Iaira stirred back into consciousness feeling as if she were trapped in an entangled web of the making of most certainly hideous creatures to be sure. The smell that entered her nostrils was heavy, a mixture of the black candles the priests used for rituals, myr essence and wood burning. Still, better than what she expected; Hood, you elegant bastard. I would have thought you'd be all bones and mould. Of course, I'm more surprised you didn't decapitate me right at the Gates. I'll give you this, it doesn't feel too comfortable. Perhaps Kallantir's influence for his prodigy did not extend to that. Her body ached faintly, but as it woke along with her mind, the pain intensified. Shuddering, rushing, burning. It struck her with such sudden force Iaira couldn't muster control of her own body. The assassin thrashed to each side, a scream rising up inside her throat, but she found that she was firmly bound in place, flat metallic bands, much like the ones she had been restrained by in the dungeons. Her eyes shot open, suddenly flooded with unfamiliar panic. I should be dead. The inconceivable pain joined her memories and mentally she began to check her injuries- the one she found most alarming was her hand. Iaira had to depend on her deft and quick movements, otherwise she was plainly useless, easy prey for any amateur Talon. She attempted to bring her wrist closer to her face for inspection but found that both her arms were tied above her head with something much softer than the chains she'd have expected. Perhaps boiled leather from the feel of it.
Her eyes had to adjust to the dimness of the room and yet her sight was still quite blurry. Black specks joined with crimson ashened her image of her dubious surroundings. This certainly is not Hood's realm. She could tell the walls were made of chiselled stone and she spotted the source of heat- a carved, dark marble fireplace with a fire burning, its warmth inviting. Iaira shifted, despite the pain piercing through her and the bedhseets she had been covered with- satin;crimson too,not bad at all- slipped lower. A subtle shock ran through her when she realised she had been stripped from all her clothing and most importantly, her weapons too.
'Fucking cunt,' she muttered, her voice husky and strained, tugging angrily once at her restraints. 'There were some antiques in there.'

"You wound me with your cruel words, girl."
Weyellin's voice seemed to come as a surprise to Iaira, himself not present in the room, but on the balcony overlooking the South, and less wealthy side of his Kingdom, his hearing as acute as ever.
"Your possessions are safe, undamaged and on the carviettei beside you in several satchels. As for your clothing, washed and cleared of blood, soot, sand and dirt. They were also redyed Rockbeetle Black. As good as the Midnight they were dyed before, with hints of a slight dark blue." Weyellin walked from the balcony and into the room, gently lit and heated by the black marble pillar-like fireplace that stood in the centre of the room. The near-transparent crimson cloth that hung in the archway fluttered slightly from Weyellin's disrupture before it returned to it's stagnant and unlively station in the arch.
"On the edge of the bed. You're welcome."
Weyellin's legs continued to carry him beside Iaira, now, himself fully lit up by the warm glow of the fire. He was no longer in armour, and instead in a dark coated cloth material, decorated with dark grey lightmail, jagged like the rock around him, and a black animal fur around his neck. Below the long, drooping chained cloak was a deep crimson undergarment that matched the pattern and style of the room. He sat on the bed beside her, his stubble grown into a light and shaggy beard and his curled hair even blacker than before.
"It has been two days. I am truly sorry for your current state. Were it a regular Pacifier, the recovery would have been perfect. The memories fresh, but your flesh and bone reversed to a previous state. This Pacifier, though... Well... He was a little more rough with you than he should have been. Your wounds are fully healed, but there will be discomfort for some days."
His arms reached out to the satin sheet that was slipping from Iaira and pulled it over her breasts again, his eyes keeping away from her naked and beautiful figure's tempting allure, and preferring to keep to her eyes.
"I also must apologise for your stripping. Defense of Everlastian Citizens is our number one priority, and so all weapons must be removed to drastically prevent threat. Your clothes, however, are removed because it has been theorised by a leading official that one who is naked is much, much less likely to fight back due to the lack of coverage, support, armour and dignity. It will also, should you escape, allow us to easily sight and catch you when away from your chamber."
Weyellin looked at the girl, tied up and naked, and totally at his mercy.
"I must thank you for your lack of co-operation. It proved entertaining. And, to be honest, you have impressed me. You were very strong-willed to have actually attempted to fight the gas."

'I will not feign my confusion if I tell you that I am at loss, Commander,' she said. Watching his movements intently, she couldn't help but notice his obvious lack of armour, the comfort with which he carried himself around her. He believes I am no threat, he believes he is safe and sound, drowned in the naivety of his power. I am a Blackmont; we hold grudges.
'Let me fully understand that chain of incidents that led us to your cozy chambers...' Iaira sucked in air, taking a deep breath, mostly to earn herself time to probe through her memories.
'I save your men's life from the Whirlwind which- dragon descendants or not- would have stripped you down to your bones. I suppose people from Everlast must have a peculiar sense of gratitude for instead of thanking me for saving your worthless hides, you turned against me and my companion, attacked me with a severe case of outnumbering me and for the coup de grace you crippled me with one of those nothing if not crude and ugly crossbows.'
She heard his words with a tone of exaggerated disbelief, her slender eyebrow arching upwards. Iaira had no doubt that he'd chosen the Pacifier very, very carefully. 'Alas, let me continue. You imprison me and torture me with every means at your disposal. You tell me that in the eyes of your justice I am a wanted criminal and yet you did not let me die- which I would have, judging by the blood loss. I've killed enough to know that much, trust me, love.' She had to slow down now. Her voice was wearing out. When she spoke again, it was lower.
'And I awake in some luxurious room, wearing nothing but my perfume -hoping you at least had the good grace to spray me with some- and immobilised. Facing my captor and torturer, who has deemed armour to be redundant because he underestimates me. Who is up for some idle discussion, strangely.'
Iaira made a point of ignoring the shifting bedsheet and sat up, her eyes level with his now, unmindful of her own nakedness. Her voice barely higher than a whisper. 'Now, Commander, I know the pleasure of my company is exquisite. You don't have to remind me that. I do not consider you a man of risk to simply keep me around for it, however. There must be another motive,' she straightened as long as her restraints would allow, the leather taut behind her head as she edged closer,'So tell me, Weyellin,' emerlad locked in charcoal, 'Why am I still alive?'

Mindless. Utterly mi-
Weyellin released a deep sigh that seemed to speak for him and sharply extended his palm to meet Iaira's cheek.
"Don't you dare give me any sense of judgement. You are in no such place to do so. You're alive because you're useful, and you have valuable information about some... less reputable people and organisations that we can extract from you. Perhaps it is you that underestimates me, dear girl. This is Everlast, and false pride built upon a worthless surname will do you no favours. Here, we have castes and ranks. Forenames, if comfortable, but nothing more. This room, this treatment? A formality. I am charitable."
He lazily drew a cloth from his pocket and wiped it slowly across her bloody lips.
"Justice is why you have not been praised and cheered. Justice is why you are here at my orders and my disposal. Justice, my dear girl, comes above all, and you will come to learn this. You are nothing here. Dirt. Scum, like all the rest. Greatness comes from aspects such as will, servitude and prowess. Not last names."
He paused for a moment to avoid his digression.
"You are under Everlastian control. You are property. And the sooner we are done Pacifying your pyromancer companion in The Undercells, we will see how he fares against the Everlast Pets. You'll have a front seat view, for that one."
He stepped back and shuffled himself inches away from the brash fire that stood in the centre of the room, watching closely for the specific movements of the guardian spirit.
"I'll send a foremaid in to help you get your clothes on and she will escort you to meet me in the throne hall. Don't try to be clever or smart. I went the distance of doubling the guard at your room's door and balcony. I have allowed you to walk there, however. It is a magnificent city, after all."
His large, heavy feet fell silent against the stone flooring as he walked through a small passageway leading out of the room.
"And Iaira?" He paused. "Don't insult my crossbow again. It hurts so very badly."

Iaira scoffed, her eyes still locked in his, a provocative glare. Once he touched her, she recoiled as if bitten by a snake. Talk about familiar.
'In my view, Commander,'It is more important that innocence be protected than it that guilt be punished, for guilt and crimes are so frequent in this world that they cannot all be punished,' her voice had grown cold icicles and just as sharp. 'But if innocence itself is brought to the bar and condemned, perhaps to die, then the people will say 'Whether I do good or whether I do evil is immaterial, for innocence itself is no protection.' Air sucked in dry. A deep breath. 'And if such an idea as that were to take hold in the mind of the people, that would be the end of security whatsoever.'
His mention of Ulysses had flared up something inside her. Something primal. A sense of...spite. The pyromancer had mocked her before about her loyalty to her companions but in fact, she prided in it. If Iaira could not so much as protect the men alongside her, she was no better than mindless rulers sending their armies to the slaughter. Like sheep.
'Who do you think bestows upon you the right to deliver Justice? Do you perceive the notion that you yourself are not a sinner? Go on. Look at the man you're holding in your dungeon. Question him. Torture him. You will find him to be purer than any of your men are. Certainly purer than you. You, Weyellin,' her voice had risen without her taking notice, 'will be condemning an innocent.'
Iaira settled back, her skin brushing the soft headstand, covered in crimson velvet.
'I don't mind social unrest. I excel in causing it. Truth be told, a part of me hopes you'll make that one misstep. Something tells me it would not be the very first time.' The assassin spat the last words out.
She chortled dryly at his last remark, her voice raised one last time, 'Look at your people, Commander. See the cold flames of rebellion taking over your precious city. And clench your teeth as you deliver more death unto "sinners".'

Iaira's mocking words and attempted stabs at Weyellin's pride brought to him a memory of how he was as a boy in history classes learning about the failed leadership of Overseer Turckin, his greatuncle, who Weyellin's father decapitated in Proving Combat. With this memory came a wide smile in the view of his failure, his lack of power, righteousness and knowledge.
'...clench your teeth as you deliver more death unto "sinners".'
"A pleasure, my girl."
He chuckled lightly and continued walking out of the room.
Ignorance. She could not understand.
Then show her.
Upon his exit of the room, a post of four elite guardsmen stood to firm attention. A woman, young but frail, walked forth and knelt before him.
"My Overseer, am I to escort our prisoner now?"
"Yes, lady. But take her to the Parish first. She needs to be educated."
"At once, sir."

Iaira had slumped back against the headstand, her body bent to the side. The show she had put up for Weyellin before had visibly drained her and for now she was just pleased to have a quiet moment before she had to face those stiff, uptight, false-duty driven men of his. Her throat felt parched and a look around the room had informed her of the various glass magna placed upon different tables and stands. A particular flash perched upon the firemantle had caught her attention. The warmth of the flames lighting the colour of its contents, like liquid fire.
The door opened and a figure stepped in, the footsteps barely audible. Iaira tensed once more. For all his talk of honour, Weyellin had used every means at his disposal to interrogate her and she had no doubt he'd reach any extent to get what he wanted. As the figure stepped out of the shadows and into the light cast by the fireplace, Iaira saw a small-framed woman, the expression in her eyes one of empty obedience. Another duty-driven puppet. Where's the fun in those?
'I've been sent to escort you.' The woman's voice was apathetic; The assassin wondered whether she'd even bleed, if she pricked her white skin with a needle.
'Could I interest you in something of a more sensual nature, firstly? I mean, I am conveniently naked and immobilised and I'd like to try everything once.'
She ignored her generous offer and brought herself closer to the bed with measured steps. A surprising strength filled her hands when she pushed Iaira's head to the side, ignoring her grunt of displeasure as she fumbled with her binds. Her arms were gently lowered to her sides, needles puncturing through them, no doubt an effect of the blood rushing back into them. It wasn't hard to note that her wrists remained restrained for the time being.
The woman pulled her clumsily, standing her on her feet. Her eyes made a point of not lingering a second on her nakedness. Quickly, she took hold of her renewed garments and did most of the dressing up herself- almost causing Iaira to stumble twice. Briefly, her hands were untied, only long enough for her to slide her arms through the sleeves of her tunic and then her thin, boiled-leather vest. Her silence frustrated the assassin.
'Follow me.' The same lifeless-fish tone. Hood's balls, is that what married women sound like?
The temperature was roughly the same outside of the room; it must have been around sunset, for the last shafts of light entered through the window slits in the walls. The girl had attached a small chain-like line to her bound wrists, the end of which rested in her palm as she led Iaira through the halls. They passed different rooms, most with high arched doors barred-shut. Through some there was sound to be heard, quiet and repetitive; in others there were guttural screams and in the rest, simplistic silence.
However, the girl made a halt before a very different section of the fortress. That much was evident. The darkness inside was absolute and when they stepped inside through the high doorframe shaped like dragon's jaws, her foosteps seemed to echo to the highly-hanging ceiling. In the walls, the rock had been carved sporadically to reveal a crimson-fiery light, but as much as Iaira sought for a light-source, a candle, a brazier or anything similar, she was disappointed. There were many levels to it, stone corridors seemingly overlapping one another in every direction. Rock held no warmth of any sort and judging by the lack of light, it should have been freezing cold, making her teeth rattle. On the contrary, the vastness of the area was filled with heat, supposedly emerging from below and somewhere further ahead.

Iaira had slumped back against the headstand, her body bent to the side. The show she had put up for Weyellin before had visibly drained her and for now she was just pleased to have a quiet moment before she had to face those stiff, uptight, false-duty driven men of his. Her throat felt parched and a look around the room had informed her of the various glass magna placed upon different tables and stands. A particular flash perched upon the firemantle had caught her attention. The warmth of the flames lighting the colour of its contents, like liquid fire.
The door opened and a figure stepped in, the footsteps barely audible. Iaira tensed once more. For all his talk of honour, Weyellin had used every means at his disposal to interrogate her and she had no doubt he'd reach any extent to get what he wanted. As the figure stepped out of the shadows and into the light cast by the fireplace, Iaira saw a small-framed woman, the expression in her eyes one of empty obedience. Another duty-driven puppet. Where's the fun in those?
'I've been sent to escort you.' The woman's voice was apathetic; The assassin wondered whether she'd even bleed, if she pricked her white skin with a needle.
'Could I interest you in something of a more sensual nature, firstly? I mean, I am conveniently naked and immobilised and I'd like to try everything once.'
She ignored her generous offer and brought herself closer to the bed with measured steps. A surprising strength filled her hands when she pushed Iaira's head to the side, ignoring her grunt of displeasure as she fumbled with her binds. Her arms were gently lowered to her sides, needles puncturing through them, no doubt an effect of the blood rushing back into them. It wasn't hard to note that her wrists remained restrained for the time being.
The woman pulled her clumsily, standing her on her feet. Her eyes made a point of not lingering a second on her nakedness. Quickly, she took hold of her renewed garments and did most of the dressing up herself- almost causing Iaira to stumble twice. Briefly, her hands were untied, only long enough for her to slide her arms through the sleeves of her tunic and then her thin, boiled-leather vest. Her silence frustrated the assassin.
'Follow me.' The same lifeless-fish tone. Hood's balls, is that what married women sound like?
The temperature was roughly the same outside of the room; it must have been around sunset, for the last shafts of light entered through the window slits in the walls. The girl had attached a small chain-like line to her bound wrists, the end of which rested in her palm as she led Iaira through the halls. They passed different rooms, most with high arched doors barred-shut. Through some there was sound to be heard, quiet and repetitive; in others there were guttural screams and in the rest, simplistic silence.
However, the girl made a halt before a very different section of the fortress. That much was evident. The darkness inside was absolute and when they stepped inside through the high doorframe shaped like dragon's jaws, her foosteps seemed to echo to the highly-hanging ceiling. In the walls, the rock had been carved sporadically to reveal a crimson-fiery light, but as much as Iaira sought for a light-source, a candle, a brazier or anything similar, she was disappointed. There were many levels to it, stone corridors seemingly overlapping one another in every direction. Rock held no warmth of any sort and judging by the lack of light, it should have been freezing cold, making her teeth rattle. On the contrary, the vastness of the area was filled with heat, supposedly emerging from below and somewhere further ahead.

From the Dragon.
For the Dragon.
To the Dragon.
The words were engraved beautifully with clear script into an obsidian-like rock, hardened still with age. Running her dry elderly-like fingers over the air in front of it, the lady in black spoke.
"These are the words pledged by all members of our great society, displaying their unyielding commitment to giving themselves solely to our Everlastian God. The Dragon's blood runs deep in us all, outsider. Mind that if you will before stepping 'cross an Everlastian."
She continued forth into the corridors of the Parish, the heat intensifying with each step of foot.
"This Parish was built by Propienne, of the Pre-history First Order. We know little of the degenerates before. Only that they woke the Dragon's ire, and brought mad wroth forth. The Dragon saw weakness in man and turned one against the other with promises of eternal life and power, such brought about the Battle of Hundred Scerecs. 'Tis human nature to us all, greed. All that is needed to proof man's inhumanity to man is the incentive to fulfil self. Alas, I digress. Propienne was unlike any other man. He, the fourth in his line, did not raise sword to brother in response to the Dragon's words, but instead proved , and allowed his own heart be taken. From that day forth, he and the Dragon became one and the same. The Secreleic tongue and po'ers of the Justicar came unto him. He was the first of the Everlast, a conduit of nothing but raw Holy Draconic justice. He constructed this keep within this mountain as his head of quarters. There was aught to be found in the ruins upon the natural platform our kingdom is upon today, and there he found the power to produce such light, iron and crabblecoal. Upon these three materials he composed the city you see today, with all under its shelter pledging their allegiance to the Dragon and Propienne's holy light. Cleric knights and Elite Guard of our society since have been blessed with a fragment of the Dragon's holy power, able to gain visions of Sinners within the world. Propienne is long and gone, yet his power is but in slumber. One day, it shall rise anew in the heart of an Everlastian Lord, and he himself will be granted the Dragon's light to become its new conduit, namely Godsbane. Only he is able to converse with the Great One, and only he will ever be able to wield His light."
The woman reached the end of the vast, imposing antechamber before turning upon one foot and facing Iaira. The heat was now so intense that it drew breath from the lungs. Magma ran with an ominous calmness from out high atop the Parish walls into small holes in the stone to fill the floor beneath, providing an awesome heat from all sides.
"Before us both is the Chamber of Everlast. It is where we stop. Its Holy Light will burn your putrid soul from your body, girl, and I am much too weak for its power. One day, when Godsbane is delivered unto us, Everlast shall once again be a name known across all lands."
She paused, her lifeless grey eyes delivering a sense of poisonous inexactness to Iaira.
"Questions, outsider?"

Cruel torture, the taste of battle and blood, the frustrating anxiety over her now-unmasked companion; all of the above led to Iaira neglecting to hold her tongue and lash out with a not-so-refined form of sarcasm;
'You mean, apart from what in Hood's balls you mean?'
She had known many religious rituals, hell, she'd been part of a significant amount herself. Flies buzzing around, taking everyone's already flimsy sanity away, finding the open wounds and sucking blood from them, sticking to the honey covered bodies, blissful in their immobility. Wolves' hearts ripped from the beasts' chests, blue fires lit during magnificent fetés.
Therefore, the woman's words, in her head, could easily be taken literally. And Iaira liked the new hue of her attire too much to let it burn with her.
'History is lovely and all- though I do have some basic doubts on whether this should be called 'history'. I mean,' Iaira's incredulous tone was now becoming stronger, her eyes wandering around the Parish, 'Dragons? You mean to make me believe in dragons?'
She scoffed.
'The Eleint,' she continued,' are scarce. And almost extinct. That is because they are immortal divine beings. I only know of one species that has...' A brief pause. A glance at the woman. These people...they really did believe, with a blind, absurd amount of destructive faith. Faith that could be used as a barrier against an otherwise relatively advanced nation.
The assassin straightened. Emerald fixed on grey.
'Propienne,' she drawled, 'Weilder of an unthinkable amount of power. Godsbane. Favoured by the Dragon. And yet he is no longer here with you, his bones rotting somewhere, in some hole within this keep surely, or even more suitably, burnt to dust. Now, unless what I'm suggesting is false and you still preserve his body somewhere -the location unimportant for now, though I doubt you'd know, low-ranking as you are,' a grin slowly formed on her lips, tugging the corners upwards, as she looked down, beneath the raised platform to watch the magma rise and flow, 'you believe he won't just return. You harbour the illusion you will be in a position to bring him back.'
The liquid fire jumped and boiled, the flames emitting a heat strong enough to make one's vision blurry with tears if they tried to focus, licking the blackened rocks surrounding it. Somehow, so strangely...containing it.
'The real question is, love,' stone tearing in two, lava flowing between the cracks, filling the crevice, 'what happened to him?'

The woman ignored the blind insults and arrogance of the girl, and would instead refer what Iaira had said to her superiors. She examined closely the sneering grin upon Iaira's face after stating the fact she was a low rank as if it were insult, and confused her slightly. Again, her thoughts digressed.
"Propienne cast himself into His light to return the power unto him. It is the blessing and curse same to be Godsbane - You are united with the Dragon, both in power and in life. His Light is the only cure for the disease of life that crawls to the likes of people like you. Quite simply: his time as Godsbane was finished, and there was naught upon this world he could purge any further. Now, in a time of such latent degeneracy, we need a Godsbane more than ever, but we have none who could possibly seek out the Dragon's Light. No-one will bring Godsbane back but the Dragon himself. We, as the sentient and righteous inhabitants and defenders of Everlast are the only ones of maintaining the Light's magick during this disequilibrium. It will be soon, and I suggest you run. Your name is high upon His list."
The woman turned, her feet, padded soft with cloth, made their way back the way they came.
"I suggest you follow me, little girl. The throne room is upon the base floor, and Overseer Weyellin is not fully... understood in his selection of patience."

Iaira scoffed quietly at the use of powerful and hypocritical words such as 'righteous defenders' that these people seemingly revelled in. Indeed, she wondered, who had granted them those illusions? The illusion of faith, of devotion, of justice and superiority. She had cultivated her own thoughts on Propienne, with no mind to share them. Fanatics and zelots made for poor conversation partners. While the cherished Overseer seemed to be grey in all the right places, hiding behind a façade of austerity and harsh judgement. Deception was an assassin's trade, however. Even deception of one's self. There are some lies we cannot recognise unless they stare right into our face, and the revelation of their falsehood is able to make us crumble.
At the woman's comment, Iaira paused in her steps, briefly. Little girl? What, did I shrink? Nevertheless, she fell into pace behind her, for once obediently and without a sneer comment. After all, a walk through a strange fortress, full of secrets buried deep, mysteries -she suspected- not even the inhabitants knew or comprehended thoroughly. And if her pragmatic nature were to surface, hints about a possible escape route could be found among these walls. That, or some flammable substance she would utilise to burn them all. Depending on the daily entertainment and sleep deprivation.

Weyellin ran his fingers through the thick, curled hair upon his head in sheer impatience. Iaira and her 'guide' were two ticks late already, and he would not suffer longer. He knew the girl was strong enough of mind not to attempt an evasion of Everlast orders whilst within the Keep walls. His deep gaze was directed and fixed upon a slim shaft of light emanating from behind a window in the stone by the great doors, a by product of his own ingenious city heating and lighting system. A strong mind is just as healthy as a strong arm.
Three ticks.
The great doors were painfully slowly pulled open by the palace guard, and two figures emerged from the light its new state produced. Weyellin found himself leaning forward upon his lap already in anticipation, his forearms digging heavy into his thighs.
"I suppose there is an adequate reasoning for your late arrival to this didactic event?"
"The girl, sir, she had many thoughts and questions." The grey lady promptly paused her step 20 paces from Weyellin's throne and fell to one knee, pulling Iaira down along with her. "Too many."
"We do sometimes like a thinker here in Everlast. Just not one that talks as much as she does." Weyellin spoke.
Muffled laughter sourced from within a few helmets of Elite guard that lined the pillars of the palace reached Weyellin's ear, forcing his gaze toward them. The laughter immediately stopped.
"So, girl, what were your thoughts of the origin of our society and order?"

The assassin resisted the woman's attempt to make her kneel before a ruler she did not recognise. Admittedly, she staggered, but she hoped that at least she had staggered gracefully. Pulling her arm harshly from the servant's grip, she straightened, despite her back's ache from the abrupt movement. The Throne Hall -she imagined it was that- was quite grand. Not in the same imposing, primal way of the stony, firy hot pathways she had been led through, but in a much earthier way, luxurious in the human sense. Oddly, she received that as a comfort.
The laughter rang in her ears ruggedly. Malformed. Her head snapped sharply and she took them all in, standing upright, in their polished armour, protecting both their Overseer and their dignity. Alas, they were not as well protected as they all thought. Mirth came easily to them now. Now.
Iaira stepped forward, broke the line. Broke free from the woman's grip -she was still bound, either way. She broke free and walked towards Weyellin's towering figure, a sudden ray of heat on the back of her head, one that she welcomed. Knowing the frustration it would cause, she deliberately slowed her pace until she was standing on the man's opposite, separated only by a few yards.
Her voice would have to be high.
'Rot,' Iaira said. Her voice a whisper, but it was carried through the hall. These are things a seductress learns. 'You all believe you are serving some sort of higher cause. A righteous cause, burning in holy fire, destined to purge the sinners. Sinners by your standards. Let me say one thing, to you all,' she turned to face them, then. 'You're rotten. Each and every one of you. In some, there is the seed of doubt. In others, there is the flicker of distaste. But in those who blindly follow justice just as blind and depraved, there is only a singular truth: you fear. And in that horrid quest to cleanse the world, not once have you been allowed pause to ponder whether your crimes do not outweigh the ones you are attempting to punish.'
An idle, casual gesture to the grey woman.
'She showed me around, you see. Told me of your stories and your history- to me, almost identical, those two. I have this to say, to you, all. All that you do in your god’s name is at its core profoundly godless.'
Now Iaira was facing Weyellin again, weighing his gaze in her eyes. 'And you, you're the highest, most respected non-believer of them all. You revere in devotion to Propienne, Godsbane, the existence of dragons, for Hood's sake! Yet you hunt down magic and sorcerers like animals. You torture, you drive them to their knees like dogs, when your very object of worship is buried in magic.'
One step closer, yet another. She hoped his guards would not interfere. It would very much make her scene all the less effective. She was planning to position herself at a breath's distance. So that he might realise.
"All life is sorcery. In its very essence, the soul is magical, and each process of chemistry, of obeisance and cooperation, of surrender and struggle – at every scale conceivable – is a consort of sorcery. Destroy magic and you destroy life.'

A moment's hesitation came from all in the hall. The silence lasted all too briefly before a select few of the guards laughed again under their helms, even Weyellin himself couldn't help but smile at the girl's outbreak.
"A small history lesson and the girl believes she knows the ins and outs of the world."
Weyellin stood, and struck Iaira hard with the back of his hand.
"You know nothing of Everlast, and I wager you have only scratched the surface of all life can offer. There is no soul in godless beings such as yourself, and magic certainly does not exist in all. Our race is heavy machinery. By our very nature, we drive forth seemingly without direction, we are weak, and that is why you must make yourself strong - that is why you must give or take direction. I do not agree with your mindless gabble of sorceries and magic. We've had hundreds of your ilk; hungering reformist nonsense from foolish youngsters who have no understanding of life's form. There is no magic in all beings, girl, there is only blood and flesh and bone. What you consider magic is your will. Your purpose. And that is not magic, no, not at all. That, my girl, is your mind begging you to succumb to the overwhelming need to obey those above you."
Weyellin placed his boot upon Iaira's stomach and rolled her away from him.
"Twenty paces, men."
The four elite guard closest to Weyellin rushed forth and dragged the girl back beside the grey lady before returning to the pillars they were stood at.
"You have no grasp of discipline, of worth, of purpose. No-one in your line does. You're sociopaths, driven to benefit yourself above all others. That is not our future as beings of this plain. To get to the future we are destined for, we must drive out those who stand in our way - those who stand in the way of humanity. That is why we hunt the guilty, Iaira, for we are the gardua protethe. Protectors of being."
He sat himself down once more, and removed a lock of hair obstructing his vision.
"We're putting your masked friend on trial for crimes against the people of Drakon and a breach of safety and trust of the Magi Tower. I use the word 'friend' loosely. I know you don't know what it means. But sure, a friend is only an enemy you haven't made yet. There is only small time now before he is delivered to me. Then we allow Justice to take hand. After all, he has come back from the dead once already."