-Istrim Saying

-Early Winter, 3133, the Tograth

"…but the question is not who it was, but why he did it." A thin, monotone voice hissed in the early morning darkness of the chamber.

"If you are so sure that it was this Oestriam monk, then what is the dilemma? We know what it is they are after." A deeper voice answered.

From the direction of the monotone speaker, a shadow moved in the darkness of the inner chamber. It seemed to the Prelate, Donapét, that the old man rarely set foot in the light anymore. Perhaps he derived some sick satisfaction from being able to remain hidden while observing others around him clearly.

"You are slow to grasp the machinations of the enemy, Donapét." The old man nearly spat the last, as if the name distasted him greatly. "You have risen very high very quickly, monk. Perhaps we would be better served if we sent you back to that hole in the hills from whence we summoned you."

Donapét bit his tongue. Losing his S’tar would solve little, save to anger the old man further. Anger him- strange that the Word of the Istrim should have such a temper. He had never learned the S’tar.

"Perhaps the Word will inform me, since my emotions cloud my mind." He replied flatly.

"If the Oestriam are in Iradar, they are not there to convert. They are there to conquer." The voice replied.

"Conquer?" asked Donapét, losing his point of balance, "You are insane!"

"You forget yourself, monk. I am The Word. You lose your S’tar easily, it seems. Our agent was murdered en route to the northern coast. Within a week, a priest was sighted in Greywater Deep speaking with one of the Oestriam Commanders, a ‘Stone,’ I believe they are called.

You, in your constant search for information should have known this before me. You have eyes and ears in every corner of the North, yet you have learned nothing. Your duty is the collection of information in the north. Yet you have never journeyed there yourself! Our plans in the north have been set back by the murder of our own priest, because of your negligence. You have betrayed the Word."

The other prelates in their dark alcoves around the room stirred in their surprise. One of them let an audible gasp of shock escape his lips.

Donapét stood for what seemed an hour in total silence, his thoughts scattered and confused. He hated the thin, rasping voice of the Word. He hated this withered man’s haughty self-righteousness. He hated being called "monk." Most of all, he hated that everyone else at the Tograth was too afraid of the old man to defy him.

"Betrayed the Word?" Donapét nearly hissed between clenched teeth. "The Word has betrayed the Istrim! You have not left the safety of this stone fortress for over a decade! Yet you accuse me of treason because I have not journeyed north! Do you think I would learn more if I traveled there myself? Should I distrust our eyes and ears who have served us faithfully for years? Perhaps it is you who have lost touch!"

His outburst brought a hiss of intaken breath from the others in the room. It was not often that they who sat in the shadows made any visible reaction.

The Word nearly ordered the insolent Prelate arrested immediately and thrown into the deepest, coldest dungeon of the Tograth. But something stopped him. He collected his emotions and supressed them quickly.