Night falls on Magnagora, and the gaslamps in the city streets are flaring to
life one by one beneath the smog in blue-tongued light, hazy in the yellow smoke
hanging low over the winding streets. The mortals of the city are careful now,
downcast eyes and hurrying feet, for the lich-kings of the city awake. The true
predators of Magnagora walk the streets, luxuriating in the cool air of the
night.

Within the high Tower of the Dark Fates, beyond the iron visage of the
flame-hearted Guardian, the Prophet of the Master is awaking from her still,
dead slumber. One moment there is darkness and stillness, the next, a quiet,
stealthy movement across the floor. Beyond the brocade curtains of her bed, she
knows, is her black-robed, ever watchful protege. The girl is setting the vanity
for her. The harsh scent of
thrice-brewed tea fills the chamber, mixing with incense sticks that rest
before the statue of the Master.

Some days, she allows herself to lie still, observing the fluid movements of
her almost-daughter. Tonight, however, she rises nude from the furs of aslarans
and furrikin and accepts the wide-sleeved robe of green brocade from the steady
hands of the girl, leaving it unbelted as she seats herself upon the velvet
stool before the mirror. It shall be a busy evening between the setting and
rising of the cruel
red sun.

"You have prepared the ledger, Sadjia?" she inquires, impassive. It is more
than a question, it is a thinly veiled order, and her protege is swift with the
reply even as she moves forwards to pour the tea and take up the bone-carved
brush to run through the hair of her patron.

"Yes, Lady." The soft, steady, dulcet tones that may soothe or quietly cut. She
will make an excellent Seditionist. "The Mystagogue demands your presence upon
the first bell of midnight in the matter of the two Penitents found drunk at the
Wailing Woman. It seems there is some question of the rape of a minor daughter."

"A Bannerhouse?" Any consequence, rather.

"No, Lady, one of the merchant houses." Dismissal. The girl is dross; either
useful material or merely a womb to swell the ranks of the Engine.

She accepts this with a nod as she sips the tea. The bitter taste of the
drought wakes her swiftly as she observes her protege in the mirror, brushing
and braiding her thick black hair with black and gold ribbons. "Good, then. Is
the girl useful in any way?"

"No, Lady. A mistress of the d'Lardick's third son." The girl is deft with the
ribbons and is swiftly finished; the Prophet rises. Swiftly, Sadjia is there
with the steel-boned corset as two taloned hands rise to the coif, subtly
checking the work of her student as the corset pulls her already thin form to an
impossibly perfect and graceful figure.

"Easy enough to simply set them to slit her throat and dismiss the matter,
then." she dismisses. Sadjia's hands still briefly on the laces, then resume. A
telling stillness, although her student does not falter further, and resumes her
work, knotting the corset neatly at the centre of the back. "You object?" Thin
menace over quiet inquiry, mistress to servant.

"I am not given to judge, Lady. My apologies, Lady." Easy formal words drilled
into her protege, not anything of consequence. An evasion, not an answer.

Well and so. "Tea."

Sadjia raises the cup easily; the Prophet seizes her hand, crushing shards and
hot tea within those graceful fingers. The girl remains still, eyes raised to
those of her mistress. No cowering, no sign of pain - the girl remains in
perfect control. Good. The tea drips, forgotten, to the stone floor.

"What else, girl?"

Reluctant, then. "The Penitents are the students of the Seditionist Ureyan,
Lady."

Ah, yes and so. The crux of the matter. "Your former master."

No flinch, no flicker in the eyes. The girl would have done equally well as a
servant of the Lord of Dark Webs, but for the burning hatred and ambition driven
into her as a Penitent. Ham handed lesson, however. The Prophet loosens her
grip, bit by bit. "The standard training to his students. The example of the
master to his students."

"Lady." A dip of the head. A controlled, perfect movement, nothing revealed;
the eyes remain steady.

The Prophet raises her nose a bit, gazing down it at her protege. "You feel a
certain empathy?"

"No, Lady." A satisfying answer. She lets the girl go, allows her to clean and
heal the injured palm. Bending, she pulls a jade vial from a velvet box upon the
vanity, pressing it with manicured fingers into the palm of her student. The
girl arches a perfectly plucked eyebrow - a peerless imitation of her mentrix.

"Crotamine." she informs the girl, and the her protege's eyes glitter with
pleased, quiet triumph, the satisfaction of a long-held grudge within her grasp.
"Ensure that you empty the vial before you return in the morn. You have left the
ledger on the desk in my office?"

"Yes, Lady." The girl smiles then, bright and sudden and pleased, a fierce
thing, toothy. Pureblood viscanti; the Prophet returns it, a flash of fondness
within the still chambers of her heart. A good protege. A quick study. It will
be difficult to replace the girl, but her study is at an end.

The girl bobs a curtsy and is gone with a flick of her wrists; the Prophet
moves to finish her preparations for the evening. As she opens the pages of her
ledger, she contemplates the disposition of the vial.

There are, she thinks, as she sips her tea, two doses within the vial. Enough
to dispose of two rash Penitents, or enough to quiet an importunate girl and a
Seditionist with a taste for raping those within the Fold. Which shall of
course, open a position for an ambitious young servant of the Lord Luciphage to
rise upwards within the ranks.

The Prophet rises and moves to the window. Somewhere below, the sharp edges of
the Necropolis glow with luminous, verdant runes. It shall be a beautiful
evening in Magnagora.