Two became zero, zero became one.
A new awareness crept toward dim light, as the nameless mercenary and the greater demon of sorrow blurred together
Something a bit less foggy than the raging amnesiac, something haunted, sharp, and weary.
Very weary of manacles, thirst, and scalpels against leathery skin.
The body hadn't the strength to get the job done.
"The manacles burn," he managed to croak.
"They're there to suppress what's taking your soul from you"
"Who needs a soul in this body? I'm not going anywhere- nor is the thing inside me, not with all that you've already done"
The inquisitor could not detect the malice in that sentence, or in the old mercenary's eyes that had sunk deep into his skull from starvation and the humanity being incrementally stripped from him.
"You're right- the ritual is nearly complete" the inquisitor produced a set of jingling iron keys and with a babbling prayer he undid the manacles over his wrists, ankles, and throat. "all that's left is to shave you and cover your face and head in the word of god,"
He dipped a clean, sharp razor into the bowl next to the old Mercenary's head and began to drag it down against the matted fuzz and scraggle along his face.
He would have considered this a generous gesture under other circumstances, but with the feeling returning to his wrists and fingertips, he had to make up his mind on whether he'd make this quick quiet and messy, or quick quiet and painfully messy.
In one of the swirling existences inside his completely borderless mind, he had once been an expert killer and well conditioned soldier.
Maybe he was just trying to help.
Maybe this was his misguided attempt at reaching out to his fellow, wretched man
but he was under the mistaken assumption that what he had just carved and pricked after flaying stabbing, burning, and berrating for weeks
could be saved
should be saved
wanted to be saved
and was still human.
"I am nothing like you, brother." the hateful declaration was punctuated by razor gliding against neck and spraying in delicate, fine patterns against the wall.
Nameless mercenary, nameless inquisitor.
Both would be forgotten in this tawdry exchange of prisoner and prisoner.
One of literal manacles and maniacal ambition
the other of fanatical faith.
The inquisitor was but a tool delivered to break Enkechel... as he quenched his stifling thirst on the sorrow of the bewildered young man that spat more blood than word, he made it a point to destroy the machinist. He would place the disilusionment and demise of these malicious martyrs at the top of his priorities.
Right after a quick lunch and a wardrobe change.
That would never do.
First destroy the faith of however many thousands of people that believe in this farce of a religion
buy a couple castles
then manifest onto this world as the paradox that may rip reality asunder.
Enkechel had always wanted to feel the ash and cinder between his toes
The inquisitor was still making those desperate gasps and plops of his mouth, his eyes wide and scrambling for unseen absolution, like a fish pulled out of the lake. He'd go still soon... and when he was done asking for safe passage to the next life, or vengeance on his enemies, or questioning why he joined the priesthood instead of doing what any healthy male SHOULD do, Enkechel would be well enough to walk.
He had a pretty full schedule when he thought about it.
"Enkechel the unwanted unclean, Enkechel of Despair, Enkechel-" he smirked that old cavalier grin carried over from the new synergy of personae
"among us." He pulled the robe from the body, and the silvery, fine armor and mask from where the inquisitor had discarded it.
He then placed the body upon the table, left a few of the strands of beard and hair nearby, and began searching for something flammable, something compulsively explosive, lamp oil and the acrid flash-powder these robed boobs used in their jabber would do quite nicely. He dumped vials, carafes and for good measure a few pages of their holy book upon the body. But before he tipped candle onto the flammable concoction, he read through a few pages of their tome
he needed names if he was to exact vengeance
Their symbol was an interwoven crude sigil, like wild leaves and ivy trying to make themselves into a sensible form. A motif he saw in the masked inquisitor's wear and robe.
Their god was Veihcril. The Shepherd. The Whole.
"you'll be the first of many my child" he said in the most condescending, priestly tone he could muster, but he'd have to get into character quickly. After all, he was about to convince an army of heavilly shielded guards in a prison forgotten under a prison that the body of a heretic suddenly, and without provocation, burst into flames during last rites.