For Great Justice (Chyril 27th, MT)

[Arnholt]

Arnholt never did get to the Light of the One Monastery on the night of the Parrot Parade. After all, how could he possibly have refused Matthew's eloquent advice that he "drink as if it was his last day to do so?" Especially while the monk was buying. And after that, well, he'd remained barely sober enough to understand that it wouldn't do to begin his monastic career by wandering into the monastery drunk and asking to take up orders. The army might get recruits that way, but generally speaking, the Church tended to frown upon that sort of behavior. So he had wound up taking a room at the Dog's Home Inn for the night. Now that he was once again in full possession of his faculties, and suffering from only a faint hangover, he would be in fine shape to plead his case to the powers that be at the abbey.

But before that, Arnholt had a far more important Power to answer to. At this moment he was on his knees in his little room at the inn, with the door securely locked, and his staff left braced in the doorway in a further effort to keep anyone from blundering in. The cultist had put aside what remained of his armor and was wearing a clean set of clothes and a fresh cloak. The Eye of Righteous hung openly at the front of his shirt, with one of his hands clutched gently around it. The Book sat on the floor before him. Closed. And in the faintest of murmurs, Arnholt began again to make a serious effort at prayer to his true deity.

"Righteous," he murmured. "Goddess of Justice. I know You as the burning in my heart. I cherish You, that you may speak to me with Your voice. And I beg You, forgive me for my vanity in imagining that I know Your will, when in truth You have yet to reveal it. Forgive me for my arrogance in assuming that my plans are pleasing in Your eye. And forgive me, as well, if I should lapse and wonder aloud what the fuck am I doing pouring out my heart to a daemoness. Because I know in my heart of hearts that You are my Goddess, a Goddess I can respect and revere, and otherwise I would not be kneeling before You. I have never in my life wanted anything more than I want to believe in You now. And so I make one more request of You: as I accept You as my Goddess, accept me as Your servant. Teach me, and be my guide. Take me... mould me... make me an instrument of Your will, so that Justice may be done. Together let us fulfill Your great promise: One day Your voice will be heard across nations, and You shall rise again. Amen."

And then Arnholt's eyes turned to the Book. The only source he had, right now, as to Righteous' true nature and intentions. His expression was stoic as he reached out a hand to open it for the very first time. The fledgling cultist was hoping for much, but half-expecting to find little in its pages. Gibberish, Joachim had called the Book's contents. That could, of course, mean anything. Complex philosophical riddles, perhaps. Or a straightforward but very dense explanation of the tenets of Righteous' faith. Or perhaps Joachim had simply meant that it was written in code or in some language that Arnholt couldn't even understand. Or worse, maybe the book really was nothing more than a random collection of gobbledegook with no meaning whatsoever... a daemonic joke by Righteous at the expense of Her mortal followers.

Whatever the case, it was time to find out. Arnholt's breath hissed between his teeth as he flipped the Book's cover open.

[Syra]

It could have been the strange surroundings, of course, or perhaps the fact that Arnholt was starting a new life here in Roque d'Ancourt. Maybe it was even the strange encounter with Matthew that night, which left him drinking quite a bit more than he might have done on his first evening in a new town.

Fact remained that there was an alien feel to the entire atmosphere. While outside the people rejoiced and partied for all their life's worth, inside everything was quiet as Arnholt was kneeling before his greater Power, seeking her approval, even if only a small hint.

With every sentence he spoke, his conviction filled the air, adding to the oppressive feeling of silence around him. With every word there was a new burst of energy that should reach his very own Goddess. With every gesture he showed his complete dedication.

The book felt smooth and cool under his inquisitive hands, just waiting to be read...He flipped the Book's cover open. There it was, the very first page, ready for Arnholt to be taken in as a babe would his mother's milk:

"How to prepare a pigeonpie"

[Arnholt]

"Ha," said Arnholt. "And one more for charity: Ha."

So apparently the Book was joke after all, just as he had feared it might be. For all that he had been considering that possibility a mere moment before, Arnholt had to admit to a faint stab of disappointment upon discovering it to be true. Perhaps he had simply hoped it would be funnier.

"Am I the pigeon, then?" he murmured. "If that's all there is, You certainly did con me."

Or someone else did. But who? And why? Upon further reflection, the fledgling cultist was struck, most of all, with how little sense this revelation made. If the Book of Righteous was nothing more a book of recipes, first of all, why decorate the cover with all kinds of ominous runes and things? Perhaps Joachim never wanted me to have the Book, so he gifted me with a fake. Only it seemed unlikely in the extreme that the former cultist had been walking around with a fake Book of Righteous prepared for just such an occasion. And anyway, all it would have taken Arnholt to uncover the deception was a quick peek at the book's contents before leaving the cultist camp. So why bother with such a shaky and undependable ruse when Joachim could just as easily have refused to hand over anything at all?

Of course there was another and more terrible possibility. It was possible, Arnholt supposed, that Carminello had been nothing more than a charismatic lunatic. Perhaps all this "Righteous" stuff had been a pipe dream of his that Arnholt and all of Carminello's former followers had fallen for. Perhaps the Book had only ever existed in Carminello's imagination, and the Eye was nothing more than a bit of tinted glass... but no. That doesn't make any sense, either. No one sacrifices his life fighting on behalf of something he knows is a lie. And Carminello was far too lucid to honestly believe that a recipe book was the true Book of the Goddess of Justice. Besides which, the other cultists had seemed to have at least a passing familiarity with the Book's contents, which suggested that the Book really existed. Somewhere.

"Gibberish," Joachim said. A recipe about pigeon pie ain't the most inspiring reading material in the world, but I wouldn't exactly call it "gibberish," either...

"You mean to test my faith, perhaps?" Arnholt muttered, his eyes hardening... staring at the words on the page as if he could switch their meaning into something more suitable through sheer force of will. "Seems to me it's a little bit early for this kind of crap. Still... You will find I am not easily dissuaded."

The fledgling cultist had not come this far to allow himself to fall at the first hurdle. Out of an abundance of caution, he checked the binding of the Book, to see if in fact it had been tampered with, the pages removed and replaced with pigeon pie and whatnot. Then flipped through several pages to see if the book continued on in like vein. If all else failed, Arnholt would shrug heavily, grasp the Eye of Righteous even tighter in his fist, and settle down to read about exactly how one did prepare a pigeon pie.

"I know you, Righteous," he murmured. "You are the fire burning in my heart. A flame that cannot be extinguished. And I will have my answers, even if I have to walk barefoot to the Nether and back to find them."

[Syra]

The cover of the book was completely in tact except for some wear and tear where the book had been opened over and over again. Unless someone was particularly fond of pigeon pie, there clearly was something of interest in here.

No pages were removed and with the thickness of the actual parchment, this would have been very clear indeed if it had happened. There were no traces of glue where one might have inserted new pages to make up for lost ones.

All in all, the book looked just fine.

"How to prepare a pigeon pie pagan die

One takes a pigeon ripe for the plucking. You will notice most are convinced of their immortality, convinced that no harm will ever befall them.
As such they are easy to catch unaware after having been fed with some morsels of bread and pie. truth and lie
Once safely in a cage, one can start the preparations for dinner." ritual

Quite some detailed instructions were given on exactly how long to keep the pigeon in the cage, when to pluck it and when to finish dinner preparations. Other pages revealed similar recipes involving the creation of greater cakes greater incantations and something about binding dough demons although that one certainly could be defined as complete gibberish.

[Arnholt]

Having verified to his own satisfaction that the Book was not an obvious forgery, Arnholt set in to read with forced patience. That lasted for only the handful of flickers it took him to read to the end of the second line. At that point the fledgling cultist stopped... looked up... blinked a time or two, his expression gone totally blank, before glancing down again to make sure he had read that part correctly. "You will notice," he murmured aloud, reading slowly and carefully, "most are convinced of their immortality... catch unaware... bread and pie... my God. Righteous."

If some fortune-teller predicted to Arnholt that one day reading a recipe for pigeon pie would send a chill down his spine, he would have demanded his banners back. But he would have been wrong to do so. The odd, stilted language, the bizarre choice of phrases for so mundane a subject, made the simple recipe seem like something out of a children's horror story. Like it should have been explaining how ogres cooked up bad little boys and girls for their stew. There was this undeniably outlandish tone to the thing, as if the recipe had been written by someone with a diseased mind, or (at the very least) a remarkably poor grasp on the conventions of cook book writing. Or... if a daemoness wrote a cook book, then yeah, I guess it would read something like this.

"Maybe I'm the one who's crazy," Arnholt muttered. "Maybe I've finally just gone 'round the bend, and I'm imagining things that ain't there."

Nevertheless, the fledgling cultist went on, and as he did he continued to question. Why go on for such length about pigeons and cages? Why dwell so dotingly on every particular leading up to the meal? No. This ain't no normal cook book. The longer Arnholt read, the more certain he became that the Book wasn't just the product of some crazed and obsessive pigeon pie-fancier, either. That there was some kind of hidden message here, if he could only understand it. Finally, after contemplating the opening lines of the Book several times over, he let out a grunt of realization, followed by a harsh bark of laughter.

"Gibberish," Joachim had said. Amusing. Was he really that blind, or was he trying to give me a clue? The Book wasn't "gibberish"-gibberish. It was gibberish. Patter flash. Cant.

In the parlance of the thieves in King's Court, "how to prepare a pigeon pie" might be loosely translated as "how to con a sucker." While that probably wasn't the exact message here, it seemed fairly clear that Righteous' opening words were intended in much in the same spirit. Arnholt had the feeling, though, that their exact meaning was much more specific. So what was the "pigeon," and what was the "cage?" The fledgling cultist's lips quirked in a wry smile. Hopefully this ain't a set of directions on how to lure children into my proverbial gingerbread house.

Some burns later, Arnholt was staring again at the closed cover of the Book. His knees were starting to go numb by now, but that hardly mattered to him. His mind was tendays away. While the Book was very nearly as opaque to him as it had been before, he now had a serious inkling as to its contents. Veiled advice on recruiting converts and converting them into full-fledged cultists. Weird directions that hinted at dark rituals and daemonic power. It was enough to make his breathing go ragged, as he considered the possibilities and realized the terrible potential of what he had hidden here. And, in so far as it offered a fleeting glance into the inner workings of Righteous' daemonic mind, Arnholt rather liked what he saw of Her thinking thus far. If I hadn't been expecting daemonic lore, I maybe wouldn't have seen anything more than the rantings of an eccentric baker. She was smart, then, and subtle. Diabolical, so to speak. Arnholt respected that. It seemed certain now that the methods he had planned for resurrecting Righteous' cult would meet with Her approval.

On the other hand, all this naturally lead him to wonder how She might be pulling the wool over his own eyes, as well. Carminello's cultists had hailed Righteous as the Goddess of Justice. So far, however, the Book had nothing to say at all about Justice, and a great deal about deception and trickery. So where had the whole "justice" angle come from? Hopefully it was more than mere self-delusion on Carminello's part.

"Bindings. Daemonic recipes. But to what end?" Arnholt mused, reaching for the Book once again. "Before I can win any cultists for You, I've got to know for sure what 'bread' to feed them." So maybe it was time to take a closer look at the ingredients, and examine exactly how the 'pie' was to be served. If the Book explained how to summon daemons, he figured it also ought to explain why he should want to. "Goddess, You have shown You have a keen and practical mind. Now, please... show me how well You can inspire."

[Syra]

ooc
this thread will be taken over by our own Ratface

[Gutter Rat]

The air outside had been silent during his prayers and readings, but at Arnholt’s newest request, his window made a small rattle as if the wind outside were picking up for a flicker or two. It was calmed even as it began. Once more the wind came, a burn later, knocking more insistently this time. And then, within a few flickers it was gone. A third time found the window latch to have weakened in its grip over the yahren and the window edged itself open as the wind once more pressed for audience within. Arnholt would feel the breeze cross his face as if it were the invisible hand of a soothing maiden reaching out to admire his beard.

A burn later, the gentle breeze was stilled.

Before he would have time to rise to fix the window, a third wind would blow, this breeze carrying with it the scent of purpose and sea salt, a room-wide unseen hand flipping the pages randomly this way and that, unseasonably harsh for this time of yahren. After another burn, it too would still, allowing the pages to fall open to a section near the back – what would look to be (at first glance) an appendix of sorts.

The page was titled “Rechtath’s Kitchen”

“Before you may use this book,
You had best prepare a place to cook, a 'holy' place
A kitchen prepared for any beast,
Close enough to serve the feast,
Yet far enough to hide the heat,
That is required to sear the meat, perhaps hidden
A pot of pitch, with aprons hung,
A melting pot to catch the chum,
A pantry built to hold the stock,
Its contents under key and lock,
Blades kept sharp and made to order,
To make the wrong cut is disorder, items
Fires lit by the gravetide sun,
Extinguished when the cooking’s done,
Above the fires, numbered four,
The names of chefs who have come before,
Upon the ground on which you stand,
A circle marked by twenty hands, markings and placements
And away from fire, heat, and coal,
Shall be the table for that which is best served cold.” an altar of sorts

Lithographs adorned the page, showing what did, indeed, look to be kitchens in use exactly as described but there seemed to be something odd about the pictures as well, if Arnholt looked hard enough.

[Arnholt]

Arnholt, not expecting any direct answer to his plea, scarcely noticed the rising breeze at first. He was reaching to open the book to a page at random, and so find his answers in that way, when the renewed rattling of the window drew his attention. Even then, he might have ignored the sound except for the strange atmosphere that had colored his explorations all morning. As it was, he paused. The fledgling cultist's shaven head turned slowly toward the window, and he gave a faint start to see it opening. Perhaps he felt, deep down, that something other than mere wind might have come calling.

A foolish superstition? Perhaps. Certainly Arnholt's surface thoughts quickly dismissed it as such. Nevertheless, he made no move to rise and close the window again. He simply knelt. Waiting. And once again, it seemed, his patience was rewarded. Arnholt's pale blue eyes watched serenely as the pages of Her holy Book were turned as if... Was it merely a flight of fancy on his part? ...by an invisible hand. When the pages settled and the wind died away, he lay hold of the Book once more, lest a harsher breeze arrive to turn an otherwise holy moment into a hilarious farce. For when his eyes turned to the page in question, for that moment, at least, Arnholt was certain to the core of his being that his prayers to Righteous had been answered. Answered with a decidedly minor daemonic miracle, perhaps, but answered nonetheless.

And wasn't that what everone wanted, anyway? To have a god... or a goddess... who actually replied when spoken to?

"You are listening," Arnholt murmured.

Had there been some casual bystander there, that man would have had little doubt, upon hearing the conviction in the cultist's voice, that Arnholt truly was daemonically inspired... or that he had just embarked upon some great mental leap from which he was unlikely to ever return.

Not that the page revealed turned out to have all the answers that Arnholt wanted. Far from it, in fact. He finished the passage feeling that he had a good idea about the what of Righteous' cult, and now the how had been revealed to him, as well. But the why of it all remained largely a mystery. The biggest clue he got in that regard was the reference to the "table," Righteous' altar if he guessed correctly, being set "for that which is best served cold." In other words, not justice... but revenge. The Goddess of Revenge, then? Arnholt had to admit that that particular revelation wouldn't really surprise him. It didn't exactly dismay him, either. Of course Carminello and his followers had wanted revenge for the wrongs done them. Just as naturally, it sounded far grander and more pleasing to call what they wanted"justice," instead. Not to say, however, that the choice of terms was necessarily an exercise in hypocrisy. Arnholt himself didn't see it as such.

Justice, revenge... two sides of the same coin, really. Kill a man for killing your brother, and it's justice. Kill the man's whole family and then it's revenge. It was all a question of proportion. What, then, would be justice proportionate to the wrongs that Dominicus has committed? Arnholt had to smile at that. Righteous knows.

For a long while, Arnholt studied the odd poem and accompanying illustrations carefully, determining as best he could what specifications Righteous had in mind. Then, at length...

"I understand," he whispered. "I thank you, Goddess of Justice, for consenting to be my guide. For now I will beg no more of You. Instead, it is time for me to begin anew Your long march through the ages. One day Your voice shall be heard across nations, and You shall rise again. Amen."

Righteous had, iat least, offered him a place to start. Before he set about recruiting for the daemon-goddess's cult, he would need to find a suitable place of worship. Somewhere convenient to Arnholt and his future cultists, but also as safe as it was possible to make it from outsiders blundering in. Of course, the fledgling cultist already had one major prospect in mind. What better place than the Light of One Monastery itself, underneath the very noses of the Oneists, whose organization Arnholt had come to infiltrate and eventually corrupt? If there was a suitable area within the monastery to meet Righteous' requirements. A wine cellar, perhaps. Or better yet, some hidden catacombs where they laid the dead monks to rest.

Only one way to know for sure. He could apply further study to his daemonic artifacts later on. For now, it really was high time that Arnholt presented himself at the monastery in hopes of beginning a new career as a monk. After gathering his possessions, of course, and perhaps stopping for a quick breakfast downstairs. Just one more thing that he had carried away with him from reading Righteous' holy Book: all that talk of baking and such had left him with an appetite.

Actually, Arnholt thought with a grin, as he bounded off to the common room, one of them pigeon pies would really hit the spot right about now.

[Gutter Rat]

The common room was fairly quiet when Arnholt arrived, Haifra absent from her usual spot behind the bar and one of her few employees standing in her stead, a young-looking Achadhiel woman who was, for the most part, trying to teach herself the proper way to tap a keg, using an old empty keg for practice.

Upon seeing Arnholt appear down the stairs, however, the young woman put the empty keg aside and faced him with a smile.

"Good morningtide." she stated. How may I serve you?"

[Arnholt]

"Good morningtide," Arnholt called back jovially, his hangover nearly forgotten. He sank himself into the nearest convenient seat with a grunt. "Just looking for breakfast, if you please. I don't suppose you have any chicken pot pies back in the kitchen? Or beef pot pies. Or any sort of pie would do, really."

Actually, he also felt like asking for a hair of the dog that bit him. But the fledgling cultist merely cast a mournful glance at the keg the achadhiel girl had been wrestling with and put that thought out of his mind. Soon enough he would be on his way to the monastery. It would hardly due for him to show up with beer on his breath.

It was not all that long after finishing (and paying for) his meal that Arnholt arrived at...

The Light of the One Monestary
The One God holds sway over all of the Western Kingdom, and Roque is no exception. Here, Dominicus and his worshippers are housed in opulent surroundings. The Monastery is one of the oldest buildings in the fisherman's village near Roque, and it wears its years with dignity. Here, Monks labor in the worship of their god. Many noblemen send their children here to be educated by the well-learned Monks who offer their services as teachers.

The wooden gates of the Monastery are open at all times, and any who wish to are free to enter its walls. But like many places in Roque, there are unwritten laws that govern its operation. On worship days and Festivals, the nobility makes there way here to worship in the daylight hours, while the lower class toils away. At night, they retire to their estates and the commoners are free to make their way to the Monastery. It is not a law that is enforced, but a commoner who ventures to the Monastery on a noteworthy day during the day will be greeting with more than a little disdain, and a nobleman seeking to worship his god at night will be met with suspicion.

The building itself is large, airy and domed. Inside, its long, well lit corridors lead to small and large prayer rooms, offices, and classrooms. Just inside the wooden doors is an array of low wooden benches surrounded by clean, flowerless plants. Everything within easy sight is colored a cool, sterile white. Worshippers and Monks alike move through the building, the Monks easily identified by their stark white clothing.

Light of the One Monastery, Arnholt mused. Kind of like that name. It's... poetic. He grinned to himself under his dark cowl. But the Light of Justice Monastery sounds better.

Well, he would attend to that. In due time. There were just so many things Arnholt would need in order to make Righteous' cult into the powerful force he intended it to be. Money. Time. Information. Converts by the score. But most of all, a surer way of establishing communication with the Goddess. And for that, he would need all of the many items necessary to build a shrine to Her. He hoped that he could find a good share of those things right here at the monastery. In order to have access to any of it, however, he would need to win the monks' trust. The first step would be joining their number.

My story fooled Brother Matthew well enough. Righteous grant that it be accepted here just as readily.

"Your pardon, brother, if you please," he said humbly, approaching the first of the white-robed monks he could find. "By the grace of the One God, I've traveled here from afar in hopes of taking up orders. Will you direct me to someone who can entertain my plea?"

[Gutter Rat]

Brother Gentus peered down at Arnholt both literally and figuratively as the man – seemingly too tall to be human but every drop of blood in his veins attesting to the monk’s pureblood human legacy – towered over Arnholt like a Colossus and felt a small urging of caution with this man although he knew not why. Gentus stood in silence as Arnholt made his request. “You were not…sent for…?”, the monk asked calmly, his voice smooth an mellow despite his imposing presence.

Gentus appeared to ponder the situation for a flicker and bowed his head slightly, raising his right arm in a half-wave toward the prayer rooms. “Perhaps we can find someone, Brother, but may I ask why you have chosen Roque d’Ancourt as your Mecca as we walk?” The large man turned slowly on his heel and took a step toward the rooms as he made one more query. “And who did you train under, might I ask? Your vernacular is very…peculiar…”

[Arnholt]

“You were not…sent for…?”

"Only by the One God," Arnholt replied humbly, with a slight bow of his head. "From whom I received my calling. I was not summoned by anyone at the monastery, no."

Oblivious at first to the other's unease, the cultist trailed along after readily enough. The monk's next question did not dismay him. Arnholt had, after all, been asked the same thing by Brother Matthew just the previous night.

"You may," he agreed. "If I might ask your name in return. Brother...?" Arnholt paused just long enough to elicit a reply. "My name is Bram. Last name Beacon. And I'm pleased to meet you, brother. Very pleased. To answer your question, I came to this city in particular because I was attracted by the reputation of the Light of the One Monastery. Among other things, your library here is quite famous. If the One God is willing... and you... I hoped to pursue my study of theology and Church doctrine here, as I'm something of an amateur scholar. Though of course I would be grateful to serve in any capacity in which the monastery might accept me, brother."

“And who did you train under, might I ask? Your vernacular is very…peculiar…”

Yeah? Well fuck you too, pal, Arnholt thought, beginning to wonder what the monk was driving at. Righteous. They can't possibly be onto me already.

His tone was perfectly bland as he offered, "No formal 'training,' I fear. But my father taught me as well as he was able. He always hoped I would one day take up orders. If you will forgive my eagerness, brother, I pray God that today his wish will be granted." Privately, the irony amused him.

[Gutter Rat]

Brother Gentus nodded at Arnholt’s answer. It was not an uncommon answer – that Dominicus had called him to service, but things within the monastery were just a bit – complicated – to just take any caller as a new acolyte. Brother Gentus, as a result, was more careful about the screening process than most monks of other Orders. “I am Brother Gentus, Brother Beacon, and yes, the library is quite fascinating. I have been here for twelve yahren myself and have yet to visit every aisle although, I must confess, there are a few tomes in there that I would not care to read even if I were able.” The tall monk looked at Arnholt as he said this, steel blue eyes studying facial tics and reactions. He had seen far too many promising young men walk through those doors only to discover that debauchery and other things held more interest to them once the subjects were discovered in the library. “Still, knowledge is knowledge, good or bad, I suppose…” he stated simply.

Brother Gentus made a humming noise as he turned his head to face the direction in which they were travelling as Arnholt mentioned his training. ‘Amateur scholar’ seemed fitting, considering the young man’s studies. Brother Gentus peered down the hallway sharply as a door at the end began to open and a young monk peered out, looking this way and that as if scoping out the hallway before entering fully. Abruptly, Brother Gentus gripped Arnholt’s elbow lightly and tugged him toward a prayer room, moving swiftly but naturally as not to draw attention to either the monk down the hall or the fact that the detour was unplanned.

“So tell me, Brother, what path do you feel that Dominicus wishes you to follow?” he asked as he knelt upon a rug and motioned for his ‘fellow monk’ to do the same after shutting the door behind them. “Perhaps knowing the will of Dominicus will help us, his humble servants, find a place for you here.”

Meanwhile, in the hallway, the young monk saw that there were no strangers about and proceeded out into the corridor in search of the completion of his task.

[Arnholt]

“I am Brother Gentus, Brother Beacon, and yes, the library is quite fascinating. I have been here for twelve yahren myself and have yet to visit every aisle although, I must confess, there are a few tomes in there that I would not care to read even if I were able.”

Arnholt just looked back at Brother Gentus, puzzled. Not fake, 'cultist trying to deceive you' puzzled but honest-to-God, 'no idea what you're getting at' puzzled. It sounded like Gentus was saying that some of the books were not just uninteresting, but actually offensive to him. Exactly what kind of books would the monks be putting on the shelves for all to see that Brother Gentus deemed inappropriate? Racy romance novels with erotic illuminations? Tips on brewing up sacramental wine with an extra-hard kick? Probably not anything that was of very much interest to Arnholt. Granted, if he got the chance, he would certainly search the shelves for any books he might find on pagan cults or daemons. But he didn't expect to find any truly forbidden or dangerous knowledge hidden here. He was hoping the monks might at least have purely Oneist sources on those subjects, which might prove useful in themselves.

“Still, knowledge is knowledge, good or bad, I suppose…” he stated simply.

"I believe any determined seeker-after of Truth will find a place in the One God's light eventually," Arnholt ventured, echoing his words to Brother Matthew the previous night. "A wise man can find Dominicus' true word even in a quagmire of lies and misconceptions. But how can we develop wisdom if we aren't ever tested? How can we resist temptation if we do not understand it?" He might have added that it was important to know the mind of one's enemy. Which was pretty much what he was doing here. But that kind of talk seemed pretty heavy for a man purportedly seeking to enter a life of quiet contemplation of the One and such. "'Bad knowledge' is there to test us, Brother Gentus. That's what I think, anyway. Now I won't claim I'm wise enough to see Truth invariably... but that's one of the reasons I've come here. To learn."

“So tell me, Brother, what path do you feel that Dominicus wishes you to follow?” he asked as he knelt upon a rug and motioned for his ‘fellow monk’ to do the same after shutting the door behind them. “Perhaps knowing the will of Dominicus will help us, his humble servants, find a place for you here.”

"To obey His will in all things," was Arnholt's reply as he knelt. "The most perfect expression of our love for the One who gave us this world and His countless blessings. True perfection exists only in the One, of course. But I intend to devote myself to Him as well as a mortal man is able." The cultist's tone was humble, but inside he felt quite confident and in his element. He hadn't noticed the sleight-of-hand that had drawn him out of the path of the young monk. He had noticed, however, that he was being tested. And he was damn sure of his ability to play Oneist when he wanted to. "Specifically? To counsel those in need of the One God's comfort. And to learn, Brother Gentus, as I said before, in order to better understand His Word. And to convert the pagans and bring them to see His Truth."

Arnholt glanced up from the rug, at which he had been staring rather determinedly, and ventured a glance at Gentus to see how his next words struck the man. "One other reason I came to Roque is because this city, with its mix of human and adhiel peoples, seemed to me to be a good place to promote understanding and reconciliation between our two peoples. Understand the heretics, and you better understand how to save them from the shadows of ignorance and bring them to Dominicus' embrace through reason rather than through violence. I must confess sympathy to the way of 'The Heart...'"

[Gutter Rat]

The larger monk took careful note of both Arnholt’s expressions and words before replying. “A wise man, Brother Beacon, spends yahren learning the truth and nothing but the truth before entering into lies to seek further truths. A wise man develops wisdom through study, toil, and prayer, Brother Beacon. There is no other way. There is no short path to wisdom – to knowledge, yes – but wisdom is a mountain…not a molehill.” Brother Gentus motioned to a point deeper within the monastery. “I had thought that you were referring to the library in town, Brother Beacon, for our library in this monastery is modestly bared, save for the writings of and about the One. You shall not have to do any digging for truth during your internship if you decide to stay, Brother, for it will all be laid out for you and it will be expected of you…” Brother Gentus said with the smile of someone who had endured the same treatment and was now passing the tradition down to others. “…to have every word and passage committed to memory when your acolyte’s confinement is through…”

“If you came to learn, Brother Beacon, you have come to the right place, for no other monastery in all of Tazlure is as strict about learning as we are.” The hulking monk turned his body fully to face Arnholt, the sternness of a true Teacher in his eyes. “As such, all who pass through these doors learn a great many things like how to serve the One, how to serve His followers, and – most importantly Brother Beacon – to recognize when someone is merely regurgitating answers that he has been fed instead of fully believing them.” His statement was based not on the feeling that Arnholt was lying about why he wanted to be there, but rather a feeling that the boy was giving him practiced answers – a learned script that would ‘insure his acceptance’. He had seen it a hundred times before, boys just like Arnholt thrust into the world with the notion that a monk’s life was all prayer and wine and required no work on their part and he had been truthful in his telling of the monastery’s history – once upon a time it had been home to zealots and fanatics who prized learning above all but Brother Gentus had learned for himself that time can, and often do, change and now the standard lecture that Arnholt was receiving was more a test to see if the man would ‘fit in’ or be the type who would have to be sent to see the One in person in the dead of the night with the taste of poison upon his lips.

For, in Roque, it was not only the parishioners who were merely ‘going through the motions’ and any ripple in the calm pond of the monastery was immediately suspect.

“I doubt your devotion no more and no less than I feel your lack of it, Brother, but it is not I who must be fully aware of your commitment - it is yourself and Dominicus who must determine that. As such, Brother Beacon, be aware that what I do now, I do for the will of the One in our time-tested tradition.” Brother Gentus said as he rose, cutting off and ignoring any reply the acolyte made or wished to make. “We have, as I mentioned before, what we call an ‘acolyte’s confinement’ within these walls. One yahren spent in the barracks below, with only your mentors and the monestary library to keep you company. No lights, save for candles and the Light of the One. No visitors. Nothing unclean in object, word, or thought.” He brought his fingertips to a steeple formation as he backed toward the door, slight movements of his body letting Arnholt know that slipping past him would be difficult at best without speaking. “One yahren of devotion, dedication, and deep commitment, Brother Beacon. If you think that you are up for the task, you shall be locked within this room for one tide, alone with the One who brought led here in order to prove your commitment to yourself and the One. If, at any time, you doubt that you can stay the tide, much less the yahren, call and you will be free to leave. You will not, however, be permitted to stay, either.”

Brother Gentus opened the door and paused in the doorframe, the smile back on his face. “The first lesson that we learn here, Brother Beacon, is to learn to separate our own voices from that of Dominicus’ own, so that we might hear him more clearly.” The tall monk backed out of the door and began to draw it slowly closed, pointing up at the wall where a slit opened and a pair of faceless eyes peered down. “Not to worry, Brother Beacon, even when you are alone, you are never alone here. A brother will always be watching in case you require bread or water to aid you in your prayers and a chamber pot is in the corner in case you are in need of that as well.” He paused the door mid-close, offering Arnholt one last opportunity to leave.

[Arnholt]

OOC: Apologies for the monster post. I tend to do these at pivotal moments.

"Ah," said Arnholt. "I must admit, I wondered what 'bad knowledge' could possibly be hidden in the house of the One God. I must have mistook your meaning, which certainly means I have far more mountain to climb. However..." and now the disguised cultist's stare was direct and intense. "...had I been referring to the city library, I would be there, not here. I meant exactly what I said, Brother Gentus. I have a great interest in writings of and about the One."

Arnholt smiled faintly when Brother Gentus spoke of committing every word and passage of the Books of the One to memory. That was exactly the kind of crap that his father had tried so long to teach him. The monks here would find 'Brother Beacon' an able pupil. As the monk went on, though, Arnholt's smile faded, as any would-be acolyte's might upon hearing his own faith questioned on the very eve of his taking up the cloth. His eyes became hard and resolute. Defying Gentus to challenge him outright instead of just obliquely. He was genuinely offended that this man would suggest he was a fraud... peevishly uncaring that the accusation was accurate. Arnholt had been preparing since childhood for this moment! He had studied the teachings of the Oneist for half his life. Believed them for years longer than that. Attended church faithfully long after all his respect for Dominicus had fled. And now he was here, fully prepared to make the ultimate sacrifice of self on behalf of his faith, at great risk to his well-being if he should be discovered... only to be treated like a thief in the night? Ridiculous. How many true monks had dared as much as he was doing here and now?

Little monk, I have more faith in my smallest toe than you do in your entire body. Granted it was not faith in the One God.

He said nothing. Only continued to kneel there, humbly, but with his face set and determined. He followed Brother Gentus' gesture to the peep-hole in the wall, and then back down, a gentle smile reappearing on his own lips as well now. The slight misgivings that had been raised in him by Gentus' apparent suspicion, by the way the monk moved himself to block the exit, subsided. If Brother Gentus had any idea of what Arnholt really was, he never would have warned him that he would be watched. Only waited for him to betray himself.

"This test is something I might have asked for," was his reply. Calm, and with no more anger, now. "I will make the most of it. A yahren spent underground is, as you say, a great test of devotion. However certain in his conviction, it seems to me, a man would be wise to give serious thought and prayer before undertaking the task. That opportunity, the One God has provided." Without shifting from his spot, Arnholt bent his head down, his hood falling over his face. "I am ready."

What he said, this time, was the gods' honest truth. The requirements of the monastery, versus the benefits of joining, would require a great deal of contemplation. The risk of remaining here would most likely be minimal. For all his insight, Gentus could hardly know that Arnholt was armed with a dagger and had lock-picks hidden up his sleeves. If by some freak of fate they thought to let him remain a prisoner, there would be a great deal of Oneist blood spilled here before they brought him down. The cultist assumed the required pose for prayer, one hand over his heart and the other shaped in the One God's sight. His voice took up a continuous murmur of prayer which would continue on for another six marks... or until his throat gave out. And, throughout the mindless repetition, the endless round robin of prayers which by this point in his life he could very nearly recite in his sleep, Arnholt considered the risks and the rewards.

A yahren spent in the barracks underground? That might have been enough to deter the sort of applicant that Gentus feared, a young man stupid enough to think that an ascetic's life would be filled with wine and merriment. But not a man who had come here for a purpose. Not Arnholt. Should he take up the year's worth of training, who, then, could deny his faith in the One? Who would ever suspect that his devotion belonged to another? NO ONE! And what was a yahren in the darkness, surrounded by assholes like Gentus, compared to the sacrifice that Carminello had made? The adhiel had seen centuries of life cut short. Arnholt could well enough spare a few months of his own. Righteous Herself had been waiting a thousand yahren for freedom; She certainly had the patience to wait another. And when he emerged from the darkness, after a yahren's stay... well. An entire yahren with no sign whatsoever of Righteous or Her cult? That would be time enough for even the most rabid among the inquisition to believe Her followers exterminated once and for all. But Her last remaining priest would be alive, and a trusted monk of the One in truth, by then. He would be perfectly positioned to dish out That Which is Best Served Cold.

Only...

Arnholt did not glance up at the place in the wall from which he was being watched. Wanted to, but did not. Those watching eyes told the story far more eloquently than words of what he could expect if he remained at the monastery. The monks here were suspicious. As if they had been burned before, and recently. He had the strong feeling that the acolytes would be watched constantly... that there would be no opportunities to escape the monastery unseen, and precious few even to greet Righteous in his prayers without detection. Worse than that, his small arsenal of extremely suspicious items would be difficult to hide. The knives and thieves' tools he might dispose of, but the Book? The Eye? He had no place to hide them, and could not allow them to be discovered. And worst of all, he was hoping for the return of some of his fellow cultists within the next week or two. Ushira would return: he was almost certain of that. And there had been one or two of the others who he thought would hear Righteous' continued call. But if he were confined underground here, and not permitted any visitors, it was unlikely in the extreme that they would ever find him. They would slip away to Pax Balthasar and abandon the Goddess forever...!

If there's any chance at all of salvaging the faith of Ushira and the others, I can't let it slip away.

"Blessed be the Lord the God, Dominicus, who has come to his people and set them free. Through his holy prophets God promised of old to save us from our enemies..."

The Eye of Righteous must be protected. This lot wouldn't allow an acolyte to keep anything so valuable-looking.

"...from the hands of all that hate us, To show mercy to our ancestors and to remember his holy covenant. This was the oath God swore to our forefathers..."

And the Book. Even disguised as it is, it looks sinister as the Nether itself. They'd discover its secrets. Her secrets!

"...to set us free from the hands of our enemies, Free to worship him without fear, holy and... Righteous... in his sight all the days of our life."

Fucking monks of Dominicus. Pious, sneering hypocrites. They've beaten me.

"In the tender compassion of our God," Arnholt persisted, allowing none of his bitterness to enter his voice. "The dawn from on high shall break upon us, To shine on those who dwell in darkness and the shadow of death..."

I'll show you the shadow of death, Brother Gentus. I will return here to destroy you all. By Righteous, I swear it.

"...and to guide our feet into the way of peace..."

There will be peace only when there is Justice. Only when the Dominicus and his Church have paid the price in blood for their inequities.

His decision was made. Nevertheless, Arnholt began the prayer again. He would continue for as long as he was physically able. Kneeling until every muscle in his body screamed in agony, and it felt as though he would never rise again. Refusing to ask even once for the modest respite that bread or water would have provided. Rising only to use the gods-be-damned chamberpot, and even that only if the alternative was soiling himself. Arnholt would spend the entire six marks of the allotted tide in extravagant, self-inflicted martyrdom. Brother Gentus might condemn him for his pride, but he would have no cause to question Bram Beacon's determination. Even this might serve Arnholt later. Perhaps he could not be a monk, but he would be damned before he allowed himself to be seen as a dilettante who had fled at the least hint of adversity. All who knew of 'Brother' Beacon's trial would agree that he had given this first test everything he had.

In the end, once his tide-long vigil was over, Arnholt must leave expressing his (genuinely) deep regret that he would not be staying in the monastery. He would acknowledge the truth: he was not yet ready. If the Light of the One allowed its applicants no second chances, then he must go to serve 'Dominicus' in some other capacity. He would retain the mask... No, the reality!... of a man of strong faith, even if he could not honestly wear the white robes of a Oneist monk.

[Gutter Rat]

Brother Gentus allowed the younger monk his say before closing and locking the door, the bolt sliding quietly into place and latching before Gentus took a fresh look up and down the hall. It was long time to find Brother Osoko and make arrangements for the next shipment, as well as discuss his worries about the new appointee. Five marks later, he returned, the look in his eyes that of a fading dream, his pupils just starting to return to their normal size.

“Father Alhram… What a welcome surprise…” Gentus said as the dark-haired monk came into view, the Father listening at the door of Arnholt’s ‘cell’ with a smile on his face. He drew Gentus closer with a wave of his fingers and invited the tall monk to join in the eavesdropping.

“They are so…ambitious…at this stage, are they not?”

“Yes, Father, to the point of annoyance.”

“Oh come now, Gentus… Were you no different when the Light of Dominicus shone in your eyes?”

“True, true, but when that light began to fade as the yahren ebbed by, I grew to understand what a docile little…”

Both men hushed as another monk, Father Rohan, came within earshot, a Oneist hymn whistling through his lips. Only after the whistling monk disappeared around a corner did the whispering resume – right where it had left off.

“…sheep I had been. Just listen to him in there, Father… Reciting the words as if Dominicus will give him the strength to resist her calling. To resist her will. As soon as my men find the book---“ Gentus continued, having to shush once more as a nun walked past, blessing them both and receiving their blessings in return.

“Have they found it yet?” Father Alhram asked, curiosity coating his whisper with eagerness.

“A few leads, father, but no…not yet. Soon… Soon… Have faith.”

“Faith I have in abundance, Gentus… As much as that pious fool in there, and nearly a crown to go with every bit I might add, but time grows short for both of us…” he whispered, their conversation broken once more by a pair of acolytes headed for their own prayers. “…The shipments will draw enough attention if exposed – and I have yet to hear back from Boris as of late to see if they have found the book at Hamerlee’s old abode. If what the pagans say is true, they may be dead already. Should anyone find out what they were after, it would be the end of all of this…for the both of us.”

Brother Gentus nodded in agreement as another, younger, nun walked by, a small wink given to the larger monk to let him know that she would need his assistance in prayers later – or at least in helping her moan praise to Dominicus into a pillow so that Sister Fullys would not hear her through the thin walls of the monastery. The large monk hid his smile as he turned his attentions back to father Alhram.

“This one is strong…many of the others had cracked long before this and still went into captivity willingly afterwards. It will be fun breaking him, should he choose to stay.”

“When the One’s followers suffer, the One suffers…” Father Alhram began.

“…and within that suffering lies the heart of Justice…” Brother Gentus finished, completing the ancient prayer. Father Alhram clapped him on the shoulder and rose to a full standing position, having knelt during their conversation to rest his bones. Brother Gentus stood as well.

“Good luck with Boris, Father.”

“And you with your new toy, Gentus. How long have they gone?”

“Longest went two months before hanging himself. Longest one went and lived…a month.”

“Put me down for three crown on three months then, Gentus. I’ve a feeling about this one.”

“Easiest coin I have ever made, Father…I will take that bet.” Brother Gentus chuckled before watching the other monk travel down the hall. When the cost was clear and the time was up, he re-opened the door to Arnholt’s cell, only to find that the young monk had scared off.

“Despair not, Brother Beacon, for as long as there is Justice in this world and all others, the One will always be with you. While you may not be staying to study, Brother, you are always welcome at these doors for prayer and advice.” The tall monk said as he saw Arnholt out. “Until then, strive to be a good man. A holy man. A Righteous man… and good fortune will follow you to the end of your days.”

With that final bit of wordplay done for his own amusement, Brother Gentus turned and returned to the depths of the monastery, where three bright and shiny crown awaited a warm spot in his pocket and a nun a bit too uncertain of her vows awaited a warm body atop her own.

---===---

OOC: Like ships in the night, eh? Keep the faith, brother!

[Arnholt]

“Despair not, Brother Beacon, for as long as there is Justice in this world and all others, the One will always be with you. While you may not be staying to study, Brother, you are always welcome at these doors for prayer and advice.” The tall monk said as he saw Arnholt out. “Until then, strive to be a good man. A holy man. A Righteous man… and good fortune will follow you to the end of your days.”

Arnholt had risen awkwardly, levering himself up with the aide of his staff, and taking a moment to stretch to try and ease the cramps he'd acquired through his long marks spent kneeling. His voice was composed as he said words to the effect that he had communed with himself and the One extensively, and found himself not yet fully prepared to turn his back on the outside world. He needed more time to center himself. Or to put his affairs in order. Or some such shit. The fledgling cultist didn't pay much attention to what he was saying. Inwardly, he was still seething at being thwarted in this way. The worst of it wasn't a morning easted in prayer to a god he despised, or even the disruption to his plans, which was considerable. What annoyed him most was having to pretend... pretend! ...that he had failed the test because his faith wasn't up to the challenge.

Happily, Brother Gentus refrained from responding with open condescension. Arnholt didn't think he could have stood for that. As it was, the cultist answered Gentus's words with a sharp bark of laughter, which he covered as best he could with a cough. "Thank you for your kind words, Brother Gentus," he said hoarsely, placing a hand on the larger man's shoulder. Arnholt's fingers tightened in a companionable squeeze, while he wished they were wrapped around the monk's throat, instead. "I shall keep them in my heart. I shall cherish them. One day..." ...Her voice will be heard across nations... "...I will return."

But for now, Arnholt turned away. He was finished here... at least until the rest of Righteous' wayward sheep arrived, or it became obvious that they never would. If Ushiya and her friends returned from their self-exile, their aid in infiltrating the monastery would be invaluable. Together, he reasoned, a nest of cultists could hide the Goddess's treasures amongst themselves far more easily than any one man could hope to do on his own. Together they would be able to protect one another from the enemies all around them. It never occurred to Arnholt that the monastery might be hiding Righteous' cult already; that Gentus's choice of words was anything other than the result of cosmic irony. Not once had he imagined that the Goddess of Justice would have other cells of cultists hidden away in cities far from World's Mouth, let alone here. After all, Carminello's followers had believed themselves to be the only worshippers Righteous had, and of those, Arnholt was the only one remaining. Until such time as the others renewed their faith.

He knew, however, that he could not afford to sit and wait. Ushiya and the others might never come. And worse still, Arnholt's failure to enroll at the Light of the One meant that he was now essentially unemployed. A useless tick on the underbelly society. Not that he would ordinarily give a crap, but people like that did not survive in Roque d'Ancourt. Since the monastery was closed to him, for now, Arnholt would need to find another opportunity, before he ran out of money and the Roques showed him the door. It will have to be the local underworld, then. Because unfortunately his skills as a criminal were all that he had to fall back on. No matter. Even if I do go back to the monastery before long, contacts in the underworld could prove useful. There were, after all, any number of things a cultist might need that the black market could ably provide. Tonight, then. He'd start hitting the local inns and such looking for a contact who could put him in touch with the local crime bosses. Somewhere in this city there had be a man (or a woman, perhaps) looking for a hired blade.

In the mean time, after his tide-long vigil, Arnholt thought he could damned well do with a meal. Not to mention a drink. A beer or two, perhaps, to wash away the bad taste of this morning's disappointment. And so the fledgling cultist trudged off back to the Dog's Home Inn. Before too long his spirits were recovered enough that he set to whistling again... a sad tune this time, dedicated to the memory of an old-time Oneist saint who'd been murdered by the pagans of his day.

[Gutter Rat]

Locked and archived.

Oh yeah, in case you were interested, skilled as well.

GR