The Abbot's Growing Doubt

The air in Abbot Kale’s study was thick with the scent of old parchment and something else, something acrid and sharp that reminded Bishop Dark of cheap incense burning too long. Kale sat behind his vast oak desk, his hands steepled, his gaze fixed on Dark with an expression that was a familiar cocktail of desperation and disgust. It was a look Dark had seen a thousand times, usually after he’d left a particularly messy trail of bodies or emptied the abbey’s wine cellar. This time, however, there was an added layer, a creeping unease that radiated from the Abbot like a chill wind.

“Dark,” Kale began, his voice a low rumble, devoid of its usual clipped authority. “The Chalice of Eldoria. It is still gone.”

Dark grunted, settling into the worn leather chair opposite the Abbot. He’d been expecting this summons. The Crimson Hand, or whatever shadowy filth was playing with the holy artifact, had been leaving a trail of bodies that even the Church, in its infinite capacity for turning a blind eye, couldn't ignore. “I’m aware, Abbot. My inquiries are… ongoing.” He let the word hang in the air, heavy with unspoken implications. His inquiries usually involved a lot of broken bones and hushed threats, not delicate tea parties.