INQUISITION: OLD BLOOD.
Titan, Penates System - Throneworld of House Lares
Morcannis Palace District
The acid storms of Titan are a sight to behold - massive, terrifying, and deadly in a way that few things in the galaxy can compare. The dark clouds of one of these storms were on march towards Morcannis, the city in the mountains, where Margrave Reidon Lares-Vathe watched the advancing tempest in silence from behind the thick glass windows of his great hall.
The hall was a bare, utilitarian space that lacked any decoration aside from two skinny pillars on the dais that made up the farthest third of the room and a red running carpet from the dais’ steps to the doors of the hall. There was an unknown luxury to it, though - on Titan, such a large space being dedicated to nothing at all, more often than not sitting empty and unused, was about as extravagant of a waste as they come. Furthermore, the windows alone with how securely they must be made and how thickly they must be plastered in UV-protective coating to counteract the solar radiation that bathes the surface cost about as much as a private interstellar yacht. The space, despite its lack of aesthetics, is also designed to look sleek and minimalistic, to seem as if it is intentional that the space was so unimpressive, which ran in stark contrast to the almost industrial designs seen in all of the rest of the planet’s architecture. In a way, the space itself was a commentary on just how out of place House Lares was on Titan, and how unsuited it was to be a capital. But Reidon had his reasons. None but the most advanced scanners in the Imperium could penetrate through the thick, reflective atmosphere to the planet’s surface, and even then, such a caustic and hostile environment would deter any attacker in their right mind. At the time of naming it his throneworld, when he was single handedly facing a xeno empire with weapons on par with that of the Imperium, it was a much more reasonable decision. He had told his kinsmen on Laresia this many times, but still they failed to understand why it was necessary now. He hoped they never would have to understand.
Suddenly, the bow of a great Muadi warship pierced through the grey-green clouds. Its horns blared, audible even from within his hall despite the ship being miles away. Massive blue banners of House Hared hang from nearly every surface of the vessel. Immediately it reminded Reidon of the days of his conquest, when the Muadi Emperor’s ships descended upon his virgin colonies, and the great battles he had against these fleets of warships. One such ship of a design not too dissimilar to the one before him now was actually present at the Third Battle of Caynis Mar, when the world finally fell to him. He could see the battle now; from the world’s surface, seeing the ship close as it was, it seemed impossibly huge. He then remembered how the ship looked broken and burning, half smoldering on the once-pristine beach, the other half partially submerged off the island’s coast.
The ceremony of the Haredi ship’s arrival was to be expected, even despite the fact that this was no occasion worth celebrating on its own. No member of House Hared had ever before stepped foot on Titan. It was a symbolic day. It was no place of Reidon’s to prohibit them from honouring themselves - they were paragons of the Muadi race, or at least what was left of it, and being summoned to Titan meant being seen in the halls of their overlords as true members of the Imperium and all that it entailed.
It was not long until the large doors at the far end of the room parted silently, folding back to reveal Reidon’s guest; Dressed in extravagant lapis blue armour, the Muadi titan himself, Lord-Regent Mauul of the Thadan Regency, stood tall at the threshold. His suit was a traditional Muadi pattern, with strong geometric plates paired with sweeping organic rows, all layered in a way that seemed byzantine and impractical to the untrained human eye, but in fact offered the Muadi form unparalleled mobility and protection of vital organs. The pauldrons of his armour, the only part that was in fact impractical, formed twin insignias of House Hared, and from his waist hung four of his house banners on either side, each nearly as long as Reidon was tall.
The Lord-Regent marched forward, in only a few strides standing before the dais and locking eyes with Reidon. The Muadi were massive bipedal creatures - Mauul was slightly shorter than average for a male of his race, owing at least partly to a life spent mostly offworld, but he still stood at easily twice if not more of Reidon’s height. His eyes glowed with a red-orange flame, the inky black pupils and sclera digging into the Margrave’s human skull. His mouth was covered by his helmet, which had become customary as the cleft lips that exposed the Muadis’ permanently-snarled teeth tended to rub humans the wrong way. Still only a young adult, his tusks were no more than a foot in length each, but still sharpened to a lethal point as custom demanded, and lacking the metal caps that had, for the same reason as mouthguards, become a new standard in court appearances.
The two held the gaze for a few uncomfortable moments, before Mauul bowed his head and took a knee before the Margrave. To the Muadi, this locking of eyes was known as “warrior meeting.” To break eye contact was to acknowledge the other as your superior. To bow your head even more so, and to bend the knee, almost complete humiliation. These had in the past few decades become increasingly common displays by the Muadi. Their dignity had died with Mon Thaaud.
“Lord Mauul of House Hared. You may rise.”
He did as was commanded, once again meeting Reidon’s eyes. The Margrave had become used to the intricacies of interacting with the Muadi. It was rather easy when they acknowledged you with the regard he had earned through subjugating their entire species.
“You honour myself and my house by summoning me to your throneworld, Reach-Lord. I offer my most humble apologies that we did not bring sufficient tribute for this grace - we were informed that this was a matter of immediate urgency.”
Mauul’s words are spoken with a slow, deep guttural accent. Reidon’s wife, Lady Lisat, had once described it as “a voice like the deep sea.” The Lord-Regent begins to kneel again, but Reidon dismisses the gesture with a waving of his hand.
“No need,” he says, turning to walk to the window. The Hared warship still floated idly in the air before the storm. He stood there in silence for a moment, thinking. Mauul approached the window after a while, looking at his house’s ship with satisfaction. In the days of the Muadi Empire, it would have been among the largest of capital ships.
“Taer Atlos,” Reidon said suddenly. “Even there is not safe from the reach of war.”
Mauul turned to the Margrave. He saw then that the aging man grimaced. Even as near-impossible as he found humans to read, he had learned this expression. He was besieged by thoughts, racing through his mind like a horde of tenoc.
“I have heard,” comments Mauul. “The church makes its move on the Imperium. The clans are uneasy at the news. We are likely the first to be questioned.”
“Allow me to be first, then,” Reidon replies. “When my scorch-ships descended on Mon Thauud, when I had the Emperor - your own grandfather - slain, you still swore your oaths as vassal to me. Even when more of your own blood died and thousands of rebels were captured and executed. Many across the Imperium believe it was a practical decision in defense of your own life, nothing more. Others, a last attempt to preserve your alien traditions and Imperial line. Before then you had no knowledge of or care for the Piatha. You have every reason to resent them as much as you would me and the rest of mankind. So I ask you, Lord Mauul, and I implore you to answer truthfully - Do you truly hold faith in Oridran and manifold gods of the Imperium?”
Mauul hisses slowly and deeply, an action analogous to a deep breath in humans, and thinks for a while before he responds.
“My Gods died with Mon Thauud,” he says flatly. “My people have always believed in the right of the conqueror above the conquered. As your kind put it so eloquently - It is the victors who write the histories. We have robbed countless peoples of their Gods, their cultures, their names, their very lives - just as mankind has to us. We have done as you are now many times, and see this as no more than a test.”
Reidon’s eyes are wide at Mauul’s words. In his mind, this was a very different conversation that went in a very different direction.
“To answer your question, Reach-Lord,” Mauul continues, “The hypocrisy of maintaining our old ways now, when we have met the same fate to which we subjected so many, would be the greatest disgrace of all to the Muadi. We remain true in our worship of the Piatha.”
Reidon swallows, and without thinking looks away from Mauul’s eyes to digest what he had just heard. A faux pas that will be easily forgiven and forgotten. Just as, it seems, the destruction of a civilization. Before he realizes his slight, Mauul has already turned to leave.
. . .
Cathane, Homeworld of the Order of Menders
Somewhere in the Elysian Belt
In the darkness between stars, where even the Emperor cannot reach, the greatest secrets of the Imperium, many unbeknownst even to it, are hidden. In such vast nothingness, almost anything could be lurking in the shadows.
It is fear of this unknown, this winnowing darkness that festers in the cold void that leads many to the Piatha. For those with few prospects in life, or those whose fear overwhelms all else, there is a second chance for them in the form of the many holy orders scattered across the galaxy. Here, on Cathane, a lonely world orbiting a weak star, one such collection of the devout has made itself at home.
Standing in a circle are eleven members of the Order of Menders. Among them, Grand Adherent Adriel, First Adherent Immica, First Adherent Vulkald, and First Zelator Vashidae, along with several Thralls - the nameless novitiates of the order. They are gathered in the main prayer hall, a large empty space bathed in the dim, bloody red light of the world’s parent star.
“Praise Tereshay,” Adriel calls out.
“Praise Tereshay,” the others respond in unison.
Perfectly on cue, the doors on the right side of the room open, four Neophytes rolling in a black body bag on a gurney.
A relatively nearby world had recently experienced a particularly lethal outbreak of a disease known as Red Pox - infamous in this region for spreading quickly and undetected, until it causes sudden death within a matter of days after infection, converting the corpse into a breeding ground of invisible airborne spores.
Truly, Adriel thought, one of Tereshay’s most ingenious creations.
The Neophytes place the bag on the slab before Adriel, hitting a button to close the shutters on the glass ceiling and activating several bright white lights that illuminate the space before quickly exiting the room.
Adriel summons a small censer from the pocket of his robe, which he opens to reveal a small pool of black liquid. He turns to Immica, drawing a strange sigil on her forehead and placing a small dop on her lip. He repeats this for each of the individuals present, then handing it to Immica, who does the same for him.
“Praise Tereshay,” Adriel calls out once again. Once again, the others respond with the same phrase in unison. The Thralls open the body bag, revealing a seemingly pristine corpse of a young female human. Thin cloths are placed over her to protect her modesty while they operate. Aside from her discoloured greyish skin and complete stillness, not a single thing appears to be wrong with her
“Before we begin,” Adriel says in a flat and practiced tone, “Let us sanctify the body in the name of our Lady-Patron of the Affliction.”
The Thralls assemble behind the head of the dead woman, beginning to recite their prayers in a deep, guttural tone. As they speak, Adriel and the others don gloves and protective equipment and prepare a variety of medical tools, ranging from the commonplace such as laser-guided needles and body scanners to the archaic and strange. First Zelator Vashidae passes over her body with a scanner, quickly showing that everything is as it should be - her bones intact, save for evidence that she broke the second metacarpal of her left hand some years ago, and her vital organs are mostly in good shape - for a dead person, anyway.
Just as the Thralls complete their prayers, Adriel and Vulkald approach the body.
“Cause of death: Red Pox infection. Time since death: Three days, fourteen hours, seven minutes. Name unknown. Registered as Jenane Doe #338.” Vashidae reads the information aloud clearly for the capturing of the recording devices.
“Praise Tereshay, she almost looks alive,” First Adherent Immica comments.
“Indeed our Lady-Patron has been merciful with her,” Adriel says, examining her body for any possible imperfections.
“If I may be so bold,” First Adherent Vulkald begins, “I would ask why we are operating on this individual. Surely a routine collection operation would be better suited for a team of Acolytes. Perhaps even some promising Neophytes could shadow. Much can be learned from the Red Pox.”
“A fair enough question. But you’re missing a crucial point, First Adherent.” Adriel looks up from the body at Vulkald. “One that I have purposefully omitted from any record. This is not just any Jenane Doe with a simple infection. She survived nearly a year with an active infection of the Red Pox. It is still in its active phase, even now after the host has expired. She may have single-handedly spread the infection across her homeworld without so much as a cough or sniffle before it took her.”
First Zelator Vashidae furrows his brow in confusion.
“The infection is active even after its kill phase? How would it have gone back?”
“I believe she may not be entirely dead,” Adriel states matter-of-factly.
“Impossible,” First Adherent Immica interjects. “Vashidae read the report. He scanned her body. Her heart has been still for nearly four days. She has passed into the afterverse - nothing can bring her back now.”
“Tereshay has gifted us in a manner never before imaginable,” Adriel begins, walking to the front of the slab and placing his hands beside the woman’s head. “She has granted us a cure to the greatest affliction of them all.”
Adriel whispers something over the woman’s body, and her eyes shoot open.
“Death.”
. . .
Message to Margrave Reidon Lares-Vathe, from Grand Adherent Adriel of the Order of Menders
To the honourable Lord Reidon of House Lares,
Forgive me the trespass of not being able to introduce myself in person. My responsibilities at the moment demand that I be present elsewhere, but I could not afford to delay in contacting you.
I am Grand Adherent Adriel of the Order of Menders. Do not bother researching into our organization - We are a minor collection of the faithful that has done little to earn ourselves a place in the record.
I am writing you to most humbly ask that you would grant us the honour of hosting us on your Throneworld, that you and I might discuss the potential of us extending our services to your realm.
We understand that these are most uncertain times, and would humbly suggest that the presence of an order such as ours within your territory would reflect most positively on the Church.
May the Piatha find you and your house in their eternal favour,
Grand Adherent Adriel
Order of Menders
