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Kolmar, Gwynneth, July 22nd 5005 IC

Knowing things is not the same as knowing people - Unconventional Saints and Unlikely Heroes


The early summer sun beat down on the Square of Judgement like a hammer. By nightfall, the food sellers and junk vendors opined, there would be a great storm which would sheet the city with rain and rend the air with lightning. For now, hundreds of men and a smaller portion of women sweltered in the heat, miserable at the end of the short chains that bound them to the iron rings in the center of each ancient flagstone. Advocates, or at least those who claimed to be advocates, bustled among the prisoners exchanging quick words before moving on. Many other people just came to gawk and jeer at the presumably condemned.

Gwynneth was a Hawkwood Fief, but by ancient treaty those accused of capital crimes were brought to they city of Kolmar for an audience with a judge from the Reeve’s guild. Few people who received such an audience were pardoned, but the influx of money both from the family of the accused and their victims both seeking to ensure justice was done, ensured that the nobility of Kolmar did not allow the practice to die out. It also made the city a dangerous place, particularly after dark, as grieved citizens of one type or another sought to settle scores with fists, knives, or whatever other weapons were available.

An accused murder could increase his odds of aquital by engaging the services of an advocate. In theory the advocate would plead his case to the Reeve, using his knowledge of the law to win freedom for his client. In practice however the advocate usually did little more than offer a bribe to the judge, a tactic that was somewhat more effective than impassioned speech making. The majority of the accused had no way of paying an advocate in coin or property, but the advocate could recoup his effort by compelling the accused to sign a letter of indenture that would allow him to work off his debt. This too was more ideliesed than practical, as in most cases the advocates simply sold the indenture to the Chainers at a reasonable markup. The Chainers promptly lost the letters of indenture as soon as they got their new employees off planet and away from the prying eyes of the Church, and the luckless individual was likely to spend the rest of their life as a slave in some backwater hellhole. Such was the course of Justice in the Known Worlds.

Sister Annika moved quietly among those awaiting trial. The chains that held each of the accused were of a precise length, about half the length of the vast granite flagstones. Thus even a berserk madman was of no danger provided one walked along the seams between the stones and didn't stray into reach. Most of those who would try such a thing had been to badly beaten in transit to attempt it here but it never hurt to be careful. Guards in Hawkwood blue and white, emblazoned with the golden stag of the Wilde family, stood at regular intervals around the edge of the square hefting rifles. They were not impressive men, mostly unshaven and with their livery poorly washed and Annika certainly wouldn’t have wanted to chance her life on their marksmanship if one of the prisoners made a sudden lunge.

To the Estakonic Priestess the square was a babble of voices both auditory and mental. Her telepathic ability would not normally have been strong enough to pick up anything beyond surface thoughts but as the ancient Urth saying went, nothing concentrates the mind like the prospect of being hanged. Each prisoner she passed dwelled almost entirely on their crime, replaying it over and over as judgement approached. Here a potter smashed in the head of a lover who had spurned him, there a drunk relived the horrible sensation of finding himself standing over a corpse stabbed in a bar fight. Some few of them were even innocent, puzzling over who had framed them or what series of unhappy accidents had lead them to this dire impasse. There was little she could do for them, not without revealing how she had come by the information or engaging an advocate of her own, for which she lacked any form of payment. Like all Estakonics she was sworn to poverty, expected to beg for her sustenance, a practice that didn’t lend itself to extravagant legal expenses.

It took her perhaps an hour to find the man she had been seeking. He was wiry and bearded and his left eye was covered with a leather patch. His hard angular face made him look untrustworthy but Annika sensed that wasn’t as true as he liked to pretend. He had been framed, a fact clearly apparent from the meticulous detail in which he had recreated the events after it was too late. She didn’t doubt he had killed before, but of this particular crime he was innocent, set up to take the fall by the gang of thieves with whom he had been working. The revenge he was planning was colorful and a little more detailed than Annika wanted to picture.

“My Son,” she said, the words a trifle ironic when addressed to a man old enough to be her father. The prisoners head jerked up as she stepped closer to him. His right eye was a surprisingly bright shade of blue, cool and piercing.

“Oh bugger off priest,” he snapped with pro forma animosity.

“You know it is a sin to think about a priestess that way,” she added tactfully, fighting down a blush from the sudden mental images she had lifted from the man’s mind. Priests were supposed to put away such worldly thoughts but the man's imagination was vivid. She was an attractive woman, long limbed and with smooth olive skin and dark eyes though most of the rest of her was concealed beneath her conservative robes and habit.

“What do you…” he began but then changed his mind, closing his mouth with an audible clop before regarding her for several long seconds.

“What is this,” he demanded, scowling at her.

“Confession,” she told him simply as she knelt down beside him, her hands assuming an attitude of prayer.

“I don’t have anything to confess,” he snapped glaring at her with his one good eye. Annika giggled and he looked at her as though she had just sprouted another head.

“That isn’t even remotely true,” she chided him, full lips curving into a smile.

“But as it happens, it is me who needs to confess,” she told him.

“Confess?” he asked, his bushy eyebrows knitting as his puzzlement began to give way to annoyance.

“Yes, I actually came here to offer you a job Logan,” she told him with a beautific smile. He barked a short laugh which died in his throat as he realized that she knew his name.

“How do you..,” he began but then shook his head dismissing the thought. Instead he lifted his chained hands and rattled the metal links.

“Do I look like I’m in any position to take a job?” he half sneered.

“That depends on how you do in your interview I suppose,” she returned. Logan shook his head.

“You must be out of your mind,” he commented. Annika wondered if that were true, she had already given the Avestite who had been following her the slip in order to meet with Logan, while it wasn’t technically against Cannon Law it wasn’t going to win her any points with the Inquisition.

“Pray with me,” she directed. For a moment it looked like Logan might object, but instead he rolled onto his knees and clasped his shackled hands before hers.

“Merciful Pancreator, bless this child, Logan Christopher, forgive him any sins he has committed or omitted. Grant that if he is worthy he find me at the Church of Saint Athelia at midnight,” she continued, altering the words of the litany but not it cadance. As she spoke her hands parted slightly and a slender metal rod about the length of man’s finger protruded from between her clasped hands. Logan’s eyes widened for a moment before he lifted his own hand slightly and drew the lockpick between them, making it vanish as if by magic. Annika concluded the prayer of forgiveness and then stood.

“There you are,” a voice snarled and a hand grabbed her from behind. Annika gasped as she was spun around to find herself facing an unfamiliar man in the vestment of an Orthodox priest. He was a Novitiate like her, though unfortunately as an Estakonic, this meant she was required to obey him.

“What are you doing here sister,” he snapped. The novices eyes burned with puritnical superiority through the stink of garlic on his breath and his pimple marked face didn’t exactly lend him grandeur.

“I am hearing confessions,” she responded acidly.

“You might try it some time,” she added with a wave at the square intended to convey the lack of orthodox clergy.

“The Bishop wants to see you, you will come with me,” he snapped grabbing her by the arm and physically turning her towards the western gate. At least he tried to. Annika had grown up in the courts of the al-Malik family and was no stranger to bigger stronger cousins attempting to push her around. Instruction in Paranu Bindi, a combination of meditation and martial art hadn’t hurt either. She continued to turn with the momentum of his shove, gripping his wrist with one hand as she pivoted around behind him, her other hand thrusting hard up into his arm pit, pinching the nerve painfully. The other novice let out a pained squawk that choked off on a rising note.
“Let us be polite about this,” she hissed in his ear, “But make no mistake, if you touch me again we will have cause to visit the Sanctuary Aeon before we visit the Bishop. Am I understood?”

“I will tell the Bishop about this!” the novice squealed tears running from his eyes from the painful hold.

“Good, I’m certain he will be very impressed,” she responded tartly. Convinced she had made her point she gave the novice a shove in the direction of the western gate.

“Lead on then,” she told him, “we wouldn’t want to keep his grace waiting.”

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The Halls of Forbearance were illuminated by flickering flames, set amid the halls to give a timeless and looming aspect. One could not look up to see the ceiling, as if you walked through time itself. The cries of lamentation and the heavy breaths of struggling squires in mock combat led to the ambience well enough. Orion didn't turn to look at any of them, only glancing when he thought he saw a familiar face.

The stone corridors faded behind him as he entered the central chamber, wide in bearing and even dimmer save for the raised council seating, fully a dozen feet taller than Orion. He lifted his eyes to the Baron and his lower Baronets and upper Knights who sat in a semicircle, clad in resplendent robes and armor, depending on their rank and function. Even in the dark, Orion's cybernetic eye could make out every pock mark and crease on Clement Hawkwood's face, but he dared not say. His decision to be so armed had only further enraged the Baron, who saw him as a threat to his autonomy for various reasons Orion could not fathom.

"Orion Pentecost." Clement spake, standing from his chair and raising his arms, the robes clad to him looking as vast wings. For all of his faults, he had a powerful voice, and Orion was merely his servant. "You have been summoned before this council to answer for your crimes at Paltrow this past sun season. Your favor by your late aunt can no longer keep you within the order. Fail us again and you will find yourself exiled, or worse."

"Yes, my lord." Orion repled, kneeling before the nobility. The movement portrayed his bullet-proof shield and broadsword, along with the shotgun splayed along his back. A few murmurs began to sir, and Clement's next words had the briefest fit of anger. "Why do you come amongst us so armed? Do you seek to despoil this council even further, knave? Do you not even wish to hear of your sentencing, or are you too far gone that you care not!?" He didn't even wait for a response. "Answer, cur!"

The Hawkwood Knight took to his feet, and though he was far below them, he seemed tall as he stood there along in the dark of the floor. "Apologies, my lord. I simply believed you would send me on another mission post-haste, and sought to be better prepared to serve you."

"Never presume to know our intentions, fool!" Clement spat. "And your allying with the Pagans at Paltrow can be blamed for your next assignment."

"I was tasked with the safeguarding of the city, my lord. The pagans wished the same. I only did as I was bid with the tools the Pancreator and yourself had left me."

"I, nor our God did not permit you to shame this great house or faith!" He screeched, his forceful voice having lost all potency of decency and devolved into a dread anger. "You presume, Pentecost! Presumption of wills above your own is unbecoming of a Knight who serves. Do you not know the meaning of Knight from old Urth? It is one who serves, and you will go and serve me faithfully once again, and for the last time if you do not curb your heathen instincts. Now, go forth and fetch yourself what supplies you need and find a Confessor. You above all need one. Go! Before I bound you here and now and redistribute your weapons and armor to one more worthy. A slave-boy perhaps, or a whore. No go!"

He took the berating in stride, knowing his place despite the Baron's insistence he did not. His life had taken a turn for the strange every since he had arrived on Gwynneth. He knew he would die here, or worse, lose his rank. He knew now what trap Clement had lain for him. He had not told him of his assignment, and yet he dismissed him. Either way, he was in the wrong. Steeling himself, he asked. "And where do I go to serve you?"

Less than an hour later, Orion stepped out of the hall, tattered cloak changed into a well tailored once of red and gold filigree. He was to arrive at Tolth on the morrow, but for now he needed to visit the Bishop. A Confessor was what he was lacking, and thought he didn't think he needed one, he would not disobey his lord.
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The Bishop, a sour faced fat man by the name of Arcturus Cranmer, sat behind a vast desk of polished ebony inlaid with contrasting scrollwork of silver and gold. It was the sort of desk that screamed to the world that the man who sat behind it mattered. Scrolls of vellum were piled high bedecked with seals and scrollwork. Bishop Cranmer was, as indicated by his desk, too important to actually engage in the laborious task of writing and illuminating the documents which surrounded him, but each one required his imperial consideration and, if found worthy, his august signature. Annika and the priest who had accosted her sat on an uncomfortably austere pew along the back wall, clearly designed to engender the proper feeling of penitence before the Bishop. As nearly as Annika could tell they had been here for over an hour without so much as a word being spoken. She took some small pleasure in the fact that the priest who had all but dragged her from the market was similarly forced to wait in a silence broken only by the clinking of the Bishop’s many jeweled rings and occasional bouts of intestinal upset. Like many Estakonic’s Annika had practiced the rite of Idetica, a meditative technique that allowed the practitioner near total recall of anything she had seen. Thus she was able to pass the time by ‘reading’ a salacious tale of a young Hazat noblewoman’s fictional exploits in the realms of eros while her escort could only shift uncomfortably. She was just enjoying the vivid description of Sir Hernando’s rippling abs when another novice entered the room and hurried up to the Bishops desk. He spoke a few quiet words and then retreated without further comment. Cranmer put down his quill and looked at Annika and her escort, his face twisting with distaste.

“Approach cretin,” the bishop commanded, his voice surprisingly high pitched for a man of his girth. Annika deliberately glanced at her escort implying that the remark had been directed at him. The young priest’s face darkened with anger.

“Now Sister,” Cranmer growled, betraying his impatience with the petty act of defiance. With the grace of an al-Malik courtier she stood up, ignoring the pain in her legs from her long repose and climbed the small dais to stand before the desk. Cranmer looked her up and down with exaggerated disdain.

“A woman, a witch, and an al-Malik Republican all in one, the Estakonics really will ordain anyone,” he glowered. Annika made no reply, Estakonics were well used to such abuse from the other clergy and learned early on there was little use in getting into a theological debate. Fortunately the bishop hadn’t asked her a question so there was no need to respond with anything other than serene silence, which just might have been the most irritating choice she could make.

“Well as it happens I have a use for you, perhaps the only use the Pancreator in his wisdom could find for you,” Cranmer sneered, leaning back on his chair which creaked in protest to being forced to carry his porcine bulk.

“I am going to be assigning you as a Confessor to a Knight who has recently been bought to my attention,” the bishop said with a self satisfied smirk. Annika blinked in confusion, it didn’t sound like a bad thing, though it obviously was in Cranmers mind. She opened her mouth to protest, she hadn’t come to Gwennyth to be tangled up with a noble and it would certainly interfere with her purpose here. She closed her mouth before she could say something she would regret. Bishop Cranmer was straopsherically her superior and though the Estakonics valued independence they probably wouldn’t look kindly on trouble started out of sheer dumb insolence. Instead she tried logic.

“Surely you have your own priests who might be better suited to providing the kind of guidance you would wish,” she ventured in what she hoped was a diplomatic tone. Cranmer smirked again.

“I think that you will suit the needs of the Church perfectly in this matter,” he replied, clearly enjoying her reluctance to take on the task. It was already late and unless she missed her guess Logan was already free and looking for her.

“As a novice, I am too junior to serve as a Confessor,” she tried, attempting to inject a tone of disappointment into her voice. Cranmer waved a pudgy hand in dismissal.

“Rejoice Sister, for the Pancreator has seen fit to raise you to the rank of Deacon so that you may undertake this vital task,” Cranmer told her. Annika couldn’t hide her confusion. Cranmer was acting as though this were some kind of coup but she couldn’t see why. Of course just because she couldn’t see it didn’t mean there wasn’t another shoe waiting to drop. No one reached the rank of Bishop without a great deal of skill in political manoeuvring, which meant that there was, without doubt, another shoe. Lacking other options she effected a slight curtsey.

“I am pleased to serve Him in any way you deem necessary your Grace,” she replied. At that moment there was a polite knock on the door and the same attractive novice who had entered before appeared in the doorway.

“He has arrived your grace,” the boy reported.
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Shifting to outside the Chapel, the Knight had been told to halt before the door and had been standing there for minutes. He could not hear any voices through the thick door, and realigned his thoughts before the time had come to enter. He wondered why the Pancreator had destined him to be in such a place at such a time, and though in his darker thoughts he fumed against his superiors, he wondered if he did indeed deserve to be here, awaiting his doom yet again? Perhaps he had been a barbarian in his past life.

He realized he had been gazing into a distant torch when a priest smiled and brought him out of his reverie. "To stare into the light until one becomes the light. I have done it many times." He said, blonde beard moving as he changed expression to a more somber air. Joy was fleeting in this age of the universe, even in God's home. "The Lord bishop is ready for you. Be honest and uphold your truth and oaths as a Knight, sir."

The armored Knight was brought into the room by a boy. Orion wasn't particularly old himself, still a few years shy of thirty, but he must have been close to twice this neophyte's age. When he gained a good look at the Bishop, he knew the boy also had to be a quarter of his holiness's weight. A shrill voice filled the air as he saw a woman being scolded, much as he had been an hour previously. How one so putrid could be a voice of the Pancreator in this province, Orion couldn't know. He almost seemed worse than the Baron, and that was a low bar he was beginning to realize.

Don't think that way, or you'll be in more trouble than you're already in, he scolded himself silently.

"Ah, the Knight in question. Come forward, sir," The Bishop said, waving a fat hand. Orion did as he was bid, only giving a small glance at the two in audience. There was a priest there with much the same disdain as the Bishop, and someone who was very clearly a woman, though he couldn't see very well behind her hood and exotic trappings. He halted before the Bishop and knelt. Cranmer waved him up impatiently. "Come, come, do not bore me with ceremony. You're Orion Pentecost, correct?"

"Yes, Lord Bishop."

"You must be, I see the eye you so hereticaly planted in your skull. And you have been dispatched with bringing peace to Tolth through this difficult and rebellious time, have you not?"

"Yes, Lord Bishop." He repeated in a manner that showed he was used to speaking in such a way. His tone wasn't tired, but almost automated in pitch.

Cranmer giggled, impishly cruel. "You're a maverick I hear, Pentecost. Were it up to me, you would have been burned and thrown into the pit by your last mission. But your Baron still has use of you. Fortune and blessing favors you then, for I too have someone who only slightly more use alive than dead. For now, at least. Sister Annika shall be your Confessor, knave. I could think of no one better for you than an Estakonic. You deserve one another."

He clapped his pillow-like hands, giving off wet smacks that indicated Annika approach as well. Orion wasn't certain of what to make of this information as the woman came to stand beside him. Orion was a very by-the-book Knight except for in one or two areas of his career. Those areas just happened to have a large spotlight placed upon them. He had heard wild accusations and speculations of the Estakonic order and wondered if any of the rumors were true.

He turned to her, one eye midnight blue and the other a silver grey amid a heavy scar, glinting in the light.
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Annika turned to examine her new charge with some interest. Cranmers comments suddenly made a good deal more sense. This knight, Orion Pentecost apparently was a handsome man with the statuesque features she had come to associate with the Hawkwood family. The al-Malik had always been cosmopolitan but since the accession of Alexis to the Imperial Throne there had been an increased number of intermarriages. No scion of one of the great noble houses could claim to be ignorant of politics, but it had never been of particular interest to Annika. Still she understood that most of those marriages had been somewhat disappointing as Alexis had distanced himself from his family since taking the throne. To the cultured al-Malik the Hawkwood had a rugged, almost brutish marshall simplicity, something that had served them very well in the wars preceding Alexius’ succession. Orion certainly fit the mould with a muscled armored frame and chiseled jaw. The electronic eye was simple and obvious, something that would have been crude in the League friendly halls of the al-Malik was none the less surprising to find in a Hawkwood fief where ties to the League and their borderline heretical tech was far less common.

“The blessings of the Pancreator be upon you Sir,” Annika said formally, the slightly musical lint of her Isktar accent particularly prominent in the formulaic phrasing of the blessing.

“Get out of my sight,” the bishop sneered, sitting down and pointedly returning to his paperwork.

Annika exchanged a look with Orion and then offered a formal bow to Cranmer. The bishop made a flicking gesture with his right hand sending droplets of ink spattering over a nearby decree about the evils of Pagan Freethinkers. Annika shared a look with Orion who gave a somewhat less respectful bow and then turned and lead the way out of the office and into the knave of the cathedral.

Although it was by now local night, Gwyennth’s bright spring moons poured silvery light through the great stained glass window in the nave of the Cathedral. Beams of light colored gorgeous rose and gold shone from the ceiling painting the Celestial Flame on the stones of the basilica. Even the Orthodox, hidebound and half blind as they were, did not seem to be completely blind to beauty.

“My apologies,” Annika tried again, “it appears that neither of us are in Bishop Cranmer’s good graces. I am Sister Annika.” It was not necessary to mention her house as that would have been a sin of pride.

“The bishop told you to get out of the cathedral,” snapped a voice from behind them. Annika turned to find the obnoxious novice who had accosted her in the square. Despite her best efforts she felt her anger rising.

“That is quite enough sirrah,” she snapped, her voice like a whip. The novice recoiled as though slapped, but after a moment his shock was replaced with indignation.

“How dare you…” he began but Annika didn’t allow him to continue. Instead she stalked towards him, eyes blazing. She wasn’t a physically imposing woman but the look on her face and the fury in her eyes gave her a presence she would otherwise have lacked.

“Perhaps things work differently among the Orthodox, but in my order one speaks with respect,” she observed in a deadly voice. Confusion and anger warred on the novices face for a moment.

“According to the Edict of…” he began but she cut him off with a sharp gesture.

“According to the Edict members of the Eskatonic order have to obey members of the other sects of the same rank, yes. However, as you appear to be deaf as well stupid, allow me to remind you that your own Bishop just granted me the rank of Deacon,” she blazed. The novices face flushed as the realization took hold.

“If you do not apologize at once I will file charges with the Curia. As you are probably too ignorant to know, cases are decided by members of the sect of the senior member in any dispute. I suspect that will mean a trial would not go well for you.”

“The bishop…” the youth stuttered.

“Is not here, I am the ranking member of the clergy here and if you are not out of my sight in the next thirty seconds I will have you whipped for insolence.”

The novice broke and fled, the fall of his heavy leather shoes ringing on the stone floor. Annika turned back to her new charge, her anger melting into embarrassment.

“My apologies Sir,” she repeated, “it has been rather a long day.”

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Orion's face when their eyes first met was unreadable, save for some curiosity. He hadn't known what to expect from an Eskatonic Priestess, but this exotic woman was certainly not it. Judging by the Bishop's words, it seemed she was in a similar position as her in her respective order. Hopefully that meant they could have an understanding and work together. Most priests he had met had either been bumptious and insufferable, or were kind but far too meek to be of use as a Confessor.

He didn't get either impression from her, which was refreshing. At her introduction once they left the Bishop, he placed a hand to his chest. It looked as hard and solid from his build as it did from the armor he wore. "Sir Orion Pentecost-" Abruptly he was cut off from further introduction due to the acolyte that had appeared to throw his weight around some more at the expense of Sister Annika. He almost felt as if he would threaten the acolyte and deal with the consequences later, but he didn't need to.

She surprised him at turning around and beating off the young priest with her mere presence, and he knew from that moment that this wouldn't be a boring journey. She turned from menacing as a cobra to the embarrassment of one of the true flock once more so quickly, Orion had to blink. "No that's, uh- That's quite alright sister." He promised. It was at that moment when there were no distractions or yelling Lords that he realized she wasn't merely exotic, but beautiful in strange way. He cleared his throat, unable to keep a soft grin on his face. His words didn't match his look, as hammered into him as his drills with the sword and gun. "I apologize if I take up your time from more worthy endeavors."

He looked at the stain glass windows one last time, drinking in the beauty before indicating they should go. No one was watching them at the moment, but he didn't doubt more priests like the one she had driven off would come to ask them their business. There was a clear glint in his eyes that showed his concern, and he began to walk past the next set of pews. "I must confess I don't know much of the Eskatonic order." He told her, one hand on the back of her shoulder as they made it into the narthex of the chapel. "Other than what I've been told, and I don't have a doubt most of that is...less than sincere."

They found themselves on the simple streets of the Clement Barony, always a stark contrast to the ornate buildings that cropped in a circle to dominate the landscape. "As I was saying before the youth appeared, I'm Orion Pentecost. Call me Orion, Sister. Or Pentecost, if you want. It would not only be prudent, but I can go for a casual relationship with you. Even for a Hawkwood, the pomp can be a bit tiring I admit. We'll have far more pressing things to worry about than titles where we're to go."
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“I am pleased to meet you Sir Pentecost,” Annika began but abandoned it immediately as too formal, “Orion that is.” They moved down the cobbled street away from the cathedral. Lamps of some kind of photo luminescent crystal cast a soft illumination over the nearly empty streets. Once they had been much brighter but since the fall of the Second Republic the technology to replace the bulbs had been lost and, like the stars, they were slowly fading. In the distance there was the occasional yell of anger and crack of gunfire as the aggrieved party of the Judgment sought to redress themselves by one method or another.

“As for my order, I fear the Orthodox and the Avestites enjoy painting us with a fanciful brush. We are simply clergy who believe that one can save one's soul through individual effort as well as the Pancreator’s grace. We also believe that the Pancreator can be found in exploring the mysteries of the universe rather than on our knees in prayer,” she explained. She doubted that Orion was deeply interested in theology so she kept the explanation simple. Truthfully she too found the theological debates somewhat tedious, it had always been obvious to her that the Pancreator’s miracles were to be revealed through the miraculous rather than staring at the mundane. The fact that there were horrors as well only made the search more important, with no risk came no reward. Out of politeness she kept her psychic senses shut off, unwilling to pry into the thoughts of her new charge.

They turned a corner into a small plaza where a body lay sprawled across a fountain depicting a man on horseback in a martial pose. Blood gleamed in the moonlight from a cut which had spilled grey ropes of intestines from the man’s belly. A few onlookers watched carefully from restaurants and taverns but this was far from an unusual occurrence on the Night of Judgement. She considered her next words carefully, unwilling to give Orion the wrong idea.

“Where are we being sent, and why if I may ask. From what I can put together the bishop expects you to get into some kind of trouble, maybe even intends that you do. He must have been instructed to provide you with a confessor and seized me so he didn’t have to entangle one of his own people in what he expects to be a scandal.” That was speculation, but it wasn’t a huge leap from what she had seen and sensed in the bishops chamber. Pentecost’s cybernetic eyes marked him as a radical among a fairly conservative group. If your eye causes you to sin, better that you pluck it out and all that. Cranmer probably hoped that her addition would not only spare one of his own acolytes, but possibly push Orion over the edge into something that might be considered heretical.
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Orion's cybernetic eye scanned the surroundings for a sidearm in the gloom, even though his "pupil" followed suit with the other and simply looked at the corpse splayed before the statue. Though his mind was on more than the dead man in front of them. He considered her words on her order, and realized if she was telling the truth then he was quite glad to have her along. He had always been accused of being an individualist. If such was true, another would be most welcome. It didn't hurt that her attitude was endearing so far.

"I suppose you're likely used to bad news, judging by the Bishop laying into you. So I'll be forthright." The Knight looked behind them to make certain no one was threatening their position, and he unholstered his slug-loaded shotgun to carry at the ready as they walked together, making their way toward the shipyard on this fine night. Once they were relatively alone, he glanced up at the stars. "You've no doubt heard of William Rochfort, the Duke of Tolth."

It was a name anyone with any sort of outside knowledge had heard stories of. The contradictory mad mystic who also happened to be one of the most conservative members of the church. "The very one who commanded the Inquisition on Tolth and slaughtered untold thousands from sheer paranoia. Even the church did not sanction his 'purge' after he began to target citizens at random. It's why I speak on it so blatantly, though I have a suspicion that the Baron and the Bishop don't heavily disagree with his methods in private company. But it's not him we're after."

The shipyard rose into view, junkers and starships rose and fell with loud air whooshing in the distance. The sun was just beginning to peek over the horizon. Not for the first time did Orion lament that one day very soon, the sun would no longer rise over this world. "His purge killed many who weren't pagans or rebels, but the brutal treatment did incite rebellion in those that were there. We're to go and kill the heretics and put a stop to their operations."

His understatement at the monumental task he just confessed to was likely not lost on the Priestess. The Knight slung his shotgun back into place, and he turned and looked at her to gauge her reaction as they entered the hanger, halting in the line for the facial recognition to get their passports. The Baron would have sent in their transcripts the moment their audience with the Bishop had been concluded. He seemed hesitant to continue, hoping she realized that there was no way to win in this situation. Either they died in the service of a madman, or they achieved victory and aided in his mad purge.

He spoke to her in a hushed tone. "Sister, if you don't wish to come with me, I won't say anything if you were to get lost in the crowds."

A line of light ran across his face, and his identification splayed across the screen above him. They were to take a "Runt Shuttle" across the planet and arrive before the next night, from the information gleamed on the screen.
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Annika glanced back at the city behind her. Orion’s quest certainly seemed doomed. Rumor had certainly spread regarding Rochfort. It had been big news in the first few weeks of the voyage of the Farsi, the al-Malik cruiser that had brought her to Gwennyth. Debate had been furious and wide ranging. Some claimed that Rochfort had been touched by the hand of the Pancreator himself and was burning away evil, others that the man had lost his mind and bathed in the blood of his slaughtered subjects. It probably made sense to take him up on his offer, to slip away into the crown and keep her rendezvous with Logan Christopher. What one man could do to quell a rebellion was beyond her comprehension but one thing was certain, if someone needed spiritual guidance, it was Orion Pentecost.

“We are taught to look for the hand of the Pancreator in paradox,” she told him as they slipped through the security cordon and onto the tarmac.

“Perhaps this task is such a sign,” she added as they approached the runt shuttle. A few crewmen in shapeless gray jumpsuits were making the final preparations for take off. They stiffened at the sight of Orion and one of them pulled a lever which lowered a ramp to the deck. Annika followed the knight up the steps and into the shuttle. Though it could comfortably hold dozens of passengers, it had been reserved for a scion of the planet's ruling house. Low, Orion's stock might be with the bishop and his liege but he was still a Hawkwood.

“Don’t you have any equipment?” Orion asked, glancing back at Annika. She shook her head slightly.

“We are a mendicant order,” she explained, “we dont accrue much in the way of possessions.” She tapped her palm on the leather satchel partially concealed by her robes. Without preamble she sat down on the deck resting her straight back against a bulkhead.
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The Knight sat opposite to her as the crew began to prepare for their departure. He wasn't certain if she was keeping something from him, but in the end it didn't matter. A Confessor was what he needed, and she was nothing if not willing. "Very good sister." He said, placing his weaponry on the seat beside him in easy reach. Unless he misread her and she worked for a secret occult order, he likely didn't need to worry about her taking any of his weapons for personal use during the flight.

The runt shuttle lifted off in short order, thrumming as if alive and rising into the sky with only a short strain before they were off, flying northwest and steadily gaining speed. They would make their arrival before noon on the morrow. He saw Annika resting her head, and he took a cue from her and did the same. He'd need sleep to survive long enough to curse the Baron's name.

His hand coiled into a fist at his blasphemous thinking, and Sister Annika would likely notice and increased frequency in his breathing as he berated himself for his thinking. The Baron was his master by divine mandate, whether he liked it or not. To question him was to go against his Knightly code, and as the shuttle reached the coastline, he wondered just how far he would fall if he continued to survive these missions. Perhaps it was better to die with his soul intact rather than live and be damned.

The flight was relatively uneventful. Their arrival was the antithesis of that lull in time, as Orion would hear clamor in the front of the shuttle for a brief interval just prior to a flashing red light that awoke anyone in the back who was asleep. Suddenly, there was a depressurization and Orion's ear's popped painfully. He could barely hear the muted warning by the pilot of Vuldrok Raiders.

There was a prevalent juxtaposition between the Priestess and the Knight as they both went about preparing without delay, Orion checking his weapons as Sister Annika need only to stand at attention. "Combat landing!?" Orion yelled over the noise of the air. In his squawker, he would hear the pilot's reply.

"I'm not landing. Combat drop."

Sister Annika cursed, but Orion simply steeled himself and pumped his shotgun loudly with one, strong hand. The other grabbed a landing suit to prepare himself.
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Annika opened her mouth to tell Orion that she didn’t know how to use a flight suit but before she could do so one of the pilots shouted a startled oath and there was a sudden tremendous blast of wind and sound. Annika screamed as there was a confused sensation of light and ripping wind and she was tumbling through black empty space. The sky wheeled kaleidoscopically and she had a momentary glimpse of the runt shuttle breaking apart and disintegrating in a fireball, though she could hear no other sound over the deafening roar of the wind as she tumbled in freefall. The whipping wind tore her habit away and her braided hair snapped like a torn halyard on a sailing ship. Ice cold fear gripped her as she plunged downwards toward the dark earth. A distant analytical part of her mind registered that the shuttle had been hit with some sort of anti-aircraft weapon that had torn its belly open like a gutted shamene. Desperately she tried to form a prayer to the Pancreator but the rushing air stole the word before they could sound.

Suddenly something caught her around the waist and she felt like she was wrenched upwards by some mighty force. For a disoriented moment she thought the Pancreator had provided a miracle, and perhaps he had because, incredibly Orion had his arms around her, the wings of his flight suit deployed at full breaking thrust. The suit was designed to carry a knight and his full armament so her slight additional weight proved of little consequence. Orion shouted something to her and she had to read his lips to make out ‘hold on’. Convulsively she closed her arms around him and he let her go, snatching up the controls of the flight suit and breaking hard. The wings flared out to maximize the deceleration and the rush of the wind died away for a few heart beats.

“Hold on!” Orion shouted though she couldn’t possibly have tightened her grip around his armored torso. She had a fraction of a second to glance downard to see the green canopy of the massive trees which covered much of the surface of Gwynneth racing towards them. The weight might not be a problem to the flight suit but maneuverability obviously suffered as Orion desperately tried to steer them through the massive branches. Much of the maneuvering time that would have allowed him to pick a safer landing ground had been wasted in his neck of nothing dive to catch her and he hadn’t had sufficient altitude left to bleed off his airspeed. Branches whizzed past them as the plunged through the canopy. For a moment it seemed like Orion might manage the impossible feat and then the wing of the flight suit clipped a branch with a crack like a rifle report. The world corkscrewed and there was another crack as Orion hit a branch, his armored back taking the brunt of the impact and then they tumbled down, slapping against the limbs of trees over fifty meters tall. Orion lashed out with his arms in a primitive effort at parkour as Annika clung to his chest and screamed. They hit the ground with a crash, Annika landing atop the armored knight with enough force to drive the breath from her lungs and silence her scream.

For a moment they lay on the loamy forest floor as Annika frantically tried to draw breath. A rain of blade like needles rained from the trees above like winter snows and the shrieks of irritated forest creatures slowly died away. Annika finally made her chest work and gulped down a lungful of the cool moist forest air. It was mildly inappropriate to be laying atop the knight, but it was several more moments before she could force her bruised arms to release Orion and roll onto her back staring up at the hole they had torn in the canopy. Blood trickled into her eye for a shallow cut on her eyebrow, but it was a miracle that she was alive, much less able to use all of her limbs. She tried to form a prayer of thanks but all she managed was an insightful:

“Ouch.”

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Orion lay upon the ground, a broken stick behind his head and his body aching more terribly than it had in months. After a long tenuous moment he opened his eyes to look up at the sky. It was by the grace of the Pancreator that either of them survived, much less both of them. Perhaps they did have a chance of doing the impossible in this district. "I was going to say something similar," he croaked, responding to her thought.

He desperately wanted to remain unmoved, out of fear of finding something broken as much as exhaustion. But he stubbornly lifted himself to a sitting position. Annika would see a few blood streaks across his cheek and face, but otherwise he seemed fine save for the leaves in his military cut hair. A swift pain entered his lower back for a brief instant as he rose to his feet, but within seconds it was merely a thrumming pain. The worst was in his neck, but he could move his head as it was a secondary concern. Most of his injuring were probably musculature in nature. Pulls and inflammation, etc.

He held his hand out to his Confessor, and slowly helped her to get to her feet when she could. "Are you not glad you decided to come with me?" He asked with a closed lipped smile. Groaning, he rubbed his neck as he looked about for his weapons. His sword and shield had stayed strapped to him, but his shotgun had been in his hands. He lamented it could be a mile away, but the sharp eyes of his Confessor pointed upwards, and a dozen feet in the air, the weapon hung by a branch with the firearm's strap. As they contemplated on how to best get it, a twig snapped across the clearing.

Only holy providence kept Orion's senses so keen and his reflexes ready. He turned, bearing his shield aloft and pulling Annika close as ozone and and a crack erupted in the air. Her nose poked into the side of his neck as the lasblasts struck his shield, slapping like a hand over water as the weapons continued to discharge. "Stay low," He told her, and untangled her from him as he charged the source of the laser fire. The greater vantage point showed two Vuldrok raiders, wielding axes and laser pistols. Their hair was both wild yet carefully braided in intricate ways.

Only one laser shot made it into one of Orion's armored legs, but he grunted through the flash burn and moved his shield perfectly in unison with his sword, guarding as the blade fell over the first Vuldrok's hand, cutting it off at the wrist. Shrieks of pain and violence filled the small clearing in the towering forest. Amazingly to one who had never seen a Vuldrok before, the one that had lost his hand still swiped with his axe. Orion had fought their like before and had the frame of mind to parry the chop with his sword, sliding his blade past the beard of the axe into the raider's neck.

He spun, more out of desperation than nimbleness to keep the worst of the next lasers off of his form, a superheated beam nearly cutting off some of his shoulder muscle. Luckily it was only a graze, the next moments filled with a chopping axe and a sword and shield working in the sunlight like a strange dance that ended with the Vuldrok split down the middle from navel to nape. When Orion finished the move, his blade and knee was on the ground in a pose that looked almost as if in prayer, just as the Vuldrok raider toppled noiselessly.

"Forgive me, Sister, for I have taken life." He breathed as he regained his footing.
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Annika peered through the forest her eyes hardly able to keep track of the whirl of violence and death. As a teenager she had witnessed the gladiatorial combats in which condemned prisoners fought to the death, she had seen blood and viscera then, but to be so close to the scene was an altogether different experience. It was only once the action was over that it occurred to her that Orion might fall and she would be left alone and without a weapon. She wasn’t exactly helpless but nor did she think she had a chance of prevailing over two battle hardened warriors. Shakily she came to her feet.

“Shedding blood in the defence of the Faith is no sin,” she quoted from the Omega Gospels. It sounded a little strange to her lips and she wondered if the mad Duke they were being sent to help had used the very same passage to justify his actions. Before she could say anything further a series of brutal shouts tore through the woods. Weird ululating hunting cries that no doubt came from other Vuldrock warriors.

“We should go,” she suggested but before she could speak a dozen Vuldrock burst into the clearing. Without thinking she grabbed Orion by the shoulder and reached out with her gifts.

Don’t move. Annika’s voice sounded in Orion’s mind. The thought voice had an edge of command to it that was enough to quash an immediate and unfortunate reaction. The Vuldrock at the edge of the clearing looked around in confusion, bestial faces suddenly perplexed.

WHAT IS HAPPENING? Orion’s voice thundered in her mind though his lips didn’t move. The Vuldrock suddenly seemed edgy, glancing around and hefting weapons.

Think quietly she thought/implored. Imagine you are small, beneath notice. The volume of Orion’s thoughts subsided somewhat though they still swirled and edied in confusion. All will be well, she thought reassuringly. Annika rather hoped that was true, she had been told of this technique but she had never actually used it. The barbarians fanned out in a rough line and began to sweep across the clearing. She could hear the thunder of Orion’s pulse, still primed for action and her own racing with fear. The Vuldrock walked toward them though despite the fact they were in plain sight, gave no indication of having seen them. A pair of the bearded warriors paused to examine their dead companions and looked around in confusion. One seemed like he was about to tread on Annika but then inexplicably stepped aside and walked around her, gesturing off into the brush and growling in his own language. After a brief debate the headed off into the woods, bodies low and weapons hefted in expectation of action. After a few minutes all was quiet.

Annika released Orion and there was a faintly audible hiss in the air. She sagged back slightly reciting a ritual of purification under her breath. Orion gave her an unreadable look.

“We must rejoice in the Pancreator’s favor,” she told him before coming unsteadily to her feet.She touched a fingertip to the symbol of the Celestial Sun that hung between her breasts and then made some effort to shake the twigs out of her braided hair.
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Briefly, Orion felt disturbed at what had just happened. Priestess though she may be, he could understand why the Orthodox faiths found Eskatonics to be mystical and strange. What happened here seemed to be blatant witchery, but then again... could he not say it was just as heretical to be granted his cybernetic eye? She had saved his life in this instance, and he'd not forsake her for his paranoia. "Yes," he agreed, plucking a leaf out of her hair. "But let us rejoin fully when we escape these woods."

He threw his shield into the air once Annika was clear, and banged it against the branch. Twice he threw it, and finally the shotgun fell into his strong, waiting hands. Almost as soon as the firearm was in his grip, he began to march. "The Vuldroks were stragglers and scouts. The main force would have attacked Tolth proper, and no doubt they would have been repelled again. But that still leaves a few hundred of them between us and holy civilization, if we're unlucky. Let us pray the forest is too thick for us to be found."

He'd seen a better portion of the landscape than the Confessor had when they had plummeted, the strip of forest they were in was, at his guess, about 20 kilometers away from the nearest settlement. If the kept a steady pace, they could be there before nightfall. He'd almost forgotten that it was still early morning. Bold of the Vuldroks to make a night attack. They barely had technology that could match tech level 4, save for what they scavenge.

Towering pines and sharp brush covered the landscape, mist covering what little visibility they had left for more than a hundred yards. There were strange clearings like the one they had been in dotting every kilometer or so, as well. Orion's practical mind told him that they had been made from some power grids that had since been removed, but his gut had a different notion. Pagan practices were often performed in such places.

He took point, wading through the brush as he would a crowd of hapless commoners; with strength and mastery. Though he made sure to stay close to the Sister. There was an atypical quality to her that he couldn't quite get a beat on, though she likely thought the same as him. He decided to break the silence as he helped her step over a small area of quill-like leaves unharmed. "I confess I'm not used to a Confessor...I didn't mean to grant that pun but it fits my cumbrous thoughts. Do you simply watch me as I slay in the name of the Pancreator, or do you hear my life's confessions?"
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Annika pursed her lips as she pondered the question. Though there were cavernous differences between Orthodox and Estakonic doctrine the confession of sins was a fairly uncomplicated point of agreement.

“Both things can be true, certainly we should conduct ritual confessions periodically,” she hopped over a stream with a graceful jump and smiled back at Orion.

“Though, perhaps not right at the moment,” she grinned. The were climbing a small hill, clambering over rocks as the trees thinned in the unhelpful soil. Reaching the crest they could view the valley beyond through a large gap in the canopy. The city of Tolth was visible as a distant smear of light, but the forest between was spotted with fires where Vuldrok’s had found smaller forest villages, or perhaps had simply started fires.

“I am supposed to watch you, and provide advice during your service,” she continued as the started down the otherside of the hill.

“Most people, yourself included, confess at church services and ask for the Pancreator’s forgiveness in a general sense,” she explained, halting for a moment as Orion cautioned her about a fern covered with hairlike barbed hooks.

“But some people, like nobles, sometimes take on quests and tasks that have far more dangerous decisions to make. People who need the Pancreator’s forgiveness in a more immediate and personal way. I am expected to act as a counselor and a confidant as well as a priest.”

She climbed over a log and slipped down into a shallow creek that soaked her to her ankles in chilly water.

“I suspect that the bishop had his own reasons for making this particular appointment, but I shall endeavor to do my best to serve.”
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Orion wasn't nearly as light footed, but he had a certain deadly grace to him as he moved through the woods. He leaped and halted as if his considerable bulk was a boon rather than a hindrance in how he made his way through difficult terrain. Most knights were one of two ways; polished or brutal. He was a step in both worlds. Brutal in terms of looks, but polished in noble authority.

"I feel-" He said as she took another step, her leg disappearing under the stream when the step was far deeper than she thought. He caught her forearm. "-much safer now that you're here to keep me safe." There was a grin on his handsome face, and he pulled her back up onto the shallow end. There was a log to the right that encompassed the stream.

"I'll do my best to help keep you safe." He promised, trudging out of the river as she nimbly made her way to the log. Her explanation on her duties were sound enough. He'd already known most of it, but it was good to hear that Priests of her order didn't differ intensely with other Confessors.

"I can't tell if we're doing well so far." He admitted snidely. He pulled against his shield strap to keep it steady as he crossed the log behind her.

"I think we're doing grand," He said, and he couldn't tell if she was serious or not. "All as the Pancreator wills it."

There were raised voices east of them, and they both stopped to look at one another, and then find refuge in a copse of bushes. He didn't need to place a finger to her lips. The forest might be unusual to her tastes, but he had the sense her survival instinct was on par with his.

Three burly raiders appeared out of the treeline, laughing and arguing in their strange tongue. Their speech halted and started in a way Orion couldn't begin to pattern, but he didn't care. Two of the three men unlaced their primitive trousers and stood by the stream to urinate. The third stood watch, though only at the basest sense of the word. He seemed too busy speaking to the other two.

Sir Orion unsheathed his sword a mere inch and looked to Sister Annika, his eyebrow raised questioningly.
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Annika knew nothing of woodcraft. Truthfully anything beyond the sparse palm trees and scrubby vegetation of Istkar’s vast deserts made her vaguely uncomfortable but she knew enough not to imagine that they could slip around these three without drawing attention. She was just about to give Orion the go ahead to dispose of them when she heard a familiar word amid the gutural gibberish of the Vuldrock speech. Engel. It clashed sufficiently with the Vuldrock speech to stand out. Not a word. A name. Annika held up a hand to stall her knightly companion for a moment as she tried to recall where she had heard the name before. She closed her eyes and focused her mind on the rite of Idetica.

Annika sat at the captains table in the dining hall of the Farsi. The recollection was so perfect that she could taste the wine and smell the delicious aroma of roasted chicken and seasoned vegetables the chef had prepared. In the here and now her stomach growled, reminding her it had been nearly twenty four hours since she had eaten. Fasil, the dark skinned captain, a member of one of the junior lines of the al-Malik family was engaging in a spirited debate with the Charioteer.

“I tell you that Rochfort and all his advisers, Bessimer, Engel, all the rest have gone mad,” Fasil declared waving his fork to emphasise his point. The Charioteer opened his mouth to counter the assertion but Annika allowed the rite to lapse, having learned all she needed. She glanced across at Orion. They were too close to the Vuldrocks to risk even whispered speech.

We need to take the talkative one alive sounded her voice in his head.
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The Knight wasn't entirely sure what just transpired, but he trusted her so far. He looked to the men and then back to Annika, and gave a nod. "Stay down," he whispered, and hefted his shotgun. He could feel her gaze on his back as he held the gun, knowing shooting them with it could likely call forth a multitude of other Vuldroks. But one look from him showed her he had a plan.

He stepped carefully and slowly as the men conversed, two of them on the left beside the stream and the other on their right, back to Orion. He made it close to ten meters before the talking one noticed him, and he went from jovial to afraid just in time for Orion's shotgun butt to strike him in the head, knocking him out cold. The other two heard the thump and turned, one still urinating and the other with his pants still down.

"I could have gone my life without seeing that," He said to them, and when they reached down to lift their trousers, or potentially to grab weapons, Orion raised his shotgun barrel in warning. That stopped both of them in their tracks. Standing there, Orion could see the Xenophobia of these raiders. Even if they weren't butchers of serfs or standing there with their genitals out, they had a wild, savage look to them. Ungroomed and stinking of blood and vinegar.

The two raiders looked at one another, their hands still above their waists for a moment, but both close to realizing that if he were to shoot one of them, the report would echo across the forest. At that moment, Sister Annika bore witness to what made a Knight such as Orion so dangerous. To everyone's surprise in but a moment, he dropped the shotgun. In less than a second, without halting to process, he grabbed his sword and ripped it out of his sheathe.

Both of the Vuldrok's were mortally wounded before the shotgun hit the tough grass, making an 'X' slash that cut the throat of the left one and tore off apart of the right raider's face. Save for their blood gurgles, they were silent kills. Orion casually grabbed the left man's shirt to keep his corpse from splashing into the stream as it appeared it was about to.

"Was that sufficient?" he called to the Confessor.
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Annika came forward cautiously, a little stunned with the speed and ferocity with which Orion had dispatched the enemy. Not for the first time she wondered what he had done in order to earn the emnity of the Bishop. It seemed an extreme reaction to the cybernetic eye alone. She stepped carefully around the fallen and knelt down on the rough grass. The Vuldrock smelled of animal fat and smoke and it turned her stomach as she got closer. Almost gingerly she reached forward and touched her fingers to the unconscious mans temple and eyebrow.

The smell of smoke and sweat competed with the reek of stale beer and damp animals. There must have been thirty tribesman packed into the longhall, shouting to make themselves heard over each other and over the roar of the blizzard outside. Wulf stood on the dais shouting down at his thanes.

"Silence you dog faced curs!" he roared, brandishing a massive machine gun with a brutal looking glaive blade affixed as a bayonet. To punctuate the point he fired a long burst at the far wall, shattering a post into a pile of splinters and half deafening the halls occupants. Annika felt herself laugh in maniac excitement, after a moment the laugh caught and the rafters shook with the roaring laughter of the thanes.

"I am no coward and ill kill any man who says otherwise, and this is not suicide," Wulf roared. He waved a handful of documents, simple parchment now stained with grease.

"These are the patrol schedules for their fleet, we can be there for a week before they can bring their ships back to stop us!"

"Your bum paper tells you this?" Svain shouted to another round of uproariously laughter.

"These I have from a chieftain of the soft folk! He wants us to raid. This Engel seems to think it will help him, he hasn't known many Vuldrock! His pretty throat will be cut with the rest!"

Annika snapped back to herself, pipe smoke spilling from her nostrils. She leaped to her feet eyes wide as she found her form to small for her muscles, her tattoos were gone and her beard... The Priestess blinked as she seemed to settle into her own body again. She spat into the running stream and recited a ritual of purification to center her thoughts.

"These men are not here by chance," she told Orion, reaching down to draw a laser pistol from the cross belts of one of the dead Vuldrok.

"Someone invited them here, someone in Rochfort's court."
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"That is a grave accusation," he told her, helping her up. "Yet he feel it is also likely. The attacks have become more frequent as of late. The rumors indicate they'll soon have an invasion base on the planet."

He wished he could claim he knew exactly what to do with the information. For now it simply complicated things. He wondered if this had anything to do with the recent pagan rebellions springing up in the forested hills of Tolth. Even if they did, it wasn't his mission, he reminded himself. Even if the Duke was a conspirator, or if one of his court members was a conspirator, which of them would the Baron truly back? The rightful Duke whom he hates, or a traitor to his ranks?

"Will you forestall my duty?" He whispered in a prayer, gazing into the knolls of the wood. Now more than ever, it was not the time to dally. Orion grabbed his sack and took out an extra linen shirt, ripping the hems off to use as rope as he tied up the unconscious Vuldrok. "I believe you," He told her as he ripped the cloth. "But others might not. The paranoid Duke would likely soon as burn you than listen to you, and me for that matter."

With a grunt, he lifted the tied barbarian up. Pancreator, he'd rather it had been a Kurgan. At least members of the Caliphate bathed, not to mention they were leaner in physique. Their women were said to be beautiful as well. Idly he wondered if Sister Annika had any Kurgan in her blood from ages past, but he dismissed the thought as soon as it showed and hoped she hadn't read his mind. "Let us be off before the sun dips and we're shot in the dark."

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