Syndicate Technician

Prologue


The black robes were fitting. An identity beyond identity, hidden behind the veil of nothingness. Symbols, runes, letters, numbers, each with a precisely formed history, hand crafted, either in spite or unconditional love.

“Watch carefully, boy,”

It was a cold November morning in Athens. A misty dew had blanketed the air like an ocean of cloud. Birds chirped in in a gentle serenity designed to be broken, laying their fragile bodies onto the even frailer, dry trees.

Anger, fear, regret, swept the gathering. For amongst the judicial arena, its limestone pillars, gravel stone benches, was a judgement to be made.

“This is something you mustn't forget.”

Behind a pedestal stood an aged woman clad in red, and sprinkled with jewelry of gold. Her outfit shined in the reflection of the white sun. A heavy contradiction to the rest of The Order’s usual invisibility.

“Casilios Ja, you have been charged with the murder of Takara Hillburn, and Figure of Historical Importance Ulrich Bach. These crimes,” the old woman gently explained. “Should they be valid accusations, will sentence you to 5 hours in Ḩothorn for the interference with the structure of a timeline, and 10 years of objective confiscation for the murder of a Grey-Hood member.”

In the middle of it all stood a thin, nimble-looking man, stripped of his robes, and clothed with but a thin undergarment. On his flesh were green scars forming alien shapes, and around him stones placed circularly, each as lapiz as the depths of the deepest oceans.

“How do you plead?”

There was a bit of a pause between the Ludex and the accused below her, though she was patient.

“Guilty.”

Boos and cheers reverberated amongst the crowd, some jumping at the scene of justice, others walking off with disappointment or mourn painted onto their expression. But neither was a young boy, adolescent, curios. One of the few youths permitted to witness such a judgement, which he found strange as the entire event seemed anticlimactic, dry, normal.

“I understand the objective confiscation, but why only 5 hours in Ḩothorn? Seems a bit merciful to me and there was no jury decision there.”

The boy looked up at his mentor adjacent to him, awaiting a response.


“Tyris,” the man responded hesitantly. “When one cannot die, it’ll feel more like 20 years.”