text: The night continued on. Food was served, which quieted down the more rowdy guests. A little food in the belly helped counteract the flowing wine. We must meet them where they are. We can't expect them to live up to our expectations. The words of the Archbishop came to Uriah's mind each time he thought of stepping in to calm down the guests. And the thought came often.
  
  Uriah remained unmoving from his post, only leaving it once to help hold open a door for a nun carrying a tray of half-eaten plates. The nuns didn't mind playing the role of waitress; it was the way they ensured uneaten food wouldn't get thrown out. Tomorrow the feast would extend to street urchins and beggars.
  
  In the distance, a tower bell sang into the night air, one hour before midnight, barely audible through the feast. As if a weight was lifted from his shoulders, Uriah stood up just a little straighter. The bell marked his time at the feast was finished. Like a miner trodding home after a long shift, Uriah left the feasting hall, walking with his hands clasped behind him, the sounds of revelry traded for the soft pattering of rain. It was only a light drizzle. Consistent streaks of raindrops fell from the sky, those falling near lamplight looking as if spider silk.
  
  Lost in thought, Uriah almost didn't notice her, a small figure appearing through the rain drawing closer, growing larger. Uriah stopped to watch, his hair beginning to be weighted down with rain, the tips starting to present a constant drip like a loosely-plugged waterskin. She ran, stumbling in the darkness, kicking up small puddles of rain. Noticing Uriah, and the absence of anyone else, she made directly for the priest.
  
  She arrived, out of breath, hand gripping around Uriah's arm for emphasis. Recognition flashed in Uriah's mind, his face remaining blank. She was someone from a dream, a woman that he didn't know personally, but heard all about, knowing details far too intimate for their status as strangers, a silver brooch pinned over her left breast. Gilly: owner of the bathhouse and the Fallen's main nightly visit.
  
  "What's wrong?" Uriah questioned, pulling Gilly away and, in turn, placing his hands at each of shoulders.
  
  Through ragged breath, not bothering to wipe the auburn strands of hair sticking to her face with rainwater, she answered. "Something's wrong with the councilman. He's having a reaction to...an allergic reaction to the food."
  
  Straight to the point, Uriah asked as more of a commanding statement. "Where is he? Take me to him."
  
  Gilly, nodding, motioned for Uriah to follow, and they both took off in the rain, boots kicking up streaks of water behind them. She led them across the church campus to a small chapel on the outer edge, one Uriah was very familiar with; it's the same one he visits early in the morning, only large enough for three rows of pews, the inside mostly built from oak. The two of them bursted through the chapel doors, not bothering to shut them behind.
  
  Beneath the small altar, a man laid on his back convulsing, his torso erupting in small spasms. A thin layer of foam had begun to appear at the corner of his lips, some of it already drying into a flaky texture, like skin after a nasty sunburn. His clothes were once fine, but now they were stained and crumpled by his prone posture, his coat and a woman's, apparently Gilly's, tossed in the corner. Ignoring the obvious events between Gilly and the councilman that were taking place, Uriah rushed to the councilman's side, dropping to both knees, feeling for a pulse and listening for breathing.
  
  "What did he take?" Uriah shouted, voice rising far louder than his typical hushed tone.
  
  "He's having an allergic--"
  
  "Shut it, woman!" Uriah, again, shouted over Gilly. "What did he take?"
  
  With a defeated look, Gilly skipped to councilman's coat and reached inside, pulling out a small leather bag. This time, recognition appeared on Uriah's face. The bag was the exact same kind that the Fallen had discovered in the cellar days ago. After all his searching, all the damage output, a lead appeared here, in a familiar place.
  
  "How much?"
  
  Gilly hesitated to answer, then realizing withholding information would likely result in a man's death, said, "Four rows."
  
  Four rows. That amount is dangerously high for common street spice. If this is the same refinement as the spice the Fallen found, then the councilman's life was in serious danger. Uriah would need to rid the councilman's system of the stuff, quickly, before too much of the spice is absorbed.
  
  "Stay here," Uriah commanded, rising from his kneeling position. "I'll go and grab..."
  
  Uriah's words cut off as his vision met two dark forms standing in the chapel doorway, the rainfall as their backdrop, one unarmed, the other wearing a short sword at his hip. The unarmed man whispered something. His posture, the way he moved was familiar. Despite the darkness, Uriah recognized the Speaker, the man in black. The man next to him, nodded, and drew his sword walking completely into the chapel light. He wore leather armor underneath his overcoat, the only other distinguishing factor besides the drawn sword.
  
  "Norn?" Gilly uttered. Sword in hand, Norn continued down the single walkway of the chapel.
  
  "Norn?" Gilly said a second time. She's met with silence, save for the sound of Norn's boots. Uriah, putting himself between Gilly and Norn, knew what he had to do.
  
  > rely on his own strength
  Uriah couldn't let the demon out. Not here. Not in front of Gilly. The mask accompanied the Fallen for a reason; it protected the church from association as well as its members. If lawbreakers in Sheol's Passage knew where their most hated enemy lived...Uriah tried not to think about it. Tonight, he'll just have to rely on his own strength, supported, made strong by the divine.
  
  "Sorry, Gilly. Orders," Norn spoke, flatly, sounding not very apologetic.
  
  Uriah stood directly in Norn's path, wind from the open chapel doors sending the bottom of his priestly robes in motion, like a ship flying the colors of her king, like the half-cloak of the Fallen. He positioned his body slightly to the side, left shoulder facing toward Norn, as to create a smaller target for a thrust of the short sword.
  
  "This is a sacred place," Uriah said, his voice barely audible over the rainfall outside, deep and vibrant, whisper-like. "Your presence is staining. 'He who seeks destruction shall find it.'"
  
  Norn peered at the priest in front of him. Water dripped from his long hair, falling in front of his face, the dark strands resting just around his eyelids like a branching river. This was not the peaceful priest he was expecting. Still, though, Norn was the one holding a weapon. Despite his bold words, Norn would soon unite the man with his god. Lifting the short sword up high--
  
  Uriah took the offensive.
  
  He charged forward, lowering one shoulder and driving it into Norn's gut. A small grunt escaped Norn's lips, the blow sending both men sprawling to the floor. Crucially, Norn managed to keep his short sword from flying from his grip. The sword, the focus of the priest's attention, drew both hands to Norn's arm, attempting to dislodge the weapon. That left him exposed to Norn's free hand.
  
  A fist smashed into Uriah's nose, creating a bloody rainfall similar to the downpour outside. With the priest stunned, Norn was able to push the man off of him, putting himself in an advantageous position, still being the only one armed. He wouldn't allow himself to be surprised again. The priest's one tactic failed. He was as good as dead. Switching to small, quick cuts, Norn, put himself on the offensive.
  
  Uriah, backpedaling, dodging Norn's swipes, almost tripped over Gilly kneeling beside the councilman, drops of blood landing on both of them caused by a few gashes from Norn's attack. Uriah, Priest of the Second Order, servant of the divine, stood bloodied, his simple robe looking as if sails stray cannonballs hit. This was it. End of the line. The small chapel didn't allow for much movement, putting Uriah at a serious disadvantage. There was nowhere else to dodge or retreat to. This was it. End of the line.
  
  > end Game and Leave Comments
  No.
  
  Not here. Not now. For too long he relied on the strength of his own limbs, spurred to supernatural levels by the demon. Too long he had ignored the power in front of his eyes, the originator of true power. He prayed to him every morning. Until now he'd been met with silence. But perhaps it was because of his nightly excursions, a duality of principle. Now, in a matter of a few seconds, Uriah washed himself of the Fallen, of uncleanliness. He welcomed in the divine's strength, letting it pour through his limbs. His task was not over yet, and it would be accomplished through holy means.
  
  Uriah, the Fallen, the greatest of sinners, became something else -- someone else entirely. Evil stood before him. Evil surrounded him. This place, the small chapel in which Uriah visited daily, was stained with their presence. It was stained by others too, but they would receive judgement. Now, however, three souls needed purging.
  
  Bloodied, Uriah stomped his foot back, landing his heel against the councilman's temple, the result a sickening crack. The councilman's head twisted unnaturally, Gilly watched in horror as Uriah sent another stomp down for good measure. Uriah turned, grabbing Gilly by the arm and pulling her in front of him. At the same time, the short sword from Norn, which would have ran Uriah through, instead, pierced Gilly's torso, the sword tip exiting from her back mere inches away from Uriah.
  
  Two down, one to go.
  
  Uriah kicked Gilly's body, thrusting her body forward crashing into Norn. Before Norn could recover, Uriah sprinted forward in a short burst of breathwork and swung himself, underhooking his arms around Norn's shoulders, onto his back. Immediately, Uriah's arms locked in the chokehold, palm on bicep, hand on the back of Norn's head. He squeezed, pouring all of his rage into the maneuver, the loss inflicted over the years, the great sin that he bore, a life of denial.
  
  He continued squeezing long after Norn's breath stopped, until finally, the anger subsided leaving behind an empty void, like a gaping hole was left in his heart when purpose gave way to aimlessness. That feeling, the feeling of righteous action was only present when bearing judgment on the wicked. The fire that burned within was left a low ember. But still it's there, ready to consume, an inferno, cleansing the world of evildoers.
  
  The Fallen, demon of the underworld, was no more. The Judicator stood in his place.
  
  Rain still poured outside, the open chapel doors allowing excess water to seep in. The Judicator bent down to Norn's body, removing the overcoat and leather armor. He strapped the armor around himself, along with the short sword, over his priestly robes which bore several cuts on arms.
  
  Realizing that could inhibit his movement, the Judicator ripped them off completely, his long sleeves now stopping just above the elbow. The Judicator, while possessing great faith, understood the need of practicality. His mission, God's mission, wouldn't be cut short by a refusal of material aid. All things were ultimately created by God, including tools of destruction. The Judicator fell into that category.
  
  The Judicator took the short sword and cut a strip of cloth from Gilly's dress, a dark crimson color. Church members knew him as Uriah, a stoic priest of the second order. It wasn't to hide his identity; it was to remove detraction from the culling. The Judicator tied the cloth around the bottom half of his face, only his eyes and long hair remaining uncovered.
  
  > Wolves in sheep's clothing
  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.
  
  > cull the corrupt
  No. There are no exceptions for evil men. The power they possess -- it's too dangerous to be allowed to roam freely. If it were in service of the divine, it would be another matter. Once upon a time, they were his siblings; that status won't offer them any mercy. The Judicator, still gripping the short sword in his palm, brought it up in attack position.
  
  It's no use.
  
  His fits are a liability.
  
  Father will understand.
  
  A mad dog must be put down.
  
  The man who was recognized, the one with the pointed features, stepped back and returned his carapace helm to his head. The words he spoke would be the last the Judicator heard from him.
  
  Consider this a mercy, old friend.
  
  Nine shadowy forms stood around him, not paying attention to the rain falling upon them. Nine forms, eighteen blades, their jagged armor matching the weapons in their hands. He once stood in their place. A shadow, trained to follow Father's orders. That was before his eyes were opened. That was before Uriah, a past life of his, found the divine, scraping, filling the day with mediocre work as penance.
  
  Their leader, Father, controlled their actions. They were as mindless as sheep, only their actions left a wake of destruction in their path. No, it wouldn't hurt the Judicator's conscience to silence his former family. His only concern is following the Lord's will. Evil men and women stood in his way. They must be punished.
  
  Sweeping his sword high, the Judicator charged with a zealous fury of strikes. It would be his last.