Friendly Letter, Part 1

Dear Brother,

as the Old Night of the Year's End looms I cannot help but to reminisce over the many decades of the service rendered. For those too young to feel the pain and suffering it might serve as a warning, for those afraid of the last flickering of their torches it may give them the strength to last until the crowing. All the wisdom of the long centuries of our order's existence taught us that the most important of all things is to know one's limits (learn to run, you dummy).

The world wasn't always this... complicated. Lore-keepers claim there was once a Golden Age, but honestly, those people also got an idea into their little heads that lead could be turned into gold and that the Globe moves around the Sun in the vast and unknown distances of Cosmos, so take their word with a heavy pinch of salt (what a band of idolaters).

Our Order was founded in the wake of the Great Splintering, more than two decades ago. Back when the sky cracked and the things that dwell in the Deep Beyond decided to drop by for an uninvited visit. Since the folk respected the common prayer back then, we were the ones who volunteered to clean up the mess by the order of Grand Inquisitor Tomás. We are the janitors of the soul, the cleaners of corruption, the guys who are called upon when there is a strange occurrence in a neighbourhood, something wyrd that does not look proper. Such as when a village's "miracle healer" turns out to be three imps in a trench coat or that really great wench from the tavern everyone visits for her “personality” turns out to be a blood witch.

Over the years, we've transitioned from young knights in shining armor to a band of hardened old chums and crack investigators in stained leather as it turns out plate mail is terrible for sneaking through a heretic's pantry at 3:00 am and also easy to lose in cards (please, keep from hazardous leisure on your way to us).

And what a peculiar arrangement we were given. His Holiness the Grand Inquisitor, bless his iron convictions, handed us a most extraordinary mandate: use whatever means necessary to reveal the true nature of things. Desperate prayer whispered into a bucket. Devils hiding behind the folk healing, word of a murderer, selling indulgences in moments of financial desperation, if you must. Your conscience will survive. The episcopate, in their infinite wisdom, chose to regard us as the lesser of necessary evils — which is a very ecclesiastical way of saying they wanted results but preferred not to know the details. If we damned our souls in the pursuit of righteousness, well, that was our problem. The Holy Church has always had a gift for outsourcing its spiritual discomfort.

On the Matter of Your New Post- They tell me you have been assigned to us from the new scholas in the eastern provinces. I am sorry to hear it. Truly. I lit a candle for you — it went out immediately, which I choose not to interpret as the cause seemed natural.

The monastery you will enter was once a place of pilgrimage, bustling with the devout and good relic commerce alike. But after 20 years of constant battle against the unclean forces, we have become diminished. Regional authorities have been instructed to deliver suspicious individuals to our dungeon for examination, which means receiving a daily procession of the frightened, the feverish, the genuinely possessed, and the merely eccentric — and you will need to tell them apart. The locals do not care if you have resources, time or even simple human willingness for the task- the prisoners will be waiting for your judgement- be it correct or mistaken.

Your primary instrument will be observation. Look for the signs. A man growling in his sleep might be a demonic host. He might also simply be objecting to the quality of the mattress. EXPECT THE....

To be continued