[NoR] - [11] – [IK02] – You’re Mistaken

A day’s walk is something you can always enjoy, which is good since you do a lot of walking on Ravnica. Your nostrils flare as the scent of cinnamon permeates the air around you. The air clouds while censers billow a thin, spicy smoke as the incense within burns slowly. The Basilica looms over you, tall spires of ivory stone topped with animate sculptures watching for enemies of the church. The faint screech of bats in the belfry rings out before the loud, resonant gong of the bells. The guardian thrulls scan the street, their dull grey skin stretched tightly over their artificial frames. The golden masks hiding their faces are perfectly still as you draw near, the owners ignoring you as you approach the massive doors. You press your hand against the spiral grained hardwood, opening the door to the sanctum within.

Long pews stretch far into the nascent light of the nave, the altar at the end glimmering as a thrull servant polishes it gingerly. Streaks of smoke are lit by colors cast from the stained glass high along the walls. Your boots click solidly on the marble floor, sounding as though they should remind you of something. The lack of memory serves only to highlight the purpose for your visit...to find someone who can restore the unceremonious damage done to your mind and fill the sinister void scraping at your subconscious.

Click, click, click.

You look up to the windows, noting the scenes of local history immortalized by the glazier’s practiced hands. You spy an image of the Tablet of the Guilds, showcasing all of the Guilds’ sigils with a slight lack of accuracy to allow the Church’s symbol to reign on top. The artistic interpretation extends to the very sigils themselves, with the Boros fist appearing rather phallic and the Dimir eye missing entirely. The design must have been installed before they became public knowledge. The next window shows a stylistic representation of the Obzedat, the ghostly council that runs the Church of Deals. The gaunt figures loom over those who come to worship, oppressively reminding all of the promises and requirements involved in their choices. The massive chandeliers glow brightly in a row down the center of the room, illuminating the high ceilings and the murals they display. Images of punishments, Martyrs, and countless other moments of note threaten to overtake the eyes. The sheer deluge of visual decor is overwhelming. The occasional worshipper sits within the pews, worriedly counting their coins and mumbling small prayers under their breath before placing the gold on the collection plates carried from debtor to debtor by the nearest attending thrull.

Nobody seems to notice your presence you as you stride purposefully towards the back of the hall, heading instinctively for the gilded aperture leading to the rear offices. The moderately sized door berths to a long hallway, and you suspect that a significant portion of it actually rests beneath the buildings behind the Basilica proper. Rich or not, even the Orzhov have to make due with the limited space available on an ecumenopolis. Elegant sconces line the effluent pathway, while identical square doors break the monotony at marked intervals. As you approach the final door at the end of the hall, you take a deep breath, preparing yourself to do something you aren’t sure you’ve done before...call in a favor from a superior.

The pristine handle turns silently, well-oiled hinges allowing the door to glide open without so much as a creak. The opulent desk is covered in an assortment of neatly stacked documents and occupied by the local Pontiff, a large rippling man whose jowls seemed to move slightly slower than the rest of him, jiggling as he goes. His robes are the traditional white with gold trim, while black accents attempt and fail to slim his figure. He looks up from his papers to smile at you.

“Inquisitor Korr! I had wondered when you would return. We have missed you these past several days.”

You close the door behind you, making your way across the crimson rug to sit yourself in the grand hide chair before the clergyman. As you cross your legs and exhale calmly, you try to hide your anxiety. It feels unnatural to you. Your disharmony is evident, provoking a raised eyebrow from the official.

“Is everything alright, Inquisitor?”

He wheezes slightly as he speaks, and a subtle mumble creeps into his voice as he relaxes his tone.

“Your grace, I fear not. I have been missing these past few days due to a Havoc festival I happened to be caught up in.”

The pontiff cocks his head, curiosity written across his face as he speaks to you.

“I had not heard of a recent festival. Where was this?”

“I do not know. This is the crux of the issue. My mental faculty has been...compromised.”

His other eyebrow follows suit, the expression now one of surprise and concern. You get the impression that he had not expected you, specifically, to ever fall victim to a situation such as this.

“Do go on...”

You continue.

“My memory has been tampered with. I lack large tracts of recollection, and I am only aware of it due to the older man who saved me and brought me to the appointed tenement.”

The mention of the old man seems to mean nothing to him. He bridges his fingers and narrows his eyes, looking you over. His air of nonchalance quickly fades as he responds, replaced with a tone of seriousness fitting of the situation.

“So why have you come to me, Inquisitor?”

You take another breath, looking him square in the eyes as you prepare to play your ace.

“I’m certain you remember the ‘special’ assignments I have assisted you with. The debtors you wanted to forget, and have forgotten.”

He remains still as a gorgon’s lover while you explain.

“I am here to do something I had hoped would never be necessary. I need a favor.”

The Pontiff smiles once more as he looks down to his papers, chuckling softly and placing his hands on his desk. His jowls jiggle as he leaks his mirth. You maintain your demeanor, inwardly hoping he does not perceive this as a threat. Your entire position could be in jeopardy if he got the wrong idea. He looks to you again, his grim glower softening into a bemused smirk.

“I suppose this was inevitable. You know, of course, that if I help you...IF...this will be out of respect and nothing more.”

You nod back, thankful that he did not call guards to forcibly remove you.

“You are lucky in this instance. I am very fond of you, and you are a benefit to both this Basilica and the Church proper. You have proved your worth countless times over. This is not common knowledge, but I worked with a series of healers before acquiring my current wealth and standing. I was...well, I was quite the repairman in my time. Between the Dimir Excisors and Rakdos’ thugs, there was never a shortage of diminished mental function.”

He stands, sliding the chair back loudly as he does so and stepping heavily around his desk to stand beside you. You turn in the chair, facing him boldly as an equal.

“I was unaware of your previous standing within the church, your Grace.”

“Most are.”

He strokes his chin while he walks behind you to the other side of your chair, speaking blithely to the portraits hung on his walls.

“You have, as you mentioned, assisted me greatly in the past. Honestly, were it not for your particular brand of help, I may not be here today. Let it never be said that I am ungrateful.”

For a few moments you face him, tracing with your eyes the golden sun embroidered upon his back, watching carefully as he considers his next series of actions. He turns to face you, putting his hands behind him as he speaks to you firmly and without room for question.

“Very well. I will see what I can discern from your injuries, and if possible, recover them. There is no small amount of danger in this, however. Should this be the work of the Guild of Shadows, I will be putting myself at risk simply by attempting to undo their efforts. They do not take kindly to others meddling in their affairs.”

You nod curtly, knowing that his willingness to assist was unsafe for all involved. He meanders to the back of your chair, placing his thick hands on your shoulders.

“Are you ready, Inquisitor?”

You close your eyes and brace yourself firmly against the seat.

“No time like the present.”

His meaty fingers cradle your skull firmly, the fluidity of the motion thoroughly surprising you. Within moments, you feel him reaching into your mind.

The shock of a second presence within your sense of self causes you to jerk violently, stiffening and seizing as the invasive presence roots painfully about your consciousness. Your vision flashes and flickers, while brief glimpses of your past pop up and dissipate just as quickly. You grasp the arms of the chair, your nails shredding the hide upholstery as you constrict in reflex. The experience seems to last for a lifetime, and after an indeterminate series of agonizing moments the knives withdraw from your skull. The Pontiff pries his fingers from you, leaning against the back of your chair and gasping as you collapse forward, barely catching yourself before you obtain a concussion against the desk.

The Pontiff waddles himself to his chair, resting heavily against the furniture on the way before tossing himself forcibly into his seat. His face is soaked with sweat, and he breathes with a rugged meter implying the length of time since he had last attempted something such as this.

“Well...I have news for you.”

The ache growing from your temples screams at you from within. Pain radiates with no catharsis, and you can remember nothing more than before. You grudgingly drag your head up to face the clergyman.

“Do...do tell.”

He wipes a large amount of sweat from his brow, flicking it carelessly onto the rug below. His lips are tinged with blue, and he has clearly expelled much effort on your behalf.

“This is not Rakdos’ work.”

You sigh heavily, shaking your head in disappointment. You had almost expected as much, but to actually hear it spoken depresses you.

“Of course not. Why would this be easy? I’m involved.”

The pontiff chuckles darkly, interrupted by a series of loud coughs as his lungs protested.

“This is too surgical for the Demon. Yet, in the experience I’ve had with the Dimir, I’ve never seen something like this. I fear I was unable to restore any of the thoughts you have lost. To my skills, the memories you seek are not available. I am sorry, Inquisitor, but I cannot help you in this regard.”

You shake your head in defeat, the ache subsiding slowly as you do. You begin to resign yourself to a life of regretful curiosity when he speaks again.

“However, I may know someone who can.”

You look up quickly, the hope on your face drowning any resignation you may have shown.

“This is going to cost you another couple of favors, however.”

The attempt at humor does not escape you as you smile back at him in affirmation.

“Of course, your Grace.”

After several deep breaths, the Pontiff looks about himself cautiously, leaning in to whisper his next response. The caution shown by the undisputed master of the building unnerves you more than a little.

“I know of an Excisor who has worked with me in the past. As this must be Dimir work, only the Dimir can undo it. He owes me, and I assure you this comes at no small cost to myself.”

It is now your turn to narrow your eyes in suspicion. The intrigue surrounding your acquaintances seems without end.

“If I tell you when and where to meet him, you must swear to me that you will share the information with nobody beforehand. I am not worried about afterward, as I am certain that he will take care of that himself.”

You bow your head to show your sincerest gratitude.

“You have my word, your Grace.”

He lowers his voice to a barely audible level.

“There is a door in a bar in the fifth District. It is marked with a sigil you will recognize upon seeing it. The bar is obvious to those who seek it, especially if they are one of your particular talents. You will notice those watching it as they notice you. He will be waiting inside.”

“Who will?”

Your question is ignored.

“When you find him, you will need to give him my name as proof of identity. Tell him Pomas sent you. He will take over from there.”