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They always laughed, those young pups the Order asked him to train, when his first words to them were 'Remember, evil, like everything else, can be smelt. It is a foolish hunter, who ignores the most primal of his senses. He will find himself ignorant to the stench of corruption, the sweet sepsis of decay and rot that eats away at our souls, and only too late will he find himself cast down by our eternal foes.'

Sieur Gorehund, foremost hunter of his Order, prayed fervently that his protege, whom he held with an unseemly fatherly fondness, had not disregarded his words. Chiding himself, the old bloodhound grimaced as he steeled his emotions. Glaring down imperiously at the cowed townfolk, who whispered and averted their eyes as he rode in on his black charger, accompanied by a dozen impassive men-at-arms, who dragged a covered cart behind them.

'You there!' he called to a merchant who looked as though he might soil himself under the scrutiny of the man who had put a convent to the torch without a breath of hesitation. 'Where is the nearest inn?'

The wretch gabbled wildly, stammering out a name, the Preacher's Supper, and pointed down the road to the town square. Sparing him not a moment more, the Inquisitor Lord motioned for his men to follow, and urged his horse towards their destination.

Pausing at the square, Gorehund cast his gaze across the crowd that had gathered. He was a master at judging the moods of an audience, an invaluable skill which had saved him more than once from an inglorious death at the hands of a bloodthirsty mob whipped into uncontrollable hysteria.

They stared at him, mostly in fear. But his keen eye noted more than a handful glared with looks of barely disguised venom. A chill gripped his heart once more, and this time, he found it more difficult to dismiss his guilt. 'Oh Adolphus,' he whispered to himself, 'Why would you not heed your old master, just this once.'

Letting a smouldering anger overtake his worry, he raised his voice to the deep and sonorous timbre which had condemned countless heretics and apostates to their final end. Pulling a beribboned scroll from beneath his armour, he waved it to the crowd, though he did not doubt they were an illiterate lot to the man.

'By authority of his Holiness Patriach Pius the Merciful, and under the auspices of his majesty Theodoreus the Brave, I hereby declare this town under Inquisitorial Study! You may surrender those who have violated the laws of this land, those who have blasphemed against the most holy teachings of our Lord, and mercy may be granted to you.'

Pausing for breath, he noted his men had fanned out to circle him, halberds held almost casually, but ready for battle at a moment's notice. 'All those who defy this Decree will be subject to Holy Cleansing, their mortal coil purified before they are cast away into the afterlife.'

Motioning to the leader of his men, they uncovered the cart, and began assembling the deaded edifice that was a symbol of their Order's highest censure: the Heretic's Match.

A natural evolution from the traditional stake, the Heretic's match was a column of hollowed bronze, painstakingly crafted and inscripted with select passages from the Blessed Tome. Its surface was bedecked with hooks and burrs. Some were evidently anchor points for manacles and other such restraints, while others were wickedly sharp, placed at locations intended to bleed the guilty of their sins, and to encourage confessions.

There were shaken whispers as the townfolk watched his men methodically at work with horrid fascination. 'What do you fear, good folk? Rest easy, for only the guilty need fear! There are those who call us hunters. Yes! Yes, the Inquisition hunts. But never forget, we PROTECT!'

The bloodhound let his eyes drift shut, allowing his vaunted nose to lead his senses. Fear. That was to be expected, the rusty, brittle tang of fear, coated the scents he drew in. But any dog could smell fear. He breathed in deep, allowing his subconscious to tease the scents apart.

There, lurking amongst the fear. There, bitter and hateful, he tasted defiance. Interesting, but not damning. Just but misguided men often grew angry at his Order, seeing them as little more but tyrants and torturers. The more radical of his breathren would have punished such thoughts, but he dismissed such fanaticism, knowing it only ignited more hatred. No, hatred was not what he sought.

There! Sweetness, that of an overripe ploin, of decay carelessly shrouded by tawdry perfume. Corruption. His eyes flared open, and caught sight of a sullen looking rat, staring at them from the rear of the crowds. He motioned subtly, and two of his retainers slinked unobtrusively around the crowds to corner their prey.

'What do we protect you from, you may ask? Well, in the words of our Lord, blessed is the man of words, but truly cherished is the man, of action! Behold, the heretic, hiding in your midst!'

At that signal, his men grabbed at the unsuspecting rat, who squealed in shock, and the crowd gasped and swiftly parted. Fortune had smiled upon them that day, it was not uncommon for the taint to infect some of the more beloved or innocent meined folk, leading to disbelief and anger when they were finally ousted. Quelling a riot of townfolk was not a duty he relished.

The rat however, was a textbook example of villiany if he'd ever seen one. Sloven and unkempt, his whiskers greasy and twisted, eyes shifty and red, his squeaks were long and piteous as he was hauled, panicked and skittering by his filthy collar over to the centre before the Sieur.

'There is a taint of the vile about you, vermin.' Some of his peers enjoyed torture and interrogation, drawing out the darkest secrets of a soul, but the bloodhound often found such practices unnecessary. When you had irrefutable proof of a person's guilt, simply confronting him with the truth often would lead to a confession.

'A missstake! Sssurely you have wronged poor Isglith!'

Well. Sometimes not. He motioned for the rat to be strapped to the Match. Just as they dragged him over, the crowd began muttering, and his gaze was drawn to a slightly stooped old dog of indeterminate breed, clad in the simple uniform of a retainer of a noble house.

'Revered sir, my master requests the honour of an audience with your esteemed person. He extends the offer of his complete compliance, in the hopes you will spare his people from unnecessary suffering.'

Lip curling, Gorehund rose imperiously on his steed. 'Surely your master knows, his compliance is expected, and is not a bargaining chip to be bandied about. Furthermore, the Inquisition is never unnecessary in our actions. Unless of course, your master means to imply the punishment of the wicked is a task he would let grow lax.'

Well trained and seasoned as the old servant was, Bloodhund smiled in grim satisfaction as he watched him pale slightly. 'Nn-no, milord, never, forgive this servant's clumsy words. My master cares for his people, and simply shows concern for their welfare.'

'Spare the rod... spoil the litter. But very well, I will hear what he has to say.' He guestured for two of his men to follow him. 'Bind him, and keep watch. You may take refreshment, but do not relax your guard.'

Motioning impatiently for the manservant to lead them, his retainers fell into step behind them, as they made their way up to the manor at which the lord awaited.