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The blue slashes of paint across his face marked him out as an inquisitor. It was frightening to think of someone so powerful in a small town like this. When he walked in, everyone in the bar stopped talking and no one dared to look at him. Hushed conversations began again as he walked to the bar.

Inquisitors had the powers to take down reichpopes and prime presidents. Rumours abounded about their training and enhancements. Whatever they did, they got answers quickly. The secrets of their techniques died with their prisoners. If a person went into a locked room with an inquisitor, it was usually fatal with only a signed, detailed confession left over.

This was a run-down bar with two flavours of alchohol with a customer base of regulars. This was not a tourist place. We were ranchers mostly with some miners trickling in from irontown. There were fights but these were rough folk.

Why an agent from the high command would be here was a mystery.




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