Only a few weeks had passed when his wound is sealed enough to move and stretch without assistance. Though the recount of the omen from the beast in the woods did weigh upon his thoughts often in the first few days, now it hardly registered in his mind. He were convinced of it being a lie of devilry to perhaps frighten him to flee his charge. In that time Armen had mostly secluded inside the infirmary, only speaking to Mariette occasionally when she would deliver meals to him. Otherwise, however, he had requested of her to be let alone, and in his solitude, he would spend hours on end praying at his cot. Holding the thorny chain of his rosary, feeling the pricking against his skin, the discomfort of having sharp spines dig into him just enough that they don't let blood; it brought him closer to the Lord. Mother had also seemed to leave him, either through an absence of memory or a greater apathy to him, she has ultimately ignored him; and has yet to see or acknowledge him outside of their initial altercation within the chapel upon his announced presence weeks prior.

  It mattered little to Armen, however, as his mind was consistently haunted by the air of the convent. More-so the feeling of unease within its walls. In the night, something weighed upon him, intangible, but very much felt. He might catch his mind wandering into thoughts of which were uncommon to him, often thinking of Mariette in improper manner. One might attribute this to simple naturality, yet he knew better. In the late hours of the night he would get urges. A longing desire to speak to Mariette more. He would hear noises, whispers, haunting voices hushed in the shadowed corners of his room. Something brewed in the darkness, something malign.

  Mariette raps upon the door to the infirmary, "Lo? Might I enter?" she asks in her usual quiet voice. Armen calls back through the door, rising from his prayer at the foot of the cot, "Please, do." Mariette enters, carrying a bowl, steam rising from the lip, "I've brought you some stew. The others have already eaten so you needn't worry if you should want another." Armen sits on the edge of the cot, gently receiving the bowl with a bowed head, "Thank you, sister. You know I never eat more than I need, though. I dare not to be gluttonous." Armen sets the bowl aside, upon the table at the corner of the cot; he looks up at Mariette whom stands at the washbasin next to the door, dipping her hands into it and drying them on a rag. She rests her hands upon the corners of the table, her head hanging as she relieves a quiet sigh. Armen, noticing her new demeanor, speaks, "Mariette... How art thou of late?"

  Mariette pauses, her ears flitting down for a moment, twitching. Her eyes peer over at Armen without moving her head to face him, "I... What do you mean, Sir Armen?" He clears his throat, "How art thou? You seem hesitant this morn. Is something troubling you?"

  Mariette glances back into the bowl as she dips her hands again, her fingers gently sloshing the water with idle mind. "I..." she glances at him through the corner of her eyes, "I just think my mind wanders more than I should allow..."

  "Oh?" Armen remarks, his interest already piqued at her implicit admission. "Wanders where?"

  "Everywhere. I can hardly ever stand with one thought until another comes to rush it away, which is not anything unusual, I often stay entertained in myself by daydreaming as I toil through the day."

  "And lately, something has been different of your mind?" Armen infers to her.

  "Yes... they've been, irritable. I've felt a new weight on my shoulders and now it is only worsened by the excitement of newcomers."

  Armen says nothing as she finishes speaking. He silently ponders her words, his thumb under his chin. His furrowed brow and squinting eyes hidden behind the face of his helm. It wasn't uncommon in the slightest for the sentient beings of the world to harbor thoughts they know are wrong, yet he couldn't ignore the coincidence of his arrival with her confession. He delves deeper into inquiry of her, "These thoughts. Tell me more of them."

  Mariette sighs defeatedly before turning to face him, grabbing a chair from the corner she sets it down in front of him, sitting with a lacking poise. Her shoulders hunch forward as she divulges her inner musings of late. "My patience, is notably lacking. Even the smallest task will find me in an irritable state. Only yesterday, I had spilled only a drop of wine during communion, and I soon found my teeth aching as I gnashed them together in order to stifle a curse. I've noticed it with my sisters as well... Time and again they look tired and foul, and they too, curse under their breath at any slight."

  Armen leans forward, intently listening to her woes. The while thinking of the implications of the scenario. It was very uncommon for women of the cloth to harbor wrath or impatience. Mariette continues as Armen retrieves an old book from his satchel at the side of the cot. "And Mother has been seldom seen. She hardly touches any food or drink, she hasn't even come to communion in the past several days. Instead she sequesters herself into her chambers. We don't go to her while she is in there; for we believe she fasts. She often leaves in the late of night and stands outside in the moon, doing nothing but stand and stare at the heavens. Yet, even as that, she secludes more often than not. On the event that we might see her in the day, she also looks as though she were struck with mange, some patches of fur are missing, her wound upon her face lengthens. I fear she may be ill. Worse, I fear she might be leper."

  Armen nods as she speaks, flipping through the tawny pages of his tome, glancing through the inky scribbles and scratchy drawings that litter the vellum. Mariette glances at the pages while he searches intently for something. Noticing various ghastly images, a mangled body, strange symbols, ghoulish grinning faces. It looked as if it were a study, with images of humans in such dire scenes, as well as manolons in similar states. Various parts of either image were circled with a red ink, and little scribbled notes trailed from them. She gasps, "What is this you look into? 'tis grisly!"

  Armen stops flipping through pages, looking up at her as he speaks, "It is an inquisitorial tome. Replete with descriptions of ailments beyond simple medicine, and what often causes them. A culmination of knowledge from every documented event that has been subject to the Inquisition's intervene. Our scholars have collected, and divulged any and all findings they have of the evils of this world, and how one might seek to end their hold upon persons.

  He continues turning the pages, still searching for anything of help. Mariette, with a small voice asks, "And... you believe that something ails us from your text?"

  "I'm afraid I do. In fact, I believe that Mother, specifically is a great cause in your convent's ailment."

  "Mother?!", Mariette appalls, "No, you are mistaken. Mother is our most righteous matriarch. She is the most adherent of the Lord, the closest to him. We try to be more as her."

  "That is what it should be, indeed, but I'm afraid that there is no denying the presence within these walls. I know you've felt it of late, as have I. That haunting pressure as though you were being watched. The shadows that seem to whisper egregious thing to thee. Things that stir you into sin. That is where it begins. A silent thought of lust, a loathing, a jealousy. Sin is rarely a product of immediacy, it is a buildup. A temptation. A desperation given a fast solution. And I see in your eyes the desire of fulfillment."

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  Mariette looks upon him with incredulity, disbelief plagues her face at the supposition that her holy home and convent are subject to such silent malice. She shakes her head, indignant and irritable as she feels her cheeks warm in anger. "Ye are mistaken, of that I am certain! The gall of you; to slander such of us here."

  Armen raises his hand, silencing her defensiveness. "Please, Sister... you only provide credence to mine assumption in your outburst. You mustn't let your heart cloud your mind. Surely you must see the concerns. It is no happenstance that the Lord hath directed me here. Something is amiss, and I fear that you know it as well as I."

  Mariette shrinks into herself in her seat, saying nothing as her chin falls to her breast. Armen looks up from his book, his brow bunching in empathy, "Sister... I assure you: This is not an issue of your own doing. Nor is it of Mother, or your sisters. Satan is crafty, and quiet. I have known even knights of mine own order to fall for his tricks. Rest assured, this will be judged and vanquished by the Lord, through me, and you."

  She lifts her chin to look into his visor's eye slots, not quite able to see Armen's eyes, but enough to know that there was sincerity within the helm. A soft and hopeful smile tugs at the corners of her mouth as she nods with halfhearted confidence.

  Armen returns his gaze to his tome, continuing to filter through the pages, until after a few moments, he stops on a page of mostly text and a few scribbled pictures. Most prominently upon the top of the page was one word written: "Ashtoreth Astarte." Mariette looked upon the small drawing, though for her, it being upside down, made it somewhat difficult to discern the image properly. "What do you read?" She asks, straining her neck to try and look properly at the images and words.

  "A page that may hold that which I seek. Tell me, sister, what do you know of Mother's incident with my kind?" replies Armen, not looking up from the page, using his finger as a guide while he reads through the text.

  Mariette sits upright, confusion crossing her face momentarily before she answers, "I know only that which she has shared. She went on a mission, north, to your kingdom, whereupon soon after crossing the border, she were accosted by vagrants that clung to the edge of the road. They attacked her and took her to a cave within which they beat and scarred her as such. Then they had their way with her, ravaging her daily, up until she were able to escape after several days of being at their whim. Since then she has held a disdain for humans and has vowed to never meet one again, as well as forbade us from any missions beyond our borders and especially on behalf of your kin."

  Armen stays silent as he digests her words, continuing to scan the page as he listens. After a moment of silence he speaks, "I see. It does not surprise me that she holds such malice for my kind after such trial. I don't blame her for that. I fear, however, that with her malice, she has sought the aid of a false god in the desperate hope that something might be done in justice for her grievance. And as you say unto me, that she is often separate of communion, exiled into her chambers without eating; I see peculiar similarities in afflictions that accompany idolatry of this pagan idol." as he runs his finger along one line in particular, reading aloud, "idolatry of Ashtoreth is often shown baking of goods in the shape of the female form in excess, tying red strings, and bowing to the moon. If worshipers begin to lose faith in the answering of Ashtoreth, shall instead participate in seclusion and sacrifice of flesh in fire to the adjoined deity and consort Baal. Vying for attention of the latter to entice the former." He stops reading aloud so that Mariette might understand the parallels in the text and with Mother's own unusual recent habits. He continues, "Baal worship within manolon societies and cults is noted with a sacrifice of fur in lieu of flesh; as they give more credence to a loss of flesh (assumed out of trial of war) than a loss of fur: more often attributed to disease." Armen finishes reading aloud as he sucks his teeth in thought.

  Mariette looks in silent awe at Armen, her mouth covered with her hand as if to stifle a gasp or cry. "Then... then what does this mean?", she inquires, against hope that the answer would be more innocent than she suspected.

  "I'm afraid this is only conjecture. I have not accused Mother in an official manner, I simply aim to voice my concerns to thee. And, more yet, I ask a favor of you."

  "What is it that you request of I?"

  "You must keep watch of Mother. I need you to enter her chambers and take note of anything peculiar within."

  Mariette shakes her head vigorously, "No, absolutely not! That is a direct insult to her and a complete violation of our trust in her authority."

  Armen stands from his cot and points a finger down at Mariette, rigid with demand, his voice lowers dangerously into a deeper octave as he spoke from his gut, "Perhaps I misspoke. It is not truly a request of you, it is a command. By order of me, and by extension the Inquisition and Cathedral: you WILL do as I require."

  Mariette shoots up abruptly from her chair, the wooden legs skitter across the stone floor, her fists clenched at her sides and a stamp of her foot into the ground in defiance as she rebukes him, "I will NOT! You may have authority in some things but I'm afraid that you are still a stranger to those of us here. I know Mother better than you and I daresay to accuse you of libel. You have no evidence of your capacity other than you SAY you're from the Inquisition. Yet what have you to show for it? Is there a badge of office that you've hidden from us?" her indignant remarks, while not entirely untrue, were still offense to Armen's status. Doubtful she would recognize the crest, Armen reaches in his satchel and pulls out a gold medallion, about the size of his palm. Upon it, the coat of arms of the inquisition: A silver inlay shaped as a cross, with a crown of thorns encircling the border. On one side of the cross poised a flaming sword, and the other beheld the skeleton of a dove. He hands the medal to her, of which she gingerly holds in her hands.

  "Do you recognize this?" He asks unto her. Mariette shakes her head, "Nay, I do not. Ye hand me only a bauble. This proves only that you have it, not what it grants."

  "I thought not." He grumbles, retrieving the medallion from her, and placing it back within his satchel. Yet, he knew that from her position, she was right. There was little more than the medal to offer notice of an inquisitor's standing to the common citizen, let alone those whom are kept away from the outside world as much as possible.

  He sighs, resigned; the principle of her adhering to the order was not the importance that Armen placed upon the reasoning for the command at all; he defaults on his charge of her and opts for a more direct methodology instead.

  "Your loyalty to Mother is admirable. Never lose your courage to follow your principles. I'm afraid that this time, howe're, you were led astray." he glares through his visor at Mariette, his forefinger digging into her sternum as he pokes her chest, "Unfortunately I can no longer wait for evidence to present itself. I move to accuse Mother directly. If she is as cleanly as one claims, then she has nothing to fear, for the Lord shall survive her the trial of innocence." as Armen turns away from Mariette to gather his armor, she stands in shock at his announcement. To be accused by anyone of witchcraft, Satanism, paganism or anything of the like was almost certainly a death sentence, and if the man within their halls was indeed an inquisitor, then Mother's fate was sealed before he even utters the accusation to her.

  While Armen adorns his armor, chainmail, gloves: the entire ensemble of which he arrived in, Mariette says nothing, though her breathing was notably audible and shaky. Her small voice returns as Armen ties the belted scabbard around his waist and she asks, "W-what are you doing now?"

  "As I have told you, I march to accuse Mother of paganism. Lord guide me, that I may take her to the Holy courts without incident." as Armen finishes the wrap-around knot that secured the remaining slack of his sword belt, he looks upon Mariette, whose eyes were dark in fear and anguish. "Child of light," Armen takes a soft tone as he places the crook of his gloved finger under her chin and forces her eyes to meet his own, "You mustn't worry. This world may belong to Satan, yet His holiness works through us all."

  Mariette nods at his words, but her eyes continue to avoid is peering. Armen releases her chin and steps around her, opening the door while demanding, "Come with me, you shall be witness to the accusal," but not aggressively, similar as a parent that would tell their child to quit touching produce at the market. Mariette, still with her head low and eyes fixated upon the floor before her, nods and slowly steps behind him.