When Cei and I parted I hid myself along the grounds until the sky was bereft any trace of the cauldron. Observing the St. Axiel's, I located the Deacon's residence in a spire above the nave. With darkness as my guise, and a mildly acrobatic feat of climbing, I was at his window. My faith is my armor, but so is my glamoured leather armor and it's tool pockets. A prayer, a resolution, an almost inaudible click and the darkness of the chamber's was fatter by one nun. I could have been regiment's armor tumbling down stairs for all the spare attention 'Deacon,' Albrecht possessed. As service was vigorously applied to Albrecht by the strapping lads: I looked for something beyond his behaviour to damn him in the eyes of the ecclesiarchy. His nightstand teemed with austentatious jewelry. The moans, and clapping flesh escalated, masking the crunch of jewelry being wadded before disappearing into a sleeve. Not my most graceful operation, but I only act a thief when guided to it by Aeo's demand. I am smoke through the window, leaving Albrecht to the pleasures a man like him can only acquire with gold. My boots make no sound landing on the second story balcony before I slip to the ledge below. Mater Supior Akempo giving me instruction at a novice is suddenly in my mind: a lesson in surgery, "failing to cut the rot completely and precisely is not saving pain: it is choosing to kill them with poison. Timidity and mercy are not the same."
A small leap and controlled roll - a flicker on the lawn, then I slip into the trees in the pre-dawn light. In the shelter of the verdant foliage, waiting, taking stock of the jewelry. It seems our deacon has expensive tastes, and a tick of paranoia. Perhaps his paid company can lead me to more details on his transgressions. I believe Ceonred will be able to put the fear of flame into Albrecht, but more fuel couldn't hurt.
As I crouch, I watch and Under my thought, I speak the words of his litanies - a chorus of providence counting my mind time as the cauldren crawls into the sky. The beneficence of the moment is broken with a commotion in St. Axiel's. A dread begins to build - perhaps the small measure of decency I afforded the Deacon was too generous. I feel no fear for myself - I am his tool of mercy - I fear my own judgment doing harm. Then I see it: two guards, two disheveled captives being harassed to a guardhouse. I am a ordo solarium sister again, hiking her robe to tail the commotion. One of the guards turns at my approach, skepticism in his voice "sister. What brings you to us?" "I was contemplating along the plants and I heard a commotion, is everything alright?" With a sigh the guard says, "it's fine. The deacon caught these burglers in his chambers." Damn. Careless medicine is harm. I don't allow anything other than the theatrical response "I'm glad you've handled it, and all is well. I must on to my morning prayers. Thank you."
Back to cover. Wait. A face of authority and timing can set this right. I watch the squat guards building. I am due to meet my companions in an hour.
Ten minutes pass before one of the guards leaves. When he reaches the cathedral, I am as wind through the boughs gusting towards the barred windows of the outpost. Blending to the wall about to peer in barred window an authoritatove voice can be heard "... That's what they get for trying to escape." I see the desecrated bodies of the Deacons escort of last night workers; crumpled, open-eyed and bloody. Aeo grant them mercy and peace. I ease back from the window a defeated breeze to cover. All of Aeo's children can be redeemed, though I hope those guards find penance enough to make them worthy of salvation.
Evidence. Here's your poultice, you'll keep the limb.
I am in the shoes of a weary mine laborer, resolute in my devotion on my morning walk to temple. A different version of myself would be meeting my friends in a few minutes. Sat in the first pew, the cauldrons illumination pours in. A pathetic man with a miniscule cock is draped in velvet and finery (though missing some jewelry) approaches the lectern. Apostate. He begins the morning mass - I know this sermon or at least the parable behind it. At this rate it'll be near half an hour until he returns to his chambers. Slipping from the pew I leave the nave a pious, worn man, and step into the quarters a novice, unremarkably demure and devoted. I can feel the weight of my picks, my daggers and Aeo's symbol as I ascend the spire to the Deacon's quarters. though I'm pulling a key from massive pockets of my slip, I have my rake and pick turning in the lock. Wasnt I just saying I'm not a thief? No mat... odd. In the small complex world of the lock I can feel my pick holding up an unexpected weight. Not a thief she tells herself, then she has to keep pressure on the pick while turning the turner pulling the rake while making it look like she's a draft girl struggling with a stubborn lock. A thief would wait for an opportune time and not press on. Then there were three sounds: the snap of my pick, the sound of an alarm, and the ruffle of my fabrics rustling as I walked away, trying to look and sound as though I'd never stopped. I let myself be carried in that movement to resident chambers of the sisters that will be empty at this time of day. Where skill is unable to prevail His blessing may...