Before him stood the very top echelon of the Cult. Those soulless men with hidden faces and blood red robes. Those voices full of malice were the ultimate puppet masters. Even Ossrik, who had been chosen by them, had to answer before the court of the Veilweavers.

"You seem to be quite an expert." A new cryptor addressed him, displaying his ashen wrinkled flesh as he spread his hands. "Some of us... harboured... our doubts..."

"But we have been convinced by evidence..." The second voice concluded. The owner stepped forward to take the sacred chalice with his long-nailed bony fingers and raise it to his veiled gaze. "By... exquisite evidence."

"Though...". Another of the voices interjected. "Our ambitions go far beyond collecting antiquities, Mr Sorom."

It made the Felid nervous not to be able to see the faces of those addressing him. Their voices seemed to be different shades of the same colour. As if they were several versions of the same person. They were all identical in height and build, dressed in blood purple and wearing sinister veiled mitres. They were like the multiplication of the same shadow. 

Without identity. No difference. No emotion.

"If you are not the best." Announced a new Lictor, "You are at least the most expensive. Your fees are not what can be called... 'usual'."

"Neither are your demands, Your Honours."

Ossrik smiled at the Felid's new display of insolence. Even in front of the Veilweavers, Sorom could not bury his pride.

"Tell us, Sorom..." The Veilweavers’ aura of power grew with the resonance of their withering voices. "What exactly is it that you bring us?"

"Your Honours know very well." He replied with the utmost politeness.

"Come on... Sorom..."

"You wish to impress us..."

"Show us your... qualities, your knowledge..."

"You crave glory..."

"This is the moment... Show that you are the ally we need..."

"Or... disappear..."

They knew how to penetrate his mind, his desires, his mood. As if their hidden eyes could empty his brain. In truth, Sorom really wanted to reveal everything he knew about this ancient and powerful artefact. For no other reason than to place himself above them. This malevolent cohort might have the accumulated power of generations, but they were nothing more than fanatics. He was the true scholar, the sage. It was his conviction that the Cult had no idea of the true nature of the Sacred Chalice. That for them it was nothing more than a glittering trinket. On the one hand, he wanted to laugh at the ignorance of these withered and pompous beings. On the other hand, he did not want to fall into a trap. The Cult was as slippery as a snake.

"It's a long story, Your Honours." He explained flatly.

"You have... the time, Master?

"All..."

"The time...

"in the world..."

There seemed to be no way out. Sorom hesitated for a moment. He was not not sure how to begin the story he had been requested to tell. The delay also gave him some time to gather his thoughts. He intended to pick out the key facts, names and dates. Then he would put them in a logical order before presenting them. It would be a mythological narrative. He would not bore them with exhaustive detail and explanations. He would tell these sinister figures a story. The one they wanted to hear. It might even be entertaining.

“According to the Sacramentias[1] the chalice was forged by order of the God Jerivha. Exactly how or when is unknown. There are no references to this fact anywhere else. Or at least, they have not yet been found." The Felid's voice returned with a firm tone. It had regained its usual confidence, erasing any trace of uncertainty. "Nor is it known to which masters the work was entrusted. But it must have been long long ago."

Sorom paused to check the expression on the only face in his audience that was unobscured, that of Pontiff Ossrik. He watched the Lionid in silence with a sickly grimace on his face. He did not say a word, nor miss a detail. If there had been a crowd of young apprentices present, they would not have paid as much attention to the story as these old withered figures.

"As I imagine this venerable audience knows, according to the accepted cosmogonies, Jerivha who was the father of Artos, and who in turn was the father of Yelm, was the God of Divine Justice in the time of the first elven kings. In those days, the lines between legend and reality blurred together and were difficult to delineate historically".

Sorom began to feel at ease. His discourse had managed to melt the enormous block of ice that the suspicion, fear and mistrust of his sinister listeners had created for him. All the talk of the past and its myths soon made him forget anything that might have overshadowed this or any other subject. Soon he ceased to speak directly to the shadowy pontiff or the solemn wall of robed men formed by the Veilweavers. He slowly paced back and forth, as he recalled passages from the Sacramentias and related them to his audience. His movements became more fluid and expressive, so much so, that on more than one occasion he seemed to be talking to himself.

"In those dark days of History." He continued. "Many of the servants who had aided the Prince Kaos in the mythical Divine Wars, then long past, were still at large and hunted by the followers of the Light. Maldoroth, the Flayed Prince, who according to legend was the first to be seduced and given the Gift of Kaos, seems to have been the most important of the Kaos Prince’s servants. At the very least, he was certainly the most dangerous or troublesome. It was he who probably caused the most problems for the rulers of those distant ages".

Sorom looked into space, as if oblivious to his sinister audience. Then he turned to his audience theatrically with a sparkle of excitement in his eyes. "It was then that Jerivha, Lord of Justice, Avatar of Divine Punishment, decided to intervene in the conflict in order to destroy Maldoroth once and for all, and wipe him from the face of the world." Sorom knew perfectly well that this was not really the case, but that did not matter. It was what these ignorant zealots wanted to hear. "It is said that, it was then, that he had the blessed Chalice forged. He called it the Sacrum, The Sacred One."

There was an imposing resonance to his words that added solemnity to his discourse. At the same time, he firmly raised his arm to the Chalice, gleaming and majestic on the golden tray upon which it had been placed.

"A sacred chalice. Indestructible by human means. The very essence of purity. With it, he intended to nullify the corrupting power of Maldoroth and remove his presence forever."

The Felid paused for a moment and stared defiantly into Ossrik's face. In the gloom of the chamber, Sorom had not noticed that the expression on the High Pontiff’s face had tensed slightly, in apprehension that Sorom’s insolence may go too far. But the eyes of the giant Felid were not really looking at him. They were lost in space, lost in his own thoughts and ideas. Sorom relaxed. He adopted a much calmer posture. With exquisite delicacy, he pulled his hair back into a ponytail and wrapped his long cloak around him, ready to continue.

"To ensure victory, Jerivha sent for twelve paladins, twelve knights skilled in combat. All brave men with a high sense of honour. Many answered the call. They were important nobles, experienced adventurers and powerful warriors. Even kings. He chose twelve." The Artefact Seeker's posture stiffened and he looked with confidence upon the spectral wall of Veilweavers. "Some were chosen from among the human warlords, which speaks for the importance of that race even in that distant time. The rest came from among the elven paladins, lords of the world at that time, if the stories are to be believed. With them he founded the Order of the Knights of Jerivha, the judges and executioners of the Divine Law. He gave them the Chalice of Sacrum and charged them with the task of finding and destroying Maldoroth".

Again, there was silence.

It was a profound silence, laced with a certain latent tension. The kind that comes from delaying the inevitable. "However, Maldoroth was not slain, nor even defeated." Sorom's voice had faded to a faint whisper, barely audible now. "In fact, the Knights of Jerivha, and even their mentor, underestimated the power of this primaeval demon. Maldoroth captured every single Jerivha hero, as well as the sacred chalice, which he perverted and corrupted with his rotting blood. He forced his captives to drink the same drained poison from his veins, and they lost their immortal souls forever, becoming black paladins of darkness. They have since been known as the Twelve Aatanii, the Scions of Maldoroth. Now tainted with darkness, the Chalice, like the ill-fated heroes, fell into the service of the Corrupted One. The weapon of light now served the enemy. And then darkness enveloped the land".

From the high domes, out of sight and lost in the shadows above, the powerful echo of the Felid's words could still be heard, as they resounded from wall to wall through the ornate chambers of the sanctuary. Sorom paused here. His throat felt parched.

"Tradition has it that Jerivha himself donned his heavy armour and took up his legendary weapons, the Spear and the Hammer. He set out to hunt the demon and the creatures he had helped to create. But all he found was death at the hands of his enemies. The cult of Jerivha ceased to exist. However, it was later found to have continued underground, forming a secret order that spread like wildfire across continents, races and peoples. They recruited the best of the best. It took a long time for them to become a legion. Their ultimate purpose was to destroy Maldoroth and his Aatanii, and restore the sacred nature of the Chalice of Jerivha. With so many eyes and ears working in the shadows, they eventually discovered the demon's lair and hunted him down. They found him alone, without the fierce defence of his dark paladins to protect him. Doriam Fittefürghs, general of the new Jerivha Knights, drove his spear through the demon's chest and tore out his heart. Legend has it that it fell to the ground and turned into a black stone."

Sorom took a deep breath. His heart was pounding, but he didn't know if it was from excitement or fear. After the pause, his words came out calm and collected.

"The chalice could not be destroyed, for it was designed to be indestructible. Nor could it be returned to its holy state, as with Jerivha dead, no one else possessed the necessary skills to do so. And above all, Maldoroth was not dead. He had only been defeated and put into a deep sleep. Only the power of the Chalice could destroy him. The new knights of Jerivha performed a ritual of imprisonment. They used the ill-fated Chalice to make the dormant state of the demon irreversible. He could not be awakened without the relic. The black stone taken from Maldoroth himself was used as a seal. It was split in two halves, making it easier to secure and more difficult for the demon's hosts to find. This is how Maldoroth remains dormant to this day."

The Felid felt a tingle down his spine. An unsettling realisation came to him. He began to understand the insane intentions of the Cult. By all the gods. "They want to awaken Maldoroth!" He said to himself. The Pontiff's wide staring eyes had taken on the aspect of a madman. They pierced Sorom as if they could see into his mind and read what he thought of them and their demonic fanaticism. The grave voice of one of the Veilweavers brought him out of his anguished reflections.

"So what happened... Sorom?" For the first time, the Felid was truly afraid.

He swallowed, took a deep breath and replied.

"They went after the twelve Scions of Maldoroth, who had formed their own army of servants they called Laäv-Aattani. They were like bad copies of themselves. For generations, the armed disciples of Jerivha hunted down and exterminated these vile creations of evil. One by one, the Scions themselves met a fate similar to that of their master. The Twelve were imprisoned in a secret chamber known as the Hall of Twelve Mirrors. With the Twelve captured and the last of the Laäv-Aattani exterminated, the sacred circle of Jerivha Knights turned to secure the custody of the sacred relics: the now cursed chalice, the seals that encased the Twelve, and the fragments of the Black Stone. They became the paladins of light, the guardians of orthodoxy, the protectors against all that would mean corruption. It is said that for centuries they were the backbone of the Empire and its Emperors, until the Emperors decided to dispense with their services. The Order of the Paladins of Jerivha returned to the shadows, to the secrecy from which they once sprang. Many claim that the Order simply disappeared. Others, however, claim that perhaps they still exist as they once did, in hiding, protecting their secrets..." Sorom fell silent, leaving the echo of his last words to linger in the thick atmosphere.

"That's all." Sorom announced with solemnity after a short pause.

"That... is all..." A hollow voice repeated. A dark stale echo that spoke with frightening certainty. "Until now, Mr Sorom... Until... now."

"Until now." The Felid repeated again, a storm of emotions swirling in his mind. He was filled with apprehension. They were beginning to play with fire here. Lord Ossrik rose from his elaborate throne. His guards did not move. Sorom stood for a moment, looking at this human of respectable stature and strong physique, whom the Felid vastly surpassed in size. 

"Very good. I enjoyed the story very much. You are a fantastic storyteller. The children would love you."

Sorom smiled with feigned satisfaction and bowed.  He was irritated by such remarks, which had no other purpose than to ridicule him. 'Rha also used to annoy him with sarcastic comments. But Ossrik was the one who paid his fees, so Sorom had no choice but to smile and put up with it.  That was the price of being a mercenary.

"We are not done yet, Master Sorom." The High Pontiff added, as he descended the steps leading down from the throne. Now our expert must advise us. Tell us what exactly can be done with the chalice, scholar."

The Felid looked at him with concern, doubt reflected in his eyes. He had not liked the tone in which Ossirik had uttered the word "scholar", nor did he like the real intent of the question.

"Oh... no... don't misunderstand us, Master!" A cryptor said, guessing where the Felid's thoughts were going.

"We know exactly what can be done with the Sacred One...” Said another.

"So try to be eloquent, Seeker, and don't leave out any details..." Added a third.

"Otherwise, it may make us... distrustful of you... and could sour our fruitful relationship." A new Lictor added maliciously.

"We must take care of certain... details.... You understand, don't you?" The first one finished.

Sorom silently cursed the vile cleric and his gallery of fanatics. The Felid rubbed his hands together and gave them another artificial smile before answering. In his heart, he knew the relic was useless, except as an ornament to be displayed. But to tell them that would leave him in an uncomfortable position. So he set about the task of pleasing his audience again.

"Technically, it's a key."

"Technically?"

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[1] The Sacramentias, also known as the Sacramental Chronicles, are important texts created by the Order of Jerivha. They are considered sacred by many, although they were originally a compilation of the Order's various campaigns in the lands of the Arrostänn (called Sacramentias, from which the Chronicles take their name). They are considered to be internal texts that at some point became public. Perhaps it was at this point that the Order needed to provide itself with a genealogy and a chapter on its origins, and it is here that the legend of its foundation, the creation of the Sacrum and the conflict with Maldoroth appear.