The Temple of Summanus

[Mesteno]

October 28th, 2014


“The Hell are the Watch doing here?”

It was early evening, and four of Rhy’Din’s constabulary were gathered about the entrance to the Temple of Summanus, one of the acolytes talking to them in earnest.

The presence of law enforcement (laughable though many considered it) in the Temple District was not at all so marked as it was in the slums or down at the docks. It was almost as if they trusted the various religious orders to police the area in their stead. Or, some mused, because they didn’t want to tangle with such a volatile mix of magic users, imbued with the gifts of the Gods they worshipped.

Seeing them had drawn something of a crowd, and the sidewalks were congested with devotees curious enough to dawdle on their way to prayer. Mesteno on the other hand had withdrawn on first sighting them, into the mouth of an alley where the shadow fell thickly enough for concealment.

His companion, Tarquin, straightened the thick sleeve of his woollen coat where Mesteno had tugged him along, unconcerned by the presence of the Watch, and suspicious of the necromancer’s sudden desire to remain unseen. Handsome in a troubled, delicate fashion, and of an age with the redhead, he wore the same robes beneath his coat as the acolyte talking to the Watch.

“They’re investigating a murder,” Tarquin replied, glancing past Mesteno without any obvious concern.

“Whose?”

“One of the sheep. I don’t really take the time to learn their names. They tend to get disillusioned after a while; no real faith.”

Grunting mild displeasure at Tarquin’s dismissive attitude towards the incident, and finding the term he applied to the blood givers at the temple distasteful, Mesteno watched the Watchmen. Murder was not uncommon in Rhy’Din, but his name was not unknown to various precincts, and should they learn he’d been employed by the Temple he wasn’t certain they’d ignore his presence. In fact it was more than likely they’d find some excuse to investigate him.

“You guys get much trouble with this kind of thing? Vendettas? Zealots from other religions protestin’ your worship?” he asked Tarquin, whom he saw was inching past him as if impatient to head right into the throng. Frowning, he stretched an arm out to block his way and press him back.

“No more than any other. Dark Lord save me-- Mesteno you’ll make me late for service. Why’re you being so cautious?”

Naturally, it was a question to be danced around. “Any other trouble recently that might be connected to it?”

Sighing in exasperation, Tarquin gestured helplessly as if trying to invoke the aid of a higher power to see Mesteno moved along. “No,” he replied emphatically. “So many questions. Perhaps you should have become a detective if this tiresome sort of business intrigues you that much.”

“I would’ve thought it’d be in your interests to at least pretend you cared about the people you lure in to spill their blood for you,” the necromancer retorted sharply. “You might find fewer come forward to indulge their morbid fantasies if word gets around there’s been a murder connected to the Temple.”

“A temporary drought,” the acolyte shrugged. “Time serves to dim the memory. There will always be more. New arrivals who haven’t heard. People chasing the risk and thrill…”

The Watch seemed to have heard all that was needed from their informant at the temple doors. They were moving unhurried through the parting throng, and the audience, amidst murmurs of supposition and cautious back-glances, continued on their paths, leaving the area clear as if something repellent were in the air.

“You know, I recall the last time we ran out. Around the time of that Christian celebration. What was it called? Esther?”

“Easter,” Mesteno corrected absently, attempting to identify the Watchmen in case any were familiar.

“Yes, they always seem to draw a crowd then. We had no offerings to make, and so you spilled your own blood. So much more potent.” Tarquin drew nearer, a palm lifting to rest lightly on Mesteno’s shoulder. “I wouldn’t mind much if a repeat performance were necessary. In fact I suspect the results would be far more satisfying for the congregation.”

A half-hearted shrug failed to dislodge the acolyte’s fingers. If anything they tightened as if determined to draw attention from what went on in the street.

“You know there are ways to perform blood rituals that enhance them,” Tarquin murmured, somewhere in the vicinity of his ear. “There was a female necromancer who used to attend the temple several years ago, and she’d incorporate a baser sort of energy by coupli--.”

Mesteno’s palm had moved too quickly for Tarquin to react. A snake might have seemed slow by comparison. One moment, the acolyte was imposing upon his personal space, the next he’d sent him viciously rocketing into the opposite wall of the alley.

“Don’t ever talk to me ‘bout shit like that again,” Mesteno told him bluntly, taking no heed of the startled sound the impact had knocked from the other man’s chest.

Tarquin, grey-green eyes wide with alarm, focus fixed on the pointing hand which’d knocked him flying so easily, managed a shell-shocked nod. He stayed put as if he’d been glued to the wall, waiting some prompt that might indicate he could move again without risk of violence.

Sneering displeasure, Mesteno turned his back on the cowering man, and strode out of the alley towards the temple, not bothering to check if Tarquin followed. His thoughts had already slipped back to the murder investigation, and even if the acolyte hadn’t been interested, he knew that the other ‘sheep’ would be.

Now if he could only get access to their pens...