The guardsman hesitated outside the Inquisitor’s office.  It was bad enough that he was the lucky person to report, but he knew the Inquisitor wouldn’t take the news well.  I’m getting too old for this, he thought, sighing.  He pulled his hand down his face, but stopped to pinch the bridge of his nose.  It wouldn’t do well to keep the man waiting, so the guard hardened his resolve and knocked on the thick, wooden door.

“What is it?” Spoke a deep voice.

“I’ve come to report, sir,” the guard called back.  There was some form of confirmation, he didn’t really hear what, and he slowly opened the door.  If he had never been in the Inquisitor’s office prior to this, he would’ve been shocked.  Nevertheless, the man’s taste in décor was unsettling, to say the least.

Shelves stocked with jars of nails and of pickled body parts, rows of fractured bones, and numerous devices that were the cause of the gruesome collection lined the walls.  Four skulls sat in each corner of the Inquisitor’s desk, their lifeless eyes testament to the man’s cruelty. The guardsman cringed as he walked past a severed head suspended in what looked like green goo. Its eyes were bulged slightly from the sockets, and its mouth was open to reveal the lack of tongue. He couldn’t even begin to fathom why the Inquisitor insisted on keeping these atrocities. The Inquisitor himself was seated on a solid oak chair with blood red cushions. He was absently turning a skull over in his hands, prodding a nasty-looking gouge in the middle of the forehead. It was no doubt the cause of death for that person.

The Inquisitor didn’t look up. Not even when the guardsman cleared his throat. The subordinate shifted uncomfortably. It was impossible to tell what kind of mood the Inquisitor was in, and that did not bode well. The Inquisitor was famous for his unpredictable temper, and woe to the person unfortunate enough to be caught in its wrath. The guardsman took a deep breath, ready to report the situation, but was stopped before he got the first syllable out.

“Do you know what I abhor?” The man behind the desk was now staring so intently at the gouge in the skull that the guardsman was sure it would catch fire.

“N-No, sir,” the guardsman replied.

The Inquisitor held the skull up with one hand. The muscles in his arm bulged, and his square jaw tightened visibly. He was not an unattractive man by any standard. He was physically fit, almost to perfection; a clean-shaven jaw, with the exception of a small, dark patch on his chin; and had very strong facial features that had most women fawning over him in seconds. His hair was dark, like a raven’s, and was kept short and neat, but the most noticeable feature was his eyes. They were like a predator’s: ever watching, ever searching, and never missing a movement his prey makes. These eyes were now seeing into the past as they continued to burn into the skull.

“I despise guilty men and women that die before they confess to their crimes,” he growled. His hand tightened around the jaw until it finally gave way and was crushed in his iron grip. His nostrils flared with contempt, and he threw the remains of the skull against the wall. “The Guilty should never be freed before their crimes have been paid for.”

“Yes, sir. Understood, sir,” the guardsman said, trying to avoid this man’s temper.

“I doubt you do,” the Inquisitor replied darkly. The man made an effort to calm down, and let out a long sigh. “You have something to report?”

“Yes, sir,” the guardsman saluted. “There has been a recent disturbance in the western dungeon. Reports of guards going missing and loud, explosive crashes in the lowest sector.”

“What?” The Inquisitor roared. He slammed his palms down on the desk and stood up in a fury. His ghostly eyes glowered at the guardsman. “You want to tell me that again?”

“I—Yes, sir. There appears to have been loud explosions and crashes in the lowest sector of the western dungeon. A few guards have gone missing…” The Inquisitor raised an eyebrow, causing the guard to hurry his report. “That is to say, we haven’t been able to find them anywhere in the western dungeon after the crashes. In fact, ahh,” the guardsman fidgeted with the hilt of his sword, unable to look the Inquisitor in the eye, “we can’t exactly get past the first destroyed door, sir.”

“You ‘can’t exactly get past’?”

“Ahh, no, sir.  It appears to be blocked.”

“What kind of men cannot get past a blocked door?  Imbeciles!” The Inquisitor vaulted over his desk, causing two of the skulls to tumble to the floor, and shoved the guard out of his way with such force that it caused the poor man to crack his head on the wall and crumple to the floor. The Inquisitor did not care. He only prayed to get to the western dungeon before that bitch escaped. He could not let her. “Arianna Vhael,” he hissed. “You will not escape justice.”