Chapters It is the dawn of the second millenium.
For ten centuries, the immortal demigoddess Princess Celestia has ruled over the Empire of Equestria.
Yet, even in this age of harmony, the winds of change are blowing as the ageless demigoddess maintains her eternal vigilance. The resurrected Princess of the Night has resumed her place at her sister's side, and the newly discovered princesses Cadance and Twilight Sparkle have likewise taken their fated places at the side of the ageless Celestia. On the borders of Equestria, armies stand in nervous silence as the continent outside their borders burns. Yet within, heresy is being given voice as cults are formed dedicated to the veneration of the ancient and terrible spirits that stalked the lands of Equestria before they were banished by Celestia's armies.
Outside the borders of Equestria, hungry eyes stare inward at the peace and prosperity of its inhabitants and rub their hands in avaricious glee at the thought of all those riches swelling their coffers and war-chests and beyond the furthest star, beings that once roamed the wildernesses of Equestria are eyeing territory that was once theirs and are looking to reclaim it. Among the darkest corners of Equestria, hungry eyes open as hydras, timberwolves and other dangerous beasts roam the empty wastes.
Standing against this threat is the ever-vigilant Inquisition, its Ordos standing ready to stamp out any hint of the foreign aggressor, the mutant or the heretic. The Inquisition is split into three major Ordos, the Ordo Malleus, dedicated to combating the perils of the arcane and those dangerous sorcerers who have thrown their lot in with dark powers, the Ordo Xenos, dedicated to eradicating the dangerous beasts and mutants that wander the lands and lastly, the valiant warriors of the Ordo Hereticus, dedicated to stamping out the forbidden cults and those who would overthrow the rulers of Equestria by any means. Conducting their battles from the shadows, the reach of the Inquisition is long and its eye is ever watchful, yet even these stalwart defenders can barely keep in check the ever present threat of monsters, heretics, and far worse.
To live in such times is to live in a golden utopia that is built atop the backs of countless heroes who have fought and died in the shadows. It is to live under the gaze of one of the most powerful surveillance networks imaginable. This is a tale from those times. Forget the magic of friendship, for betrayal waits around every corner. Forget the elements of harmony, for they have surrendered their power for the greater good. In the grim shadow beyond the gaze of the sun, there is only death. There is no peace in the long night of Equestria, only silent slaughter and the laughter of thirsting Gods.
Chapter, The First: Danger in our midst.
Point Insertion. Investigation Breaking Cover.
1010-AB. 09-07Action: 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.
"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.
"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.
Chapter, The Second: Follow up
Old Friends The Ties that Bind Disturbing Occurrence
1010-AB. 10-07Action: Crushing Blow I follow-up investigations.
The room is filled with darkness. Thick veils of shadow swirl through the room, stalking around a circle of light where a chair is bolted to the floor. Sat in the chair is a woman, dressed in shabby, filthy prison garb rather than the rich blue velvet robes she'd been arrested in. The woman's formerly warm and welcoming face is haunted and her eyes are wide as they dance around the room like roulette balls in a wheel. The thick cloying stench of fear hangs in the air as Roseluck tries to summon the strength of her Goddess, draws breath to recite the canticle of Absolution.
The door crashes open, a blaze of light spilling over Roseluck. She squints against the blaze of light, seeing two sillhouettes in the doorway. One of them is tall, bald and powerfully built, the light flashing off his pate and a chill of absolute terror sinks its claws into her guts. At his shoulder is a woman, judging by her frame. The woman is shorter than the man, with long flowing locks, and the sight of her makes Roseluck gulp.
"Cease your mewling, Heretic, it will not help you here." The man's voice booms like thunder crashing down upon the mountainside and Roseluck's heart almost stops as the man strikes the lightswitch and the darkness is stripped away to figure the stuff of her nightmares. Lord Inquisitor Hard-Truth stands in the doorway, his massive frame dwarfing the woman standing next to him. One of the most feared inquisitors of the Ordo Hereticus, Hard Truth is known for his fanatical zeal and his dedication to the protection of Equestria from all threats, foreign and domestic. Whilst the victims of the inquisition are never subjected to such things as a court of law, Hard Truth is known to be a hanging judge as it were. The figure next to him however inspires even more terror than such a spectre as Hard Truth.
The woman walking into the room has pale skin and cold blue eyes that gaze down at Roseluck like the eyes of eternity. Her long flowing deep purple hair flows down her back in a series of elaborately styled curls, which frame her face and neatly accentuate the coldness in her expression. She is dressed in a simple black cloak, beneath which is a flowing maroon robe, though she has forgone the wide-brimmed hat that is traditionally associated with the Inquisition.
"We have a series of questions for you, Heretic." Rarity says calmly, striding toward Roseluck. "How you answer these questions will determine how you are treated here. Cooperate and your stay will be long and pleasant. If you fail to provide us with the answers that we need then your stay will be long but noticeably less pleasant." Her mouth quirks downward into a faint frown.
"What have they done to you?" Roseluck asks, her eyes wide as she remembers the happy, capering little girl who would knock on her door for treats come nightmare night, and the equally focused young woman who was so driven by her love for fashion and elegance that she became one of Equestria's youngest buisinesswomen. Now Roseluck can see that focus has been given a new target, a grim edge as sharp as any knife.
"That is really none of your concern, you have other things to worry about, namely, what I shall do to you should you fail to assist with my inquiries." Rarity's voice is firm and Roseluck draws a deep breath, her eyes flickering to the stormtroopers at the door, and to Hard-Truth, who clears his throat with a noise like a mountain drawing breath.
"I strongly suggest you cooperate, Heretic. Inquisitor Stern-duty is the best option you have right now." He growls, and Roseluck bites her lip.
"Stern-duty is it? That's what they call you now, Rarity?"
"You are one of the founding members of Ponyville's former Nightmare Cult, at whose direction did you form this group?"
"Are you sure you want to do this? Live your life as a pawn of murderers like him?" Roseluck gasps, and then recoils as a flare of pain slices across her face, the slap ringing through the room. Shock is etched upon her face as she looks up at Rarity's masklike countenance.
"Answer the question, Heretic," Rarity says dispassionately. "I can do this all day if I have to."
"No one's direction. I founded it myself, p-p-please."
"Lies will get you nowhere," Rarity's indictment is as cold as ice "Those banners last night were beyond the ability of a second level Seeker to create, likewise the sigils needed to be taught by someone, I wish to know who. I will give you one last chance." Rarity's tone is conversational as she gestures, beckoning the three stormtroopers foward. The clatter of their boots rings through the cell as they advance to flank Rarity, looming over Roseluck like silent pillars of ceramite as they fold their arms, and in that moment Roseluck feels as though a veil has fallen between her and Rarity. One moment, she is seeing the little girl that she gave Nightmare Night candies to, the next moment she sees the cold smugness of the Inquisitor, the enemy.
"Go to hell." Roseluck hisses, and spits in Rarity's face. Rarity blinks, surprise etched in her face, and then she nods.
"You are familiar with the fast-food chain Hayburger, yes?" She asks, and Roseluck blinks at the non-sequitur and her mouth goes dry.
"And do you know the slogan of that chain?" Rarity continues, as though it's the most natural question in the world, and Roseluck nods nervously as the Inquisitor rises to her feet.
"Have it your-" The air suddenly explodes out of Roseluck's lungs as Rarity delivers a savage blow to the other woman's midsection, leaving Roseluck doubled over and gasping for air as Rarity examines her knuckles.
"Have it your way." The Inquisitor says calmly, turning on her heel as the stormtroopers yank Roseluck up to the sitting upright position. The woman is sobbing and gasping for air as snot dribbles from her nose.
As Rarity steps into the corridor, she can hear the sound of ceramite plates rubbing against each other, followed by the sound of ceramite hitting flesh and a yelp of pain from Roseluck, a yelp that makes Rarity's heart clench and her stomach twist, the sounds rapidly muffled as the armoured door slams shut, leaving her standing outside with her mentor, Hard Truth.
"One of the unfortunate parts of being in the Ordo Hereticus, the threat from within is just as potent as the threat from without." Hard Truth says grimly, gazing at the door. "Are you alright, Inquisitor?" He asks, and Rarity shakes her head, biting her lip.
"The first one is always hard, particularly when you know the person concerned." He says as he places a comforting hand on her shoulder. "If it is any consolation, I've sat in on her kind before, she will not take long to break. You can go home now if you wish, take the rest of the day off."
Rarity shakes her head, straightening her spine as memories of Roseluck and Nightmare Night are replaced by other, more recent memories.
"If you're sure." Hard Truth looks doubtful and Rarity offers the hard-bitten Lord Inquisitor a weak smile.
"I am, sir, I acted precipitously last night and lost the Honour-Guard. This is the problem, whilst the rest may have useable intelligence, ultimately all we really gained last night was a handful of knuckledraggers and a mid-level who may not actually know all that much."
"You're certainly right about your precipitous actions." Hard Truth agrees, his voice level "I thought I had trained you better than this. Last night's operation was a limited success, but we could have gained considerably more intelligence if ser Honour-Guardian had taken you into his confidence, if you'd been willing to-."
"Forgive me for interrupting, my lord, but one of the most important things about our work is retaining our humanity." Rarity says softly, and Hard Truth shakes his head.
"This is a lesson I have tried to teach you again and again, Inquisitor," He sighs "You need to understand that sometimes our work requires us to do things that other people wouldn't even dream of doing... you've already had your first lesson in that today, but sometimes we need to look at the value of that one life and weigh it up against the cumulative value of all the lives in Canterlot, or even in all the Imperium."
Rarity tilts her head.
"You know me too well, Inquisitor. Still, what is done is done, and we will be able to gain some useful information from the number of Heretics you pulled in last night... twenty Heretics in one arrest is nothing to sneeze at, I'm sure one of them is bound to know something useful." Hard Truth glances down the corridor, and then he gestures to the next door.
"Do you wish to take a run at the next one? He's young and foolish, maybe he'll do something foolish when confronted with a woman rather than what he's expecting." Hard Truth looks a little doubtful, and it is as much to dispel that doubtful look as to drive out the last ghosts from her confrontation with Roseluck that Rarity nods sharply.
"Of course. I'd be more than happy to get my teeth into another heretic, it'll give us something to do whilst this one's simmering." She gestures at the door behind which Roseluck is held, before turning her back and walks down the corridor, finding it easier than she'd thought to walk on to the next cell. She reaches the cell, and with a deep breath, she yanks the cell's door open to be confronted with the sight of a round teenage boy with bright copper coloured hair and greasy skin.
Rarity steps across the perimeter, gazing at the young man. He's almost as old as Sweetie Belle should be... maybe he knew her... Rarity shakes that thought away as she steps into the cell, the door closing behind her to leave her alone with the heretic. She can feel her heart accelerating faintly as the heretic looks up at her and scowls.
"And I know you, heretic." She says shortly, walking towards him. Already she can feel like this might be a mistake. There's no way this cultist is old enough or senior enough to know anything of value or import. She takes a deep breath.
"You were Sweetie Belle's sister, right?" He asks and Rarity's eyes narrow faintly, not dignifying the fat cultist with a reply and he scoffs.
"You were saying?" Rarity asks daintily, her finger applying one pound of pressure to the firing stud. All she has to do is squeeze a little tighter and she'll trigger the weapon, firing a rocket-propelled projectile into the cultist's insolent face. Right now, that option seems to be very attractive, and the anger screaming in her guts is begging for her to do just that.
The cultist's mouth buttons up and he shakes his head rapidly.
"You don't understand!" The cultist snaps, seeming to shrink in upon himself as his gaze shifts to the bolt pistol in Rarity's hand and his mouth drops open. "The horrors you can inflict can only damage my body... She can... You don't understand what She can do to those who fail her."
"I understand," Rarity's voice suddenly becomes a little warm and understanding "You're afraid. I can see that you're scared, it's written all over your face. You're worried about what Nightmare Moon would do to you if you talked, about what your friends would do if you betrayed them. I understand completely" Rarity's voice is warm, and a flicker of doubt passes across the culist's face, but then his expression hardens and Rarity's own visage hardens in turn.
"That being said, I'm not entirely sure you understand the the situation. Your Nightmare Moon is gone, cast out from this world by the grace of Princess Celestia, and again by the Elements of Harmony," Rarity's tone is calm and confident. "She is gone, and her rage is not something you need to worry about. All your friends are locked up in this cell-block and I shall be visiting them in turn, they cannot hurt you now. On the other hand, I am here, in front of you right now, with the capability to make my rage felt in the most unpleasant fashion." Rarity's eyes narrow coldly as she lowers the bolt pistol.
"I won't talk, you're wasting your time." The pudgy cultist says and Rarity sighs.
"Wait!" the voice stops her and Rarity turns.
"So you're going to be cooperative?" Rarity asks, and Snips nods, sniffling weakly.
"Good... Now tell us what you can... tell me enough and I might be able to put in a good word for your life." She says, and the cultist nods weakly, drawing a shuddering breath.
The shadows at the corners of the dank cell coalesce into thick tendrils of smoke, bright flickers of actinic lightning dancing up and down their length as they snake out, reaching for the restrained cultist. Rarity's eyes widen in sudden shocked horror and she reaches for the power-sword hanging at her side, but she's too slow. The tendrils reach out and grab the cultist's arms and head, and a booming voice fills the cell, an ageless female voice that pounds its way directly into Rarity's soul.Traitor! Forsaker! Let this be a lesson to all who would forsake the lessons of the True Power!
The tendrils grasp the cultist, and before Rarity can do anything, they wrench his arms from his sockets with a sharp wet squelching sound. Blood fountains from the wounds and the cultist shrieks in agony, a shriek that is rapidly cut off as the tendrils of smoke wrench his head from his shoulders, a spray of arterial blood fountaining up to soak the roof in gore and splashing Rarity with flecks of crimson. The corpse sags as the foul energies dissipate and Rarity releases an angry sigh as alarms in the cell kick in and start to warble.
Rarity sighs and turns around after a moment, biting back an urge to throw up as the coppery stench of blood washes over her, before the door suddenly bangs open and three Inquisitorial stormtroopers come in, las-rifles up and at the ready. Rarity starts walking to the leader of the stormtroopers, who lowers his rifle.
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Chapter, The Third: Examination and Expiation
A Repression of Inquisitors. A chase of papers. An Ultimatum.
1010-AB. 10-07 1042 hours Action: Crushing Blow I follow-up investigations and debrief.
“So, spell out for me exactly what we have now that we did not have before the arrest of the unbelievers?” Hard-Truth says calmly as he sits back in the comfortable chair in one of the Chapel of Silence's many meeting rooms. Even sat at the head of a short conference table, dressed in a comfortable business suit rather than his normal deep crimson power-armour, he dominates the room. The Lord Inquisitor radiates power and calm authority. No one would dare to question his will, certainly no one would dare twice.
Rarity glances out of the corner of her eye at the other members of the Inquisitorial conclave that have been summoned. Both of them have been working other Nightmare cults in Equestria. One has wrapped her cult up, and thus Inquisitor Vailed-Truth is here in person, a faint smile quirking at the corners of her mouth as the winged woman preens slightly. Inquisitor Ice-Horn is here by proxy however, still buried deep in the Nightmare cult of Manehattan, and thus he has sent one of his associates, a normal who goes by the moniker of Hound.
Where Vailed-Truth is stylishly dressed in a soft grey overmantle over a deep red gown that accentuates her natural curves and her flowing deep red locks that run down to the base of her neck, Hound is tall and broad with shovel-like hands and chiseled features. His ice blue eyes are cold and hard and they reveal nothing. Rarity can see why Ice-Horn picked Hound as one of his associates, the man is even more grim-faced than Ice-Horn himself, if that were possible.
Both are senior Inquisitors in their own right, or at least they are more senior to her in the oblique hierarchy of the Equestrian Inquisition. Vailed-Truth is the Ordo Xenos representative, whilst Ice-Horn is the Ordo Malleus man on the case.
“We have nineteen heretics in our custody at least, not including the ones I've wrapped up,” Vailed-Truth says calmly as she daintily pours herself a flute of amasec. Hard-Truth frowns slightly.
“Indeed, nineteen more heretics that we cannot interrogate lest their patron power denies them to us, if we were across the street in the police station, I'd be offering you a promotion and an extra doughnut at mealtimes, but we are not the police. We are the Inquisition. Extra prisoners that we cannot exploit are of no more use to me than an empty bolter, less in fact because I can still beat my enemies to death with an empty bolter. In summation, we have precisely nothing, and we have lost a rather promising lead due to premature termination.”
Rarity can feel the gaze of the other Inquisitors on her, and her mouth dries up. She feels like a naughty schoolgirl summoned before the headmaster, an impression not helped by Hard-Truth’s severe expression.
“I acted in the fashion I deemed most appropriate. Our duty must be the preservation of lives-”
“-But not at the cost of compromising ourselves or forsaking our mission!” Vailed-Truth's voice is sharper than the crack of a whip, and it bites just as deeply. Hound nods, pursing his lips slightly, and Rarity feels her cheeks flush.
The creak of the chair being pushed back from the table silences both women as Hard-Truth rises heavily to his feet. “Enough.” Hard-Truth’s gravelly voice brooks no dissent, his gaze daring a challenge. “Lady Rarity has explained her reasons for doing what she did. We have discussed this matter at length. Your contributions are unasked for. Lady Rarity, if you would?”
“Thank you, Lord Inquisitor,” Rarity says, allowing the blush to fade. “Things have not been as straightforward as that. We know more than we did before we arrested these heretics, even if it is only that they are up to something serious.”
“How can you be sure?”
“The hand of their patron power reached here, into our very inner sanctum, and took great pains to stifle the words of one of her worshippers before he could let something slip. That in itself is a sign that our enemy has something serious in mind.” Rarity's voice is calm and collected and she spots a flicker of doubt pass across Vailed-Truth's face.
“The problem remains, we do not know what that is,” Hound replies sharply, and Rarity nods.
“You're right, we do not, but we will soon,” Rarity responds, smiling with a confidence she does not feel. Yet Hound and Vailed-Truth seem to buy it, though she can almost feel the scorching heat of Lord Inquisitor Hard-Truth's gaze upon her.
“Let us hope that 'soon' is not too late,” Hard-Truth says after a moment. He then reaches out for the heavy iron goblet upon his desk. “Still, the matter remains, we must decide on a course of action. We know there are heretics and we know they are being armed, for what purpose remains a mystery but I have no doubt that the collected intellects before me are more than equal to the task of finding out.” Hard-Truth's sarcasm is caustic, but then the Lord Inquisitor smiles faintly, a smile that reveals tombstone-like teeth as it pulls and twists the scars on his right cheek. He inhales for a moment, sampling the perfectly aged spirit, taking a sip from the goblet, before placing it down upon his desk with a heavy thunk. He then reaches for his red quill, and starts scrawling onto three bits of parchment. He doesn’t look up at the three Inquisitors as he starts to brief them.
“Inquisitor Vailed-Truth, I want you to shift tasks, I want you to focus your attentions upon the weapons that are somehow making it into the hands of the cultists in Manehattan. You've identified where they come from, now I want to know how they get to where they're going. Hound, pass the word to your master that his instructions are unchanged. You have your orders. The Princess Protects.”
The Inquisitors bow their heads at the ancient litany dating back from the Heresy. But as Rarity rises to leave, Hard-Truth holds up a hand. “Stay a moment, Apprentice,” he says softly, and Rarity turns back to face the Lord Inquisitor as Hound and Vailed-Truth file out of the room. She draws a deep, nervous breath and licks her lips quickly as she gazes up at the hulking secret policeman. Despite the roaring fire, as the door clicks shut behind her, she feels a nervous chill ripple up her spine.
Rarity braces herself as Hard-Truth draws his breath, bracing herself for the man to start yelling, but instead the Lord Inquisitor raises his goblet slightly, regarding her levelly over his amasec.
“Yes Lord Inquisitor, the night is not entirely wasted. We have nineteen live heretics and their belongings. These heretics are linked to the weapons being brought in from across Equestria. I'm sure Ponyville is being used for something else besides a recruiting hub. If it please you, I would examine their personal effects and their rooms to confirm this?”
“The police have exercised their right to pick over our leavings, they are already inspecting the domiciles of the heretics, but you are welcome to see if you can find anything they've missed. I know you have... experience with the cultists of Ponyville, perhaps you might be able to find something that our colleagues in the arbites have missed.”
He pulls a sheaf of parchment from his drawer, along with one of the long maroon dyed raven-feather quills that the Inquisition use to write their edicts and an ink-pot. Rarity feels a frisson of joy mixed with anxiety as she takes the quill, parchment and inkpot, the weight of the authority vested within heavy in her hands.
“It is sir, I shall bring back results as soon as I can.”
“See that you do,” Hard-Truth says calmly. “You are dismissed, Lady Rarity. The Princess Protects”
“The Princess Protects.” With that, Rarity rises to her feet, her heart racing as the words of the Inquisitor ring in her ears. Her mouth is dry and her hands are shaking slightly. She doesn't have much time.
Half an hour later, Rarity is sat in her offices in the Chapel of Silence, a gently steaming mug of Arak at her elbow. The sheet of parchment sits by her other elbow, the crimson quill and inkpot sat next to it. The scratching of Rarity's draft quill echoes through the stillness of the room,whilst candles gleam and a small fire crackles in the hearth, casting unnatural shadows over the looming book-cases and artefact displays. The former fashionista growls and balls up another sheet of paper, tossing it at the pile that fills the waste paper basket.
“Ugh, by the Princess' most curly of beards...” She growls as she snatches another sheet of paper and spreads it out upon the writing desk. Her eyes are alive with thought as she stares down at the blank sheet of paper before her.
In the name of the Princesses of Equestria and the Most Holy Ordo Hereticus, I Inquisitor Stern-Duty, hereby serve notice that I must inspect this domicile and anything that has been removed from within. Failure to comply with this directive is Treason of the Fourth Kind. I request require that all loyal citizens so notified assist me however directed--
Rarity leans back, tilting her head quizzically as she examines the document, pursing her lips before reading it out aloud to herself. She feels her eyes narrow. The edict sounds too demanding, too overbearing to guarantee any kind of compliance. Rarity can remember Hard-Truth's lectures ringing in her ears, remember his words about her entire strength lies in deception and subtlety.
Rarity is about to ball up this draft, and consign it to the disposal can, when the intercom buzzes insistently.
“Only me, Rarity, only me.”
Rarity sags faintly with relief and she flicks a key upon the intercom. The door locks click open and Vailed-Truth swans into the room, a smile on her face.
“Sorry about that whole performance in front of the Old Man, you know how it is,” she says, and Rarity nods as she reaches for the bookcase at her right elbow. Rarity glances up to the bookcase, and then she rises to her feet, scanning along the rows of arcane tomes with one finger stretched out. She reaches Ode to Sobriety and Strength of Will, and her hand winces back before she clicks her tongue, tutting to herself as she pulls the second thick tome back to reveal a set of tall amasec glasses and a collection of bottles of spirits in a respectably sized cooler. It’s one of those days.
“I do indeed, I do not fault you for that. It was necessary, if not pleasant,” Rarity concedes, and Vailed-Truth nods.
“Necessary, but I have no doubt you've heard it from everyone and her dog by this point, so let us sit down and talk of business. Firstly though, how are you holding up?” Vailed-Truth asks, and Rarity purses her lips slightly as she takes two of the crystal flutes off from the cabinet.
“I've been better,” she concedes after a moment, and Vailed-Truth nods.
“Mmmhm, I'll say. It's hard, making those choices. I don't envy you for having to make them so early in your career either.” Vailed-Truth collapses back into one of Rarity's leathery office chairs, scooting it over on the casters to look over Rarity's shoulder.
“So you're investigating the heretic's homes and belongings?” she asks, and Rarity nods in reply.
“It's the most logical starting point.”
“These are heretics we're talking about sister, logic may not be high on their agenda.”
“Good point, but these are entry level cultists at best, or at least most of them are. I do not think the Nightmare would have exposed them overmuch to her influence,” Rarity counters, and Vailed-Truth nods her head in reply as she slowly sips her amasec, mulling over Rarity's words.
“An excellent point, it's the entry level cultists that are so dangerous to the Nightmare's plans, yet so crucial. They are the weak link, or at least they are the ones that we can exploit,” Vailed-Truth replies. “Anyway, you working on your edicts?” she asks, peering over to Rarity's writing desk, and the junior Inquisitor nods grimly.
“Mmm, they're not quite coming as readily as I'd expect. I've read through all the primers and I've considered the words that Hard-Truth uses when he writes his edicts, but when I use similar words, they just sound inane, like I'm a beginner sorceress wearing my father's robes,” Rarity says quietly, and Vailed-Truth clicks her tongue.
“I can see why. Serving with Lord Inquisitor Hard-Truth is a real honour, and you are blessed with the Princess' favour that he considers you highly enough to give you your own rosette after only three years as his apprentice, but I can imagine it's not without certain... problems of its own.”
“He has big shoes to fill,” Rarity concedes, and Vailed-Truth smiles
“He certainly keeps you working hard. Tell you what, I'll help out with your Edicts and I'll share all I know regarding the weapons smuggling, and in return... In return, you can share the full results of your investigations with me when they reach fruition?” Vailed-Truth dangles the bait in front of Rarity, her eyebrows slightly raised. Rarity grins in reply and then she nods. The currency of choice between the various Ordos remains un-restricted information and favours after all.
“Mmm, I'd be happy to accept, now let's look at these edicts, and as we do, you can tell me what you know.”
“So impatient to get out there and start doing the Princess' will. Very well...” Vailed-Truth sucks her teeth for a moment. “We know that there are cultists in Ponyville, and that this cell has been established for a good long while, that they were formed in the aftermath of your initial purges, or else they managed to avoid detection. We know that Ponyville is important to their plans, since they have sent one of the Night Host to debrief them. That does not happen everywhere after all. They probably only have a few members left by now. We also know that cultists from Ponyville have been identified in my weapons smuggling ring, and in Ice-Horn's investigation.”
Rarity's eyes widen and her mouth drops open. “What!? Hound didn't mention that!”
“Of course he didn't. You were there,” Vailed-Truth says flatly. “Ice-Horn doesn't trust you. He considers you 'erratic' and 'fanciful' were the exact words he used, and where Ice-Horn doesn't, Hound won't either. That being said, I consider your 'fancifulness' to be one of your more useful assets.”
Rarity sighs, her shoulders slumping a little, and Vailed-Truth gives her a gentle tap on the shoulder.
“So you can brag about your hero-commissar boyfriend some more? Please spare me.”
“Now now, jealousy does not become an Inquisitor.”
Rarity picks up her quill once more, her eyes drifting to a small picture briefly illuminated by the dancing candle-light, and her expression hardens.
“I, Inquisitor Stern-Duty, in the eternal name of the God-Princess Celestia, request and require-”
____________________
Seven hours later, Rarity calmly knocks on the door of Hard-Truth’s office, the documents in her hand.
Rarity steps over to the shrine and swiftly bows her head to pray, but as she lifts her hand to make the stations of obeisance, a voice fills the study.
“Ah, Lady Rarity.” The booming voice of Hard-Truth makes Rarity start, and Rarity begins to lift her head, but Hard-Truth clears his throat. “Do not let me stop you in your prayers, Lady Rarity. It is only by the Princess’ will that we prevail.”
Rarity nods, but cuts her prayers short with a swift The Princess Protects, and turns to regard her master. Hard-Truth is walking out of an alcove dressed in his suit, doing up his cufflinks and straightening his tie.
Hard-Truth pops the seal and calmly looks through it, his lips moving soundlessly as Rarity feels her heart rising into her throat. Occasionally a smile breaks out upon the Lord-Inquisitor’s craggy face, but the smiles swiftly vanish as he continues reading. After a moment, he nods.
“Messire Apple, Sister Heartstrings and Madam Scratch. Yessir, they know the geography.”
“Indeed… They’re also the team that assisted you with your initial purges. The ones who have a personal stake in your work,” Hard-Truth says coolly. “Lady Rarity, I cannot have a member of your staff, or you, putting your feelings ahead of your duty to the Imperium. You are on thin ice right now, and the moment I suspect you are doing your duty improperly, I will have you recalled and stripped of your rosette, is that clear?”
Rarity thinks of Sweetie Belle, of Applejack, of Twilight and Apple-Bloom, and her mouth sets into a thin line.
“Good, then we have nothing further to discuss. You are dismissed, Lady Rarity.”
As Rarity turns to leave, the Lord Inquisitor clears his throat and Rarity pauses half-way to the door.
“Abundantly.” Rarity forces the word out through her tightening throat as her heart races. Her hand rises to her chest and her stride lengthens as she hurries out into the corridor. Behind her, the deep resounding slam of the doors rings down the corridor.
