The Unlikely Inquisitor

Point Insertion.
Investigation
Breaking Cover.

1010-AB. 09-07
2230 hours.
Action: Crushing Blow I

Brutal sheets of water hammer down upon the cobbled streets as the electric street-lamps gutter and hum. Heavy clouds fill the sky, blotting out the moon and stars above as the cobblestones shine like stars themselves, reflecting the dull orange glow of the streetlights back into the deep amber colored night sky. Unsurprisingly, nobody is out in this weather, apart from a tall pale skinned woman, her face cast into shadow by the hood of the long deep purple stylishly embroidered rain-cape she's wearing. Her mouth is set into a fine line as she walks through the night, and beneath her hood, her eyes gleam like sapphires. Tonight is the night, tonight all her work will finally come together into its shocking climax. Her gaze flicks upward to see an airship flying high overhead and she nods slightly, before continuing onward through the street.

The woman does not glance around furtively, as she did since she began attending these clandestine meetings several months ago. That was the first lesson that the Blessed had had for their convert, that appearing to be furtive invites suspicion. If it appears she has legitimate business, then the people peering out of their windows for nosiness' sake will not take note of her. They have had even less reason to take note of late, since the well dressed woman has made a habit out of her trips, turning them into routine and thus many Ponyville citizens have taken no more note of them than an interestingly shaped cloud. What repetition has not done, the grim weather has and so the woman is unnoticed as she makes her way through the rain.

As the woman walks through the street, a small smile spreads across her face. She can see other members of the Blessed making their way through the streets towards the meeting place, all dressed in their rain-cloaks or raincoats against the weather, some of whom are carrying umbrellas as well. Several of them offer her a nod or a friendly wave as she walks up to join the small group. Her eyes sweep over each of the members approvingly. All of them are new converts who have only really scratched the surface of the True Path, and all of them are young and naive enough to make the same mistakes she was making when she joined the cult. However they seem to have taken the Blesseds' warning to keep a low profile to heart, which the woman approves of. She'd rather they didn't draw attention to this particular gathering, not least because she doesn't want police getting in the way of a meticulously planned event. An eye for detail that in another life would have been designing dresses for the Canterlot elite sweeps the lines of the, and the woman notes that all of them are carrying poorly concealed cudgels or knives.

Nobody in Ponyville would have dreamed that the small sleepy little town would play host to a Nightmare Cult of the very worst kind. It's a small branch, more of a sickly twig than anything else, yet in the woman's experience, that is where most of the more fanatical members go, as the smaller cults are, by their nature less open to infiltration by police or even worse, the Inquisition. The smaller cults are where the more radical and dangerous members go, as the radicals can assert their influence and grow the cult to their own desires, as opposed to the more placid atmosphere of the larger cults in Canterlot, which are more akin to social clubs than gatherings of Faithful. Tonight is a special night as well, since one of the more renowned speakers is attending the gathering, and all the cultists that attend are anxious to hear the words of an ordained Preacher of the Word who has the scars to prove it.

The woman falls in among the small group of members.
"So, Brother Nightshade, how has your week been?"

"It has been excellent, Sister Brightdusk," he replies."The work of the True Power is visible in all things, and Her touch gives me the strength I need to see my day through to completion." He beams beneath his mask, and Brightdusk's eyes narrow.

"Brother, guard your tongue!" she snaps. "We are in the street after all, do not blurt your associations to the hills. You never know who may be watching." She finishes in a suitably melodramatic tone, but Brother Nightshade looks truculent.

"I am happy to die for the True Power." He says, but several of the other Cultists are looking uncomfortable and Brightdusk shakes her head, hissing softly.

"You will have your chance, and sooner than you think, but the Faith is not served by dead martyrs but by living prophets of Her will." Brightdusk's voice is firm as she looks at each member, her eyes flashing briefly, and Nightshade sighs and shrinks back, his mouth twitching down into a frown. Brightdusk nods as the other members look a little uncomfortable at this point and so Brightdusk allows her expression to soften as she takes in the cultists' gaze.

"Your desire to fight for the Truth is appreciated, Brother, and I shall make a note of it." Brightdusk says, giving the cultists a warm smile as they round a corner and approach a house.

The house does not look like anything out of the ordinary as far as houses in Ponyville go. It is slightly bigger than the two houses around it with the same thatched roof and timber framing. The boxes hanging off the windows are overflowing with flowers, yet where other houses have pink or red blooms growing, tonight the only flowers growing are blue and white roses, pruned into the shape of a crescent moon on a deep blue backdrop. It is, in Brightdusk's mind, a very blatant sign. She would personally prefer something a little more understated, but tonight is special and so she cannot blame the local preacher for wanting to make the occasion special. Besides, the local preacher's always been good at growing roses. Brightdusk leads the small knot of silent cultists up to the front door and knocks.

"Who requests entry?" a warm feminine voice calls from within, and Brightdusk clears her throat.

"A seeker of Truth of the third rank with five acolytes," she says, and the door opens to reveal a short dumpy woman with a short pink and rose colored hair. She looks more like a favourite aunt than the leader of a group of heretics. The woman offers them a warm smile as she extends her hands, and Brightdusk takes them in her own in the quick clasp that the ordained priesthood share. Though Brightdusk knows the woman's real name, it is rude not to use the traditional face name.

"Wintershade, a pleasure." Brightdusk bows her head and Wintershade smiles, her dark blue robes flowing around her. Brightdusk's practiced eye flickers over the midnight blue robes with the silver clasp, the fine velvet robes igniting a fire in Brightdusk's eyes. It is so rare to see a woman who can carry velvet, and with Wintershade's dimensions and rosy hair, Brightdusk would have expected the result to be hideous but instead it works very well. The ceremonial robes that are only brought out by ordained priesthood for special occasions, clasped at the throat with a silver pin shaped like a full moon sets off her appearance and the masque across her eyes nicely. The whole attire comes together to be tastefully heretical, if such a thing can exist.

"The pleasure is all mine Brightdusk, I'm glad you could make it. There are cookies on the table so make yourself comfortable, we're all here and we're just waiting on the guest speaker now." Wintershade replies happily and Brightshade nods as she walks in, leaving the acolytes to make their introductions. She's looking forward to seeing this guest speaker, he is one that she hasn't seen before, or at least not in person. Brightshade walks through the hallway, shrugging her robe off to hang it by the door, where other raincoats and cloaks are already hanging. Brightshade takes a moment to count the waterproofs and smirks. Sixteen, plus the remaining five brings it up to twenty one. Twenty one Faithful in one place at one time. An Inquisitor would give his eye teeth to know about this meeting.

Brightshade shakes her head at the reflection, before turning and walking into the living room, which is already packed with Cultists. All the chairs have already been claimed, and many of the people gathered are sitting on comfortable cushions or footstools. All of them are masked in order to avoid any of the other cultists being able to name names should any of them be arrested by the police, however that hasn't stopped Brightshade from being able to make certain deductions as to the identities of certain folk. Many of them smile and wave up at her, and Brother Brightpath jumps up from his footstool to make room for Brightshade, and with a courteous nod of thanks she takes the proffered seat. Brightpath leans in and mutters something into her ear.

"You are well, sister?" he asks and Brightshade nods.

"I have been well enough brother, things have been mildly hectic this past week," she says, and Brightpath nods, his muzzle creasing slightly in concern.

"So I noticed, I saw the police harassing you at your new house Sister, your diligence in attending these meetings is appreciated but you do more than all of us, we cannot have you getting yourself arrested on our account," Brightpath says, the unspoken words hanging unsaid. We don't want you drawing attention to the rest of us.

Brightdusk smiles faintly. "Fear not, Brother, they found nothing. They will not dare inconvenience me again, or else I shall sue them for all they are worth for harassment." She chuckles and he smirks in reply.

"It is good to see your time away has hardened you somewhat Sister," he says, and before Brightdusk can contemplate the meaning of his words, Wintershade walks into the room and the gentle hubbub of good natured chatter fades into an expectant silence. Wintershade walks over to the fireplace, which has remained dormant until now, drawing a lit taper from a jar on the low table in the middle of the room as another cultist dims the lights. She puts the taper to the fireplace which springs into life, and then opens a hidden panel on the fireplace to reveal a set of navy blue and indigo banners, which she hangs above the mantle. Each banner represents the moon, but not the crescent moon that the Usurper has adopted as the other half of her seal, but the rich cyan full moon , split down the middle so as to resemble the infinite eye of the True Ruler, Nightmare Moon. A familiar frisson of tension ripples through the room as the banners are reverentially hung in place, the runes sewn into the fabric of the banners making Brightdusk's eyes sting and she draws a deep breath to keep herself steady.

"Welcome, Brethren one and all," Wintershade says, standing by the fireplace. "It is good to see so many of you here tonight, including Sister Brightdusk. We were beginning to think you would not come."

"No barrier is sufficient to keep me from the True Path, certainly not some arrogant village policeman," Brightdusk replies calmly as she takes a cookie from the table.

"Let your Faith be an example to us all." Wintershade bows her head. "Anyway, tonight we have a very special visitor, as I'm sure you're aware."

The atmosphere noticeably tightens in the room, the coppery light of the fire casting strange shadows across the faces of the assembled people. Murmuring blossoms across the gathering as the group mumbles speculation about who it could be. Wintershade clears her throat, gesturing for quiet as the crackling of the flames intensifies. "Due to the nature of this gathering we need to place a watch, Brother Nightshade, Sister Solemn Vow, you have received the Blessing, will you serve?"

The two cultists rise to their feet without question, turning to walk out. Brightdusk wonders if appointing those two as guards is wise, given Nightshade's desire to martyr himself, but she gives no more thought to the matter. She'd expected guards to be placed after all, nothing less would suffice and none of the Inner Circle would attend without guards provided by the local chapter in addition to their own people. Her own people should be able to handle them without much difficulty. As soon as the door has snapped closed, Wintershade draws a breath.
"Some aspects of the Truth, I do not think they are ready for," she says after a moment. "Their zeal is commendable, but it is foolish and dangerous. They may cause trouble."

"And is trouble not what we want?" a male voice booms from the fireplace as the flames suddenly turn a bright vivid turquoise colour and a chill suddenly spills through the room. "Do we not wish to stir up the supine masses into a frenzy of inchoate rage?"

Wintershade steps away from the fireplace, her mouth dropping open in surprise as embers leap up from the unnatural flames and fly into the faces of the assembled cultists. The fire grows hotter and hotter with each moment. Brightdusk can feel the strange crackle of sorcery filling the air and she unconsciously touches the blessed icon beneath her glove, pressing it to her palm as the sigils upon the banners glow brighter and brighter. The embers leap and dance in the air to resolve into the shape of a tall man clad in archaic silver armour, and Brightdusk suppresses a chill of horror. She can almost taste the magic that crackles around this unnatural man. The man who had materialized out of the fire has sunken cheeks and bright golden eyes, and though his face is aged, Brightdusk can see the pale icy white brand of the full moon upon his left cheek.

"Well met, Brethren," the dignified man says, his voice a low booming growl that chills Brightdusk's flesh. His bright golden eyes flash as he steps into the center of the room with a faint grim smile upon his mouth. "It is a pleasure to see so many Faithful gathered in one place, all of you doubtless eager to hear my words."

His smile becomes a predatory grin, his teeth flashing like drawn swords. "When the agents of the Usurper are gathered all about us, when harassment and betrayal lurk around every corner, to see that even a small village like this can support a gathering of this strength, it gladdens my heart. Does it not gladden yours, Sister Brightdusk?"

Every eye is turned upon her, and Brightdusk's guts turn to ice. The Honour Guard were ancient, gene-engineered specimens whose magical abilities have never really been uncovered. If he can read minds, see into her soul and see the true inclination of her heart. "It does indeed gladden my heart to know the protection of the True Goddess rests upon my shoulders," she says after a second and the Honour-Guardian nods.

"So it does, as it rests upon all those who follow the Truth," he says, looking at each of them. "I come bearing a message from the hierarchy. They have spoken with the Canterlot cells and found them wanting. They are too comfortable, too caught up in their lives to see the writing on the wall. They will not uproot themselves to serve the truth. We must thus look to the smaller cells to act and react in accordance to the Nightmare's design. We must start stirring up discord, we must sow disorder and disharmony amongst the followers of the Usurper."

Wintershade takes a breath. "With respect, we are just twenty one strong, we-"

"You took an oath to serve the Nightmare. That oath was to serve in all matters, as needed. If that oath requires you to fight, then you are compelled to fight?" the Honour-Guard's voice brooks no argument, and Wintershade steps back, defeated. The Honour-Guardian's smile widens and he steps forward.

"Excellent, now let us-"

The door suddenly crashes open and Brother Nightshade comes barging in with knife drawn, holding another man in a vicious headlock. Immediately Brightdusk recognizes the ruddy faced, struggling man, despite the absence of the uniform he normally wears. Blood is trickling from his nose and he's obviously being secured by magical means.

"We found him skulking outside... reckon he was trying to eavesdrop," Nightshade growls, hurling the police officer onto the table and scattering the cookies. The policeman leaps to his feet and tries to run for it, but immediately several other cultists are on him, holding him down.

Wintershade's eyes widen as she stares down at the policeman. "Brother Nightshade, are you mad!" she gasps. "This is exactly what I wanted to avoid! You're drawing so much-!"

"Enough." The Honour-Guardian's voice is cold and hard, cutting Wintershade off. "There is a way to rectify this little problem."

"Yes, I'll have to have somebody wipe his memory and-"

"I was thinking something rather more permanent." He turns to Brightdusk.

"Sister, it seems your brethren need a reminder about what we stand for, that we must be ready to defend the Truth by all means. Do you care to provide the lesson?" His tone is conversational, but his eyes are hard and cold as he turns his gaze upon her, and Brightdusk nods.

"I will... though I seem to have forgotten my knife," she says, taking a deep breath as she plays for time. This changes things irrevocably. She knows the cultists are planning something, and that she's on the verge of uncovering what it is. She cannot allow herself to be compromised but at the same time she cannot kill this man, not in good conscience anyway. Others would without hesitation, but she is not a murderer. A killer yes, but not a murderer.

"Use mine!" somebody behind her says and a knife is pressed into her hand, a large masculine specimen that has more in common with a machete than a fighting knife. A series of serrations run along one edge of the blade, and it is sharpened to a razor edge with a brilliant mirror shine. This is a knife that is meant to say "I am willing to stab a man and drag his entrails out through the open wound. Do not mess with me." Brightdusk takes the knife in her hand, examining it for a moment before nodding.

"It will do," she says after a second. That's the sort of thing a cultist is supposed to say after all. She steps toward the prostrate man who stares up at her in abject horror.

"Rarity!" he shrieks. "Please, save me, I have a wife and-"

Rarity's eyes flicker at the mention of her given name and she summons her own magic, snapping the stallion's mouth shut. "His whining offends me," she says, trying to keep the quaver out of her voice as she kneels by the stallion's side, her heart in turmoil. She gazes at the stallion's chest, at the point where the rib-cage ends and the fatty stomach part begins, and where she shall plunge her knife into him. Will I?

The question is unasked, unlooked for, but it is still there and must be answered. Rarity remembers the humiliation she felt as he searched her house, remembers the futile rage as he'd restrained her and run a hand over her hip. He's not a good policeman.

Yet the desire to take his life does not come, the anger that his actions inspired, the burning searing rage that lasted for days on end is gone. All she sees is a frightened man with a family, pleading for his life. His eyes shine with despair and something inside Rarity snaps.

"Is there a problem?" The voice of the Honour-Guardian is cold and sibilant, prickling Rarity's fur.

"Not at all," Rarity replies, her voice high and breezy. "I'm just... looking for the words to pray for him."

"He is unclean, he needs no prayer to send him on his way." The Honour-Guardian looks dubious, folding his arms and wrinkling his brow as he speaks.

"It would be kind to send him into the company of the Goddess with a word, would it not? That is what differs us from our enemies, does it not?"

"I suppose," the man of the night-host grumbles grudgingly.

Rarity draws her breath, preparing herself. She’s going to catch some flak for this but she’s not prepared to sit by and watch the policeman be butchered, or even butcher him herself. "Let the Spirit of Truth watch over you in these dark times," she intones the words, the first stanza of the cult's parting grace and the signal that had been appointed for her Inquisitorial Stormtrooper team to move in. Rarity raises the knife as she counts down the seconds. The assault team had planned their operation out in meticulous detail and Rarity knows it will take them five seconds to move up the garden path and to the door, followed by five more to move through the door and press up to the living room door before breaching the room.

"Let Her Truth guide you to greener pastures," Rarity continues, the signal that there's a Honour-Guardian and potentially armed resistance in the demesne. The other cultists are looking on, half sickened, half exultant, whilst the Honour-Guardian has a look of sick triumph on his face. Over the crackling of the fire, she can hear the faintest whisper of a door being opened.

"May she clear your mind of false teaching," Wintershade adds faintly and Rarity smiles. She couldn't have timed it better if she'd tried. She raises the knife to full height and draws her breath to invoke the final words of the blessing-

The door suddenly disintegrates into splinters with a thunderous crash. Inch long fragments of wood are spewed through the room as the door is blasted down by a single explosive shot fired from a breaching gun. Smoke blossoms into the room as cultists scream in terror, and then two more thunderous reports set Rarity's ears ringing as the Ordo Hereticus stormtrooper at the front of the stick opens fire at the Honour-Guardian, who staggers as though the two impacts were blows from a hammer. His armour deforms around the high velocity armour piercing round and he scowls and draws his sword, but the black-armoured stormtrooper is now through the door, weapon raised. He steps aside to clear the lane for the rest of the team, who spread out as the man turns on his heel, snapping his fingers and killing all the lights. The room is now plunged into a deluge of confused noises, cultists are screaming in terror and stormtroopers are shouting as they kindle their weapon-mounted lights, which lock onto the Honour-Guardian as he charges them, bowling one of the stormtroopers down as he dashes for the door, and Rarity sets off in pursuit, two of the stormtroopers following in hot pursuit.

"Get him!" Rarity bellows as they overtake her, sprinting after him. However for all that they are conditioned athletes, they are still only mortals, whilst their quarry is a gene-engineered freak. As they watch, he leaps into the air. The two stormtroopers fire a volley of las-bolts after their fleeing target, but the Guardian is now airborne and the flurry of las-bolts miss him by a hair's breadth. As he vanishes into the darkness, Rarity can almost swear she hears mocking laughter ringing in her pointed ears.

"Well, that went well." Rarity sighs, turning on her feet and heading back to the small house, the two stormtroopers falling in behind her without a word.

When she walks into the room, the haze of smoke has largely lifted but it still hangs in the air, along with the stench of ozone, and Rarity is unsurprised to see Brother Nightshade staring vacantly up at the ceiling, several cauterized wounds bored into his torso.

"This one made a fight of it," Sargeant Quickshot says, kicking the body with one armoured foot, and Wintershade stares up at Rarity.

"Oh no... they got you too," she breathes, her mouth open with horror. Rarity looks down at the person she once knew as Roseluck. Her gaze then moves to take in the group of cultists which is comprised of former friends and old acquaintances. Her face hardens. Her eyes are ice as she turns back to Roseluck.

"Brightdusk?" Roseluck whispers softly.

Rarity shakes her head sharply. "In the name of the Ordo Hereticus, I hereby serve notice that all here gathered are guilty of the crime of sedition, treason, aiding and abetting terrorists and Heresy of the First kind. You are to consider yourselves under Inquisitorial arrest. You will be taken from this place and incarcerated-” As she speaks, she watches the faces of those gathered falling. She forges onward regardless. “-Over the next few days, my officers and I will be questioning you most thoroughly. I strongly suggest you cooperate, or else things will become rather unpleasant." Rarity's eyes are flinty as several of the cultists go pale, several more start to sob.

Roseluck gasps. "Please Rarity, I didn't... you know I wouldn't... you can't..."

"Telling an Inquisitor what she can and cannot do is not a process that ends well."

The chill in Rarity's voice could strip flesh from bone.