#1 Maurice Estlebraun the Gunpriest

The air in the room hung low overhead, musty and thick like the grey grasping plumes of smoke at the Olde Sanctuary once did years earlier in celebration of a successful exorcism.

“A simpler time,” thought Maurice as he lifted the remains of the body slightly with the barrel of his abnormally long pistol.  A dry, black arm crumbled off at the joint with the small movement, settling on the smooth pavement below without sound. Small flecks of previously pink flesh darted upward from the resulting breeze, glad to be free of the charred husk. The smell that wafted into Maurice’s nostrils would make any lesser man cringe and wretch. There was something oddly familiar about this unidentifiable and burned corpse. He thought of flowers.

Maurice Estlebraun stroked his thick brown mustache outward in thought using his thumb and forefinger, surveying the scene. He had an intense face, a brow perpetually furrowed and a mouth like a razor’s cut, thin and sharp. His hair had gone years ago, even before he was consecrated. He wore the garb of the Gunpriests, white and red robes atop hinges and clasps of dull steel and worn leather.

As a Gunpriest of the Unified Church-States of the Judeo-Christian Order proper for the better half of his 39 years, Maurice had seen and smelled horrors such as this many times before. His Brothers in training at the Olde Sanctuary had told him stories… self-impalements, self-flayings, self-incinerations. The Demonkind would use these displays of mutilation as demoralizing examples, shock and awe. It is the first known instance of the Hellhounds’ adaptation of human combat tactics since the war began. It seemed so long ago now, so many lost and missing months as the fight spiraled into wanton destruction. So very many days in service to the Lord and his herd, so many hours since he had breathed in the hint of jasmine in her hair.

With an exhalation, Maurice grimly rose from his kneeled position and holstered his Crucifixion Device, the smooth golden hilt felt familiar as it slid down his palm and into its leather cradle. He closed his eyes and muttered a short prayersong for the deceased. Afterward his eye caught a glint in the death that laid before him.

A jolt of electricity shot from his gut to his throat.

Reluctantly reaching back down, he pulled the shining bauble closer to his face: a silver cross, its perfection starkly contrasting with the morbid surroundings of the cellar. Along the side, an engraving.

It read, “To my Rose: God is with you, even though I am not. I love you. -Maurice.”

The cross clanged as it hit the cold ground, a mark left on its face, never again the same.