To Catch a Journalist…
High Priest Zamel strides through Sal'thorin. His staff clinks on the cobblestones. Its sound is sharper today. Faster. Like a sword seeking blood. Behind him, her gaze holding the cold of every winter the Essail have never seen, is his apprentice, @essailpriestess-morana. She hurries to keep up with her master, yet still appears as placid as a frozen lake.
The Terror and his shadow stop at an unassuming door near the markets. If one wasn't looking for it, they might miss the seam and hinges entirely. Elegant wisteria drapes over it in just the right way to make most Essail pass by, but Zamel is certainly not most Essail.
Zamel does not knock. Instead, he raises his staff, casts a spell.
The door slams open.
"Show yourself, sinful one!"
There is no reply.
Zamel motions to Morana to follow him inside. Light pours in from the door they leave ajar. It illuminates the space, full to the brim of...nothing. Nothing but dust and single letter left on the table: addressed to Zamel himself and signed with an insignia he's come to know and loathe. @concerned-essail.
It's snatched into his hands in an instant. He scans it. The lines on his face deepen, rivaling the caves of Sal'thorin itself. After a moment, he holds it out for Morana to take and view herself. With a clenched jaw, he grits out the words: "They've been warned."
