The Quiet House.

[Cinnabar]

A return to the windowless room, and another subject to be interviewed. Cinnabar might be forgiven for feeling a touch of deja vu at the situation, except that there are marked differences this time round. For one, the stove is cold, since there is no need for demonstrations to loosen reluctant tongues; the room is lit instead by a couple of oil lamps hanging from the rafters. The scent of old blood remains, faint but at the edge of perception, stale and dried by now, almost covered by the sawdust smell of fresh-sanded floorboards and the aromatic herbs often added to mop-water. Almost, but not quite.

The main difference, however, is the interviewee. The High Constable's previous subjects had all been low-ranking members of the cult, footsoldiers - pawns, were one to prefer the chess analogy. This time, however, Cinnabar has a key piece in his possession. The one man besides Brother Prime who might be held responsible for the Order of the All's worst horrors and excesses.

Thadius Dhrin.

That the man had surrendered himself into the Constable's custody had been a surprise, it's true. That he'd been able to do so without Ariane trying once again to kill him was perhaps an even greater surprise. But it happened. It was done. Dhrin was taken to the Constabulary's headquarters, and from there was conveyed, head covered by heavy cloth, to this quiet house with its rough planking walls and partitioned cellar and sturdily-boarded windows and absolute lack of comfort. It is here that the High Constable fully intends for the arch-cultist to meet his end. He has the means - the prerequisite pieces of paperwork, the authority of his post and the Grand Warrant that gives him the Governor's full backing. He has the motive - Dhrin's undoubted membership of the cult is more than enough to see him hang, even without his being one of its main architects. And now, with Dhrin being marched into the interview room and bound to that chair, he will have the opportunity.

The three hooded and masked figures finish tying the cultist's wrists and ankles to the chair. Satisfying themselves that the knots are secure, two of them retreat to the corners of the room, fading into the shadows, each quietly taking up a heavy crossbow from against the wall and holding it to point in Dhrin's direction, ready to be fired on a split-second's notice. The third draws a heavy-bladed sword, weighted and honed to hack through flesh and sinew and bone with little difficulty; this last masked man loosens the drawstring about the cultist's neck and pulls off the bag with a quick, practised movement, then quickly retreats a few paces, blade held ready. Further Shadow Constables guard the door from the outside, holding key positions throughout the house, ensuring that any attempt to free the prisoner will pay a punishingly high price in blood. The Constabulary seem to be taking no chances with this one.

Cinnabar Calomel sits silently at his table, watching his men's movements with a steady, neutral gaze. Fingers laced on the table before him, charcoal-grey uniform immaculately neat, he is the very picture of efficient, impartial authority. At last he nods slightly to the man in the chair opposite him, grey eyes keen, alert, watchful.

"Thadius Dhrin. If you have anything you wish to say, do so now. You will not be given the opportunity again."

[Thadius Dhrin]

Light.

When one is shadowed in darkness for such long periods of time, even the dark of night seems to hold the rays of a blazing afternoon sun. Platinum locks of hair hung in disaray about his sharp features, as his head hung low to his chest. Beautiful amber eyes clamped shut for a few beats of his heart as the stinging of the light began to subside.

It was with a long an audible breath that he began.

"What would you have me say, Constable? Do you not already have all of the information you require to divorce my head from my neck? I have many things to say, but what would be the point? You do not even Believe that I know things about your dear governor. You Believe only that I spoke them to beguile young Miss Emory. You are wrong, but I have no way to make you Believe me."

It was then that he would raise his face, allowing his features to be seen by the constable. Those eyes sparkled with life, despite his impending destruction. He was a strange man, almost too feminine to be considered attractive. He wore no real expression. One might expect that a man such as this would have a plea of mercy in his eyes. Tears, or defiance. Something. It seemed Thadius Dhrin felt nothing at all.

"There are reasons behind everything, Constable, if one chooses to find them. The question then becomes do the ends justify the means. In most cases, the answer is no. A man has his reasons for most everything he does. This does not mean his neighbor agrees."

A glance to the restraints that hold him to his chair, and there is a hint of a sad smile.

"If I might give you and example. You have your reasons for having me here, questioning me. Another, let us say the Governor, would just assume that you sever my head and be done with it. He does not feel the need for answers from me. You have your reasons, others might not agree. Still, you do what you do because you Believe it to be the correct course of action...in your heart."

"There is a story to tell, Constable. A long story. A story that might well take years to fully understand. I assume I do not have that much time. Nor do I have your attention for such detail. You only wish me to speak my guilt, or beg you for mercy. Very well...I am guilty. I will not beg."

He seemed a man too relaxed considering his situation. There was no struggle against his bonds, there was no pleading for help or mercy. This was, as it was. There was nothing to be done about it. His God had abandoned him, and he would die for the percieved crimes of his Order.

"I only ask one thing of you, thought I doubt you will grant it to me. When you kill me, I would like my head to be given to Ariane. Give it to her, and tell her that Kerrak may have his fruit bowl...to honor his grave."

A small chuckle here, an inside joke.

"Perhaps, Constable, it would be easier if you asked me questions. You see, I have much I could tell you, but if it is not in the vein of what you wish to know, you might misunderstand my intentions. You might Believe that I am only trying to beguile you as well. To seduce you with my words. Ask...for I have answers. What good is knowledge to a dead man?"

[Cinnabar]

Chill grey eyes regard the cultist steadily, scarcely blinking, intent in their concentration. He tilts his head as Dhrin speaks, a slight smile quirking the corners of his mouth.

"You misapprehend me. Whether or not you admit to your guilt is of no concern, since there is already more than enough evidence against you to see you ended. But that you have done so makes things perhaps a little simpler, and saves some time." He glances to a couple of pieces of paper upon his desk for a moment, checking some detail or other before he returns his attention to the man.

"As far as I am concerned, the best thing you could do would be to detail all that you know of the Order of the All's membership; names, locations, roles, and so forth. Essentially, everything that I might need to put an end to its activities in Myrken Wood. Being so influential within the cult, obviously you are the best person to ask for such." A thin smile at that, recognising the unlikelihood of such coming to pass. "However, while I might hope for such, I do not expect it. It would be most useful if you did volunteer such information freely, but if you decline then I will not waste my time or yours by attempting to extract it forcefully, as I have no illusions about how well that would work." He offers a genial shrug, as if to acknowledge that there are some things it's better to admit as futile. His previous interviews with cult members had proven surprisingly unenlightening, for the most part.

"Instead, I would like to hear your version of events. I already have accounts of the cult's activities as viewed from the outside, but I must confess that I would be intrigued to know the other side of the story, as it were. How did you come to join the Order, to reach the favoured position you held? Why the fixation on eyes? What do you believe the Baie might offer you, that compels your worship and reverence? Most of all I would like to understand why the Order behaves as it does. Your beliefs, your reasoning, the thought behind your actions. The meaning in the madness, if you will."

He leans forward a touch, politely receptive, the attitude of a diligent audience. Alert, watchful, yes. But also curious.

"But do bear in mind that if I feel you are lying to me or wasting my time at any point, this conversation is ended.

"Start at the beginning, if that helps."

[Thadius Dhrin]

A quiet man. Contemplative. A cant of his own head as he considered the words of the constable.

"The beginning. It seems a simple enough start, hmm? Then again, the beginning is something ever changing."

There had been the beginning, when Fawn had found him in that tavern, drunk, beaten, penniless.

There had been the beginning when Michael Renne had instructed him in the art of being Brother Prime.

There had been...the real beginning, in that tree house, high in the mountains.

"You died today. And so did many of your idiotic followers."

You see, these questions could not help but remind him of his time there. When he had known his God. When his God had made him realize the error of his way. The weakness of the Order, because of him, and because of Brother Prime.

Fifteen days after the being had spoken those first words, he had a question for Thadius.

"Tell me of your deity, Thadius Dhrin. I wish to know all that you know."

FInally, after many long moments to reflect on the time spent with his God, Thadius raised his amber gaze to the Constable.

"I was a young man when they found me. Young, hurt, angry. I was the perfect mark, you see. I had nothing. I *was* nothing. I had begun my training in life as a teacher. I taught at a small school in my village, for almost two years. Before I was tossed out on my ear. Discredited by a young woman who swore I took advantage of her, and that it was my child that filled her belly. Not that it matters now, but it wasn't true."

"I was drunk. Perhaps more drunk than I have ever been in my life, when a young lady approached me. A glorious creature, unlike any I had seen before. There was not a single hair upon her head, and it gleamed in the lamp light like a jewel. I am sure her nearly angelic appearance had nothing to do with the copious amounts of ale I had consumed."

"Her body was shot through with metal bars, and dangling silver hoops. Her skin, even her face, marked with scars and tattoos. You know of tattoos, yes?"

And here he paused in his description of young Fawn, looking to the constable again. He would have waved his hand, to dismiss the idea, but recalled suddenly as the ropes bit into his wrist, that this was not a luxury he currently possessed.

"She seduced me. NOt much of a feat, to be honest. I was thrilled to have a woman pay attention to me in ways that did not involve being doused with the mop water, or shooed away with a broom."

"Weeks passed, and she gained my trust, before introducing me to her brother, Michael Renne."

Another pause, as he swallowed hard.

"Might I trouble you for a bit of water, or some wine? This is a very long story I am afraid."

[Cinnabar]

A glance to his notes as Dhrin speaks, perhaps confirming a detail or two, perhaps simply reminding himself of questions that need asking.

"Ah, yes. Renne. I'd like to hear more about him."

To the cultist's request he remains silent for a moment; thoughtful gaze flicks to the corners of the room behind the man, then to those bound wrists. Eventually he nods, rising from his seat to turn his back on the man and step behind the curtain of rough canvas that conceals the far end of the room. He returns presently with an earthenware pitcher and cup, simply-crafted and anonymous. The cup is filled with water, the pitcher set down beside his papers, and he rounds the desk towards Dhrin.

"Far be it from me to cause offense by not trusting you... but I do not trust you." He does not move to loosen the cultist's bonds, but instead stoops to offer the cup to his lips, tilted slightly so that he might drink. A gesture perhaps incongruous in its setting, almost solicitous in his care not to choke the man or to pour it down his front.

Once Dhrin has slaked his thirst for the moment, Cinnabar sets the cup down on the table, and takes a moment to move his chair round the table, sitting closer to the man that he might grant him more water if required. He sits comfortably, apparently at ease for all that his gaze remains watchful and alert.

"Your introduction to Renne."

[Thadius Dhrin]

"Renne."

He would echo the name with an almost curious tone. The man had been an enigma, and still was in many ways.

"When Fawn first introduced me to Michael, he was very kind. He took me in, gave me a place to sleep, work to do. He gave me a purpose for the first time in a very long time. Believe me, when you live without purpose, finding one is like a gift from God."

"I was told the tale of how their parents had been killed by some great beast, along with most of their village. Michael had seen the murders, and looked the creature in the eye...and it let him live."

A pause then, as if contemplating the wisdom of continuing this tale, for it was about to take a rather drastic turn.

"Slowly, they began to teach me about their faith, you see. One does not simply join the Order. Only a select group are given entry. They must know, understand, and Believe. All of it seemed reasonable...until they saw fit to take me to one of their meetings."

Perhaps two years ago telling this story would have frozen his heart. Turned his stomach. But now? Now it was like giving his name...it meant nothing.

"Have you ever seen someone so sure of their faith that they willingly give their life to their God?"

Amber eyes, a gift from his own God, would once more seek the silvery gaze of his captor. After a moment, he would continue.

"He went to the podium, this young man. And he knelt before a man in a crimson robe. A man known only to the Order, as Brother Prime. There were words exchanged, some grand ritual. I was taken in, by all the ceremony. And before my brain could understand what was happening, that man would slump to the floor, bleeding from throat and eyes. A serene smile upon his lips as his life ran from his wounds and was gone."

"Well... as you might imagine, I was horrified. As any sane person would be. It took many hours for Fawn and Michael to find me, and calm me down. It was too late, you understand. You do not witness such a thing and go away unchaged. You accept it...or you die."

Again he would fall silent, perhaps contemplating the evil he has just wrought upon himself. Perhaps thinking of how callous he may seem to Cinnabar. Perhaps, thinking of nothing more important as those long warm nights spent with Fawn Renne.

[Cinnabar]

"I have seen men throw away their own lives for the sake of their god, yes." Dhrin would likely know of the raid upon the Order's cavern lair, the deaths of the guards placed there, the searing of the cavern with fire oil by Janeiro soldiers. Did he know the High Constable had been there? Probably. Word gets around. And then there were the score of cultists who'd had their necks stretched in this very building, this very room, of whom the vast majority had been defiant to the last.

He does not speak of this, however, when he gauges the silence has lasted long enough. Instead there is a small gesture towards the cup, in case Dhrin should want more water, and a nod at his explanation.

"And what is it that you were required to know, and to Believe?" A curious tilt of the head, a slight flicker of a smile at the corners of his mouth.

"Imagine that I am a potential recruit; that I might perhaps be useful to the Order, and that you desire to bring me into the fold, as it were. What would you tell me, to gain my interest? What is it that the Order would have me Believe?"

[Thadius Dhrin]

Another long pause. Obvious consideration at this new question.

"Imagine that I am a potential recruit; that I might perhaps be useful to the Order, and that you desire to bring me into the fold, as it were. What would you tell me, to gain my interest? What is it that the Order would have me Believe?"

A slow smile then, looking up at Cinnabar beneath half closed lids. The warmth of his amber gaze somehow carrying the chill of a new autumn breeze.

"The Order would not have you, Constable. You are headstrong. Prideful. You Believe only that which you can touch with your hands. What lies your eyes allow you Believe."

"You must understand Constable, that in order to Believe, you must have Faith. Faith is what has kept me alive all these years. I Believe. I trust in my God, and he protects me."

"If..."

A very strong emphasis on the word.

"..the Order were to have interest in someone like you, there would be much to undertake. Your every move would be monitored. Your every private moment considered before anyone would approach you. And when you were approached, you would be offered what every man wants. Salvation. Protection from famine and disease. Poverty and violence."

"We offer our Believers what they rarely, if ever, come to know in this dreadful place, Safety. He protects his flock, constable. Those of true Belief will remain ever safe in His arms."

Sitting back in his chair, he nods softly toward the glass.

"Another sip, please?"

[Cinnabar]

A thin smile, and a hand waved as if to encourage the cultist to suspend disbelief for the sake of this hypothetical example, and he nods as the man continues. When water is requested he takes up the cup again, holding it carefully to the man's lips.

"You misapprehend me, sir. I most certainly believe in more than what is immediately visible or tangible. But I do not believe in what you believe. You have faith that you serve a deity incarnate. I suspect that you serve a monster and call it a god." A moment to regard that pale hair, the rich colour of those eyes.

"You seek out the weak, the distraught, the vulnerable, the besieged, the desperate; and you offer them respite? Cynical, but effective." A slight grin at that. "Do I malign you to imagine that in some cases you might bring them to the point of desperation yourselves in order to draw them into the order? Or is that unkind?"

Pale grey gaze meeting Dhrin's, intent and watchful.

"And what do you require in return? What must a new initiate learn to Believe? What must they promise?"

[Thadius Dhrin]

"Promise?"

Soft laughter. It would be a gentle sound, somehow scarred by the long ago lost innocence of the man who issues forth this sound. Such a word, Promise.

"They must promise...to Believe, of course. They must promise to love Him before all others. They must promise to keep silent."

Another long look at the constable as he speaks these words. Amber orbs shine almost gently in the rooms light. A thin smile spreads once more upon those lips.

"Now do you understand why Ariane Emory and Altias Bromn proved to be such a complication for the Order? The She Wolf knows not when to shut her mouth, and the Whelp does her bidding. You may think it the other way around, but it is not so. Altias does what she bids, whatever it may be."

To the trained listener his voice might tighten a bit as he speaks. There is a subtle flash of anger in those eyes as her name crosses his lips. The mention of Bromn prompts a subtle roll of his eyes.

"I was foolish to Believe she would understand us, you see. She is a woman with no God. Never has she wanted or needed one. I foolishly thought to change that. He showed me the error of my ways."

Had Cinnabar noticed the tiniest of scars at either corner of his eyes? He he known from any other source that the eyes with which Thadius Dhrin had been born were in fact...green?

"To your question, Ser. We do not seek out the weak. We seek out those who have no faith. Those who have no purpose. To be without purpose is not weakness. To be without purpose is only to be without knowledge. We help them to have purpose. To have knowledge. To understand and grow with Him."

"We have never, to my knowledge, ever worsened a person's situation in order to bring them into our fold."

To his credit, that much was true. With the exception of Ariane Emory...and that...was more a personal project than Order protocol.

"All we ask in return is Loyalty, Belief and Silence. Simple things, in return for purpose, safety and joy. Do you not think?"

"And before you ask...those who are taken by myself, or Brother Prime, are taken of their own will. They offer themselves to Him. They Believe that their sacrifice allows them to be with Him."

Once more he falls silent. Amber eyes drift closed, as a soft sigh escapes his lips.

[Cinnabar]

The Constable listens, patient as ever. No movement is made to betray his thoughts on Dhrin's words as he speaks, no gesture to indicate how warped he feels the cultist's view to be. Until at last the man falls silent, and Calomel frowns slightly.

"And the others? The murders? The bodies found with words carved in their chests and their eyes stolen? Were they also volunteers, willing sacrifices to your master? Did they have any say in the matter?" Cold words, cold anger running in an undercurrent in his tone.

"What of those who might choose to decline your invitation, but for the fact that having been invited, to refuse the invitation is death? Do you feel they act freely in joining you?" He shakes his head, sitting back in his chair. A few moments of silence, then, as he considers the bound man thoughtfully. Then another question, a different direction.

"Why does the Baie pretend to be gone from Myrken? What is it hiding from?"

[Thadius Dhrin]

"The murders were punished."

For a moment, only a moment, there is anger in that amber gaze. He remembers the betrayer, and the lies.

"I...Believe, Constable, that I really have nothing more to say on the matter. What good will it do for me to try and convince you that i do not know why He does what he does? If He choses to leave Myrken, who am i to question Him?"

"I would imagine, then, that it is time for me to die? Yes?"

A small smirk of a smile. A shake of his head.

"Don't forget. My head on Kerrak's grave. Let him have his bloody fruitbowl."

[Cinnabar]

There's a small time of quiet from the High Constable, pale gaze upon the cultist; thinking for a time, perhaps considering wreaking fearsome injury upon this man, breaking him carefully, methodically, until he is a wretched creature of splintered bone and bloody meat mewling for the mercy of death. Perhaps.

Instead he frowns, sets the cup aside, and stands. A glance to the Constables, then a nod over Dhrin's head to the man standing behind him; a hiss of metal as the guard's broad-bladed sword is sheathed, followed by a rustling of leather and cloth. The rough sack is tugged down over the cultist's head once more and the drawstring pulled closed - not enough to choke, but certainly enough to chafe, to irritate - before there is an ungentle touch at Dhrin's wrists, unfastening the ropes that bind him to the chair and moving to tug his hands behind his back where they might be bound again.

For his part, Calomel simply watches the procedure, wordless and patient. It'll be over soon enough. In the meantime, take no chances.

[Thadius Dhrin]

Dhrin moved not a muscle. Not a flinch. Not a change of expression. Nothing. As the bag was placed over his head. As they tied the bag around his throat, he made no cry, but within the darkness of the covering amber eyes were wide. Wide with fear. Fear that perhaps he had been forsaken. Perhaps there was no place for Thadius at the side of his God.

His hands were roughly bound and he was pulled to standing from the chair which had housed him for what seemed and eternity. Silence was their reward, and his own as well, for no sound came from the Constable.

In his mind, in his heart, Thadius reached out to God.

~Please. Not yet. Not like this.~

[Cinnabar]

No words yet from the High Constable, and there is something of the deliberate about this; no more talk for the cultist, not another human voice between him and his fate. Let the last words he hears be his own, self-satisfied almost to the point of gloating. Let him think on them, and let him come to regret them.

Beyond the dark confines of Dhrin's hood, Calomel communicates with his men through signs, gestures. A glance to one, then the other, and a nod to the hooded prisoner; soundless signals followed by a rustle of movement, a creak of leather and clink of chain. Thadius will feel strong and gauntlet-clad hands gripping him at the elbows, a man at each arm. The third does not touch him, remains outside the realm of Dhrin's senses; perhaps he stands even now, a crossbow aimed at the small of the cultist's back, or with that stout hacking blade raised, poised in case he makes any sudden move, ready to cleave his head from his shoulders, or split his skull.

The grip at Dhrin's elbows becomes a push, steering the prisoner across the room to the sound of boots on floorboards and the billowing of cloth - that curtain, that hanging wall of fabric that shielded the end of the room from the prisoner's gaze. Firm hands on his arms guide the cultist forwards, unseeing, unable even to hold his hands out to detect any obstacles before him. Perhaps this is deliberate, perhaps not, but maybe Dhrin will appreciate the fear that comes of being pushed into the black unknown by unsympathetic hands, knowing only that his death lies but a few faltering paces from him.

A patch of boards that creak hollow underfoot, not as solid as the rest of the floor, and even as he realises this there is something being lowered down over his head, over the sack that masks his features and looping about his throat.

The scent of old blood is stronger here. Old blood and recent fear.