A. V. Charkas

The Inquisition doesn't do mercy. But when the ground gets muddy with enough throat-slitting, even the choir boys will open their purses for a monster. It's a foul bit of business, reeking of old blood and choices you can't undo. A few wide-eyed zealots laid out the terms nice and polite: either I go scrub some rot off their maps, or I burn. So now it's the long, miserable haul north. Up there, whole towns are just waiting around to rot, and a mind-twister or a hired blade will do you worse than anything crawling out of the Abyss.
If I'm going to outlast the bastards who want me on a pyre, I'll have to ride with them. Break a few minds. Become the kind of nightmare that actually makes it to the end of this road, no matter who has to choke on the dust.