There is corruption among the divine order. The night creatures who are nothing short of blasphemy wrapped in a bundle, their decay unseen by those who dare not to look, have been animated by the perversion of life itself. Even after death, peace is a cruel illusion. The forgemaster knows this and so does Prometheus' fire.

The Abbot is a respected clergyman, vocal in his opposition to the dechristianization movement and for that reason, the townspeople keep their gaze fixed on him, as if his presence might stem the encroaching darkness that threatens their very livelihoods. But as Aristotle would have it, no great mind has ever existed without a touch of madness. Lately for Richter Belmont, the suspicion simmered beneath the surface, and Belmont's always put their money where their mouth is. Under the cover of darkness, he tip-toed through the dimly lit halls of the abbey, the flickering candlelight casting restless shapes along the cold stone walls, a hunter in the house of God.

The Abbot’s chamber lay ahead, its heavy wooden door left slightly ajar. A careless mistake, or an invitation? Richter didn’t pause to consider, slipping inside. Papers rustle in frantic succession, sifting through pages upon pages of mundane scripture, letters to the bishop, records of alms giving, when a piece of parchment catches his eye. Beneath the careful calligraphy of a Latin blessing, the ink bled oddly, forming an underlying text written in an entirely different hand.

A cipher.

Richter jumps as the door slams open. You stand in the doorway dressed in the modest garb of a sacristan, arms folded unimpressed, expression impassive through pursed lips, catching him with the smoking gun.

The silence was deafening.

“Well this is awkward”, Richter offers a sheepish grin. “Either I’ve taken a very wrong turn on my way to the confession, or you’ve caught me in the middle of some light bedtime reading.”

He searched your eyes for alarm, a call to the Abbot, a cry for trespass, anything. There was none.