When the messenger arrived in the holy city of Siddrimar, the seat of the light God Siddrim’s earthly power, with his ill news, he was forced to wait almost a day before the guards could be bothered to admit him. This was good and proper, of course, as he was not a member of the church and had not come at the request of any of the priests. He came bearing only the seal of temporal power and a minor one at that. The Count of Greshen was not a well-regarded name. Their river heresies were only tolerated thanks to the generous tithes they’d given to the church.

Few small gods were granted such benign neglect, and only when all evidence showed that they were an unmitigated good for the region’s people. Despite his unlimited power, neither Siddrim nor his servants needed to hunt down every stray spirit. After all, there were more than enough evils to banish in the world.

So, the tired, saddle-sore man was allowed to rest and wait in the perdition courtyard. This was the outermost enclosed area, just inside the main gate. It was a drab, undecorated affair crowded with penitents and petitioners. While he waited, his request to be seen by a member of the Templars was filtered slowly up the chain of command between meals and scheduled prayers. That he didn’t even know enough to call them by their proper name, The Order of Purgative Flame was no help to his case. Any of the rank-and-file members of the order would have accepted Templar just as readily, of course. They seemed somewhat attached to the name even if it was officially frowned on in favor of the formal title. However, they would never be the first to hear an unknown petition.

Such requests were only ever passed through the priesthood for proper deliberation. The more important they were, the more priests would have to be involved in ensuring that whatever was decided was the right decision for the church. In this matter, the request of a minor noble was deemed too unimportant for the Hierarch of Purgative Flame or even his aids. After all, what need would a country fief have for such a prestigious branch of the Siddrim’s palace? Their elite forces were busy stomping out the brush fires of heresy across the country, as they always were. Whether those came in the form of hedge witches or raucous bards, there were never enough of their cadres to go around. So, the request fell to the high priest of the Regency, who in turn was too busy and sent it on to the high priest of the Penitent. He was too ill to take guests that day, though, so it was sent to his underlings.

Ultimately, after more than a dozen quiet conversations and thoughtful reassignments to someone who might be better suited to the task, it was delivered to Verdinen, a priest-candidate acolyte. Unlike everyone that ranked higher than him in the pecking order, he was eager to please, though. He might not have had the sight or some of the gifts that his fellow priest-candidates had. Still, he was eager to work hard and advance, and he was confident that alone would take him places, even if his divine blessings and healings could use a little more work.

Brother Verdinen found the messenger sitting alone on a stone bench shortly before sunset in the outermost courtyard. He’d spent the last few minutes rehearsing a speech about all the reasons why the messenger had to go through proper channels and why it would likely be a week before a man in his place would be allowed to see the Underkirker to arrange a more personal audience. Of course, he secretly hoped that the lord of such a rich county would have sent his man with a little coin to spread around and expedite things. Brother Verdinen would have been happy to take his cut and help the man find an audience with an acolyte of the holy flame the day after tomorrow at the latest with that sort of incentive. After all, he was owed a few favors for all his good works.

But the man didn’t argue or haggle. He just looked up at the priest with haunted eyes as soon as Brother Verdinen started to make his apologies and said, “Read it, your holiness, I beseech you,” as he pressed a rather large sealed scroll into Verdinen’s hands.

Typically these requests were about bandits as often as cults. Still, something about the desperation that clung to the man in front of him affected him. Rather than delivering the rest of his speech, he checked the golden seal that featured a river and chain for integrity and then cracked open the wax.

The scroll was perfectly normal velum written in unremarkable ink with a slightly shaky hand. There was nothing evil or magical about it, but with every word he read, his mind recoiled in horror as the words and their evil meaning invaded his brain. Even though it rebelled, the priest-candidate acolyte forced himself to continue, and a picture slowly resolved in his mind. Greshen was a region being punished by the gods for their misdeeds with a severe drought and an unseasonable storm. Suddenly everyone of any importance had gone missing, and all that had been left behind was a house full of blood, a squalling child, and a hole in the basement.

Brother Verdinen didn’t know what could have done such a thing, and honestly, he didn’t want to. He wanted to administer last rites to rich old men and comfort comely women during their times of trouble. He wanted to advise princes of the realm as a prince of the church. He knew without doubt that there was evil in the world, but he hadn’t joined the church to deal with such things. Those details were best left to the Order of Purgative Flame, the Brotherhood of the Blazing Harrow, or even the Inquisitors, though he’d never mention that last one in public.

Suddenly, despite the almost mortal danger, he couldn’t help but imagine what sort of yawning evil must have welled up from the depths to drag so many sinners into the darkest hell. His mind conjured up something slimy, like a dragon or a serpent, and an involuntary shudder went through him. He was no seer, but he could only take what he’d experienced as a sign regarding the machinations of the dark god. Perhaps Harquines or Tallethin were at work here. He couldn’t say, but his superiors would know.

He closed the scroll as soon as he decided what had to be done next and brusquely ordered the messenger, “Come with me. I will find you a place to sleep while my superiors deliberate.”

That part was easy enough. The church kept bunks year-round for pilgrims, and the end of summer was hardly pilgrimage season. With so much work to prepare for the harvest, they had more than enough room. Seek an audience - that would be another matter entirely. Usually, Brother Verdinen would have gone to great lengths to avoid drawing that kind of attention to himself, but this was a chance where the spotlight could only benefit him. After all - it was he that had seen the genuine danger and he that had felt the taint radiating from the page. Surely if he could see that, then everyone else would too.

Ultimately, he decided the most expedient route was approaching the Priest Varquaress. The old man was undoubtedly amenable and much more sensitive than he and began to shake with the first signs of a fit almost as soon as he opened the scroll and closed it immediately after reading only a few lines. That was all the convincing he needed.

After that, a conclave was called for dawn, and it was scheduled for the room of eternal dawn. Its murals of light and life would do wonders to keep the evil they would be discussing at bay, though it would have to be scrubbed hard by the acolytes afterward just the same.

The message was locked away in a sanctified chest to prevent its taint from spreading. This turned out to be both a brilliant and terrible idea because, in the morning, when the priests and high priests had all assembled to examine the document and decide what needed to be done, all they found was ashes. Sometime during the night, the holy power of the city had proven too much for the implement of evil, and it had withered before the might of their god.

“That should be all the evidence that we need to dispatch a cadre to root out this filth,” Gantrin, a high priest who dealt more with tomes than people, argued. For him, anything relating to writing like this was a miracle from their god directly to him, and he would not budge in interpreting that.

“I remain unconvinced,” Armuth answered, making sure the trace of arrogance in his voice was obvious enough to be unmistakable as the Hierarch reasserted his dominance in the conversation. “Tell us priest-candidate everything you can remember about this cursed missive, and then we shall make our decision.”

Brother Verdinen swallowed hard. He’d been dreading this moment since they’d found the heap of ashes in place of the scroll earlier. He’d wanted to be the center of attention, but only as the person with the wit to escalate this as soon as possible. Now, as the only one to read it, that role was inescapable, and he began to sweat as he stood and bowed before the assembled leaders of the wing of the church militant. He hadn’t planned to actually speak to his betters, so he’d made no attempt to memorize that damnable scroll, but here he was, suddenly expected to recite it from memory.

“Thank you, your glory,” he said, his mouth dry as he realized he had no idea whether the Hierarch wanted him to exaggerate or downplay the danger for the audience with the pointed way that the man was glaring. “I shall give you all every last detail, so you may make the proper judgment.”

Brother Verdinen began to speak, but not a word of it was what he remembered from the scroll. He couldn’t remember a single thing he’d read verbatim, so he just made it up. He started with a simple greeting that was respectful but not respectful enough. He described the eerie scene of a palace where decadent nobles had danced into the night, never to be seen again. He mentioned the blood, but since it didn’t seem to have the desired impact, he added a few ritually butchered servants to the description for color. If he was going to stand up here speaking in front of so many influential men, he would make sure his words left an impact.

When he was finally done describing the horrors unleashed in Fallravea, he took grim satisfaction in the number of men around the table who looked stricken. There was only a brief debate after that, and in the end, everyone agreed that a sworn cadre should be sent with all haste to root out this terrible blight. It was going as well as Brother Verdinen could have hoped until the Hierarch said, “of course, you’ll need to go with them too, priest-candidate.”

“M-me sir… I mean your glory. Why would the Tem… the warriors of The Purgative Flame require the assistance of a lowly acolyte?” Brother Verdinen asked. Normally he was loathe for anyone to reduce his meager rank, even in passing, but this time it seemed best to make himself as small and unimportant as possible.

“Why, of course - you were the first to recognize the danger, so it is only right that you are there to share in the glory.” The Hierarch smiled. “And with your fine words, I can think of no one better to document the brave deeds of our holy warriors.”

Brother Verdinen forced himself to smile and thank the man for his obtuse punishment. Deep inside, though, he felt like something had already died.