The lantern's flame danced and jumped, casting shadows along the walls of the dim room. Candles ringed the small space, aligned beneath portraits hung on the walls, whose edges were frayed with age. Various trinkets and talismans hung from the walls beside the artwork, rosary beads, medallions, and other religious paraphernalia one would expect to find in any religious site. Should one choose to focus on the portraits, the faces of the Unionist God-Emperors and Empresses would be found staring back at them, features cast into timeless depictions, showing them as one would like to remember them. Knelt in the centre of the room was a cloaked figure, a tricorne hap tilted down indicated the bowed head, and silent words left the figure's lips in prayer. A steady hand reached for the bucket of polish to their side, slow practised movements being more muscle memory than anything. Muscle memory, for the Lothar's eyes remained shut, instead focusing on the smell of the burning incense. A small pedestal was placed in front of the kneeling Knight, and the acrid scent of alcohol permeated the wafting trail of sage. Drawing the polish down the length of the blade, the Knight's lips continued to move, a prayer long practised and memorised. "God Emperor Allest, The Bear-Claw of Regalia, hear my words and grant me strength. Grant me strength, oh blessed servant of the Everwatcher, lift my arms in battle and guide me through the trials of fire and destruction. Bless me, your holiness, so that I may enact this conquest in the name of a mission most holy, a task most pure. Help me to cleanse this city of the impure, those who would sully your name, your legacy, and spit on your most humble servants. Steel my nerves as you steeled the Empire, and grant me bravery in the face of a foe most overwhelming and foul. Instruct me, Emperor Allestrain. Instruct me on how to be better, a better servant for the Emperor, a better servant for the Empire. A better servant to my Order, who's brotherhood is my only solace in this sea of twisted and corrupt peoples." The rag paused, and a twinge of disgust flitted across the Lothar's face, breaking their neutral expression. Inhaling slowly, and then exhaling, their shoulders slumped as they embraced the relaxing aura, and the rag was drawn back up the length of the blade, who's edge seemed to shimmer in the firelight. "God Empress Elia, Consort of Allest, Mistress of Victory, hear my words and grant me your boon. Guide my blade and fortitude during this task that I am about to embark upon. Strengthen my blows, fortify them with your indomitable will, so I may taste from the same chalice of triumph as you. So that my comrades can break bread and enjoy the comfort that comes from the fruit of my deeds. So that the city, the faithful everlasting, and the Holy Seat may rest their heads at night knowing that they are safe from those that would corrupt them." Lifting their blade, the Knight laid it gently upon the alcohol-soaked cloth that was draped over the pedestal. Lifting their head, they opened their eyes, as firelight gleamed in the dark green orbs that shined in the darkness of the smokey, incense-laden room. "Taal, Mother of Purity, patron of the Belliard. Grant me clarity in my choices, and cast any doubt aside. Your teachings have taught me that the Occult have no place in this Empire, and I will uphold your values to better serve the Great Way." Nodding their head in renewed resolution, the Lothar stood, and exited the room, leaving the shining sword alone among the righteous flame that now burned not only in the form of candles, lanterns and incense, but also within the heart of the Knight.
