He had come without hesitation. The roll of parchment had been thrust into his hand once more, a bit of ink and paper and the dull red wax stamped with the sun-skull of his Order. Such a little thing to call him away from home. Such a small thing to bring the bloodied blade back from the unceasing tide of war. Such a tiny, insignificant thing to stanch the wounds of the heretic and grant him respite as the instrument of Loegir's righteous might turned southerly, resignedly spurring his foaming warhorse, still spotted here and there by the thrash of mud and blood, the skirling dance of blades, back toward Holy Seboet, and another battlefield.

One of gold and gilt. And guilt. Loegir watches.

Roarke, Brother-Captain of the Ordo Inquisitorius, sword and shield and mail-clad fist of Loegir, did not present his writs to the city guard when he came upon them by the southern gate. Instead, he had only to draw to an impatient halt and wait for the scurrying guardsmen to lay eyes upon the sigil embossed into his breastplate and pauldrons. The paint had chipped under the unrelenting sun, and errant sword-strokes, and was caked with the dust of the road, but even the eyes of the old gate sergeant, half-closed by the sun and bleary with the hour, could recognize the hammer and sun-skull. And an Inquisitor is not one to be delayed.

Gates had parted. Crowds had parted. Men in armor were not an uncommon sight on the Seboet byways. Men like Roarke were. He did not ride like a guardsman. They oft-times lashed out with words or boots at those who impeded them. He did not ride like a knight, high and proud in the saddle and heedless of what transpired about them. He certainly did not ride like a noble, unaccustomed to the stench of the slums or the riot of activity in the Market. Roarke met eyes. Roarke weighed souls.

When he arrived at the Temple, he'd handed his reins to a fresh-faced squire of the Sol Guard, new shod in his spurs and stuttering as the Inquisitor spared him not a word of greeting or command. The orders were clear enough. See to my horse, and should you care to, thank me for the privelege. Roarke patted the beast's thickly muscled neck and walked on.

When he reached the Solar, the high fane and its fine, domed glass roof, he removed the heavy, pattern-welded sabre from his scabbard and laid it before the golden altar.

"Loegir, Fire of Heaven, Sword of the Morning, Vanquisher of Shadow, Purifier, Lord of Sun and Star, King of the Empyrean, hear the words of Roarke, Brother Captain of your holy Ordo, and Fist of Sacred Seboet." Roarke intoned the words in a husky whisper as he held his right fist against the sigil at the center of his chest and let his left hover over the vicious sabre. "Too long has this holy place been host to the depredations of evil. Too long has your holy name and holy fire been profaned within your own sanctum. Sacred Seboet bleeds, Loegir, Lord. A worm is at her heart."

Roarke fell to his knees with a rattle and clash of heavy plate and mail. "In your holy name, I go forth to seek justice for this blasphemy. Give to me the strength to do your will. Give me the clarity of purpose to burn this infection to the root, to rip the life from this profanity, to strike so deeply that Shadow itself be stilled. I am your wrath, Loegir, Lord. I am your instrument."

Roarke took up his sword and rose with a fluidity that belied his mass and raiment; skin and steel flowed upward with a rasping hiss of metal on metal. He bent forward at the waist to kiss the altar, his left hand, his heart hand still gripping the familiar pommel and hilt of his sabre. "My armor is contempt. My shield, disgust. My sword is hatred. In Loegir's holy name, let none survive."