text: They had been allowed to roam freely in the flock. The shepherds, the so-called leaders of the church, knew they were among them. Still, they were allowed to roam. Why? The Judicator was reasonably certain for two of them, young priests that failed to make it in the High King's University, their families were too wealthy and prestigious to turn down.
  
  Why?
  
  Why would the Archbishop welcome corruption into their midst? Probably for the same reason he threw events for prominent non-church members in the city. They'll be influenced one way or another. Bring them here, and they just might be influenced to lead a holy life.
  
  Nonsense. Corruption of the limb causes for amputation, not a welcoming of the spread.
  
  The Judicator exited the chapel, stepping out into the night air, rainfall keeping him company on his journey across the church campus. The steady rainfall gradually washed the blood from his cuts inflicted by Norn, or at least hid it better through damp clothing.
  
  Their quarters were on the upper-levels of one of the sanctuaries. The church members that resided within the Heart were spread out among the campus. It made for holy men to be available no matter which place of worship a visitor dwelled, rather than confining them all to a single dormitory building.
  
  He could sense their corruption before he even opened the door. Lower members shared rooms, and these two bunked together. Seems their families' status only extended into acceptance, not lavish living. Priests of the first order barely had it better than those of the Second, the main difference largely being having a room on the top floor to prevent distractions from any of the heavier-set member's footsteps.
  
  The Judicator kicked in the door, blasting the simple wooden construct from its frame. The room was simple, like all the priests' quarters. White paint, long and narrow, two small bunks on either side. Two young men sat up frightened, caught in the act, both sitting on the ground using a bedpost as a backrest. A wine bottle from the event sat in the center of the room in front of them. Two women, likely employed by Gilly, rested on the opposite side of the bottle. Best to remove the corrupted limb lest it spread to the entire body.
  
  "What...wait, Uriah, is that you?" one of the young priests spoke as the Judicator stepped into the room.
  
  SIlent, the Judicator continued forward directly towards the one who spoke.
  
  "Now hold on just a moment," the other one sat up straighter, motioning to stand up completely. The Judicator didn't let him get that far. As the man rose, his head met the heel of the Judicator's boot. The impact, in addition to the wine's effect, crumbled him back down, head falling limply to one shoulder.
  
  Motion. A reaction to the sudden violence. The Judicator could sense it building, ready to be released into the night. Before the women could scream, his short sword was drawn. It flashed in the low candlelight, a ghostly blur, a streak of silver, followed by red. Two pairs of hands grabbed for their necks. Two evil women dead. God's church was a little healthier.
  
  "You're a dead man, Uriah!" the remaining man, the filth, the wolf in sheep's clothing, said. He stood up completely, the Judicator allowing him to do so. "Do you have any idea who my father is? He'll burn you alive for this."
  
  The Judicator answered, his voice a low rumble muted by the cloth. "Do you have any idea who my father is? He's the one you disrespect, the one you falsely worship." Stepping over a crumpled body, the Judicator continued. "He's the one whose name you speak in pursuit of your own gain. You know the weight of his name. And yet you use it for impure purposes." Eyeing the short sword in his hand, watching a drop of blood race along the edge, like raindrops streaking across a window, the Judicator kept going. "Tonight your corruption ends. Your soul will not rest in my father's house."
  
  A second flash of steel. Another false priest silenced. The night was still young. And still, there was much corruption to root out. The Judicator walked out of the room. He had other members to visit. As the Judicator left the building, nine shadowy forms were waiting for him outside, arranged in a semicircle.
  
  Black, they wore. Their armor wasn't quite as light as leather, but not heavy as chainmail. Dark carapace cut from rare creatures of the east, jagged, molding to each of their bodies like it was grown from their own skin. Each bore two swords, notably drawn. Quiet, ominous they stood in a semicircle, faces masked by the carapace, waiting for the Judicator, and the priest within.
  
  He's having one of his fits again.
  
  My poor brother. Changes personalities like clothing.
  
  Can't keep an identity straight. Mmm. No, not at all.
  
  He's broken.
  
  He's weak.
  
  He's one of us.
  
  Their voices spoke with the same muted tone, armor hiding emotion or reaction, impossible to tell which one exactly is speaking. No, he's not here. But the Judicator's former siblings were. At long last, they located him, no doubt due to the Fallen's success. There were not many that could pull off that work. Uriah's name was on a short list. Uriah, that is no longer who he was. The Judicator, the bringer of God's punishment, the vessel of judgement, accomplisher of God's will, that is who he was.
  
  What should we do?
  
  Father can fix him.
  
  Maybe we should just kill him.
  
  No, Father will want to see him.
  
  Uriah.
  
  This time the Judicator could tell the voice. Before, he had stayed silent, allowing the others to talk. Now, however, he stepped forward removing the darkened helm from his head. Shaking his hair, previously matted by the helmet, the figure wore it just past shoulder-length, color as black as his armor. Pointed features accompanied the man's face, the tip of his chin and nose spear-like. His face was young, only appearing in his upper-twenties. Uriah -- the Judicator knew his real age to be many times that number.
  
  I speak on his behalf. He is my prisoner to bring before Father.
  
  The others displayed distaste at the decision. Still, they would respect it.
  
  Uriah. Put down the sword. I can't guarantee your safety otherwise.
  
  > go with them
  There wasn't a choice, at least none that would see him alive other than this one. The Judicator, while still being fully committed to the cause, knew that he must go with them. It was the only way to ensure his survival -- and the continuation of his mission.
  
  Sharply, the ringing of steel filled the night air, the rainfall continuing around it, the short sword falling to the ground. Unarmed, the Judicator allowed the nine shadowy forms to surround him. They circled around him, eyeing him through jagged helms. One of them, the Judicator was unable to see who, assaulted him. The world flashed a bright white at the impact, then faded to black.
  
  A prison cell greeted him upon waking. Four caged walls, a steel platform beneath him. The Judicator sat up from the floor, head ringing like the armageddon. The cage was suspended in the air, hung over a cliff from the mountains of Sheol.Thousands of feet in the air, the Judicator silently prayed the cage was built structurally strong. If there's any solace in his captors, it's that they aren't ones to buy cheap material.
  
  The cage rattled in the air, swept into motion with the mountain breeze. Devil take them. This was worse than seasickness. Completely at their mercy, the Judicator would need to wait for their move. That was the only move he possessed.
  
  No one came to visit him. No one spoke to him. Far off in the distance, the Judicator could sometimes view figures walking. They were small ants from this far away. Small ants, who were of no use to the Judicator.
  
  There was something at work. They were trying to break him. The Judicator remembered through a past live. Before Uriah was even born. A game they played. A game of waiting. Give it enough time, take away enough influence and a man would be stripped down to his bare identity.
  
  The game was familiar. After a lengthy amount of time, they would question him. The Judicator, fully devoted to his cause, mentally ran through the answers they'd want to hear. He couldn't show progress right away; he'd need to feign resistance. Only after enough time they'd believe him. The Judicator ran through his answers, the ones they would want to hear. When their guard was finally lowered, he'd strike. The Judicator mentally prepared, and visualized, for the day.