The stranger from the south places her hand on her belt. The bounty hunters lying at the edge of the cliff watch as she draws two metal tubes, loading them into the 'chamber' of her handcannon. The startled herd continues to stampede, kicking up clouds of dust as they surge toward the valley below. It would take no more than thirty seconds, the bounty hunters thought, before this southern foreigner with her ocean-borne scent would be trampled into a pulp! Ha! Whether she was holding a firearm or a staff hardly mattered now. Unless she could summon a mountain— Flames. A thunderous roar. A natural stone arch between the cliffs is blast open, collapsing before their eyes as rocks tumble down to form a barricade. The frenzied herd yields to this greater force of nature, turns away, and leaves the canyon. The stranger keeps her handcannon raised, her gaze shifted towards the hunters above. 'Wait... we're not bandits. We can talk this out! Who are you?' 'A Messenger of the Iberian Inquisition.' A flying wasteland fowlbeast casts a shadow briefly over her. The petite Liberi Messenger places her hand on her belt. She draws a slender glass vial from her leather buckle, the silver liquid inside reflecting the same stormy light as her pupils. The relentless rain reminds her of storm surges crashing against the coastline, of wounded burdenbeasts abandoned by fleeing people, their screams only heard in the gaps between the thunderclaps. A Catastrophe Messenger who had turned to the Church. A few families missing in the storm. She knew that the responsibilities Iberia had entrusted to her would not vanish, even as she stepped down from her role as Inquisitor. She stops, lifting her head, letting the liquid slowly cover her eyes. On that not-so-distant night, when she witnessed the glistening sea crashing against the fortress, her mentor had handed her this potion. This way, the Flames of Castigation would not sear her eyes, not until Iberia's enemies were burned to the ground. By morning, she emerges from the woods, her wounds covered in ash. The children behind her hold their hands, blinking their reddened eyes. 'Who are you? Where are the others who went missing?' the people ask, a mixture of gratitude and fear in their voices. 'Irene, Messenger of the Iberian Inquisition,' she replies. 'Now, I have some questions of my own.' Irene places her hand on her belt. She pulls a metal canister marked with the Inquisition's seal from a little hook, and soon, reports and letters from Iberia covered your desk at Rhodes Island. 'Irene,' you can't help but ask, 'why is your belt always filled with so many items?' 'These?' She smiles. 'My mentor once told me that in the most critical times, we must carry the 'rations of an Inquisitor.' Look, here's a reload for my handcannon, this is an emergency potion, and here's a canister for sealing letters...' She spreads her arms, turning slightly. 'People only remember the Inquisitor's lantern and sword, but these, these are what sustain us—the 'rations' we rely on. Everything Iberia has is precious beyond measure. They are part of my responsibilities, and I shall never abandon them.