• Hello, Guest. Welcome to Telath, a Play by Post fan forum made by and for the community of Aelyria!
    Stop by the General/Welcome forum and say hello. Returning player? Pick up where you left off or start afresh and get to posting! New player? Check out our new player guides to get started!

Forgive Me Father For I.... Am Beyond Redemption (Maddyn)

Timestamp
Era XXVI, Winter
Location
Primus Gaudeo
Content Warnings
Some questionable content
Primus Gaudeo.

He knew this place. The heart of the Heartlands. The capital of Centripax. Yet despite having journeyed half the Empire - from his humble beginnings in Jaedaxia to the fate he was sealed with in Diana (now Sacrum), from the rival city Holy City of Aslangrad to the Fire Isles, then all the way down to Medonia and Ziel Aerca - he had never set foot within those walls.

Hooves clip-clopped across unfamiliar cobbled streets. Victoriam was the horse's given name, a black gelding with a white blaze and socks on four hooves. Though not the finest, he was a very well mannered horse, raised from the fabled stables of the Church of Faith, steadfast and loyal. To this day he still accompanied his charge from the time before the young priest was even ordained. But he has aged now, no longer having the stamina and speed to sustain long travels. Still they had made it from the Lotus Temple, and was now navigating the narrow but colorful streets thronged with people of all species and from all walks of life. Onwards he plodded, despite not knowing the way. Such was the trust and bond between horse and rider. Sad, the same cannot be said between the rider and the people in his life...

Iori McKenzie held the reins in a relaxed grip, guiding his trusty mount with purpose. He may not know the place, and the long journey demanded his worn body to seek the nearest inn for food and rest. But that was not to be his destination. He knew exactly what he was looking for, having arrived for a very specific reason. Entry into the city and the directions he needed were carefully negotiated at the gates. Nothing a Mystic of his prowess could not handle. Yet from afar he could already see the tall spires, the dome and the bell tower lording over the rooftops. Perhaps even without directions, to find the location of the cathedral, one only needed to look up and seek out the style of grandiose architecture the Church lavishly spent their wealth on.

Victoriam was soon within its compounds, and unless there was a reason or the night has gone too deep, the entryway would be open to the public for those wishing to attend mass, or seek blessings, sacraments, penitence, counsel and the various other services the Church provides be it spiritual or even of a non-spiritual nature, such as politics or business. Again, not his goal. He was not here as a mere layman reaching out for the Church. Instead he came as one of them.

Sliding off the saddle, the young priest led his horse towards the stables. He would seek the stable hands first, get Victoriam settled in, before requesting an audience with a ranked member of the clergy managing this cathedral. He doubt they would dare deny him. Not when he came from Sacrum, on official duty. The white robes cascade from his shoulders, the Golden Triance shimmered at the back, with the heraldry of the Church proudly emblazoned on the left breast. Underneath he wore the cassock, buttoned only at the upper half. Solemn black trousers accompanied the vestments, completed with the cincture around his waist, and tied with the celibacy knots portraying his oaths. A longsword was visible, its scabbard slung from his left hip.

Truly, it has been so long since he last held a sword, and wore those very clothes, having spent years locked away in the dungeons of a Temple overseen by a Champion of Alithea. It was startling how different he looked when clad back in the holy vestments, with his straightened back and upright shoulders. There was the air of piety and reverence, and his posture commanded both authority and eminence, as befitting his station as a Priest of the Church of Faith. From Sacrum no less. A far cry it was as compared to when he had been stripped, put in chains, and made to kneel or submit. With the way he presented himself now, nobody could have guessed the kind of depraved acts he had committed or been subjected to throughout all these years he had gone missing from the Church.
 
Primus Gaudeo. ’Peace and Tolerance Shall Set Us Free’. Moving through the streets of the ancient capital of Centrpax, Iori’s path took him through the west gate where the most of the more conventional mercantile business was undertaken. To the north of the shops, the core residential district. To the south, further housing as it adjoined with the Military District to the South of the city itself with the Governors Estate and Judicator Halls taking up much of the centre of the city. Their respective mansions and residences to the north - and - most importantly for Iori, was the Temple District.

Situated at the very north of the capital was three temples. Law. Order. And Justice.

The fanfare of Pro Veldaris assaulting Iori’s senses as he was forced to make his way past the Government area of the capital and all the pale blue set on dark blue pennants fluttering in the wind. The dove of peace seemed a nice touch given that Centripax remained the most heavily militarised region within the entire Imperium between the Alyssans and Veldar. Only the concentrated might of the Imperial Legions and the combined forces of the Church of the Faith could compare.

Centripax, the realm of Cardinal Vauquelin; for all that he’d been ancient even when Iori had been but a youth. Eighty years and yet, he’d been about that age for so long that at some point, someone clearly had to question the man’s age. But in a realm with Elves ad Dwarves, and then Socrates Syndrome throwing everything askew? The Cardinal remained.

Iori was, if not amongst friends, then certainly amongst the people that had by and large raised him. None so much as looked at him askew, nor the sins of his existence between a seedy bar in Malice to the depraved Temple of Alithea in Moonstone were worn upon his sleeve. Nobody cared. At best, rumour be told, a great many of Iori’s own escapades were merely run of the mill amongst the upper echelons of the Church of the Faith. Certainly former Archprelate Hastra had had more than his share of tales.

It took time before Iori was granted an audience, an acolyte of the Faith; barely fifteen gave a simple, “Bishop Tiberium will see you now.” as the splotchy-faced young boy wiped at his nose before giving Iori a courteous bow. “If you would follow me, Father.”
 
Green eyes watched Victoriam took to the water trough. He knew his aged horse was exhausted just as he was, and would welcome rest and food, very much like he would. But while Victoriam was now free to enjoy some well deserved R&R, there would be none for him still until he attended to the matters at hand. First was to make sure Victoriam was well taken care off. An exchange of pleasantries and small introductions were given to the stable hand in attendance, with some further requests to have his belongings sent to the room the Church would provide to him. Such was the reason he cared not for an inn. Just some of the clergy benefits; free aboard and meals. He had packed light, and other than the riding gear, carried only basic travelling supplies, whatever little possession was his and some trinkets collected along his (mis)adventures.

That done, he quickly moved away from the stables. The incident in the Alithean temple involving male equine creatures was still too fresh in memory, and unfortunately may forever haunt him for the rest of his life. It has caused the young priest to be very uncomfortable when around uncastrated male horses. Perhaps why he clung onto old trusty Victoriam the gelding, instead of Maximillian, the big and strong Carmelyn Warsteed stallion he obtained during Rhysatra's campaign.

Next task, an audience with someone of authority. He was made to wait, which he did not mind and had expected it. After all, he carried no other indication of being of significant rank - No insignia or signets adorn his fingers, to press wax seals on official writs and whatnot. No personal heraldry or crest were displayed on his vestments, another typical stylization of ranked members in the same fashion of the nobility. His vestment were bare and plain, woven out of simple cotton. No rich embroideries, or details of precious stones, or decors by artisans, with fabric made from silk, satin or other exquisite material. He also wore no gold lockets or big gold chains with holy symbols (as some were apt to do to flex their money... and devotion of course) - All he had to him, were the tidings that he came from Sacrum on official business. Which should count for something at least, enough to pique the interest of their Primus Gaudeo branch, and not just wave him off as a fellow clergy on the road. Or worst, an impostor wearing their clothes. Very common issue that.

While waiting, he ran over his plans again. The Mistress had ordered him to go and find information about the churches in Centripax and Medonia. He could go to each parish, one by one. But wouldn't that be time consuming? He knew a better way. The Church was based of the "Aetherian model", with much emphasis on Hierarchy and Order, and leadership being very Top-Down Management. Start from Sacrum, follow the crumbs to its provincial territories, from there get info on the local-based churches, parishes, monasteries and abbeys. Also the crumbs? Not faith. But money. One glance at the financial records was all he needed to start dotting the lines.

Father Iori McKenzie, grew up in the Church after all. And he was a product of their system.

“Bishop Tiberium will see you now.”

Iori narrowed his eyes, his grasp on the pommel of his longsword tightened, throat bobbing. Was this some kind of joke? Some trick by the gods? This has to be some sheer coincidence here. He did named his horse after Duke Baxter Iracor, or better known as Archprelate Maximillian the First, so...

Not wanting to startle the boy, he returned the bow and followed. And perhaps to break the potential of awkward silence, quizzed the acolyte, who very much reminded him of his young self, "Your name son? How old are you, and how long have you been serving?"
 
As Iori was spent waiting for the youthful acolyte to return, a middle aged man was carrying a battered old ladder over to where Centripax’s motto had been emblazoned. The buckets of paint and off to work he went. The scent of fresh paint filling the air and a bawdy little song hummed away underneath his breath that Iori hadn’t heard since he’d last been in Medonia prior to the Xet Invasion. ‘Peace and Tolerance Shell Set Us Free’ was being sloppily replaced and painted over with ‘Not Bent, Never Broken’.

Hands dusted, a thumbs up thrown towards Iori as the job well done. Off to replace the next old slogan! Guv’s Orders!

Somewhere though, Meephos was having a bit of a chuckle. But then, in what was to be a true reprieve, the Titan of Aslan evidently had the wayward Priest’s back. The God of Madness and Lies had other business to attend to.

Wiping at his nose, there was a suspicious look as the acolyte defaulted to a ‘who’s askin’ manner before remembering just who he was speaking to. Courtesy taking a moment to reassert, “Timothy, eleven…and…” hands raising, counting off a few fingers. “Two? No, three now Father.” as the youth led Iori through the ancient corridors of the cathedral after moving away from the public area and into the usual rabbit warren of offices and halls that seemed to form in every Church of the Faith building when given enough time.

Carpets that were an off greyish colour that might have once been blue but had long since dulled. The walls an off-creme colour that at the vents and windows seemed to be the side effects of smoking once having been allowed indoors. As it was, now the only ‘smoke’ allowed within was that of incense and censors as evidenced by the Justice Temple needing to be refurnished after a mishap several Era’s prior.

“Didja want me to announce you, Father?” Acolyte Timothy queried with another sniffle; his sleeve increasingly snotty.
 
Recruits of the Church of Faith came in many forms. From whores and sinners hoping for penance, or beggars and the homeless seeking a better life, to starving farmers and bankrupt merchants wishing for a new start, and weary adventurers or hardened soldiers looking for purpose. There were the sons and daughters of the nobility with no line to inheritance. They joined the ranks if not as political emissaries, than the opportunity to obtain personal glory and that of their name by ascending to great heights via the Ecclesiarch rather than conventional means.

But life in the Church was... different. They have different laws, a different court, a different hierarchy, a different system of governance. It was as if they were a different culture altogether, completely separated from the known Empire. They had their own factions. And their own internal politics. The rituals, both the sacraments and of the social nature, were far too many and inclusive. They even had their own jargons, fashion, bread, wine, maybe their own secret handshake indeed. It was such a different world, that assimilation from the secular world was never easy, on top the demanding commitment the Church expects of their clergy. Small wonder, they came, they joined, they left.

And then there were the children. Those orphaned and abandoned, or offered to the Church willingly, or simply taken. Those like him and Timothy, recruited at such tender ages. The Church do like them young. The younger the better. They were the best. Because they grew up fully entrenched in this way of life. They do not know or have lost familiarity with the secular world. The Church was simply their world now.

He gazed at Timothy, and decided, just like the sudden change of Centripax's motto, the boy did not remind him of himself. He did not have snotty sleeves. At that age he was already working for Father Kermann McKenzie, attending and sorting his letters, deciphering and translating the codes within and encrypting whatever notes the Inquisitor wanted sent out. He was ordained and obtained his degree in Theology before fifteen, then started his career at the esteemed Concilium Sodalitatis in the Holy City, assigned to the 'Finance, Records and Processing' section. The best department! Why? Because if a Bishop wanted to avoid paying certain taxes, you just need to help make some adjustments to the tax forms, and now you are in the Bishop's Primeheims card list. A budding start for anyone wanting to climb the Church's political arena. A lot of young aspiring priests and priestesses would kill to be in his position. So many were not that lucky and had to start their career in some village chapel in the middle of nowhere, having to avoid pot shots from bandits while digging up their own latrines.

Of course maybe Timothy was not showing much promising talent yet. Maybe he was a late bloomer but will eventually end up as the next Cardinal of Primus Gaudeo. After all, not every prodigy turned out great. Ask him;

"Father Iori McKenzie, from the Order of The Keepers of the Kings Way."

And he waited for the Acolye to do his job, wondering all the while what kind of a person is this Bishop Tiberium.
 
There was a sharp rap of Acolyte Timothy’s knuckles against the door, and then another series of slightly more impatient knocks just in case. Initial signs at least pointed to a man that was either hard of hearing or simply not wanting to be disturbed and hoping very much that those outside would simply go on their merry way.

No such luck as Acolyte Timothy procured a battered iron key before popping it into the lock. Not getting so much as a chance to turn the lump of metal before the door was flung open. It all felt like an old tired song and dance routine that the Bishop and his functional manservant.

“Oh bothersome child!” with a huff that wasn’t even remotely equine in nature. If anything Bishop Tiberium looked rather rattish truth be told as he stood in the doorway for a moment with hands on hip and a hunched posture.

Pale blue eyes that were watery and covered in the beginnings of cataracts, sullen cheeks and the wisps of greying brown hair as the muttonchops were quite out of control. Untamed, nigh feral and not unlike steel wool. A long, overly long nose that helped with the rattish appearance - pinpointing the primary feature responsible for the comparison neatly. The thin lipped mouth and weak chin though truly didn’t help.

“I present, Father Iori McKenzie of Kings Way. Bishop Bradey Tiberium the IV of Primus Gaudo.” Timothy stated with another snuffle. The room inside had seen better days; ornate though it was - the furnishings clearly uncared for and at a glance, the only thing truly given any care or attention was the incredibly well stocked liqueur cabinet.

The desk was covered in piles of paperwork that had been left unattended long enough that some of the top layers had begun to yellow visibly. Hanging on one wall was a group of portraits, and one after the other revealed the Tiberium’s that had come before. Only the first actually seemed of note; a former Prelate. The Second and Third respectively never having risen above a Priest until the man before Iori had claimed his current station.

“Pleasure, pleasure. You’ve come a long way Father, drink?” Brandy from the smell on Bishop Bradley’s breath seemed to be the current vice.
 
A dozen over simulations had run rampant in the Mystic's mind prior to arriving at the gates of Primus Gaudeo.

How would he achieve his objective indeed, and get away with it? Toy and Demon had wanted him to go in disguise or take a different identity, and not show up as Iori McKenzie. For Priest may very well be hunted by his Church and his self-reveal could lead to his arrest. But Priest would have none of that. They are making him undergo this so called 'test', so it will have to be done his way. Guises were not as simple after all. If any Tomas, Dickus and Harrith could obtain the knock off version of their holy vestments from some Kemite sweatshop, and just waltz in in pretense, the Church would not have lasted this long. They had their ways of ID-ing an impostor. Eras of diligent record keeping best practices, and the stuffing of tracking cookies onto their personnel. It would be too much effort to craft the ideal fake guise that could make sense, in case crumbs were being trailed. While usage of arcana may prove tricky. The Church had their magi, possibly even the biggest concentration of mages outside the Legions or the Academies. Arcane wards or sensors were to be expected, and Iori had never step foot in the temples in Primus Gaudeo to know where one was hidden.

Nope. Just go in as Iori McKenzie. Simple. They can query for any suspicion to his claim. He was sure he can counter. They can have him verified by sending a pigeon or messenger to Sacrum. But by the time headquarters received the news, finished checking the records (and last he recalled, he had Christina escape with the proclamation that he 'did not make it', so most likely they would be reviewing the MIA or KIA records too), and sent back confirmation from Sacrum, with any arrest order, he would be long gone by then.

So, 'Father McKenzie, from The Keeper of the King's Way' it is. He had also pondered if just name-dropping the Concilium Sodalitatis alone would give him sufficient clout over their provincial branch, but decided that the Order known for housing Ioannes zealots could have a far more persuasive impact, especially with the rumor that those zealots seek to be the new Inquisition. Plus, he did actually served under the Keepers. If they wanted validation, he would stuff them up good...

The door flung open, and there stood Bishop Tiberium. The man was... not at all what Iori had expected but then again, what was he expecting?

His chosen 'cover' was announced and the Bishop was introduced as Bishop Bradey Tiberium the IV? Four of them? Fourth generation? Of the same lineage? Or sworn in names much like his? And yes, of course. Some members of the Church were born into it. They served because their father and their fathers before them did. Almost like a family trade if one can call it that. Not as common, given many took celibacy oaths. Keen eyes noticed the portraits on the wall, and took to taking key notes if any of those Tiberiums resembled each other - with that same nose, thin lips or weak chin - as that could answer his question.

"Thank you for receiving me, Your Grace," Iori greeted back with a small bow, still remembering how to address a senior ranked member. A small pause as he waited to see how the Bishop wants his handshake. If he extended his ring, he will have to kiss it. Some of them like it like that. Though for Bishop Tiberium's case, he seem more interested in extending his drink. To which Iori wholeheartedly agreed. "If it is not to your inconvenience."

As first impressions go, this Tiberium appears to be much more pleasant and far less intimidating than the first he met. Though from the state of the office, he could only assume this one was a deadwood. Probably hustled his way to mid-management and then decided, this is as far as he would go. Drinks all around, an office, private aboard attached to personal privy chambers, with his own attendant. Sometimes, there was no need to go that high, really.
 
Overcomplicating and overthinking it, Iori either gave the Church of the Faith more credit than it deserved (and their number of Magi utterly decimated during the Zerdargia War - in Centripax it was entirely possible that Iori was the strongest Church of Faith Magi in the Province), or his deceptions were simply that good. Reality being what it was, it was a little of A and B alike.

Walk the walk, talk the talk, and nobody genuinely seemed to care enough to look too closely. The corruption remained rife within the Church and none cared to pry into others business lest attention turn upon themselves thereafter.

The dismissive wave, the Bishop glossing over formalities with an impatient snort.

A quick inspection of the ancient portraits belied that each bore the same bushy muttonchops and nose, though the other features were individually clearly taking after the mother or were simple genetic defects. Large eyes or small, full lips; number #3 having a cleft lip. Family resemblance was there, but looking to be the usual old story of the third or fourth child in a family being shipped off to join the Priesthood as the first child was the Heir, the second the Spare and the third traditionally enlisted into the Military.

Kiss the ring or shake the hand? Neither, and a small blessing at that given the liver-spotted and arthritic digits of the old Bishop. Motioning instead for Timothy to pour the pair a glass of brandy, and a “Don’t skimp on the ice, boy.” thrown in for good measure before gesturing for Iori to take a seat on one of the ancient chairs nearest to the all important liqueur cabinet.

“Long ride, or did you take a carriage? Been an age since I’ve been back to Carmelyan… Vesta, whatever they’re calling it these days.” with a roll of the eyes before wiping his nose in what was an almost perfect play-by-play of Timothy’s own movements when dealing with the side effects of hay fever. No muttonchops on the boy, but the nose was about right to be a relative of the Bishop.
 
No show of formalities required beyond the standard greeting. That spoke of humility. And that was a good trait. Or did it just reinforce the notion that there was a lack of ambition? Iori decided he would hold further judgement as he took the offered seat. He really did not like the yellowing papers though. It bugged him a little. As gentle as possible, the younger man planted his tush on the ancient chair, hoping it did not cause a column of dust to assault him, as it gave the vibe it would what with all the clutter.

Patiently he waited for the drink to be served.

"Long ride. Solo..." there was a pause as the Bishop's comment on the city lingered. He had been locked away for too long, and now it appears the world outside has changed. The Church has changed. Weakened. Or so the rumors he heard as he passed through the streets of Ziel Aerca, en route to Primus Gaudeo. He had heard too from the temple, from Toy. But there had been so many rumors. And all its variations. It was hard to tell what was truth. He heard about Vesta. And the demise of the Archprelate, a man that he had actually been familiar with. And the suspicions surrounding the circumstances of his death.

"Vesta," he finished, and observed the man for any further reaction. What could his body language possibly reveal more of his opinion of this name change? So far that eye rolled suggested he was not too supportive of what's going on up there.

"I take that you were there, back when you were studying to be a priest, Your Grace?" And watched the older man perform the very familiar gesture done by the boy. He gazed back the portraits. And could only guess that Tiberium the V had just introduce him to Tiberium the IV. A small shudder went up his spine. So many Tiberiums! Neigh!

Though he wondered if the nose wiping was anything related to lineage, but was instead due to the unkempt room leading to a Monkey-See-Monkey-Do gesture. Portraits do not move, alas. "Mind if I ask.... family?" he gestured a chin to the portraits.

As itching as he was to dive right to the point, sometimes starting small talk could be more beneficial, get a little know-in. Sliucha did want to know the people of the Church. And he had plenty of time. So no rush!
 
Timothy worked away, of ice and brandy and offering Iori and Bishop Bradley Tiberium their glasses one after the other. The rich smell proving to be stronger than any dust that might have been dislodged by Iori sitting down upon the ancient couch that nigh collapsed beneath him. Sinking in considerably; the soft fabric was well worn and any supports had long since deteriorated. An antique. Probably older than not only Iori, but Bishop Bradley too.

The Bishops’ gaze following to the portraits and a nod, approving, “My esteemed Uncle, and his and his before him.” As the means of family resemblance was confirmed. Not a straight lineage by any means, but the extension of the Family Tree still very much there. If Bradley had been due to inherit anything, it’d been a snowflakes’ chance in Aeternia of making it down that many branches of Cousins and Uncles and their ilk.

And a gesture to Acolyte Timothy, “My successor, the Gods and the Church willing. Good lad, but needs a touch more focus. But we’ve done well by Primus Gaudo over the years and Primus Gaudo has done well by us in turn. It’s always a challenge dealing with so many Dwarves in the region but Cetheron just doesn’t go down all that well over Sacrum way.” With a sip of the brandy and a smile.

“And how about you Father McKenzie? New blood or old?” The Bishop queried in jovial tones.
 
Iori took the offered drink with a polite appreciative nod, and brought the much needed drink to his parched throat. Great smell. Even greater taste! The North may have their Charismean vineyards, but trust the dwarves to know how to make good spirits like brandy or whisky. And they were in Centrixpax, where the Dwarflands were situated. Had to be dwarven made. He tried to nurse his drink slowly, but was feeling he might need a refill very very soon, as he tried to make himself comfortable upon the sagging ancient couch. It was soft. Perhaps a little too much. It felt like it won't take his weight. So maybe he should just stand before he accidentally broke something. And that's what he did, feigning the excuse of interest with said portraits as he walked over to take a better look.

Uncle. Not father. Still generations of service offered to the Church, by what he assumed could be a minor House of the Centripax region? House Tiberium? Did the horse by chance come from their stables? Imagine having a whole row of Tiberium stallions... why was his mind wandering there...

He turned towards Timothy at the mention. One more musing answered.

"Well, a lot of things do not go well over Sacrum way," Iori replied as he too raised his glass to the Bishop and took his sip, having offered a small inside joke. Interesting what the Bishop implied. A Primus Gaudeo loyalist he reckoned, sympathetic to the Dwarves. Maybe he got a discount on the drinks.

"Good drink by the way. You have quite the collection," he gestured to the liqueur cabinet.

The Bishop had asked about his origins. This, Iori took a deep breath as he drummed a finger on his glass. Complicated. His parents never mentioned they were in service to the Church when they were still a family. He only found out years later, from his own mother, whom he thought died during the Rebellion, after a chance encounter with her. This was confirmed by the Prelate Lotivus Broadwing, in a way, who confirmed that a man matching his father's name was locked in the Church's prisons. Was LeSoux old or new? Was LeSoux even a real name?

"I took my mentor's name, Father Kermann McKenzie. My birth father, went by LeSoux," was all he answered.
 
The furnishings of the room might have seen a lot of wear and tear and not all that much by way of replacing the trappings over time - but there was no escaping that the Bishop knew his spirits. A fine assortment of spirits and wines visible on the drinks cabinet. While not the absolute best offering that Bishop Tiberium could have provided Iori - it was still quite ‘top shelf’.

Bishop Bradley Tiberium raising his own glass, ever welcoming an excuse for a toast if only to ensure that he got a bonus window to take another drink.

“True enough, though we’ve been in a nice spot of stability ever since the Zerdargia fiasco. Archprelate Sianoddel was about as ridiculous as his name and at least didn’t mess with affairs quite so horrendously as his predecessor.” with a shake of his head, looking at the various portraits as if for the first time in a great many years. At a certain point, the artworks had become little more than background noise in the room.

The past, and while for some it was a nice straight road. School. Work. Marriage. Children. Work. More Work. Retirement. Death. For others, the winds and bends, the pitfalls and snags - a trip down memory lane was more akin to being mugged by bandits than a pleasant stroll down the road.

“Can’t say I’ve ever met the man, nor the other. LeSoux, sounds Jaedaxian or, well, Charismaen? Hail from Enamoria or Carmelyan, Father?” he queried politely, neither name truly seeming to register.
 
Memory lane had not been pleasant indeed.

Recollection of the past was growing fainter with the passage of time, but his earlier childhood had been a happy one. A normal one. Just a boy growing up in a normal family, living a normal life in the fair city of Jaedaxia. Until the rebellion destroyed all of that. He was orphaned. And the Church came to take him away to give him a new life. A transition that has never been easy.

The monastery where he received his initial training was harsh, rigid... cruel. They slept on thin mattresses, woke up precisely on the bell before the suns were in the sky, marched to the communal showers, attend the first mass, ate the gruel served. Next it was studies, more mass, recitation of the rituals and doctrine, and then menial labor. The floors needed sweeping, numerous windows to be wiped, chamber pots to be emptied. They worked until nightfall, only then supper was provided, ending the day with prayer and meditation, before being locked again inside their dormitories. Failure to comply to the daily schedule resulted in punishment. Failure to perform the tasks in a way that pleased their superiors, failure to understand, failure in any way or form, resulted in punishment. He could no longer recall the number of times he was beaten and starved, some for simple mistakes. At one point he had a good taste of the birch, over a failed attempt to escape. Things only became easier, when he finally came to terms and simply accepted this was just how his life would be from now on. Thankfully Father Kermann's eventual mentorship helped him escape from monastery life, where better privileges were afforded, advance training received and different kinds of tasks given, until he was deemed ready to join the priesthood... as one of them.

And after all he had gone through, he was then reunited with his mother, only to be informed that the one moment of a happy life he thought he had, was a false fabrication. His parents were traitors to the Church, having turned to heresy and living a double life. His mentor's interest in him was preordained, having been the one to hunt down his parents. They kept him in the dark for so long, his own parents, his mentor, the Church... why? To hide him from the truth? That he was in actuality a hostage. Broken in by his 'captors'. And then remade to their purpose.

He was betrayed.
And now, they call him the betrayer.
If destiny was an ouroboros, the card fate dealt him had been the cruelest of ironies.

"Jaedaxia," was the curt answer, as Iori literally drained the entire glass dry, as if that would help drown a tortured past. "Northrumbia." Small corrections to the Bishop, gazing up from his glass to flash the man an equally polite smile. He let his eyes roam to the bottle, a subtle indicator that he would like a refill please.

"Were you here, when the Zerdargia... fiasco, happened?" If he matched the timeline of his history right, that tragic incident would have been in the era of Archprelate Sarista. He was very young then, perhaps still enjoying his normal happy childhood far up north. It would be interesting to have a first count tale from the perspective of a veteran.
 
Bishop Bradley Tiberium remained happily oblivious to the plights that Iori had been subjected to over his much-abused lifetime. Sheltered as he was by generations of his family being associated with the Church of the Faith; that if any of the issues young McKenzie had faced had been most likely handled by Tiberium #1 or even #2. By the time Bradley had entered the priesthood the ‘worst’ was long behind them.

No such reprieve had been granted to Henri LeSoux.

Another sip of his brandy, sloshing the alcohol about and the rattle of ice cubes within. Ignorance was bliss.

“Fine region, though a bit too cold for me. That whole ‘Everwinter’ thing was a bit of a shemozzle if ever there was one. Temperature is far more agreeable in Centripax by far, you at least get the decency of an actual spring here.” Bishop Bradley went on, still looking more at the old portraits before rubbing at his nose. The similarities there really had been etched in paint for generations.

Only, the matter of Zerdargia drew the Bishops attention. Utmost distaste. “Oh yes, ghastly state of affairs that. Very glad of my post within Primus Gaudo then; luck of the draw that I wasn’t stationed in Zerdargia or Midpoint and subjected to the worst of that mess.” And genuine relief at that. Nobody in the aftermath of Archprelate Aerienne Sarista’s folly wanted to have their name associated with the ruin of not only one of the Imperium’s finest cities but also the loss of life that had ensured. Of the Prelatine Guard weakened considerably to the point where it had taken almost a decade to rebuild - and the loss of the Holy Mages all but impossible to recover from in such a short period of time.

Far too many promising Journeymen and Adepts had lost their lives that day.
 
Iori too rattled the ice cubes in his now empty glass. No refill given. Disappointed. But he did not want to be rude and overextend his welcome by making demands of the Bishop, or freeload off his precious stash. He took a sip again, now mostly just water from the melting ice. The long journey had parched him, and though drinks were always welcome, he could do better with a meal, shower and rest.

"Glad to hear that Primus Gaudeo was spared by the ordeal, and surely Aetheria's blessings were upon you." Truth be told, more than blessings or luck, he reckoned the Bishop's comfortable position within the Church was more thanks to simply his association with a known family name. Or old blood. Such recruits often came with backings, or perhaps the simple fact that they have family on the outside. It would not do good for the Church's reputation if it was known how abusive their training methods can be. It was not the same sadly for those the world had forgotten about. Perhaps he should have felt a twang of jealousy?

He felt nothing.

Just as the Vagarans of the far north will not understand the Bishop's disagreement with the frigid weather, for the cold was all most of them ever knew, so did he barely recognize his suffering, when that was all he had endured for a vast majority of his life. Either the Aeternians really did the number on him. Or maybe... the Inquisition broke him too well. The monastery he was taken to had a name. Resata Monastery.

"That sounds nice. I would not mind to experience the Centripaxian Spring then." Having done with ice-breaking and some history, it was time to steer the conversation to his purpose here. "I hope it is not too much of an inconvenience if I stay over the winter? Sacrum sent me to check if all is well in the Centripax region. We received troubling reports of potential attacks on our brothers and sisters..." A fabricated story. But one he knew should stick with the whole Keepers schtick.

"With Archprelate Hastra's death, it appears many sees us as vulnerable and are being opportunistic.." Iori cannot help but sneak in a little info-bait to see what was Bishop Tiberium's take on that. It would be refreshing to have some actual inside knowledge or perspective from a fellow clergy. The taverns offered too much dodgy gossip on that subject.
 
The boy was a little slow off the mark, subtlety far too great a talent yet for Acolyte Timothy who only actually made to refill once the Bishop mouthed a, “Well boy, don’t keep our guest waiting. One for me too while you’re at it.” before Acolyte Tim spurred into action with the bottle of brandy.

Any excuse really for another drink.

And the tried and true gesture, Bishop Bradley’s hand moving through the sequence of the Triance at Iori’s comment of Aetheria’s blessing. True, the Gods and Goddesses had had a lot to do with his not being anywhere near that debacle - but so too had a horse throwing its shoe and needing a replacement been all too convenient. The Church of Faith reinforcements from Primus Gaudo had never come, and so only the Provincial Militia under Provincial General Raliric something or other had actually entered the battle that day.

There was a questioning look though at Iori’s mention of spending spring perhaps within the region. One that was all arched eyebrow and oh? Winter as well?

The dilemma of course being that Bishop Bradley on one hand, really didn’t care for any attention at all thrown his way. Not when the Prelates had been preparing for the next Archprelate and the Cardinal had been one of the prospective candidates. All told, by rights of seniority the Cardinal was a shoe-in - and with it, well, Bishop Tiberium too was bound to find a swift advancement thrown his way. A final reward for a lifetime of (dubious) service.

“Understandable, the Synod of the Prelates has never been a unified faction. Certainly not after all of that Church of the Sacred Three and then the return of Aslangrad and those fanatics to the north on our very doorstep.” with a sigh and another sip of brandy as Tim refilled the glass and then Iori’s too before getting some of the tongs and seeing if Iori wanted some more ice.

Waving the brandy, “The Orodites are simple enough so long as they’re left alone. Touch their funding though and you’ll never hear the end of it. Maj though, their star was certainly rising. From what I heard through the grapevine, they were the ones to uncover our former Archprelate’s body while still cooling. Most grisly stuff. Apparently olive oil was involved.”
 
He might have been a little too eager to hold up his glass for more drinks, but it cannot be denied, he was definitely looking forward to it. On the rocks of course. Quickly Iori downed the last of the melted ice, not wanting to unnecessarily water down the brandy, got his refill, and went for the tongs. "Allow me," he offered to serve the Bishop, before he helped himself. He might be the guest, but still he just wanted to serve as a token gesture of respect towards the Bishop's seniority, in terms of both ranking and age. Call it force of habit. Or maybe it was a tactic, a bit of shoe shining. Or maybe he was just that subservient.

One ice. Two ice. Observant eyes glanced at the Bishop's glass, trying to judge the amount of brandy to ice ratio based on vessel capacity, or perhaps the Bishop can just raise a hand to indicate when to stop? That works too.

That done, he raised his glass as a thank you gesture, and of course the excuse to start sipping away. The Bishop had offered some very interesting notes to ruminate on. The Prelates rivalry and internal Church politics was at this point, part of their culture by now. The Church of the Sacred Three had loomed since he was a boy, with Aslangrad contributing as a recent headache. But fanatics? Pretty vague term. The Church of the Sacred Three was mentioned as a separate reference so it could not be them again. Did he meant the Cult of Borthanas? No, those were heretics. Was he implying The Keepers somehow? Paladins going overzealous now? Or... the Inquisition? Or maybe a latest problem he had not heard of yet, having only reemerge from captivity.

On the subject of the former Archprelate, grisly, said the Bishop. Well, maybe what was grisly to the old man, was not grisly to the young priest. The memory of a certain Tiberium, no relations to the Bishop, was still very raw in mind. The confirmation of the gossip however was hardly a surprise to Iori, who knew too well of the things that happened behind the enclosed cloisters of the Church. Things that do not match the purity and piety image the Church oft presented to the public. Things that could even give the Alitheans a run for their money. No contest with the Temple of Sinful Delights though. They have set the bar very high up the carnal scale, far beyond the definition of... grisly.

"What happens in Diana, stays in Diana" was always the adage, or to keep up with the times, replace the word Diana with Sacrum. So the surprise was how this got spilled out? How embarrassing. What a PR disaster. In a way, it made him wonder if a certain Vox image was leaked out, would it cause the same level of embarrassment?

"Would be painful, if there was no olive oil..." Loooong sip of the drink.

The glass was lowered again from his lips, already half empty/full by now.

"Fanatics to the north?" Quick change of topic, avoid any case of awkward as to any possible query of his knowledge on whatever it is to do with olive oil.
 
A hand raised at the third piece of ice that Iori offered, and giving a bit of a swirl of the cup when it was refilled as the mixture was made just right for alcohol content. Stronger than what was probably appropriate for this time of day, but weak enough that proprietary was maintained when conversing with an unexpected guest. So long as Iori kept drinking anyway, Bishop Bradley was quite content for the excuse to keep going for another glass or two yet before decorum insisted that they call it quits.

Day drinking, night drinking; it was all just drinking to the Bishop. There was truly no need to distinguish between the two and if anything - even separating the concepts by time was the mark of an amateur alcoholic rather than the pro before Iori.

“Ha, if only. I’m sure Zerdargia wishes that they’d remained in Diana.” with a dry chuckle, swishing the brandy about the glass. “The Church Mages did far more damage to the Dwarflands than ever the Shadow Knights did. That they’ve left Dar Havark untouched since the Xet Alliance came says it all; the Prelates know they’d end up breaking the back of the Church trying for another shot at the fell creature.” with a snide look. “Bad for Public Relations having that on the doorstep of the Heartlands of the Imperium, but who knows what would happen if the fortress was prodded anew.”

None liked to consider that the Shadow Knight Dra’Aran might well be able to rip out the heart of the Imperium on a whim. No, better to simply work on the premise that the Aeternian had been nigh bested on the field than test the theory.

There was a look of confusion though from Bishop Bradley, evidently out of the loop when it came to what other purposes olive oil was used for by the Church. “Bit of a slow death though that, always heard olive oil was good for the heart. Had to remove it from all my salads after hearing about that.” as no, the Bishop had had a very different upbringing in the Church than Iori had had. If tangibly corrupt and into the finer things in life - the Bishop hadn’t partaken of the various obscenities that had turned the Church into a parody of what it stood for. That or Tiberium had quite the poker face…

“Oh, Aslanites. Church of Aslan. If you thought the Inquisitors were rough around the edges, these are all porcupines and sea urchins. Nasty bunch of fanatics.”
 
And nothing of further interest was said of the olive oil, other than the Bishop mentioning he wanted it removed from his salads after hearing that it was good for the heart. Looks like somebody was not buying into the whole health fads, or did not love his heart just as he did not love his kidneys. That made Iori raised a brow, but saw no point on lingering on the topic of olive oil usage. After all, what happened to him was a long time ago...

He was ordained at last after two so called 'failed' attempts. And all it took was to agree to the advances of a certain ranked member of significant power and influences. He honestly thought it was a one time deal. Little had he expected that it became a secret liaison of sort. He remembered being brought to his private chateau, looking out from the balcony to see the vineyards, against the beautiful backdrop of green meadow and rolling hills. In those few days, for once in his life he lived like a prince, dining on the choicest cuts of meats, drunk on wine, honey and milk. He could have continued that life. He was promised a villa, with his own vineyards and servants. Promotions will be granted in due time. And all he needed to do, was spread his legs.

He had thought long and hard about the offer. But ultimately made the decision to take the Vow of Celibacy and cut off any further relationships, including that of a girl he loved. Odelia. He completed his degree in Theology. That had not been necessary, for he was already ordained, but he just wanted to shut those who thought he only made it because he was some Bishop's favorite fuck. He will climb the Church's ladder by his own will, and not because he was some whore...

This was a long time ago.

After what he had done, what happened to him, and where he ended up now. Nothing mattered anymore. Was there ever regret, for not taking that offer? Perhaps. But now the former Archprelate's scandal was exposed, the regret had lessened now, knowing that route had also ended in shame and disaster.

Another long sip of the drink. And he was almost done again. He really should pace himself. It may look rude that he was not savoring the spirit properly, or he was trying to consume the Bishop's stash.

"Oh yes, them. I was sent on a Keeper's Mission with High Templar Dego Mernoff as part of the envoy to meet this Archprelate of theirs, Uri... Kytchiak? I think the meeting can be best summarized that there can only be one Archprelate, and obviously both parties are bias to theirs. We suspected they might target us, but we did not think they would have the balls to pull through. Unless they suddenly found the courage... recently?" Them indeed. It had been truly a meeting of mixed reactions, at least for him. On one hand he was loyal to the Church of Faith. On the other, he was always fascinated with tale of the Second Archprelate, Maximillian I. If he was asked who truly led the Church to its full glory, it had to be the Second, who also founded the Church of Aslan? He doubt The Second would have failed in Zerdargia. Speaking which, the Bishop's curious revelation about Dar Havark made him have to finish his drink.

The Tower of Beloved Master Shei'yein. He had been a guest there, and had spent many long darkening in the chambers of the powerful mage, engaging in a game of mental chess while they debated heavily on the topic of faith and Church. He found out that Elder Brother once served too, but have turned away due to philosophical disagreements, choosing benevolence over duty and obedience. And last he recalled, he accidentally killed the Lich that resided there, a certain... Abcrul? The lich's Sceptre was still with him, stowed in the saddle bags of Victoriam.

"Have the Church in Primus Gaudeo received any new news on Dar Havark? This fell creature you mention?" Who indeed was this fell creature the Bishop was referring to.
 
A roll of the eyes there, “Oh yes, the one that professed to be Ioannes favoured upon Telath. Absolute lunatic. Last I heard they’d ended up having to ship him off to an asylum somewhere for safe-keeping.” when it came to Dego Mernoff. True, it was probably just a rumour - public relations and what not. But it was one thing after all for a Priest to profess that the Gods were speaking through oneself as an avatar - and quite another to genuinely believe it.

The former High Templar after all was hardly fit to shine the boots of one such as the Titan of Aslan.

“The problem with fanatics is that even when they go quiet, they never really let up.” whether that was to do with the Templar Mernoff, the Church of Aslangrad or even the past of the Church of the Sacred Three. It remained an ever present issue with those who treated with the Gods and Goddesses.

But the brandy was good, and if one kept one’s head down? The Church was a good a life as any and better than a considerable number of options. Apprenticing as a smith or tanner after all was dreadfully hard work. Even if things could be better, they could also be so much dreadfully worse.

“Nothing since the Shadow Knight attacked Paxia prior to Sunbase Katara wiping the place out completely. Since then the gates remained closed. There were rumours that Ziel Aerca had something to do with the place, but then when the city completely relocated off to the west it was a case of good riddance. Strange doings but it’s not like we ended up with much of a foothold in the city anyway before it was gone.” the Bishop shrugged, dismissive as ever. “The Moonstone name though is bad business. Reeks of prospective rebellion if ever a name did.”
 
Top Bottom