I found an Inquisitor in Granada, with a taste for finding heresy in the young and comely, and for confirming it with the breaking of their bones and the tearing of their flesh, and finding his own ecstasy in the wrecking of beauty and the burning of what remained. Such men are common, but this one noticed that the more he killed, the fewer white hairs there were in his tonsure, the less the veins and liver spots stood out in hands that shook less and had a firmer grip.
People do not even need to know of the Rituals to practice them.
His colleagues noticed him with jealous eyes and half-formed suspicions, but he renewed his asceticisms and fastings and vigil and they cast their suspicions elsewhere. Yet the more he starved and watched, his eyes grew brighter in the shadow of his cowl and his lips and cheeks more full and red.
They would have found and burned him in the end perhaps, or he would have grown so strong that he would have torn the Holy Office to shreds about him, but I have no patience for experiments. And did not wait to find out which.
No, I did not break him on his own wheel or rack, or with his own thumbscrews. A clean thrust to the heart; what do you take me for?
So, 1200 words is a nice chunk to have done today - going to Amanda Palmer tomorrow so I may not get much done then.