Fantasy Sanctus et Foedus Sanguis

[Aron the Aron]

Unfortunately for the inquisitor telepathic communication was rarely a two-way street, and in no small part due to laziness among other concerns Cecilia had elected for a more standard one-way communication. So, the mage remained blissfully unaware of her companion's whispered words - though she did have the sense to remain invisible during her teleportation, given how little she was doing to check her destination.

In less than a blink of an eye, Cecilia found herself a small distance behind the inquisitor -

Honed instinct and the faint, familiar pulse from her talisman was all the warning "Felicia" needed. Her body reacted before her mind caught up–a flick of the wrist, the glint of steel, and the dagger was already loosed from her fingers.

She hadn’t expected it to stop mid-air.

Felicia exhaled slowly through her nose, schooling her brief surprise into something neutral. Her other hand was already in the process of drawing her sword–

- or so it should have been, as no sooner had she processed the blatantly heretical decor of the small room than she noticed a knife suspended before her, barely a hair from her breast. Just a small error from her heart. She shrugged off the surprise as quickly as she had come to receive it, quickly scanning the room again before finally dropping the invisibility around herself.

"For an invisible target -" She reached up and wrenched the knife from the barrier it had wedged into, a faint crackling sound as the enchantment was broken by physical force, "- that was an uncannily good throw."

With a somewhat cocky grin, like the knife never could have really hurt her, Cecilia held the blade by the tip and offered the handle to her companion. "The lack of hesitation was also reassuring." If it weren't for familiar spindly fingers wrapped in bandages giving a hint of the weakness that had been the Cardinal's identity for the past few days, her escort may have been left to wonder who this imposter was.

...Shit.

Her mind, belatedly catching up, supplied a list of potential consequences for nearly impaling her charge; none of them were ideal. The Choir certainly wouldn’t have taken kindly to an overzealous attempt on the Cardinal’s life, no matter how accidental the circumstances. And now, she had to contend with the knowledge that Cecilia could teleport and vanish at will–details that, had she known earlier, might have prevented the knife from leaving her hand in the first place.

But the Cardinal was... smiling.

"Felicia" took back the dagger, careful not to let their fingers brush. She turned it over once in her hand, then slid it back beneath her robes. No apology, no excuse. She doubted Cecilia expected either.

After handing back the throwing knife the Cardinal pulled up her long skirt out of the way and squatted down without issue to observe the person that the inquisitor had incapacitated moments before, a man practically flaunting his wealth in his finery. "Difficult to tell the heretic from the vain. Found anything on your side?"

Felicia didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she crouched beside the unconscious man, her gloved fingers brushing against the fine embroidery of his sleeve. He reeked of perfume–floral, overpowering, desperate to mask something fouler beneath.

Vain, certainly. But heretic?

Her gaze flickered to his hands, noting the absence of ink stains, callouses, or any other sign of labor. Soft fingers, adorned with rings too gaudy for subtle wealth; a man accustomed to indulgence, not study. If he was involved in the occult, he wasn’t the one handling the rituals.

"... Nothing yet..." she murmured at last, her voice quiet as was her usual. "... But he isn’t the one writing."

The Blanchette exhaled slowly and eased the door open. The corridor beyond was dim, lit only by the flickering glow of a distant wall sconce. She padded forward, careful to avoid the creaking floorboards near the rug’s edge. Down the hall, a single door stood slightly ajar, a faint golden light spilling from within. The scent of burning incense slithered into her nostrils—cloying, metallic.

Bloodroot resin. A common tool in occult rituals.

This was it.

"Felicia" hugged the dagger in her hand close to her chest and inched closer, pressing herself against the doorframe. She risked a glance inside. A study—bookshelves lined the walls, but her eyes were drawn to the heavy oak table at the center. A candle burned beside an open tome, its pages filled with esoteric symbols. Next to it, a small wooden box sat slightly ajar, revealing a cluster of teeth—human, by the look of them.

Evidence.

She took a measured breath and stepped inside, every muscle tensed for the slightest shift in the air. Carefully, she reached for the tome, fingers gliding over its aged parchment. The ink was still fresh. A journal, perhaps?

... The ink hadn’t fully dried yet when "Felicia" returned her focus to the original target of her attention.

She turned a page carefully, mindful of smudging the parchment and potentially self-sabotaging her investigation. The script was precise–methodical in a way that suggested discipline rather than frantic desperation or amateurish curiosity. Whoever had written this was experienced... Confident.

A prickle of dread ran down the Inquisitor's spine.

She forced herself to scan the words, filing away symbols and phrases she recognized; some she didn’t. The presence of teeth in the box suggested blood magic, but the writing lacked the usual erratic structure of amateur rituals. If anything, it read like a ledger—records, notes, observations.

Her grip on the tome whitened.

"... We aren't dealing with dabblers." she finally said, voice barely above a whisper. "... This is highly organized."