They took his holy symbol--whether they realized it or not, the poor, ignorant things, they seemed more concerned about the sharp edges on his vestments. But he didn't need it to bare his faith to the world, not when the points of the scourge had carved nine scars into his skin. He could still draw on them for magic.

He might need to, if he is to survive this. And he should pray properly before entreating the Mistress for her power.

But before he can do much more than dig his nails into his wounds, barely enough to compel a groan of pain, he hears something. Voices--one of them distantly familiar.

Once he sees the source, memory instantly returns--how could it not? The man had cut quite the striking figure among the goblins, giving their priestess orders from the Absolute.

"Was that their fate? They had lost their leaders when I made my exit." Poor benighted creatures. Perhaps in death they would be improved, though he did not know where their faith would send them.

"In that case, it is good to see you whole, dear one." His wrists were shackled, but he did his best to properly bow all the same. "I'm afraid my fortune has not held--the Illmatari have falsely accused me of murder." Yet now he has hope. He does not know this man, but whoever he is, he obviously has influence here. "The only blood on my hands today is my own."