Arkane marched in stride behind his Master in the procession to his greatness. Despite Cormac’s reputation for tyranny, Arkane admired the boy’s resolve to order and rule. Those who did not follow were unworthy of his powers, and thus need not live. Arkane made himself useful to his Master, and was thus rewarded with a knighthood and a place at his Mater’s side. It was a simple concept that alarmingly few seemed to grasp. Hierarchy is a remarkable stable system once it is accepted and adhered to, and Arkane was a prime example to the power of loyalty, and the reward of competence. The Holy was proud to follow The Lord.<br/><br/>The fear in the people was palpable that day, and he could feel it in the spirits present to witness Cormac’s procession. Even the dead feared him, and Arkane was the reason why. Yet something gnawed on his consciousness. Back within the castle, having his done his Master’s bidding, Cormac had requested a slave girl be brought forth. Arkane could feel her presence in the crowd before Cormac had even chosen her, and was surprised the feeling in his mind didn’t subside with her taking.<br/><br/>Free of his duties, Arkane excused himself to his turret chamber, and pontificated. Through the meditation ritual the spirits of dead of the past spoke of his future. In turn the elements visited his vision: Air, then Fire, then Earth, then Water. Water. He saw a girl floating in a pool of water. She was naked, her dark hair flattened round her scalp from full emersion her round breasts breaking the surface. She was warm, relaxed, tranquil, perfect, ripe for the taking. She was unknown to him, and with his powers dwindling ever lower, he asked the sprits to guide him to her.<br/><br/>A holy map appeared at his feet, and a scent wafted into his nostrils, causing deep inhalation. His vision ended, and he was all but drained. For now. He tucked The Tome, his most prized inanimate possession under his arm, and coiled a reticulated whip in the other. He left his chamber with her scent still fresh on his senses. She was close by. His steps followed her scent until he arrived at a closed door. Steam was escaping the room around the doorframe, signaling him that he had found his charge. He clutched the whip in his hand, steeling himself for what was about to occur. His dwindling powers left him vulnerable at the moment; he would have to exert his control quickly.<br/><br/>Without knocking, he opened the door and stepped into a fog of steam. Her musical voice was floating within it, soft as rose petals. Her scent was strong. He could see the pool of water in which she sat, and he prepared his stance to take her, though he could not yet see her through the thick cloud of steam. If she tried to resist or attack, she would take the brunt of the whip.<br/><br/>“I am Arkane the Holy,” his well-practiced voice commanded. “Come forth from the waters to be taken. You will perform the ritual.”<br/><br/>While Cormac’s reputation was clearly instilled on the hearts and minds of the slaves, Arkane’s was much more mysterious, insidious as smoke, far more mental and spiritual than physical. Those who had taken part in the ritual usually became addicted to the powers it instilled, and in that process became personally enslaved to him, unwilling to endanger that which had bestowed such prowess, and in fact protective of it.<br/>