[Whom Do You Serve?] A Matter of Death - Vander Forrick

Inquisitor

Inquisitor

The Most Adorable Thing Ever, Costume Edition
@Sol


812.994.M41


The last few months on Holtstrad had been rough, at least as far as you're concerned. The Shrine World was once home to Saint Gregor Holtstrad, the Lord Commander who lead Crusade against the Chaos-infested system beyond his homeworld and succeeded, though he himself died in the process. Now-a-days, the world hardly showed the same level of honor shown by Saint Holtstrad himself. A distressing thing, for the Ministorum.


...


The recent string of murders had had you stumped for a while now. The pattern was clear, and the style was consistent, but there was no trace of who had done it all. The missing thing was a consistent area over which the murders occurred, and it was driving you up a wall.


Standing in your rather large office, every last piece of evidence was laid out in front of you. None of it made sense, though, and you kept staring at it, sighing in frustration. You pull up a sheet: a map, detailing the locations of the murders.

Roll Investigate(I). You'll be at your standard +10 modifier.
 
They might call them followers of Chaos, but even the heretic works in patterns. Dark and profane patterns they might be, but patterns nonetheless, comprehensible to the human mind, patterns that had to be understood and then disrupted in order to fight them.


That's what he kept telling himself.


The lie became flimsier every week.


Vander stares down at the disorganised evidence, the sum of months of sleepless work. He stares despondently through a haze of sickly-scented lhosmoke and with eyes that aren't his. He glares at this nonsensical cluster of little stitches and aimless threads, and despite his comfortable seat in his well-lit office, fully illuminated every hour of every day, he feels lost in the darkness without even a candle to see by. There's no pattern in this mindless tapestry of guilt, no matter how hard he looks, thinks, pleads and prays.


Unless . . .


He snaps open an antiquated parchment map of Holtstrad's capital, caligraphed by local monks, cross-references it with up-to-date floorplans of the city streets on his nearby dataslate, and stares at the drawn 'X's and flaring red dots scattered epileptically across the thin outlines of each hallowed building. They form the same senseless pattern across vellum and digital grid alike, but each rendering provides a different perspective.


Both have proven equally useless, but he traces every conceivable line between them with an outstretched finger nonetheless. In his free hand, he sips at a lukewarm mug of recaf left undrunk and undisturbed for the past hour's work, and without thinking he reaches over and tops it up healthily with a measure of amasec from a weeks-open bottle that now contains little more than dregs.


Caffeinated stimulatant competes with weighty fermented liquor in the space behind those strangers' eyes, dulling his senses and sharpening them both at once. He tilts his head to one side then the other, squinting at every conceivable pattern that he's tried to draw between the killings.


There has to be something. Something to give the hounds in the enforcer squads a whiff of scent to follow. Or the lives of many more notables in Holtstrad were defenceless against a grave danger . . . and if another man fell to this murderer's blade without a shred of who he was, then Forrick's career was soon to follow. As the old maxim went, the moment he had nothing to give the Emperor, he was sure he'd soon be giving Him his life.

[dice]1254[/dice]


Failed the roll by 7 points, with an Intelligence characteristic of 40 and an Investigate bonus of +10. I'd like to use a Fate Point and the Seeker's special rule (p.54, DH 2.0 beta book) to automatically succeed this test by 4DoS, according to my intelligence bonus.


Because screw first rolls.
 
Last edited by a moderator:
Hours and hours you've spent pouring over this data, and hours and hours more you will. You begin comparing charts, correlating time, age, sex, even things like the victims' potential mutations, but nothing seems to come up.


Right as you're about to throw in the towel, it hits you. It should have been damned obvious, and now you feel a fool. You bring out the old map once more. The answer, or at least one of them, stares you straight in the face. What appeared to have been a simple mass of Xs denoting crime scenes in fact can be shaped into a line, albeit a meandering one.


Comparing this find with the times of each murder, you come up with what looks like an eerie, months-long walk through the city. The shape is horrendous in and of itself, and you swear you've seen it before. It sort of sends chills down your spine, but you can't quite yet place why. And if the averages between crimes are to be believed, you have only six hours until the next murder, and the site is...


... Inside the Courthouse.
 
Vander shuddered uncontrollably and averted his eyes from the horror his overclocking mind had just poured into the gaps in his vision. He downed his recaf, booze and all, then brought a hand to his face, clenched his jaw, gritted his teeth. It couldn't be. No. Not within the Precinct. The next soul to die would likely be an Arbitrator, and the murderer . . . more likely than not to be. To commit such a crime within the halls of the Lex Imperialis, a shrine to the Emperor's holy law itself would be . . . inconceivable.


But then before he'd come to Holtstrad, he hadn't been able to conceive such brutality taking place on a shrine world.


Before he'd walked its streets, he'd been unable to fathom the kind of scum and detritus that could walk freely and unmolested amongst its thronging streams of 'pilgrims'.


And before he'd been promoted into his current office, he could not have guessed at the kind of cutthroat behaviour that could go on within the Arbitrators themselves.


No world was spotless, no man was beyond suspicion, and not even the highest halls of power could safely be assumed to be without compromise. For anything to be inconceivable was a problem of perspective, not possibility. This was his only lead, and whether he liked it or not, the realisation had struck him so clearly that the logic now seemed beyond denial.


The Courthouse. Urgent dread rose within him as he glanced at the chronometer on the far wall. He needed to act. Now.


He pulled on his vest, shrugged into his coat, strapped on his sidearm and burst out the door, barely remembering to lock it behind him. He counted his strides and counted the seconds. He needed to speak to his superiors immediately.


He needed to warn them.
 
As you make a break for the Senior Judges' chambers, you're stopped along the way. Shouts of, 'important business,' and other such things are exchanged, and eventually those who would stop you give up.


As you arrive at the Chamber doors, you're panting, out of breath. The guards at the doors sharpen up, glaring at you. "And what do you want," they ask, towering over you.
 
Vander forced himself straighter as they demand his business, despite the wave of exhaustion that was hitting him now he stood still after the rush. The run and the anger he'd felt at those who'd tried to halt him had broken up the initial sense of panic with which he'd departed his office, but it was still there, fraying away at his nerves. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and his hair would be in disarray if he hadn't scraped it all off with a razor knife to avoid that problem.


Throne on Terra, what do you knuckleheads think I want?


"Vander Forrick, Verispex Division," he introduces himself arbitrarily. The scrawny, ink-faced hiver with the fake eyes was hard to miss around here. Snapping his hands up into a brisk aquila across his chest and smoothing out the front of his vest and jacket as he brought the gesture down, he continued, breathless and struggling to keep his tone even.


"I've turned up a crucial lead on the case I've been working on for the past few months. It demands the immediate attention of the Precinct's Senior Judges. If we act now, I have reason to believe that we can catch the Chirurgeon Killer in the act and prevent the death of his next target." He keeps his words terse and to the point, silently cursing the way he'd forgotten both parchment map and data-slate on his hurry to leave his office, and stares evenly at each of the guards in turn.
 
After a moment of bickering, the guards step aside, and the doors open. "Get it over with, then," they say in unison.


The Judges' Chambers always impressed you. Massive and ornate, it was an imposing room, at the center of the Precinct-Fortress. They say all roads lead to the Throne, and the Arbites took it to heart in modeling many of their Fortresses.


At the back of the hall sat the Senior Judges on panel. At the moment, they happened to be presiding over the case of a rather high-class thief, deciding whether he should live or die on a whim. Of course, the guards failed to mention this, and all eyes fall on you as you barge into the proceedings.
 
When the doors finally opened, the Verispex technician wasted no time in striding powerfully into the Chambers, wasting not a spare distracted moment to appreciate the architecture or pay due deference to the small shrines and altars littering the walls. There was no time, he had to--


Stop right there dead in his tracks and let his blood freeze in his veins as he realised what he'd just barged in on. He swallowed loudly, eyes scanning over the alternating bale and bewilderment in the faces of those now looking at them. Lots of faces.


He aims a faintly accusatory look at the guards who let him in over his shoulder, knowing they're probably not paying attention, and makes his way at a more discreet and relaxed pace to the side of the room in search of some aide to confer with quietly. Damned if he's interrupting the trial directly, but damned if he's waiting for it to be finished.
 
Eyes follow you, and you're acutely aware of this, as you approach the aide of one of the Senior Judges. He looks up to you and whispers, "Well, now that you've made a scene, have you an explanation to give? I'm sure the Senior Judges would be appreciative of a reason as to why you burst in during the judging of a criminal."
 
Vander flashes a weak guilty-as-charged kind of smile as best he can in the dishevelled and alarmed state he's in and leans in a little closer to whisper back, keeping his tone deliberately soft even to whisper in as though it can minimise the disturbance he's already caused. "I wouldn't have come barging in like that if I wasn't entirely certain that something required the full and immediate attention of a Senior Judge," he murmurs, in a tone a man with better hinges would probably reserve for lovers in his arms.


"It's the Chirurgeon Killer. Doc Murder, is what they call him on the streets. The Precinct's top Verispex techs have been working on the case for months." . . . Mostly him, of course, but he trusts the aide didn't know the specifics, and he likes to think he's being half honest in that description.


Somewhere deep down inside him, the shred of his unconscious mind that's still remotely people-smart outside of the realm of crazed criminals feels the flustered aide slipping away. Don't let this kid's incredulity get the better of him, damn it. Make a splash.


He jerks in even closer with an abrupt hand on the aide's shoulder, moving their faces close to touching, "Look," he begins, brows raised and eyes wide to stress his point. His pupils have dilated to eclipse his milk-coloured irises almost entirely, and all of a sudden he's staring at the assistant with all the crazed urgency of a madman prophesising doom on the street. Up close, he wafts of a potent admixture of recaf, amasec, lhosmoke and unwashed human meat.


"Every lead the Division's deciphered has just spelled out a very clear and definite pattern. I've mapped the killings by time, date and location, and he's due to strike again in about five and a half hours in this very building." He withdraws slightly to allow that to sink in, staring fixedly into and through the kid's eyes and face, then flicks his gaze meaningfully, indicatively in a brief glance towards the seated Judges.


"I am sure that this rich boy's hearing does not require the full and immediate attention of every Senior Judge in the Precinct," he proceeds, voice now a venomous hiss. "Not when one of them might be next on the good doctor's list. So I need to talk to your boss. Now."

[dice]1281[/dice]


Not scary enough, Van. Should have tried the ooga booga face.
 
Last edited by a moderator:
The aide shrinks back slightly, and nods. "Very well then. Give me a moment." He approaches the Senior Judges' panel and whispers in the ear of one, who steps down and enters a back room.


The aide comes back to you. "Senior Judge Taell will see you now. Right this way." He walks off, toward the door.


[dice]1282[/dice]
 
The Verispex investigator warily casts a glance across the line of solemn Judges, in particular the recently vacated thronelike seat in which one of them was firmly entrenched. He listens for a moment as the trial appears to proceed without Taell's presence and makes his way after his superior's rapidly disappearing wake.


He could scarcely keep the frown off his face as he went on. Senior Judge Taell was a man with whom he'd had precious little personal contact -- after all, he was still at the stage in his career where his primary point of interface with the Arbitrators' top-level planetary leadership on Holtstrad was through the Division's supervisor and other liasons. Thus, he had as much notion of the man he'd be pitching this to as he had of the secluded private room he'd discreetly slipped into, and he knew nothing of what the man he'd so rudely interrupted made of him, his work, or for that matter the Killer he'd come to warn him about. He balled his hands into fists -- the better, after all, to keep them perfectly still.


Ease it, Forrick, he cautioned himself in that cool and steady voice his mind liked to use, the one that sounded ever so slightly like his father's. Like it or not, you need to give this Judge the score.


Vander made his way around the proceedings and slipped into the back chamber after the Judge. Upon his superior's attention, he saluted the aquila with all the pomp and circumstance he could muster and kept his features and tone dutifully devoid of any real expression but for the appropriate deference.


"Senior Judge Taell. My lord. My name is Verispector Vander Forrick," he began gently. Never got used to it, having to tell people who he was twice in as many minutes. Made him wonder if he wasn't forgetting himself.


"I've uncovered an absolutely critical lead on the Chirurgeon Killer case that could compromise the security of our Precinct. It may already have. We still have no idea who he might be or, for that matter, who and how many they could be, and we can't rule out the possibility that Holtstrad's Arbitrators might be compromised already with the Killer's contacts, accomplices, or worse."


He winced inwardly as the words hit the air, as he first realised what he was trying to say. Coming from the mouth of a civilian, or even a rookie, words like those were heresy of a grounds for summary detainment and probable offworld relocation to a penitential facility if the perpetrator's connections lacked the requisite pull. An Adeptus Arbites precinct-fortress was frequently the first point of contact and the last line of defence between a habitated world of Man and the rest of the Imperium. He hoped his investigations and -- as far as he knew -- clean disciplinary record gave him enough leeway to venture such a statement.


"My investigations lead me to believe that there is an immediate risk to the life of someone within this Courthouse -- or someone scheduled to enter this courthouse in the next five hours," he quickly goes on, hoping to patch things up a little.
 
The aged Senior Judge lowers himself into, essentially, a throne at a rather ornate wooden table. "Please, sit," he says, waving you toward a seat.


"Explain to me how you came to this conclusion. We haven't had a break-through in this case at all since the beginning. Why should I be convinced you now have the answers we've been grasping for for months?"
 
Of course he's sceptical. Who wouldn't be? Vander found himself in the chair he'd settled into, staring dumbstruck down at his hands atop the extravagant table. He dredged up that image of the killings mapped over the streets of Holtstrad's capital city, struggled to recall the times that had elapsed between them and the crude mathematical models he'd drawn up on cogitators to compare them. The flash of clarity that had ignited behind his eyes half an hour was dimming and diminishing into little more than a gently smouldering ember with each minute he spent separated from his work.


He wondered for a stupid moment if it was all in his head, like so many things seemed to be nowadays. I should have ran this by the Division. Should have got a second opinion. Should have . . .


That dreadful, sickening shape flickered alive again in his mind's eye and an unconscious tremor ran up his spine. In that crooked, meandering stroll through the city, he felt something of the Killer's mind, the kind of twisted insight that kept his career alive. He couldn't let it slip.


"With all due respect, my lord," he began, breathless in spite of the long pause he'd had to breathe, "it was only a matter of time before one of us hit something. We've been working around the clock, and what we've found has been staring us in the face for the whole damn time." We've. Of course. Make it look like it's the division talking and not just your own, crazed whimsy. Sure. Go ahead, Forrick.


"Do you . . . " he cleared his throat as he trailed off, his mouth abruptly dry and swollen. He slipped a department-issue autoquil out of his coat. "Do we have some kind of floorplan of the city in here I could annotate? It would be far easier to explain with a visual aid."
 
Last edited by a moderator:
Taell nods to his assistant, who grabs a file from a case nearby. He draws out a rather massive, folded map, and lays the parchment carefully on the table, before leaving. "Explain, then."
 
If you'd like me to do some kind of Remembrance test to verify the accuracy of what he's trying to illustrate on the map, hit me up on the Skypes and I'll add a roll on the end of his post.


With an appreciative nod to the disappearing assistant, Vander rose again to his feet and paced this way and that around the length of the table. The beautiful furnishings of the back room, the ornate craftsmanship of the table itself, the stately presence of the venerable Judge Taell studying his every move -- it all faded away into the background as he dove back into the unsettled oceans of his mind, powering through the churning waters on a purposeful breaststroke as he worked fiercely towards a destination on the dimly lit horizon. He couldn't afford to lose sight of his goal. No. This could be the Precinct's only chance -- his only chance -- to beat the Chirurgeon Killer at his own maniacal game and take him down for good.


Absorbing the lines of the map with long, sweeping glances and ratifying them against the images that flashed across the surface of his thoughts as though on the viewscreen of a cogitator, he reaches into his coat's inside pocket and loosened up a handful of thrones, standard Imperial currency of a scattering of different measures and denominations. He arranged them first on the side of the table, indicating for Taell's benefit with patient explanations the significance of each kind (this one denotes a male pilgrim, that one denotes a female aristocrat, but this one denotes a planetary defence trooper and so on and so forth). Then with the handful of coins suspended between his fingers, he flew into his efforts and started distributing them as markers across the city map, recreating from memory the map of the Chirurgeon's murders.


I've got you, you son of a bitch. Throne on Terra, I've got you now.


He worked mechanically, methodically. There was no conscious thought to his actions -- his brisk, deft movements and minute adjustments thereafter served only to bridge the gap between deeply ingrained memory and the visual input before him. There was a little room for leeway -- if the judge had any familiarity with the case itself, he'd know an approximate identity of each corpse and where it was discovered -- but nonetheless, he worked quickly. He worked according to the dots across a street plan grid he'd sequentially seared into his skull over endless weeks of work, but more than anything else, as he distributed the coins across the map, he worked according to the pattern, the pattern that he'd finally discovered, the pattern that had stung him so suddenly like the buzzing, shrieking vespiform predator-bug of a dozen different death worlds, sending his awareness into frothing convulsions from which it had yet to fully emerge . . .


. . . The pattern. The pattern, the image the lines made when put together, was more clearly formed into his mind than the dots that had been joined to form it, but it was those dots he'd been studying without a motion of how they came together for the better part of three months. How could that be?





He blinked himself aware at the question and noticed that the hairs on the back of his neck were standing up. He looked up, caught a glimpse of his reflection distorted in the polished surface of the table. You look like shit. He had to wonder if what he was about to talk the judge through would have any more efficacy on the judicator's wizened sensibilities than the shrieking agitation of a mad Redemptionist prophet on the streetside. Patiently, he went through with his autoquill and scrawled beside each marker a date, a rough time of day and whatever notes might be relevant. Oh, this one was found guilty of lesser tithe evasion posthumously -- and oh, yes. This one was hiding a sixth toe in his boot. Nothing to worry about, no, no . . .


" . . . So you can see from this, ah, crude reconstruction of the Chirurgeon Killer's work as it's occurred across our city that there's no obvious pattern," he said uselessly, flapping his hands apart in an entirely nebulous gesture. "He's struck across all genders, he's struck across all ages, he's attacked people from all walks of life. Rich or poor, offworlder or native, Adeptus Terra or civilian, they've all fell to his knives. This has made it difficult to determine any sort of motive or profile on the Killer's behalf.


"But you can see that there's a slight rhythm of sorts to the times and dates of each killing, a slight recurrence that . . . that meant, well, we were anticipating another body to turn up in the next week or so in any event," he explains with a shrug, briefly meeting Taell's eyes. "But there's no such apparent consistency in the site of each crime that even the most sophisticated cogitator could guess at." Of course not. And the pattern in timing isn't just in your own head. No. Certainly.


"However, if you look at this map from left to right, and imagine each killing as a stop on one long, meandering walk through the city itself . . . "


Slowly but surely, and with a clenching in his guts that he simply couldnt' put down to nerves alone, he begins to trace the outline of pattern between each killing with his autoquil, drawing the sloping lines as he'd seen them in his mind's eye-- of the strange symbol made of murders that had struck him so vividly not an hour previously. With long, delicate strokes of his pen, the design began to take shape.


" . . . a definite route . . . "


Periodically, and with mounting fears regarding his own ability to successfully recall each killing kicking in retroactively, he glances up to Taell's face and tries to gauge his reaction as his finger closes slowly but surely in on the map's depiction of the Courthouse . . .


" . . . begins to be seen."
 
Last edited by a moderator:
As the image comes cleanly into mind and displays itself on the rather ornate map, and it occurs to you just how much you've defiled the parchment, and how much the Chirurgeon Killer has defiled Macabee.


Tzeentch_mark.png



Senior Judge Taell recoils from the hideous sight before him. "By the Emperor, I'm afraid we have something beyond even our jurisdiction on our hands. We must call the Inquisition. This is the Ordo Hereticus' territory now, I'm afraid."


At that moment, the aide enters from behind Taell and stops behind his chair. It doesn't appear that the Senioe Judge knows he's there yet.
 
A sense of dizziness and dislocation hits him after a delay of stunned staring, and he reaches up to rub a hand over his eyes -- to rid them of what had now left the dark recesses of his mind and materialised horrifically into the real world. Shutting them tight and furrowing his brow, he made every effort to slam the brakes on the mental machine he'd set in motion moments before. He didn't want to think of the implications of this. Couldn't. He'd seen Chaos at work before in his duties -- how could he not have? -- but this . . .


"My lord," he manages to murmur, mouth full of cotton, "I meant what I said. There is an immediate risk to someone within this Courthouse. By all means, call for an astropath and send for the Holy Ordo's help, but if we act now, we could save a life and perhaps even detain the Killer in advance for the Inquisition to . . . simply . . . collect . . . when they . . . "


He trails off as his eyes focus in through the gaps in his fingers, fixing a stare on the aide that's hovering behind the Senior Judge. One eyebrow flicks up in question as he studies the young man, and then dread hits him in the stomach as he realises what the lad has stumbled in on.
 
As you look back up at the aide, you hear a gurgling sound, followed by a disgusting sound of pouring liquid. As you begin to register what is happening, you see Taell's head hanging back limply, and a knife in the aide's hand.


"We wish you hadn't figured out the truth," he mutters, wiping off the Judge's blood on his robes. "We were hoping you might not figure it out in time. But you're smarter than we gave you credit for. Ah well. It could be worse."


"It all still went just as planned."


You hear a rumble beneath your feet, followed by what sounds like a boom and a landslide, coming from somewhere beyond and to the south of the Precinct-Fortress.
 
Chaos cultist with 20 WP, Mu? Sounds like Chaos Spawn to me.

:|
Vander's attention snap up to the ceiling and then to each wall as they each begin to shake. For a man whose foremost calling and duty in life is to come to these conclusions, a frankly embarrassing stretch of seconds passes by before he fully processes what's just happened, and what is happening. He draws in a deep, steadying breath, holds it, and then . . . after that point, he knows that for the first time in months, doesn't need to figure anything out. For the next few seconds, at least, there's nothing to solve, nothing to decipher, nothing to crack.


He wants to muster up some sort of threat or taunt, but he knows there wouldn't be much point. It's all abruptly and painfully simple, and even as he shares a room with a defiled map of Macabee, a murdered Senior Judge and a disgusting heretic, he finds himself full of a guilty relish of what's to come.


He lets spite and fury take control, righteous contempt towards the murderer before him and at the forces he represents, the forces he's been struggling against -- and unbridled rage at his own stupidity. Controlled and contained for so long, tucked neatly away in the cracks behind his logical mind, it's easy to let raw feeling slip the leash and break free.


His hands snap up automatically for the pistol grip protruding from the webbing of his combat vest and he draws the hand cannon in a single well-practised flourish, callused and lho-stained fingers fitting naturally and seamlessly into the notches and grooves of the handle. Soon, he's lifting the weapon in a doubled-up grip and starting to aim.


"Filth! Drop the weapon!"


[dice]1386[/dice]
 
Last edited by a moderator:
The man before you smiles, dropping the knife. "What will you do now? I have already completed my master's desires for now. What has been set into motion cannot be stopped. Shoot me. Kill me. You know you want to."

[dice]1392[/dice]
 
"My master." Singular. Male. Even now, he could barely help himself. He flinched despite himself as the bloody blade clattered to the floor, but his aim was unwavering. The dissonant smile playing across the murderer's face and the ease with which he'd relinquished the part he had to play in all this set the verispector more on edge than jumping the table and lunging with the blade would have. Forrick didn't let the bead he'd drawn slip entirely, but instead eased it down smoothly from the man's face to the middling regions of his body.


"You're right," he breathed thoughtfully, eyes twitching to the side -- to the door. He listened to whatever was going on outside for an instant. "I do want to kill you, but I've got a feeling it'd hurt you more if I got your arm patched up and kept you detained until the Ordo Hereticus arrived."


He blinked. He was getting ahead of himself.


He flicked his aim deftly an inch to his respective right and pulled the hand cannon's trigger, feeling the powerful pistol kick back like a grox into his wrists as he squeezed the trigger and made his position perfectly clear on the matter with a high-calibre bullet aimed for the aide's arm.

[dice]1393[/dice]


[dice]1395[/dice]
 
The bastard's elbow is shattered from the shot, and he gives a hideous howl, clutching the crippled limb in pain. Of course, the sound of your hand cannon certainly drew the attention of some of the Precinct's inhabitants, the deafening echo spreading throughout its halls. Two guards come rushing in, as do Senior Judges Faell, Craell, and Daell. You find yourself with a lasgun in your face, and one pointed at the aide across the table from you. "What is the meaning of this?!" shout Faell and Craell in unison, while Daell rushes over to Taell's side, checking for a pulse.


"Dead," is all he manages to croak out.
 
Vander lowers his weapon, then has the foresight to drop it entirely and take a step back from the lasweapon that nearly punched him in the nose, signing the aquila in a benedictory gesture before raising his hands to show that they're empty. He grits his teeth as he mentally reviews all the many ways in which this could go wrong before steadying himself and attempting to explain.


Then his words tumble out of his mouth in a panicked, breathless mess.


"It's the Chirurgeon Killer!" he cries, staring wild-eyed at the guard in front of him but clearly addressing the judges. He frantically waves one of the hands he'd carefully raised a second before at the annotated map and the disgusting Chaotic rune he only now seems to realise he's drawn upon it for all to see. "He's in league with the Ruinous Powers, and that bastard there's one of his agents! He killed Senior Judge Taell! Look at his knife!"


"He needs to be kept alive and interrogated and we need to bring in the Ordo Hereticus! Call the Inquisition--" the gun in his face isn't helping his nerves, and his tone grows desperate. "It's the last thing Senior Judge Taell said!"
 
It might occur to you that you seem mad, when compared to the relatively calm figure on the far side of the table.


"Arrest them both," shout all three Senior Judges at once. "We will deal with this soon, but neither can be let go, for they both must be questioned."
 
You must log in or register to reply here.

Users who are viewing this thread

Total: 12 (members: 0, guests: 12)
Back
Top