Sethlzaar lost his touched to his brother. An acceptable sacrifice, he thought, taking Soartin's bishop. He had sequestered it to a point at one end of the board, hoping Soartin would be forced to claim it so he could in turn take the bishop that had caused him so much trouble in the past five minutes. Although, that piece had troubled his brother as much as his brother's had troubled him. Perhaps Soartin had seen the loss of his bishop as an acceptable one as well. What if he had walked into the priest's plan thinking it was his own? This was why he hated playing the man. The second-guessing never did him any good. 

Sethlzaar dropped ten feet and landed quietly on his feet on the other side of the stone fence. But somehow, it still managed to feel as if he disturbed the serenity of the night. He turned his head both sides before moving on and unto the vast expanse of manila grass between him and the mansion he sought to invade. Certain no one was watching, he crossed it in three steps.At the site of the door, he changed his plan. Initially, his intent was to pick its lock. Not all the skills learned in the conisoir were lost to him. Actu

Clad in his hooded cassock, veils and bow securely strapped in place, and his quiver hanging low on his hip, Sethlzaar left the hotel. When he relinquished his room key to the man behind the table at the entrance, the man said nothing, choosing to receive the key in silence. Smart men never asked priests questions. Especially when they were in their cassock. The night was illuminated by glowing street lamps, and even after accepting three nights were more than enough to have grown accustomed to a bright night, it did nothing to shake away the wrongness he felt as he walked the streets.

Dimma had said nothing in the past hour. When they walked through the gates of the city, he had paid her entrance fee while she looked around. Despite the hood concealing most of her face, she leaned back to take in the buildings and people around her.They were just returning from the healer's house where he'd gone to show her to a friend. Not all his contacts from his time at the realm were priests. Some men he had saved from certain perils, and he knew if they learned he was no longer of the frock they'd still help him.

Most Reverend Father Bratvi Arrufa was a muscled, middle aged man with a clean shaved head. When he spoke people were forced to listen. His pale skin marked his heritage as somewhere not within the realm which made him a compelling sight, and his brogue, if it could be described as one, was flat, almost as if the man didn’t understand what intonations were. Perhaps his vocal cords didn’t care for the nuisance.Men like him were rare in the realm, but among priests, outsiders weren’t so unheard of.