Name: Father Boris Vladivosi

Age: 19

Height/Weight: 5'8 240ish lbs

Race: Varyan

Appearance:


A younger appearance of the face claim, with smoother skin. He has extremely grey eyes, only a touch of the natural Varyan blue in there. Darker blonde hair (now a brown shade), which is curly when it is at a medium and longer length, but it is normally cut shorter. He cuts his facial hair regularly, and normally will carry a kit to keep himself groomed well. There are not many markings on his face or skin, if bathing becomes hard to do, the skin around his hair line will break out horribly with blemishes, as well as under his chin going down to the left side of his neck. Besides that, he is an average looking fellow. The only part of him that could be seen as usually marked would be his hands, which seem aged compared to the rest of his body due to constant use, and can sometimes even smell of burnt flesh.

Personality: Stout, and hearty, Boris is a strong willed man whom is a fighter and survivalists. He fights to the bloody end, and will make sure those behind him have a chance to survive. But he is a guardian of sorts, when he was younger he might have just been a healer, but due to circumstances, he has become a good leader, and strong warrior like those around him. He is straightforward, and prefers weapons such as a rifle with bayonet, or a good sword and side firearm such as a revolver or pistol. He is more likely to bulk up with extra clothing, and use anything around him to survive. He follows the path given to him, and is as devout as possible, but life as an entirety is worth saving. His personal interests are more or less to bring the intellectual gifts from the all-mighty, such as guns and technology into the church.

He is honestly more suited for clergy or craftsman kind of work, but he is a strong and brave soul. He cooks, cleans, does menial tasks, he's pretty much a personal and mobile butler. If not tending to someone, or trying to keep someone sane, he can be found doing any of these tasks with great importance, making sure everything is in check and will stress until it is. He is also quick to adapt, he is not the brightest, but innocence may be the saving grace to those around him. But, he does not like to kill any being in a melee, but will if it is life and death.


Background: Born to a family whom had already had enough children, he was somewhat neglected as he wasn't let out of the house much. His family how ever was somewhat successful, good trades and craft men. The young Boris, would be saved from infanticide by morality, but would be kept in the dark. Left as something like Genie, he was not taught much in the way of culture, mainly by one of his younger sisters, the one who would feed him.

While in his captivity, he would mainly be used as manual labor behind the scenes of his parents shop, his mother teaching him to cook, and do menial tasks such as cutting open and harvest animals. When not doing this, he was being forced to lift the heaviest items while his father or one of his brothers fixed it to where it needed to be in their arts. He was fed extremely well as grew quickly because of that, only really being kept in check by being fed and not having much knowledge about the world outside of his home.

At the age of ten he was able to see the bright sky for one of the first times, it was in a fenced in and he was mainly moving completed furniture and machinery. During this moment, he was approached by a frequent customer someone who was apart of the Divine Order and someone who would later take pity on him. Several days later, he decided to run away to become a priest.

When arriving at the doorsteps, he was tested and judged to see if he was even applicable to be of any service, but since he was able to heal and was somewhat receptive to learning. He was taken under for at least a basic education, excelling at mathematical skills over any cultural aspect and making sure he was devout at least.

He was then given as a mentee to Father Lenistan in the divine order, someone he had met before whom purchased things from his family's shop before. His mentor would train him further in mathematics and sciences, as well as his abilities . Learning potential was present, which is why his training was progressed further. Maybe if he was more accustomed to social life in the past, he could be something great. With his mentor, he thrived very well compared to his previous life, he was able to learn and grow in his abilities and classes. His mentor helped him hone his healing and allowed him to learn some magic beside his ability to heal. But priorities would go to his academics.


Talents/Ethereal Abilities:
Non-Magical :

Naturally hearty - an abomination of his family he is a bulky man with many physical abilities of his own. His strength is immense, and he heals quickly if injured physically, and can stand illness better then most. But he requires a lot of food compared to most men, but he has the strength and agility to haul enough for him for a month with a good sled or cart. If he becomes ill, it could be a death sentence for him as well.

Survivalist - he adapts quickly to the environment around him, as well as skills he learned as a child such as cooking, helping his mother shop in market places, and watching his family create and build around him. He knows how to make shelter, find good things to eat, and how to hunt. He is a good person to have if lost, or stranded.

Magical :

Ether hearth - A touch healing, it can heal most physical wounds, and some aliments. It even warms the body some and can be a pain relief if the individual dying due to a stronger aliment or plague. It doesn't hurt being touched by him and can even feel soothing at times, specially out in the cold.

Light of the Holy - his palms are the conduit of light and heat. When extended forward from a hand of his, a ray of burning light strikes what ever it touches, cooking flesh and leaving ash upon any surface it touches. When controlled in his hands, it can be used as a source of heat and light, but it can burn him if it gets too heated. With his staff, he is able to project the light at a further distance, and the heat some distance further but not much. Range - 25 ft w/hand - 50 ft w/staff for damaging effects

Personal Seal:


Personal Staff :


Weapons of choice :
Rifle - bolt action rifle 8mm similar the early K98 used in the first world war, it has a foot long bayonet which can also be used as a short epee on its own.

or

A handgun and sword - he typically does have a full length long sword, but the handgun can vary on supply and availability.

Character Relationships: Mentor - Father Lenistan

Born Artisan: While no legendary artisan, his parents teachings, training, and his own forays into tinkering with guns and late nights spent stitching and devising creative ways to hide pens and quills on his person have made him an adept craftsman. He's even begun altering his armor and uniform by adding pockets, patches, scabbards, and even holsters, all hidden from sight. He's handy as a gunsmith even, crafted his own pistols and will be adept at managing the guns of his crew.

Marksman: Growing up in the respected gunsmith came with an obligation to know how to shoot, going into the Inquisition further galvanized this desire. His obsessive personality made becoming efficient, even damn good at this particular skill made it a matter of time.

Low Intensity:

Telekinesis: A master at this spell through intense practice and the every day application for years. He lacks real strength with this spell yes, but his finesse and fine manipulation has proven quite something to see. He can manipulate several objects at once with perfect precision.

Concussive Ether: No finesse, and all power, this is a simple blast of ether used more to push someone away than to outright harm them.

Molecular Cipher: By gently enveloping an object in ether, Dmitri can discern the elements and properties of said object. When focusing on complex machinery, he can discern its parts, how they work, and the like. It's partly what makes his tinkering so effective.

Medium Intensity:
Discerning Eye: Practice, study, and a gift for manipulating ether has developed a unique skill in Dmitri. Upon seeing someone using unique forms of ether, he can mimic these applications through sight alone, though not as powerful or effectively as the originator.

Metallic Anchor: A specialized telekinetic spell that "anchors" ten metal shards to Dmitri's ether signature, making it so he can use them alone. He can manipulate them with his usual precision but the anchor is very difficult to break. What makes this so unique is he can sense where they are, feel them in a way.

Sealed Shield: A shield spell he devised by using slips of paper to form a seal. Powerful enough to dead stop bullets from most guns and most spells. Incredibly powerful, the key is the five slips of paper that form the shield, destroy any one of these and the spell not only fails but backfires in a concussive blast that makes a grenade look like a firecracker.

High Intensity:

Fractured Mind: Dmitri isn't sure if this a psychotic break born of his mind starting to unravel, or an effect of the ether he's constantly experimenting with, with some focus Dmitri can split his mind. In doing this each piece- lets call them minor minds- are able to focus on a single task, a train of thought. For instance one minor mind will control the body, movement and such, another will control when and where and what certain spells will do, the third will work up strategy. Each minor mind can communicate with its siblings, and each is Dmitri every sense of the word. His mind is oddly quiet, content when he activates this ability but the ethereal burnout is devastating is he stays in this state for too long.

Character Name: Father Solim Vimat

Age: 19

Height/Weight: 5’10” (178 cm)/160 lbs (73 kg)

Gender: Male

Race: Omestrian

Physical Description:

The most striking thing about Solim are his light amber eyes. Aside from their irregular chroma, they can at times elicit emotion that doesn’t require words. His lanky build and gaunt facial features are accentuated by taut, brown skin. Save the clean shaven face, his entire body is covered in scars. The sandy brown hair on his head is long and curly on top, and kept shaved close to the skin at the sides. While his eyes are clear identifiers of his ethnic background, the turbaned cloak he dons over his Inquisitor uniform punctuates it rather boldly. This garment matches his outfit’s black and red color scheme, symbolizing the union between Lord Vayra and Omestris.

The more traditional version is only worn off duty. The patterns and choice colors symbolize many things: The base, parchment color represents the white sands of the afterlife, with the layered blues and reds signifying the ancient battle between fire and ice. Lastly, the waves patterned from the left shoulder and down, is water that trickles to The Left Hand, an homage to the Omestrian-Vimat tribe’s beliefs. The beads stringed from the collar are a representation of Solim’s family tree. The string of beads and trinkets snaking around the turban piece, represent his life’s journey up to this point.

The garment worn with the inquisitor uniform is simpler by comparison. It isn’t accessorized with beads and trinkets, or intricately patterned, like the traditional version. Its basic design matches the uniform with its black base color, mildly accentuated by a red trim. The front side of the turbaned cloak is kept draped away, making his inquisitor attire more visible, and identifying him as a proper authority.

Personality:

Neither the icy hell of our world, nor the cruelty of man like The Great Bear himself, can dilute the kindness in Solim's heart. He is a lantern in the void that burns with spirit, curiosity, and child-like wonder. Unlike the truth seekers and pursuers of knowledge spurred by status or elitism, Solim is motivated by simply absorbing, analyzing, and reflecting all things within the ether.

Yet, underneath all of his zen-like sanctity exists a fun-loving goofball. A good prank or two (or three) is never beneath him, befitting of a humble (if not peculiar) mystic, one who’d never claim to be holier-than-thou (unless it’s on the topic of making animal sounds, for which he is the self-proclaimed, undisputed master).

Solim is passable when socializing within the Inquisition hierarchy. His genuine charm can be mistaken for ignorance or cultural misunderstanding, and his peculiar ether gifts, though useful, tends to keep cohorts at arm's length. Despite the reservations his peers and colleagues might have, Solim's ability as a teammate within the Goliath Warband is recognized as a valuable asset.

He is guided by an open minded belief system, one that is adopted from an old philosophy of his origin tribe. He acknowledges Lord Vayra as a deity, but viewed more as an integral piece in the grander picture. While this is can be debated as a heretical way of thinking, Solim doesn’t believe another figure is higher in authority. It is a nebulous loop hole that the church doesn’t bother exploiting, mostly because of his asset value within the Inquisition, further vouched for by the likes of Father Gregoroth and Father Antonin.

Background:

My people, disenfranchised and shackled, are the life force of this world; A drop of our blood grants reprieve from the endless cold, a vaccination to sustain life. They say we our tainted, an abomination, yet the ancient feud that gave us our cursed blood is what turns civilization’s wheel. Whether as slaves or lab rats, our free will is dust at the feet of our ancestors, dust to which you use to keep warm at night. I speak on this so that you may understand an Omestrian’s pain, anger, and frustration, but to also understand that he is not like us. In fact, he is not like us in many ways, but at the same time, he represents the very best of us. How this came to be, I will never understand - not with what he’s been through, how he’s suffered.

He was birthed from the commune breeding pools of a T’sarae research facility. His mother cried as he cooed in peace, then quickly sang one song, and one song only. When she finished, they pried her away from her seed. She tried to kiss his forehead as they did, but they yanked her away before she had the chance. So she prayed for their reunion in the afterlife, said her last good byes, then disappeared to the breeding camps, never to be seen again.

The child was meant to be a battery, hooked to T’sarae devices that powered steam experiments and nothing more. Yet, the ether called to him in ways not seen before. Drawn to its many frequencies, the boy could sense when someone overflowed with ether, or was on their very last drops. The T’sarae lab coats jumped at this opportunity and made him their bloodhound; a child on a leash, searching for test subjects with high ether potential. Through trial-and-error, one which I do not have the heart to detail, the T’sarae soon discovered that the bloodhound can also absorb and redistribute ether to another source. Again, hooked to devices like a piece of the cog’s machinery, made to fulfill... research quotas. And when that piece malfunctioned, damaging precious T’sarae research beyond repair, the bloodhound was scheduled to be put down.

I couldn't let this happen. He was loved, not just by me, or the prisoners, but by some of our T’sarae captors as well. Despite the treatment he received, the boy’s kindness never waned. It was like he saw through us, no, saw deep inside of us, and found something worth the warmth and affection he gave so willingly. In a bleak prison camp, the boy reminded us of something we’ve all forgotten about: Happiness...The boy was too special...pure...and he had to be protected, no matter the cost.

So we staged a coup.

The boy slipped away with one of the T’sarae as we rioted. She housed him for a short time, preparing his documents for the Red Seminary, where he eventually joined the Goliath Warband. There was much concern about this. Their Warleader, Father Gregoroth, is known to be a sadistic man. It pained me that he wouldn’t have peace like I hoped, but I knew he would be okay. The boy survived far worse things than a man claiming to be some Great Bear. Earning the respect of someone like him speaks volumes. Even the White Necromancer has taken him under his wing, who no doubt guides his path along the ether.

The boy eventually became an investigator. I believe this a more fancier title than bloodhound, though instead of a leash, he now wears a black and red uniform. The T’sarae woman who aided in his escape tells me he’s doing well, solving puzzles the Vayra otherwise scratched their heads at. This fills me with pride. To know that he’s risen to such a status is one thing, but the true joy that overwhelms my heart is that he is given a name. Solim Vimat.

This....this brings tears of happiness, because it is the native name we gave him in secret. Solim, the peaceful, and Vimat, the tribe of my people.

I will die in peace knowing he carries on our legacy, free from this wretched place. My son, if you ever find this, know that your mother and I will embrace you again. We will walk together, hand-in-hand, across the white oasis, and etch our footprints into eternity. All that I ask is that you never forget who you are, and where you come from...

- OV

Talents:

• Gift of Gab: Solim has the ability to speak with confidence, to the point of persuasion. Part of what makes him effective is that he also has good listening skills, and knows how to make people feel welcomed.
• Close Quarter Disarmament: This is a skill he learned under the brutal tutelage of Father Gregoroth. While not great with firearms, or even melee weapons that aren't pole arms or staffs, Solim is a wizard when it comes to redirecting and neutralizing an attacker's momentum in close quarters.
• Animal Onomatopoeia: Making animal sounds is an odd skill that Solim takes pride in. He mainly uses it as a distraction, or a clever signal to communicate to his Warband on the field. It also makes for a very amusing sound effect for storytelling.

Ethereal Abilities:

• The Ether's Guide: Solim hears, sees, smells, and touches varying wavelengths across the ethereal spectrum; interpreting the residual ether of an ability used in an area, the lingering essence of the dead, or the quantity of ether a person has, to name a few. The ether itself has been known to speak to him, though it isn't made clear as to whether that is his interpretation, or if he's actually interacting with ghostly apparitions.
• Fortress of the Mind: Through deep meditation, he can visualize the finer details of the ether he interprets with his senses. This brings much clarity as he's able to organize the clutter of energies the world gives off. On rare occasions, he can meld with others who are open minded to the experience. By joining hands in meditation he can emit what he visualizes into their thoughts.
• The Ether Phantom: During his meditative state, he can transcend his body in the form of an astral projection. In this form he is even more susceptible to the ether around him, and can even roam within a 100 yard radius uninhibited by physical walls or obstacles. However, he can only be an observer in this form, and cannot manipulate anything in the physical realm while in this state.
• The Funnel: Residual ether that lingers in the environment can be absorbed to refortify another person's abilities, amplifying their powers for a short time. This is an unstable ability best used as a last resort. The after effects can place harm on both Solim, and whoever he funnels ether to.

Personal Seal:



Character Relationships:

Mother Indira: For better or worse, Indira assisted with Solim’s transition into the Red Seminary. In the beginning, Solim was obedient. He absorbed most of her strict instruction without fail, but proved to be a slippery slope when it came to complete Vayra subjugation, and suppressing his Omestrian heritage. This wasn’t driven by rebelliousness, or oppressed anger; Solim’s motivations were based entirely on a pacifist’s view, one that focused on the grander scheme of things. This became a source of conflict she couldn’t rein in. And when Father Gregoroth and Father Antonin started granting him leniencies, Solim’s relationship with Mother Indira quickly went from sour, to hostile. He openly represents his heritage by wearing traditional garbs in public, even with an Inquisitor uniform on. Because of this, Indira views Solim as a selfish fool, one who puts other Omestrians at risk by bringing attention onto himself. This is a growing dilemma for her Omestrian students, who have a hard time figuring out their own identity within the Seminary. Indira regrets ever helping Solim, and goes to great lengths to disassociate herself from him. Solim is saddened by their fallout, but while he understands her views, he cannot go against his spirit and change who he is.

Father Antonin: Solim owes a great deal to Antonin, a man who nurtured his development, and truly cared for his wellbeing. The two shared an affinity with the ether that most couldn’t understand, and it opened up realms of learning between master and apprentice. Antonin’s scholarly enthusiasm pushed Solim’s mind like never before, unlocking potential he never knew existed. While Solim feels indebted for Father Antonin’s teachings, it was his kindness that he appreciated the most, especially after his grueling sessions with Father Gregoroth.

Father Gregoroth: While Father Antonin has a special place in his heart, Solim would say he keeps Father Gregoroth as the heart’s outer surface, a scarred, protective layer. At first, Gregoroth felt no different than the T’sarae oppressors, who seemed to relish in his pain and misfortune. It’s natural to harbor resentment, or even hatred for this kind of behavior, but Solim had faith in the process. Every beating was taken in peaceful silence, every insult was acknowledged with a humble nod. You see, Solim saw the ether in Father Gregoroth, the same way he saw Father Antonin and Mother Indira’s, and the same way he saw the T’sarae that tortured him. Their ether were varying and different, but they oscillate with life that’s meant to endure and improve. “Iron sharpens iron,” is what Gregoroth always barked, and Solim believed it true. While Gregoroth is known to be feared, Solim respects The Great Bear for teaching him a valuable lesson: To endure pain, even past trauma, and wear it as armor branded onto the soul, so that nothing can truly hurt you.

Chapter I:
On the Sacred Side

Even in this hallowed place, with the ether casting its fake warmth through the half-lit halls, the cold clung to Captain Zoya Kiriyev's bones.

The cardinal stood silent before her, his elegant azure robes hanging limp from his broad fat shoulders like an old curtain. He stared through the crystal windows of his chambers far down to the massive procession of ant-sized humans as they pushed against one another throughout the colossal open square which seemed miles below their position. The writhing mass of men, women, and children, appearing like a massive shadow over the pristine white square cobblestones of Vhtak Square would now be pouring into the great hall in the depths of the Basilica below them, where the crowd of thousands would congregate for Sunday prayers. Somewhere among that pulsing exodus of flesh, Zoya's husband and son mingled with the rest of Lord Varya's flock. She longed to be down there with them, an ordinary Varyan like any other, free from the clutches of faith and service.

But no, Zoya had been summoned. And when the Church utters your name, it is best for one's livelihood to heed the call. Thus there she stood in that massive chamber overlooking the blackened city she called home, in the company of a man so powerful that he could have her killed with a mere thought.

The cardinal's office was larger than any room she had ever been in, so cavernous that the light from one end of the richly-decorated chamber could not reach the other side, thus shrouding the end of the hall in darkness. The floors were a hard black marble and when Zoya's heavy boots stepped on it the sound cascaded and echoed throughout the impossibly large room like the ghostly beating of a distant hailstorm. The cardinal made no such noise when he walked however. You have dainty feet for such a large man, Zoya had mused wordlessly.

The walls of the high priest's office were made of some kind of black glass, like the obsidian that was said to come from the volcanoes of the prehistoric lands buried beneath the foundations of the City. Countless ethereal torches, held aloft by marble statues of small angelic figures which appeared to be children, licked at the crystaline black facade of the walls, sending their ghostly yellow light dancing across the glass ripples. The blood-red and midnight-blue banner of the Varyan empire hung like a half-bruised serpent's tongue from the obsidian walls; the Phoenix, wreathed in black, soared triumphantly on the dual-colored cloth.

The banner brought her courage in this dark place, a new fire burning inside her that the former captain desperately needed. The banner hanging from this priests' office did not solely represent the Church. No, to Zoya, the Phoenix symbolized much more--- it was the military, the chocked-in streets and factories, the orphans, the dead men and women forgotten on Lanostran snow. It was not a symbol for the Church, but Varya itself. She seized that courage and held it close like an ember to her breast as she tried to ignore the cold snaking its way through her, a frigid void that had nothing to do with the temperature. It was the familiar yet ominous, dark feeling that filled her whenever she stood in the company of a member of the Varyan priesthood-- a strange awareness that something was not quite natural about these people.

Cardinal Valentin stood with his back to her, his small, black shiny eyes staring off at some point in the misted distance. If she had listened correctly during the tour, Cardinal Valentin's office was located somewhere up in the Angel's Tower, one of the great keeps of the Basilica, the monstrous and all-encompassing monolith the Varyan priesthood called home.

He was the fattest man she had ever laid eyes on, with a strange spherical shape to his body that reminded her of a particularly large matryoshka doll. A ghost of a smirk appeared on Zoya's face as she wondered if there were other, smaller clones of Cardinal Valentin hiding in layers within him.

"Captain Kiriyev," said Valentin in a thin, tired voice. It was the first time he had addressed her since her arrival. His voice was higher pitched than she anticipated, like a false note played by an out-of-practice flutist.

"Your Eminence," Zoya responded curtly.

"I hear you've some misgivings about your assigned orders," spoke the cardinal in a tone both dismissive and curious. Zoya was taken back by the cardinal's use of the word 'misgivings'. Such a word was... dangerous.

'You have been misinformed, Eminence. I am prepared to carry out any task assigned to me. It is only that...," Zoya inhaled softly, remembering the exact combination of words that she had rehearsed ceaselessly since the Church's orders came to her.

"... I am retired," she said in a voice strong yet placid, "The Ministry granted me leave from the military after my service in the Lanostran war. It has been eleven years since the Goddess' surrender, and I have not picked up a rifle nor have I given a single order during that time. I am no longer a soldier, but a regular Varyan citizen, Eminence," said Zoya in as pacifistic a voice as she could muster.

The Cardinal seemed to consider her for a moment. In his silence, Zoya could not help but glare at the wide expanse that was the high priest's back. How could he be so fat? she wondered. The priests and inquisitors she served with in the god-forsaken ice rifts of Lanostre were lithe, powerful and athletic-- as physically capable as any of her soldiers. But this man? He reminded her of the butcher who lived down the street from her childhood home.

"The Ministry of Foreign Affairs was dissolved three days ago," Valentin suddenly said, his strange little voice cutting through the silence, "It was a weak and dangerous institution, one who's policies have been in conflict with many of our own doctrines. It is understandable that you would desire a life of peace after spending so many years fighting in that war, but you have rested for long enough. A new war is dawning, and it is a soldier's sworn duty to fight for their Lord and Saviour until they can no longer serve the interests of our great empire within the best of their ability," added Cardinal Valentin, his boot-black eyes still focused on the masses congregating in the streets below, "You are forty-three years of age, still capable, both physically and mentally, of serving as an officer in the hallowed ranks of our military, and have had a long and decorated career leading soldiers to victory in the battlefield. Thus, you have been chosen for this most-important mission."

Zoya's eyes fluttered in disbelief. The Ministry dissolved? Zoya gritted her teeth, but allowed no trace of her fury to show. She was an old hand at burying her anger in the face of the Church, five years of serving half-blind priests and merciless inquisitors in Lanostre made certain of that.

"You're upset," the cardinal spoke, almost sadly. Could he sense her anger? He wasn't even looking in her direction.

"I understand your plight, captain. You have a husband and a son who you will not likely see for many years after you embark on this expedition. It is a powerful thing, a woman's love. But perhaps, as a silver lining, think of what glory awaits you when you return. Think of the life that you could give them as a pioneer of El, of the opportunities that could open for young Devi," Cardinal Valentin added, turning his head so that his small, shiny black eyes met hers.

Zoya could not be sure, but for the briefest moment, she could see a smile cutting across the cardinal's pale lips.

She understood. Hearing her son's name spoken by this man made the message clear.

Feeling her courage and resolve deflate like an old balloon, Captain Zoya Kiriyev bent her knee and bowed down to the Cardinal. The obese clergyman turned to her, and for the first time Zoya saw the cardinal's giant meaty hands and the shining gold and silver rings adorning each of his fingers. She lowered her eyes to the dark marble floor and swallowed her pride.

"I was not made aware that the Ministry no longer exists, Eminence. If Lord Varya has need of me then I will be proud to serve Him in any way I can. Please forgive my ignorance, and with your Blessing, I shall take my leave," Zoya spoke in a placid tone, ignoring the pain of the old wound flaring up in her knee as it rested against the hard marble floor.

"Rise, captain."

Zoya pushed herself to her feet, the burning in her knee sending waves of pain through her right leg. The cardinal glided toward her, his footsteps not making a sound on the dark marble floor. Valentin placed his massive butcher's hands over her arms and stared unflinchingly into her eyes.

"You have never felt the hunger nor the torment that Lord Varya endures in every passing moment. Every tick of the clock is an eternity of thorns for our Lord, and the only succor which eases his suffering is the adoring worship of His flock, though even the love that burns within the hearts of every Varyan is not strong enough to cease our Lord and Saviour's suffering," Cardinal Valentin told her, his thin whistle-like voice wavering as if the man himself could feel Lord Varya's supposed torment coursing through him. As the high priest spoke, his massive fingers dug into the hardened muscle of Zoya's arms. Whether he realized that he was hurting her or not, Zoya could not tell.

"Spreading our Faith to the lost and misguided lambs across the sea will go a long way towards healing our Lord. This is God's work, captain. You must be grateful for this honour," Valentin added, suddenly releasing Zoya from his grip. Had he been in some sort of trance? It was difficult to tell at times when speaking to members of the high clergy.

"I understand, Your Eminence," Zoya responded, trying to instill as much power and zeal in her voice.

Cardinal Valentin bowed his head ever so slightly, his beetle-like eyes never peeling away from hers. Captain Zoya Kiriyev formed her right hand into a fist, placed it over her stomach and bowed once more before the high priest. She then turned on her heels and made her way down the long length of the darkened half-lit corridor. All the while, Cardinal Valentin's eyes never left her back.

***

Fort Grasnigrad, the Western Wall, Magnagrad

"... It's a fucking disaster," Zoya spat out as her muddy grey eyes peered out from the red curtains of her office.

"Mama, you said a bad word! Lord Varya will--"

Zoya could hear Devi say something behind her, but her nine-year old son's voice fell on deaf ears. She stared down at the steel deck beneath the window of her newly furnished office and scowled at the sight of the hundred or so onlookers, both soldiers and civilians, watching on as the ten Inquisitors of the 1st Elurian Mission stood before the huge viewing gallery, their strange ethereal eyes focused on the two shining arks moored in the distance. Before the inquisitors stood an old priest garbed in light azure robes, moaning out a blessing for the ten recently ordained priests, the forty five soldiers who would accompany them, and for the expedition into the East itself. Zoya could hear bits and pieces of the priest's spiel, the usual tenants of Varyan prayer which had long been ingrained into her, and wondered if the Inquisitors were even paying attention.

The crowd stood quiet on the viewing deck of Fort Sinvojna, watching idly as the priest finished his prayers. The soldiers in that crowd were young, Zoya noted, and even from where she stood behind the windows of her office, she could see the spectrum of emotions on their faces. Some were dressed in the faded wine-red coats of common infantry, while others wore the grey and crimson officer's longcoats. Mixed in around the ocean of grey and red, Zoya could spot groups of civilians-- family members, perhaps even some journalists here to write about the blessing ceremony. The crowd was standing about fifteen or so feet back behind the Inquisitors, as if they were not allowed to impede on the hallowed space of the divine soldiers. It made Zoya sick to her stomach.

"Permission to speak freely, captain," 1st Lieutenant Lev Dragonov spoke suddenly from somewhere behind her. Zoya had forgotten he was there.

"... What?" she answered bitterly, drawing the crimson curtains closed and turning around to face him. Lev was a tall, thin man with an easy-going manner about him which never failed to annoy her. He had an angular and handsome face, with thinning dark hair and a severe, chiseled jawline covered in stubble. His bright, intelligent eyes were a vibrant green and the spectacles he constantly wore had a way of making him appear as though he had all the answers-- which, much to her annoyance, was not far from the truth.

"It's not right, I know that. Making you wear the red again after all this time... But perhaps you should see this from a different perspective. They chose us because we--"

"I know why they chose us, Lev," Zoya interrupted, "I understand... it makes sense. It makes perfect bloody sense.... I just don't like it," she answered somberly. Zoya forced herself to look at Devi, who sat on the carpeted floor, playing with a toy figure of a red-coated Varyan infantryman. He was a small boy, even for nine years old, with the same head of wild black hair as his father. Devi noticed his mother looking down at him and stared up at her in return with the same grey eyes, flashing her a warm smile. Zoya instinctively placed a hand on her stomach and remembered the twenty-seven hours of pained labor she endured in order to bring him into the world, followed by the sight of his blue face and the moments of silence, and then finally, the ear-splitting cry. She wondered how long it would be until she saw him again.

"We'll return home soon. This class of inquisitors, they're different from the rest," Lev said, making his way toward the window and drawing the curtains open once again. Zoya turned to look at Lev's face and saw how he peered at the ten young men and women in black standing out from the crowd of soldiers and civilians. He had studied them, Zoya noted, and she was once again reminded how much she had grown to admire the once young and arrogant officer. When they had first served together in Lanostre, more than ten years ago, she hated him on sight. He was the son of a nobleman, and she recalled how the lieutenant would brag to their fellow soldiers about how his family's manor was located on an actual forest. She had derided him as nothing more than an arrogant boy who would be felled by a Lanostran lance as soon as they stepped onto the battlefield, but Lev Dragonov had surprised her by surviving. Year after year, he surprised her, and the tall handsome lieutenant would eventually earn her respect and his arrogance would be dulled, as it always was, by the seemingly unending years on the warfront. Zoya despised being in the military again, but part of her was relieved that the Church had enough sense to pair her up with Lev once more.

"I had the privilege of being invited to watch them during the Pentacle Games. They are powerful for being so young, but that's not the most important thing I took up from the ceremony. What I noticed was how much they seemed like regular young men and women. Of course they can all kill us without a second thought, but it seems to me like they're a new breed for a less severe era. They aren't the same as the heartless murderers we served with in Lanostre," spoke Lev, his deep voice as calm and measured as always, "Dare I say, they aren't unlike how we were during our first years there. Young and eager to prove themselves. I wager we shall see them safely across the sea, stand by and watch as they convert the Elurians to the faith, and come back home after all is done. And that will be the end of it."

Zoya was not convinced. The captain had been consumed with a dark feeling ever since her eyes read the Church's orders. Of course the mission sounded simple on paper. She would take command of a company of forty soldiers and fifteen servicemen to accompany ten recently ordained inquisitors on a journey across the Sea of Solitude, to the unknown continent of El. They would board two highly advanced steam arks, the Tigress and the Fafnir, which had been specifically engineered for this journey, and navigate through the hellish ice fields of the frozen sea. Once they reached El, the inquisitors, accompanied by Captain Zoya and her company of soldiers, would journey through the continent and attempt to convert the savages of El to the Faith of Varya by any means necessary, all while mapping out the foreign land. The Mission was to set out a mere four months after the Expeditionary Armada, the grand invasion force with both the Church and the military's High Command at its head, first set out to establish a foothold in El, and only three weeks since the armada's transmission with word of their arrival reached Varya. Needless to say, this expedition had been hastily put together, and combined with the little that both the military and the Church knew of El (besides the initial "all clear" transmission received from the expeditionary force) was enough to fill the captain with all sorts of misgivings.

She had discussed her worries with Peter the night prior, but her husband reassured her that she and the inquisitors had been named 'holy crusaders' by Lord Varya himself, and that it was expected of them to delve into the unknown without fear or hesitation. Peter, a historian, reminded her that the men and women who had first set out from Varya to conquer the then-unknown lands of Omestris, Muraad, T'Sarae, and Lanostre faced much the same consternation she did, but were now known as legendary pioneers who set out into the cold darkness in the name of Varya.

"When you get back, you and the other members of the expedition will be known the same," Peter had told her. His heart was in the right place, but his words came out cold and mechanical to her, thus they did little in easing her fears. As far as she knew, the High Command had not received any other transmissions from the Elurian front since the initial message. Had something happened to them? The soldier in her knew that the expeditionary had been composed of several thousand soldiers, dozens of inquisitors and just as many war engines. Such a mighty force would be nigh unstoppable, but still... she worried. Why had they been silent for so long? Of course, sending transmissions from one side of the world to the other was no simple feat-- especially with the ice storms-- she reminded herself. But still... Zoya mused that if she had been in command, she would be sending hundreds of transmissions back to Varya.

Zoya could not help but be transported back to the legends of El, the ones that kept her up at night as a little girl. She was a soldier, and one of the pillars of survival for her kind was preparedness. Like every other Varyan, she understood that Lord Varya suffered day in and day out, and hungered for the Gods across the sea, but surely he could wait a few more months.

"Those inquisitors aren't what's worrying me, Lev," said Zoya suddenly, "It's the fact that we're the canaries being forced to fly down the mine shaft without knowing what awaits us in the dark," she added.

"The Church and the High Command are running out of time to send in a second expedition. We must cross the sea before winter comes. If we disembark any later than now we will be caught out there during the dark season, and I doubt even those two Arks will be able to keep us from an early grave," said Lev, motioning towards the two shining arks moored on the western naval yard, perched high atop the western ice wall. Zoya looked at the two massive vessels, their silver hulls catching the ghostly ethereal light being cast down from the Aegis.

Lev was right, she knew. The winter months, or "dark season"-- as soldiers called it-- was death incarnate out on the ice fields, ether veil or no. Her eyes fell to her open hands and scowled when they were met with the sight of the six bronze artificial fingers which sprouted forth from her pale palms. She had lost them to a winter's cold during the war, while on a routine return trip to Varya from the Lanostran sub-continent. Her ship had been attacked by a group of Vestrian while out on the Lanza Straight, the ice corridor that connects Varya to Lanostre. The vile insects managed to tear through the outside of the ship before she and her men were able to fight them off, and the supernaturally frigid air that blew in from the massive scar that the demons had inflicted on the steel hull was unlike anything she had ever felt or wished to experience ever again. Zoya had no grasp of what fire felt like, but from the way the priests of her childhood described it, she likened the cold of winter to burning red flames. It took them an hour to repair the hull, but the damage had been done. Seven of her men died from exposure, while she she got off considerably better, with only six fingers taken by the cold.

"Captain," said Lev, placing a hand on her shoulder, "I understand that you're upset, hell I'm angry too, but there is very little we can do about our misgivings. With the Ministry gone the military now has very little say in the way things are run. Like it or not, we serve the Church now. If they truly believe that Lord Varya's pain will be soothed by capturing the hearts and minds of Elurians, then that is what we must also believe."

'"What if I'm tired of believing? What if I just want to stay home with my family and tell the Church to go fuck themselves?" Zoya spat, pushing the lieutenant's hand off her shoulder. She could hear Lev take in a quick agitated breath, which is what he always did when he was having a difficult time in holding his tongue. Zoya ignored him and held open the crimson curtains from the window again and stared down into the crowded deck.

"Looks like His Holiness is done gesticulating. Time to go introduce ourselves to our superiors," the captain said dryly before walking towards the coat-rack at the front end of her office and removing her grey and red officer's coat. Zoya draped it around her shoulders and looked back at her son as he played on the carpet.

"Devi, stay here. One of my men will come up to take you home in a few minutes. I'll be home in time for dinner," Zoya said before opening the door and stepping out with Lev not far behind her.