Rogue Shark

The Inquisitors Path

"Crossbow is adequate," He responds mildly, though he knows Septus wasn't really expecting an answer. His partner has seen him fight with a blade... of course he will use a crossbow over a melee weapon every given chance. He nods, glancing briefly to the designated meeting spot, and deserts the space at Septus' side.

Rickard retrieves Kerr from where she patiently awaits his return. She's still sitting beside the building, and her dark eyes catch sight of him immediately... yet she does not move. He says nothing to her, only gives a quick click of his tongue against his teeth as he walks past her, and that is all it takes for the man to summon her to his side. She pads at his heels, following him towards the kennels.

It's a small building not far from the stables. There is enough room to house a dozen dogs with a single dog to a pen, but only eight occupy the structure. They howl and bark and whine excitedly when the door clashes open and the houndsmaster enters with Kerr at his side. He likes it in here. It smells like a stable (the familiar scent of hay, used for bedding in this case; cool, clean water; dirt and muck and fur), but there is a unique tinge in the air... a wild scent, the smell of blood. These are carnivores, and he feeds them as such. They get fresh meat, good meat.

If Rickard was ever given the choice between training his hounds and joining Septus on a mission, he would choose the dogs without hesitation. Sadly this is not an opportunity that ever presents itself, and so he is always leaving home to purge some new perceived threat. It isn't that he doesn't like Septus; they may disagree on things, not always see eye to eye, but his partner is probably the closest thing he has ever had, or will ever have, to a friend. It isn't that he loathes his work, either. There are aspects of it he cannot stand, such as when the lives of innocents are sacrificed for naught. There is always a claim that it's for the 'greater good', but Rickard doesn't think any one in the Order really knows what good is... much less the 'greater good'. Still, it is work he excels at, and work that does reap its rewards. There are people and beasts and practices in the world that need to be destroyed, to keep the innocent who are allowed to live safe. It is this notion, the one that he is doing some good for some people who deserve it, that keeps him from completely losing control.
That, and his dogs. And the dogs are so much more tolerable than the people, so he would choose them every time.

He thinks perhaps when he reaches an age suitable for retirement, if he lives long enough to be deemed too old to be useful out in the world, he will tend the dogs full time. He trains them well, and perhaps some day the Order may understand and see what he sees in the animals. They don't put much stock in the hounds. They trust their own steel better than the jaws of a beast, but they humor him, allowing him to tend the dogs. Maybe because they do glean something of worth from the animals, maybe because he can at least put them to use... maybe because they don't really care one way or the other. It matters not, so long as they leave him be to his work. It's a silly dream anyway, to even think he might live long enough to earn some semblance of retirement. It's perfectly reasonable to assume they wouldn't come back from the Blasted Lands.

He takes his time with the dogs: brushing out their coats in search of chewing lice (which there are none, of course not, he checks every night); checking their mouths for loose or rotting teeth (another nightly duty, and not a pearly white is out of order); tending the nails of those who had been allowed to grow too long (Kerr was one of these, and she let Rickard know how unhappy she was with him clipping her talons by growling all throughout the process). He doesn't do it for only the three he intends to take, but for all eight of the dogs. He is gentle with them, talks to them throughout the process though he isn't enchanted enough to believe they actually understand him. By the time he has finished grooming the animals, Septus has been left waiting at the fountain for almost half an hour, ten minutes or so beyond the time they had been schedule to meet.

Rickard finally does leave the kennels behind, Kerr curled up in her own pen. He has a puzzled expression on his face when he spots his partner and the horses near the fountain, his head tipping to one side. "I thought we were leaving at daybreak... you want to ride now? When it will be dark soon?"

The Inquisitors Path

The Master's reason is fair, and one Rickard had considered before he even posed his question. Still, it rarely hurts to ask. He wonders how long Crowe was imprisoned before his escape, how their artful interrogators had failed to carve out whatever information was needed.
The more he thinks about it, the more interested he becomes.

He's still pondering this as he bows his head respectfully alongside Septus, still wondering as they exit the large room and return to the hall where the knights had left them. The only thing that draws him out of his fascination is the necessity to prepare for the trip. He already knows which hounds he will brings. Kerr is one, but her brothers will tag along too.

No one has ever accused Rickard Conall of being a skilled fighter. He is, interesting enough, decent with a bow and arrow, or a crossbow; even a sling. With melee weaponry, short or long reach, mace or blade, he is adequate at best. Perhaps this is due to opponents knowing to exploit his blind side; perhaps it is also because he is simply not cut out to be any sort of warrior. It's good that his position does not require exceptional swordsmanship. It's even better than his dogs more than make up for his lack of skill, and the trio he intends to bring with them will no doubt keep himself and his partner safer in the Blasted Lands.

"I must needs ready the hounds," He says to Septus as they retrace their steps past the thick, heavy oaken doors. There is nothing ornate about them, nothing but slabs of heavy wood to shut away cold rooms. "I think it wise we leave at daybreak. We'll reach that border town, Tenbrook, before the sun is high, spend a day or prodding the locals. Move on from there."

The Inquisitors Path

And sorry the last part of my last post cut off. I fixed it.

The Inquisitors Path

Of course, having a lot of fun. :)
If you don't mind I'll drum up some obstacles for them once they hit the blasted lands too. I can only imagine it's just going to turn into a shitstorm of one thing after another in a place like that.

The Inquisitors Path

Ah, and here is one of those questions. He's studying the picture critically, then shifting his gaze to the prison marked on the map, where Septus is pointing.

"If he is dangerous as you say, by what he knows, knowledge alone, why risk bringing him back alive?" He wonders what Crowe might have that the Order is interested in. Why was he locked away and not already dead? Sometimes Rickard even forgot they had a prison, unbreachable or otherwise: it wasn't as if they had a reputation for taking prisoners.
Curious, to let such a confidentiality breach live, considering the risks. Whatever riches they hoped to reap from the man must have outweighed the risks of him escaping again, or evading live capture.

Other than this tinkering curiosity, it seems like a fairly straight-forward plan to Rickard. It will be more dangerous than what they're accustom to, but he feels strangely comfortable with this. The Blasted Lands do not house the innocent. They are wilds filled with nothing but heresy and creatures that do not deserve life.

The Inquisitors Path

Rickard only shakes his head. He's been to parts of the Blasted Lands, but the distances the region covers is immense. To claim he is well-acquainted would be arrogant and best. He assumes the question is more rhetorical than anything; not many of the order spent a lot of time in the forsaken lands. Those who ventured beyond usually had a very stringent plan to follow, where the slightest deviation could lead to trouble.
At least that held true in his own past experiences.

His interest was piqued, at least. Thank the heavens they weren't being ushered off to some other far-flung village where the end results were liable to be the same as their last job. The end results were often the same as their last job. Dangerous as the Blasted Lands are alleged to be, it's a change of pace.

He clasps his hands behind his back and peers down at the map the Master was withdrawn, its edges curling with age. Septus has done a fair enough job speaking so far, and he allows this to continue for as long as possible. If he's lucky, he can leave the entirety of the conversation to Septus, though he doubts he'll make it out that lucky. He tends to become curious in the planning stages, always one with a question or two.
There is nothing to ask as of yet, and so he remains silent, his eyes roving over the paper, only one of them registering the images.

The Inquisitors Path

Rickard pauses and stares at the knight. He doesn't like to leave his dogs behind. Not because he doesn't trust them; they are well-trained, and he never fears that one might wander in his absence, or go rogue and begin to attack people without due cause. It's a security thing for Rickard. He's trained the hounds for over a decade, close to fifteen years. In all that time he has lacked the sight of one eye, and his dogs are almost an extension of himself. He feels vulnerable without their senses at his disposal.

Yet he knows he cannot argue. Explaining as much would do him no good: the knight would not care, and Rickard has no desire to appear dependent. He says nothing to their guide and turns to the beast.

"Kerr," He speaks firmly, and then the command: "Belach." He trains the dogs in a dead tongue. This way they do not become confused if they hear one of their key words spoken in casual conversation by their handlers. It also makes it harder for outsiders to influence them or confuse them. Anyone can yell at a dog to stay or heel; not anyone could do so if the words the animal responds to are of a language no longer practiced. These are the only words Rickard has spoken since the knights had approached their table.

Kerr sits obediently by the side of the building. She continues to stare at the group, but doesn't move. Satisfied, Rickard turns back to the others, but spares them no words. He has nothing to say to them, though he hopes his partner's excitement isn't for naught. Moving up in importance, Septus had said.
He fails to feel elated.

The Inquisitors Path

He knows Septus is right to some degree, but the way the man phrases it ruffles his feathers. The lives of some peasants. As if their lives had less meaning than the lives of others, but that was a foolish way to think, because their lives did have less meaning than those of noble birth, or knights, or inquisitors like themselves. It was an acceptable and normal opinion to have, that those of lesser standing were worth less. Yet they were still human lives, extinguished with but a letter on the wings of a raven to call in the Exterminatus. Gentle and noble as he tries to be, even he can see why this is the case. A common smith is easily replaced; a highly-trained knight, much less so.
Yet he can't let it go so easily.

"I believe their lives were worth more than the fleeting consideration they were given," Is all he has time to answer before his good eye catches movement coming towards them. Kerr lowers her head, but not to rest; her eyes are pinned on the approaching dark knights. A low, guttural growl drifts up from her throat, but she doesn't move. Just as she would never lash out at Septus, she knows better than to make a move on these men. She recognizes them as allied in whatever way a dog can make such connections.

Rickard has little interest in participating in the conversation, a common enough occurrence. He keeps his only good eye on the sergeant as Septus speaks to the man, but allows his partner to do the talking.

The Inquisitors Path

He knows the procedures, could recite them word for word if pressed to do so at any given time. He has known nothing but the Order for as long as he can remember, raised among it, practically born into it. The disappointment in his partner's gaze brings an uncharacteristic spark of anger, that the man across the table from him should be so brazen as to act disappointed in him, but the only sign of his indignation is a brief clenching of his jaw. It passes, and he waits a few moments to be sure he for certain has full reign on his temper before speaking.

"No way of knowing." Rickard repeats, and the words taste foul in his mouth. He doesn't believe this, refuses to put blinders on himself for the sake of being righteous. He shouldn't say what comes to mind next because he really doesn't want to engage Septus in another argument, but he can't stop himself.
Sometimes even his his own self-discipline breaks down.

"Was it truly a lack of knowledge, Septus, or a lack of patience?" Had they taken more time, would they have saved a couple dozen lives? Could they have? Rickard thinks so. He wonders if Septus genuinely believes they put as much time as necessary into the investigation. He hopes so; the alternative, that his partner simply cares so little for human life, is disturbing.

The Inquisitors Path

Kerr bares her teeth briefly up at Septus as the man looks at her. She is only a dog, but it's as though she can scent his contempt, and feels mutual. Rickard glances to his dog, then back to Septus. He opens his mouth to respond, but his partner is already moving away, and so he doesn't bother. Shaking his head, he exchanges a look with Kerr. He likes to think that in some way she understands these minor irritations, and sympathizes. She looks back at him, but only to await a command, or to continue the walk. So he walks.

Purging the heretics in the village was necessary. He knows this, and has little qualms about their deaths. They brought it on themselves, and he had a suspicion that if they had been allowed to live, even if forced to vow allegiances and disregard their current beliefs, they would return to their blood cult within two moons. What was that old saying? A tiger cannot change his stripes?
It was the rest of them Rickard disagreed with. Not all within the village walls had been part of the cult. Some knew of the cult's existence and said and did nothing, neither participating nor trying to stop it. This made them guilty by withholding information, and they would have been sentenced as heretics too. But many others were completely oblivious, and in the end he wonders how many had died unknowing of why they were being slaughtered.
Disgusting.

Rickard follows his partner into the tavern even though it's one of the last places he wants to be. Alcohol is not forsaken by the members of the Inquisition, but he still does not drink. He's afraid that if he starts, he may never stop. Kerr slinks alongside her master. Her nails are in dire need of trimming, and they click loudly against the scuffed hardwood floors. She isn't paid so much attention in here, as those of the Order are accustom to the sight of her or another one of Rickard's beasts. The barmaids, also used to the sight of the ugly black dog, make sure to give Kerr a wide berth, however; the dog had taken a young woman's fingers when she had extended her hand too quickly to take coin from the table only a fortnight past.

He makes his way to the far end of the large common room, opposite of the smoldering firepit against the northern wall. He doesn't like the heat or the noise, and it's always quieter on the south side. The tavern caters towards members of the Order, and there are no rooms for rent. The living quarters above the tavern are for the owner of the establishment and his family, all of which are busy working the floor. This means that blissfully, there is no sounds of stomping or drunken bellowing from the second floor.

Kerr squeezes her way beneath the table Rickard has chosen and lays contentedly in the shadows. She stares out from her new hideaway, eyes gleaming in the soft firelight of a nearby lit candelabra. She doesn't rest her muzzle on her paws, or adopt any sort of posture indicating rest. When she is out of her kennel she is working.

Rickard sits in the chair nearest his animal, and though the toes of his soft leather boots dig gently into Kerr's side as he situates himself, she doesn't give any indication that she notices or cares. Finally Rickard does speak, and it's the words he had been about to offer earlier, on the street, before Septus had turned away so dismissively. "We made nothing safer for those dead who did no wrong."