The Inquisitors Habit: The war of Brimstone

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Fantasy  |  House: Booksie Classic
A short story I once submitted for a creative writing class about a very bad man and his unsavory habits. The story is the first in a short story mini-series about magic, war, and subterfuge.

Submitted: April 27, 2017

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Submitted: April 27, 2017







The dead of night never knew what the dreams of the evil and wretched hold. The night only knows darkness and silence. It cares little for who takes refuge within its embrace. It is the only victim in a victimless crime. The only unwitting accomplice to men and women who do foul and nefarious things. It cares not for the weak or those who may be found wanting. Only the strong survive the night. –  First Admiral Constantine Coldwater, of the Royal Fleet of NightWater









Tell me again, how did you find your way to the Governor's wife chambers?" The Inquisitor asked in a matter of fact tone as he sipped casually on a cup of tea. "I told you already! I was invited there by the Lady of the house herself!" The man in tattered blood stained rags answered. His head lulled forward as he let out a sigh of exhaustion. The inquisitor gave a small nod to one of the menacing figures in a dark corner of the room, and he stepped forward. The beast or thing as the people of Hightower called he stood nearly eight feet tall and was covered from head to toe in emerald green scales. He was dressed in the Legions menacing purple Lorica and from his side hung a bronze Gladius. His slit eyes glinted with madness as he focused in on the man hanging from the wall. "Please.... please! M'lord, I've told you the truth. I've told you everything already" He pleaded as he swung away from the Inquisitor's brute. "Oh, I know you did Jonas. I know." The Inquisitor purred with his resonating silk like voice. " I know you've told the truth of the matter, but you see Jonas, you were found in the Governor's personal living quarters, and the whole city knows it." The inquisitor calm stated as he took another long awkward sip from his tea cup.

The beast lumbered towards Jonas's dangling figure and in answer, Jonas wet himself again. "No..No..please!" Jones call out as the beast reached Jonas and began to go to work on him.  The beast reared back and unleashed a torrent of haymakers on Jonas's lower abdomen. The blows broke several of his ribs on impact and left him in a haze. Jonas spewed blood out of his mouth and wailed like an animal in pain. The brute did not relent as he exacted his master's will and found pleasure in Jonas’s ghastly wails.  The Inquisitor raised his hand to halt the beast, and the mayhem ceased.  Jonas coughed up sizable amounts of blood as he labored to catch his breath. "Tell me again, how did you find your way to the Governor's wife chambers?" Jonas began to sob. "Please!" He begged. "Please, continue Mokor." The inquisitor advised as his menacing brute exacted blow after blow. The sound of Mokor's fist impacting The soft flesh of Jonas's body repeatedly echoed off the stone walls until Jonas passed out.

After Jonas passed out, He stood up and smooth the ruffles from his red cloak he turned and began to exit the room. "M'Lorddddd?...." Mokor asked in a hissing gravel like tone. "Finish the deed, then meet me at the nexus of the other chambers. He instructed. Mokor Nodded and drew upon his Gladius. The inquisitor left the room as the sound of a metal slicing through leather pierced the dark moist air of the tower. There came an exhalation of air as if the victim was startled then the gurgling noise of a drowning man. "Ahh, I love the sounds of a man drowning in his own fluids!" The inquisitor confessed to himself.









The inquisitor reached into the pocket of his lapel and pulled out a death stick. He held it up to his face and examined it. Cinnamon coated wrapping parchment with tobacco. The Surgeon General advised against the smoking of such things. They caused severe damage to the smoker lungs and bogged down the flow of magic.

The inquisitor scoffed at the idea. As if these feeble sticks could hamper a man of such refined skills as himself, he thought as he muttered words of power to ignite the slim cylinder. The room grew cold for a brief instant as warmth was focused into a single point and ignited the stick. He placed it in his mouth and took a drag on it. Then pulled out his missive and read it again for the Fifth time that day.

Lord Inquisitor Charlemagne, four assailants, were subdued earlier in the Governor's compound. They had been caught in the act of plotting treason against the empire. The submitted willingly and had been moved to the High towers for questioning and immediate execution. Your discretion would be appreciated in this situation as one of the Governors family members has been implicated in the matter. The member in question being his daughter. Do what needs to be done."  -Sincerely High Lord Inquisitor Argyle.

Below the message, the red wax stamp of the Governor was placed perfectly in the middle. It was proof of authorization in the matter, though Charlemagne had his doubts that the governor would have signed his own daughter's death warrant. Stranger things had happened in the country of Dor, though nothing as acute as this. No, this was something else, something quite delicious in its scandalous nature. He was afforded the opportunity to be the executioner to the Governor's daughter and to top the cake he received permission from the Governor himself. He quivered at the meaning behind such a scandalous detail. His career would be defined at this very moment, and he would set the precedent for the rest of his extensive service as an Inquisitor.

It had been three days since his inquisition began. Three days since He had begun systematically torturing and executing the assailants. Three days of sheer bliss as Charlemagne, the inquisitor began to satisfy his appetites of a less than reputable nature. He was a monster, he knew it, and he took no shame in his habit. in fact, he had taken to it from an early age as he found himself taking joy in drowning cats in a sack in the dead of long summer nights. He never worked up the courage to take a life of a human illegally for fear of dishonor, so he joined the Legion and served as an officer for nearly four summers, until a Liege Lord found value in his vicious demeanor and cold calculating mannerism. The poor fool rewarded him with a commission to the Inquisition, and the rest had been history. He made a name  for himself with his peculiar brands of interrogation. He also garnered attention for recruiting men who left no man standing and took no prisoners. If you stood against the Inquisition you fell before them. He and his men were deadly and efficient. They became a favorite selection among the nobility because of their brutal nature and because of this Charlemagne enjoyed himself. He indulged his bloodlust, wholeheartedly and without regard for anything or anyone, barring his senior commissioned officers.

His nerves were alive with the trembling of excitement as he pulled out another death stick to smoke it. "M'Lord..." The menacing rasping voice called out from behind the shadows. Charlemagne flinched away from the sound of the gravelly hiss and dropped his death stick. "For the love of the Maker, Mokor, don't sneak up on me!" Charlemagne barked out as he searched for the origin of the beckoning.

He found it in the corner of the room. The menacing glare of slit-eyed pupils bore down on him. "Honestly Mokor, you know I detest Argonians and you’re not making it better with all of your brooding and menacing Glares."

The Argonian said nothing but only licked his lizard-like eye to moisturize it.

"If I didn't need you, I'd saw your head off and send it back to your commander." The inquisitor chided. Mokor chuckled. It was an awful sound layered with malice, distaste, indifference and every other bad thing that made Charlemagne's skin crawl. "The Lord Inquistorrrr issss welcome to tryyyy." The Argonian hissed in a tone that made His skin itch. It reminded him of the bed bugs from his days in the Legion.

Charlemagne's heart began to race as he realized Mokor was calling his bluff. He lit his death stick and placed it in his mouth but in the briefest instant when he did his hand shook with a fear tremor. The Argonian chuckled "Isss the Inquisitor okayyyy?" Mokor asked with playful Malice. "It's nothing" Charlemagne answered as he forced a cough and rubbed his throat. "I seem to be coming down with something. I think I've been in this filthy tower too long. Hurry up! I'd like to be done with this pox riddled place. " "I shall have to have him beheaded when this business is concluded." He thought to himself. He couldn't have Argonians questioning his character; it could lead to things like insubordination or rebellion, not to mention he would surely lose face with his peers. No, such things were unbecoming of an inquisitor. He would have the big Argonians neck, and he would mount his skull on his wall to set the precedent that Inquisitor Charlemagne took no shit from anyone or anything. He finished his death stick, and then entered the chamber.








He was assaulted by a myriad of smells. The smell of something feverish and feminine hung heavy in the air. The room was unbearably hot as a bed of coal burned vigorously in the center of the chamber. The floor was noticeably warm as well. The room itself was a stone chamber shaped in the form of a cone. The ceiling was a narrow slick slope that only allowed the fumes and smoke to billow upwards and outward. It was a perfect circle with three thin slit to allow for fresh air but not enough to afford the comfort of a cool breeze. In one corner of the room sat a bed a hay for the inhabitant to rest. A luxury only afforded to the highest caliber of prisoners In the high towers. One did not simply come to the high towers for incarceration and boarding. If you found your way to such a place you were marked and this was a brief respite before you were ushered into the gallows. In the other side of the room sat a bucket, unclean of course. this was a prison, not a bloody inn. If you needed your shit shoveled well tough luck, you could eat it or bear with it until the executioner helped you along to your next stop.

The inquisitor searched the room for his next and final victim. He found her at the second slit in the wall. She was curled up into a ball with one hand stretched outside. He gestured for Mokor and in answer, the Argonian stamped over to her and picked her up to restrain her.  The inquisitor walked over to the bed of coals and muttered a word to dampen the heat. They had done their desired effect and needn't burn so vigorously. The purpose of the sweat lounge was not to kill its victims quickly but to prolong the discomfort of dehydration. The room was designed to sweat. The narrow slit was the vent to release the heat, and the other three slits were placed at strategically marked locations to create a vacuum effect. Like a grill designed to cook meat to perfection.

He walked over to the detained woman who was being restrained by Mokor and observed her. She reeked of Urine and other unmentionable odors. Her clothes were filthy and tattered as if she struggled and had to be beaten into submission repeatedly. The governor's daughter had a history of subduing unwanted suitors and men who did not know where their hands belonged. She had been a learned woman in the arts of combat and was a formidable foe with a blade. In some circles, she was revered with the long knife or dagger. In other circles, She was revered for her use magic and her proficiency. To see her in such frail state brought a distasteful pleasure to the Inquisitor.

"Lady Rosalee, what were you doing over there?" The Inquisitor asked as he clutched her face in one gloved hand. She opened her eyes and held his gaze with her emerald green glare. "Are you going to tell me or will you make me drum it out of you?” H. asked with a dark grin. She spat in his face. He pulled away as the steamy clumpy fluid splashed against his cheek. The big Argonian spun her around and slapped her. Her frail form struck the stone wall and slid down it. The sound of her skin hissed as she made brief contact with the super-heated surface. She let out a brief exhalation of pain as part her flesh literally clung to the wall and tore away.

 Mokor began to walk towards her to exact the toll for the displeasure she caused, but the Inquisitor held up a hand in protest. "No, Mokor!" He insisted. "It's expected for a High Lady of Dor. I was almost worried all of the spirits had been beaten out of you Lady Rosalee. That would've sullied this; It would've made what I'm about to do you…. seem like it was done in poor taste." Charlemagne added as he cleaned his face off with a kerchief embroidered heavily with intricate looping designs. "Screw you and the pox riddled beast you rode here on." The High Lady said through slurred speech. As if it took a sizable amount of energy to do so.  Charlemagne chuckled richly. "Still, she has moxie! I love it! he waved his hand in a casual gesture and in an instant the room flooded with unseen presence or power. It wrapped itself firmly around the form of Lady Rosalee and lifted her off the ground.

"Let's try this again shall we?" The inquisitor said as he flicked his wrist and made a chair materialize out of thin air. He sat down and crossed his legs. "Tell me Lady Rosalee, what were you doing in your mothers Chambers conspiring with the terrorist and known traitors of Dor?" He asked in a matter of fact tone. "When my father hears what has been done you'll be sorry. I'll see your testicles mounted on a pike for the world to marvel at." She rasped. "Oh... You mean your father, the Governor? The same governor who signed THIS declaration three days prior?" He said as he chortled holding up the declaration to eye level for her to read. He allowed her to read it so he reveled in watching her spirits break. Nothing gave him more pleasure than watching the confidence of a victim falter. She dropped her head in disgust, and he put her death warrant back up. "That warrant doesn't have his signature. It's folly!" she said with grit. "It has his seal, though, and that makes this a binding contract My dear LADY." He declared with honey like venom in his voice. "Now tell me why you were in the Chambers of your mother plotting treason!" In truth, he didn't care why she was doing anything anywhere at any time, but his license to kill was apparent, and he was only too happy to keep her talking while he satisfied the urging of his title. He was not an inquisitor looking for answers, He was an inquisitor looking for a reason to kill. Killing gave him great pleasure and nothing gave him pleasure like doing it legally.

"You don't need to know why I was doing what I was doing Inquisitor, you need to know what's going to happen in a matter of moments." Rosalee rasped again. " Oh really, what's that?" He said as he ran his hand through her unkempt red locks and yanked her head back exposing her neck for him to sniff. She smelled awful but he didn’t care. She was his and he was would her before he took her life. Her confidence was misplaced and it was only a matter of time before he showed her his resolve.

 "In a matter of moments, I'm going to kill your pet Argonian and cut your hands off." "Really now? Do tell how you're going to pull that feat off?" He asked as he pulled on her hair and wrenched her head back in an awkward angle. She gasped in agony and began to laugh. "This room may be hot, but that doesn't matter to an Aquarian." She chuckled as the full realization of what she said came into full effect. The Inquisitor drew on his long blade but before he could the room went dark and a section of wall erupted behind them knocking the Argonian off his feet and forcing him to Drop Her. Debris littered the room as both smoke and dust billowed in every direction.

The inquisitor rolled out the way of the exploding wall in sheer reflex and drew his blade. He could use magic to clear the room, but such magic required time and energy to channel. In truth, it was a simple spell to create a vacuum to funnel the air out of a room, but it was not a part of his immediate skill set. His magic was geared towards Inquisition, intimidation, and subjugation, but to do such things he required a target and a clear line of sight. That was one of the pitfalls of his skill set, in addition to that his magic needed a downtime of nearly 10 minutes from the moments of dispelling, and it had not been a minute yet. He would have to dispatch her the old fashion way. The way the Legion taught him.

The sound of rasping steel rang out as Mokor drew on his Gladius. Steel on steel rang and echoed off the walls. A battle ensued, and glints and flashes of sparks danced around the room as Rosalee and Mokor exchanged blow for blow while Testing the Mettle of each other.

Smoke began to settle, and Charlemagne saw the battle that took place. Rosalee somehow made the moisture of the room and condensed it until it was a blade as tough as steel and as sharp as a razor. She was using it to duel with Mokor and holding her own.  For every lunge, he made she parried and counter stroked. Mokor dueled vigorously with both his Gladius and his armored tail.

Charlemagne saw his opportunity and jumped in the battle lending his efforts with his fencing style of combat. She adjusted to the addition accordingly high stepping and back paddling in the proper order. The battle waged for nearly three minutes until the first, and the only mistake was made. Mokor struck high with a sweeping blow while Charlemagne struck low with a forward thrust. She back paddled just beyond their reach and waited for the brief instant where there would be a window. She found it and made Mokor pay dearly. When his arm was fully extended, She kicked the blade of the Inquisitor out of the way and stepped in and plunged her thin blade between the open areas of Mokor's Lorica and twisted the blade. Instantly Mokor dropped in a heap of sprawling limbs. Hot putrid blood spewed out in a gushing fountain splashed on Charlemagne's face. The blood was warm and milky, it left a bitter taste in his mouth as something foul yet copper settled on his tongue leaving him dazed and disoriented. His knees buckled and he lost his bearing. "Dammit, Argonian blood is a Neurotoxin!" He thought to himself as he lost his faculties.  The High lady took full advantage of his state and pounced on him like a cat enthralled with the near-kill of a hunt. She plunged her thin curved blade into his shoulder to the hilt and pinned him to the ground.

She chuckled in a girlish manner. "I was beginning to worry that I wouldn't get my chance to meet you,” Rosalee Stated as she knelt down on his chest. “I can assume you killed my cohort?" She asked as she made another ice blade materialize out of thin air. He nodded.  This time, a smaller curve blade fashioned to look like a dagger. She held it up to the light. "Perfection!" He heard her whisper. She held it up to his throat.

"Now since you're going to pay for killing my co-conspirators, I guess I shall let you in on the ruse." She began. "My Father is dead and the man pretending to be my father is a shape shifter. you confirmed this with that parchment you have. My father would never sanction the death of his own blood without a trial or another highborn vote for that matter. He is working for the opposition and intends to drive our nation into turmoil and grief. We were not plotting Treason, we were plotting a rebellion, and you and your murder squadron have set us back nearly six months in earnest efforts. I should wish to kill you, but I shan't.

Someone must survive to tell the tale and lead the investigation. "Oh thank you! Thank you!!" The inquisitor professed. "Don't flatter yourself, Inquisitor. I'm not letting live unscathed; you're a monster. I've seen your like before, and I'm sure that as soon as I turn my back, you'll try to plunge a blade into it. So I've come up with an answer to that conundrum.”

Without prompting or preamble, she sliced off his right hand and let it fall to the ground. Blood gushed out like a crimson fountain. He roared in blinding agony and tried to clutch at his bloody stump, but she met his other hand with another swift blow. His other fell off and he blacked out in sheer agony. As his eyes began to close his last image was of Rosalee smiling in his face as she jumped from the hole in the wall into the cold night sky. He was baffled and beside himself. He was not only bested by a woman but cheated out of his kill. His only vice snatched away in the briefest of moments and now not only was she absconding into the night but she had disgraced him and emasculated him.  She denied him the rights of an honorable death and left him with a message for his superiors. “Well, the bitch would not get the pleasure of it.” He resolved to himself as he slipped in and out consciousness, that he would not deliver any message but he'd pursue her to the very edges of the earth to exact his revenge. He swore to it. He would take Rosalee's hands as she had taken his and bring her to justice. No, not justice he would get vengeance, bring her recompense for the disrespect he suffered. Before he passed out, one word passed his lips. "Bitch."  After he had sworn that, he let darkness take him to the place where he could contemplate his vengeance



© Copyright 2018 L.Lane. All rights reserved.

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