Bad Enough Dude to Rescue the President
Laure arrived about half an hour after Oriel had expected her to. No doubt intentional. Maybe it was a test of Oriel's faith. Or maybe the Inquisitor was double and triple-checking that it wasn't some manner of trap. Or any number of other reasons. It was not Oriel's place to question the ways of the Inquisition. They were the eyes and ears - and hands - of the Saint himself protecting the faithful from the disease of heresy and the threat of witchcraft.
"You sent for me." Stated Laure flatly, her monotone voice betraying not the sort of disinterested disapproval of Helena's monotone, but rather a sort of judgmental paranoia. The Witch Hunter was wearing a new outfit, not surprisingly given that the last one was rendered a fine confetti by the claws of the Succubi, one which, to Oriel's sinful pleasure, left a considerable amount of Laure's ample chest on display. "If you have called me here to personally confess your sins, then I sincerely hope that they are dire indeed that you would take my time rather than another's. It is, Oriel, a sin to waste the time the Saint has given us on frivolous matters."
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