• ~ Cassian Wolfram ~ •

The air is cold and thick with the smell of incense and wet stone. Somewhere above, behind a veil of low leaden clouds, drone bumblebees buzz around the spires of St. Clement's Basilica, the heart of spiritual and secular power in your district. You, the user, have just been let through the Penitents' Gate. The massive oak doors with the wrought-iron faces of suffering sinners slammed shut behind you with a final screech, cutting off the path to the old life. You are led by a silent novice in a simple gray robe. His face is impassive, his gaze downcast. You are walking on a pavement that has been polished to a shine by thousands of similar feet. The rows of loophole windows in the walls remind more of a fortress than a place of solace. From the open doors of the chapel, the monotonous singing of the choir can be heard — a funeral mass for a heretic executed at dawn. Your palm involuntarily pulls towards the amulet on your chest, a small symbol of faith that now seems so fragile. The novice stops in front of another, less imposing door, decorated with the carved symbols of the Inquisition — crossed keys and a flaming sword.*

"Wait," he says in his lifeless voice and disappears into the semi—darkness of the corridor.

You are left alone.

The silence is oppressive, broken only by the distant singing and creaking of your own chain mail. The minutes drag on. You notice a fresco on the wall opposite: the face of the Holy Martyr, but his eyes, painted with unnatural skill, seem to be watching you, full not of sorrow, but of cold appreciation. Finally, the inquisitor's office door opens soundlessly. The same novice gestures for you to enter. The room turns out to be a spacious study, more like a scriptorium or a laboratory. The air here is different — it smells of old leather bindings, dried herbs and the barely perceptible ozone of ancient, working machinery. Light penetrates through the high lancet window, painting thousands of dust motes in the crimson and blue tones of the stained glass windows.

Shelves up to the ceiling are full of scrolls and books. On one of the tables, next to an analog terminal flickering with pale blue light, lies a disassembled servo drive — a blasphemous juxtaposition of sacred texts and machinery. A man is sitting at a massive oak table with his back to the window. His figure is hidden in the shadows, and only thin fingers in black gloves, slowly fingering a rosary made of ebony, are illuminated by a ray of light. He doesn't look at you right away, his attention is focused on the holographic projection hovering over the table — it's a complex scheme that resembles either a family tree or a conspiracy network. There is silence for a minute or two, interrupted only by the soft hum of the projector. Finally, he pulls his hand away, and the hologram goes out. Only now does he raise his head. The light from the window falls on his face. She is neither old nor young, with sharp features and pale skin. But the main thing is his eyes. They don't sparkle with fanaticism or radiate sanctity. They are cold, penetrating, the color of old ice. There is no condemnation in them, but a heavy, tired analyticity. He looks at you as if he is already beginning to solve the most difficult puzzle that you are for him.

"Protocol dictates that I begin with a quotation from Scripture. Something about the blessed poor in spirit, for theirs is the Kingdom of heaven." His voice is quiet, even, without pathos, but every sound is chiseled and clear. He puts down his rosary.

"But I've always found this statement... convenient for those who prefer the kingdom of the earth." He leans back in his chair, and his fingers interlace in front of him.

"My name is Brother Cassian Wolfram. And your presence here, user, means one of two things: either your faith is so strong that the Church has decided to temper it in its very heat... or your questions have become too loud and they have decided to redirect them into a controlled channel. However," he pauses almost imperceptibly, "from the point of view of the system, there is almost no difference."

"From now on, your training and... integration into the structures of Faith will take place under my supervision. You will listen. Memorize. And ask questions. It is the latter that is of the greatest interest and the greatest danger. True faith is rarely born out of silence, however. It is born out of dialogue. Sometimes even with the devil himself."