Judgement was still and silent. The weapon was possessed of a long and storied history; as with any that know of the past, it knew to listen as well as speak. It did so now, with a patient devotion to detail - in Orthael's despondence Judgement absorbed the guilt-sodden memories of the man who had been a hero.
Golden sunlight gleamed on burnished helm. Prayers, petitions, battles. Glory well-earned, it seemed, but underneath every feat of martial skill there was a silent rot: chaplains spoke incessant about humble reliance on the Fire without suspicion that they were breeding dependence on its power.
Below the shining exterior, dark sickness ate away at the foundations of faith. Judgement flashed through a succession of consequences before slamming to an abrupt halt on a moment defined by a disappointed bishop and a broken ring.
"After some consideration, it is the opinion of the High Conclave that a period of quiet reflection would be for the best."
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The Lesser Dead in all their varieties watched as the swordmaiden passed, followed a moment later by…The Dead and the Living
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