and held out his hand for a torch; after a few seconds, he received one. He held the flame closer and squinted. Gregor could make out long, ragged cuts, parallel to and crossing each other, but always in sets of three. "Ah," said quietly and rose to his feet. "This looks to be the work of a werewolf, I'm afraid," he added, meeting the gaze of several villagers. None of them looked surprised to hear it. 

The tall man in the hooded cloak nodded. "Aye, you've got a sharp eye, friend. This isn't the first time. We asked the damn lord in Doloureux for help, but he sent nothing," he said without a trace of anger to his voice. Gregor knew that kind of negligence was par for the course in Montgarde. "What's your name?" Gregor asked. The man introduced himself as Krassus. "I'm the local gravedigger," he added. At that, Gregor smiled wrily. 

"Looks like your god saw fit to give you work tonight, Krassus," the inquisitor said.