“Virtue is just one branch, one path that parallels closely villainy, but for a choice or two.”
Prologue
“Look,” the speaker, a small and spindly man, coughed harshly, flecks of blood covering his thinning and gangrenous hands, “Priest, it’s not that I’m saying I wouldn’t do it, but I’m dying here.”
“That my young friend is precisely the reason to do it. You must confess before you pass beyond this world, lest the witches take your soul.” The priest, a large bear of a man, held out his hands in a welcoming gesture. “Come. Come. Bring your friend, the lower priests will tend your wounds as best they can so you may be permitted time to confess.”
“Yes,” The taller of the two strangers said with a dry, monotone voice. The voice coming from behind what appeared to be a well crafted mask of a very dour man. A set of darting eyes, darkly sparkling, the only indication of any facial movement, “Must not let the witches take our souls.” The manic laughter from the smaller man in reaction to the statement startled the priest and started the smaller man on another brief coughing fit.
“Seems a peculiar thing to laugh about young one. You must be hurt indeed. Come, unburden yourself, take off your cloak” The priests stern tone indicated he was serious about his priestly duties and would accept no arguments.
As the two were brought quickly inside the brightly polished marble walls of the church by a veritable army of servants and lower priests, the men subtly looked at one another. “So,” the ragged breathing of the smaller man causing him obvious pain, “You got quite the setup here, piss poor location though.” The man laughed again briefly before coughing up more blood, though no attempt was made to cover his face under his cloaks hood, his strength being diverted to sarcasm.
“Yes, they are piss poor, and as you say we do have quite the setup and it appears they appreciate it more than you.” The once kindly priest was very obviously losing patience with the man. “Well, they did appreciate it more than you. Most of them are gone now thanks, in large part, to people like you wandering through and spreading disease.”
The small man shook noticeably as a coughing fit wracked his body. As the last of the coughing subsided he covered his now freely bleeding mouth. Still failing to regain his breath however, he watched as the world around him faded quickly to darkness except for the priest, the priest loomed large in his eyes, far larger than he had appeared previously. Blood pounded through the little man’s ears drowning out all other sound. The last thing he saw was the priest pointing an accusatory finger at him.
As he watched his friend struggle, and fail, to regain breathing the taller man finally spoke again interrupting the priest’s rant about plague and witches. “Oren Gray, you’re the poisoner.” The man stretched a slender hand out towards the large priest, making a feeble attempt to grab the priest, “I knew I recognized you, we weren’t sick before coming here,” his strength finally broken, his face lost its stern facade and reflected the pain he felt wracking his body, “Where are the citizens of this town?”
“Food for the Fiend. Before some blasted woman who has been haunting our every step can arrive and ruin the whole thing. Her and two idiots she works with.” Having now fully allowed the charade to drop, Oren motioned for his minions to take the two new sacrifices. He was never one to allow a final chance to gloat, so he graced the two men with a sorrowful expression and waved his hands in a mock religious gesture. This elicited a chorus of laughter from his underlings.