"Why do you hesitate, my child, come forth. There is nothing to fear."

"Fa- Father Illuminator, I have something that I wish to speak of. It is most dire."

An old, wizened man, in golden robes, with white trim raised his eyebrow. "Yes, my dear? What might it be?"

The young woman, a beautiful blonde, who had just made the lowest rank of Illuminator, looked up, with tears in her eyes, lip quivering. "Father Illuminator, I know that this is hard to believe, but... the Inquisition, they..." She choked up, sobbing. "They- they destroyed an entire town. I don't know what they'd done, but surely it wasn't punishable by death, was it?"

The High Illuminator smiled, and raised the young woman's chin, and said, "I'm sorry, my dear."

The girl, confused, sniffled, and said, "Wha-"

BZZZZZZZZZZT. A lance of brilliant energy came from a Holy Armsman, the guard selected directly from the Pantheon for the High Illuminator. In his arms, he held a sacred relic, given to the priests directly from the gods themselves. It pierced the woman's chest, and passed through, the spark leaving her eyes, a look of terror and betrayal in them. The High Illuminator smiled, and said, "I'm sorry I had to do that. Wouldn't do if you knew too much, now would you?"
Anyone with ties to the Church would notice the disappearance of a First Light Barbara Kenias, especially if they were in Primum.





The streets were packed but clean, as usual. Everything was springtime and roses, the factories were humming, the offices were buzzing, and the people were practically singing and dancing in the streets. It made Benji Novak sick. Why couldn't people see what the Church was doing to everyone? That beneath this saccharine-sweet outside, that no one was willing to pass Shatter Alley at night? That if anyone looked into what the Inquisition was doing in the Grand Manufactory, they'd take a trip off the cliffs? He shook his head. No, part of the responsibility of having this kind of information was pretending to not know. Picking up a flyer on a barrel, he examined it. It was that cocksure fool on the cliff's work, what was his name... Strong. Yes, that... propagandist who worked for the Resistance. Benji didn't quite see how propaganda would accomplish anything. The truth in its pure, undefiled form was enough.

However, he was not here to contemplate the campaign against the Church. The Novak family had done well to keep their hands clean, even if they were the suppliers of weapons for half the Resistance. He was there to pick up some information, for the project that had the Research Wing abuzz. His contact was a machinist, who specialized in Landwalker engines. He was able to create a prototype for the-

BANG.

A bullet, fired from a rifled barrel, about a kilometer away, penetrated the man's face, right between the eyes. The sudden murder in the streets stopped the movement of the normally bustling people, until a woman screamed. Then, all hell broke loose.

About a half hour later...
Several Inquisitors, the type that would normally serve as a sort of police force, were gathered around the body with note pads. Such a public murder hadn't happened for years, and on such an important figure, they were barely prepared to investigate. The most they could do was tag the body with a black piece of paper, tied to his finger, and carry the corpse, covered in a sheet, on a stretcher, to the morgue. The whole city had heard by now, but anyone with ties to the Novak family or Church would've discovered it first.

Talia's expression was uncharacteristically dour. She hadn't known Benji, not well at least. She had talked with him briefly, passed him in the halls and at the water cooler, but never really known the man. He was well above her pay grade, as were the rest of the Family proper. That did not mean that she was not sad for his passing. Her heart was still heavy with the news of his death, and so her usual precocious mirth was masked with stone-walled determination.

She hated to admit it, but her usual sunny disposition was marred also by the fact that his death had brought a great deal of very likely incredibly dangerous work to her doorstep, time-senstive and almost certain to tread on the toes of not only the Church, but the resistance and very likely other Novaks. She was the premier marksman in the Novak's employ, and was apparently thought resourceful and trustworthy enough to be worthy of being given the green light to surreptitiously investigate Benji's murder.

It was because of this assignment that she found herself atop a dingy apartment building looking for any evidence of the murder, dragging pieces of indicator paper along every serviceable perch looking for powder burns, her eyes scanning for anything out of place. She had no real solid idea where the shot came from. The faintness of the sound, coupled with the size and shape of the entry wound, suggested a long distance, an unrealistic distance with any civilian-accessible weapon. The rifles Talia could reasonably get her hands, even with her connections, would be reliably accurate out to seven, maybe seven and a half hundred meters. From the reports she had managed to acquire, the shot most likely came from further than a kilometer, a ridiculous shot by any metric. This fortunately narrowed down the list of suspects, but it did not help as much as she would like. Her chief suspect would need unimpeachable evidence to accuse, and so she found herself trying to find the exact place the shot came from.

She had begun talking to locals, trying to discern from whereabouts the shot came, and she had not managed to narrow it down to any considerable degree. Throwing her inconclusive test paper to the floor, she fumed as she walked down the fourteen stories of steep steps, adjusting her coat and nervously keeping one hand on her revolver as she made her way out onto the street and towards the next potential firing location.

It had been a tiresome morning, but beautiful. The weather had been particularly compatible as Cassius had gone about her morning chores in the small chapel on the outskirts of Primum. The service that morning had been quiet, consisting mostly of rural inhabitants that could afford to take the time in the morning to walk to the small, but humble building. Cassius liked it that way, being ordained in the relatively insignificant place of worship. It meant she knew the church goers as regulars. She spoke to them daily, celebrated in their joys and absolved their confessions. There were opportunities to rise further in the church, but she strangely liked it the way it was.

Her wandering tendencies had made her a great candidate for traveling to many of the other smaller communities and farmsteads across the land, and she had been known, on occasion, to travel with members of the inquisition on some minor authorities. She wasn't the most important addition to the church, but she held her own fairly comfortably.

She was just leaving one of the back rooms, a bundle of freshly scripted tomes in hand. They had just finished drying the previous night - Cassius remember penning the last few words, each one a piece of art. There were certainly presses abound to cover this kind of work, but she found she had an affinity for the flair of a well done, hand bound tome. Along with her bundle was an assortment of documents and records that needed to be taken further into the city to deliver to the head church that hosted most of the officials as it was.

That was the extent of her day, to go in and take care of some generic record keeping. It wasn’t going to amount to exciting work, isolating herself within the catacombs of the church, but she was honoured to be a part of the whole process. She too, was looking forward to brushing elbows with Barbara Kenias, a woman she had instinctively grown to like. In the brief few times she had been able to have a good conversation with the other, she had felt a true kinship with the female and was looking forward to immersing herself more into the church, and with the great, shining lights of individuals it hosted.

“I’ll be back later today, Martin,” she called out to one of the other clerics as she passed by then, tipping her head in acknowledgement and receiving a wave and a parting farewell in kind. With that settled, she started on her trek into the inner city, greeting most passerby’s as she went, as in this area of the population, Cassius was no stranger to the followers of the church.

Tea, brewed with a dash of saffron to , a pinch of cinnamon and thimble of milk to even out the bitterness. For Larson this was the favorite cup. A cup of it one of the few luxuries he allowed himself throughout the day.

Larson was resting in his study, a relatively spartan room with only a simple but sturdy oak table, and chair. As he soaked in the aroma of the tea he continued to contemplate over the state of the city. He was feeling restless, even uneasy. It may be just his usual paranoia, or it could be his instinct warning him of Something. Larson knew that there were storm clouds that were building, tension rising throughout the land. Like the tightening of springs, the big players were all raising the bar of their activities. Soon enough all hell would break loose. Larson merely hoped to be close enough to capitalize on the ensuing storm.

The door behind him creaked open, catching his attention. However he recognized the soft footsteps that followed, it was none other than Miles. The small cherubic man daintily made his way to Larson's side. Dressed in a sombre white shirt and black trousers he melded into the simple spartan style that saturated Larson's private quarters, with its similarly whitewashed unadorned walls.

"Good Afternoon Sir, although it displeases me to disturb at your time of leisure, there is a matter of utmost import I must share with you" said Miles, in his usual soft spoken manner.

Larson sighed, "Of Course Miles, quite all right, tell me what is it" he said, secretly hoping it wasn't yet another bounty plastered onto the condor. These bounty hunters were getting quite annoying. Although he had already taken precautionary measured and laid out several convoluted false trails and dead ends. There were always those that too smart for their own good.

"One of your informants left a note at the usual place, though it wasn't really necessary the news has spread like wildfire... Benji Novak has been assassinated" he said, the weight of the matter at odds with his matter of fact tone.

“ What!” exclaimed Larson “Benji Novak killed?! This is the storm my gut has been feeling all this time, it has to be! Details man, details” he said, his cup of tea long forgotten.

“It seems that he was shot this afternoon, sniper fire, apart from that the details are unclear. I’m afraid the news has distorted somewhat by the time it reached here” said Miles.

“Its there is nothing else to do about, It is time to investigate.” Larson needed to know got this job, there were few who had the stomach to take on the Novak’s. Fewer with such great skill. He also was a tad envious he hadn’t received the job.

“Its time to go to the dressing room, I think, a clerk perhaps” said Larson.

“A fine choice sir, I will have it prepared”

~ Sometime later ~

Larson Walked through the crowd, blending in, this time as a simple clerk perhaps on some daily errand. However making sure to look natural he made his way to the place of crime. From as far as he could tell of the place it was nothing too spectacular.

He surveyed the scene, but there was little information it could offer. If he had the chance to see how the body fell, Larson would have been able to pick out the general heading of the shot. Still there was other things he could do, after all there was always other ways of getting information.

Looking around, he spotted a group of street kids huddled into a corner, the rags they wore told him they lived on the streets. Often invisible to most people it was sometimes surprising how much people let slip around them. Larson knew this from personal experience. A long time ago he had been one of them.

He walked over to them, and grabbed a slight boy by the arm, before all of them had a chance to slink away. “ Now I need some info about what happened here, I’m hoping you know a thing or two. If I like what you tell me, Maybe you’ll leave with copper or three. What do you say boy?” he asked

The nervous bearing of the woman, coupled by her large revolver, and her questions about some kind of gunshot spread throughout the apartment building like wildfire. When the Inquisition Footmen would come by later, they would get her description, a short woman with even shorter hair, who was well-muscled, and could possibly be the shooter of Benji Novak. However, this knowledge would not effect her for several more hours, so she went unhindered about her business. When she reached the next apartment building, there was a commotion on the first level. A burly man was pounding on the door to an apartment, yelling at someone to come out.

If Talia entered, she would see the machinist that Benji was going to meet, Jameson, a man commonly seen in the R&D section of the Novak mansion. He had a halo of frizzy white hair, which had tufts flying all around his head, and a pair of goggles commonly found in workshops on his head. He apparently recognized her, and ran towards her, grabbing her by the shoulders, pulling her inside, and locking the door behind them. In a hushed voice, he said, "Talia, was it? I've seen you at the Manor. No time for pleasantries, though. I- I think that whoever killed Ben, he-he's after me." Voice shaking, he pleaded, "Don't let them get me, too! I can- can't end up like poor Ben!"





Up on the roof of the building, Daniel was alone, the chill wind blowing. The sketch would have consisted of the Inquisitors standing around the bodybag, barring anyone from entry, as several higher-ups examined the body. The picture could go either way, in terms of propaganda. It could convince the people that the Church just murdered someone, and was trying to cover up the evidence. The other thing that he needed to consider was that it might convince them that the Inquisitors were doing a fine job, and working hard to find out the murderer.

If he went to the Resistance's Propaganda Division afterward, he would've shimmied back down the pipe, and headed down the street to the market, but veered sharply right on a barely-used street, about three blocks from the marketplace where Benji was shot, that probably counted more as an alley, rather than a street. A two-story house was the only occupied building here, and a light shone from the upstairs window, even though it was heavily boarded and shuttered. The door was locked and barred, surprisingly secure, for a supposedly abandoned building, but Daniel had a key. Inside, there was a printing press, with desks scattered about the room, and papers strewn about. About half the desks were occupied with several men, hard at work, scribbling out leaflets, articles, and even an underground newspaper. The stairs to the second level were in the back corner, and upstairs, there would be a gaslamp-lit room, with an editing table in the middle, chairs set around it.





As she passed an outdoor fountain with a statue of Chrysos, winged god of prosperity, another cleric, dressed in slightly brighter robes than her, hurried to her. Her name was Carina Gellantara, and she had made First Light, around the same time as Barbara. She was a dark-skinned woman, with beautiful curled hair, brought back into a ponytail. Her eyes were lined with golden kohl, painted in an intricate pattern, a marking of her service to the goddess Ar, lady of light. Most clerics were just representatives of the Pantheon in general, like Cassius, but a few felt called to serve a god or goddess in particular, like Carina.

As she reached Cassius, she hugged her tightly smiling, and said with a quizzical look, "Hey, have you seen Barbara? She didn't come to the morning service today. I know that you don't spend much time up at the Temples, but did she come this way, or something like that? I'd like to know if anything's wrong." The morning service wasn't required for First Lights, but it was highly unusual that one would miss it, especially Barbara, who was quite devout. Frowning, Carina said, "I have to go to my goddess' Temple, and perform afternoon rites, but after that, I'll be free to look. How about you? You open anytime today?"





The street kids began to scatter, until they saw that this... vulture-like man had a tight hold on their boy, Adam. Taking an aggressive stance, they tried to look tough, even though they saw that the man dressed like a clerk had well-defined muscles, even if he was quite lanky. "Yeah? Well, let Adam go first, and we might tell ya." The leader of the group spoke up, arms crossed.

If Larson let go, the olive-skinned boy pushed Adam behind him, making sure that the dark man couldn't touch his 'brother'. "Well, y'see, that clock tower over there? There was a flash of light, from the top. Then, we heard the BANG, and the fancy-pants over there bought it." He said this with a morbid grin, miming a gun against his temple firing, and then held out his hand. "Now the money." As soon as he got it, or if Larson refused to give it to him, he would say, "Let's split, boys!" And then the entire gang would scatter, running to an alley which counted barely as a crack in the wall. Whatever Larson had decided to do, he would be stopped by an Inquisitor's tap on his shoulder. A thick, heavyset man, his ebony skin, which was even darker than Larson's, was barely visible under his goggled helm.

"Might I ask what you were saying to those boys, sir?" He was clearly worried for the boys' well-being, and regarded Larson with suspicion. There were several.. weirdos that hung around here, this late in the evening.

Talia recognized the man, having seen him on occasion. He too was above her pay grade, but at least somewhat closer than Benji had been. She was ready to greet him, ask about the man making noise down the hall. What she was not ready for was being charged at and grabbed, nor was she ready to be pulled into an apartment. It was a testament to her unease that her hand found itself on her pistol before she had time to think. She managed to not shoot the man, and allowed herself to be led into a room, despite her trepidation.

A handful of japes about their situation flashed through her mind, but she at least knew that now was neither the time nor the place, and simply waited to be talked at, hungry to learn what was going. She heard what he had to say, and responded calmly, adrenaline tickling the corners of her senses as she started to see a gunfight, or at least a footrace, in her future. She spoke in measured tones, trying to calm the man down by acting cool and in control. She honestly had no idea if it would work, but it seemed like something a serial heroine would do.

"Slow down, slow down. Deep breath. You know a man killed Mr. Novak? How do you know someone is coming to kill you? Do you know why they want you dead too, or why they killed Mr. Novak? Is that big fuck down the hall the one you think's after you?" She stopped her barrage of questions, waiting for him to respond and placing what was hopefully a reassuring hand on his shoulder, trying to make him think that everything would be fine.

After he got a firm hold of the boy, it didn’t take long for their leader to show himself. The streets were strange like that, at first a place of weakling and cornered animals, but at a second glance, you could find strength. The boys would have scattered faster than blink of an eye if he had not trapped one of their own.

The leader postured, setting his back straight and jutting his jaw, arms crossed in rebellion. Larson merely looked down at the boy from under his glasses. Then with a sneer he let the boy go, a show of trust on his behalf. With this the deal was sealed, now all that remained was to listen carefully.

The leader quickly took Larson’s ‘captive’ and hid the boy behind himself. A paltry effort, but admirable in some senses. “Let me hear something good” said Larson, as he palmed a few coins and deftly played them between his fingers. “and these are your’s”

The leader eyed the coins hungrily, Larson could see the two
forces of greed and fear play across the boy’s face. Children were so transparent sometimes. Eventually greed would win out, and with a small gulp the leader would speak.

"Well, y'see, that clock tower over there? There was a flash of light, from the top. Then, we heard the BANG, and the fancy-pants over there bought it." He said.

“Is that so” said Larson, flinging the coins in the boys’ direction. As the children scattered, Larson turned and began to walk away. His fingers were happily drumming on his side, if this intel panned out, Larson would be several steps closer to the identity of the assassin. The clock tower was about a kilometer away from the kill zone. It would take considerable skill to mark a target from that distance. Whoever this player was, he must have been quite expensive.

As Larson was about to make his way to the Clock Tower, he stopped by an Inquisitor. Immediately Larson had a subtle shift in persona, years of training setting in by reflex. He bowed his shoulders and hunched his back, several other small shifts in his demeanor. As he turned around to face the man, Larson looked like a proper clerk, complete with a meek smile, and the hunched over posture of a man who spent far too much time scribbling on paper hunched over a desk.

“Oh, I was merely enquiring if any of those boys had seen my wallet. I seem to have lost it on my way to the tailors. Ha ha, but seeing how absent minded I am at time, it could well be inside my drawer” he said.