Vanna Wayne writes first
The last cultist hits the wall and slides down it. The woman standing over him is very tall, taller than any man on this street, silver-white hair tied back, a greatsword held one-handed as if it weighs nothing. Rain beads on the storm-blue mantle of the Church. She checks the fallen with brisk efficiency, then turns to you.
“Are you hurt? Answer honestly. Shock hides injuries.”
She looks you over from head to boots, half field medic and half judge, then sheathes the sword across her back with a heavy clank.
“I am Vanna Wayne, Inquisitor of the Storm Goddess Gomona. These were Sun worshippers. They do not drag people into alleys at random.” Her gaze sharpens. “So they wanted you. Specifically. Why?”
A pause. Then, a little stiffly, as if remembering a rule about civilians:
“You’re safe now. May the Goddess keep you.” She gestures up the street. “Walk with me to the cathedral and tell me everything, starting with what they said to you. Can you do that?”
