Faith and Consequences.

[Cinnabar]

Why is it so damn hot in here? is Hamdir Ormson's first thought as the sack is tugged roughly from his head. He'd been dragged here from the small cell in which he'd awoken; from a cramped space of dank-smelling stone, up creaking stairs to this room where his wrists had been bound to the arms of a sturdy chair. Before that... things are uncertain. A confused memory of masked figures looming over his bed, then things had gone dark as that damnable sack was pulled over his head.

Now, he finds himself blinking after hours of enforced darkness, apparently alone in narrow room. Rough planking for the walls and floorboards; the far end is obscured by a sheet of canvas nailed up as a crude curtain; directly in front of him, a simple table arrayed with papers, a writing set; another chair behind it, facing him; a small iron stove sits against the wall to his left, his seat close enough that he can feel the heat radiating from it, the ruddy glow illuminating the room with a dim light that might be considered cosy or hellish, depending on one's point of view.

He has a few moments for such observances before he realises that he is not in fact alone in the room: unhurried footsteps bring a slim figure around from behind him, a silver-haired young man with fine-boned features who moves to take the seat across the table from Hamdir. He wears a dark grey vest, dark grey trousers, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to his elbows. Grey eyes regard the prisoner for a few moments before the youth nods, and glances to the papers in front of him. His tone is conversational, pleasant, as if making some comment on the weather.

"Hamdir Ormson of Pinwater Street. Butcher by trade, premises just off Stockyard Lane."

"Might be. Who's askin'?" Suspicion and hostility plain in his voice, anger at being so sorely mistreated.

Pale eyes returns to his prisoner's face; his posture is open, almost amiable, but there is an edge about him, a hardness of intent clear in the lines at the corners of his mouth, the unblinking intensity of that gaze. He chooses to ignore Ormson's question.

"Also an active member of the Order of the All, follower of the creature known as the Baie, and thus accessory to numerous counts of murder, assault, and other grievous violations of the laws of Myrken Wood."

A chill weight grows in the pit of Ormson's stomach despite the oppressive heat of the room; to cover this he scowls, blusters, glaring at the mealy-mouthed boy who sits across from him.

"That ain't true. You can't prove nothin'." He snarls the words, fear transmuting into anger and adding vehemence to his tone. The man across from him simply smiles pleasantly.

"Oh, I beg to disagree, sir." He reaches below the table, retrieving a burlap sack which he upends to produce a cascade of pale silk rustling onto the table, along with a wickedly-curved silver knife. He checks his papers, letting Ormson regard the items for a moment before he continues. "These were found at your residence - the robes carefully folded and concealed in a false-bottomed drawer in your bedchamber, wrapped around the blade, both items peculiar to the Order of the All. Add to that the reliable witness willing to name you as a member of the Order, and I think we can quite easily prove it. As such, I would like you to answer a few questions for me regarding the Order, its membership, and its activities." Still that pleasantly neutral tone, still belied by the glittering of the man's eyes. Ormson stifles his panic, face setting into a belligerent mask.

"Kiss my arse, whoreson." He spits the words with every ounce of venom he can muster. The silver-haired man looks mildly hurt, and sighs.

"Not really the response I was hoping for. But not unexpected either."

"I ain't sayin' nothin'."

"Are you sure?" The youth raises his brows inquiringly.

"Dead sure. Go to hell." A zealot's resolve burns in Ormson's eyes, adamantly determined not to betray his brothers and sisters in faith. His fidelity would see him rewarded, would see him united with his god in the end.

"I see. Well, if that's your final answer." The young man's gaze slides past Ormson, and he nods lightly. It takes the butcher a moment to twig, then he's twisting in his seat to look at the man behind him, but things move too quickly and he gets a only glance of one of those damnable masks before the sack comes down over his head once more.

A disorienting cascade of events follows: he's being gripped firmly by the shoulders, wrists unbound from his chair and tied roughly behind his back as he's hauled to his feet; strong hands at each elbow, steering him by main force across the room, brushing past the canvas curtain; the floorboards ring hollow beneath his feet; something loops over his head, tightening about his throat; at that he's panicking, struggling, shouting wordless fear into the cloth before his face; abruptly the hands at his elbows are removed, and he has a second of blind uncertainty before the floor drops away.

An instant of falling, floating, weightless; then a crack that ends the world.

[Cinnabar]

Some while later it is Dieter Kuchner's turn to blink and stare around the room as the sack is removed from his head. Some things are as they were for Ormson, others are subtly different. The room's oppressive heat still brings a sheen of perspiration to his brow, but now the stove is not the only source of light. Watery blue eyes take in the glowing stove, the canvas curtain, the table - papers, oil lamp, dish cover, writing set - before turning to the stout rope binding his wrists to the arms of his chair. A few experimental tugs get him nowhere, as the knots are firm and the rope sound. He is interrupted from further experimentation by the curtain being pushed aside to reveal a silver-haired young man, who finishes drying his hands and tosses the towel back behind the curtain. He makes his way to the chair across from Dieter, taking a seat and regarding him with pale grey eyes. A glance to his notes, and he speaks as he did to Ormson.

"Dieter Kuchner of Valleger Court. Costermonger by trade." He sits back in his seat, sleeves rolled up, slender and well-scrubbed fingers lacing together on the table in front of him. "Also an active member of the Order of the All, follower of the creature known as the Baie, and thus accessory to numerous counts of murder, assault, and other grievous violations of the laws of Myrken Wood." He shakes his head sharply as Dieter opens his mouth to protest. "Shut up. Yes you are. We have a witness who named you as a member of the Order, and we found your robes tucked under your bed. Hardly very imaginative." He regards Dieter with a steady gaze, waiting for this to sink in. Eventually he continues in a pleasantly matter-of-fact tone.

"Here is how it will be: I am going to ask you about the Order, its members, its activities. You are going to answer my questions truthfully and to the best of your ability."

Dieter blinks, then laughs scornfully. "What makes you think that?" Surely this pallid, skinny youth can't be so hopelessly naive as to think it'll be that easy? In response, the silver-haired young man smiles slightly.

"I know some things about the Order already. I know what is important to you. What is significant and sacred. For example." One hand moves to lift the dish cover that rests on the table, revealing a plain tin bowl beneath. Despite his reservations Dieter can't help but strain against his bonds and lean forward to peer into the bowl, but is recoiling into his seat a moment later as he realises the vessel's contents. His questioner continues in that calm, reasonable voice.

"I know that eyes are significant to you. You offer them up to the Baie - your own, and those of others. You believe that by doing so, you might join with your god, attain union with the divine. It is your sacrament, and your salvation." The dish cover is set aside, the bowl itself pushed forward in order that the prisoner might get a better view whether he willed it or not.

"Hamdir Ormson also belonged to the Order. Unfortunately - for him, of course - he proved reluctant when it came to answering my questions. He did not fear death, as he believed that if he died he would still be joined with his god, and thus he refused to cooperate." The young man leans over as he speaks to lift the circular iron lid from the top of the stove.

"So."

He glances to Dieter to be sure that he's paying attention, then unhurriedly picks up the tin bowl and tips its contents into the blazing coals. The lid is replaced as the stove sizzles and pops; the bowl is set back upon the table, and finally he leans forward to address his prisoner. His gaze is intent, his focus absolute, features set in a casually inquiring expression which might as well be forged from steel.

"Tell me about the Order."