While most citizens of Calkus claim to be religious, there are few religious ceremonies that take place on a regular basis. There are no official churches or priests who spread the word of the Five-Faced God. Despite this, the tenets of the Five-Faced God, spread by oral tradition, form the basis of social norms and law in Calkus.

Extract from Calkus Religion by Ivus Selenas

Duke Cilirus sweated profusely as he sat at his desk. He wanted to wipe his brow but did not wish to bring any more attention to the undignified droplets that hung there, threatening to plunge down his face at the slightest movement. It was just too damn warm; the early summer sun beat down relentlessly through the solarium's gigantic glass ceiling panels. I don't know why she insisted on the Solarium anyway, he thought. We're in the Hinterlands, not the Royal blasted City.

"Duke Cilirus?" the envoy repeated patiently. He had a look of concern on his face. Perhaps he had noticed the sweat.

"Yes, yes," Cilirus waved his hand dismissively. "You'll have your money. My merchant friends from Narcys will be visiting in a few weeks and I imagine my investments will have paid off handsomely."

"Excellent," the envoy smiled and leaned back in his chair. Mention Narcys and they call off the attack immediately, the Duke thought, smiling to himself. His annoyance at the warmth killed his mirth quickly however. How was the damn diplomat managing to stay cool under his dark robes? Not a hair was out of place.

"Is there anything else?" Cilirus struggled to keep his voice level.

"Nothing. My master only wishes that you keep us foremost in your thoughts as soon as your investments mature." The envoy rose to his feet, pushed his chair towards the desk and bowed, all in one smooth motion. "Thank you for your hospitality, sir." The Duke nodded and rang a bell. A few seconds later, his servant arrived to escort the envoy from the building. Once they had left the room, the Duke wiped the sweat from his brow, but it brought him little relief. How the hell am I going to pay these debtors? he thought. The price I pay for normality. As soon as he heard the front door slam, Duke Cilirus filled his glass with the remnants of his last bottle of Numerian Brandy. After draining the glass in one gulp, he rang the bell again. The grey-haired servant arrived with his hands held behind his back. He raised an eyebrow at the empty brandy bottle.

"What can I do for you sir?"

"Oh, less of the attitude Bryn." Cilirus sighed. "I could use a drink. My dear Duchess' financial legacy continues to haunt me. Find something incredibly alcoholic for us."

"Right away," Bryn said with a smile.

The Duke awoke to a thunderous hammering. He was slumped over his desk, his face sticky with dried patches of Earthfire Whisky. He realised it was daytime; one could not hide from such facts in the Solarium. Somebody was at the door.

"Bryn!" he croaked, intending to buy himself enough time to splash some water on his face.

"Bryn?" the only reply was a long, meandering snore.

"Good for nothing servant," the Duke grumbled, rising unsteadily to his feet. "I might as well serve myself." Cilirus ambled over to the sleeping manservant and loomed over him.

"Bryn!" he screamed directly into his face.

"Whussat?" he moaned, waking with a start. "Morning already? Why haven't you answered the door?"

"Go and do your job, Bryn," he sighed. "Seat our guest and bring them a drink. In the lounge, this place is still too... sticky. I need time to make myself presentable." He did not wait for Bryn's reply, and disappeared into his chambers to prepare.

The Duke descended the shining marble stairs of his mansion. He looked infinitely more regal than he felt. He wore a black shirt with gold trim, sashed with a robust belt with a golden buckle, sombre, dark trousers, and soft brown leather boots. His light summer cloak fluttered behind him as he walked. As he did not yet know who he was greeting, he decided to dress as respectably as possible. His pounding head, dry mouth and constant sweating threatened to distract him from his duties. He paused for a moment before finally opening the door to the lounge.

"Ah, good day to you, sir," the Duke boomed, displaying a confidence he did not feel. The stranger did not stand. He met Cilirus' curious gaze with piercing eyes. He looked somehow too rough around the edges to be sitting in a noble lounge.

"And to you, I'm sure," the man spoke in a relaxed drawl. Cilirus realised that the man's entire manner was very relaxed. Unusual, when addressing a Duke.

"Duke Cilirus, at your service." He extended a hand; the stranger did not lean forward to accept the handshake. Instead, he took a long gulp from his glass of wine. The Duke could feel his blood rising at the stranger's impertinence.

"And may I have the pleasure of your name?" he said, struggling to control his temper.

"Not important." The stranger leaned forward in his seat and placed his empty glass on the table. "Can I have another drink?"

"Excuse me, sir, but I find your manner unacceptably rude. Please, state your business?" The stranger studied Cilirus for a moment before speaking. Another damn debtor? Cilirus thought.

"Fair enough," the stranger said. "We need you to join our sect."

"Your sect?" Cilirus laughed. "You haven't even told me your name, never mind what your sect involves."

"Again, not important," the stranger said. "We need your oath and your support, Duke. That's all there is to it."

"Well thank you kindly for the offer, but I'm not interested. I identify with the Five-Faced God. I'm surprised you don't already know this, considering I'm a Duke."

"I think you could be persuaded." The stranger smiled, revealing a row of brown teeth. "Tell me, Duke, why's it that you only have one servant? A man at that?" The Duke's outrage ebbed from him. There was no way he could know. Even his wife had not known.

"One servant is all I require to keep the household running. I see no purpose in spending the people's taxes on extra servants."

"How very noble of you," the stranger snorted. He smiled knowingly at Cilirus before responding.

"I wonder how the high council would take the news that you're fucking Bryn?"

"How dare you, slanderer!" The Duke replied, hoping the false outrage would cover his guilt. He knew very well how the high council would react; exile would be the least of his worries. Men more noble than him had hung for far less.

"We have proof," the stranger replied, picking dirt from his fingernails and wiping it on the chair. "You might as well drop the act, Cilirus. A few of your previous conquests are willing to testify against you."

"What do you want?" The Duke hissed.

"I've told you," the stranger laughed. "You don't listen very well for an educated man, do you?" The stranger slowed his speech, as if talking to a simpleton. "I want you to join our sect."

"That's out of the question," The Duke replied. "I would be charged with impiety either way."

"No, you won't. If you join us, nobody needs to know. You don't even have to come to our summons, if you choose. All you need to do is take the oath, and we will bury it forever."

"And what would you gain from this?" The Duke narrowed his eyes.

"I would win a bet." The man smiled broadly.

"Get the fuck out of my mansion," The Duke growled.

"Oh-hoh! That language is not befitting a Duke," the stranger laughed, then grew serious. "Meet me at the pier by the Old Road at midnight. If you don't show, we tell everyone who will listen about your filthy habits." With that, the man sauntered from the room, stopping briefly to bow mockingly at Bryn, who was waiting patiently outside the door. After he had left the building, Bryn walked into the lounge, watching the Duke with concern as he cradled his head in his hands.

"What happened?" Bryn asked.

"We're ruined," he sighed. "Well, I am anyway. Somebody has found out about us Bryn."

The moon cast a pale, forlorn light over the rickety wooden docks. The gulls observed a vow of silence as they swooped in lazy arcs above, as if they understood the gravity of the situation. Cilirus shivered as he gazed at the crystal waves lapping gently against the shore. The chill breeze was certainly a factor, but his fear ran colder than the night. Bryn crouched behind a stone wall by the dilapidated inn barely fifty metres away, a loaded crossbow cradled against his shoulder. Despite this, Cilirus had never felt more vulnerable. After what seemed like an eternity, the stranger wandered up with two hooded men.

"Fine evening for it, Honeylands Duke," he smiled, extending his hand. 'The Honeylands' was a mocking term, often used by Narcys nobles to describe the Hinterlands. It did not simply signify the large-scale honey production that took place in the Hinterlands; it also implied sickly sweetness, naive innocence, a lack of steel. The Duke met the man's eyes and ignored the gesture.

"So cold! Is that any way to greet a friend?" the stranger laughed. His associates remained silent. They looked incapable of emotion as they simply stared at the duke with glazed, inhuman eyes. The Duke's gaze kept wandering to the strange robes worn by the stranger's associates. They seemed impossibly familiar, as if they belonged to an important memory just beyond the grasp of his recall. A sharp sense of foreboding cut into him. Despite the chill of night, he found sweat forming on his brow, as if he was in another meeting in his stuffy solarium. Cilirus struggled to regain his composure.

"I don't have time for your games, stranger," Cilirus stated in as calm a tone as he could manage, "And I don't imagine you want to drag this out any longer than is necessary. Now why don't you stop wasting my precious time and tell me what I need to do to get rid of you?"

"Of course, your grace," the stranger replied. "Walk with me." Cilirus followed the stranger and, in turn, was followed by his two guards.

The Duke stood before an altar in a ruined building made of elder steel and thick glass. It was difficult to tell exactly where the building was located due to the darkness that had shrouded the surrounding woodlands during their journey. Cilirus could only estimate that they were a few miles north, along the coast, from Bellais. The ceiling was lined with rows of ancient glass-shrouded torches, which had supposedly been powered by some form of witchcraft. The current occupants had opted for more modern means of lighting, having attached their own torch sconces to the walls around the room. The spacing ensured that the centre of the room, housing the altar, was surrounded by light, yet in perpetual darkness. Ridiculous amateur dramatics. Cilirus watched as the stranger stepped up behind the altar and addressed the congregation.

"Brothers, sisters, family of the Rift!" he boomed, his earlier jovial tones replaced by a voice of pure command, "Tonight, Duke Cilirus of Bellais wishes to join our noble order."

This announcement was inexplicably followed by a frenzied chant of assent from the hooded congregation. When did I become so popular? Cilirus wondered. As he looked at the swarm of cultists, he was overcome with a powerful sensation of deja vu. It was just too familiar. The sense of foreboding returned. He had a sudden desire to escape. I wonder if Bryn managed to follow us? The stranger sidled up to him and whispered gently into his ear, each word dripping from his tongue like soft venom.

"Don't look so nervous. We're taking good care of dear Bryn."

So they had him in custody. No matter. Bryn could take care of himself.

"Just two more minutes of your time and you're free to go." The stranger raised his arms to the congregation, ready to continue his speech, but was interrupted by a hooded cultist. Cilirus noticed blood on the arms of the cultist's robe and despaired. Had Bryn struggled too much?

"Can't you tell we're in the middle of something, Brach?" the stranger hissed. The strange word, 'Brach', caught Cilirus' interest. It sounded ancient. Familiar, but not comforting. It was not a word he had knowingly heard in his lifetime.

"Master, the vessel has escaped. His guards are dead."

"Not my concern. Find him, bring him back, or kill him." With that, the stranger raised his arms again.

"Duke Cilirus, you wish to join our noble order?" he boomed.

"Er... I suppose so," Cilirus shrugged. The stranger smiled; the congregation did not appear to notice his reluctance.

"O great Azarr, the volcanic, personification of the endless Rift! It is I, Helios, your humble servant. Accept our offering; a new follower." The Duke flinched involuntarily at the mention of the name "Azarr". His blood flowed like an icy river through his veins. He felt unable to move, rooted to the spot. His only desire was to escape.

"Repeat after me," Helios boomed, his arms raised in rapture, "Sel dis seles, Cilirus, fenit."

The strange words sent a shiver up Cilirus' spine, but he felt compelled to reply. The silence was astounding.

"Sel dis seles," he hesitated, "Cilirus, fenit." All was quiet for a moment. Is that it? Cilirus thought, flooded with relief.

"Welcome to the family," Helios smiled. Cilirus collapsed against the altar. A thousand voices invaded his mind, screaming incessantly in a foreign language. They explored his body from within, gnawing away at his consciousness, devouring tasty morsels as they saw fit. The pain, the confusion, was too much. Cilirus hit the concrete floor. His consciousness faded as if lulled by the repeated chant of the congregation.

"Azarr sa mors. Azarr sa lase!"