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Cintran Grand Cathedral
Church of Eternal Fire

Reyncourt dropped a silver coin into the brass offering bowl held up by an old copper statue long corroded into an unsightly green by the elements. The altar boy posted at the entrance rang the bell and issued a pair of incense sticks, which the knight graciously accepted. While his half-brother went about his business, visiting his mother at the Harpy and making use of his new commission as queensguard, Reyncourt took the time to make up for his absence at the church by attending the sermon presided by Hierarch Volstag Branddhurst. Ever since the incident that scarred him as a child, Reyncourt had started on the path searching for divine guidance.

Remarkably, his initiation into the cult was not a sordid affair as most young boys in the Continent learned, or at least it started out that way. There were good people in the Cintran Grand Cathedral, and they welcomed Reyncourt, doing their utmost to answer the questions he had in mind and hoping to ease the pain caused by Dr. Miloch's experiments. Upon learning his particular lineage, the Hierarch schooled the boy under his personal tutelage in order to groom him for priesthood. Alas, as a young man Reyncourt found a different calling. He entered the service of the state, foregoing the church, and brought the Eternal Fire to the unbelievers clad in black as a warrior. There have been crusaders in the history of the Church, but this one was not in the best interests of the Hierarch. Nevertheless, his return to the fold was received well and he entered the large ivory doors without molestation. Inside the cathedral, one could only gaze in awe at the vastness of its interior that never once failed to remind each individual how insignificant they were in the presence of holiness.

High archways, golden and bronze braziers alight with green fire, and iron statues of saints and warriors of the faith- all but a small manifestation of the Church of Eternal Fire.

Volstag Branddhurst may have the appearance of an old decrepit man who shook from the weight of his prodigious girth, but his voice was one to move mountains. When he spoke at the sermon, he did not utter- he thundered. His words reverberated clear through the gilded halls of the cathedral to the cobblestone courtyard outside. The years may have taken their toll on him in body, but the fire of his passions burned ever strong. Reyncourt mingled with the masses who attended, just another soul to dine on spiritual meat and wine. As he knelt to pray and recite the holy writ, Branddhurst's eyes fell upon the brass-clad knight. He recognized the man and offered a proud smile. His protege had returned from the battlefields of Nazair, perhaps to take up the mantle he'd abandoned after all this time. When the sermon was over, Branddhurst called up the knight to the front and bid him kneel. He stretched out his hand, the great ruby ring upon his finger which signified his lofty station glistening in the glow of the braziers. Without a word, he bid him kiss the ring and show fealty to his superior.

Reyncourt's face was a mask. There was no hesitation on his part, he kissed the ring and lifted his golden eyes to his old teacher.

"Your Eminence."

Branddhurst reached out and touched the man's cheek in a public display of familiarity that bordered on dishonor. Reyncourt bore the humbling experience with the stoicism of a stone wall, as well as the grating words that came with it. "My son, welcome home. I would've prepared something upon your return, but alas, this is a surprise."

The Hierarch bid him follow, and so he did. The crowds were dismissed and charged with rites of ridiculous proportions, an exploitation by the church to ensure its coffers remain overflowing. The pair went up to the Hierarch's personal chambers, to what end only a select few knew. Reyncourt had long dreaded returning to this place. For even when he found comfort in the wise words of good priests as a boy, there were evil men garbed in righteousness that preyed upon the innocent. And Branddhurst was among them, among the most vile.

"Worry not, lad." He guffawed, "I still have something special in reserve upstairs. You're more than welcome to join, after I've had my fill."

Growing up in the seclusion of those hallowed halls, Reyncourt became witness to the hidden depravities of cloistered men. Young boys and even younger girls were brought in secrecy under the guise of being schooled as altar boys or servers. Whatever else happened to them never saw the light of day, and often neither did so many of them. Branddhurst never touched Reyncourt, of that sort at least. No, to the Hierarch the lad was the bastard son of a saint. Even a foul lecher had his limits. But that didn't stop him from trying to corrupt Rey in a bid to justify his horrid travesties. Those sordid nights when he was tormenting the children or beating up his whores, Branddhurst would bring a stunned little Rey into the room, goading him to join in on the fun. He never did. He just stood there and watched as the victims wailed and cried out in agony. Back then, the lad was too afraid to do anything or even say a word of what he witnessed. Unlike Bov, he was too weak and he ran away the first chance he got.

As Reyncourt ascended the winding stone staircase behind the old man, the knight committed to his long awaited plan. While Averon worked to defend the royal family against unseen threats, Reyncourt would rid the world of a monster clothed in priestly garments. He didn't care if the man was protected by some higher power, be it divine or mortal. If a beast like Branddhurst was truly a chosen man of the Flame, unassailable and beyond reproach, then the Church was a religion of falsehoods.

They neared the entrance to his secret chambers, a soundproof room removed from the rest of the cathedral by a meticulously crafted system of false walls and moving doors. Branddhurst showed Reyncourt the way inside a few times before, keeping a special key on his person at all times to open the way. The fake wall slid with a barely audible grate after the Hierarch unlocked the mechanism. Inside was a lavish pleasure hideout; complete with a table of food and drink, a wardrobe filled with all manner of salacious items and accoutrements, and a soft satin bed with three luscious young maidens awaiting the Hierarch. Reyncourt didn't know who they were, but he knew exactly what they were. From what he gathered before, the sisters that came to serve at the cathedral often brought with them some supple novitiates to better liven up the rather dull atmosphere and promote visitations. The Hierarch, should he take notice, would often pluck a few just enough to barely draw notice and take them under his care.

He would use anything and everything to break them. Blackmail, substance, or just plainly rape them till they lost their minds. Seeing those maidens move and dance with practiced grace, almost like teetering on a knife's edge, Reyncourt could only imagine how long they've been kept in that room... and what hellish things have been done to them. Just imagining it made his blood boil, and Reyncourt glared at Branddhurst as the old man started to disrobe. Shamelessly, the Hierarch beckoned for the knight to join him, confident that his secrets were safe as they've always been. Little did he know that Reyncourt's desires leaned towards a more murderous inclination.

There were no words, Reyncourt allowed his wrath to be manifested elsewhere. He opened his mouth and unleashed a sudden burst that washed away the sins of the evil Branddhurst in a glorious white ball of flame. He burned him so thoroughly that there weren't even any teeth left. The ashes, and the cinders, drifted off into the floor and piled up in a heap. The women stared at the horrific scene mutely, astonished at the sudden demise of their tormentor. It was so sudden, so hot, that there was barely any smoke in the room. Only the horrid stench of incinerated flesh remained. Their eyes drifted towards the knight clad in brass, and they slowly left the bed for a tentative crawl for the exit.

Reyncourt gave them a nod and two of the girls broke into a run. But one of them stayed.

"Are you a knight, my lord?" She asked. Hair as black as oil, skin pale like the moonlight, a pair of breasts both as round as her shapely bottom. She was indeed a lovely thing. For all his vile degeneracy, the Hierarch had a fine taste in women.

"I am." Reyncourt replied, keeping his eyes averted. He briefly considered running out of the room, but his feet were somehow rooted to the floor. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't keep his eyes off of her beautiful blue eyes. "I'm Sir Reyncourt, just recently knighted."

The woman was no stranger to murder. She shrugged off the sight and scent with callous disregard, almost as if it never even happened. "You just killed a very very bad man, and I think you deserve something."

"I... I do?" He stuttered, feeling his cheeks grow so hot.

"Relax." She planted a peck on his cheek, and pushed him hard against the wall. "This won't take long."

Her hands moved to unfasten the buckles and straps holding his chausses upright, expertly so. She had her fill of armored men, Reyncourt assumed. Certainly, she was no sister of the church- but a cheap lowborn prostitute plucked from the streets. "You don't have to do this." He protested weakly.

"Oh, but I want to." She insisted, rubbing him in such a way that his trousers suddenly grew so painfully tight. Her smile widened as she pulled out the raging beast within, her experienced hands like lassoes bringing it to heel. "My name is Fenne, and you have my gratitude, sir."

Reyncourt's mouth hung open and his eyes shut tight as he was suddenly enveloped in a warm wet velvety softness. He dared not look down, for Fenne was eagerly bobbing her head, doing delicious things to him. She cared not of his unwashed musky scent, nor the salty tang of his sex. A maiden in distress was a clueless trollop with no mind to the wants of men. The whore knew how to show some proper gratitude and she was determined to make it worth the knight's while. That, and she always wanted to suck a knight's cock.

Soon after working her way up and down his impressive length, she felt that telltale clench that told her he was near. With an eager moan, the woman slowed her pace to a deliberate and torturous crawl. Fenne was right. It didn't take that long. A hot flood of sticky wetness spilled into her throat, and the whore lapped it up greedily. As Reyncourt sank back and drifted off with a satisfied smile, Fenne was already on her feet and wiping the excess dripping from her lips. She basked in the wondrous afterglow shining from his handsome face, and that grateful look he was giving.

"You can find me at the Golden Harpy. I go by the same name." She said before turning to leave. "Ask around, should be easy to find."

Reyncourt smirked as he watched her leave, getting a good look at her backside while she trotted off.

"I know." He muttered once out of ear-shot, "I grew up there."

Reyncourt glanced at the pile of ashes that used to be Volstag Branddhurst and bent down to pick up the special key that he dropped upon his death. With care, he folded the robes of the Hierarch and stuffed them into the wardrobe. Finally, he closed the secret door and false wall as he left the room. The lecher fancied his room of forbidden pleasures, so let it be his tomb. The key, he broke in half and tossed out the window. Branddhurst, he let lie with his secrets. The Church would have to come up with its own speculations concerning his disappearance, but Reyncourt and all those victims would know the truth. The man was judged according to his vices, and the divine hand he so gleefully misrepresented would not abide being mocked for long.

In the end, the Hierarch was just a man who hid behind the guise of piety. And he died like a dog.

Reyncourt emerged from the cathedral to be greeted by a gentle shower from the heavens. Being a superstitious man, he took it as a sign that the gods looked upon him with favor. What would have been murder in the eyes of men was a righteous act by the eyes of the divine. The knight smiled to himself and went his way, already putting to past the sordid affair.

The world had one less evil in it, and Sir Reyncourt was on the hunt for another.

Later, after a great deal of searching and questioning, Reyncourt finally tracked down the Madam Crassula. His mother had been expecting him, though she went out of her way to meet him away from the vicinity of the brothel. His meeting with her, as opposed to the violent juxtaposition of his half-brother's reunion with Aunt Serah, was warm and cordial as could be. Like Serah, Sandy put on a few wrinkles and gained a little weight, though neither did anything to diminish her comely appearance. In fact, all they did was distinguish her from the rest of the womenfolk in the squalor of the dregs.

Mother and son embraced each other in the cool atmosphere of an upper balcony. Reyncout remained in Sandy's arms and rested his head in her bosom, basking in the comforts of home and the welcoming touch of his mother's love. Sandy ran her fingers through his hair and affectionately rubbed the back of his neck as she once did when he was yet a child. "Welcome home, my little Rey." Proudly, Reyncourt showed her the golden chain Queen Calanthe bestowed upon him, which signified his status as a Cintran knight. Sandy ran her fingers across the gilded lions depicted therein, eyes wide with astonishment. "And where did you get this?"

"I'm a knight now, mum." Reyncourt boasted, "I've got a land waiting for me in New Amendale. Got some gold too, I'm going to use it to build a house. You can live there with me."

Sandy pinched his cheeks, "Oh, Rey. You needn't worry for your dear mother, I am content where I am. Go build your house, tend to your land, marry and have children."

"Why don't you want to be with me?" The knight asked.

"You don't understand, boy. You're a noble now, not a pleb like me. A knight associated with a woman of the brothel makes for a poor association, it sullies your reputation at the bud."

"And that woman is my mother. Let them talk, let them gossip. I gained my knighthood not by ambition but by service, and Queen Calanthe knows this. I need no other friends in court save for her, and she cares not of my humble origins. And why should I worry about my reputation? Dozens of knights come to the Harpy each day, and nothing happens to them. Nobody says a peep of their doings, or about the things they do with the doves."

"She tolerates you because of your father." Sandy replied, "You don't know it, but being in the presence of all those nobles alone breeds enemies. Those that speak out against you will one day outweigh your value, don't make me the cause of your downfall."

Feeling rather crestfallen, Reyncourt looked at her with hurt puppy eyes. "Is there no way for me to convince you to come?"

"Were I to gain status beyond a madam of the Golden Harpy, like your Aunt Serah, I would readily take you up on your offer. Alas, I am not so fortunate."

"May I visit at least? I will be discrete."

Sandy opened her mouth to protest, then let off a resigned sigh. She knew he loved her too much to let go, and that bit of familial loyalty touched her heart. "Yes, of course you can."

They embraced once more and Sandy walked him to the door. They said their farewells, Reyncourt left his mother with some money then went his way. At that same moment, Averon was on the opposite end of the city at the Cintran Highborn Boroughs getting a mouthful from the marchioness. There was some happy ending to his story, but for Reyncourt it had to go down a worse route before it got any better. On horseback, he went to see his new property at New Amendale some miles away from the capital city. The settlement had grown from a couple of huts to a small cluster of wooden houses. The clearing gradually grew wider as trees provided the timber for raw materials and kindling. It was the start of something good. Reyncourt sat idly atop his saddle and gazed upon the empty meadow where his claim was staked.

It was small, the bare minimum land fee for a knight. A thousand and five hundred acres, just enough to fit a manor and a few basic amenities to support his title. With the coin he was given, he could hire some hands and build up his home there. Never again would he have to suffer the squalor of the dregs, though the comforts were far from his priorities. Ambition breeds opportunity, no matter how simple a man could want. Reyncourt didn't desire rising above his station for the sake of it alone, he wanted to help people and embody the very spirit of knighthood that his father had.

Reyncourt brought out the deed and unfolded the paper. The seal of the queen was stamped so elegantly in crimson wax, by all rights solidifying his holdings in New Amendale. The future was looking bright, and the knight pulled on the reins to begin the long process of hiring the help and building up his property. As taught by his mother's shrewd business sense, Reyncourt sought help in one of the local towns nearer to Cintra's walls. He found workers of reliable repute, shrewd businessmen themselves, who would deal with him honestly and at a reasonable price.

He met them at the vicinity of a drinking den, among denizens of lesser repute. Reyncourt didn't flash around his money and hid his gleaming armor in a cloak to disguise his now lofty station. Everything was going alright, the workers were just about to agree to his terms and begin the job at first light when a commotion at the town square caught the better part of his attention. A small procession of priests he recognized to be from the Church of Eternal Fire led a crowd of angry jeering townsfolk. Behind them rolled an iron cage in a wagon, drawn by two horses. The priests erected a stake and heaped a pile of kindling and wood at its base, the telltale signs of a burning to be.

Reyncourt joined the mob, curious as to what manner of misfortune had befallen the accused to suffer such a painful death. He halted in his tracks, stunned, as he recognized the prisoner being dragged from the wagon. Disheveled, dirtied and half naked from her torn dress, Fenne was hauled over to the stake and lashed to its shaft securely. She strained against the ropes and whimpered as several rotten fruits were hurled at her. The inquisitor in charge of the execution called for silence as he recited the charge laid against the woman. "Fenne of Cintra, you have been found guilty of murdering the Hierarch, His Eminence Volstag Branddhurst! The humble and pious earthly representative of the Flame, struck down in a heinous act of hatred and barbarity! The Church, in hand with the crown, sentences you to burn for your crime! May the Flame judge you accordingly!"

All at once, the ignorant masses howled for blood. Many of them were worshippers at the cathedral, Reyncourt recognized some of them when he went for the Hierarch's sermon earlier that day. Whatever saintly veneer they had was readily tossed aside, as all mobs were wont to do. The knight glanced around, a desperate plan forming in his mind. How they found the Hierarch's ashes was becoming less and less of a concern to him. Fenne was innocent, she was no perpetrator but a witness. And judging from the way she ended up, it seemed that she didn't give him up- or perhaps they simply didn't believe her.

There were only a few disciples, even fewer priests, and the inquisitor himself. No guards, but the crowd was the bigger part. Should he intervene, and do so in the worst way possible, he would be overwhelmed. And if he chose to stand by and watch her burn, he would never forgive himself. He would not sully his honor by doing the latter.

"Stop!" Reyncourt bellowed, not at all silencing the crowd at once but enough to catch the attention of the inquisitor.

"What, you dare?!" The zealous man clad in red and white pointed an accusing finger at the knight. "You will not forestall this judgement, insolent man! The charge has been laid, and the divine hand has spoken!"

Fenne looked at the sea of angry faces and latched onto the one she recognized, clinging to him with a desperate panic-stricken look. Reyncourt nodded to her and pushed his way through the crowd to enter the circle. His hand was on the shaft of his mace, "You move to execute an innocent life! This woman did not kill the Hierarch!"

Those who heard him went from howling for Fenne's blood to screaming at Reyncourt's intervention. The inquisitor, all fired up, raised his sword and jumped from the platform he'd been standing on all this time. The other hand held the flaming torch which he would use to light the pyre. "You speak as though you know something. Do you? Pray tell, or stand aside."

Reyncourt declared with a firm resolute voice, "I killed the Hierarch. His sins, too long ignored by the zeal of the Church, cried out for justice. The Flame spoke through me, judging him guilty, as it will for you if you continue down this path."

"Heretic!" The inquisitor cried out, hefting his sword to strike down the knight.

With a mere breath, Reyncourt set the zealot aflame. The unhappy man screeched and flailed as the otherworldly fire reduced him into a pile of smoking bones within minutes. The crowd shrank back in fear, others turned to run while the rest looked on in superstitious fealty. They witnessed something that fell in line with the sermons of the late Hierarch, and they started to recite the holy canticles after beholding St. Vandal's wrath. Priests and disciples alike fell upon the knight in a burst of murderous zeal, attempting to lay him low. Their flimsy weapons bounced off of his brass armor, denting it in some places but not piercing. Reyncourt sent their brains spilling into the mud with each swing of his mace.

Cunningly, he quoted scripture and holy writ with each kill, creating a spectacle to win over the crowd. When he'd slain the last of them, he declared to the hundreds of witnesses that the Church had erred. He then proceeded to go on a long sermon of his own, decrying the secret depravities he'd witnessed growing up under his tutelage. His word would be against the Church, but there was weight in his proclamation. A scandal in place of an execution, an innocent life saved in place of several dozen who were not so innocent.

Then again, he was hardly the man to judge who was who. If he was honest with himself, Reyncourt simply could not abide the idea of a beautiful woman being put to the torch. Perhaps, he thought to himself, this was how his father saw his mother. Reyncourt untied Fenne from the stake and placed his cloak over her trembling body. The woman planted a grateful kiss on his cheek and covered her face against the brass breastplate to hide herself from the world. The knight passed through the crowd unmolested and lifted Fenne onto his horse.

With a nudge of his boots, he kicked the mount into a full gallop and disappeared into the roads.

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