"Milord, if we don't send men, that cunt down in 29 will have us thrown out of the Federation. You know this is what he wants," said Mr. Hepworth, in a voice full of gravel. "I know that, don't you think I know that?" replied the River Admiral, rubbing the side of his head with a his leather-clad hands. "Then why all the obsession over that shitty little town?" "Because, that 'shitty little town' is worth gold to us. Just think, with their forges and experts, we could double production. We'd be the jewel of the Federation, and those fat fucking merchants could go suck the end of a blunderbuss!" snapped the River Admiral. Mr. Hepworth remained silent after this. One could only push the Admiral so far, before he was on receiving end of a lead ball. Sipping from the gentle rim of his brandy glass, the aging engineer sat back in his leather chair and gave the floor to one of his competitors. "Mr. River Admiral, Sir, If I may..." stepped in Doctor Fringe Raven. The Doctor was a heavy set fellow, with a large greying beard tuned to a sharp point, and a clean shaven head. He was Anthastiln's chief gun powder specialist, and also the richest of the 'Democratic Council of the People's Anthastiln'. "Yes, yes, speak your mind my good Doctor," replied the Admiral; his shaky hands pouring another goblet of wine. "Send half the militia, tell that testosterone fuelled idiot from 29 that we're having trouble with a tribe from the Northern Wastes. When the army leaves, send the other half to annex the town. Simple as that!" the Doctor said, triumphantly. Carlos grinned at the Doctor and held his gaze for several uncomfortable seconds. Then his eyes darted to Mr. Hepworth, and he nodded. Mr. Hepworth understood. Before the good Doctor could react, his skull was enveloped in a rush of smoke, and the room was consumed in an echoing thunder. Mr. Hepworth's smoking pistol presented itself on the large rounded oak table. The Council members shrieked and gasped as the body of the town's richest man slumped forwards, missing everything north of the mouth. Blood splatters covered the Harbour Master Biggins, who was shocked into silence. Only a few quickly remembered rule number one of survival in Anthastiln's ruling circle: Don't condescend, not to the Admiral, not in front of his peers. "Idiots, you're all idiots," cursed Carlos. Some of the Doctor's blood had flecked his face, and he clicked his fingers at his attendants. Within a fraction of a second, several young boys were busy rubbing him down with damp rags. "Where are the guards? Someone just fired a shot in my War Room, and my fuck damned security detail doesn't give a shit. I want them dead, I want them deader than dead!" he crowed. Mr. Hepworth slowly nodded. The Admiral banned the soldiers from his War Room last week, because he feared that one of them might find it a perfect opportunity to kill him and his fellow overlords. He must have forgotten. "The Doctor had a point, milord, we could hold back some troops. Independence would be defenceless without its militia. 29 won’t be around to dig them out of their grave, either," said Mr. Hepworth. "Agreed. All in favour?" The Council members fired their hands into the air. If the Admiral asked if you was in favour, you best leave your constructive thought process at the door. "Dispatch two thousand to the muster point. Send someone who will keep things discreet. If we are victorious at that shit infested Rockhelm, I want them to delay the Federation army until we've got the town locked up. Am I clear?" "Crystal, milord," finished Mr. Hepworth, downing the last of his brandy. -------------- Anthastiln was a sorrowful place, full of sadness, loss and helplessness. Grand Master Mason hated coming here; despite his dedication to his Lord Christ Jesus, he could do nothing but hold contempt with the man in charge here. The River Admiral was a violent man, he had killed, butchered and raped his way to the very top. His word was absolute, and his so called democratic council, a requirement for Federation membership, was a blood-soaked joke. If Fartown cared more for compassion than it did for gold, the River Admiral would be without his power. Sanctions would strip him of his wealth, his soldiers would revolt, and he would be executed and replaced by -- another murderous fool, who thought being charge was everything. Grand Master Mason sighed, and drew a cross in the air. Before him stood the River Admiral's Palace, it was an ugly building, made of black stone and elegant spires. Grand Master Mason allowed himself a brief fantasy, in which he imagined The Evil One's lair looking not too different from the monstrosity. He would need to repent for thinking such thoughts, but he would do that later, for now he had a poor nun to rescue. He was too late to prevent most of the damage, this he knew, but what was left, he would try to save. A soldier, with an iron plate strewn across his chest, and a six-foot long rifle gripped in both hands barred his passage. "I am Grand Master Mason, of the Tears of Regret Sanctuary. I request access to his Grace's premises, if I may," spoke the Grand Master, with a tone so gentle. "Sorry Father, I know who you are, but I am told your 'kind' are not welcome without prior notice," replied the soldier. "Then I shall walk past you, and Christ Jesus will choose whose resolve is stronger," shot back the Grand Master, his voice now colder than iron. The priest, father, Grand Master, Holy Father, Light of Light, whatever people chose to call him, marched forwards. He was wearing the thick black of the priesthood, and his face was shaven - along with his scalp. These last details were a requirement of all nuns and monks within the sanctuary's service. He was no ordinary monk however; he was God's chosen. The soldier lashed out with the butt of his rifle, and caught the priest across the face. Mason fell to his knees, blood dropping from his broken mouth. Immediately he regained himself and carried on walking towards the entrance. This time the soldier stood back, unsure of what action to take. He lived to serve his master, but to shoot the Grand Master of Tears would be a sin he would not outrun - either in the realm of the living, or the dead. Mason's face burned with pain, and he was sure that it was not only his teeth that were broken. He muttered a prayer for the soldier, so that he may not be flayed alive for allowing him access. Entering the large domed lobby of the Palace, he was immediately set upon by several Royal Guards. There were four less of them, than on his last visit, he noticed. “I have business here, leave me be or shoot me, the choice is yours,” roared the Grand Master. His patience was wearing thin. The fierce hands that had grabbed him relaxed, and the Royal Guards stood back. One so revered across the Federation had a certain amount of power and immunity, even in Anthastiln, it seemed. “Where is Sister Mary?” asked the Grand Master, his voice gentle and soft once more. “The Admiral’s quarters, Light of Light, but forgive me – you may not go there,” replied one of the Royal Guards. “Then arrest me, or shoot me, or whatever you feel is right. Christ Jesus guides me today, not fear of your master’s insanity,” said Mason. And with that, the Holiest Man in the known world made for the Admiral’s quarters. He knew the way, it was not the first time he had intervened to save a nun from the monster’s clutches, and by Christ Jesus’ blood, he knew it would not be the last. Such was life, in this depressing purgatory.