>>5155250Next, you seize the senses of Inquisitor Felman. You find him in attendance of a meeting with other Inquisitors, and with one burly and armoured man of chinsome face who you recognize as that once-encountered Paladin known as Sir Chase—your rival in the ongoing demon-hunt.
“No luck with the leads in Goblintown?” Chase asks, scoffing. “What good are you bookish lads—and lasses, sorry, but the point stands—if you can’t snatch up a single demon without my aid?”
“With due respect,” huffs a female Inquisitor, “what good are YOU, then, Sir Paladin? You’ve not exactly got a collection of demons to your name, either. You even failed to capture one who was already wounded and in your sights.”
Sir Chase fumes a little, glowering at her. “Wasn’t it YOUR bloody glasses that were meant to be locked upon the fiend, INQUISITOR?”
That stops her in her tracks, and she stammers. “I… I don’t know how, but my glasses seem to… Have malfunctioned.”
You smirk. Felman followed your instructions. Sir Chase, though, scoffs and rolls his eyes.
“If you don’t know how to operate your own equipment,” he says, “just admit it, girl.”
“GIRL?” she fumes. “How old are you to call me ‘girl’, you pompous, chauvinistic, blue-blooded, intellectually-deficient—”
“That will be quite enough, Inquisitor Eierkuchen!”
Felman turns his head, but you already knew the voice: the Head Inquisitor.
“Yes,” Sir Chase agrees with perhaps a bit too much glee, “calm yourself, GIRL.”
The female Inquisitor storms out, while Sir Chase simply grins after her, waggling his eyebrows in a mocking expression.
“I think perhaps we could all do with some rest” says the Head Inquisitor then—a long-faced and wispy-bearded older male human with tinted glasses.
Sir Chase stretches, setting off a chain of yawns and sympathetic stretches among the other attendees.
“Yes, quite,” Sir Chase says. “Demons are most active at night. They’ll have gone to ground. Better hunting will be had in the evening.”
“We know that already,” mutters another member of the Inquisition. “Does he think we don’t?”
Felman, under your influence and thus distracted, only nods. When the room clears out, Felman exits with the rest of the crowd, and immediately seeks somewhere private at your mental encouragement.
“Report,” you command him. “What have you learned?”
“A hellhound or some similar demon was suspected to be prowling the outskirts of town, harassing travelers and feeding upon goblins and orcs,” he says, with a small tinge of professional bitterness to his tone, “but the trail has gone cold.”
Your smirk becomes a grin, but you say nothing more on that subject.
