Here is Your Damned Net....

[Novus Ordo Seclorum]

Again, the rooster sounds to tragedy. In the misty morn, a humble man happens upon a harrowing. The unofficial warden of Cear's countryside, Oriana, ventures through the forest between the city and her precious wildlife. Suddenly, with mortal fright, she comes to a halt. As she holds out a hand, unsure of the reality before him, it is stained with blood. Like gentle rain, it falls from the tree before her. Like a marquee, it says more than is really there. Like an abomination, it terrifies.



In Cear, all is peaceful. The lone tree outside the gates is all but forgotten, a peace soon to be interrupted by fate. The Sister bursts from within the arch, sobbing into her hands. The guards swarm--some to console her, some to interrogate. She can speak no words, but points northwest. Fearing the worst, a contingent of guardsmen and a Fleet constable set out for the forest. As they draw near, an unearthly stench fills their nostrils. Some are conditioned to the smell of death, but the less steadfast begin to lose their resolve.

As they enter the clearing, nothing seems ill at first. A few spot the blood running down the trees, and look up. They gasp, and the rest look too. Above them are half a dozen bodies, all in neophyte's garb. They are recognizable from Thrall's Gate, having frequented the church there. But they are not well this day. They are tied to sturdy branches, all but one--he is clutched in a gnarled cluster of branches, like a hand holding a rag doll. Their eyes are lifeless, devoid of all the fervor and faith they professed among the living. Their bellies, too, are devoid of an equally key thing.

Entrails loop from corpse to corpse, almost appearing woven, but too slap-dash to be from the hand of a knitter. It was a furious man who cut open these men and threw their intestines from tree to tree, forming something none of the guards could quite comprehend yet. Some continue to stare in shock at the display, a couple turn and bend over to vomit. The lone constable who had come with them speaks frankly, and without the aid of his wit, "It's...it's a net."

Imaginations return to the carving found beneath Father Lair, of a dragon grasping a battleaxe and a net. They could not linger for very long, as the good constable has discovered more. Another twisted verse, carved into the massive tree which forms the claw in the grizzly tapestry above.


"The axe shall fell the hunter; his crippling net, a trophy.
Fury shall wield the axe; its godly prerogative, to destroy.
Light shall guide the fury; its ulterior motive, to purify.
A new king shall rise; the old's backwards deal, to rectify.

The old shall be sentenced, in great agony, to die."

Below it, the same carving of the dragon. Further below that, a new etching...a dragon with nothing in its grip, but three heads, a crown upon each. The constable turns back, fear in his eyes, and shrieks at a guard to go fetch help.

[Elvith]

Elvith Tellithe was one of the first to see the guards running, and likewise one of the first to enter the clearing after them. He waits patiently until all necessary recordings are made, and then goes to speak with the constable.

After a few moments, he asks the constable if all due records of the incident are recorded, and the permission to destroy the bodies and send them with the souls that inhabited them to their god. The constable, obviously sickened, and wanting to leave the scene, acknowledges this request with a wave, and turns away once again.

Elvith stands close to the tree, and with a few words arcane fire spews forth from his hands, obliterating the bodies and scorching the trees. Those close to him can see an air of resolve in his features.
"Constable, see to it that these men get the burial they deserve, may their ashes remind us of the evils that we must face."

With that, Elvith turns and walks slowly back in to the forest, eventually melting in to the foliage. The constable notes that the Elf did not even leave his name, but still records the event, giving a barely passable description of the elf.

When the guard returns with help, all that him and his companions are able to see is the traces of blood still on the ground, and a still blackened message upon the tree, still haunting in it's words. The air smells of burnt flesh and charcoal.

[Minuvas]

Minuvas paces the ash, his hands tied by ineffective policy and hands-off approach. He paces back and forth.

Upon hearing the news he is at the Commodores office faster then it could spread by mouth "More men of my Church are dead at the hands of Heretics, yet you implore me to do nothing but collect facts. "

Before the Commodore can respond, Minuvas throws a stack of files on his desk - "Here are the personal backgrounds of each and every Neophyte who was slain.I have heard nothing, absolutely nothing, since Father Lair was butchered in his ripe old age. How many Church Members of Lochwar must I lose before your men take this investigation seriously commodore? How many more brothers must I bury before I am given the special dispensation I need to handle this matter. I need flexibility, I need to be able to work within the law - not have myself constrained by it. Surely, there is a legal capability to allow me to assist in this matter other than a keeper of information."

He crosses his arms, and takes one large breath "I do not mean to press the issue, but if this continues it is only a matter of time before the Church dispenses the Inquisitors. Not even the Commander can spare any man in this city the gaze of the Inquisitors, Commodore. And I for one, am starting to like the sound of the Inquisitors coming here. It will give you alot less Citizens in this city to have to keep safe, or worry about committing crimes. Not any man is spared the gaze of the Inquisitors.

Not ANY man"

Minuvas storms out abruptly, back to where his Neophytes have been slain. He seems to pace in anger, unable to disturb the ash. Any who approach he scurries off, asking the Exemplars to keep onlookers at bay. He awaits a representative of the Talon.

[Atharin]

Kadmiel arrives upon the scene after hearing the panicked commotion in the streets of Cear.

He scrutinizes the crude message carved on the tree intently, it's meaning not escaping him. The irony, once again, bites hard. This is Fear, terror and murder -- These are Lochwar's ways, not .... theirs.

The continued provocations would instigate nothing but chaos. Someone needs to get their hands on the culprit -- but if he can help it, it won't be Varana...

He turns away and heads towards the valley of Korgov.

[Mon-da-oth]

Rhode hears the news from various sources. Some from the mouths of Fleetmen deep within their ale trying to erase the memory of what they saw and some from less reliable sources, embelished for the teller and the listener if he dare believed.

At first he is impressed with the tales of the horrific but as the story is related and each detail changed he is left with jealousy. How dare this upstart trump him.

He slams his mug on the table and quickly makes his way out of the Buck.

[DM Sabre]

Commander Allers surveys the scene.

He points at the guard first on the scene after reading the notes. "Detain that man, strip him of his uniform. He awaits the sentencing of Etoth for his bad judgment in not securing the scene. Send a letter to father Minuvas apologizing for the lack of bodies to mourn... and for this...City Watch Guard's *spits the words* stupidity and reassure him that those responsible for the destruction of the bodies will be punished."

"I want this "elf" found. His actions have ensured that we have too little to work with to catch the miscreant, or miscreants. He now falls under suspicion himself."

He watches as his Captain surveys the scene and pauses briefly to confer with Scout- Lieutenant Snapwyre.

Captain Cato approaches and salutes.

"Captain, what do you have for me?"

The Captain looks at him with a small smirk on her lips.

"It is as we suspected Sir. The tracks both point to the same place."

Captain Allers looks at his Captain and nods. "Lord Tharon, please, let it be him."

[Leyland Lamond]

Leyland stands near the scene, his green eyes intent on the message inscribed in the tree. His nostrils flare as the rancid smell of burnt flesh invades them. Pages flip as his hand moves quickly, taking notes on the message and studying the patterns of the carving in the tree.

Leyland then records the name of the guard that so blatantly allowed a citizen to 'dispose' of the corpses as he shakes his head. Running a hand through his flaming hair, he walks the scene once more, taking in everything, not missing a single detail.

He waves his hand at a few onlookers attempting to get a better view, "Move on!" His voice slices through the air, his face hard.

Leyland steps near Captain Cato and salutes, standing at attention.

"Captain, I trust you received my last report in the package the Commodore delivered to you with our investigation information? You shall be receiving another shortly with this new information gathered today."

[Stormknife]

Silently and invisibly, Draco observes the goings on. The destruction of the bodies was unexpected, though the Talon's reaction was not.

"Quite an interesting display." He thinks to himself. The spider perched on his arm shifts uneasily, and is sent into the city with a wave of his hand.

[Elvith]

Soon after, Elvith sits quietly by a small creek in the woods and washes the charcoal out of his hair, hoping that the obviously incompetent guard who was on duty hadn't noticed any traces of brown.

Albeit this small precaution, he knew that wood elves were not a common sight in Cear, so he'd have to keep a low profile for a bit, which wouldn't be a problem, as woodland life came easy to him.

Still thinking of the events of the past few hours, a few thoughts are going through his head. "Hmm... although perhaps some of the evidence of the crime is gone, hopefuly the terror element of this attack will be diminished. If it was meant to be seen by all, then by all it will not be seen. Still, this would not exclude him from the list of suspected persons... a fine mess indeed."

[Torquil Lamond]

The Commodore sat at his desk, reviewing the numerous reports that he had received of the incidents. The Guardhouse seemed cold to him; Cear awoke shrouded in a cold spell, and it seemed to have burrowed itself into the dense stone of his temporary office.

Father Minuvas had departed but a few minutes before, angry with grief and frustration, no doubt. He could, in some small part, understand the Priest's feelings—and he would do his best to keep the Lochwarian apprised of the situation. But the Priest was keen of making use of every opportunity, and in this instance, Torquil's suspicion had been aroused.

He dipped the quill pen, nearly finished in a quick report to Commander Maxwell Allers. It was short and to the point, but contained the necessary information he was required, by Imperial Law, to issue.

Setting the pen down, he leaning back in his chair, scratching his bearded chin. He had visited the sight of the incident after being informed that the bodies had been tampered with; he was irritated with that bit of news, and would certainly see to the punishment of the guilty party.

He stood, straightening his uniform as he did so. Gesturing to a nearby Constable, he handed the now sealed report. "See to it that this is given to Captain Cato of the Talon Command. Do not delay."

A Corporal approached from the door, handing him a message. "Informant report, sir, delivered but a few moments ago."

Torquil reached for the notice, and recognizing the scrawl on the front, broke the seal immediately.

[Vahene]

"Pardon me, you saw what?!" Faen actually looked startled.

The spider tucked its front mandibles in nervously.

A web, mistress. It looked like a web.

"Could it have been a net?" She asked.

I suppose.

Rushing to her desk, she pulled a few tomes off of the top right-most
spot, near a pile of parchment and a half-blank book, being filled with
various bits and pieces of research. A candle sat nearby, nearly burnt
down to the nub.

"Fuzzy, I want you to relay this to Draco, word by word. Be very
precise," Faen ordered, and then bent to whisper to her familiar.

- - -

Master Draco.

Fuzzy scampered up the young Romuli's arm, and in a quiet tone, so soft
only the two of them could hear it - and in a language known by a few as
Infernal - the spider spoke.

Mistress Faen says that a net is the holy symbol for
Tharon. From witnessing the last scene, and my description of this one,
she has determined that the dieties involved are Tharon, Tyrak and
Ch'taia - the Lords of Battle, Purifying Flames and the Destroyer. She
wishes me to inform you that it is very likely this person will strike again -
and at whomever they see as the best enemy to make an example out
of. They want attention.

He pauses, and then says, Between you and I, Master
Draco, I think Mistress Faen is nervous the attacks have all been
worshippers of Lochwar.

The spider moved to Draco's other shoulder, moving past his hair, and
hiding near the cloak guard of his armor. If familiars could relay the
emotions of their owners - it seemed Faen Romuli happened to be very
uncomfortable right now. Then again, to a former Priestess to Lochwar,
the emotion could be seen as understandable.

[Leyland Lamond]

Leyland quickly walked into the Guardhouse, his eyes visibly tired from the happenings of the day. His hair was slightly messed and he held his helmet underneath his arm. In his other hand he was holding a roll of parchment. Looking to the Commodore, he saluted and stood at attention.

"Sir, I have some information here you might find interesting. Between the attack before, and todays attack, I have made some conclusions from the evidence we have collected. It is all contained here. You may forward it to the Talon at your discretion."

Leyland placed the parchment onto the desk, looking to Torquil.

[Minuvas]

Minuvas penned the document for the Creeds slowly on his desk.

His frustration at this point was beginning to build. This was an insult.

No one slays his own Neophytes, especially not a heretic, and forces the Priest to do nothing.

A small pain twitched in his nose, no he wouldn't be challenging the Talon again on this one. There was no denial he needed their assistance.

He leaned back in his Chair. In the dim light from a small window lighting the room, Minuvas seemed aged more than usual, the wrinkles on his brow seemed heavy. His younger seasons among the city of Cear were beginning to fade.

He let out a long breath, unsure of the next move to make.

Should he dispatch his Exemplars to start going on a Manhunt just to make a point. That would probably end his career, and life, defying the Talon like that. Not to mention the life of his Exemplars.

No...

But should he sit here and do nothing? Would such inaction be condoned by the King of God's, to let his own men be slain - and do nothing? Has Lochwar taught Minuvas to rely on the work of other men to achieve goals?

No... was also the answer.

And so he leaned further back in his chair, his hand on his chin. He looked up and saw the large statue figure of Lochwar glaring down at him.

Was Lochwar looking at him, judging him as we speak. It was just a statue, but - was Lochwar himself here? Was there some life to that stone juggernaut in the figure of Lochwar, possessed? It felt heavy as if eyes were upon him, a swelling feeling of nervousness crept on him. A feeling of uneasiness that the Fleet did not instill in him, not the Watch, not even the Talon or their Commander. Was this what it felt like to be in the ire of Lochwar's eye? Minuvas did not know, but the message was clear.


He grabbed his Neophyte "You there. Go with an Exemplar, arm yourselves - and head towards the Commodore in Caer. Tell him we need to talk. Tell him I am tired of losing men. Tell him the Faith and the Law are in need." He paused, sneering for a brief moment "Tell him, we need his help".

He waved the men off.

He opened the Iron Tenets, the answer would be in scripture. He began to read.

[Torquil Lamond]

The Commodore was standing at his desk, rearranging files and papers that littered the surface. He had been inundated with reports, missives and notices from his eyes and ears in the Fleet—and beyond. He was taking care of the situation from his desk, dispatching Constables and Corporals as needed to areas of the City that required more presence, or a greater amount of eyes.

"Commodore, sir. I have a letter from Corporal Drentin."

Torquil looked up, taking the letter, pausing only a moment to offer the delivering constable with a curt nod. He broke the seal, and read it.

"Constable—give Corporal Drentin my compliments, and rouse the second dog watches two hours early. He may have them."

The men and women of the Fleet would be getting little sleep with the way the city was bustling. Those neophytes had caused quite the stir, and the combined Imperial forces of Cear were crawling in an effort to retain some semblance of order. Torquil knew the best opportunity to catch this heretic was quickly.

Torquil grabbed his quill pen, fed it with ink, and went about applying his signature to a arms acquisition order, when the door burst open, admitting an out-of-breath Constable.

"My apologies sir, but armed Exemplars are on the way; they wanted to speak to you, sir."

The Commodore arched a brow, setting his pen down. He took the time to fold the acquisition order and seal it.

"See them in, Constable."

* * *

Two hours later a small company of well-armed and well-armoured Fleet-members arrived in Thrall's Gate, led by an Ensign of the Fleet. All told there appeared to be twelve constables, two corporals, a sergeant, and the commander of the division, the Ensign.

The Ensign approached the front door of the Church, and knocked in a firm, brisk manner. The door opened, revealing the cloth-garbed form of a Neophyte.

It was after curfew, and the Neophyte seemed to be a bit apprehensive. His overall demeanor changed little when he caught glimpse of the unique, cerulean-hued uniforms.

The Ensign stepped forward, producing a notice bearing an Imperial Seal, "The Commodore's respects—I am under orders from Commodore Lamond to speak with Lieutenant Coadjutor Zadrithurn regarding collaborative protective duty."

The Ensign tucked the letter into a compartment in his armour, and awaited directions.

[LONOmakesWAR]

The shoddy windows of the Mistyvale Inn did a poor job of preventing outside noise from breaching the sleeping chamber. Aris cranks open his eyes with monumental effort as if they had been glued shut whilst he slept; he glances painfully at the beams of light that peak through the wooden slats of the window covering. The clamor outside is so great it is as if the sound waves were visible, pouring through the window like a river had parted from its course and now gushed inside the room. He rose to a sitting position in bed and last night’s Ale churned in his stomach, a headache rises to his brow and cold sweat pours from his face.

“Gods, I have proven my mettle but I shall never match drink for drink with that scoundrel again.”

The previous night was spent with some of Aris’ less than reputable friends; though they were nothing short of famous anywhere Ale is served. He managed to go to the window and catch a glimpse of some of the commotion, dark thoughts clouded his mind as he dressed and made his way downstairs to hear the news.