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[Crane]

Sometime in the ungodly hours of most mornings, a lone, shadowy figure would approach and stop outside the gates of Nightmist's great monastery. Having been banished from their cause for having too great a tolerance for heathens, he wondered the realm alone with his Pagan daughter, still strong and unwavering to the faith, but modest enough to not set up his own church. A priest, who tomorrow would be an envoy to the cloth, unseen in the darkness of the monastery's walls, looked down from the dormitory window sorrowfully at the lone templar, otherwise invisible in the unlit street if it wasn't for his Sword of Light, faintly-glowing under its holy power that showed that while the church had banished him, the God had not.

"I just hope someone finds you before it is too late," he sighed before walking on. The priest looked on sadly, possibly the only other person who believed what that templar did, that the monastery had been infiltrated by a Blackguard. Others may have believed him too, but no-one dared to speak of it, for it was the templar's persistence and inability to turn a blind eye to habitual injustices that brought the dismissal down on him like a ton of bricks, especially coupled with what the church saw as hypocrisy because of his daughter's conflicting beliefs and his tolerance of them. With that, the priest returned to his bed, for he needed his rest to walk the great distances to the neighbouring cities tomorrow.

With the emissaries sleeping, awaiting the big day where they venture into the realm to spread the word, there was nothing to stop Bartholomew from revealing his true colours in the monastery's silent corridors. He positioned himself in the foyer and swept his sword in a large arc across the stone floor, chanting an arcane tongue, speaking louder and louder as a black, opaque miasma rose from the ground and enveloped him. His other enchantments will ensure that his voice does not travel to the dormitories, just in case there is a priest lurking around, so he could make his plague as powerful as he desired.

The miasma, alive and shifting, continued to cocoon him in its spherical shape, until it readily dispersed at one final, forceful shout. His plague was now formed, ready to find victims and spread its own word through a means far more efficient and infectious than the faith ever will be with its clerics and paladins, especially that irritating, excommunicated templar; what was his name, Gabriel Crane? He got it coming ever since his daughter Akané was revealed to be a white witch... such a corruption of the dark arts; and how dare Crane ever suspect Bartholomoew of being a Blackguard. Well, soon, even the élite templar caste will be equalised with the populace.

"All right, I'm bored," Bartholomew growled characteristically as he returned to the dormitories so as to not raise suspicion, dispelling his silencing charm along the way. He would leave tomorrow with the emissaries and return to his domain while the realm of the cloth, the Mage, the Pacifist and the Druid will become nothing but a land of ghosts. The miasma of plague spores closely flanked Bartholomew, who was, through some unknown means, immune to its effects. He smiled happily as he foresaw the bacteria settling on the beds of the emissaries, contaminating their robes, bibles and their lungs, and they would not know they have been infected with death until followers and infidels alike come to join the ranks of the dead.