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By ClericWolf - Part 1|2|3|4


“A single focused rock can topple a mountain of hope.”
~ Grammaton Cleric: Ezekiel Kayne



Libria 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 cataclysmic thunder.

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.

In blood.

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 still-thrumming rage.

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 gone.

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.
Mary...

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 the stonework.

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 individuality.

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 short.

“Breath is just a clock.” He finished the statement and smiled another sad smile.

“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 that chance.

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 shot.

“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?”

“John.”

“Ok then, John?”

“The Furnaces, we're going to see if Jurgen's still alive.”

“Alright!”

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 unbound.
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 metallic flooring.

“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 directions.

“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 little.

“Behind you.”

“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 senseless slaughter.”

“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 beside him.

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 doing.

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 being.

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 free.

“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 the moon.



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 us again.”

“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 embrace.

“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 broke down.

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 impulsively.

“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.”

“I did?”

“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 himself.

“I know.”

“So you'll do it?”

“Of course.”

“Thank you.”

“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 eradicate.


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.”

“Agreed.”

“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.”

“Oh how?”

“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 their control?

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.



Part 1|2|3|4










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