“WHAT DO YOU MEAN, ‘ONE OF THE SPIRIT WARHEADS IS MISSING’!?”

The screaming man in sumptuous alabaster robes trimmed in gold and silver filigree was Patriarch Bernek Carthane, leader of the largest temple of Heleyl on the continent of Austrvost, and in fact, in the entire world of Ayrgard. Carthane did not, however, have the distinction of being the highest level Priest of Day in even the temple district of Alabastris. His political cunning and social acumen had placed him at the head of the Sign of Purity’s faith, and his peerage preferred it that way.

The Patriarch was known for his level head, his unflappable demeanor, and most of all, his facade of benevolent penitence. He was a favorite among the politicians of the Empire’s Landsrat, a council of the most powerful noble land owners, merchants, and guildsmen, and among the populace of Alabastris. 

At the moment, that tranquil bearing was nowhere to be found.

In his defense, his adjutant had only moments ago informed him that one of the most dangerous and restricted divine relics of the Age of Wonder had disappeared, less than a week after one of his most esteemed senior Confessors had come asking about exactly that specific topic.

Carthane turned from the assistant and walked back to his massive carved stone desk and slumped into the elaborate chair there. Only minutes ago, he had been in the temple nave, preparing his sermon for the evening, blissfully ignorant. Then a paladin had summoned him to his office, where his assistant stood nervously wringing a letter and envelope to pieces. 

The Patriarch had noted his adjutant’s demeanor, but how bad could it possibly be? “Good news, I hope,” he had laughed and motioned the young man over.

The news had been… bad.

Carthane’s mind, augmented by Skills and Talents, began ticking, slowly overcoming the shock and stark horror of the news, gently gathering momentum. The paladin and his assistant watched as the tired old man in front of them rebuilt himself into the most powerful and well-connected religious figure in the Empire. It took all of twenty seconds.

“Confessor Ebrahim has stolen one of the divine relics from the catacombs,” he smoothed his hair back, straightened the robes of his office, and made a simple hand gesture at his assistant, who with practiced speed, fetched a runic stylus and paper.

It was the paladin’s turn to be dumbstruck by exactly how appalling the revelation of the missing artifact would grow to become, “Surely not, father? A Confessor, stealing a relic of the Brotherhood?”

Carthane snapped at the man, a mighty champion of the church that had fought in a dozen campaigns and could likely cut the Patriarch in half before he realized the warrior had drawn his blade, “The lunatic consulted me about them less than a week ago, Meier! I am no fool, to draw wild accusations from the aether! Ebrahim has absconded with one of the damned Doom of Imril, and HE WILL USE IT!”

The paladin weathered the tirade, but beneath his steely front, the terror of a lost warhead began to churn in his guts, weakening his knees.

“We must address this, before word reaches the Landsrat and… sun’s mercy… the Inquisition,” Carthane’s political mind had begun firing at full speed now, and the branches of Fate that laid before him and his faith were, frankly, horrifying.

“Boy, who else knows this news?” he wheeled on the adjutant.
“Your eminence,” the boy quailed, his eyes shiny with unshed tears, “the letter bears the seal of the Inquisition.”

As though on queue, a knock on the Patriarch’s office door resounded through the room. Meier’s scabbard gave a tiny click as he pulled the rain guard from the locket.

“Put that away you fool!” Carthane slashed at the air between he and the paladin, desperately motioning at him. “Answer the door, idiot boy.”

The adjutant rushed to the heavy doors and pulled both open, his face a rictus of terror. In stepped a single inquisitor, dressed in the white greatcoat of their office.

“Good afternoon, Patriarch, Paladin Meier, and… I am sorry, child, I do not know your name,” the inquisitor’s eyes passed over each in turn, resting on the young assistant’s face, the smallest feral smile quirking the edges of the inquisitor’s mouth.
“O-o-olton, yy-y-your lordship,” the boy literally quivered with fear.
“Very well, Olton, would you kindly fetch me an elderblack tea from the kitchen in the dormitories. And take your time returning. You do not mind, yes Patriarch?” the inquisitor’s predatory gaze moved to the older man.
“Not at all, Inquisitor. Bring a bottle of wine as well, boy. Meier, your usual?” Carthane replied, genially. No hint of emotion other than a pleasant amiability was visible in the priest’s demeanor.

The paladin, on the other hand, radiated tension. From his wide stance to the hand that remained on the hilt of his blade, he lacked the subtlety of the Patriarch. 

“Nothing for me, thank you Olton,” Meier replied.
“Paladin Meier, it seems to me that you are perhaps aware of the reason for my visit, and I can assure you that should your blade clear leather, the consequences of that action will be… catastrophic. I have been sent with orders to question father Carthane, but as you can see, I have brought neither instruments nor reserves,” the inquisitor paused, waited for Meier to process the statement, and when the larger man relaxed his stance, he continued.

“It is my intention to speak with the Patriarch in the gentlest method possible, about the history, means, intentions, and current whereabouts of one Confessor Jonas Ebrahim,” he quirked an eyebrow at Carthane.

The Patriarch’s Skills roared to life as he began to weave a tale that had so much spin, it could’ve powered Alabastris for a month.