I stride through the stone hallways of the Duchal Palace, my riding boots chiming off the stone. It’s only been a few weeks since my arrival here in Whelton, the capital of the Duchy of Forestelm, and already I’m tired of it. It’s a metropolitan place, but the people here have been long without the Inquisition Grim, and they have begun to worry only about the beasts beyond their walls, instead of the deeper dangers on the other side of the veil.

  I arrive at the study of the Monarch of Forestelm, right on time. It’s only proper to keep appointments with the politically powerful, lest they begin to push back too much on the Inquisition. It wouldn’t be proper to have to shift the Inquisition's great resources to as minor a place as the Settler States just because their Noble’s forget themselves. It would be an unjustified burden on the vast bureaucracy which keeps our operations running.

  The old Duke looks up at me as I enter, his face shifting to a plastered on smile, one which hides his irritation at me not arriving early. He may be old, but he is a large, powerfully built man, still the same warrior who conquered the lands of the Duchy despite the grey beard and bald head. I’ve interacted with him twice now, once at a Ball, and each time he’s given off the feeling of an old fighting hound looking to be let off the leash.

  He nods to me, inviting me to sit. I remain standing, “Your Grace,” I say. “I must leave to investigate the Village of Hogsbottom.” This is the reason I had been forced to trek through the loud, stinking streets of Whelton this morning, to formally notify the Duke of my assignment to Hogsbottom. An unremarkable village a weeks ride away, in the northwestern corner of the Duchy, It would hardly have been my first priority, especially with me being the only inquisitor in the territory. Unfortunately, at the Ball a week ago I had met with the up-and-coming Drakekillers, Jormungunr Leontide and Valmai Elaine, who had told me of strange happenings in the village, strange enough to draw the attention of a first rank Inquisitor.

  "What do you mean?" He asks.

  Sometimes, I think, those in power lose the brain cells that it took to get them there. Perfect example; Duke Hassias of Forestelm. Or as he prefers to be called; Hassias-Marias-Jonathyn, His Grace the Duke of Forestelm, Guardian of the Outlying Settlements. Rather pretentious for a man who made his name slaughtering natives and monsters to carve out his own little dukedom, but now that he has his fief, he loves to make stupid decisions, like questioning an Inquisitor Grim. Who does that?

  "What do you mean, what do I mean? I must leave Whelton at this time to investigate rumors of a Grim Cult in your village of Hogsbottome."

  I trace the symbol on my palm, given to me by the Immaterial Court of the Sylvane in a pact overseen by my mentor, Serpent. It’s magic is weaving into my awareness, mixing with my lupine senses, telling me that the duke's anger is growing.

  Duke Hassias, whose face many would think of as intimidating, twists into a stupid expression of indignation. "You can't leave! I need you here. For the hag!" He is right, in a way. The Hag is important, but the Drakekillers and their band of mercenaries were already on it, and I have to prioritize the potential cult activity in Hogsbottom.

  I raise a single eyebrow at the man, sniffing. I can smell his fear and rage now, using just my lupine senses. "I am not asking your permission, Duke Hassias. I am informing you, as the local government, that I will be leaving on assignment for a period of not less than 2 weeks in order to investigate these rumors. At this time, your government is required to notarize the Grim Inquisitions official establishment as an investigative body in this region. A team of Archivist Grims, three additional Wardens Grim, and Inquisitor High Damien will arrive in the Whelton Skyport in one week's time. At that time, an office space is required for the team. You will be compensated."

  The large, old warrior rises to his feet, aided by the bodily enchantment he spent he threw away his Imperial inheritance for. The Rage Crystal which powers his enchantment and keeps him from turning back into a cripple thrums in his back, overriding his other emotions and hijacking him to become increasingly angry. He yells at me, "You can't do this! This is my land. I own it. It's mine."

  Once, he had been the heir of a minor noble family in the Wyrm Empire, but he was injured in war, and spent his families money finding ways to heal himself. Eventually, he found one. A powerful enchantment which not only fixed him, but made him incredibly strong and fast, but it was wearing thin, and his emotions were becoming more and more colored by his rage crystal. I trace the symbol of the Sylvane as it whispers to me to control the blazing emotions of anger the Duke is giving off.

  Eventually, the amount of emotions running in the room begin to give me a headache, and I pinch the bridge of my nose, "Are you refusing to cooperate, Your Grace?" Before I start to lose my grip, I push a thread of mana through the Sylvane symbol on my palm. Invisibly, a soothing aura descends on the room, cooling the rage crystal of the Duke, and restraining the wolf begging to be let loose.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  He loses his feet, falling back into his chair. I can see his hands shake from the sudden loss of emotion, "No no. Not at all," Even his voice shakes now. Ah, there it is, the classic smell, the one he always should have had around someone like me, the ever so faint smell of fear. Still, he has the will to continue his pushback one more time.

  “It’s just, Hogsbottome? They’re a bunch of pig herders, what damage could they do?” He asks, at this point, his protests are performative.

  “That is my job to determine, Your Grace. All you must worry about is the arrival of Inquisitor High Damien.”

  “Of course, Inquisitor Felix. I wish you luck on your mission.”

  I nod. He will attempt to subvert the Inquisition once the grace of the Sylvane stops influencing him, but Damien will certainly be able to control a Duke with so much emotionality. It is not my problem any longer.

  "Of course, Duke Hassias. May the Sylvane smile upon your endeavors, and may the Inquisition succeed." I bow to him, turning on my heel. My cape, ever the helpful piece of equipment, gives my exit a satisfying flourish as I leave.

  I ride out of Whelton before the midday bell. My mount draws many stares as we weave down the road towards Turnipton. Unlike the horses which are common up here in Norial, or the Wyrms they use back home, I ride a Vocal Stag. A rare carnivorous deer a tribe of Yanguar Cinncail gave me as a gift, after I banished a Lost Spirit from their lands. A strange people, halfway between nature and civilization, they’re quite advanced, and rather than the herbivorous Riding Wyrms of the ‘civilized’ world, they use the carnivorous, dangerous, hard to tame Vocal Stags, renowned for their bad temperament and habit of killing riders. Still, I find Rocinante a useful mount. Not only is he not scared of my condition, but he makes an excellent ally in combat.

  My tense jaw begins to relax as we enter the wild forests of Norial, leaving behind the wretched stench of the city. It's full, full of the stink of people and their emotions. It’s easier to control myself out in the forest, where the scents of nature permeate, and the sounds of the forest can calm me. Now able to turn my mind from the irritating Duke, I pull out my notebook and begin writing notes of what I know.

  The mercenaries, calling themselves the Bulkerz, but better known by their leaders, the Drakekillers, came from Hogsbottom recently, claiming something was off with the town, that cult worship was occurring. Not difficult to believe, even after a week’s travel from the village they left and they had still carried the rotting stench which comes wherever dark gods go.

  I stop writing, and put my note book back. I had been smelling a new scent for some time, and just now they had given their positions away. I glare at the bushes, "Good bandits! Come out!" The idiots thought to hide from an Inquisitor. I had smelt them a mile ago and had been hoping they were merely travelers, or at least that they would flee when they saw me. Rather than give up when they saw the dark uniform of an Inquisitor Grim, they stayed, though their flavor in the air changed to one of intense anxiousness.

  A thin and twitchy human of average build steps out, his light features of Wyrm Descent twisted into a fearful face. Why he would have his crew go through against a Grim is unknown to me.

  "Halt! Halt Inquisitor! We merely require money for you to go on your way!" The man yells in an effort to improve his stature in front of his men, who step out with crossbows, poorly built as they are.

  I work my jaw back and forth for a moment before replying. "I'm afraid you have made a grave mistake, young man. You have willingly halted an Inquisitor in the course of his duties." I dismount my stag. "Please drop your weapons."

  They glance nervously at each other. "We have you surrounded, Inquisitor. Please, we must feed our families. Just give us your money and we'll be on our way, yeah?"

  Unsheathing my sword, whose unearthly silver glows enough to overpower the dim sun streaming through the trees, I reply. "I feel you have misjudged, Mister Bandit. You need fret not. Though by now it is too late for me to let you go, none of you need come to harm if you will merely follow me to the nearest authority."

  "We could not, Inquisitor! our families need us to feed them!"

  I pull back on the anger and distaste I feel. The poor bandits are not deserving of it. I reply, "Your families need you alive."

  The man to my left is the dumbest. Maybe his friends would have called him brave, but whatever unpowered mortal fires on an Inquisitor is not smart. The bolt from the crossbow is blocked by my messer, already in position when he pulled the trigger. Rosinante charges the man to my right before he can pull the trigger, goring him with his half foot long fangs. He might be dead by the time I'm done. Messy. I have the first shooter knocked out before he can get his crossbow down for a reload. The man next to him draws his dagger. I manage to slice his hand before he forces me into a knife fight, dropping the weapon. Kicking him across the ground, he's out of the fight long enough to get me across the road to the leader, whose hands are just now reaching for his weapons. The last bandit has been mauled by Rosinate, though not as badly as their first man, who looks dead already.

  "Raise your hands." Nervously, the leader does so, a blade on his prominent Adam's apple. I reach down and draw his rusty blade, tossing it into the bushes."Normally, I wouldn't have interfered in something as mundane as Highway robbery, but you have interfered with my investigation and that cannot be allowed to stand. You settlers have forgotten to respect the Inquisition. I am here to protect you, yet you force me to fight you." I shake my head as I pull out a rope with my off hand. "Tie yourselves up with that." The man swallows fearfully, and follows my directions.