By ClericWolf - Part 1|2|3|4
focused rock can topple a mountain of hope.”
~ Grammaton Cleric: Ezekiel Kayne
was on fire, the very sky was burning, acrid and black smoke rose as
factory after factory lit up turning the wan-grey buildings into
colourful, pretty bursts of orange and yellow flame. It spread like a
disease, a cancer from one to the other and detonated with a resounding
The signs of the Apocalypse had returned and brought with them the
riders dressed in coats of ash, spewing forth burning embers into the
air and causing people to flee, not in panic, for panic was part of an
emotional response and most of the citizens did not know how to react
on this level. This was some deep-rooted self preservation instinct.
And he watched all of this with a grim smile of satisfaction.
Father's world fell into rack and ruin before his very eyes, the flames
reflected in those pained orbs, the price of victory had been the cost
that he was willing to pay. So many dead and so many would die before
the fires died down.
The holograms of their once great leader danced into sparkling motes of
light before they died like his dreams, trodden down by the heels of
the Sense Offenders that tore at the devices with their bare hands,
picking up what ever makeshift weapons they could find – to smash the
regime to pieces and to end the control once and for all.
Preston: An angel of death in stark white, standing as overseer to the
freedom that had been denied so long, soon there would be a new wave to
sweep over the running crowds. He knew this and part of him ached to
see it, part of him feared it – with no Prozium to keep these fettered
emotions in check there would be – Chaos.
The chattering sounds of gunfire reached his ears as the remains of the
regime clashed with Jurgen's soldiers. There was still a price to pay
and like himself, these people that had hidden in the shadows,
persecuted and treated like rats were glad to pay it.
The man who had once sent his own wife to the furnaces watched now as
the flickering madness consumed the world he'd known, the world he had
at one time protected and inside him he felt the soft tension of a
For it was like a dam, the waters of emotion held back for so long
threatening to burst forth and consume everything in their path.
John Preston, Grammaton Cleric – First Class, trained by the Monastery
to focus his mind and body as a weapon. He should have been the last
line of defence for Father, but the Father he'd once known was long
DuPont had perverted everything that Father had wrought, twisted it for
his own selfish ends and imposed a system of control where he was
outside the laws Father had created. This only served to fuel the
white-hot core of the man's determination, he was damned if he was
going to allow anything of that viper's venom and taint to remain.
Her face gave him hope and despair as the trickle of emotion once more
returned to the depths of his psyche, returned to taunt and to peck at
him, like a dozen black carrion birds.
He watched the latest blossom curl into the air and disgorge another
twist of pitch black into the sky, the sound of thunder quickly
followed and the building he was in shook a little, dust falling from
Sage words echoed into the corners of his mind and his heart was
gripped by a cold iron-hand of regret, a bitter-tang of ironic
realisation that Errol Partridge was right, he did not even know what
'Sorry' meant – only now at the end of his road, and the beginning of a
new one, did he have an understanding of the enormity of his loss.
The woman he had been infatuated with and come to love, his friend
Errol, they were gone and there was no magical remedy, chant or spell
that could bring them back. That only happened in fairy tales and
comics, and those had been sent to the fires years ago as part of the
elimination of anything that made them remotely human.
They did not breathe their life they took gasps of air leading them
onwards through a constant chronological series of events, through a
corridor of time until they were purified and cleansed by the churning
fires that waited at the end.
“Breath is a clock.” He repeated and turned from the scene, he wanted
to cry, he wanted to smile and he wanted most of all to scream.
Emotions that conflicted across his face in such a tumult flashed from
one to the other and he summoned his training, there would be time for
grief when this was over.
He had cleansed the building of all his former allies' resistance and
there were countless bodies, victims to a spike in the hardcode of the
system. A minor glitch that developed into a major virus, in this case
the spread of emotion through Preston's whole being – it was that final
diatribe spoken by the imposter that tipped the scales.
The rattling breath of a Sweeper by the door, still clinging to life as
if it were to be ripped away from him at any moment, body aching and
heart under tremendous pressure as each second drew him closer to the
veil, caught the Cleric First Class' attention and he paused to watch,
almost analytical in his study.
“Cooly, calmly and entirely without incident.”
The echo of DuPont's words brought a sneer to his lips and he pulled
the trigger of the pistol, a single shot sent the man to oblivion and
he fell back, lifeless.
The mathematics and logic of the Cleric was flawless, his shot precise
and perfect – the exact pressure upon the trigger, the exact angle.
A tiny wisp of smoke curled like a small unbound genie from the barrel
and once more Preston turned his back on the scene of death and dismay,
moving to stand upon the steps of the building now and look out across
the newly woken Libria.
An endless slew of ugly and perfect slate grey buildings caused his
stomach to churn in revulsion, there was nothing that set this city
apart from anything, nothing here that had any beauty or any kind of
He looked down at himself, clad in the stark white of a high ranking
Cleric and despised what he saw, not himself but the false cloth that
hung to his body like a pock-marked second skin.
Jurgen had done what he had set out to do, his Sense Offenders, his
fighters had begun the flight from darkness and engaged the remains of
DuPont's forces with a renewed fervour, while the other Clerics and
Sweepers were effective in the past, they proved no match now for
droves of desperate maddened warriors upon a righteous cause.
It was brutal and happened everywhere Preston walked, he saw the pent
up release of emotion in bloody fury, almost a mirror of his own
assault upon DuPont and his minions, save that while he held his
feelings in the steel core of his mind, these men and women screamed
and kicked, shot and stabbed anything and anyone who got in their way.
“Bastard!” A young girl, hatred in her eyes and the edge of lunacy to
her lips came tearing at him from across the street, she was caught by
another of the fighters and shoved to the ground.
“He's one of them!” She screamed. “Let me go, they put my mother in the
fire, my brothers, my sisters!” Her sobs choked as she struggled in the
strong man's grip, he looked at the Cleric with his own revulsion and
his common sense forced him to speak.
“What's your name?”
“John, John Preston.” He answered and looked with deep abiding sorrow
at the ragged doll on the ground. “Father is dead, his dream is dead.”
“Preston?” The man let go of the girl and she gave a hateful stare to
the Cleric. “John Preston, Cleric First Class?”
“Yes, Father is dead by my hand – just as Jurgen wanted.” He paused for
a moment and then added with a dark tone. “Just as I wanted.”
Hearing this stunned both the man and the girl into silence and they
looked at the figure in white for a moment, their eyes searching for
any kind of lie for any body language that might betray a cover up.
The Cleric sat down on a broken piece of debris and put his head in his
hands. “I killed them all, not because I had to, not because it was
part of a plan.” He mumbled. “They took her from me and I wanted
revenge, I wanted to make them pay.”
Her anger assuaged and abated somewhat by the sudden change in
Preston's voice, the cracks apparent in his tones, forced her to
overcome her caution and hatred, she padded closer to the now weeping
figure and shot a glance back to the other man.
“Go on.” He replied. “Jurgen told me all about this one, we've got much
to thank him for.”
With wide eyes she stepped a little closer and knelt down, putting her
one hand on the man's knee, uncaring for the danger it could represent.
Those dark and gentle eyes rimmed with tears looked into the girl's
blue and Preston forced a very slight smile, it was the saddest thing
she'd seen and her heart ached in sympathy.
“I don't know you.” She began.
“Does anyone.” The Cleric countered. “We've served a liquid master for
so long now, most of us really only know that – I am just coming to
terms with the truth outside of the dream, it's all so – bright.”
She wasn't sure how to reply to that and continued upon the same track.
“I don't know you, all I see is a Grammaton Cleric and my head tells me
to hate you, but my heart says that you're a good man – you set us
free.” She put her hand on his cheek and felt the tears against her
fingertips. “A good man can cry, bad men can't.”
“There was supposed to be no war.” The irony of this became even more
apparent as the sounds of gunfire tore through the streets close to
where they were, the other man seemed to become a little more nervous
but he was too interested in Preston's speech.
“No war, no anger, no hate.” The Cleric continued. “But in the end they
turned the world into a playground for all of those things, we were at
war with anyone who did not see Father's way as right, anything and
everything that gave us an opportunity to be human was removed.”
“Without love.” She said and echoed Mary's earlier words cutting them
“Breath is just a clock.” He finished the statement and smiled another
“You'll be ok...you're with us now.” She gave the Cleric's knee a tiny
pat and wandered off back towards the other man, stopping for a moment
to say. “I'm sorry.”
“So am I – more than I will ever know.”
A trio of Sweepers burst onto the roadway running for their lives, a
group of angry men in pursuit – it was still Chaos.
The Captain moved across their path and swerved towards the young girl
and the other man, his two men followed him and their intention was
clear – they needed a passage out of this nightmare and emotional
beings such as the freedom fighters were, a hostage would give them
Without thought and without stopping to break a stride, the Cleric was
on his feet, his battle aware mind snapping back into focus, like a
camera lens on automatic.
A moment of horror struck the girl, had they been betrayed, was this
all an elaborate sham to get them to lower their guard? She looked with
imploring eyes at Preston and saw he'd already drawn two black pistols,
his twin horsemen of the Apocalypse barking out their final say.
Three Sweepers lay dead, their helmets neatly punctured by a single
“Get off the streets, go!” Preston yelled and turned towards the
approaching members of Jurgen's resistance. “You two go with her and
the man, you two come with me.”
The four of them exchanged glances and then without another word they
did as the Cleric had ordered, his likeness was known to them, his
reputation and skill backed up by the authoritative tones in his voice.
“Where are we going Preston?”
“Ok then, John?”
“The Furnaces, we're going to see if Jurgen's still alive.”
The trio made their way quickly through the streets of Libria, most of
the population had now scattered and several ragged shapes lay unmoving
on the floor, the blood of Sweeper, Cleric, Citizen and Resistance
mingled as it had never done in life, united now in the river of death.
It didn't take them long at all to reach the oppressive building, there
had already been major fighting around it and the bodies of the dead
lay here too, in silent testimony to the spirit of human emotion
They made their entry unopposed and swiftly moved from room to room,
any opposition was ruthlessly put-down by the Resistance fighters,
those that surrendered were very few – it seemed to Preston that while
a core of rebellion burned in his heart, there was still a rod of steel
in the defenders who refused to see the dream unravelled.
“Do you think he's alive?”
Preston was dreading this question ever since he'd looked out upon the
detonating factories and realised that Father's death signaled the end
of their world. He turned his head slightly as he strode over the
“I can only hope he's alive.”
“Yeah.” The fighter gave a grim nod and followed after the Cleric, his
own steps were hurried and nervous.
Corridor after corridor lead onwards into the building and as they
rounded a corner they saw a swiftly moving black clad figure, another
Cleric. He was heading their way and stopped dead as he saw the trio,
the two ragged warriors and the bloody white angel between them.
“So this is the famous Cleric Preston?” He sneered softly and folded
both hands behind his back. “Grammaton Cleric First Class consorting
with scum – I heard you had sunk to such things Cleric, but I am
pleased to see that you do not disappoint me.”
“It doesn't have to be this way.” John tensed and began to focus his
awareness. “Father is dead, the dream is over, give up now and you
won't join him.”
“Cleric, you waste your time, what is broken can be repaired – Father
proved he was weak by losing his life to another so quickly, obviously
he was incapable of truly suppressing his emotions – there are some of
us that do so rather well.” The other man's eyes had nothing in them,
they were like heavy black orbs – not even a glitter of light reflected
off the hollow orbs.
Preston felt the edges of his jaw tighten and he relaxed a little,
flowing from one possibility to the other in his mind, every outcome
etched like a radial diagram showing possible trajectories and
“Where is Jurgen?” The other Cleric took a single pace.
The two Resistance fighters looked nervously at each other and then
back at John, the Cleric in white was smiling now and he laughed a
“If you think I'm going to fall for that.” The Cleric in black began,
but he was unable to finish as a large piece of wood impacted with his
skull blacking him out from the world and knocking him flat on his face.
The ragged and bloody form of the Resistance leader appeared from the
shadow and tossed aside the wood, behind him several of the key members
of his group melted out from the dark also and they wore the
expressions of pain, concern, fear and relief all at once.
A flickering dance of emotional release that bubbled upwards and
demanded to be set free, all save Jurgen who appeared as Preston first
saw him, cold and emotionless – the very statue and perfect design that
DuPont had tried to imitate.
But of course he had done so without the aid of drugs, without the need
to inject his body with a foreign substance. Jurgen's mental prowess
almost exceeded John's and he gave a grim smile to the Cleric.
“I was wondering if I would ever see you again.”
“I thought the same.” Preston replied and took the time to reload his
pistols from the unconscious Cleric on the floor. “What about him?”
“We will have to risk leaving him here.” Jurgen said and moved past,
shoving through the small group of people and out towards another
corridor. “We have work to do, before the City itself destructs – I
need to get to the Old Square, rally my forces and call a halt to the
“Yes.” John followed him and all of them left the building in mute
silence, stepping out and standing for a few moments to survey the
area. Another small skirmish had happened and more Sweeper bodies lay
amongst the rest now, freshly draped corpses like autumn leaves at the
end of a cruel Fall.
Jurgen's people collected weapons and replenished their stocks, the man
himself looked to the two soldiers that had accompanied Preston. “I
need you to gather some explosives, set them in there are blow this and
all the other furnaces sky high.”
They gave a pair of simultaneous nods and left the core group vanishing
into the slate grey of the City.
“I had every faith you could do it John.” Said the other man as they
now made their way towards the Old Square where Father's image ranted
no more, the massive screen silent and the box empty – monuments to the
lie, accessories to falsehood no longer.
“I did what had to be done.” Preston replied mutely and climbed the
steps towards the empty holographic chamber, he saw the devastation
that the Resistance had done to it and looked to Jurgen once more.
“How should we get a message to the people, without the aid of this?”
“The truth will find a way.” He answered and stood there now silent.
The wind picked up and fanned the flames of liberation's toil a little
more, tossing them across the sky and letting greedy tendrils of fire
lick out to tickle at nearby structures.
They all remained in silence along with Jurgen and slowly as people
passed too and fro, some of them venturing out from their homes and
hiding-places a tiny crowd began to gather. A trickle of human
curiosity gently passing from mind to heart in the blink of an eye.
And as time continued to march onwards to the backdrop of a fire gorged
sky, and the music of rattling rebellion, the crowd of ten became
twenty, became sixty and so on. By the time that the night arose,
dressed in the blackest silken gown spangled with diamonded stars,
there were hundreds of people standing looking up at the messiah in
white and the other.
Yet Jurgen did not speak, he was protected by a ring of his own people
but he simply pushed them to one side and once more continued to remain
standing in silence.
Preston looked to the throng and back to the singular man, the silent
watchful leader remaining locked in his own thoughts and then stood
The Grammaton Cleric First Class stared at the people below him and his
keen eyes picked faces he remembered and did not know, but part of him
wanted to. But the most miraculous thing had begun to happen, there
were odd pockets of folk that had formed in Jurgen's silent vigil and
Preston suddenly understood what the other man was doing, had been
He was allowing the Prozium to wear off.
It was not a sudden change and some people still clung to their
injectors as if they provided a succor, as if they could turn the world
back the way it was before the thunder rose and the fire snarled into
They were never going back, but Jurgen realised that could not be
ripped from the drug so easily, they would have to be weened from it.
Like a pup from his mother, cast into an unfamiliar and harsh world,
surviving only because other hands and other souls are there to help it.
Sad little clicks from the crowd echoed as if in forlorn hope as one by
one the vials of the drug were used up, pools of it leaked around hard
boots as some of the people took their example from others who had shed
their amber God, casting it aside and crushing it harshly beneath them.
Still the leader watched on and offered no advice or voice, yet the
people were entranced by him, by Preston's wraith-like visage as well.
Time wandered on and the night sky played host to a dancing moonlight
show as the orb of white slipped from behind tattered clouds, a
spectacle that caught the attention of the people below it – again
another part of Jurgen's plan, assault them with emotion from all
angles and then help them to understand what it is to feel.
Preston looked at this man now with renewed respect and his eyes
lingered for a moment on the people around him, Jurgen's people who
were willing to die for such an enigmatic soul, not because they were
bound by law or drug, because they believed and they wanted to break
“Dad!” Preston's tiny mirror shot from the edge of the crowd followed
by his sister and raced up the steps to throw himself at his father,
the young man's tightly reigned in emotions bursting like a babbling
brook across the scene.
Jurgen turned to watch this, deep inside him he felt the spark of his
own emotion rise and finally he let it out, a single crystal tear made
its way down the edge of his cheek and he captured it upon a fingertip.
For a moment Preston didn't know what to do then he let his instinct
guide him, embracing them both until they wriggled in his arms.
“You did it dad!”
“I hope so.” He replied to the girl, Lisa's face was full of hope and
admiration, the harsh lines of her act banished under the wellspring of
Robbie hugged his father tightly and said. “I had them all destroyed
dad, every last one of them, those ugly little things will never hurt
“The ampules?” Preston was smiling a little again and he ruffled the
boy's hair, kneeling down to really look at his son. “I never realised
that you and Lisa.” He began and then drew the girl into another
“It's ok dad, I wanted to tell you, we wanted to tell you, but we were
scared that you'd have us burned like...” He trailed off and looked at
the crowd below. “Best not to think on the past, right?”
“Right.” Preston said and let his son go, he turned to look at the
people below as well. “How can we help them?”
“I don't know John, I don't know, but what about the other Clerics?”
This poignant question came just as a series of new sounds and fires
roared into the night sky, tainting the horizon with red and gold. One
by one the furnaces were sacrificed in a plume of ashen smoke,
devastating violent eruptions that drew everyone's attention.
“Dad?” Lisa looked at her Father fear caught in her eyes, like a Rabbit
caught in the headlights of an oncoming truck.
“The furnaces.” He said in a reassuring tone. “The last vestiges of
fear and oppression being melted away, it had to be done.”
“Good riddance.” Robbie replied and sunk down to curl his arms around
his knees, the memory of his mother's death still haunting him. “Rest
in peace mom.”
The rest of the crowd were nervous for a while and some of them were
suffering the first abyssal fall from the arms of the drug, their eyes
dilated and their breathing quick, short, sharp snapped breaths.
A man bumped a woman by accident and his fingers trailed across her
clothes, without knowing any better he lifted the material and stroked
his fingers over it. Their eyes met and a flush coloured their cheeks,
he dropped the skirt hem and stood in silence.
A small boy who had weeks ago pointed out Offenders to the Sweepers now
cradled a dying man in his arms, one of the Sweepers who had been a
casualty in the retaking of human rights and emotion. This child now
learned the lesson of loss, he did not know why he held onto this man
so, or why his heart almost tore in two when the figure shuddered and
finally closed his eyes.
He just felt it.
Time wore on and bore witness to many others that had been denied the
simple pleasure of a single kiss, a touch, a laugh or a tear. As it
marched with efficient ferocity the walls that had been erected before
the minds of the Citizens of Libria crumbled and fell down like a tower
made of matchsticks in a fierce wind.
Then as if the very world woke to the shared experiences of pain, joy,
sorrow and many others it began to rain. A slow and soft patter of cool
water, which quickly turned from a whisper into a wicked deluge, enough
tears for every man, woman and child in the city.
Preston put his fingers to his face and felt the tingle of the cold
drops as they splattered it, Robbie and Lisa began to laugh and they
danced around in the puddles of water – forgetting the horrors
previously for a moment.
But that was not all, Jurgen could not have expected or planned this
but the heaven's now played host to a searing interplay of lighting,
fresh thunder roared as if a thousand lions had all been set loose upon
the people and between this, the rain, the blue arcs in the sky and the
lack of any kind of drug – mental and physical barriers between people
Some huddled together for warmth, some sought shelter but not far away
from others, some even sought more than warmth. A darkness was lifting
and without the chains of amber to bind it, the people were loosing
their shackles and inhibitions one by one.
As he stood drenched in the rain, Jurgen realised that this would not
be the cure, only part of it. It was a good beginning and that is all
he could have hoped for, all any of them could have hoped for – there
would be those within the Tetragrammaton that could not be reasoned
with, those that were left alive, those that would seek to eliminate
hope and rise again.
He looked now to Preston and stepped over to him, hugging the man
“I cannot repay you for what you've done John, for without you we would
have been lost, you gave us back our freedom and our hope.”
“Yes, but you know it's not going to be easy for us right?”
“I have a feeling it is never easy.” He looked to where his children
were playing off to one side, despite the torrent of water from the
heavens. “It's going to be harder on them.” His eyes went to the still
growing crowd of Librians.
“Part of the reason we will still need the Clerics and your skills
John, to counter those that want to bring an end to hope.”
Preston knew this was coming it was another thing that he was dreading,
he'd been hoping to walk away from the killing and the gunfire, to
enjoy some time with Robbie and Lisa – to mourn for his friends and for
“So you'll do it?”
“John?” Jurgen began again. “About Mary?”
“I couldn't save her.”
“I know that – don't let it eat you up inside my friend, it will try
to, that's the curse of emotion – no matter how hard you try and let
go, you can't, but now at least we have a /choice/.”
“Free will.” Preston quoted and began to laugh despite himself, he gave
a tiny nod to the man and hugged him back. “I won't let you down, I
won't become like DuPont and Father.”
“I know.” It was the other man's turn to twist Preston's usual reply
back on him.
Once more they fell into a silent vigil over the assembled crowds and
watched the ebb and flow of a newly born emotion, each one of those
present had been dealing with emotions or was just coming to terms with
this alien concept.
The storm abated after a few hours as if it had done its purpose,
leaving everyone to contemplate their own interpretations of what had
happened. People were tired but they were awed by what they felt, what
they experienced and most of all – each other.
They were no longer alone, no longer in their own haze moving back and
forth like mindless automatons.
Those who looked lost (which was most of them) quickly found that while
the edge of human greed, anger and hatred had run sharp and deep, the
milk of human kindness and caring eclipsed all of these – those that
had been enemies hours before, simply because they knew no better were
being aided by the very Sense Offenders that they had tried to
Sadly in one way Father's ideals and world had made a difference, but
it took one Utopian dream to shatter for the enormity of this to be
fully realised, both Jurgen and Preston knew the answer of course, they
had expected something similar.
From the ashes of an old crop a new, stronger and better one grows.
Now in the light of a new dawn the final card in Jurgen's hand had been
played, Preston had come to him and told him of his first thoughts upon
seeing the sunrise, how he had clawed the white shroud from his windows
like a caged animal waiting to get out.
This was it, the tell tale red dawn that littered the sky with
tantalising fibres across the soft vaporous clouds had come, the
runnels of light that burst forth as the orb came to once more warm the
planet, lifted like arms into the heavens.
Preston watched this with a tangible feeling of awe, his children were
asleep under an awning out of last night's heavy rains. He watched the
sun rise and the people's reaction to it, one by one they stood up and
set their eyes to the horizon.
Slowly the golden orange rays peeled outwards and slashed the clouds
like knives, cutting them with beautiful beams as the tumult of
atmospheric conditions broke over the city. Libria was waking up and it
was waking to a new day, with new challenges – but to the many people
now free of their amber oppressor this was like: Magic.
Their hearts and souls were lifted up to watch this magnificent
spectacle as the daylight bloomed, the air whispering the sweet morning
softness before them and forcing a reaction. Their hands touched their
skin, fingertips exploring the sense of it.
When the heat blew gentle kisses onto their flesh they couldn't help
but touch that as well, the differences were astronomical, not even the
Grammaton could calculate the range of changes these people felt now.
“Do you see what a true injustice this was?” Jurgen stood in the
dappled rays of light and splayed his hand to block out the harsh
gleam. “Do you see what Father's dream really was?”
“It began as all things do, as a good thing, someone thought they were
in the right.” Preston answered and let a sigh go, it seemed like that
sigh meant the world to him.
“Yes and we have to make sure we do not walk that self same path.”
“Still how do you like the sun?” The Resistance leader once more faced
the Cleric in white and inclined his head to the right a little, the
other man swore there was a wink.
“It gets better and better every time I see it.”
That caused the man to laugh for a moment and he looked once more to
the throng down below. “I should really get someone to give them some
guidance, they needed to wait until Prozium had loosened its grip –
some of them will never be truly free of it, but I think we reached
most of them by now.”
The Resistance leader's words struck to Preston's core and he nodded.
“I think you should be the one to do it, I can think of no better man
to help guide Libria back onto the path, into a better future.”
“That's not something I expected to hear John, exchanging one leader
for another, one that can feel?” There was a slight mocking tone in the
man's voice but he smiled none the less. “I'll do my best.”
“I know you will.”
“You forget.” John Preston began to laugh as the sun crawled ever on.
“It's my job to know what you're thinking.”
Libria lay before them both now like an open book, a new fairy tale yet
to be written and it stretched like a yawning cavern of possibility.
Both men had separate tasks to perform and both knew that they could
shape this fledgling society into something other than the one it was.
They were certain of their own direction and pretty sure of their own
part in this, what they feared the most was made solid as they both
caught a glimpse of a single shape at the back of it all.
How long he had been there they didn't know, but his presence sent a
chill down both their spines, how many more like him were there? How
many more black garbed inflexible emotionless men waited in the wings
to strike back at the new Utopia and attempt to bring it back under
Like a black raven Grammaton Cleric: Ezekiel Kayne turned his back on
them all and strode into the ruin of his once proud Libria, they were
the architects of its destruction and he would rebuild – he was nothing
if not resourceful.