The man in the middle of the chapel sat in silence.
His was a silence not of guilt, contrary to what the other two men in the room thought. The man stared at the small altar at the eastern end of the room. His face stoic as stone, his breathing a monotonous hiss. He sat on a chair too small, a child's stool. His large hands laid still and cuffed on his lap. They were caked in dried blood.
It was obvious that he was no ordinary man. His skin was a pale gray, devoid of the warm color of ordinary flesh; it was rough and scaly like untreated leather. Though currently matted in blood, his hair and beard were of a dark silver hue.
The two men with him were also quiet, but for a different reason. The moment they set eyes on this man they immediately knew who, or what, he is. The Greyscales were a warrior race that laid terror on these lands in days of yore, but the race had long since vanished, vanquished since the last days of the Worthless War.
Yet here they were, face to face with one. In a place of veneration for the Eight Gods, no less.
They've been here for much of the morning, sweltering, growing agitated with every passing minute. The two men wanted this to be over, and quick. They knew they were sharing a room with someone only spoken of in legends. They also knew they were sharing a room with a murderer.
One of the two, the large one wearing a clergyman's robe, stood up and walked towards the jalousie windows. A small crowd had gathered outside, murmuring and peeking between the wooden louvers. The bearded man sighed; the last thing they need is an audience. He promptly tilted the blinds shut, coloring the chapel a shade darker.
The other man is thin and weary-looking. He wore the uniform of the King's Constabulary, an unkempt version of it, at least, sans the jacket, which hung unwanted by the door. He opened the door ever so slightly and said something to one of his subordinates stationed outside. His constable nodded and walked towards the crowd. A few moments later, the noise outside faded.
As the mob dispersed, the men inside the room were left to their thoughts once again.
Nobody said a word for what seemed a long while. The chaplain removed his cap and placed it on the front desk, wiping and fanning his bald head with a handkerchief. Opposite him, the officer rolled a smokeleaf, lighting it with his tinder. He wondered how much longer they'd have to wait.
Four smokeleaves later, there was a knock on the door. Before anyone could reach the knob, a young woman entered, carrying a large metal case. She telegraphed her annoyance without much subtlety, but like everyone in the room, didn't utter anything as she dragged the thing towards the desk. The officer snatched his cap up just before the woman slumped the bulky case. The table creaked at the weight.
"Finally."
The voice cut the silence like a scythe through wheat. Everyone turned their head towards the speaker. It was the grey man. This is the first time they heard his voice.
"Thank you for granting this request, gentlemen… and lady," he said, the cuffs clinking as he clasped his hands together.
"Now I am ready to tell my story."