[Past] Murderous Impulses

In the warden's office beside the citadel in whose dark belly were jailed Antiva's most heretical mages, or at least their mages unprotected by the Crows, Helena growled at the clerk. Her finger was nailed to a parchment in which was signed the names of very wealthy merchants and men of influence, beside which services were stated.

What do you mean by 'clients'? she said darkly, practically spitting the words. One day in Antiva, and she had already lost her mind. Apostates were not draft horses to be loaned out to the highest bidder. This was like giving an alcoholic more liquor! Only abstinence from magic would redeem them, and if that meant locking them away from the light of day under Chantry scrutiny to save their unrestrained souls, so be it. But to condone their terrible magic for money? The fury tearing through Helena's face caused the clerk to stutter and look at his feet, when suddenly, a bell hurriedly tinkled above the doorway. A couple of Templars who had been watching from the door awakened and rushed out towards the Citadel. Then, more guards rushed past the open doorway.

Helena paused, staring at the absurd display of force rushing towards the prison gate.

"Something's killing them down there," sighed the clerk. Helena shot a harsh glare at the clerk, before straightening her uniform and storming to the prison gate herself.

Soon, she found her hand wrapped around the wrist of another woman. Helena thudded her lifeforce into the body, her magic a stern hammer of willpower, but rigor mortis had set in. Helena studied the woman's wide eyes, and the blood that leaked from her ears, her nose, her mouth. These clues were less obvious than the cracked and crushed wound on her forehead. She was told the woman had bashed her brains out on the wall by a guard beside her. Several templars had vomited at the sight of the body. Helena took out her pristine white handkerchief, having seen enough herself, and laid it over the face. Her eyes lingered as the blood soaked through before she stood up with rigid purpose.

Several apostates were sprawled about, chained by their necks with only hay beneath them for comfort. The room hung thick with the rancid stench of defecation.

She scowled at the Antivan Knight-Lieutenant before stepping around him. One of them is responsible, she hissed in his ear, and I will deal with it.

Not your jurisdiction, Starkhaven, mirrored the Templar.

At this, Helena bristled. Her eyes lit with queer light. I know you from somewhere, Knight-Lieutenant, from a poster of Crows wanted by my liege. He winced and looked away. Helena did not smile at she stormed around him, too irate to enjoy her victory. How clear it was that the Antivan circle had fallen so very far. How much could she salvage? At what cost? Her thoughts buzzed with calculations as she sternly bellowed, Leave me with them. She waited with a fierce spirit as they filed out. Alone, at last.

Only one had spoken when she had first entered. Now she turned to the woman and appraised her features first, and something about the way the woman looked made a nerve in Hel's gut flick - and just like that she was certain. The sureness was sudden, but complete, in the same way one might recognize the shape of the word and know its sound. Black hair smeared around the woman's neck, framing wine-red lips. Helena raised her palm, and a bright, harsh light shined down at the woman, spotlighting her with its blinding focus. She wanted to see her flinch. She wanted to see her squint her eyes in weakness. To blast away what lurked in them. Helena twisted her foot this way and that, grinding the sole of her boot into the stone in order to resist the urge to kick.

So... may I ask, who were you expecting?