Uriel only rolled his head back jauntily, with all but a clump of hair under his deviruchi-clasped ribbon falling backward to dangle under his cranium. Looking into Raziel's hardened eyes with his own smiling orbs of sky, he responded light-heartedly, "Hey, we're all alive, aren't we?" His arms were behind him, supporting his torso as his legs were being attended to. His own lavender-tinged armor was heavily marked; scratched and cut through in several places and dented and smashed in in several others. His cape and sash, though usually of a violet hue, were now stained black with blood and grime. His light lavender hair was caked with bloodied dust, and his face was home to a score of scratches and minor cuts. His boots were off, exposing the dark black and sickly purples of badly bruised skin, his feet, once crushed, now looking almost normal save for a sickly yellow hue. Upon one of his thighs was a horrid-looking gash, which was succumbing easily to the efforts of the young assassin binding his wound. His gauntlets, evil looking talons of dark violet, seemed to have been the only parts of his body to have survived unscathed. Wincing suddenly, Uriel gasped out a tiny laugh as he resettled himself upon his shoulders, seeking a more comfortable position as the woman of silent retribution yanked roughly on his leg, breathing sharply, "Devilangel, can't we be just a tad more gentle, please? I have a scratch there!"
Laughing as she looked up at his face, yanking on his leg once more for good measure, the assassin clad in white at his leg finished her bandaging and tilted her head, "I'm sorry, I couldn't see the scratch through the canyon in your thigh. All better now, though." Slapping his bandage, she stood up and dusted off her tattered leather skirt, then flipped back her lengthy snow-bleached hair from her face, letting it all fall neatly down her back like a fresh snowdrift. She was dressed in completely white form-fitting leather, with gloves of smooth, blood-stained leather adorned with a ring of the Bloodcircle and a ring of the Skull Thrice Pierced, bloodspattered assassin's corset, blood-tinged skirt with boots adorned with similar mortal dye. At her side slung two katars, hand-held blades used for the assassins' own special forms of death. Her skin was slightly tanned, and her eyes were a warm emerald, showing more soul than most killers were willing to spare. Smiling just a little sadistically as Uriel cringed and grabbed at his leg, she backed away, her leather-soled boots making almost no sound against the incinerated remains of vegetation underfoot, and she disappeared into the shadow of a nearby tree that had somehow miraculously survived the struggle.
Above her, barely visible in the sparse foliage of the tree's remaining canopy, the form of Steel Eyes the hunter could be seen scouring the landscape. After a moment, he pulled off his goggles and called down to Raziel, "No sign of any other cultists, I think we're clear for a good long rest." At Raziel's nod of understanding, the hunter packed his gear and jumped down from the tree, landing lightly in a patch of blackened dirt at the foot of the tree. He straightened, brushing dust and ruined matter from his dark hair with a wild flurry of his gloves, then shook his head violently to be sure that all debris was gone from his head. As Uriel lay on his back and closed his eyes, the Hunter checked the rest of his equipment, still standing, and then replaced the dark hat he usually wore upon his head; "Sweet Gent," he had called it. It metched pefectly with his leather vest, worn pants, and rigid gloves.
Of the five present in what used to be a clearing in the forest northwest of Prontera, Steel Eyes was the cleanest one, with no part of his body defiled by the blood of heretics and his armor only slightly singed, though the darkness of it made such burnmarks invisible. Coincidentally, he was also the only one of the group not wearing a ring of the Order of the Scarlet Circle; Namely because he wasn't a member of the Ordo. He was hired for his tracking skills by the Assassin hidden behind him four days ago in the Archer Village of Payon. The Ordo had gotten word of an Abysscult in the forests around Prontera, but they needed someone who knew the signs of a heretical presence in the dense flora. Steel Eyes, true to his chosen name, knew all of them and more.
At the moment, however, it seemed that they wouldn't need a tracker anymore with the loss of forest all around them. Quite a few trees still smouldered, and from somewhere farther off came the stench of immolated flesh.
Slender hands came to perch upon Raziel's shoulders as he finished cleaning his simple steel blade. Replacing it in its home at his waist, he reclined his head to listen to the whispered report from the golden-headed priestess that had come up behind him. He nodded, whispering a command back to her, and with her affirmation she slid her hands from his pauldrons and slowly shifted around him, to kneel next to the Knight who lay in horrid condition on the barren carpet of dull tan. Groaning at the touch of her hand, his body slowly relaxed under the warm cerulean glow of her healing touch. The wounds upon his face slowly closed together, leaving only token splotches of drying blood on his face and neck. His legs slowly returned to their original colors, his feet looking normal once more, as the bloodstain at his thigh ceased its invasion of the white linen wrapped securely about him. Eyes opening slowly, Uriel smiled up at Karmasutra, remarking softly, "Again you come to my rescue. My hero...ine." Grinning a little, crinkling the corners of his eyes, he slowly sat himself upright, never taking his eyes off of her round, serene face, which held a soft, enigmatic smile of its own.
Her thin, lovely lips opened, allowing a gently sentence to slip through between them, "Again, it's your fault, you insane little man." Laughing lightly and sitting back with a tilted head, she smiled still wider, "But then, it wasn't a mistake to bring you into the Ordo. Time and again, you've saved our lives. I'm no hero, not in comparison to you, at least. You're reckless, but you're true." Blinking once, her sapphire eyes slipped to regard Raziel, "Isn't that right, Raziel?" The crusader only grunted, closing his eyes and looking away. Uriel's grin faltered, then died at Raziel's reaction. Karma quickly brought her mouth to his ear, breathing encouragement, "Don't feel too bad, young one. Raziel is like that to everyone." Leaning back, and standing up slowly, she added, "He's probably one of our strongest guildmates, and understandably, the strong do not like possible threats to their power." She glanced at Raziel, then back to Uriel quizzically, "You shouldn't be a threat though, so... I suppose that's not the case, is it?"
"The case is simply this; He's a reckless, however lucky, fool of a knight." His violet eyes flashed angrily at the semi-surprised woman. "I despise stupidity, and he displays prodigious amounts of it. We had a battle strategy set out very clearly for the confrontation and annhialation of the Wickedhearts, and Ribbon-Boy decides to screw us all over and simply jump onto the back of the nearest dragon, endangering himself needlessly and ruining a time-tested and reliable battle plan. That's my case, Chaplain. Are you happy now?"
Bringing a hand to her small shoulder, the Priestess quickly nodded and looked to the ground, "I'm satisfied. I apologize for offending you, Fortis Tutor." She looked away from the two of them and sought out her own spot on the yellowed grass, her face devoid of emotion once more, though slightly more flushed now... possibly with shame? Raziel closed his eyes and crossed his arms, steel clanking against steel as he began his meditation. Uriel merely sighed and pulled on his greaves, before falling onto his back again to look up at the fluffy clouds wallowing lazily overhead.
Steel Eyes had disappeared long ago, presumeably to scout with Devilangel for more cultists. They would be back soon, and then they'd be on the move again. With any luck, their groupleader would be in a better mood, or Uriel would begin to start taking the mission seriously. Either one would do.
They had been gone for exactly 3 weeks, purging Prontera of the festering boil of the Abyssclan deep in its forests. Returning, all still alive, however battered and bruised each of the five were, they were hailed by the jubilant, God-fearing populace as Living Saints, heroes in the highest degree. The streets before their broken procession was paved with flowers of every possible species and variety, blanketing the roads with fragrant, multicolored carpets of floral beauty. The buildings around the people were white, preshly painted and cleaned brick and stone topped with clean wood and tiling. The entire city, the last refuge and First City of all the Free and Holy peoples of Rune Midgar, Prontera, was a pristine diamond in the rough of the rotting world around them. The people knew this, and in their heroes, they rejoiced.
Their reactions were myriad, varied as to each warrior's personality.
Raziel lead the pack, head held high and proud, clutching his scabbard to his waist with a gauntlet as he sought to control his limp. He gave off the silent pride that most warriors feel upon achievement in battle, and the triumphant aura of one who has personally claimed victory. His armor, battered, slit, soiled, and bloodied in its multiple hues of red, violet, and black, clattered loudly, but the noises of ill-fitted plate and steel were drowned out by the roaring of an ebullient crowd. Raziel did not hide it; he loved every moment. His entire existence seemed to have been set to the cries of plaudits and praise from the masses that flocked under his protective wings of bloody steel. Valor and Honor motivated him, and Glory sustained him.
Behind him, being propped by the Priestess, a bashful Uriel concentrated more upon the flower-strewn cobbles under his weak, uncooperative feet. Limping heavily, he nevertheless had a broad smile upon his face as his gauntlets clattered against each other and bounced off of his thigh with each step, his bare feet feeling the tickling caress of soft plant and the soothing, reassuring cool of stone. His own armor was nonexistant; what he did wear could not protect him at all. His sash and cape were tatters, their original color no longer visible under the blood and grime. His sword swung and bounced freely with each step, his scabbard had been destroyed and the sword hung by the hilt, suspended wih a leather thong. Izlude was dead to him now; He lived in Prontera now, and the colorful, lively, and healthy populace motivated him to greater feats of courage. He did not need their thanks, their praises fell upon unworthy ears. He only did what he needed for a people he loved with all of his heart and soul. If anything, he was merely repaying a debt that he owed from his earliest days, from that fateful morning in Izlude.
Beside him, smiling softly and nodding to several men and women on the sides of the road, Karmasutra walked. In comparison to the warriors, she was immaculate. Her robes were stitched and cleansed, the crosses and trim, while slightly tinged with burn and wound, showing white against her robe's own pink. Her blonde hair bounced about her head with each step, clean, if now coarse; She embodied the very essence of the healer, the ultimate, true form of the matronly nurse. She held the battered form of a hero in her arms, supporting him with her own body step after step. Of all of the men and woman in the procession, she was the most revered and loved by all. She knew this, but she did not gloat nor did she allow herself to fall into the pits of sinful pride. Rather, she humble accepted their applause, thanking them with her soulful eyes and softly-curved mouth. She accepted each praise, but she was not proud as Raziel was nor unduly humble like Uriel; and they loved her so much more for it.
In the back of the procession walked the bewildered Steel Eyes and the silently prideful Devilangel. The hunter was walking with his head down, more interested in the hand that held his own hostage then in the carpet of color or the crowd around them, his hair falling shortly about his face and shielding him from the frightening spectacle of so many happy people all around him. He was just a mercenary here, why were they so happy with him? Devilangel, the assassin with the mysterious chosen name, smirked and squeezed her own glove's prey once before smiling proudly at the crowds around them. Where he walked slightly hunched, wanting to escape from the city around him, she practically swaggered, wordlessly letting everyone around them know that she had had a hand in the cleansing. Her hand came up, exposing the signet of the Ordo in a wave, her katars clashing with each other as they hung from her neck over her bosom.
People loved to gossip about the warriors of the Ordos. The most prominent was, of course, the Ordo Vix Orbis. The Ordo of Faith, it was the group most closely tied to the Church of Prontera, and offered the most training for Crusaders, Monks, and Priests of all the Ordos known in Rune Midgar. Their ranks were colorful, with no set standard with which each member made his or her membership known save for their rings. It had been a hundred years since the Wars of Emperium had last finally ended, and the emblems of each ordo were now confined to their monasteries, never seen upon the posts that once heralded invader guild in times of old. As the Wars finally closed, five Orders had emerged victorious. The Ordo Vix Orbis had taken Prontera. Morocc, rogue state in the Desert and home of the murderous mercenaries, the Assassins, had fallen to the Ordo Chaos. Payon, the serene forest town, was taken by Ordo Pondera, the Order of Balance. Alberta was taken by the Ordo Igneus Procer, Order of the Fiery Prince, while Geffen was ruled over by the Ordo Leo Vallum, whose fierce Lionguard patrolled the streets of the chaotic town of Magic. Each Ordo allied with the other to form the Alliance of the Free States, and each city prospered greatly under their First Swords' rule. The Ordos held the real power; Tristan of Prontera, the supposed Emperor of Rune Midgar, was nothing more than a senile old man who clinged to intangible delusions of power, appearing in public only to perform weddings, in an attempt to gain power and respect with the people, or to speak, unwittingly, on the behalf of the First Swords.
People speculated... no, they knew the real power was held by First Sword Darius Ammanael of the Ordo Vix Orbis. He had been at the head of the guild in the Thousand-Year War of Empellium, crushing his opponents in the final days and bringing the then-chaotic Prontera under his iron boot. Upon word that the warring guilds had been quenched, his talents as Administrator began to shine, and the desolate, broken walls housing the desperate, wailing masses of the oppressed and fearful soon shone brightly with the hope of a new era. The people were happy once more, the city rebuilt to surpass its former glory. Prontera was the Empire's holy land, and people from all over Rune Midgar travelled to Prontera in pilgrimages and immigrations. The small town swiftly quadrupled in size in its first year under Darius' rule, and its population has continued to grow steadily, until it began to rival even Yuno, the Scholarly City of the Sky, in size and architectural triumph.
Raziel was heir apparent. In his short time in the Guild, he had proven himself most capable in the Ordo's battles, and Darius himself had taken a liking to the brooding, silently powerful young man. The First Sword's adjunct, a woman by the name of Emalie Amadeo, had met her death only weeks before Raziel had lead his team into the forest, slaughtered by a sniper's arrow without dignity or honor. It was suspected that, while the First Sword was still grieving and considering her replacement, Raziel Daltizius of Gonryun would ascend to Second-in-command. His only rivals were a man named Bartholomew Hempton and a woman known only by her chosen name, Wintrysong. Raziel despised the woman, but he greatly respected the man.
Wintrysong had entered the Ordo at the time that Darius had finishd crushing the last rebellious leaders of the Gold Vipers and the enigmatic Forgotten Covenant. The Vipers were subjugated, allowed to funtion only as a puppet military force commanded indirectly by the Ordo itself, while the Covenant had gone into hiding, in part from the Lord Knight's blade, and also in part of the terror the feminine High Witch had wrought upon the field of battle. Allies and enemies alike were incinerated and ravaged to pieces from the primal forces unleashed from her hands, her destructive and sadistic form a constant source of immolating fury. She was respected and feared by all who heard of her. It was as much by Darius' blade as by Wintrysong's rod that Prontera was conquered, if not more. She was conceited, prideful of her powers and arrogant to no end in public and private. Raziel often referred to her as a "pyromaniacal idiot of a whore," in addition to scores of other drawn-out and imaginative insults with which he assailed her behind her back. He despised the castrix, but he knew better than to anger her directly.
Bartholomew, one who had been in the Ordo since before Darius assumed power, was a quiet monk of silent power and deliberate mind. He was one of the most powerful and influential High Fists of the Ordo, a general with indespensible military tact and the respect of a hundred men and women who served directly under him. Raziel, a fellow High Fist, understood him and his history, and often praised him in the same breath with which he condemned Wintrysong.
The procession ended at the Prontera castle, where other members of the Ordo waited as the crowd outside the castle gradually dispersed, returning to their normal lives with vim and vigor. The High Fists and Tacticians of the Order were all present. The Ordo held, including Raziel, Bartholomew, and Wintrysong, a total of 10 commanding officers, and each of them were standing or sitting in the reception hall of the massive castle of marble and other stones.
Uriel picked up his head to gape at the High Witch sitting upon a lavish chair, sipping at white wine. She smirked into her glass as her cold grey eyes assessed his thin face; He was enamored of her, and she knew it very well. She recrossed her legs, her green robe shifting slightly as for a split moment a tantalizing portion of her body normally hidden by her gold and green casting dress was revealed to Uriel's flushing face. The trim of gold she wore at her shoulders and down the lapels of her robe contrasted brilliantly with the emerald of her wizarding robes. The silver chalice in her small, fleshy hand, held up to her full crimson lips, helped the signet of the Ordo upon her finger to stand out. She was of a healthy weight, and if she stood she would stand only up to Raziel's shoulder. Her hourglass form, while a little round, was definitely a favorite among the thoughts of many of the men in the room with her. She laughed at Uriel's flushing face under her breath, bringing her chalice down to rest on her lap as a finger-gloved hands reach up to brush back some of the long, crimson silk that hung down about her shoulders.
Uriel's eyes never left her head until Karmasutra had managed to drag him farther into the castle, bound for the healer's ward. Wintrysong's cruelly gleeful eyes rose to meet Raziel's, and the crusader turned away in visible disgust to address the man next to him. He was a short, pudgy Alchemist, dressed in red trim and brown fabric. His mahogany tunic barely contained his well-fed stomach, and his dull purple pants were tight around his thighs, though not overtly so. The portly merchant had waddled up to Raziel with a smile, extending his hand to the Crusader, which was accepted readily. "Raziel! Good to see you again, and in one piece! Amazing! You must truly be amazing to take only five people to rid us of an entire Abysscult! Those Wickedhearts weren't too hard for old Raziel now, where they?"
Coughing shortly, covering his mouth with his recently freed hand, Raziel shook his head, "This cult was hardly anything new, Rumbarrel. They thought a few plague petites would scare us, but they fell like flies. I have yet to encounter a cult that doesn't fall before me within two weeks."
Laughing jovially, the man called Rumbarrel's rum barrel jiggled wildly under his thin tunic, and he clapped at Raziel's battered armor, "And that's why you're a shoo-in for the Adjunct!" He nodded, his greasy black hair not moving at all from his scalp, and he took off his monacle to reach up to Raziel's face, "The First Sword really likes your work, son. He's constantly talking about how you were the single greatest initiation into the Ordo in his entire lifetime, save for himself of course." His lips parted into another shining, toothy grin as Raziel cocked his head to the side, eyes forming a look of mild surprise with no other form of emotion on his face. "You're one to keep an eye on, yessirree, soon you'll be-"
"As fat as you, Lardbucket!" Laughing loudly as the Alchemist wheeled to attempt to land a pudgy fist on his chest, the bard behind him sidestepped him easily and have his head a light slap for good measure. The entire room, save for Raziel and two others, burst into laughter at the spectacle, and even Rumbarrel had to smile bashfully at the musician. He wore a birght blue jacket over his white tunic, the bard did, and his white pants ended at blue shoe-covers, his boots a dark tan. His thick, blue felt cape dropped at his side as he hefted up an ornate guitar to his shoulder, a rogueish grin set upon his face as he repositioned a Robin Hood's cap at a jaunty angle in his short, blonde hair. "Calm down, little man, you know I'm only kidding around. I love you like a brother." He reached down to pat the Alchemist on the shoulder, who proceeded to find himself another seat.
Raziel's eyes turned to the Tactician. Mooncant, as he called himself, was also known as Johann Smit. He was an irreverent, rakish fellow, typical of the musician. He had a rather uncanny mind, however, and while he was just as playful as Uriel was, he knew when to be serious, an that was when his amazing military intellect came into play. Battles were won on the battlefield by the warriors; they were decided in the planning halls by the tacticians, and foremost was this bard. He was also extremey good friends with Rumbarrel, and it was understood that the two had known each other for years before they had each joined the ordo. Rumbarrel had, of course, been much slimmer for his tasks.
The bard only shrugged at Raziel, his toothy grin on his own slim, extremely handsome face never wavering, and he gave Raziel a greatly-exaggerated bow before wandering off to another part of the hall, apparently looking for more winebarrels; the one he had cracked open earlier was finished, and Wintrysong was enjoying the last of it. Behind her, meditating silently by the wall, was the monk Bartholomew. He was clad in alternating black and white clothing, the jacket and pants that is typical of monks, symbolizing the yin-yan, or balance in life and death. His short, white hair floated softly with the silent, imperceptible energies aroused by his meditation, and the spirits garnered from his own body floated about his head benignly, extensions of his soul made visible. One hand had on a glove, which had five dangerous knives placed upon each finger, shaped just like a human hand. The other had the guild insignia wrapped about a finger, just as the arm itself had a rosary wrapped about it tightly, fingers counting through the beads slowly and deliberately to the tune of the monk's mouthed prayers.
After Karmasutra had returned with her report, they all waited for the First Sword to enter the hall to begin the meeting. They were all assembled, the High Fists and the Tacticians of the Ordo, in their myriad walks of life and professions. Rumbarrel the Alchemist, Mooncant the Bard, Bartholomew the Monk, Raziel the Crusader, Karmasutra the Priestess, and Wintrysong the High Witch, were the most known of the ten. Added to their ranks were a Knight clad in brown armor with long green hair named Reginald Argest, an Assassin in black known only as Kalmah, a matronly castrix known as Rouge, bedecked in a rose casting robe with purple streamers, a jack-of-all-trades with bushy blue locks self-styled and still known simply as Novice, and finally the raven-haired huntress in silver leather armor known as Luna. These ten men and women were part of the officer council that headed and governed the Ordo and, subsequently, Prontera and indirectly the whole of Rune Midgar.
From an archway leading further into the castle came the clumps of boots against stone, steel upon the floor sending sudden bursts of disturbed sound across its surface, to catapult into the air and shatter against the stone walls and eventually disperse into the ears of all present. It was a brisk pace. Within moments, the tall, muscular, and extremely fit form of the aging First Sword appeared in the hall. His golden armor shone in the torchlight, and his rounded, strong steel plates bore the marks of a thousand battles and a million adversaries. His cape, long, cerulean, flowing regally from his ornate pauldrons to the heels of his equally ornate boots, his baroque and beautiful armor was contrasted and highlighted by the dark fabric. Upon his cuirass was etched the sign of an aquilar, a mighty eagly taking flight. His otherh and gripped a spear, using it as a staff as he walked towards them, his face heavily creased, topped with greying black hair and a strong beard of pitch, his green eyes shining out from within the still ruggedly handsome, olive-tinted face. He stood, all full 7 feet of him, in front of all of his officers, towering over even Raziel and bringing with him the fullest, most complete sense of power and awe to envelop and seep into every body in the room, from Raziel to Wintrysong. No one could take their eyes off of him, and he smiled sagely at the open respect and admiration lain upon him from the warriors and casters who gathered around him like children around their father. He had not shown himself to anyone in a month, not since the death of Emalie, and the shock of actually seeing him in person, and the surprise to find a smiling Darius, had jolted everyone to a new respect for the hardened veteran and strong-willed ruler.
He waved at all of them, gesturing to the several seats arranged haphazardly around the room, his rich, strong voice echoing in the empty stones of the castle, "Gather yourselves, we have some items of business to attend to before you can return to your daily lives." The officers were loathe to ignore him, and soon the seats were put together in a neat arrangement of 10 around his own seat, which was no more ornate than their own seats. He sat down, placing his halberd gently upon the ground next to him, and he leaned back in his seat, maile crunching against itself as his body rested upright. He looked at each and every one of his officers straight in the eye, a grandfatherly love and concern emanating from him and pervading the air, relaxing even the extremely uptight Raziel and bringing him the serious attentions of Mooncant and Wintrysong.
Sighing loudly, the old Paladin placed his hands on his thighs and began to speak to the assembly, "First off, I would like to extend congratulations to Tactician Wintrysong and High Fist Raziel for their successful campaigns against the Abysscults that have been popping up near the towns of the Empire. They've done an extremely valuable service to all God-fearing citizens by ridding the lands of these wicked worshipors of death and darkness." Wintrysong's face split into a wide grin of glee while Raziel's pride was a bit more controlled, as the officers around them clapped in unison for them. The First Sword himself joined in, then stopped, followed shortly by everyone else at the gathering. "Now I believe that a majority of our concerns are past, so now we may devote tonight to seeking out the new second-in-command. I have been podering for almost a month on who I should elect as my newest adjunct, the one who will be my direct aide in running the Ordo and will ascend to First Sword when I die." He looked around at those assembled before them, seeing the hopefulness in everyone, save the assassin, Kalmah. He continued, "I have thought carefully, and I have narrowed my choices down to two people." He looked at Raziel, "Of course, I have considered giving the position to High Fist Raziel, who has shown the most potential and the most faithful service in his time in our Ordo..." his emerald orbs travelled to the High Witch, "And my most faithful and helpful officer, Tactician Wintrysong. It would have been dishonor to have not considered you to be my Right Hand." Where Raziel had shown only a grateful smile of silent admiration, Wintrysong had fluttered her eyelashes at the First Sword and given him a wild grin as she crossed her arms and brought a hand to rest at her chin. Darius blinked a few times, flushing just a little before returning his attention to everyone else. "I know you all have your personal preferences, so I decided, why don't we hear their reasons for the promotion? High Fist? Tactician? You are both equally talented and qualified in your own particular fields, which of you would be best suited as my successor?"
Wintrysong wasted no time in speaking, raising herself from her chair and smiling to everyone in the room, then looking right into the eyes of the First Sword, "First, I would like to thank you, First Sword, for this great honor of even being considered for th position. I would like to assure you, that I will continue to be just as effective and just as good with the added responsibilities. I was at your side during the War of Emperium, was I not? Was I not faithful, loyal, and true through your campaigns? Did I not help you bring the Gold Vipers Empire to our feet and send the Forgotten Covenant scurrying into their holes? I assure you, First Sword, that I would be the right choice, for I have power, I have experience, and I wear clothing that is completely intact in your presence." Flashing a mean-spirited grin at Raziel, she turned to expose her skimpy, but intact, uniform to the First Sword to punctuate her point, and she added, "Unlike Raziel, I could bring a certain charm to the office that I think you could quite like, First Sword." She smiled sweetly at the First Sword's blinking, flustered face and she lowered herself to sit... rather, to lounge on her chair, picking up her chalice and polishing off the last of the wine in the argent goblet. Her eyes and smile issued a challenge to the angered crusader, and she ignored the whisperings from Karmasutra and Rouge behind her.
Raziel, angered at the brazenness of the slutty excuse for a Tactician, livid for her attempted use of her body to buy an office, stood promptly. He held himself rigidly upright, his armor ragged and pitiful and a new source of well-hidden shame to the crusader, but he still gripped his sword at his waist, and spoke evenly and calmly, his eyes filled with the conviction that weighted his strong, confident voice, "I am Raziel Daltizius, High Fist to the Ordo Vix Orbis, and have personally seen the death and cleansing of hundreds of Wickedhearts and the banishment of scores of Daemonic beings, often at my own hands. I am a rock, a fortress and a shield. I am a Fortis Tutor, and I bring God's Will to the battlefield. Every enemy of mine cowers at my name, and recoils from my voice. Not one of the foul heretics and followers of the Darkness, the Abyss, or the Blight has ever stood against me and lived for very long. As the adjunct, I will work with the new resources at my disposal to root out more heretics, to bring them to justice and to cleanse our fine cities and our holy nation of the abominations that seek to tear out the roots of society from the festering holes they have crawled from. The Daemon falls and the Wicked tremble... for I am Raziel Daltizius, and I bow before no horror or mortal!" The audience, including Wintrysong, was stunned into silence by the sheer force of Raziel's passionate declaration, and for several minutes, Raziel stood, strong and proud, and looked into the faces of each and every man and woman present, his expression softening at Karmasutra's face, tender and gentle eyes embracing her image, then hardening upon Wintrysong's stunned, disapproving features, his mouth turned into a frown of contempt as his eyes denounced her silently. He added, almost inaudibly, "And no whore will take from me my destiny." Slowly, he sat back down again, turning his gaze to the floor as the High Witch's face contorted into barely surpressed rage.
The First Sword's face hardened, and he cleared his throat. Picking up his spear from the floor, he stood and said to the congregation, "I believe this was a mistake. This meeting is adjourned. Tactician Wintrysong, High Fist Raziel," he glared into each of their eyes as he addressed them, "please come with me." The two enemies stood as the golden-dressed paladin spun on his feet and walked away briskly.
Within a week, Wintrysong's reputation plummeted among many of the officers, save for the easy-going Mooncant, the silent Bartholomew, and the stony Kalmah, and the animosity between Tactician Wintrysong and Adjunct Raziel Daltizius grew; almost to the point where the two could not be trusted in the same room together, alone or otherwise. As the days progressed, the officers could tell that Wintrysong, one who was known for keeping passionate grudges, was becoming obsessed with finding ways to ruin Raziel and gain favor with the First Sword once more. Raziel, on the other hand, was more interested in his own pet project than in finding more energy to hate Wintrysong with. His first order of business was to begin an Inquisition, determined to root out the Wickedhearts before they materialized in more Abysscults. He out his heart and soul into the project, taking secret pleasure from its success and progress. Darius had opposed the project, but what he did not know would not harm the ambitious. He had carefully kept it a secret from everyone, trusting only the officers Karmasutra and Kalmah with the knowledge of his undertaking. Beyond that, he had attempted to make the operation as secret and hidden away as possible, while the fingers of his program spread out and latched themselves onto every aspect of Pronteran life. Wintrysong still had a following of her own, however- she was not completely ruined- and she had a very intricate web of spies embedded in the cities of Rune Midgar, that reported her everything that happened. They had, of course, uncovered Raziel's secret witch-hunting program. She knew, and she ached to reveal everything to the First Sword and fellow officers.
But, after all, who would trust a whore?