[center][color=red]The Christening Ceremony, Cero Drydocks, T'Sarae[/color][/center][hr]


As the nameless sun began to set on their final day within the empire, the inquisitors of warbands Phoenix and Leviathan stood in a singular row on the decorated pier. Behind them a small army of pale-faced men and women stood in ceremonial formation. They were dressed in the dark crimson of the Secular Army and the grey and scarlet of the Imperial Armada; and though their clean and well-pressed uniforms made each of them look a proud warrior, the fear and worry in their eyes was all too apparent.

Facing the First Elurian Mission, on a raised ceremonial stage of Lanostran obsidian, Lord Inquisitor Ilyon stood, his grey wrinkled hands gesticulating to the sky. 

"... It falls to you." He spoke with a voice like a hiss of smoke, his strange lightless eyes gazing at the collected soldiers, sailors and war priests who, in the coming months, would set out to brandish the faith of Varya across the sea. 

It was the first time Ragnar had ever laid eyes on a Lord Inquisitor of the High Council, and the visage of the ancient priest filled him with awe, terror, and what could only be described as a quiet disgust. 

The Lord Inquisitor appeared tall and gaunt, his limbs thin like wire under the folds of his unadorned black cloak. He was taller than even Stina, which Ragnar thought impossible, but there seemed to be few things natural about Lord Ilyon. The Lord Inquisitor appeared human only in passing. He was old-- older than anyone Ragnar had ever seen. His back twisted in a strange angle and one of his long branch-like arms trembled on occasion. Despite this, and the thin depleted voice that struggled to escape his throat, Lord Ilyon's face was completely smooth and free of wrinkles or any specific markings or color. It was void of expression or emotion-- a circle of grey skin, eyes, a nose, and a mouth, wreathed by the folds of his cloak which stretched over and around his head. 

Ragnar had heard the legends of the inquisition's heralded bishops being granted an increased life span by Lord Varya, but nothing concerning similar enchantments being bestowed to the lord inquisitors, who were lower ranked in the church hierarchy. What divine gift, if one could call it that, did the Ravenous Lord impart on the lord inquisitors?

As Lord Ilyon spoke, Ragnar could not help but look at them. A pair of grey, thin hands hanging limp at the lord inquisitor's side. 

Those hands...

That the fated children who would eventually unite to form Warband Phoenix and Leviathan had been allowed to suffer through the Seminary's brutal years at all, that they had been plucked from their corners of the empire and brought together-- all of it had been ordained by Ilyon and his brethren, all had been guided by those long, pale hands.

Ragnar forced himself to look away.

Standing behind Lord Ilyon a blonde woman dressed in the white and crimson dress of a cleric-mother stood with a smile, and flanking her were two younger sisters of the clerical branch. At his side, Ragnar felt Hassan leaning forward slightly, his deep azure gaze falling on one of the sisters, a young woman with wild black hair and dark storm-colored eyes.

"That nun there. She was at the pub. I saved her from a smuggler," Hassan recalled, seemingly to himself. Ragnar looked at Hassan's hand. It was still bandaged. Apparently he had received that wound shielding a young nun from a hand cannon blast. Ragnar tried to remember that night and found that he couldn't recall most of what had occurred. He had been too excited by the whole stopping a rocket with a paling thing to pay attention to anything else.

On a raised platform above the stage behind Lord Ilyon a chorus of young acolyte children dressed in white and red stood with blank faces. Ragnar looked on at their faces curiously. Each of the children was expressionless and all of them seemed to be missing the scars and bruises that he and the rest of his warsiblings had amassed at that age. 

"... It is a land engulfed in shadow." Lord Ilyon's thin voice could barely be heard if not for the complete silence, and yet it captured Ragnar's attention.

"Since His reunion with the lost pantheon our Lord has dreamt of Eluria's ebon frontiers. Our Emperor has glimpsed with His all-seeing eyes the darkness that chokes at Eluria's heart. Its people suffer in silence, waiting for their savior and it is Lord Varya's salvation that you shall bring them. You shall be the dawn that brings light to shadow."

From the corner of his vision Ragnar could glimpse Hassan rolling his eyes at the Lord Inquisitor's speech. 

"We'll bring salvation to them, alright. Right after the First Armada cuts a swath of destruction through the place," Hassan whispered to himself.

"Are you really doing this now?" Ragnar hissed at him with a venomous look in his eye. Hassan smiled and winked at him.

Ragnar allowed a burdened sigh to leave his lungs. Despite the timing of it, Ragnar couldn't help but agree with Hassan's musings. The fact that the First Elurian Mission's aim was to convert the people of the wild continent [i]after[/i] the invasion had never sat right with him. It reminded him too much of the invasion campaigns in Muraad. Of course, it was all comparatively ancient history, and the chieftains of Muraad's myriad clans had officially acquiesced to the empire's sovereignty, but still...

What if the Elurians didn't want to embrace Lord Varya's light? What would follow? 

"Warleader. Come forth," Lord Ilyon turned to gaze upon Galahad, who stood at the center of the inquisitor line.

His warsibling bowed and made his way to the raised obsidian stage. As he walked forward the crowd of reporters and press standing at the far end of the pier began to murmur and take photos. Ragnar scoffed.

"He hasn't even done anything yet," he said dejectedly.

"Have you really not heard tell of our little escapade in Lanostre?" Astraea asked bemusedly. He turned to face her with a confused expression. As always, she towered over him.

"I've been busy helping plan this entire thing so no, I haven't heard anything. Not like any of you idiots will tell me anything."

"Well, when you get a chance, read this morning's paper," she answered with a wry smile.

Ragnar frowned and turned to face the stage once more. Galahad was kneeling in front of the Lord Inquisitor, his palms outstretched, waiting.

"Inquisitor Quaid of the Phoenix. By your hand the will of Lord Varya shall be done. Through your strength the people of Eluria shall be brought into His bosom."

The blonde cleric-mother dressed in the formal white and crimson robes approached the center of the stage where the Lord Inquisitor stood towering over Galahad. Resting on her palms she carried a decorative sword forged of what appeared to be shining ruby. The sword's blade gathered the light of the falling sun and shone beautifully in the growing darkness. It seemed to flicker as Lord Ilyon took the sword from the woman's grasp and placed it resolutely on Galahad's open hands.

"With this sword you wield the divine voice of our Emperor. Do not fail."

The crowd of onlookers at the far end of the pier began to cheer and applaud for Galahad as he rose to his feet. Ragnar wasn't certain if such a thing was allowed at these ceremonies, but it didn't seem to matter to the Lord Inquisitor. As Galahad turned around and stepped down from the stage, gaudy jeweled sword in hand, the chorus of child acolytes began to sing and with that, the roar of the crowd began to grow louder. It was in that moment, Ragnar realized, that the people gathered there had chosen his best friend and rival as their hero. 

His heart aching, Father Ragnar smiled and clapped along with them.


[center]***[/center]

 [center][color=red]Sareffi-Astra Royal Palace, the City of Cero, T'Sarae[/color][/center][hr]


Night had fallen, the tables had been cleared, but the grand ballroom within the Sareffi-Astra Palace, former home of the dead kings of T'sarae, was still alight with music and the murmuring of laughter and conversation.

The state dinner had been a night-long affair, and Ragnar, to his surprise, had found himself enjoying the pomp and circumstance of it all. It was nice to finally get to relax with his war siblings, even if such a thing was truly impossible. All of the uncertainty, fear, his jealousy... Not even the smiles and laughter of his beloved siblings could make him forget it all. But of course, he couldn't let them see. He was their Protector and thus the bright cheerful eyes and friendly grin had not left his face all night.

He was sat alone at one of the high tables on the second level of the ballroom. Compared to the ballroom at the Great Basilika where the Rising Feast took place, this chamber wasn't as massive or ostentatious. While it was lacking in the Lanostran-obsidian walls and tiling and the shameless display of the Church's prosperity and power, it had one thing going for it. It wasn't as cold. Of course, the ballroom at the Basilika was located fathoms above the glowing sectors of Magnagrad, at the greatest heights of the Godsfall where the Church made its home. The T'saraen palace was modest in comparison; a beautiful estate by the coast of Cero City, but hollow, small, and, if Ragnar had heard the servants correctly, mostly abandoned.

The wolf pups were growing restless again. He had sneaked them some food below the table during the feast, and for a time they had been content to lay at his feet, but something was making them anxious. 

"There, there. Calm down, little ones," he urged them softly. He reached down to stroke each of their backs, and to his surprise, they calmed down. Ragnar giggled to himself. He really did have it. Not even a decade spent in Varya had stripped him of his Muraadan-born gifts. He could calm any animal he wanted. This was proof. He'd have to brag to Ragnar and Tatiana later.

Beneath him, the floor of the ballroom had been made into a makeshift dining area. Soldiers, sailors, and select members of the Varyan and T'saraen nobility were sat at their tables or mingling around the room. Some members of the press had managed to finagle their way into the feast as well. Ragnar could see them scurrying around the dining floor, trying to speak with his warsiblings. None of them had wanted to speak with him yet, which picked at him to end.

[i]I'm the Protector, godsdammit. I'm easily the most important member of the warband. Why won't they even take my picture? It's because I'm Muraadan... and short... and still look like like a child half my age. I hate this so much. I wish I liked drinking. I wish I could just get drunk and forget how I feel. But you can't forget, Ragnar. You can never forget. You can only bury it.[/i]

He forced his eyes shut. 

Ethereal light cycloned within the deep indigo of his pupils and then faded. He guided the light inward, through the grey flesh of his brain, into the hollows of his skull, and allowed it to awash in the pit of his stomach, where all the burning anxiety lay. He formed the light into a miniature aegis and collected all of his failures, his hatred, his shame and jealousy, picking them up like trash washed up on a shore and gathered them all in his arms and dropped them within the aegis, imprisoning the refuse of his emotions where they could no longer hurt him.

That would do for a while.

Ragnar opened his eyes and found them wet. Hastily wiping the moisture from his eyes, he rose from his seat, leaving the pups sleeping beneath the table. He walked to the edge of the floor and leaned out over the gilded barricade. He felt better now, but something still hung over him. 

Fear. There was no getting rid of [i]that[/i].

He looked down at the dining floor, where many of his warsiblings were mingling with the rest of the members of the expedition. The barbed thorns were gone from his stomach, but he was still terrified, and he didn't know why. He wondered if his warsiblings felt as scared as he did.

He searched for Ziotea and Rodion first, but couldn't find them. They were probably spending their last free night together in the city. Part of him wished he had joined them.

In a dark corner of the dining room, standing in the shadow of a balcony, Oren observed the rest of the floor, his pale gold eyes like a pair of stars obscured by a clouded sky. He had been quiet, almost silent throughout dinner. But, then again, that was normal for him, Ragnar mused.

Elsewhere, at the bar, Hassan and Stina were drinking with a crowd of secular soldiers. They seemed to be enjoying themselves, and the soldiers, who up until then had been grim-faced and nervous when in their company, appeared to be laughing and telling jokes. Perhaps it was just the drink, but it was ideal for the warband to form a certain connection with their military support. Creid had taught them, year in and year out, the importance of this. Ragnar wondered if Stina and Hassan were intent on keeping to Creid's teachings, or if they just needed drinking buddies.

Ragnar's eyes were then drawn to the center of the floor where Viveca stood ensconced within a gaggle of the nobility and what appeared to be high-ranking militarymen who weren't part of the expedition. She had a drink in her hand, and someone was telling them to gather together for a photograph. Ragnar smiled. At least she had the right idea.

Standing apart from the collected crowds, Ragnar immediately caught sight of Tatiana's black curls as she made her way through the floor, stopping and talking with important-looking nobles and journalist, then moving on. She seemed to be slowly heading to one specific spot. Ragnar's followed her intended path to the far end of the room, where Galahad sat at a lone table with Commander Zoya Kiriyev and her two lieutenants, Dragonov and Lycaon.

The table had been completely cleared and the three of them seemed to be in a serious discussion. 

Ragnar had not been able to meet Commander Kiriyev due to her being so busy preparing for the journey. In fact, she didn't seem to have much time for any of the inquisitors, except for Galahad. Despite them technically outranking her, Ragnar was getting the distinct feeling that this fact mattered very little to her.

She and her two lieutenants sat stoic and calm, speaking directly and confidently to Galahad. Despite the warleader of Phoenix Warband being in their presence, the three officers didn't seem to be cowed by him at all. In fact, it was strange, but it almost seemed like... they were looking at him with something approaching disdain. Or boredom.

Commander Kiriyev reached into her red officer's coat and brought out what looked like a miniature version of a tactical map. She placed it on the table and stabbed at it with her finger. 

It was at that moment that Tatiana reached the table and slid onto the chair next to Galahad with the casual grace that always seemed to come so natural to her. She leaned forward on the table and began to look at Kiriyev's map. The three officers glowered at her silently, then at Galahad. Tatiana said something then, which Ragnar could read from her lips as "carry on".

This was too interesting, Ragnar thought. A mischievous smile formed across his lips as he gripped the barricade tightly. He leaned out as far as he could while summoning a bit of his ether. Turning his head, he enhanced his hearing, trying to focus it on the table where Galahad and Tatiana sat.
 


"You mentioned their leader-- this "man in black", heading eastward and warning you not to pursue. There is only one known path through the glacier sea. If he should follow it, there is a high probability that we will encounter the Silver Fleet," Lieutenant Dragonov spoke in a cold, measured tone. His eyes, a blue so pale they almost appeared grey, focused on Galahad and then Tatiana in turn.

"According to the church reports he has allied himself with the apostate, Father Dara. Should we cross paths with this individual, what is your plan? Do we fight? Do we allow them passage?"

Before Ragnar could hear anything else, an armored hand pressed on to his back and lightly pushed him forward, causing him to jerk himself backward from the edge of the railing.

"Hey!"

"Spying doesn't suit you, Ragnar. Leave that to Oren and Hassan," Astraea said coyly. She was standing behind him, holding what appeared to be a half-empty bottle of virika.

"Are you drunk?"

"Halfway there," she said, holding up the bottle and giving it a light shake.

She strode up alongside him, leaning over the railing to stare down at their warsiblings and the three secular officers. Ragnar's attention was drawn to Astraea's bare muscled arms. He rarely got to see them, with her always wearing her armor, and thus when he caught sight of the horrible-looking half-healed scar that covered her right bicep he couldn't help but reel back in shock.

"What the hell happened to you?"

"Lost my arm in a battle at the Glacier. Had to restore it through ether. It was my first time doing it. Kind of made a mess of it," she said, glassy-eyes staring at the wound. "Antonin would be ashamed of me," she added, strangely bereft of humor. Her eyes were focused on the three officers sitting with Galahad and Tatiana.

"You need to tell me everything that happened. Gods, everyone's been so quiet since we got here. It's strange." 

When she didn't answer him, Ragnar looked down once more at the table, burying his chin in his arms. The battle in Lanostre... He hoped Galahad and Tatiana would tell him about it eventually. They had spent their entire childhood together. The three of them were closer than most.

"It's really happening," Ragnar said, "Galahad is finally going to take charge of the warband... officially, I mean. Those three don't seem too impressed by him though," Ragnar wondered aloud.

"Those three." 

Astraea took a swig of virika, speaking in a tone Ragnar had only heard once before, when she had learned what Father Magnus had done to Ziotea all those years ago.

"Those three can die slowly, if the gods are just."

Ragnar looked at her in confusion.

"What-- What are you talking about?"

She took a deep breath. Ragnar could see that she was trying to calm herself down, but was failing.

"The blonde one-- Dragonov. He did things during the war... things that not even war can justify.  Children..."

Astraea did not go further then that. 

"And his master Kiriyev let it all happen."

"Astraea--"

"The other one. Lycaon. He was one of us. A Lanostran, born and bred. Before the war ended he abandoned his comrades and turned to piracy. While loyal soldiers remained to face the Varyans and the inquisitors, he fled and spent the next twenty years reaving his wounded homeland. "

Astraea's eyes burned emerald. "Fucking coward. Fucking oathbreaker," she spat beneath her breath.

Ragnar was silent for a long moment. 

"We've done worse," he whispered, "the inquisition has done worse."

Astraea stared at him, the shame in his eyes mirroring her own.

"I'm done here. Let's get some air."