The year is 606, and in your home— the country of Corcaea— the souls of mankind belong to demons.
Catalyst Quest is a dark fantasy epic that follows the adventures of a compassionate, self-sacrificing priest warped by divine power. In this original, apocalyptic setting, the Gods are real, and within every man, woman and child lurks a phenomenon that can transform men into monsters: the Catalyst. You assume the role of Father Richard Anscham, leader of the Church of Mercy, and it is your mission to cure mankind of this monstrous affliction. In this genre-spanning adventure, get ready to face horror, action, mystery, romance, and to conquer your personal demons.
Each book of Catalyst is self-contained with its own cast of characters, locations, and themes! The mystery, action, and recovery filled book, Panacea, is the most recent and is the recommended starting point for new readers.
This is the revised archive of Catalyst Quest, a dark fantasy epic following the adventures of a compassionate, self-sacrificing priest warped by divine power: Father Richard Anscham, leader of the Church of Mercy. In this original, apocalyptic setting, the Gods are real, and within every man, woman and child lurks a phenomenon that can transform men into monsters: the Catalyst. It is your mission to cure mankind of this monstrous affliction, and to conquer your personal demons.
Catalyst Quest had been running daily on /qst/ since September, 2019. Once the live version of the quest had reached a satisfying and organic conclusion to current events (at the end of Arc 7: The Night of Embers), I moved us here to Sufficient Velocity! This herculean endeavor was to transfer, revise, and add to Catalyst Quest's original archive. I have finally been able to present the formatting, images, and features of the quest as originally intended. If you would like to see the unedited archive, it is available here: sup/tg/ - /qst/ Archive
This project took a total of 107 days from start to finish, to migrate all 1.6 million words of text, 555 songs and more images than I can count. The final threadmark (Closing Remarks and Live launch Info) contains more information on the end of the project!!! As each arc is a unique story with its own characters, locations, and story, I strongly recommend that if you want to participate in current events that you check out the most recent thread: Death Defiant and Panacea!
Many incredibly kind individuals (current readers and followers of the quest) assisted with proofreading as well as providing moral support while undertaking this archival project. If you would like, feel free to DM me with any questions, or contact me via Discord. Our server hosted the backend of the revision project, and still provides update notifications, fan projects, and more. Join the 𝗖𝗮𝘁𝗮𝗹𝘆𝘀𝘁 𝗤𝘂𝗲𝘀𝘁 Discord Server!
Thank you for showing your interest in Catalyst Quest! Your participation is priceless. Feel free to follow my Patreon or donate to my Ko-fi if you'd like to show some additional support.
This is a story-only thread. Please refrain from posting.
Please note: Not only will our story shift genres and locations often— it's through a troubled, anti-heroic and unreliable narrator that we most often put the 'dark' in 'dark fantasy.' Please be aware that Catalyst Quest addresses themes that may be distressing to some readers. Addiction, self harm, eating disorders, the effects of prolonged confinement, abusive relationships, and suicidal ideation are to name a few.
Reader discretion is advised.
CATALYST QUEST
Table of Contents
Threadmark
Arc and Chapter
Arc 1: The Ruins
Prologue
1
Chapter 1: The Gods are Merciful
1.1
Chapter 2: Intoxicating Weakness
1.2
Chapter 3: Along the Waterway
1.3
Chapter 4: Storm
1.4
Chapter 5: Toxic Charms
1.5
Chapter 6: Cinders of the Occult
1.6
Chapter 7: Acrimony
1.7
Chapter 8: Endure
1.8
Chapter 9: Dedication
1.9
Chapter 10: Mercy
1.10
Chapter 11: A Promise
1.11
Chapter 12: Memento
1.12
Chapter 13: Soil and Whiskey
1.13
Chapter 14: Still as Stone
1.14
Chapter 15: Blood and Bile
1.15
Chapter 16: Dread
1.16
Chapter 17: The Heart of Humanity
1.17
Chapter 18: The Stairs to Ostedholm
1.18
Chapter 19: The Library
1.19
Chapter 20: Knowledge's Price
1.20
Chapter 21: Sanity
1.21
Chapter 22: Short on Time
1.22
Chapter 23: Impostor
1.23
Chapter 24: Gallows Humor
1.24
Chapter 25: Once Sacred
1.25
Chapter 26: Prurience
1.26
Chapter 27: The Descent
1.27
Chapter 28: White Gold
1.28
Chapter 29: Indomitable
1.29
Chapter 30: Sincerity
1.30
Chapter 31: Broken Spirits
1.31
Chapter 32: The Messenger
1.32
Chapter 33: Closer
1.33
Chapter 34: Leap of Faith
1.34
Chapter 35: Children of Mercy
1.35
Chapter 36: Disgraced
1.36
Chapter 37: The Lord's Forest
1.37
Chapter 38: Explicit Festivity
1.38
Chapter 39: Yech the Disgusted
1.39
Chapter 40: A Little Hospitality
1.40
Chapter 41: Loosened Up
1.41
Chapter 42: Begone
1.42
Chapter 43: Fast Friends
1.43
Chapter 44: A Personal Account
1.44
Chapter 45: A Change of Heart
1.45
Chapter 46: Generosity
1.46
Chapter 47: A Man Possessed
1.47
Chapter 48: Dignity
1.48
Chapter 49: Red Light
1.49
Chapter 50: Pandemonium
1.50
Chapter 51: Enjoy the Show
1.51
Chapter 52: Heart's Desire
1.52
Chapter 53: At Your Expense
1.53
Chapter 54: Composure
1.54
Chapter 55: The Feeling is Mutual
1.55
Chapter 56: Listen (Reader discretion advised.)
1.56
Chapter 57: Take a Bow (Reader discretion advised.)
1.57
Chapter 58: Forget Me Not
1.58
Chapter 59: How Was She
1.59
Chapter 60: Define "You"
1.60
Chapter 61: The First Step
1.61
Chapter 62: Sympathy
1.62
Chapter 63: A Lighter Soul
1.63
Chapter 64: Bitter Champagne
1.64
Chapter 65: Making History
1.65
Chapter 66: Parting Gifts
1.66
Chapter 67: Oversight
1.67
Chapter 68: A Helping Hand
1.68
Chapter 69: Fear No Evil
1.69
Chapter 70: Restraint
1.70
Chapter 71: Lean On Me
1.71
Chapter 72: Unity
1.72
Chapter 73: Golden Wrath
1.73
Chapter 74: The City of Darkness
1.74
Chapter 74.5: Mental Map - The Ruins of Ostedholm
The town square is silent as the grave. Hundreds of peasants await your first sermon, standing obediently and waiting for you to speak. Your knuckles are white from clutching your holy symbol of Mercy so tightly. The story of the Catalyst has been told to you so many times, but it feels like a distant memory compared to the screams ripping across the town square.
Though the people standing before you remain paralyzed in religious observance and fear for their lives, those who remain on the periphery of the village are anything but. Your fellow priests— hands clutched in prayer— attempt to extract the unwilling from their homes as the rest of the town patiently awaits them. To try to intervene with their work could mean the death of the entire village. There isn't a man, woman or child before you that doesn't understand the might of the Church.
The year is 600, and in the country of Corcaea, the souls of mankind belong to demons.
Luckily for the people, the Gods are very real. The crowd stares at you with a mix of complete devotion and abject terror as you move to begin your sermon early. Father Edmund, your mentor, nearly jumps with fright as your timid voice begins. He grasps your arm to try to stop you. "Richard, give them some more time. Think of those in the back of the crowd."
You break away from his grasp, and step up into view. The rickety wood under your feet groans even under your slight frame. You are thinking of the crowd. Chronic headaches. Bullying. How hard your pious parents struggled to protect you. You grew up here, in the little village of Pontos. You think of the boy who tried beating you to death. How you were sure to be killed for breaking every bone in that boy's body with a simple prayer to Vengeance. The Church of Mercy's intervention. How you were taken from your home, your parents, and were certain you would never come to this place again.
The screams intensify, as the sound of metal on flesh pierces the silence of the crowd. It elicits a sob from one man far at the back. Countless peasants around him rush to shush his outburst.
"I know you are afraid," you say quietly.
The crowd falls completely silent again.
You keep your eyes downcast on your holy symbol. It's a pair of outstretched hands. The timidness in your voice breaks as you lift your eyes over the crowd, and call out to them instead. "There is no need for fear. Your King, your Gods, and the Church of Mercy are here with you today. My name is Brother Anscham, and I am here to tell you about the Catalyst."
Scanning the crowd for any dissenters, you confirm the worst case scenario. Just beyond the edge of the square, your fellow priests are forced to back up towards the crowd. A mass of writhing, twisted flesh that was certainly once a man is visible. It seems to be in too much agony from the priests' ministrations to be of much harm— but there is no telling how many more citizens were inside of the village... or if the priests will be able to keep it down.
>A] You are gifted, and have the closest ties to the God of Vengeance out of any of the clergy of Mercy. Break into the crowd, abandon the sermon, and deal with the demon yourself.
>B] Continue with the sermon. Preventing further panic is crucial, and all of these people are looking to you to maintain control over the service. Tell the people about the Catalyst. The other Fathers are trusting you to do your job— trust them to do theirs.
>C] These people tormented you and nearly got you killed as a child. You don't owe them anything. Make every attempt to save your fellow priests with the help of the Goddess of Mercy, but do nothing to save the crowd.
You keep your eyes firmly on the newly born demon as you speak to the crowd. The writhing mass of flesh is almost immobilized by the prayers of the other priests. Time will tell if it stays that way.
The strongest of demons are often unaffected by the Gods. This isn't even an imp, let alone a demon of much strength. You remind yourself that it's purely a matter of your fellow priests' will holding out. Their conviction seems strong, and they show no signs of wavering yet.
No matter how strong your feelings are towards these people, you cannot forget the teachings of Mercy.
Not now.
"Listen!" Your voice projects across the square towards the men and women in the back. Panic is thick in the air, but you spread your arms out in front of you, commanding their attention. "The Gods— in their infinite wisdom— saw fit to create us. They made us as shells. To serve them. To project their will! We are hosts! But—"
You pry your eyes away from the demon in order to better scan the crowd. The pause in your speech cuts through the panic like a knife while your congregation listens intently.
"We are hosts not only to the Gods. As vehicles for sin, we can become monstrosities through Magic— and even become demons." You raise your arms skyward. "Long ago, before King Magnus 'the Merciful' brought salvation to this land... in a time before there was time, there it STILL was: the Catalyst. Those who could not restrain themselves, and who could not control their inner turmoil let loose their pain on our world." You point, and accuse the demon at the back of the crowd. "Look! NOW! Look, all of you! THIS is what you can become."
Several men and women brings their hands to their faces to muffle their cries. The creature has been reduced to a smoldering mound of flesh, thanks to the priests continued ministrations. Their hands are grasped tightly around their holy symbols— sweat dripping off their faces— as they frantically advance towards the creature. Steam trails thinly off of its body.
"Look!" No doubt those still hiding in their homes can hear you. "Death and suffering is ALL that awaits those who scorn the Gods! The Catalyst is inside each and every one of us. It will never leave. Not so long as you turn a blind eye to your duty! You owe it not only to your King, your country, and your countrymen— you owe it to yourselves to quell your inner darkness!"
Silence retakes the town square. Father Edmund gives you a reassuring look from below the eaves you stand precariously upon. His gaze snaps across the square with sudden alarm. You nearly let out a gasp.
The peasants that were hiding in their homes heard you, alright. There's three more demons shambling towards the crowd. You need to act quickly.
>A] Ask Father Edmund if he would aid you in destroying the three demons. Father Edmund is one of the most powerful servants of Mercy— together, you will probably survive. If nothing else, you will buy some time for the crowd to escape.
>B] Command the crowd to exit and lead them to safety while your fellow priests attend to the demon outbreak. You've done an incredible job today, and it will be for nothing if your congregation doesn't survive to tell of it.
>C] Write-in.
A trickle of sweat creeps down the side of your face. The demons are rapidly approaching. Father Edmund is violently tearing into the crowd, in a desperate bid to reach your fellow priests more quickly.
You bellow, "let him pass!"
The command parts the crowd for your mentor. All he offers in thanks is a glance over his shoulder, before charging into the fray. He paints a gallant picture with mace and shield in hand. All three of the demons are growing in size by the moment.
Your fellow priests are already exhausted. Sweat and horror drenches them as they turn away from the singular, destroyed, and fleshy remains of just one demon.
The three new monstrosities are making a bee-line for your clergymen. Swallowing hard, you nervously fiddle with your holy symbol.
Mercy give me strength.
"If you value your very souls— if you wish to live— come away from this carnage! Follow me to the crossroads!"
The tail end of your speech ends as you jump down from the wooden scaffolding. Even at your substantial stature, it's impossible to see the rest of the Fathers in the distance. Pushing your way through the crowd, you can just make out the heads of demons over those of countless peasants.
A quiet panic builds through the waves of bodies you're surrounded by. Screams rise from the back. Despite the Church of Mercy's best efforts, their resolve has been broken. Demons have reached the crowd.
You push through the throng as best as you can. Father Edmund had forced you to take a shield and mace today, and you're seriously debating using it. The words of reassurance you call out fall on deafer and deafer ears.
There are simply too many people, and the smell of blood is on the air. A wave of terror crashes against the furthest reaches of the crowd. Something has happened, but it's impossible to see what. A woman's voice echoes over the building terror in the crowd. "He's got the PRIEST!"
A cacophony of panic follows. A bulwark of humanity kills your march towards the crossroads. Dread settles in the pit of your stomach.
I will die here if a human stampede ensues.
"WE'RE ALL GOING TO DIE HERE!"
"I HAVE A CHILD, PLEASE—"
"LET ME THROUGH!"
>A] You are only one man, in a sea of panic. The church is your life, and you would never abandon it. Pray to Storm— to smite the demons, at the risk of killing many innocents.
>B] Stick to trying to herd the crowd. This is still manageable. You knew some may die, but many more can be saved. Fight your way back to the scaffolding, and pray to Mercy to calm the crowd. Surely they can still be ushered safely away.
>C] Write-In
Part of you enjoys violence. It makes you scared each and every time. You don't want to lose yourself. Still, these are desperate times. You've done worse things, and you have yet to lose yourself completely. An imperceptible smile crawls over your face as your hands stop trembling, and you tighten your grip on a mace and shield.
A man nearly knocks you over in his rush to escape. The smile across your face widens as you shout, "STEP ASIDE!" and slam your shield into his face.
As the peasant falls— clutching at his nose— you can see the demons still growing in the distance. Their forms begin to tower over the heads of your fellow men. It takes a few minutes of agonizing, precious violence ("I SAID STEP ASIDE!") to reach the wooden platform. The rickety, rotten structure sways dangerously against the waves of people pressing against it. You've never been so grateful to make use of your sickly frame.
You leap onto the platform, and instantly get your footing. Both hands are clasped together in prayer as blood pours forth from your palms and mouth. Sheer force of will keeps your knees from buckling. It is not blood loss, but euphoria that takes you. A Goddess works through your fractured mortal coil to influence the writhing mass that's become the village of Pontos.
Everyone— even the demons— stop moving for a moment as you finish the prayer. Blood is flowing freely from your hands, and you can taste copper on your lips. Finally, the congregation begins to slowly flow out of the village. Their trance could last days, or seconds. It doesn't matter. "The Gods are Merciful—" you say, before collapsing.
Chapter 1: The Gods are Merciful "The greater the goal, the greater the sacrifice."
Five years have passed since saving the lives of three Fathers of Mercy and hundreds of citizens of Corcaea. Thrust into the spotlight, you've been trained in reading, writing, and the art of medicine. The hope is that your gifts will enable you to explore the ruins that litter the land. Legend tells of unimaginable secrets lost among their many stone halls.
The pack you carry is altogether too heavy for your emaciated frame. Cartography equipment, over 50ft of rope, 10 days of food rations and torches, and all of your medicinal herbs.
Ray, your faithful mastiff, barks happily from time to time as you trek deep into the wilderness. Over several days of hard marching, you see fragments of the ruins everywhere. Monuments to lost Kings. Statues in the image of the Gods. Strange carvings. Collapsed stone columns.
This will be your greatest pilgrimage. You know that the nobility is intensely interested in your mission, but you have your own reasons for exploring the ruins.
>A] To prove to yourself that you have control over your impulses. Violence will not dominate you, and you surely will need it in the ruins. You are on a mission to truly become a pacifist and to meet challenges with Mercy.
>B] To explore your darker inclinations, in an environment where there will be no accountability. You have longed to grow closer to the God of Vengeance since you were a young boy. You are on a mission to embrace yourself, and learn more about what it means to be human... without losing yourself in the process.
>C] To chart the ruins. You legitimately are fascinated with the history of your country, and you wish to serve your King and country. By keeping a level head and doing your duty, you may gain great knowledge.
>D] To learn of the Catalyst. If there's anywhere that could answer your questions about the nature of man, it's within the ruins. You wish to find a cure to humanity's affliction. Could there be a nobler goal?
>E] Write-in
There couldn't be a more noble goal than to search for a cure to humanity's greatest affliction: The Catalyst. Of course, you aren't the first human to have the idea. Many men and women go missing in the ruins each year, despite legend of the danger within. The few who have returned are usually scarred and traumatized beyond all recognition. Your heart is unusually light, given the threat of such danger. You know that you go forward not just for yourself, but for humanity. It's a good feeling.
You have to strain your neck to look up as you approach an unmistakable entrance to the ruins. Ray barks as he runs back and forth outside of the colossal stone passageway. Light seems to disappear as it approaches the only entrance. Massive, decaying stone tablets line the archway, its overgrowth, and all the walls around it. The walls are etched with countless inscriptions in a language that you do not recognize, despite your teachings. It doesn't help how weather-worn every letter is. On and around the odd runes and mysterious language are many carvings of strange beasts. Thanks to your experience in the field, you know these to be demons.
Your eyes continue to gloss over as the walls of the ruins stretch on and out into the forest. There are hundreds of depictions of winged creatures, masses of flesh, and oddly humanoid beasts.
Demons upon demons.
Your skin grows cold, despite the relative heat outside. You are no coward, but you sense that there is great danger ahead. Nevertheless, you must press on.
Approaching the entrance to the ruins, you dig a torch out of your pack and try to illuminate what's inside. Smoke and sparks flicker into the the entrance. It stretches on into a long, stone corridor. No existing sconces, lanterns, or other sources of light can be seen. Colossal carvings continue endlessly along the walls, ceiling, and floor. Within the shapes of demons and humanoid figures alike is more of the unintelligible writing. It ranges from small script, to over-sized letters larger than even your broad hands.
It is terribly dark ahead, and you know your light is limited. You'd better get moving.
>A] Command Ray to lead as you go into the ruins.
>B] Walk side-by-side with Ray.
>C] Lead, and have Ray follow you.
>D] Write-in.
"Here, boy!" Ray bounds towards you with his tail wagging happily. You pat the side of your leg, then lead a hand in front of his nose. "Follow me. Keep your nose out for trouble."
Your companion drops all pretense of play, and follows you obediently as you begin walking into the ruins. The light is a blessing, as there are countless pieces of rubble littering the floor. Within minutes of leaving the surface behind, the darkness becomes intense. Without a light source, you would be in serious trouble. Before you is only a small source of flame, and behind you lies nothing but shadow.
The light from the torch is waning. You can tell thanks to the notches in its side that an hour has passed by. The passage into the ruins has a steady decline, and you are having a harder and harder time keeping your footing. The soil is getting softer and moister, and you see more moss growing along the walls. The runes and carvings appear as if they had just been created. Sharp edges and crisp detail looks as though this passage has been untouched by the ravages of Time Herself.
Ray seems anxious as you continue walking. There are no signs of any human life. Thorough examination of the walls and floor does reveal that something is living down here.
Spiders. Only due to the light of your torch can you notice any of the small and thin webs. With your deeper procession come a deeper and thicker series of webs. Before long, it's impossible to find your footing. Ray struggles to step among the carpet of small spiders and densely woven webs. You see a few of the arachnids and their nests have already caught on his coat.
Thankfully, the passage opens up ahead. If you can find some way to cut through these webs...
>A] Use your mace to swat them away. It will probably be a nightmare to clean later, but it surely will be worth it.
>B] Use some of your water supply and oils to dissolve the webs. The water is precious, but if absolutely necessary you can try praying to Agriculture or Mercy for more.
>C] Melt some of the webs with your torch. They're dusty, you know they won't ignite, and it might make the situation horrifically worse, but you are reluctant to use anything else.
>D] Write-in
This will be a nightmare to clean later, but it should be worth it.
Ray respectfully keeps his distance when the mace comes out. You carefully start swatting at the webs. They collect rapidly, while carving out a practical path forward. The grip on both the mace and torch tightens upon reaching the opening in the passage.
A colossal chamber stands before you. Dense, red, wet webs are strung from the high and smooth ceiling, down to the mossy floor below. A slight descent blocks most of the branching pathways here from view. So far as you can tell (from your poor vantage point) there is an exit here. The sharp ascent to your right has no light to speak of. Venturing forward reveals no life or additional features in the cavern, save for the density of the webs deeper in.
Your mace gets stuck. The iron handle of your altogether-too-heavy weapon is pulled on with all your might. It's wedged deeply within the webs. Either you're weaker than you thought, or...
"This was not made by something of this world."
The muttering to Ray under your breath is met with a snarl. Your eyes snap towards a hulking mass that moves in the corner of your eyes. The shadow may have come from one of the furthest corridors, and you know it couldn't have been a trick of the eye. Heart racing, you try pulling on the mace again. Your hands are so sweaty, it's hard to tell if it gave slightly or if it was just your hands slipping. Stone scraping against stone scrapes against the deep and rumbling voice from the north.
"There's no use running..."
A chill runs down your spine, and you feel a spider crawl up your sleeve. Ray's coat bristles as he snarls and drools, practically begging you to attack the source.
Oh, Mercy.
>A] Hold your ground. This mace is your only physical weapon. You are no coward. Let this creature come, and find a way to press on!
>B] You're not suicidal. The shadow of this thing is easily as wide as you are tall. Get the hell out of there while you and Ray still stand a chance.
>C] Command Ray to attack while you swat the spider that crawled up your sleeve. The red tint on those webs definitely did not come from the moss down here.
>D] Write-in.
"Come on." You grit your teeth. "It's going to take a lot more than this to make me turn around." Readjusting your grip on the mace's coarse handle is scraping your palms raw. One more attempt to wrest it free makes it slip slightly, but there's no time to linger over releasing it. Abandoning the attempt, you swing your shield high with a shout. "Ray!" His ears perk up, and he moves to obey before the command leaves your lips. "BEHIND ME!"
A behemoth of a demon skitters out from the darkness. Its stony face is a mockery of both man and spider. Hundreds of beady black eyes shine against your torchlight. A split jaw is curled back in a rictus grin. Eight meaty legs bring the monstrosity ever-closer as it dances along its many webs. Shrouds of blood-red gore and decay prevent you from seeing where the stone of its face and torso ends, and the arachnid's fleshy lower legs begins. The boulders of its teeth and the mountain of its body eclipses your sight, the chamber, and all light. Darkness takes hold as it creeps up, above you and Ray, and onto the ceiling with impossible dexterity and speed.
Kneeling down, shield high, you fight to not retch at the odor of rot. Ray has yet to move. You'll die before letting this demon get so much as a glimpse at him. "Good boy."
The steady drip of Ray's saliva is the only sound for many long moments, while he bares his teeth. He'll readily tear through rock and flesh alike to protect you. The sight of your boy slowly fading into darkness makes you realize what the demon has been waiting for.
Your torch is running out.
>A] Put up your shield and light another torch as quickly as possible. If you're going to fight this thing, you're going to need to be able to see it. Command Ray to attack the demon if you absolutely need to, but don't let your guard down.
>B] Let the light go out, and hold your ground with your shield up. You need that mace back, and you'll likely need time to get it out. Try talking to the demon.
>C] Write-in
You can't afford to be in complete darkness. It pains you to do so, but you take your eyes off of the demon and Ray for the briefest of moments to get another torch out of your pack.
Stale air rushes forward as the colossal demon lunges to attack. While the embers of your torch threaten to go out, and you are embraced in darkness, you let loose a single shout. "RAY!"
He faithfully leaps in front of you, snarling for a few excruciatingly long moments. While you light the new torch with the embers of the old, all that can be heard is your hound barking. His teeth gnash ahead of you. Embers are stoked into flame. Casting your light ahead and bringing your shield up once more is a challenge thanks to how severely you're shaking.
Ray is just ahead in the cavern, bound in web and biting aggressively at his bonds. It's righteous anger that has you scream at the demon and take a bold step forward. "What have you done?!"
A wave of terror hits you as you realize you've lost your temper, and you nearly drop the torch as you try to cover your mouth.
At the sight of your panic, a cacophony of laughter answers, mixed painfully in with the sound of an avalanche. The only boulders that are falling are the teeth that slowly descend from the ceiling to leer at you. "Come and see," the voice drawls— harsh as stone, and sickeningly sweet. "Come and see your pet, ensnared like so many before. Keep coming... deeper into my web. See how far your heroism takes you."
Tears well in your eyes. Mercy forgive your language, but no one fucking touches your dog.
>A] Pray to Vengeance to ensnare the demon, as it's ensnared Ray.
>B] Pray to Vengeance to inflict the same suffering on the demon as its inflicted on "so many before." This is dangerous— the greater the effect of a prayer on another, the greater the effect on you. But NO ONE touches your dog.
>C] Try to threaten the demon. You don't know its strength, and it doesn't know yours. Bluffing might just be enough to get safe passage, and you have a very long way to go. It is unwise to invoke the Gods unless absolutely necessary.
>D] Write-in
The tears in your eyes threaten to spill over as the demon taunts you. You feel like a child again— like the little boy in Pontos who was bullied and beaten so many times before. You think back to your parent's teachings, and how they cautioned you so many times against praying to the Gods for trivial matters. Fear was on them each and every time they warned you. They tried to hide it, but they knew all along what you were capable of.
You have always been so close to the Gods. Your devotion has been unwavering from the first day you asked Vengeance for guidance. Your first prayer to the God of retribution is clear in your mind. The desperation that you felt. The way that you begged for deliverance from the beatings and suffering inflicted on you. When Vengeance broke every bone in that child's body through you— that very same righteous fury completes you now.
There's no tears now. You slowly set the torch down on the floor beside you, without parting your gaze from the demon for an instant. Burnt dust and the smell of smoke catches on the air. Both of your trembling hands clasp together, as you pray to the God of Vindication.
The first words that leave your lips catch in your throat. A stream of black bile and blood begins to ooze from your mouth. The acrid and thick liquid pools from your lips to your chin, while Ray whines and gnashes against the bonds ensnaring him. The sight of your boy bound and helpless redoubles your anger— and with the spike in your anger comes a spike from the liquid produced by the invocation.
The jet-black liquid swirls and takes on a violent shape. The sight and sour smell of the weapon grows fainter by the second. Only the heat of the torch beside you provides an anchor to reality. Lifetimes upon lifetimes of slaughter are dragging you down into an abyss of hatred.
Vomit pools at the back of your throat with the taste and sight of this demon's victims. A web spins time after time in endless darkness. There is no Mercy here. This creature has lured thousands into this dark hole, never to be seen again. Men, orcs, elves, halflings— neither race nor identity nor purpose matters. Nothing save for the time before becoming a demon. A time of life, and a deep love of violence. Passion for slaughter. The sharp and quick fall beyond the abyss, into the state it is in now.
There's something more.
You feel the call of the Catalyst.
A scream rips itself out from your throat, and is choked into the flood of liquid pain that's been steadily produced by the invocation. You stagger, struggling to keep your balance as the bile and blood dissipates around you. Weakness parts your hands from their hold against one another, and you frantically look around for the demon. Vengeance would not work through you. Not against a creature this powerful and ancient.
Laughter echoes throughout the ruins. You discard all pretense of self-preservation, and rush forward. "RAY! HOLD ON—!"
Your torch comes out, purely to tear through the webs to get to your dog. As your pulse is racing, the demon is content to wait in the shadows. Reaching Ray takes only a few moments, though the torch is ruined. In the deepest of night, you use your bare hands to rip the webs off from your boy. A low, red light emanates from the spider's work all around you. It grants you just enough sight to see the demon suddenly descend.
The weight of the world is surreally suspended directly above you, while the demon leers closely enough to see the moss and grit between its stony teeth. If your mace was still in hand, its split maw would be only just out of your reach. There's no mistaking that this behemoth could kill you now— if it wished. In an impossibly low voice—lower than the depths of the earth— the demon speaks. "You have suffered me, human. I know you wished to kill me, yet here you stand.... unaffected by the Catalyst."
The comment is a splash of cold water on the red-hot haze that's been plaguing you. Your efforts to free Ray slows as you continue to let off steam.
He should be capable of freeing himself.
The webs that were binding your boy are weaker and thinner than any you've encountered here in this den of debauchery.
Is this demon playing with me? Why isn't he killing me?
"We must suffer those who suffer to live..."The demon's voice is almost imperceptible, despite his immense size and close proximity. Every hair on your weakened body is standing on end. "The Gods do not suffer us to live, human..."
This demon doesn't want to kill me.
You start racking your brain for any mention of a demon that wasn't a homicidal monster. In all of the church's teachings, not a single record, story, legend, tale, or single account comes to mind. "What do you want with me?"
"I endure through the ages. Victim after victim crawls into my web unwittingly. I have suffered countless imbecilic assaults... I stretch my legs, human, but I wish to stretch my mind. Do this for me, and I will do something for you in turn." Your mind unravels slightly, as the demon does something you've never seen one do before. It smiles. Its stony teeth, pocketed with bones and moss, glare at you in the torch light.
You're losing the struggle to not vomit.
>A] Tell the demon of the world above, of its, people and of places you've been. Maybe it's been so long since it's seen the world, it will be sufficient to exercise its creativity.
>B] Tell the demon of your own life, your struggles, your Gods, and hope that it is interested enough to be satisfied with your own journey.
>C] Write-in. (Tell the demon a riddle, suggest a game, etc.)
"J-just a moment."
It's too much for you to keep it back. Turning away from the worst of its odor, you lose the battle not to vomit. Ray licks the side of your hands to try to reassure you, and helpfully retches as well at the taste of the filth that's on your fingers.
The demon patiently waits. You get the impression that this creature has more patience in the cracks on its face than you do in your entire body.
You wipe your mouth on your sleeve, and say with displeasure, "Sure. I'll tell you a tale. How would you like to hear about a man of the world outside?"
"OooooOOOOooohh," the demon drawls. Its voice borders on obscenity as it lolls its head to the side. "That does sound tantalizing. It surely has been an age or two since I've heard of the world above.
Grinning, the demon slowly descends from the ceiling— right beside you. For its size, you expect the webs he settles upon to break or buckle under the weight of his form. Not a single strand does so much as bend. "Tell me more, human. Tell me of the ways of the insects that creep and crawl above our ruins."
You can't tell if it's trying to threaten you by staying so close, but Ray is growling. "Stay, boy." You whisper, before giving into the urge to wet your throat. Though you need to ration the little water you've brought, the bile from Vengeance's prayer is doing a number on you. Putting away your waterskin and clearing your throat once or twice helps you find your voice again. It's timid, like usual, when you're talking about yourself. "Where to begin..."
You look to the demon, and ask it a question first. "What age was it— when you lived above this place? I know you must have been a human once."
"Before the sky was dark, before the War of Extermination. Before the land was cleaved in twain. I was there among the cities before the ruins. In the narrowest alleys, bedfellow to the rats and roaches. I lurked in the shadows even then, and the age was known as the Cause of War."
You listen intently, and rake your mind for anything that matches your own historical study. This creature predates any known civilization that you have ever heard of. "Perhaps you've heard of this, then: The man I'd like to tell you about comes from the little town of Pontos, in the country of Corcaea..." You watch the demon's face as you say the last name, seeing if you can catch a glimpse of recognition.
A long minute passes, then two. "...go on, human." The demon finally says, with no humor in his voice.
"The man was once a boy, and his name was Richard Anscham. The boy grew up alone— with no brothers, and no sisters. His parents— and many others in Pontos— were very ill. Richard's parents had great difficulty having any more children, and Richard himself was always sick. He'd get terrible headaches. He looked terrible. The other children in the village bullied him mercilessly."
Hopefully the dark masks the bags under your eyes and the bridge of your broken nose.
"Richard's parent's comforted their boy, by teaching him about the only good in this world: the Gods. They worshiped Agriculture, a Goddess who bestowed bountiful harvests on those who were devoted to her. The people in the land of Corcaea worshiped other Gods, too. Churches of each member of the pantheon protected the land— and tried to save the people from themselves."
Reverence seizes you. "There was Storm, who fights often with Agriculture. Richard was taught of the God of Flesh and the Goddess of Spirit when he was sick and tired. His parents argued frequently about whether it was wiser to worship one or the other— but he knew that it was wisest to worship all of the Gods with equal diligence."
No matter the merits of balance and equality, the last of the pantheon is given special treatment. You drop your voice to a whisper. "Richard was told about the God of Dreams each night before he went to sleep. Dream is said to be very creative— worshiped by many bards and craftsmen." A cold sweat gathers on the nape of your neck. You gulp. "...and the Goddess of Time, who was rarely spoken of, but is feared by many. You may not know of mortality, demon— but to many humans, She is to be left to her own devices."
The demon is laying its head on two of its spider-like legs like a child listening to a fairy tale. The picture is deeply unnerving. Enough to give you pause.
"Well?" The demon impatiently waves one of its legs at you. "Go on."
"Richard loves the Gods. He asked his parents countless times to teach him how to pray— about their symbols— and how— and how to please them. He hoped—" Fidgeting with the edge of your torch surely can't be seen in the absence of light. "He hoped that they could make him strong. His parents always cautioned him against calling on the Gods for aid. They warned him that the Gods were just. And that— and that was why Mercy—" Your fidgeting intensifies. "The Goddess of compassion is worshiped primarily by the King."
You pause again, and look to the demon to explain. "King Magnus 'the Merciful' rules over Corcaea, you see. He favors the Church of Mercy above all others— and they are usually the ones to preach to the populace about the importance of apathy, and— and restraint."
"Of course," the demon replies. "But go on."
"The last deity that Richard learned of was Vengeance. His parents were wary, and— and rightfully so. Richard did something terrible to one of the boys in the village, thanks to his worship of Vengeance. It was clear to Richard that he loved him." A demon doesn't need to know about your relationship with the Gods— let alone how you are blessed by Him, or how much Vengeance has favored you. "Richard knew that he was protected, even when the Church of Mercy came to kill him..."
You swallow hard, and choke down the thought of your father collapsing to the floor in your home. Torches. Pitchforks.
"But..."
Ray licks the side of your hand. He can tell how upset you are, even if you're doing your best to hide it. The demon, of course, doesn't recognize the emotion. "I may have an eternity down here, but I don't want to spend all of it waiting, human. What happened next?"
"The Church was so impressed, that they took Richard. They took him from his parents, and they trained him in the ways of Mercy. They were very careful to never leave him alone again. Richard grew up— never having loved a woman or knowing life in the world outside..."
What am I saying? Why is this hurting so much?
You slump down next to Ray. He licks at you again. Picking cobwebs out from his fur is oddly cathartic. If only picking at painful old memories felt as sweet. You force levity into your tone, and give a pained smile to the demon towering above you. "But it— it was good to not be alone. To be among people who cared for me— and to have the Gods."
You don't catch your slip, and continue with the story. "I... became so strong. Unbelievably strong. You're the first demon who's ever challenged me, and— I don't even know your name."
"Those within the ruins have bestowed upon me the moniker, 'Master of Webs'. You, Richard, may call me Malimos." His colossal head bows slightly.
You silently nod back.
Why am I telling this demon all of this? Why am I having the most human conversation of my life with this abomination?
Malimos makes no attempt to move towards you. He seems satisfied with your tale— yet also doesn't move to grant you safe passage.
>A] Ask Malimos if he can clear some of the webs so you may step aside, and what lies beyond each passage.
>B] Linger a minute. You just gave a demon your life story, you want to know more about him as well. Ask Malimos something about himself (Write-in).
>C] Write-in
You get back to your feet, feeling a little more sure of yourself. "Malimos, then...? Can I ask you something in return?"
"You may. I've enjoyed your tale."
"I don't presume to know how you feel about your life. The things you've done. But if you could have lived a different life— would you?"
The demon's smile returns. He seems to be reminiscing. "Ah... if I could have done things differently..." His smile broadens. "No, I think not. I have relished these many lifetimes— perpetuating the suffering of others. I was an excellent monster of a man, for the short time I was one." The demon trails off, and his eyes close in bliss. "My wife was shorter lived still. I think she hated me, until the very last few moments... but alas, Richard, I think not. Perhaps I would have liked to have met you a few hundred years sooner, before my memory has faded as much as it has. But that is all."
Malimos' stony eyes open, and he skitters to the center of the room. Your torchlight barely illuminates him, as his voice echoes out to you. "I will clear one of these passages for you. It would be a waste of my work to clear them all. To the north is my den, and my many lesser demons dine there. It would be suicidal to plunge in carelessly, as they are always hungry. They wander the ruins. I will command as many as I am able to not attack you— but I cannot guarantee that they all will abstain."
Your skin crawls, and you brush one or two spiders off of your robes. As the demon speaks, you take a moment to wrest your mace completely free from the webs it's become entrapped in.
"The paths on either side of the den lead deeper into the ruins. Many traps lie beyond... this place is built to wear on the stone that is the heart of humankind. Many who come here forget what it is to be human."
That same stony smile leers at you again. You are rapidly remembering your hatred for anything of this creature's kind, but you check yourself. "What of those two?" You ask, nodding towards the two corridors that Malimos has yet to identify.
"To the east is a passage to a strange pocket of the ruins. Some say therein lies its greatest secrets... but I have never seen any return from there, in all my many years. Natural and unnatural creatures lay in ruin among the stone there. Not even I know what lies in the deepest recesses of that wing. To the west is another passage to the surface. The steep incline is a natural defense for my demons, and a certain demise for all those who resist them. You would have great difficulty scaling its slopes."
"J-just— just a minute—" You say, grabbing your pack.
This is what I came down here for. Right?
You scramble to get your cartography equipment out. It's going to take you a few minutes, but this gives you some time to decide where to go next.
A] The northwestern passage. Before braving anything unusual, you want to explore the ruins a little more thoroughly. It looks fairly clean, and has a steady slope.
B] The northeastern passage. It's level, clean, and looks to be almost perfectly preserved despite the age. You can even hear running water from that direction, if you strain your ears hard enough.
C] The easternmost passage. You came here to find a cure for the Catalyst. That isn't going to happen if you get worn down, lost, or lose track of what your real objective is. Surely the deepest secrets of this place will be buried there.
D] Write-in
This is more your speed. Trusting the unknown! You gesture broadly towards the eastern passage with your torch. "Please clear a path to that wing."
The demon nods its colossal head. "As you wish."
He picks a patch for you from the center of the cavern over to the wing you've indicated. The demon's motions are mesmerizing, as he lifts the blood-red strings from the rock and stone, and drops them harmlessly to the floor. Before long, a tunnel has been cleared, with dense walls of his webs still on either side. You cautiously proceed, and call Ray to your side. Your mastiff obeys, looking a little worse for the wear. It's obvious to you that Malimos did not hurt him earlier.
This demon has (shockingly) given you little reason to not trust him. At the edge of his lair, you linger— wanting to leave this place with more than what you entered with. "I— I came here to cure the Catalyst. I want to find a way—"
The demon erupts into laughter. The very walls quake with the sound of it. You see hundreds of spiders skitter around in their webs, frightened out of hiding. It takes a moment for your heart to settle down as the laughter subsides. "CURE?! Oh, surely, you must be exhibiting that which the humans call humor!"
"N-no," you start, struggling to keep your anger in check. "I am not."
Ray barks, seemingly trying to help you convince the demon of your sincerity.
"Oh, oh— please, Richard! Spare me your whimsy! You have already entertained me quite enough! I will be sated for another thousand years— oh aha ha ha HA!"
You furiously storm off deeper into the ruins. It would be dangerous to try your patience any further. You try to think calming thoughts, but feel a headache mounting.
The pain will become excruciating if you don't stop it. You try to focus on the smell of the moss, and the cooler air in the passage that you've entered. Holding the torch aloft, you can see that the growth thickens the further in you walk. It's soft and rather pleasant, and doesn't obscure all of the writings and etchings that adorn the area once more.
At least another hour passes. The torchlight is dwindling. The dimming light halts further attempts to admire the strange language inscribed on the walls, and the accompanying portraits of many armored figures alongside it. There must be hundreds of unique heraldry that you've seen, as it has been quite a long time without any sign of another branch in the passage.
With a deep sigh, you light your third torch. As you do so, Ray's ears perk up. Two distinct sounds resonate far down the passage: trickling water, and very heavy footsteps.
The light at the edge of your torch is met by a wall of solid darkness. There's no telling how much of the passage remains— or how far off the sound came from.
>A] Put out the torch. It will waste it, but caution may be prudent here. Try to sneak up on whoever it is ahead. Better safe than sorry.
>B] Keep the torch out, and continue forward more brazenly. Call out to whoever is ahead. You're no rogue, and you're certainly not a liar.
>C] Write-in.
You thrust the newly lit torch forward, call Ray to your side, and mutter. "Here, boy. Let's see who's trying our patience." You're bold, but not a psychopath. Better to protect yourself and your dog moving forward than to give off the wrong impression. The hold of your shield arm redoubles. Even down here, you're still a man of the Gods. "Show yourself!"
The moss seems to be hurting the acoustics of the passageway. Your voice is muffled, and there's no echo from your call. Surely enough, no one answers.
"I— I mean it! Show yourself!"
No one responds, and the footsteps promptly cease. Only your plodding, your dog's light steps, and the tickle of water registers. Eventually, the light of day meets your torch.
We're way too far underground. How is this possible? Sorcery?
The path breaks off ahead into a vertical descent. From below the ledge just ahead is a free-flowing waterfall. Flanking either side of the strangely silent plunge are two staircases. Unfortunately, they are both so dilapidated that they have completely decayed in their center. Beyond their gap are two doors. Daylight shines so brightly from within them, there's no way to discern what lies beyond. The same steep drop lies below the stairs, and both doors. Several rocks crumble a few feet away your sodden shoes, and drop into the waterfall. More light shines from below.
"Back, boy."
From one of the doors ahead comes a flash of shadow, and the sound of the heavy footsteps. The figure that darted across the frame moved too fast for you to get a good look at it.
"HEY!"
No reply.
You cautiously step forward. Eroded stone threatens to crumble beneath your feet. A glance behind fails to reveal where the water is coming from. It flows without breaks. There's merely the corridor you entered from, and solid rock. Just as you turn your gaze back, the figure flits across the same doorway again.
Is he toying with me, too?!
"HEY!!"
Pain bursts behind your brow. Several rocks give way from Ray's feet as he instantly steps near to you. Staggering backwards, you nearly double over in agony while struggling to keep your footing. You plead, as your vision swims from the pain. "Not now." It's like someone's driving a dagger through the back of your skull. You can't tell if the figure is lingering in the doorway, or if you're seeing spots. The pain is escalating rapidly. "No, no no no..."
You slide down, unable to stand. Speech escapes you, so you gesture for Ray to come over. He instantly complies, and leans hard against you— while growling at whatever it is that must be lurking ahead.
>A] You don't know who or what is up ahead, but you're going to die if you have to fight like this. Honestly, you feel like you're dying anyways. Wait for the headache to pass, come what may. Ray is a good boy and you know, if nothing else, that he'll protect you.
>B] Pray to Mercy to relieve the agony. You might actually be suffering from the strain of your prayer to Vengeance earlier, but it's impossible to tell. Mercy has listened to you before during these episodes, and it might be better than doing nothing.
>C] Write-in
Is the pain more like a cold knife being stabbed into my temples? Or is it more like a very hot one?
Is this some sort of retribution?
Is this is what it feels like to die?
Your musings are difficult to manage, as even the sound of the rushing water is excruciating. The pain is reaching a crescendo. You close your eyes, and hold onto Ray. The sounds of the ruins grate against your heightened senses. The crumbling stone. The rushing water. The droplets from the staircases trickling onto the rushing stream below you. Heavy footsteps. "Ray." A pat on his side. Defend.
You are reluctant to remove a hand from his fur, but the source of comfort is far less important than your physical safety. His growling is met with your yell, as the pain spikes at the sudden noise. He's heard something else, too. Soft paws tread over the ruined stone below your feet, with a few steps towards some unknown creature.
What is on me?
Panicked, unable to really see, you back up against the stone behind you for support. "S-stay back—!"
It's the most bizarre sensation you've ever felt. It's as if five— ten— even twenty hands are crawling along your robes. In absolute terror, you try to brush them off, but the movement is too much. You double over, trying not to scream. The hands move away.
The world goes dark.
Your eyes slowly open, with residual pain from the headache still lingering. Afraid of setting it off again, you cautiously hold one hand to your head. The motion is awkward, thanks to your position. Ray happily licks your face, while your eyes are screwed shut. It seems you've been lying face-down on the floor of the ruins. Your eyes bolt open wide.
Adjusting to the light below, you're slightly hanging off the ledge. A spray of rushing water flecks onto your face. Heart racing, you inch backwards. Several stones crumble off and fall. It takes a full minute before they crash below, and get swallowed by the current. You swallow hard.
What was on me?
You look around with wide-eyes for any sign of the perpetrator. No one catches your eye. Not even the flitting figure from the doorway. You'd grit your teeth in frustration, but your entire head is still throbbing.
At least the pain is manageable. How long was I even out for...?
The torch you were carrying must have been cast aside. Dragging yourself over to it reveals that the item is cold to the touch. You've been out for at least two hours, but it could be longer. The daylight coming from above is unchanged, and equally unhelpful. "We'd better get moving, boy."
He wags his tail excitedly, looking to the ruined staircases for permission to go ahead. "Well. Maybe not just yet."
The one to your left is almost completely destroyed. Moss is growing neatly along the cracks and creases of its ruins stone. It's a bigger leap, but might have more structural integrity. The one to your right is substantially more intact, but stones have fallen from it almost every time you've moved. It's a shorter jump, though. Less room for error.
Good thing I'm a lightweight.
>A] Fasten your rope to a wall first, then jump. You're no sailor, so there's no knowing how well the knots will hold. The walls still might have more integrity than the floor does. (Specify the left or right staircase)
>B] Do not use the rope before jumping. It could be more trouble than it's worth, and it's your only rope. You might have trouble getting it back, and it could lead whatever those hands were from back to you if they see you went this way. (Specify the left or right staircase)
>C] Fasten your rope to a wall, and try to climb straight down. It's hard to tell, but there looks like some outcroppings. You might be able to climb across them to the doors ahead.
>D] Write-in
Taking a deep breath, you fish the length of rope out of your pack and begin to search the stone wall for anything to hook on to. Many of the stones crumble under your hand as you pull and nudge every outcropping you can see, but eventually you find one that holds. "Perfect."
Your long fingers aren't quite cooperating as you clumsily tie a series of knots in the rope, around your waist, and ultimately onto the outcropping on the wall. You test it again, pulling harder with your weight. It doesn't show any signs of give. "Alright, Ray." You pat him on the head, and gesture towards the edge of the stone you've been standing on. "Here we go."
Chapter 2: Intoxicating Weakness "Denial and delirium."
Having no prior training with climbing, caution is key as you slowly scale down the rock face. The stones are slick from running water, and you struggle to keep your hold right out of the gate. Ray watches you intently, as you try and fail to find your footing. The outcroppings of rock are jagged, narrow, and precariously placed. The descent is concave, so as you attempt to move even a few feet down, gravity works against every motion. About ten minutes later, you're sweating, and have barely made any progress. Hands aching from the lack of a proper hold, you silently thank Mercy that at least your headache has subsided.
This is far from optimal. Why didn't the church give me climbing gear?
Several minutes later— and only a few more feet down— the joints in your hands are becoming numb from the cold water. Your right hand slips. Your left is infinitely too weak to support your body-weight. Panic sets in. The cold certainty of death redoubles your efforts to cling onto life. Onto the mission. Onto the jagged rock that's slicing into your palm, as your grip falters.
Your left hand slips, too. Wind rushes through your hair in the start of a free-fall. Your robes and hands scratch against the rocks in a frantic attempt to cling on, to keep your foothold. The rocks underfoot give way. There's a hard pull. The air leaves your lungs as the rope SNAPS taut.
It should have bisected you. A hundred prayers for forgiveness and in gratitude would leave you, but all you can do is wheeze. To scramble to get your feet, hands, or any other part of you back onto something stable.
Ray barks at you from above. Mercifully, the rope is holding. The slight fall should have been only a few feet at most, but you can no longer see the steps above. By your best estimates, there's at least thirty feet between you and your boy. It's difficult to scrutinize from a distance, but you're certain that the ceiling doesn't have any logic to it. Rather than having a clear view of the waterfall and doors above, there is only a square hole overhead. Stone surrounds it, and a golden light obscures the area you've entered from.
Before and below you is an enormous waterway. Angular halls and passages extend out in all directions. Filthy, foaming water rushes along the floor towards your right. Chains line the stony walls. Rusted grates are raised to the ceiling. By your best estimates, the fall to the rock-solid floor is over forty feet down.
Despite being unable to see your boy, you can hear Ray whining from above. Apprehension stills your desire to call out to him. Even if the rope fails to hold both of your weight, you're pretty sure that the fall wouldn't kill you.
Probably.
>A] Even if your hands are aching, try and get a better hold on the walls. You've dealt with worse pain. Call out to Ray to jump down to you once you have a better hold and try to brace against the wall. Pray to Flesh to strengthen your body. Even if He doesn't answer, you'd rather have your dog and some broken bones than to go on alone.
>B] Mastiffs are not meant for this kind of excursion. He easily weighs more than you do. Could you even catch him? What were you thinking, bringing him into this place? Command him to stay put, and find a way to climb back up. It's a pain, but you'll have to find another way down.
>C] Write-in
This dog is going to be death of me.
Swinging back towards the wall, you flex your hands and grab onto the protruding rocks. In the same moment you collide with its jagged surface, it slices open your robes across your torso and chest. Trying to find a foothold is difficult, but you manage to dig in your heels and the tips of your shoes. The position you find is stable enough to even twist around and get a single hand free. Your balance is lacking, but you can hazard looking up. Through the yellow light above, you can just make out Ray's nose peeking over the ledge. Both arms are raised up towards him. You whistle. He leaps.
You pray. "My restraint is my peace, but my peace shall be broken. Flesh of my flesh, forgive my weakness. Flesh of my flesh, your strength is made perfect in my weakness!"
The embers of your devotion stir. A searing heat courses through your thin frame. In an instant, an inferno rises— begging you to make use of your body. The prayer is cut short as Ray collides with you. You clutch onto the answer to your prayers— all 200lbs of him— with enormous difficulty.
It's folly. Your footing slides. A deeper pitch, conviction, and all of your piety rings out with the gifts of a God.
"Flesh of my flesh, grant me your strength—!"
The wasted skin and bones beneath your robes are filled with vigor. You grasp tightly onto Ray. New muscle emerges to meet a challenge presented to the God of Sinew. A brutal SNAP comes from above the rocks. The rope completely breaks from your combined weight. It is peril that takes your breath away. Wind whips through your hair. Streaks of stone and water flash by your vision for precious seconds, before your collision with the rocks below.
The impact of your feet on stone is deafening. A simultaneous break should register from the soles of your shoes to the entire length of your spine. Rubble and water rises in plumes of smoke and mist around your perfect landing. Reward for your form and action comes not only from the near-instant repair of each injury. The torn muscle, fractures in your ankles, and even the cracks in your spine throb as they rapidly mend. It's far from excruciating.
You gently let Ray down onto the floor, and feel perfectly fine. Your boy barks, and sticks his nose towards the grand waterway that stretches out before you. There are more footsteps. Something is down here, and it heard your landing. By the sound of it, it's either a small standing army, or a demon with many feet. Neither one would be welcome news.
>A] Turn and run, while the Flesh is willing. You can feel your legs burning with the need to move. You know you can outpace whatever might come. This area is colossal, surely there's some passages you can use to out-maneuver it.
B] Stay and fight. You have no idea if there's any dead ends before or behind you. Better to face what it is carefully. Your mace is still covered with webs from Malimos' den, since you never cleaned it, but you have your Flesh.
C] Write-in
"Ray. Get ready."
He growls menacingly, gnashing his teeth in the direction of the footsteps. Mace in your main hand— shield in your right— you stand with your companion and face down the waterway. Streams of grey foam rush rapidly past your feet. Chunks of mushy and decaying tissue from unknown beasts occasionally bump against your frame. You don't care. You feel brutally strong. It's as if your scarcely used muscles could burst out of your skin at any moment. They're visibly larger, thanks to the invocation. You tense, and flex— admiring the addition to your figure.
Flesh is your strength.
Barreling down the corridor comes another answer to your prayers. It crashes into the sides of the walls, barely able to control their momentum. It's a chance for violence: An orc with pale green skin. He's painted in streaks of dried blood across his face and bare chest. Incoherent screams rush to meet you. The brutish creature is something you've heard of, but never witnessed before. Orcs are mortal enemies to the last of humanity. Part of your race's near-extinction is thanks to the generational conflict that's been fought between the "peoples" of Cyno and humanity. This one looks like a war chief, based on the battle axe he's spinning over his head.
Orcish combative prowess is the stuff of legend. There's truth to the rumors. He's successfully tamed a lesser demon, and is riding atop its insect-like head. The creature resembles a centipede— save for its gargantuan size, and its odd tail. While one end of the beast is screeching along with the chieftain, and gnashing its colossal mouth at you, the other is subdued. A dark-featured, well-endowed, and long-haired woman's torso extends from the back of the centipede's form. While the fairer side of the creature has but one pair of arms, there must be over one hundred legs lining the entire monster's body. It fills the breadth and length of the waterway. Rising waves and tides of filth are rapidly obscuring your site. All of its legs and hate are rapidly running straight towards you.
As the monstrosity rapidly approaches, you can hear the orc's screams clearly.
"ORGOTH RIDES NOW! FOR DEATH AND GLORY ON THE FIELD OF BATTLE! SLAYER OF DEMONS AND CONQUEROR OF THE RUINS!"
You have no fear in your heart against this warmonger. Your hands tighten on the shield and mace. Calm as the eye of a storm, you run at full speed towards the demon. With almost effortless grace, you speed past Ray, who barks and snarls at your feet. He's been trained to kill if the need ever arises. At the sight of your charge, the orc's cries falter for only a moment— before he redoubles his efforts. "I WILL TAKE THIS PLACE AND WIPE OUT THE LAST OF YOU! FEAST ON MY BLAAADE HUMAN!"
You both meet in the center of the waterway. This lunatic has your blood pumping— you can't help but let out a cry as you strike.
>A] Strike at the demon's feet with your mace. Try to knock its rider off. Kill two birds with one stone.
>B] Leap towards the rider, and try to strike him with your mace directly. Orcs are notorious masterminds of battle, having trained their entire lives in combat. He might be a bigger threat than the demon.
>C] Strike at the demon's head with your mace. You don't know this creature, or its powers. It could very well be using the orc as a puppet. Strike it down while you have your strength.
>D] Write-in
With a running start, you explode into a leap that clears the entire height of the demon. The orc's eyes widen as you swing your mace as hard as you can into the side of his head. Orgoth brings his battle-axe up with catastrophically fast reflexes. He catches the mace, barks a laugh at just how light your attack truly is, and turn the momentum against you.
With a turn of his broad shoulders and a shift of his figure, he keeps you going in the same direction of your attack, and heaves you away. Your body is stronger, but you're still thin and human. Soaring through the air for a second is enough time to register that the sheer might of his blow has dislocated your shoulder. You crash-land to the soaking waterway on both feet. A trained jerk on your shoulder pops the socket back into place.
The hulking orc whips his head around , and barks a laugh at you. "IS THAT THE BEST YOU'VE GOT?!"
With a running start, you tear across the waterway and close the distance between you and Orgoth once more. A silent leap through the air catches your breath in your throat. The mace is swung overhead with the hopes of pulping the orc's head. Yet the instant you land on the demon, it violently writhes and deprives you of the opportunity to strike. Both ends of the monster kick and buck with enough ferocity that you and Orgoth are forced to pause your assault.
While clinging onto the beast for dear life, you catch Ray's form out of the corner of your eye. He jumps onto the lowest point of the demon's body, and buys you a moment of precious time. Carefully maintaining your balance puts a burn through your renewed and redoubled muscle. A simultaneous strike from you and your boy couldn't feel sweeter. Orgoth can't keep his eyes on both of you at once. He moves to deflect a brutal swing of your mace. It spares his head from being caved in— at the cost of Ray taking a giant bite into his shoulder. The burn in your core intensifies as you laugh in Orgoth's face. In addition to Ray refusing to release his grip, the remaining webs on your mace has stuck your weapon fast to the warchief's battleaxe. His weapon is rendered nearly useless, his right shoulder is weeping red, and you see him favor the other arm as he pushes against you.
You precariously keep your balance atop the demon, as it thrashes and bucks under both of you. This is no place for a dog. Your command to Ray is made with gritted teeth. "Release him!"
Your boy immediately complies. The battle of strength between you and a monster lasts just long enough for Ray to dart back to the floor of the waterway. Dread intermingles with inner flame, as the demon clearly tries to crush your dog underfoot. It's luckily to no avail, thanks to Ray's rapid maneuvering.
Your focus is ripped back to the orc before you. It's with only one arm that your mace has kept up with this chieftain's full might. He screams in your face, with blood and spittle spraying into the air. "YOU'RE ONE OF THEM ALREADY!"
Does he think my strength is demonic? Does this orc have the gall to not recognize the might of Flesh?
>A] Toss aside your shield, and push against the orc with both arms. Overpower him, and throw him off the demon.
>B] Keep the shield, and jump off the demon to protect Ray. He's down there dancing with an army's worth of attackers.
>C] Maintain the stalemate with the orc. He thinks you're a demon? Bluff, and act like one. He could tame one, but not even a warlord could handle two. Right?
>D] Maintain the stalemate with the orc, and intimidate him into calling off the demon. He thinks you're a demon too? You're a man of the Gods— and that is something worthy of much, much more fear.
>E] Write-in.
With a final shove, you catch Orgoth off-guard. His balance is compromised, and he struggles to keep his hold on the demon. It gives you a precious moment to jump off of the creature, and to run next to Ray. His evasive maneuvers are doubly impressive once you realize the intensity of the demon's assault.
From the side of the monster's body, it's apparent that its legs must number well over its namesake's 100. Each side of its segmented, armored frame drums against the stone and water. Each buck and kick brings up another wave of filthy foam. Orgoth resumes screaming from atop the beast, which carries over your whistle to Ray. Your dog obeys the command to return to your side immediately.
The orc and what you thought was the face of the centipede demon disappears from sight. An odd maneuver by the war chief atop the centipede's head spins the creature slowly around. The head of the demon moves to face you. She's devoid of any humanity, and leers down at you from a great height. Despite vaguely resembling a bare human woman, the creature is over-sized, and bears no pupils or whites in the pits of her insect-like eyes. You take a step back. "Move with me, boy."
The demon rears up to smash its body down onto the floor. You and your hound leap aside just in time. Skidding along the floor of the waterway shield first, you are granted refuge from the assault. It does little to keep away a mouthful of the filthy runoff. Keeping your eyes to the demon, you spit straight in its direction. There's no time to run.
Bringing your shield overhead, digging in your heels, and letting loose a scream for strength is all the time you're given. The demon brings down its full weight directly onto the humble wooden item in hand. It miraculously fails to break, thanks to how flush you are against the item. All of your back, shoulders, and shield arm go into keeping the beast from crushing you instantly. The monster's strength almost outclasses the work of a God.
Ray snarls, and dives out from under the shadow of the creature while your body screams with heat. A faint trail of red smoke rises from Flesh healing your tearing muscle and splintering bone through the strain.
To linger here is to die. With a strangled shout, you use all the power you possess to throw the monster off of you. A thunderous echo shakes the furthest reaches of the waterway as it collapses just to your side. A huge surge of water threatens to knock you off your feet, but you hold your ground. Breathing. Still alive. You turn and break into a run.
This side of the creature is insanely aggressive, and you have no weapons to speak of. Black and red smoke comes off of your body in tendrils, as you keep pushing yourself to fight. Heat is through every inch of your tortured frame, yet you still tighten your free hand into a fist. All the green in your eyes look up at the demon's armored hide. Its exoskeleton is thick. It may have special properties.
Ray is running alongside you. He's a strong dog, but you know he can't keep this up forever. You need to do something before he gets hurt.
It's only a lesser demon, and I've faced far worse creatures than this before. Sure, I might break a few fingers— but I'd rather get hurt now than have Ray get hurt later.
>A] Split up from Ray, and keep the demon's attention off of him. The insect-like face seems remarkably unintelligent. Punch a hole straight through its exoskeleton, and keep its focus on you.
>B] Command Ray to get away, and try to finish the demon off quickly. Focus on the demon's humanoid face, and beat it into submission. It's risky, though. Orgoth is still up there, and you don't know what the demon is capable of.
>C] Write-in.
You're struggling to keep your emotions in check, and it's not helping that you're literally seeing red. The smoke rising from your weakened body is intoxicating. You want to put Flesh's blessing to work, but it's terrifying.
Giving into violent impulses is a necessary evil.
Defending the innocent comes before self-preservation.
Even if I get dangerously close to activating the Catalyst, I need to protect Ray.
You and Ray slide to a stop. "Hang back, boy. Stay safe."
Ray barks at you, and bolts further away, keeping a safe distance. You can hear his heavy panting as he starts to catch his breath, but it's nothing compared to how hard you're breathing now. The shield is slung once more over your back. Both hands are clenched in righteous fury, and you sprint straight towards the demon.
The ground is left behind with an explosive leap. Arm drawn back, you let out a cry. Every ounce of strength in you meets the startled monster. Knuckles and flesh crunch as they slam straight through the demon's exoskeleton. The force of the blow reverberates through your hand and up into your arm. You drive your arm up to the elbow in softer innards without any further resistance.
Suspended a dozen feet above the ground, you cling onto the side of the demon's body to avoid crashing into the waterway. Excruciating as your broken fingers feel, you make sure to grab a handful of the monster's guts before ripping your arm back out. The blackened, poisoned flesh from within the creature smells horrific. It coats your entire right arm as you drop to the ground.
The moment you land, you toss aside the chunk of muscle you tore from its body, and grin maliciously at the beast. Flesh's blessing courses through you. There's immediate relief as your bones begin to repair themselves. There will be scars, but you'll wear them with pride. The humanoid head whips around to see you, shrieking and crying in pain.
Every hair on your body stands on end. Her sobs sound exactly like a human woman. "Give it back!"
Both your fists remain clenched. "I'll give you everything you deserve."
The demon howls, and Orgoth lets loose another scream in turn. From atop the demon, his battle axe and your mace are simultaneously tossed to the floor of the waterway. The orc and demon work in tandem to overwhelm you. While Orgoth unsheathes something from his back ("KILL HIM!"), you break into a run. The demon seeks to trample you with as many feet as she can, before readying to slam down on your body. From his vantage point above, a weapon is loosed.
I definitely got their attention.
The orc shouts, and hurls a javelin towards you. You have a split second to react to the two-pronged assault.
>A] Ignore the javelin. Jump as far away from the centipede's body as you can. Its weight could kill you. No time to pray for another miracle.
>B] Focus on the javelin, and try to endure the centipede's attack. Your prayer is lasting an unusually long amount of time. Flesh has favored you today, but the javelin could kill you if that war chief's aim is as good as the stories say.
>C] Grab your shield. Deflect the javelin, and try to dodge out of the way of the centipede. It will be difficult to act quickly enough, but you'd rather chance it than eat one of the attacks.
>D] Write-in.
There's no time to deal with both attackers at once. You leap as far to the side of the centipede demon as possible. Orgoth predicted your movement, and aimed for where you've headed. The javelin streaks through the air. You watch with horror as it tracks with your leap, and plunges into your side. You stumble as you land, and shout in pain. Every motion digs the weapon in further. Orgoth calls from atop the centipede's rearing head, and throws his voice. "HURTS, DOESN'T IT, LITTLE MAN?!"
The only thing you hate more than people fucking with your dog is people fucking with you. You grab firmly onto the javelin, and with one swift motion, rip it out of your side. A scream catches in your throat. Blood rises to your lips from how hard you fight to not black out.
Excruciating pain intermingles with the smoke and blood pouring out from the wound. Though your robes are black, enough fluid gushes from the injury to discolor and spread over the drenched fabric. Your vision swims. The waterway is only going to accelerate the bleeding. Flesh's blessing won't last forever.
Javelin still in hand, you turn to the demon. Just as it's about to strike down, you swallow a wave of blood. From the splintered and torn sinew of your legs, to the agony in your side, you put everything you have into the attack— and hurl the javelin at its face.
The creature's demonic half is too unintelligent to see your attack coming. Its own momentum worsens the inevitable. There's a sickening crunch as the javelin pierces its carapace. Shock robs the demon of any sound or response.
Another crackle and break echoes down the corridor as your weapon exits. Orgoth clings onto the demon with his good arm as it bucks and screams in agony. Black ichor gushes from the gaping exit and entry wound.
Your whistle rebounds far down the waterway as you fall to one knee, clutching onto your side. Ray comes leaping out of the water, soaked to the bone. He doesn't care for anything other than the battle, and charges without prompting towards Orgoth. While your boy perilously runs up the length of the demon, the world shifts sideways. Just as your vision begins to fade, you see your faithful mastiff soar through the air— and rip into the orc.
Orgoth howls in pain, and tumbles down the side of the demon with Ray still fixed onto his neck. The humanoid portion of the demon seems so badly injured that she can't protect her rider. The frantic stampede stops once Orgoth is off of her body, and all legs move the monster back down the waterway. A trail of darkened gore is left through the foam and sludge, as the demon slinks back from whence she came.
Water kicks up around the orc and your dog as they are locked in fatal combat. You stagger over to them, as smoke stops pouring out from your wound. Sharp, piercing pain shoots through you, and the blood is spreading. No longer able to run, you catch up to Ray and Orgoth only after their battle has been resolved.
Your mastiff has completely subdued the orc. Orgoth struggles not to drown as he's pinned on the floor of the flooded passage.
This orc might have information. I've killed over less, but it is my duty to be Merciful.
You look down at the orc with disgust. The female demon is still dragging herself down the waterway. You could probably still catch up to her.
>A] Command Ray to kill the orc, and take the time to heal your wounds. The demon probably won't get far.
>B] Command Ray to kill the orc, and run after the demon. You won't be able to track her blood very far with how much running water there is down here. She didn't speak during the fight, but maybe she will now.
>C] Let the orc live, and interrogate him. He will surely be willing to talk with your dog around his throat, and that demon is a risk you aren't willing to take with your injury.
>D] Let the orc live, and keep him subdued until you heal yourself. Showing some Mercy now may pay dividends later and this wound REALLY needs to be looked at.
>E] Write-in.
The pain in your side is becoming more intense by the second. It was difficult to tell in the heat of the battle— but now that your blood is cooling, you know that you should be dead. Were it not for Flesh's blessing, an injury this deep should have claimed you in minutes. The orc is barely putting up a fight, trying not to drown or have his neck bitten clean off by Ray.
Your boy is used to taking commands from you when you're in too much pain to speak. You whistle twice to call him off. He still snarls with extreme prejudice at the orc as Orgoth bolts upright, coughing up mouthfuls of filthy water. "Stay down, Orgoth." A rush of blood pours from your wound with each syllable. The pain and injury is compounded with each step as you limp over to the warchief.
He's spluttering still— but for good measure, you make a long, low whistle. Ray leaps on top of Orgoth, and growls aggressively in his face. The mastiff's powerful jaws are a hair's breadth away from the orc's nose. "He won't kill you if you don't attack us—" You caution, before collapsing in the water.
With the last ounce of strength left in you, you roll over and prop your body on top of your backpack. A prayer is muttered in thanks to Flesh for granting you so much, before even reaching for any herbs or bandages. You wouldn't be alive if it weren't for His blessing. It may have been a self-imposed suicide mission to enter the ruins, but you aren't ready to die just yet.
Tears come to your eyes as the last of Flesh's blessing leaves you. Your long and thin limbs are aching from exertion. The additional muscle fades, while you strain to take out a few pouches from your backpack. Most are drenched in water. "Ruined..." The animal skins and waterproofing wasn't nearly enough to protect your gear from the elements. There's a single tincture that is unspoiled.
Without a second's hesitation, you swallow the entire contents of the bottle. It's terribly bitter, but you know it will help the pain and ease the bleeding. The war chief's injury is substantial too, yet he shows no sign of pain. You glance over at him every few minutes. Stopping the flow of your own blood occupies your attention too much to pay him any mind. Ray savagely growls each and every time the enemy does more than blink.
Eventually, the orc seems to wind down from the fight. Ray's growling slows, while you fasten a long strip of bandages around your waist. It's tied over your filthy robes, as you're too hurt and tired to make a proper dressing. You'll have to fix it later. The javelin was barbed, but it didn't have any poison on it. You have to wonder how many other humans have encountered this orc for him to have immediately mistaken you for a demon.
"Orgoth, right?" Wincing again from the effort of speaking stops you from making a scene. Every word feels like it redoubles the pain.
"So! You're intelligent enough to recognize the name of the GREATEST warrior to have ever lived—!"
Ray growls with such ferocity when he speaks, the orc immediately pipes down again. More wincing. Gods. Your side is killing you. "If you— if you swear to not hurt me or my dog, I'll call him off. I don't— I'm not— I'm not a demon."
You're struggling to speak, but it's worth the effort. You can't have this maniac doing something to Ray while you rest. It would be impossible to invoke again when you're this spent.
Orgoth stares you down. Every scar and pockmark. The deep bags under your impossibly wide and bright green eyes. The break that never healed across the bridge of your nose. It might as well be another knife cutting you, and you instinctively look away. Turning your scarred and gaunt face aside likely does nothing for the slick gore through the mop of your hair or the way that your robes hang off of your skeletal frame.
Please stop looking at me.
The orc laughs. Ray barks hard in the war chief's face, but he shouts over the noise. "Ah, a human after all! I see! Your dog seems to even have more confidence than you do! You can't possibly be a demon! Ahaha!"
His words cut deeper than the look did. You keep your eyes away from the orc, struggling to not let your emotions overwhelm you. This is extremely dangerous. You need to get a hold of yourself. You aren't a child anymore.
>A] Distract yourself by moving. Get somewhere cleaner and drier, sort out your gear while Ray guards the orc.
>B] Distract yourself by deflecting. Get the orc to talk about himself. He seems to be so full of himself that it should be easy. Even for someone who only speaks in sermons.
>C] Distract yourself through meditation. It's been a long time since you've needed to, but some reflection could help to keep your head level. The orc can wait a minute.
>D] Write-in
He's right.
"I'm—" You cringe. "I'm not perfect." It's impossible to avoid clutching your side and gasping as you get back to your feet. Ray barks right in the orc's face, with a helpful show of aggression. He won't attack unless you give the word. You smile slightly. "He's been my companion and supported me when no one else could. He's probably saved— he's probably saved more lives than you've taken, Orgoth."
Your eyes remain downcast. In the five years you spent as a Father of the Church of Mercy, Ray's served with you for almost all of them. You owe him your life. He barks, and you don't quite catch the full extent of the orc's reaction. You're deeply uncomfortable talking at length, save for conversations about the Gods. You doubt this orc even knows of Mercy. He's not replying.
Just move. Do something.
You grab your backpack, and start walking hesitantly towards the side of the waterway. A dry ledge is a fine place to slump down against. Looking through your possessions, you set out the water-logged items, and wring out what you can. Fortunately, your journal is mostly dry. Far past the orc, you can see the lurching figure of the centipede demon. She's barely able to move, yet is still crawling away. A black stream of blood— possibly poison— pools around her. It's a good thing the water is flowing away from you. It's fascinating that an orc was even able to tame such a creature.
Your curiosity wins out over creeping insecurity. You did come here for a reason. "Ray. Hang back." Your dog backs his face away from Orgoth, but remains standing just beside him. The orc looks to you in surprise. In a low voice you ask, "how did you manage to tame the demon?"
He's immediately relieved to have something to brag about. "It was a simple matter!" Ray jumps in alarm at the increase in volume, but dutifully stays put. "I found her in this strange place, starving half to death! I can't possibly eat all of the creatures I've killed down here— so I brought the girl a few gifts! Ahahaha!" The orc gives you a wink. "She warmed up to me faster than a halfling to a hot meal! Once she knew I could pull my weight, we made a little agreement! She would help me—" The killer's voice loses its manic energy. "—and I'd not kill her."
With a look over his shoulder, the orc's substantial frame sinks slightly. "It's a great dishonor, you know. You've disgraced my ancestral weapon, wounded my finest ally, and gravely injured me!" He smiles at you with weird sincerity. It's incredibly unnerving to see a mass of battle-scars, blood and muscle acting this way.
Are all orcs like this?
You've been told all your life that they're bloodthirsty killers. Practically mindless animals. He continues with that odd smile on his face. "I didn't come down here to die, yet you've struck me with mortal blows! You see why I mistook you for a demon, no?"
You cringe again, and look down at your journal. Despite your injury, your notes are crisp and your handwriting is steady. Likely from a lifetime of restraining your body and emotions. It doesn't make a difference when what the orc's saying makes so little sense.
Did he only have to treat the demon with respect?
"You tried to kill me." Your voice remains even, but your eyes are lit with anger.
"I tried to defend myself! When was the last time you saw yourself? Or even ate anything?! I've seen elves with more meat on them than you! Do you have any idea what else is down here?! I couldn't take any chances!!"
Ray growls at the orc as his voice increases in pitch and volume. Orgoth closes his mouth, but remains agitated. You can feel a pressure building in your head just from the strain of talking to the war chief.
It's proving more stressful to deal with him trying to talk to you than trying to kill you.
>A] This has been a terrible misunderstanding. Try to explain to the orc what you're doing in the ruins, and why you look like death warmed over. You don't need to tell him, but you're so starved for an actual conversation that you want to try. If the pain comes, so be it. You really need this.
>B] Hold off on elaborating until you get more information. Get some details on the demon, and maybe about Orgoth, too. There has to be more to this than bribing or a bargain. There has to be.
>C] Rest a lot longer. The ledge you're on is dry, your pack is airing out, and you don't know when the last time was that you ate or slept. You still don't trust him enough to let your guard down completely. Ray can watch Orgoth for a while. You need a break.
>D] Trust the orc enough to take a proper rest for as long as you need. Give Ray a break too. Offer Orgoth some of your rations and some healing, if he swears on his honor to not harm you or your dog. You can talk after you get some sleep.
>E] Write-in
As the rations air out to dry, you wordlessly examine them further. They're a little soft around the edges, but are definitely still edible. You grab two, a handful of medicinal herbs, an armful of more makeshift bandages, and walk over to Orgoth. A hard look meets you, as you approach with the food in hand. You give an entire portion to Ray first, who wolfs it down without even chewing. "Good boy. Stay." You pat him on the head and kneel down, careful not to get the bandages wrapped around your torso wet once again.
"It's no wonder you're a shadow of a man— giving your pet the biggest share!" The orc gives you a smile, seemingly unaware of how bothered you are by the teasing.
With extreme reluctance, you break the remaining ration in half and take a bite. It's dry and made purely for efficiency— not for taste. You stare down Orgoth with the driest look imaginable as you slowly chew. He gives you a big grin in return. "Listen." The wind has been taken completely out of your sails. "I need to rest, and— and you need to recover too. I'm no demon. I'm a man of the Gods."
You scrutinize his face as you say this, looking for any sort of disbelief or reaction. Anything at all. He stares at you blankly.
"I've been trained in healing—"
The explanation is uproariously cut short. "A medicine man!"
He leans over and almost grabs you by the shoulder. Ray instantly leaps onto him, growling and barking hysterically.
You put a hand to your temples. Pressure mounts from the damn headaches. The quiet command is made while closing your eyes for a moment. The dark might stave off the incoming pain. "Down, Ray."
It's actually quiet for a moment.
When you open your eyes, Orgoth is staring at you again. You finally lose your patience. "Stop doing that."
"What? Did our battle leave a mark on you deeper than I can see?! THE MIGHT OF ORGOTH—"
"Stop—!" You mutter, and draw in on yourself as the pain builds. "Be quiet—"
The orc actually seems to have listened.
Maybe he does know of Mercy.
For several minutes, you listen only to the sound of rushing water. The centipede demon has stopped moving down the waterway. Either she's bled out, is hiding, or even may be licking her wounds.
You reluctantly open your eyes to see that Orgoth is intently examining a wall across from you. His eyes dart back towards you every few seconds, as if you can't see him. You sigh, and extend the other half of the ration. "Here." Waving the brick of food at him pulls at the damage on your side. "That bite on your shoulder is going to pass beyond my care if you let it get any fouler. If you want my help—" As Orgoth extends a hand to take the ration, you draw your arm back slightly. "—I need your word. Your bond. Swear to me. Swear on everything you hold dear. Swear to me that you won't bring any harm to me or Ray."
The orc's pointed ears perk up. "Willbreaker—!" He winces at the exclamation, and quickly brings down the volume of his voice. "Willbreaker. My axe. I'd swear to you on it, but...
"We'll clean it."
"And your name! I don't even know who I'm swearing to."
"Father Richard Anscham— and you know Ray."
"Father? AHAHA, I haven't called anyone that in— at least 40 years!"
"It's a title. I'm the head of my order, it's... like a... holy... tribe." You recoil into yourself at the comparison, but it's the best you can come up with— given your limited knowledge of Orcs and their culture. You assert, "it's a great honor."
He grimaces, with a nod. "Very well, Father Richard Anscham. I'll swear it to you on my first wife. Dura Soulstorm bore me 16 healthy sons! Each one stronger than the last!"
You listen with as much patience as you can muster, while trying to conceal your mounting agony.
Orgoth swears to you on each one of his first 16 sons...
Each one of their many tribes...
And each one of their sons...
...that he will not harm you or Ray. You're about ready to collapse by the time he finishes.
"...Father? Are you alright?"
"No."
You slide forward, face-first. The orc— wounded as he is— catches you as you nearly fall into the filthy streams coursing through the waterway. "Alright, come on, medicine man."
If you weren't struggling to not shout out in pain, you'd think there was concern in his voice.
The world goes dark, as you feel yourself being lifted back towards the rest of your gear. A strange thought occurs to you, before you fade from consciousness:
You can't remember the last time you actually touched someone.
Chapter 3: Along the Waterway "A waking nightmare of many forms."
Dream visits you, deep in the darkness. You see before you a field of grain, and a beautiful woman standing under a red moon. You try to call out to her, but black bile and blood begins to pour from your lips. Hands crawl all over your body, up your throat, and inside of your mouth. A barrel of liquor tumbles down an endless staircase and collides with a mountain of dead bodies. An owl flies overhead. Curtains draw shut before its wings, clipping them mid-flight. A small spirit is born and dies. The woman turns away from you. You're falling. Falling into a deep sea. You can't speak. You can't breathe. The whole world is shaking. The moon turns black.
"Father! Father Anscham!" A gruff voice calls out to you. Everything is still shaking.
"Orgoth." Orgoth is shaking you. You look at him groggily. Ray seems to be sleeping behind him, splayed out on some rocks above the water level. You wipe the side of your face. Blood parts onto your hand.
"Father? You were out for two days! Are you...?" The orc looks at you, and his face turns to alarm as he sees what's on the palm of your hand. He knits his eyebrows together. "Is this normal?"
The reply is hurried. "Thank you for waking me."
Before Orgoth can ask anything further, you dash over to your gear— paying no heed to the pain in your side— and tear into your journal. Dream's visit is transcribed to the letter, while muttering fevered prayers to the God himself. You don't stop until you've gotten every last detail down. It seems nonsensical now, but you have never been one to take the Gods lightly. Only when you finish, do you look with wide eyes over to Orgoth. "Alright. We have some business to take care of. Let's get that looked at, and clean those weapons—"
"What's wrong with you?" He's looking at you with extreme concern. You might not be able to avoid the scrutiny.
>A] Insist on tending to Orgoth's wounds, cleaning his axe, and seeing to your mace before you do anything else. He's astute enough to see that you can't get too worked up. That needs to be sufficient for now. He can answer a few questions for you, if he wants to talk.
>B] You don't want to scare away a potential ally. This orc seems to know as little about your race as you do his— let alone what you're dealing with. Offer to share some information if he does the same for you, but don't get in too deep.
>C] This orc actually kept his word. If he isn't lying, he kept you safe in the ruins while you and Ray slept. You may not owe it to him, but you want to talk. Tell him everything. Spill your guts.
>D] Write-in
You flinch as if Orgoth hit you. The unearthly blue of your irises loses their verve, and transitions back to a normal shade of green. The fade to humanity is accompanied by a glance down to the floor. To the side. Anywhere for answers. "What's wrong with me?"
Down the corridor— streaked over the etchings on the wall— are smears of black blood that were not present before you passed out. You gesture towards the streaks of gore. "Did you— what was that from...?"
He nods his head— arms crossed— and laughs with pride. "It would have been dishonorable not to guard you! This floor is teeming with strange creatures, but they are no match for ORGOTH! THE GREATEST WARRIOR TO HAVE EVER GRACED THIS MISERABLE RUIN!"
You wince, while letting him gloat. It's likely that you would have died if he didn't guard you while you slept. Ray is a good boy, but he's still only a dog, and no doubt wouldn't have been able to stave off any more demons. Not right after that fight, at any rate. "Thank you."
"Don't mention it! Ahahaha!"
"I appreciate you keeping your word, too." Your murmurs are almost imperceptible. "I owe you. Honestly." You smear the edge of your robe over your face, wiping off the last of the blood that you produced while you were sleeping. Your volume raises only as you continue looking at your sleeve. The blood is thick, fresh, and definitely your own. "Have you encountered many humans before?"
Aggressiveness inches into Orgoth's voice. "Of course I have! I've fought many men. You humans have an incredible spirit! I have lost many of my kind to your forces in Baranfen, and on my borders at home! Truly— a formidable foe! Ahaha!"
Bloodthirsty reminiscing occupies his progressively angrier laughter. You let him work it out of his system. Orgoth eventually calms down enough to continue.
Red-rimmed eyes burn into you. "Normally you all only bleed when struck. And never have I seen any of you smoking in the way you did! I've seen a few of you 'holy' men. But never anything like this." The orc's aged, gruff voice takes on a tone of apprehension. "The way you fought was not human, Father."
"It was, and it wasn't." You can't restrain the warm smile that takes hold of your face. Recalling Flesh's brutal strength and confidence has you hold onto yourself for a moment. Wanting for the feeling has you attempt to make eye contact in earnest.
The fine lines around his eyes, the wrinkles on his squashed features, and all of his concern can't make you falter. Your voice is as warm as if you were speaking of a lover. "It was the Gods, Orgoth. The God of Flesh answered my prayer. He is generous. He granted me enough strength to to contend with you, and the with demon that you tamed."
The stare you're given is full of concern and confusion. "You didn't look it. I would have mistaken you for a non-combatant, until you defiled my axe!"
The smile fades. A great deal of pain takes hold in your voice. "They can't change my body. Not truly. I'm only a vessel. A shell. But the Gods— the Gods can work through me." A disturbing thought occurs to you. "Do you not know of Them?"
"No! The people of Cyno worship the art of war! The call of battle! Our 'Gods' are our fellow orcs. Our greatest champions! More importantly, I don't care to know of these Gods if they're responsible for that!" He's looking at the blood on your sleeve. "And even more importantly, you're avoiding my question, Father. What's wrong with you?"
You drop your arms to your sides, and recoil slightly into yourself. He's really not letting up. You're not used to anyone being this direct.
Is this a trait of his species? Am I just this unused to conversation?
>A] Tell the orc about the Gods, and how They affect you. You can't resist educating him, and it's a good way to elaborate on how your illness is exacerbated by Their blessing. The risk of him using this information against you is slim, seeing as how he's held his word and protected you and Ray. You feel you owe it to him to be honest.
>B] Tell Orgoth about the Gods, but not your illness. He actually does seem to be unaware of how severely They can tax the human body. A sermon is in order: One that omits your personal issues. It's hard for you to speak at length about yourself, and harder still to trust someone you barely know. If he presses it further, tell him you're not comfortable expanding on it.
>C] Refuse to discuss the subject any further. Orgoth has protected you and Ray, but you aren't naive. You don't want to expose your weakness to someone you barely know— especially one so aggressive. You'll happily preach to him, but you won't tell him any more about your illness or how the Gods can hurt you.
>D] Write-in
If only nervously turning your eyes towards the ceiling could grant you a view of divinity— rather than the sin by your side. "I have always been sick. I have been— I get terrible headaches. " You close your eyes, and sigh. "Some people are better shells than others."
The orc doesn't seem to mind waiting a minute.
You hold your holy symbol tightly against your beating heart. Its gold gleams in the light filtering through the waterway. Blood and bile is not only smudged across all of your clothing and skin, but has sullied the pair of outstretched hands as well. Appalled, you immediately start wiping off the item with the hem of your cleanest sleeve. "The Gods are just, Orgoth, but their miracles are difficult for humans to endure. We are not built like Orcs. We are weaker."
The symbol is clean, but compulsion keeps buffing it as you bitterly continue. "The people of my village were weaker still. My parents bore me. Only me. Not sixteen healthy sons." Once the gold, outstretched hands are buffed enough to see your face, you release it from your grasp. "It's uncommon for humans to use the blessing of the Gods."
The weight against your heart is almost as reassuring as crossing your arms over your chest. "Even if they're in good health— for a healthy man, or even woman— it is unusual. Even in times of great need." The movement stings, thanks to the wound in your side barely starting to heal. "We humans, we— we try to endure. Some humans are so weak that they still try, despite—" You cross your arms tighter around your chest, even though it hurts. Fear is written plainly across your face. "Weaker humans are often subject to retribution, Orgoth."
The concern directed at you intensifies. He seems to get it— but you continue, while staring him straight down. "I'm weak, Orgoth— but the Gods see fit to keep me alive. There's— there's something wrong with my head. Our healers cannot fix me. This is the Gods' will. Do you understand?" Fear mixes with desperation. "They have seen fit to use my weakness as Their blessing. Even if I can't do much on my own, the Gods have always listened. They see fit to bless me— time, after time, after time again. And even though it may wear on me— even though my shell has cracks— I still hold. I don't lose myself. I don't die."
Orgoth takes a step back.
"So, you— do you see?" The blood on your palm has yet to dry. The desperation in your voice is leaning over into something much darker, as you extend the congealing crimson towards your distressed companion. "I do bleed when struck. I bleed from a power greater than anything mortal eyes can see."
"I understand." The orc's hulking, battle-scarred frame moves to leave.
Blood is smeared on most of his clothing. He has no armor, or gear. He's been surviving in the ruins with nothing but his bare hands— and it's only as Orgoth has moved to leave that you hazarded a decent look at him.
A weapon is unfastened from the side of his belt, and tossed towards your trembling fingers. "My mace. You cleaned it—?"
"Don't mention it!" His back is already turned to you. A hint of fear worms its way through his voice, while looking off to the furthest reaches of the waterway. "I have things to do, and someone to go home to. We'd better part here. You take care of yourself, Father Richard Anscham."
>A] Stop the orc from leaving. Tell him you'd make a strong alliance. Beg him to stay if you have to. Please don't let another person leave me alone.
>B] Stop the orc from leaving. Ask if he can at least let you explain that you aren't a threat— or even prove it. He can't just leave me like this.
>C] Stop the orc from leaving. Ask him if he can tell you anything else about the centipede demon, and then let him go. Respecting his wishes is the least you can do after he listened to you. It'll be better this way.
>D] Let the orc go. You don't have the heart to argue with him, and you're worried what he might do if you push him. Respect his wishes, and try to say something reassuring before he leaves. No matter how scared he is of me, I can still be a decent man. I don't need to prove anything to him. I know that I'm not a monster.
>E] Write-in
A lifetime of repressing yourself makes it easy to hide the hurt in your voice. You let him go. "Take care of yourself, too, Orgoth. The— the greatest warrior who ever lived."
With a look over his shoulder, he flashes you a huge smile, and continues down the waterway. He's walking in the direction you came from— opposite of where the demon retreated. His heavy steps sloshes and echo through the shallow water, far beyond your line of sight.
Ray is still sleeping peacefully. You remind yourself that Dream doesn't visit animals, as you slump down beside your boy and scratch behind his ears. The soft contact is comforting, but it does nothing for the dull ache in your chest from having yet another person leave you.
What a terrible misunderstanding.
There's absolutely no sign left of Orgoth or the demon within minutes. It's as if they were never there.
At least the Church made sure I'm never truly alone.
With the help of your cartography tools, sketches are made of the ruins around you. The illustrations include some of the larger carvings on the walls, a note of your descent, and the location where you last saw the centipede demon. After a few more minutes of ruminating over the battle and Orgoth's departure, you painfully eat a ration and drink some water. Stretching the supplies is prudent. You could filter some of the water here— but with how many demons have likely died in the streams, you don't quite trust it.
While you're looking down, the sound of Ray splashing through the water puts a spark in your spine. The moment you jump, Ray eagerly licks your face. He must have smelled the food, as bland as it is. He deserves more than the scratch at his ears, but it's the best you can do. "I'm happy to see you too. Did you just want this?"
Your hero sits dutifully. Going through the motions of training him with a few exercises— whistling, fetching, propping you up if you pass out— is purely for decorum.
Once you're done, you toss him the remainder of the ration. It's inhaled without chewing. "I wish I knew if Orgoth fed you."
The waterway is a labyrinth. Though it's adorned with countless inscriptions and carvings of demons, the direction ahead is difficult to discern. Before you are two main passageways. One stretches off towards where you first entered. The other will lead off to where you last saw the centipede demon. Countless branching tunnels lie further beyond.
Up above, the pale yellow light obscures the ruins. It would be troublesome to climb back up— yet Malimos alluded to untold secrets that could lie in the ruins above.
"Alright boy. Where to now?"
>A] Stop a moment, and scrutinize the walls of the ruins in more detail. You have your own reasons for entering the ruins, but the Church of Mercy did send you down here on a mission to record your findings.
>B] See if you can follow the centipede demon's trail. She had to have crawled off somewhere. While you don't mind the unknown, demons are one thing you want to be sure of.
>C] Go down the path Orgoth walked down. You'll want to use caution to not follow too close. You don't want him to get the wrong idea, but he might have a better idea of where he's going than you do.
>D] Climb back up to the ruined staircases. You were unable to get much information from Orgoth, despite your time together, but he did warn you about how many demons were down here. You would rather fight the ruins than the creatures in them while you're still recovering from that javelin.
>E] Write-in.
There is no indication that this cracked, creased, and decaying place was meant to be inhabited. You make sure you have your journal out as you start to walk. Keeping your eyes to the walls of the ruins, you take thorough notes on any inscriptions that bear recording. The sea of runes and monsters depicted makes it difficult to pick out anything of note— though you realize that the entire hierarchy of demons are mentioned. Rather than representing the power of an individual monster, you've observed that demons are categorized by their influence over one another. From imps, to minor demons, up through lesser, greater, major, and even archdemons.
A gigantic mural along the side of the waterway has you awe-struck. Upon it is a depiction of a creature that may have once been a man. It has no fewer than 10 torsos, perched atop a freakishly long, horse-like body. Each head has a forked tongue, horns, and the front-most head is breathing flame. Your hands shake slightly as you try to duplicate the image as best as you can. Your fingers linger with charcoal over parchment for only a moment after you're done. Two words are hesitantly written under the drawing. "Greater demon."
You continue walking down the passageway, while inscribing various runes. You fill about five pages before bringing the recordings to a halt. There's little use attempting to duplicate thousands of letters. Now that there is a substantial supply of the multiple languages represented here, you close the journal, and stash it in your pack. This surely will satisfy the nobility and Church of Mercy.
The Church of Mercy.
Your first sermon was meant to be a trial by fire. While Father Edmund truly wished to protect you, your fellow priests were appalled by the thought of you serving the church. They had surely hoped you would be killed during the service. Yet despite all odds, you survived, and have gone on to survive so much more: Traveling the countryside. Preaching compassion and Mercy to the disheartened peoples of Corcaea. Acting as a living example of how faith can be rewarded. Striking down demons from the wilderness. Saving little towns. Anson's outbreak— when a monster manifested in the heart of the city— and your subsequent invocation that saved many lives. Years of prayer and abuse have left your body weak and weary, but there is no denying that your resolve is absolute.
It's with a grimace that your gaze settles on the grotesque figure above.
I know that I'm not a monster.
The intense scrutiny of the creature's image, and your trembling hands pick up on a faint draft coming from the other side of the wall. You gasp. "What...?"
One of the demon's legs is unmistakably lined by a groove. The draft coming from the other side is from a hidden door.
>A] Push the wall to try to force it open. You can't conceive how a slick stone door without handles could be trapped. Who dares, wins.
>B] Better safe than sorry. Try to check the hidden door for traps. (Write-in what how you want to do this.)
>C] There's no way this isn't a trap. Back up, mark on your map where the door is, and keep moving. Go down the waterway towards where the centipede demon last was.
>D] Back up, mark on your map where the door is, and keep moving. Go down the waterway towards where Orgoth walked off to.
>E] Write-in
Cautiously backing up from the door without so much as touching it, only a second is taken to label your map with its location. A small diagram of the giant mural is made as well. "Let's keep moving, Ray."
He barks, and obediently hops to your side.
Your eyes trail along the walls and down the passage to where Orgoth was last seen.
You swallow hard.
I just need to gather more information.
Orgoth caught your mace during the fight with his bare hands. His blood is still dried onto the sharpened flanges. As you take your weapon out and wave the item under your boy's nose, he gives the gore his full attention. Ready to trail whoever you command.
"Follow." At the order, your boy barks repeatedly, and immediately starts moving down the corridor. "Slow."
Whining, he points his nose down the waterway, and brings his motions to a low crawl. You stay right on his heels with a mutter. "Mercy, forgive me."
You're acutely aware of how much noise you're making as your shoes slosh through the filthy water. The foam and flecks of guts come up to your ankles. It's impossible to completely muffle the sound no matter how carefully you step. Ray doesn't help matters, as he ruthlessly trails Orgoth's scent. You have to frequently remind the mastiff to slow his pace.
Time crawls on. It could be one hour, or it could be five. Your side is aching, but you keep moving forward. The waterway is like a maze, with countless branching paths. It would be unbelievably easy to become lost down here. The monotony of your straight and singular path is truly a blessing.
Something is up ahead. You whisper, "stop."
If you had been moving faster, it would have been easy to miss. There's barbed trip wire strung across the path at the level of your ankles— and at the height of your neck.
"What's wrong with you?"
The memory hurts as badly as running into metal wire could have been.
The Church of Mercy took you in at such a young age. Father Edmund did everything he could for you, but it wasn't enough. You hated your life before your service. The company of the Gods was not enough.
With a step backwards, you make several further commands to drop Ray's tracking, and to keep him from hurting himself.
You were alone. You ran away. You watched and waited. For a time, a place, and any way to talk to someone. To get help. One time was enough.
There's a dull throbbing in your chest and head. It's hard to breathe.
When Father Edmund found you, he couldn't hide how badly you were beaten. To this day, you're certain Mercy is the only reason you didn't die.
"What were you thinking? What's wrong with you?"
A closer examination of the wire shows it's designed to slow down any pursuer. It surely would have killed you or Ray if you ran past.
You grit your teeth.
>A] Take down the wire so Ray doesn't get hurt, and keep moving forward. You've come this far, and you don't want to turn back now. This place is a maze, and getting lost down here is a far worse fate than whatever waits at the end of this tunnel. Regardless of what you've been through, you need to survive. Orgoth clearly is keeping his word. You can at least trust that he won't kill you if you don't get discovered.
>B] Turn around. You aren't helpless. You have Ray, and the Gods are on your side. You can find a way through this place without following someone who clearly doesn't want you around, and who's clearly scared of you. Go back the way you came and explore on your own. Leave the wire up, and respect Orgoth's wishes.
>C] Write-in
Shoulders and regret slumps forward as you look at the wire. "We— I shouldn't have followed him in the first place." You wave the mace again by Ray's nose. "Let's go, boy. Drop it."
The perk of his ears and tail relaxes with the end to the search, but your dog is still aware of how stressed you are. He licks on the side of your hand liberally, and you pat his head in appreciation. You even try to straighten your shoulders slightly. The ache in your chest and head subsides enough for some strained reassurance. "I'll be fine. Come on."
Ray looks to you for where to go next. You turn your back to the corridor Orgoth went down, and your boy keeps the pace. The pain in your side has decreased since you first were hit. So much sleep must have actually helped.
You make it back to where you began far faster than it took you to pursue Orgoth. Without stalking around, the travel time was at least halved. "That wasn't so bad." Ray barks in response once, then twice. He sounds distressed, and barks again.
"What is it, boy?" A few pebbles trickle from a nearby ledge. The ceiling and walls echo with your slowing footsteps.
Something else has been trapped. You've seen enough tunnels fall to know what's coming. With a shout, you dive as far from the source of an incoming collapse as you can. "RAY! MOVE—!"
The light rapidly fades from the hole overhead, as it fills with rock and silt. You and your boy slide through the repulsive waterway— muddying your bandages— and taking you just out from the ceiling as it breaks apart at your back.
The floor shakes, as the tunnel at your back falls to pieces. Ray tugs on your robes with his teeth, whining as you struggle to get up. The damn wound. It's slowing you down, but you manage to get to your feet in seconds.
Though it re-opens the injury at your side to do so, you break into a sprint. There's no use looking anywhere but straight ahead, to not trip on any of the debris underfoot. The tunnel brutally quakes as the entire opening at your back collapses in on itself.
Your broad strides take you deeper into the waterway than you've ever been. The familiar golden light is completely extinguished. You slow to a stop, and call out to the pitch-black corridor between ragged breaths. "Ray?"
A familiar bark sounds off right next to you. He doesn't sound hurt.
You let loose a heavy sigh, with relief that borders on a sob. "Good boy." You quickly get a hold of yourself, and blindly feel around for a torch. "Mercy..."
It's bad enough that you're drenched head-to-toe, but the backpack and the bottom of your robes seem to have gotten the worst of it. With great difficulty, you manage to extract a torch in the dark. It's a good thing the wood was treated. You command Ray to stay back while you strike the flame, and your eyes widen the moment the light catches.
Even in the dim glow, you can see something alarming. Very alarming.
The water is rising.
You frantically look overhead. There is solid stone above you, and below you as well. Spinning around, and swinging your torch towards the distance only reveals that the passage is stacked to the ceiling with heavy, fallen stone. Turning back around— running ahead— there's a three-pronged fork just a little further beyond. Your eyes go even wider when you see that the central path leads down.
Water is pouring into some dark slope. The path to the right leads up, granting drier ground. The path to the left stays straight and level, where the water is about a foot high and rising fast. The pounding beat of your heart, and Ray's barking is deafening in the ever-shrinking space.
Time is precious, and you desperately need to see. You wrap both hands around the torch, and close your eyes. Ray's barking fades from your mind as you pour yourself into an invocation. A prayer, to reach out to Mercy. Using Her blessing in times of great peril is something you know you can do without fear of pain or retribution.
Light flares out with the intensity of the day for the briefest of moments, before shrinking back in on itself. The radius of the torch is at least doubled. Heat radiates off of it, as a constant reminder of Her favor. Comfort and joy pour forth from your lips, as you cry out in relief. "The Gods are Merciful!"
Thank to Her momentary blessing, you can clearly see to the end of the right path. A broad swing of your torch reveals that there is a large grate covering the entire passage. It's difficult to discern a way to open it from such a distance. The straight path ends is shorter, and also ends with a large grate. The only unobstructed path is the one leading down, and you can't see to its end— even with Mercy's gift.
The water is about two feet up from the floor now, and still rising.
>A] Run to the elevated path to the right. Ray is much shorter than you, and you can't risk him having to swim to keep up. Try to find a way to open the grate.
>B] Run to the straight path on the left, and try to open the grate. It's closer, and you don't know how much time you have.
>C] Run down the lower path as far as you can. You know you're too weak to force open the metal bars of those grates, and you have no aptitude for picking locks. Unless there's an easy way to open them, you'd rather try your luck sprinting ahead.
>D] Write-in.
Ray's barking increases. His breed is enormous— nearly four feet tall standing— but the water is still rising rapidly. Fearing the worst, you decide to take the high ground. "Run, Ray!"
Sprinting through the water to the rightmost path, your dog practically has to swim to keep up with you. He immediately lags behind. The ground to the right slopes up dramatically. Thankfully, it takes you both above the water level about halfway into the passage. The filthy runoff menacingly rises and rushes up from behind. Its source is impossible to point, but you don't have time for a proper investigation.
"Mercy—"
The metal bars of the grate block the entire passage. The lattice is wide enough to stick a hand through, but not even your lithe frame would fit. You have to act quickly. The last bit of rope you were able to salvage is used to secure the torch onto the metal bars of the grate, while taking a few precious seconds to pray for the metal to soften. Water rushes from the slope at your back to lap at the soles of your shoes.
Your boy whines, and continues to back up away from the flood. With a great heave and a shout, you get some leverage, slam your mace down, and pry with all of your might. A few agonizing seconds pass as you strain against the rusted obstruction. The screech of old metal into stone echoes down the passage beyond.
Holding your ground, and digging in your heels, every last bit of strength your legs possess work to their absolute limit. Along with Ray's barking, screaming stone and iron shakes through the passage.
Your eyes are screwed shut, sweat dripping from your brow. The lattice weakens, buckles, and completely collapses in the center. A small, viciously sharp passage can barely be squeezed through. A shout of victory is all you can hazard. "Yes!"
Every bit of training and cooperation you and Ray possess goes into guiding him through first. "Go! RUN!" The moment he's through, you unfasten the torch as fast as your shaking hands can work. With your mace recovered, you deftly slip through the opening.
Both of you break into a full sprint. The dampness in your bandages spreads. Blood weeps from your side from the strain of opening the grate, but you can't care. Adrenaline keeps the fatigue and pain at bay for a few precious moments. Following the path upwards, you are taken along a swerve to the side— and down.
Your eyes are as wide as saucers, while scouring the walls for any other doors or openings. There are many carvings of demons— and something more. Light shines around some of the carvings. They must be openings in the grooves along the wall. They could be hidden doors, or traps. Maybe something more. There's three of them.
One— just to your left— is around a carving of an imp. This weakest kind of demon is usually in service to a monster of greater power. They are mischievous, and terrible to contend with nonetheless. Its depiction stands about as tall as Ray— while you stand two inches over 6 feet. The lanky and wiry frame you possess would have to crouch down to pass through.
A drawing of a minor demon is further down the tunnel, just as the floor starts to dip down. A lit, circular gap encompasses the image. If a tunnel lies beyond, it would be large enough for you to pass through while standing.
The last series of grooves are made in an ornate pattern, in an outline of a lesser demon. It reaches the entire height of the passage, and some of the ceiling. Detail is difficult to make out on the massive expanse. It's far enough down the passage that it meets the very edge of your bright torchlight.
The rush of water behind you is unrelenting. You're currently on dry land, but there's no telling for how long.
>A] Check the grooves to your left, around the carving of the imp. The smaller passage may be the easiest to open, if it needs to be pushed on.
>B] Check further down the tunnel, at the circle around the minor demon drawing. It resembles a door the closest, and may be a safer bet if you need to maneuver yourself.
>C] Check the largest pattern, around the lesser demon. You want to get as far away from the water as possible while still exploring your options.
>D] Continue running down the passage, descending lower than where you're currently standing. The water has yet to pool down there from what you can tell, and you may have more time if you press on.
>E] Write-in (including any additional ways you wish to check any of the openings).
The water is still rising rapidly, and you're soaked to the bone. Ray doesn't even bother to shake himself off as he whines and barks.
"Move!" Froth and gray foam rushes behind you as you run along the corridor. Hooking around the corner, you and Ray descend towards the largest opening you can see. The light faintly coming from the border of the demon gives you hope.
"BACK, boy!" If this is trapped, you aren't going to risk both of you getting hurt. "Mercy, guide me—!"
Hooking your mace on its holster, you unsling your shield, and slam your full weight onto the side of the wall's grooves. The solid stone slides slightly with the force— and starts to retract.
Waves of water rush down from the slope at your back to meet you. The thrum of your heartbeat is in your ears and soul. The rush of scum is nearly enough to knock you off your feet. Ray holds his ground valiantly, and barks at the retracting door with a ferocity you rarely see from him. With the water rising rapidly, your boy is up to his neck in water in seconds. The grooves around the demon's picture part completely. Its hidden door has slid only halfway into the walls around it, but you can see a wide cavern ahead. It's glowing with a pale yellow light.
There's no time to waste. Shield out, you push ahead towards the golden opening, and slip through the narrow exit. "With me, Ray."
Your command and the slosh of your robes through the water echoes throughout the cavern. It's hard to imagine this place flooding. A colossal cavern is lined with the pale glow of countless parasites from floor to ceiling. Ray is beside himself, and barks incessantly at the walls. The creatures clinging to them are neither fireflies, nor beetles. The light that's eclipsing Mercy's blessing comes from leeches. There must be hundreds of them. They've been slowly moving your way, but many of them flop into the water— and swim with uncanny speed straight towards you.
You whip your head around to your boy howling. Several of the leeches have latched onto his body. Sparks burst before your eyes from a panicked outburst. "RAY!"
Swinging your torch, you scream out as you try to deter the leeches. With Ray biting and gnashing at them, and your quick efforts, most are quickly pried off. It matters little. The cavern is illuminated as every last parasite swims towards you.
Panic has you look around for any exit. At first glance, it would seem that this room is a dead-end, but there's a hole in the floor at the farthest end. It follows a steep incline— and drops off sharply beyond your sight. It will flood. You'll likely wind up swimming. A quick glance over your shoulder sinks the pounding beat of your heart. The water level is not only still increasing— it has nearly flooded the passage you entered from.
Not like this. Not today.
>A] Put away your shield, and pray to Mercy. Ask for protection. You can't do this while attacking the creatures. She'll only answer if you show restraint, but you're willing to take the risk to save Ray and yourself. You need to escape from this place. Ask Mercy to be able to withstand the assault of the leeches and run as fast as your legs can carry you to the exit.
>B] Put away your shield, and pray to Storm to grant you breath underwater. Storm is a temperamental God, and is prone to harsh judgement. He may not see fit to grant you anything, or could even worsen the flood— but it's a chance you're willing to take. Barrel ahead. Give yourself to him. Drowning is far worse than losing some blood.
>C] Keep your shield up, and fight the leeches. Clearing the path for you and Ray with your own wiry body has given you a spark of faith in yourself. For once in your life, you feel like you are capable with nothing but your human shell. The water is rising, but you might not get very far if you come under attack. Cleave a path, and make your way through the room with your own two hands.
>D] Write-in.
Given the size of the cavern, the water level is increasing much faster than it has any right to. Moving forward becomes excruciatingly slow, between the current and leeches gathering in the waves around you. Ray tears into a great number as he does his best to follow you, and it's all you can do to try and help him. The creatures creep under your sleeves, under your shirt and socks, and latch onto skin wherever they can.
We're going to die if we don't get out of here.
"Ray!"
Your dog sinks under the surface. Despite being right at his side, he can barely be seen through the monstrous infestation in the water. You fearlessly dive under, grab Ray with both arms, and pull him back out. "Come on, boy. Come on."
Every word of reassurance you can utter accompanies your desperate motions, as you get him to higher ground. It's more than a struggle, as he bites and tears at the leeches covering both your bodies. With the water rapidly approaching, you still stop for a moment to pry and throw as many of the freakishly large creatures off of Ray as you can. He licks at you thankfully, but whines, and is certainly hurt.
Your mind thunders with thoughts of staying and fighting the leeches, but the water is rising so rapidly now that you fear you'll drown if you stay. Dangerous, churning muck pushes against the walls of the cavern. Waves lap at your elevated position.
Running up to the hole, you quickly peer inside. It's dry. Due to its steep slope, seeing further beyond is out of the question even with Mercy's light.
It's the only way out.
Ray is visibly distraught, but his ears perk up at your whistle. He immediately leaps to your side.
What did I ever do to deserve you?
A wordless run goes down the steep decline. Ray— despite his bites— manages to keep his footing right alongside you as you stagger forward. Your feet barely catch on the moist earth. The light of the leeches fades, but the sound of the water intensifies in a way that makes your heart sink. You know what you need to do, and it frightens you.
Even as a young boy, you always have striven to exhibit restraint. You've never called upon the Gods for aid unless you felt that lives were in danger. These occurrences have become more and more frequent as the years have dragged on— and you've felt it. Sleep comes rarely. Eating is a struggle. Your limbs are thin, but weigh on you like a much heavier burden. Yet you are compelled to pray. To invoke. To save others. To save yourself.
Ray is panting hard as you both run forward. From the top of the incline comes a deafening roar. Gallons upon gallons of water careens down and into the passage at your back. You stop, hold onto your dog, and brace against the side of the nearest outcropping of rock. Water rushes to meet you both.
His name scarcely leaves your lips, and the entire passage trembles. Water flows around your form, as the passage completely floods. Water flows out from your lips. A presence is beside you, but the prayer is lost to any listener. Feeling slips from your body. Ray slips from your arms, and is swept away into the current. You become lost to it.
Water must be in your lungs. A single, deep, and wet breath is pulled in.
Everything goes black.
You're held in the embrace of an endless ocean. Clouds gather in incomprehensible shades of turmoil. Lightning caresses the sky. Time has no place here. An impossibly beautiful figure extends beyond night and the sun. There's nothing but your intent to see a God.
Water is in and all around you. You can't breathe. You can't move. Your body is nothing but heat arcing through a tortured, and endlessly fractured vessel.
As you gaze upwards and into the clouds, you are pieced back together. Desperation reaches out to Him. You can speak, and your word is your own.
"My weakness is your strength."
The rising tempest drowns out your speech. Wind stirs the sky into a frenzy. From darkened clouds, rain falls in sweeping sheets. The flood raises all the ocean. Thunder quakes the earth and sky. The earth is no more. A fell arc of lightning devastates the sea. Blindness consumes you.
He answers to your prayer.
Your eyes bolt open in shock. In the absence of Time and Flesh, you can see only see water all around. There's no telling how long you were granted a vision of a God. You come back to your body in intense shock— and convulse.
This is it.
Absolute loss of motor control takes hold of your breath. One, sharp inhalation floods your lungs with water. It's as if your body is on fire. Heat is behind your eyes. Coral and amber licks around your fingers. Lightning ripples through the current in all directions. Mercy's light was extinguished, but the new illumination casts from recurring sparks through your mind and all throughout your body.
He saved me.
Storm wants you to see. Hundreds of leeches have returned, and slowly inch towards you in a slow perimeter. As tendrils of electricity arc from your spine, through your arms, and out along trembling hands, they're driven back. Over. And over. And over again.
Gratitude would pour from you, were it not for the absolute inability to speak underwater.
A rising urge to scream elicits a few bubbles from your lips. Waterlogged limbs put terror into you deeper and with greater intensity than all of the sea. You've been down here for more than just a few minutes.
Ray.
It may have been hours.
Where is Ray?
Mortal fear for your boy's safety takes hold. The first attempt you make to swim forward is instantly pushed back. The leeches practically form a wall.
Where am I?!
Swimming and twisting in place does nothing to orient yourself. Above, below, and to either side are overwhelming masses of the faintly glowing parasites. Even the surrounding rock can barely be seen through their flickering forms.
You can't stop yourself, and scream in frustration. It takes the embrace of divinity to keep your skull from splitting.
What have they done?!
>A] Arc electricity from Storm into the entire passage. Kill each and every one of the leeches with a single motion. You're going to clear a path, even if it kills you. No one hurts your boy.
>B] Divide the water. You don't know how far in the passage you are, but there's an exit somewhere. It might create a current to guide you back to the entrance, but at least that would confirm if there's no escape.
>C] Take your time to find the exit without harming the leeches. You're still a Father of Mercy, no matter what's happened to Ray. Follow one of the walls, and try to find a way out of this place. Storm has honored your prayer. Honor him.
Tense, aching, and violently trembling from seizure, you barely manage to wrap your arms around your knees.
Was it really Him? A manifestation? A vision? A hallucination?
While waiting for the worst of the shaking to subside, it seems that the lightning arcing from your fingertips is the one thing on you that doesn't hurt.
There's someone counting on me.
Ray may have been given to you purely for protection, but he's become your best friend over the years. No matter what dangers you've faced, he's always come through.
Will I ever see Storm again? Why hasn't Mercy shown herself to me? What of any other God, for that matter?
Leeches passively float by.
Have I not been faithful enough?
Bolts of electricity angrily arc from your eyes and hands.
Am I not worthy?
The sparks push away the over-sized parasites each time they approach you. Their presence is claustrophobic, and you still can't see a damn thing past them.
Why NOW?
Trying to get your thoughts to stop racing is managed with extreme difficulty. After weighing your options— and praying that Ray isn't still in the passage— you straighten up. Swimming to a nearby outcropping of rock gives you enough leverage to wedge your feet into the silt and mud.
With a firm foothold, you clasp your hands together in prayer. Storm can't hear you down here— but he doesn't need to. You can feel Him.
Wind forms between your palms. Divinity courses through you. You dig in your heels, and splay your fingers. A gale manifests, and nearly propels you backwards. Dirt stirs up in clouds, along with the filthy runoff, the vermin, and the growing swirl of elements.
With as much force as you can muster, you spread your arms, and part the water before you. The gale expands, intertwining with the electricity crackling along your skin. You nearly collapse from the strain, but the water around you is keeping you afloat. The tempest is completely gathered with one, intricate motion. Arms and pain draws in on the raw energy that's poured from the recesses of your innermost being. The crackling swirl of impossibility would take your breath away, were your lungs not flooded.
Your eyes cloud over— and with a gasp, you release the gathering Storm. The sheer force you release creates a part in the water before and behind you. It will have to emerge somewhere. The entire corridor rapidly drains, as waves surge up against the surrounding walls. The leeches that have been plaguing you are surreally suspended in the filthy liquid. Not only do you stay on your feet, but you guide the rush of water. It's the blood that flows through your veins. An effortless exit. There's no need to dig yourself out from the corridor, now that you have a tide to move with.
A fluid motion coaxes the waves underfoot. Moving with it towards a blood-red light takes you along the passage, up a sharp rise in the corridor, and you emerge. Breathless. Drenched to the bone. Breathing water, and looking frantically around for Ray.
He had to have come this way. It was the only way out of that death trap.
No one else is in sight. Only your frantic, maddened reflection catches in the ruby light that reflects off of the water. It's ankle-deep and no longer rising, thanks to how vast this chamber is. It couldn't have flooded if you tried. Countless stone pillars extend in all directions. The grooved, stone structures reach up to a ceiling higher than your fall in the waterway. Searching in the oddly lit area here is proving difficult, but the fog of exhaustion on you makes way for vigilance. Smoke drifts along the floor, though you're certain that there are no further carvings or writings here.
Only pin-pricks of light are in the distance. For the first time since entering the ruins, you see torches on the furthest walls. They're likely entrances to deeper, well-lit areas. Someone has been down here. Thanks to their efforts, a black substance floats on the countless puddles littering the ground.
Oil. You open your mouth to shout out in terror. A flood of water comes out instead. Backing up and throwing your arms in front of your face only sparks further lightning. The many puddles in the room ignite. Flame rises high in patches along the length of the room.
Thundering footsteps sound in the distance. You lower your arms, and try to brace yourself.
What is this sorcery?
The greater demon you saw depicted upon the walls of the ruins emerges from the distant shadow. In a hideous spectacle, the source of the footsteps fully reveals itself. You have to raise your gaze to the ceiling to take in the full height of the behemoth. The heads of its many men are perched atop many armless torsos. Each torso rests atop a singular, bloodied, horse-like body. There are no hooves. There are no legs. It passes through the flames unscathed on all four of its muscular arms. The meaty appendages ripple with the weight of each step. The cracked and bleeding nails of its splayed and gargantuan fingers must be the size of your entire body.
The demon is heading your way. Its shadow will eclipse you in seconds. You frantically look around the room for any sign of Ray, but between the flames, heat, and poor lighting it's impossible to tell where he's at.
>A] Channel the electricity coursing through your hands at the greater demon. You may be weakened from sharing your body with Storm for so long, but better weak than dead— which you likely will be, if you don't deal with this threat immediately.
>B] Redirect the flaming water towards the greater demon with Storm's blessing. The area you're in is enormous, and you have more than enough ammunition to completely engulf it. Maybe if it won't burn, it will drown.
>C] Don't even risk fighting this beast. You don't know how long Storm will favor you, and you don't want to find out. Run for your life. The doors ahead are surely too small for the greater demon to fit through.
>D] Write-in.
Your neck strains up to see the demon's absence of eyes. Its stitched together lips. Its squashed noses, bitten ears, bald heads, and protruding spines.
This monstrous form strikes no fear into your heart. You're a man of the Gods— and Storm has favored you this day.
Holding your ground, you pivot your feet. The rock underfoot cracks from blistering heat, as your connection to Storm intensifies. You bring your hands together. Electricity arcs in halos around you. Lightning courses through your veins. You lean into the tempest, and begin to kindle water with flame.
The demon charges, shaking the ground on which you stand as it screams with ten bleeding faces.
Storm's influence is more than the sacred motion with which you sweep your arms overhead. The fire of your adoration licks along the mesmerizing, decaying, blessed filth of the ruins. You will not succumb to exhilaration. You control this vortex of death. In one violent sweep, you pull a solid wall of water and flame from the nightmarish landscape before you.
The sorcerer rears back, though he is slowed only momentarily. Some elaborate, sudden motion is made with his foremost arm. Magic.
You grimace. Sweat clings to your back and neck, sticking with the oil and water you've immersed your very soul in. With an unbelievable effort, you bring forth the entire tide in a single step forward. It's swept into the colossal tempestuous force that you've gathered. A hold runs deeper in you than the lightning beneath your skin. You match his ferocity with every gallon of water. Every mote of flame.
Storm outstretches your reach towards the greater demon. The current flashes in the dark, as you engulf the entire demon in your elements.
It bucks and screeches with the agony of one thousand men. They're all begging for Mercy.
Faith is your guide. You fall to one knee at the terrible sound, tightening your outstretched hands into fists. The water below you keeps you from collapsing completely. You focus all of your will, and the hold persists.
Moments draw out for an eternity. Through the wall of flame and sea— in the endless effort— you catch your bloodied reflection. Lightning licks around your eyes and trembling body, as you kneel before a demon. For once, you don't mind the image.
Strength and a peal of thunder devastates the chamber from floor to ceiling. The demon's flesh chars under your continued, flaming administrations. Your mutual hatred and anguish meets for the briefest of moments. His eyes pop under blistering oil, and melt from rotten sockets.
I will deliver you from your suffering.
The greater demon is truly not a creature of this earth. It shows no signs of drowning. Unrivaled strength bucks and lashes against the pressure of the building water.
It's everything you can do to keep your eyes locked on the beast, as you practically fall prostrate before it. Your skin feels like it's bubbling from the heat of Storm's presence. Lightning crackles and whips around you, as you strain to contain both the demon and a God.
You know what has to be done, with outstretched hands towards the demon. For only a second, water cascades down its body. Flame crashes through the tide. The waterfall of destruction is the only second of Mercy it will ever be granted.
You release Storm. Electricity courses from the deepest recesses of your being. It slips through the cracks of your very soul, in a wave so deafening that the greater demon stops its screaming. An explosion of lightning arcs along the water, and travels up each wave before it can come crashing down. Your eyes sear with orange light. Your ears ring with divine blessing. The demon burns alive.
You can speak, before completely collapsing to the floor. "The Gods are Merciful."
Storm and the last of the invocation completely leaves you. With His presence goes the water from your lips. It was staving off the scent of burning and decayed flesh. The odor hits you so hard and fast that it's a fight to not heave as the greater demon's gargantuan body collapses into the water. Its collision with the floor of his chamber is deafening. Waves swell on every side of the monster's inert carcass. Smoke rises in huge plumes— and you realize in horror that you can't rest yet.
You feel like a husk. Your limbs are too heavy to move, and it's excruciating even to roll on your side. Drowning from laying flat in the water is as great a concern now as the towering beast was seconds ago.
Flame licks along the water.
You struggle to keep your eyes open.
Through the crackling flame, drifting smoke, and lapping water, you hear faint voices. They're off and away, somewhere on the edge of the room— but you're so exhausted, it's hard to tell. There's no fight left in you.
>A] Dig a hand into your wound where the javelin pierced you. The pain will keep you going. The wound is surely already infected, but you have much bigger issues to worry about right now. You're trained in medicine— you'll treat the wound once you're out of this place.
>B] Pray to Spirit. Her domain is over the will of humans, over their life and energy. She may grant you enough of her blessing to keep you going without hurting your body any further.
>C] Pray to Mercy to keep you safe from whatever it is that's coming. Fighting that greater demon took everything you had, and you don't know if it's even dead.
>D] Wait and let come what may. You've pushed yourself beyond all human limits, and know when to stop. You're scared, from how your body reacted to seeing Storm, and to how tired you are now. Sleep, and hope that you wake again.
>E] Write-in
Self-mutilation isn't the worst thing you've done to survive. Considering your hand as you lift it before your eyes, there's the same long digits. Scarred and bent from being broken and healed over many times.
Deep breath.
You tighten your right hand into a knife, and sharply dig a few fingers into the open wound in your side. The soft flesh is excruciatingly tender from how much you've pushed yourself. You scream, and immediately have to stop the motion to prevent causing extreme damage. Your cry rings out through the high ceiling and countless stone pillars. Any voices that may have been in the distance stop.
Pain sears through your body.
Your blood is pumping.
By the time the last of the echo fades, you can get back to your feet.
With your bloodied hands together, you pray to Vengeance. You're soaked to the bone, and shiver slightly despite the flames. "Take my pain..." You step carefully through the water, keeping a wide berth from the demon's corpse. Eyes wide. Heart racing. "Take my anger..." The greater demon's corpse reeks of burnt hair and skin. Black blood courses through the water you held dominion over just minutes ago. "Take my weakness...." Pain shoots through your arms as you tense. Your eyes wildly scan the entire area, searching for sight or sound of anyone. "Take Vengeance." The tension in you abates just long enough for you sigh in relief— but your sudden exhale is cut short by a cry out in pain.
The injury in your side must be worse than you thought. You nearly double over, and take a knee. Head down. Pleading. "Take me— and my pain— and that which I must inflict—"
Chapter 5: Toxic Charms "You won't abide by cutpurses and apostates."
The edge of a blade sticks just below your Adam's apple, drawing out a trickle of warm blood. A young woman is out of sight, kneeling just behind you. Her voice is heavily accented. Not from Corcaea. Certainly not from the church. "Didn't hear us comin' over all the fuss you were makin', didja'?"
From much further back comes an airy, detached, and far more refined voice. It's another woman who's calling out from beside the demon. "He's wounded."
The rogue at your back snaps. "You think I was born yesterday?!" Muttering. "Always pointing out the obvious. You'd think an immortal would be a little more tactful." Bloody intent whispers right in your ear. "Listen up, hotshot. I'm going to kill you right here and now if you don't come clean. We aren't risking a damn thing with you. What the fuck was that?" With a free hand, she shakes your shoulder slightly. "What are you?"
The sudden movement shoots waves of pain through your side. If you weren't soaked from head to toe already, it would be obvious how badly you're sweating. You don't dare to swallow, but can risk a sharp breath of air. The sound of a dog panting and whining from far off in the distance is music to your ears. "Ray-?!"
Turning your head sharply is halted in an instant. The woman behind you firmly grabs your shoulder, and sticks the knife deeper into your neck. "Hey hey hey! No sudden movements."
"You found him?!" You can barely restrain yourself, and put up every inch of struggle you dare. "You have my dog! Ray—?!"
The grip on your shoulder turns into a vice."I'm the one asking the questions here! Talk! We'll deal with the dog once I know you aren't going to kill all of us."
It's your duty as a Father of the Church of Mercy to serve more than the Gods. You are sworn to protect, to heal, and to exercise restraint. Both hands are clasped in prayer, longing for Vengeance. Your gut is telling you that this must be Ray. There can't be that many people who would take a dog into the ruins.
You tighten your hands, and swallow the red you've been seeing. A trickle of boiling blood streams down your neck, as the blade presses deeper still. "Talk."
>A] This is ridiculous, and this woman is a sadist. Tell her the bare minimum: you're a human priest, and used your God's power to kill the greater demon. If they have Ray, you aren't going to give them the time of day until you make sure he's okay.
>B] These women are obviously scared of you— just like most people who don't understand the Gods. Take a minute to explain that you're no threat to them, and that you were only trying to protect yourself. A little human decency could be sorely needed down here.
>C] This rogue clearly can see right through you. Don't mince words. Reassure her that you're no threat, but elaborate on your connection to the Gods. She threatened to kill you if you don't convince her thoroughly that you aren't a threat. Now isn't the time to beat around the bush. Especially not if Ray is in their hands.
>D] Write-in.
This is just another misunderstanding. I just need to keep calm. I need to keep her calm. Be a decent man. Do the right thing.
You pick a few careful words, aiming to not cut yourself further on the blade. "I'll talk." The woman doesn't relax her grip on your shoulder, but moves the knife aside just slightly. You close your eyes, and try to keep your composure. It helps. "I know you're scared."
"I am not." The rogue bristles behind you in offense, and leans in even closer.
"Everyone's afraid of what they don't understand. I'm only a man. My Gods can work through me, to— to help others. To protect people. What you saw when I fought that demon is something I can control. I would never use the Gods' blessing to harm an innocent." Speaking at length is agony. Digging your hands into the wound kept you awake, alright. The pain has been building ever since you exacerbated the injury. You wince, leaning forward slightly to try and take some of the pressure off of your side. Between ragged breaths, you wheeze, "I couldn't hurt you— even if I wanted to. Killing that greater demon— nearly killed me. I may— be dying— right now."
The woman takes the blade away from your throat, clicks her tongue, and shoves you forward. Unclasping your hands, you instinctively catch yourself with one hand, and put a hand to the cut she left. The sting of your filthy palms uselessly smears the blood over your wet skin. "I see." The woman is agitated. She calls out behind you, "Gwen! Hey! Get over here! He's bleedin' out on us!"
You fire a glare over your shoulder. The motion is excruciating, but well worth it. You're afforded a glimpse a halfling woman. She would scarcely come up to mid-thigh if you were standing. The petite, sickly looking thing is shrouded primarily behind an over-sized, deep-blue cloak. It's fastened with an ornate, colorful, and shining gem in the shape of an eye. It must be enchanted. Your eyes trail up to her bushy, straw-like hair. Freckles and a bright blue gaze snaps towards you with an unhinged, filthy smile. "Like what you see?"
You avert your eyes from the heretic, and painfully turn away from her again. Her presence here in the ruins is baffling. Halflings are notorious for farming and craftsmanship— not for risking life and limb in demon infested pits. You've only seen her peoples once before, safely behind the capital's high walls. Protected by human guards. Here there's only smoke, and flame, and ruin. "Where's my dog—?"
"They're coming. Stay put. No funny business."
You can't help but turn around, and watch her walk away. There's scarcely a ripple in the water from her utterly silent steps. With a wave, she hails a figure from around the side of the greater demon's corpse. "Will you hurry it up?!"
The woman that comes slowly walking should not be here, either. It's an elf. Lithe, and scarcely clad. Smears of mud and paint are along her limbs, snaking under and around the daggers and knives strapped over her form. You shift your gaze up to her silver, star-speckled eye-level. Though she'd nearly reach your height side-by-side, the creature possesses freakishly long, pointed ears. They twitch as you glance past her distant gaze, and struggle to focus. Slender fingers brush aside a few soft strands of her cloudy-white, ethereal hair. "Is he still conscious?"
Your vision is swimming badly, or Gwen's motions might be suspended from Time herself. You've heard myths of how elves spend their immortality guarding the edges of the world— though from what is a matter of great contention. By her side is a beast of a figure. A reminder of reality. You could faint. The blood and soot on your face cracks with a smile. "Ray!"
Trying to stand— let alone to run and greet him— is impossible. The pain in your side is reaching critical mass, and you can barely stagger upright. As you return to one knee, your boy walks over. He doesn't care about the blood— be it yours, or someone else's— and licks excitedly at your hands. You could cry. It's painful to move, but you can't help but scratch behind his ears, and give him some love. "I'm so happy to see you. Who's a good boy?" The fuzzy silhouette of the elf and halfling come closer to you. You call out to them, as they stand a few feet away. "Where was he?"
"I found him hidin' in one of the corridors outside of this room. Was hurt pretty bad. Gwen patched him up." The halfling's stern face is visible even as your eyes swim. "You need some help, too."
The elf takes a hesitant step towards you. "I have a tenuous tie to Magic. If you wish, I can heal the worst of your injury. I must caution you, however: it will hurt a great deal."
You can barely see. Ray whines next to you, licking at your robes. Fatigue is starting to overwhelm the pain. Before you can reply, the elf makes an elaborate gesture with her hands. A strange incantation leaves her in a language you can't understand. You don't recall her carrying a walking stick, but a long, gnarled, and wooden item is being kindled into an unearthly flame.
Starlight and sorcery.
There's musing from the halfling to her companion. "Maybe I shouldn't have roughed him up." You can't make out a reply, if the conjurer gives one. The voice speaks to you directly. "Can't just letcha' die out here. Not after killing that monster. This ain't really the best place for medicine, though, eh?"
"Let the man speak for himself, Ofelia."
>A] Allow the elf to heal you. You would do it yourself, but your pack was completely submerged in the passageway. Your medicinal supplies need to dry at best, or are ruined at worst. Her skill may not match yours, but better to endure a little more pain than to bleed out on the floor.
>B] Insist on healing yourself. Pray to Mercy to heal your wound. You don't trust these women, and you suspect that they don't know what they're doing down here. Better to rely on your own strength. You've got Ray. It'll be alright.
>C] Write-in.
You have no idea how long you were with Storm for, but your boy is acting like it was a lifetime. Ray looks healthy, if not a little out of sorts. He keeps licking your robes and hands. It's difficult to even look up, but you have someone to lean on, and can't help but express your gratitude. Every word is a struggle. "Thank you— for healing Ray. I've never seen him— seen him so well behaved... without me... around... before."
The starlight and space at the end of the elf's staff is pointed directly towards you. "A minor charm. It will wear off soon. You're dying. Do you want my aid?"
You nod your head, and struggle to remain upright. It's a losing battle. You slump forward, and let most of your weight lean against your dog. Ray is trained enough to know how to keep you from collapsing. A single bark at the elf is made as she approaches, but no bites. Without any warning, she kneels next to you and tears at the filthy bandages that have been holding the wound shut over your robes.
The movement is infinitely more aggressive than what you expected from such a delicate looking creature. Despite your exhaustion, you give a shout as the tender flesh is exposed to the heat and smoke of the ruins. It's impossible to not writhe against the sensation. Your tolerance for pain is high, but this is something else.
"Ofelia, hold him down."
The halfling is right beside you. She's somehow even more aggressive, eliciting another moan as you're firmly kept still. Through the haze of smoke, flame, and agony, you can see her distress. "Keep yer voice down! Here—" A rag is shoved unceremoniously into your mouth. There's no telling where it's been.
Instinct stops you from spitting it out, as the light from the end of the elf's staff intensifies. A cosmos gathers at the end of what you recognize now to be a wizard's weapon. Gwen's hair stands on end. You decide to bite down as hard as you can on the rag. Ofelia grabs onto your shoulder and hips hard, and pins you to the floor.
The end of the staff is driven straight into the wound in your side. Cloth and teeth does absolutely nothing to muffle the scream that rises. The pain is unlike anything you've ever felt before. It's as if a part of you is being pulled straight out of your body.
To your unending horror, the elf pulls the staff away from your body in a deliberate motion. A tendril of necrotic flesh comes away with it. There is no blood pooling from your body. A line of contact is maintained for a moment, as inches of black rot are drawn out from your body, to her works. Searing heat fills your abdomen. You might as well actually be on fire. The pain is so severe that you almost don't recognize the explosive headache mounting in the back of your skull.
The elf seems completely occupied with her spell, but the halfling does notice the exquisite agony you're trapped in. Ofelia's voice leaves her, high and distressed. "What's wrong with this guy—"
The sadist holds up a free hand to shush her companion. Her fingers twist around the black tendril of disease that was pulled from your body, and dissipate it with a flick of her wrist. The staff points to your side.
You manage to spit out the rag. Knitting your eyes shut, every attempt is made to curl up and plead. "Not again!"
Ray's warning growls almost drowns out her reply. "The infection is gone, but your body is in a state practically beyond my care. A full recovery will be impossible other—" The elf acts as if she's going to continue speaking, but instead drives the buildup of starlight straight into your side. You can't process the sensation. The pain is too much.
You black out.
Faint lights pass you by. The heat of a fire. The smell of real food. Something soft and warm, pressing against your face. Your eyes slowly open.
This can't be right. I've never been with a woman. Why is one leaning over me now?
The woman's hand leaves from your forehead. She moves away, leaving you alone. You come back down to earth.
Alone.
Disoriented and dizzy, you try to look around the small, poorly-lit, and dry space you're occupying. Your head is still throbbing. There's a humble and barely-lit campfire on the rocks. Roasted vegetables are cooking in a little pot beside it. Ray is laying down across from the food, eyeing it hungrily. It's a sight for sore eyes.
You find, remarkably, that there's no more pain in your side. No more water or flame. No electricity in your eyes. You're warm, and dry, and someone seems to have changed you into the spare set of robes from your backpack. You start sweating at the thought of it. A few memories come back to you as you nervously lay back down. Being carried by the elf through the cavernous hall, beyond the greater demon. Passing through corridor after corridor, concealed by her magic. The memories are fuzzy.
You want to ask questions, but the heretic is back. The halfling. You close your eyes, too exhausted to even look at her. Her hushed voice is directed towards someone in the shadows, as she leans over you again. "He's still breathing."
Gwen replies. "Keep an eye on him. We still don't know what he's capable of. Humans are dangerous, Ofelia."
"I can't fucking believe you wanted to bring him here. He would have healed fine without us."
"I told him that only so he would let me pull out the infection. Humans are weak. This one is especially fragile. It is beyond me how he was alive when we found him..."
"Unbelievable. Waste of our fucking time. You're going to be the death of us, Celegwen— and I mean that."
Before you can move to get up or retort, Ofelia's hand goes back to your forehead. Muttering. "Elves. Too fucking valuable not to keep around. Come on, handsome. I bet you know a few tricks, too..."
It doesn't matter if she's being sarcastic or not. The comment stings. Badly.
>A] Pretend to be passed out for awhile longer. Eavesdrop on Celegwen and Ofelia, and try to get some information without them knowing. You're so exhausted, you could use a little more rest anyways.
>B] Try to be normal, for once in your life. Wait for Ofelia to leave you alone, then get up. Have a meal with the two women and try to talk to them on some even footing. They had the decency to save you and hide you while you recovered. You're not exactly the best conversationalist, but maybe extending some more decency to them will be enough.
>C] Be completely direct. Get up and make it obvious that you heard them talking. You'd rather risk some awkwardness than to withhold any information. Lying by omission is still lying in Mercy's book. There's absolutely no reason you can fathom for an elf and a halfling to be down in the ruins, and almost every word out of their mouth has been questionable. Something's up.
>D] Write-in
You knit your eyebrows together, slowly open your eyes, and try to find your voice. It's hoarse, and feels like you haven't drank in days. "I'm... awake, you know."
The horror on Ofelia's face can't be hid. Not even by the shadow of her cloak. "H-he's awake, Gwen—"
Shifting to get up is an ordeal. "I've... been awake."
"I know," Celegwen's voice calls out, from across the campfire.
Ofelia looks twice as horrified. Realizing that you're trying to move puts her horror on hold, in a scramble to keep you still. "Cut it out—"
You brush her hand away. It's difficult to believe your own words. "The pain is gone. I'm fine."
Ofelia still looks irate. "You heard us talking?"
"Yes." You manage to completely sit upright. Now that you aren't staring at the ceiling, it's easy to see that the elf was sitting just out of view.
She's keeping a safe distance from Ray, while eyeing your torso intently.
You bring a hand to your side, and feel the skin. It's mottled and twisted with new scar tissue over the old. It can be felt even through the fabric of your robes— but the pain is completely gone. You grimace with concern. Scars are one thing. Imagining what might have happened if you weren't found is another. "I wanted to thank you." Your voice remains soft, and your gaze is kept far away from anyone else's eyes. "For healing me, and Ray. For getting rid of the infection."
Celegwen perks her ears up with a faint smile. Pride is all through her voice. "I haven't been able to use the spell often, but the wound should be completely healed."
"You didn't have to take care of me, either." A nod, towards Ofelia. "I can't possibly express my gratitude. I have no idea how I could repay you."
A click of her tongue. The gaze on the solid gold holy symbol you carry around your neck is searing. "I can think of a few ways."
There's a terribly awkward pause between the three of you. Ray barks.
"But it was no big. Really. You saved us from that— what didja' call it— greater demon? Not even Gwen's spell slinging coulda' taken that beastie down. I still don't get how you managed it. You're not exactly a normal guy, are ya'?"
Meeting her gaze, you make a point to place a hand over the outstretched palms of your holy symbol. A hand over your heart tactfully hides the item from her view— and further reassures yourself. She must have realized how brazen she was being, and glances away.
Your voice drops as you say, "if you wish to leave, it is entirely your choice." Both women look at you. It couldn't be more obvious how hurt you sound. The wall is intently stared at as you continue. "But if there's anything you wish to know, speak freely. I may not have any gold I can give—" You tighten your hand around your holy symbol. "—but I have my word."
A long silence passes between all of you. The fire crackles.
"I just asked ya' a question." Ofelia pokes your shoulder. "For such a skinny guy, ya' sure are thick-headed."
You frown, keeping your eyes away from her. "I'm a man of the Gods—"
"You've already told me that, but I don't get it. What can you do?"
"I— I am only a man. I can't— I can't do much." You look down at the hand over your chest. Blood may have been wiped clean from your skin, but countless cuts and scars remain. You lift your long fingers off of the holy symbol beneath your flesh. As the light of the fire glints off of Mercy's outstretched grace, you lift the pendant lovingly. "The Gods can work through me." You look between Celegwen and Ofelia. "That's what you saw. I lead the Church of Mercy, but I have a connection to all of the Gods. Storm permitted me to use his blessing. That same blessing saved our lives."
"No," Celegwen interjects. "You were on the brink of death when we found you."
Her companion crosses her arms in anger. "What kind of a God lets a church leader get like that?"
"You don't understand." The weight of the pendant around your neck is comforting, and is gently set back against your chest. Patience is prudent. "I chose to be wounded— and I chose to not ask for healing. I endured that injury to find Ray, and to fight the greater demon. By enduring the demon, I was led to you. Storm did not 'let me get like that.' The Gods respect me— as I respect Them."
The elf snips, "you're avoiding the question. You were on the brink of death— not just from the wound, but from your exhaustion. I've never encountered a man in the state you were in."
Ofelia looks like she wants to make a joke about how many men Celegwen has seen, but she closes her mouth and looks intently at you instead. You instinctively avoid her gaze.
"It takes a lot out of me." A trembling hand ruffles nervously through your warm and dry hair. You try smoothing it out, in a poor attempt to mind your appearance. "I'm only a vessel for the Gods. Using their strength is— is dependent on my weakness." Mustering the strength to meet Celegwen's gaze, you try to plead with eyes alone for her to understand. "My weakness IS their strength."
Ofelia walks around to the side of you, and extends a hand. "I don't get it, but what you did back there was somethin'." You're sitting upright, yet at her same height as she stands. She doesn't mind you staring at her hand for a moment. "Ofelia Banks. They call me 'Eagle-Eye' back home— but no one gives a shit down here. And that's Celegwen." While still holding her hand out, she gestures with the other to the elf. "She won't tell me her last name, but I probably couldn't pronounce it anyways."
You hesitate.
"You don't gotta shake my hand, but at least tell me your name."
You nervously take Ofelia's hand, and shake it. Her fingers are so small compared to yours, you're worried about hurting her. A lighter touch is used than the softness of your tone. "Father Richard Anscham—"
"Father-?! There's no way you—"
You cut her off by drawing your hand back as if you've been struck. "It's a title. As the Father of the Church of Mercy, Mercy's children are mine as— as well."
"Oh." Ofelia shifts uncomfortably. "Can I call you Rich?"
"No."
"Dick?"
"No!"
"Richard?"
"That's fine."
"Father." Celegwen gets it. "Your Gods are killing you. If you truly desire it, I will not interfere."
You've been avoiding looking at either woman, but you can't help but glance at her insults and presumption.
"Ofelia and I seek greater power in these ruins. We've encountered many strange artifacts. Most are too dangerous to touch, let alone take."
Ofelia is quick to add, "trapped and guarded, no less."
"We could use your help. If you wish to find an alternative to your Gods, perhaps..."
You bristle, offended beyond speech. A hand goes to your heart, and a silent prayer goes out for her.
"But perhaps—" The blasphemous elf eyes you curiously. "—you are here for another reason?"
>A] Tell Celegwen that you're done answering questions. These women are thieves and heretics. You won't stand for someone even suggesting that you betray the Gods. You have half a mind to give them a lecture on the Church of Mercy, but you'll settle for taking Ray and leaving.
>B] Preach. Caution Celegwen's heretical speech before leaving. You're legitimately afraid for her.
>C] Explain that you're searching for a cure to a disease. Don't get into it. Eat some food, get some directions out of here, and leave the two women to their plundering. You won't abide by cutpurses and apostates. Not even ones that save your life.
>D] Stay and elaborate on your quest to cure the Catalyst. If an elf and a halfling have survived in the ruins for this long, they surely are capable enough to have found a few things of interest. Trust them enough to confide in, but don't get carried away, and leave as soon as possible.
>E] Stay and go into detail about the Catalyst. You owe these women your life, and they're clearly competent. You surely can help each other. You don't have to forsake your Gods to trust in people. Even if they're abrasive and heretical.
>F] Write-in.
"I am." Your hands fidget nervously. Staring at the wall at your back offers no distractions of any kind. "I came to the ruins to find a cure to something."
Ofelia starts. "I knew he was sick—"
"It's not like that." You're a master of quelling your emotions when need be. Compared to fighting demons, fighting your feelings is effortless. You smooth out your hands, and smooth out your voice. "The Catalyst isn't something that makes humans sick. You— you have it backwards. Humans that are sick trigger the Catalyst." Your brow furrows. "Most men and women go their entire lives without ever feeling it. Most of us— most humans— are fine."
"Then what's the problem?"
You can't be sure if she's being sarcastic. "Humans who scorn the Gods, and who fall into themselves— those without Mercy in their hearts. I'm speaking of humans who prey on others. Those who let their emotions rule them. They trigger the Catalyst. I've seen it. Most of us have."
Celegwen's ears twitch. Her silver eyes have a flame in them. "I have seen it. This 'Catalyst' you speak of."
Your eyes go wide as you look intently at the elf. She stares back at you as you uneasily scour her face for a lie.
She slowly stands. "You don't believe me, Father? I know your kind are dangerous. This is not news to anyone who has spent any time with humans. You all are in isolation— contending with your darkness. I've seen men like you turn into monsters. These so-called 'demons.' What do you intend to do about it?"
You rise, relieved beyond words to not be in any pain when you do so. Looking slightly down at her— your long limbs shaking slightly with emotion— you fix your gaze on a pair of her star-shaped earrings. You think to the sky Storm blessed you with. The encouraging thought tightens your hands into fists. "I intend to cure it. There's legend— legend of a time when we could feel, and hurt, and love without fear." You look between Celegwen and Ofelia. They're both utterly silent. "...without fear of losing our humanity. I've come here to find out how."
Ray yawns in your companions' nervous silence. The fire crackles.
Ofelia hesitantly notes, "we did find something weird, awhile back."
"We agreed to not speak of it." Celegwen's snap is downright disturbing— for someone with such a pleasing voice to sound so harsh.
"Hey, Dick— I mean, Richard— is trusting us. I might be a little rough around the edges, but I got a heart, y'know? My own Pa wouldn't be happy with me if I didn't tell him." Ofelia looks up at you, and crosses her arms. Celegwen also crosses her arms, but doesn't interrupt any further. "There's some weird shit down here, Richard. Really weird. We've been keeping away from it, but maybe you'd wanna check it out?"
"Please. What are you referring to, though...?"
Celegwen is exasperated. "There's something wrong with the space in the ruins. Many passages do not connect as they should. I strongly suspect a form of Magic is keeping this place together— but I cannot discern how, or why. The room we stand in is one of these anomalies. I've inspected it, and contained it." She gestures to the passages leading out on either side of the small room.
You realize that the light and smoke of the campfire disappears into the door frame— much like many of the other doors you've encountered thus far. Ray looks relaxed, but your nerves are on end. "Are we even safe—?"
"It's safer than the area we discovered you in. Exiting is easy enough, but re-entry has proved difficult. We've found many spaces like this, however."
"That's not the weird thing though, Gwen." Ofelia says, "Tell him about the library."
Annoyance and disgust faces her. "Fine." The sorceress ignores a kiss that's sarcastically blown in her direction. "There is a room we have been unable to explore. This is important, Father. Are you listening to me?"
"Yes. Just—" You're recoiling at your own words, but their incessant stares are unendurable. "Just— stop staring at me."
Both women look to each other. Celegwen seems respectful enough, and returns to the campfire. You want to die. She's impossible to ignore, and returns to immediately sit right beside you. "Sit. Eat." A cup of wine and a plate piled high with roasted vegetables are shoved into your hands.
Ofelia snickers, and plops down beside the elf. You slide your back against the wall, and force yourself to painfully comply out of necessity alone. Your discomfort must be visible. The chef— apparently Ofelia— sounds disappointed. "Is it not good enough...?"
You shake your head. "It's good. I— I prayed to Agriculture. Many years ago. The country was in a famine. It's— it's a long story. Eating has been difficult since then."
Both women brazenly stare. Celegwen catches herself, and nudges her friend to stop letting her jaw hang open.
"No! I will not stop staring!" Ofelia gestures with her hands as she speaks, and nearly knocks her own plate over. "That's insane!"
"Excuse her, Richard. She has no tact. As I was saying—"
"Unbelievable. Can't even eat. Horseshit Gods. I have half a mind..."
Warmth spreads through your limbs as you wince, and ignore the halfling's incessant muttering. The wine is better than anything you've had from the Church of Mercy in your many long years with them.
"As I was saying." Celegwen keeps her eyes downcast. "The library. It's difficult to reach, and closely guarded. But perhaps— if you're seeking history— it could be a fine place to look. The space and time around the area is terribly warped, however. I feared for our safety, venturing as closely as we did. We barely made it back."
The cracked, empty exterior along your cup is a sharp reminder of your own reflection. Ofelia takes your gaze away by refilling your dishes without prompting. She leans towards you, teasing with wide eyes. "Whaddya' say?"
>A] Ask Celegwen and Ofelia to guide you to the library. You're asking a lot out of them. Maybe you could offer something in return? (Write-in.)
>B] Ask them to give you directions to the library, and part ways. You're already indebted to these women, and it's likely dangerous. No need to risk any more lives.
>C] Stay and talk to the women awhile longer. Ask them a few questions about themselves, then worry about leaving.
>D] Write-in.
Ofelia's teasing has you completely flustered, but you do your best to maintain your outward composure. Leaning back and putting some distance between you both suffices. There's no need to lie. These women have been enormously helpful, but their lack of faith is equally disturbing. You can't abide by their company— not even if it's safer. "This library— I'd like to see it, but I don't want to endanger either of you. Do you have any maps, or— or could you tell me which way you went to reach it?"
"Yeah. We got some maps." The woman beside you makes a point of leaning back, and crosses her arms. "We can hold our own, y'know. But I get it." She pokes your shoulder firmly. "Keep eating. Let me get some stuff." Her eyes dart between the bowl and your gaunt face, while moving towards her things. You haven't touched the rest of the food. She refuses to dig through the pots, pans, assorted scrolls, and what's obviously several hand-drawn maps. "I mean it. I'm not showing you a thing until you eat."
Celegwen waves a hand dismissively, and moves to spread out the scrolls. "Leave the man be. You're not helping him by hurting him."
You sigh, set the bowl aside, and finish a third cup of wine. Warmth and relaxation takes hold of your tone as you scoot over to inspect their work. "It's fine. Thank you for sharing these with me."
These two have clearly been diving through as much of the ruins as they could. Their maps depict a labyrinth that rises and falls upon many levels. In addition to countless, small, detached chambers (much like the one you're currently in), there are also a few enormous spaces depicted. While the small rooms are connected by long and winding corridors, the larger spaces are isolated. There's no clear means of entering them. One other odd feature stands out: an impossibly tall column, that runs off of the top of the page.
"Is that...?" You point to the highest spot on the map.
"Yes. We're here—" Celegwen points to a small circle on the opposite corner of the map. Her finger traces along the entire length of the parchment, right up to your own observation. You quickly draw your hand back as she murmurs, "it's a long trip."
"May I— may I copy this?" A quick glance around for your things is made in alarm. It's nowhere in sight.
Ofelia wiggles her eyebrows. "You need yer stuff, right?"
A dramatic flourish is made as the small woman tosses aside a shift of fabric from what appears to be a boulder. It was merely her cloak. Your things are safe and dry beneath them. Bloody shield, filthy mace, and hand-sewn pack (which has been opened). The rogue makes a slight bow, to yours and Celegwen's utter lack of amusement. It's hard to say if it's more impressive or worrisome that she hid your things.
"Just a precaution. It's all dried out now. I don't think you can tell— but you were asleep for four days." Your wooden shield looks bone dry. She can't be lying, and darts her eyes full of annoyance at Celegwen. "So eat some damn food and come get your stuff."
Paling, you place a hand to the knotted scar in your side.
Four days?
It takes a few moments to regain your composure, before you go look over your things. The herbs and medicinal tinctures are all laid out neatly in like-colors. The sorceress responsible smiles slightly. "Your healing ability surely dwarfs mine. I couldn't help but look through the medicine you carry. We've seen your maps as well."
You frown. "I was going to offer. Since you've already helped yourself..." You gather up your things, and make a point of taking out a few map-making tools. Adjustable needles. Pens. Parchment. "I might as well ask you a few questions while I copy this down."
The entire pot of vegetables is shoved down next to you in irritation. Ofelia sits right down along with it. You frown deeper. In between consolidating a new sketch of the maps before you, you choke down some more of the food. It's extremely difficult, but it cheers up Ofelia as she inspects your drawings. "Whaddya wanna know, hotshot?"
"Have you met anyone down here?" Your eyes glance over to your dog, as he lazily spreads out in front of the fire. He seems to be enjoying himself. "Aside from finding Ray."
Celegwen replies on her behalf. "You're the first human we've encountered that hasn't been subject to the Catalyst. There are many demons— fully formed, and in their infancy." She has that flame in her eyes again. It's almost frightening.
You're more curious than anything. "There was a demon that guarded the entrance to the ruins. Did you meet the Master of Webs when you entered? Or... perhaps you came another way?"
Ofelia perks up. "Master of Webs? I don't know what you mean. There's plenty of webs near the surface, though. Lots of nasty spider things, too. Made getting around a real pain before I ran into Gwen. I came in through the south, closer to Spira." She trails off, looking pensive. "I don't even know how long I've been down here, to be honest..."
"I did not encounter this "Master" either." A polite stare goes to the side of you. "I entered through the eastern ruins— closer to my home within the Verdant Dominion. I have traveled far through this place, and no demon has spoken a name to me. What did he look like?"
The question is polite enough. "He was a colossal spider, with a stony face that looked like a man's. Split jaw, lots of teeth—" You unintentionally make a grotesque gesture thanks to using your hands to mimic a demon's face. Both women laugh at the motion. Both hands are quickly put back down in embarrassment. "He was willing to leave me alive after speaking with him. It was remarkable."
Both women calm down. Their laughter subsides. Celegwen seems only slightly alarmed. "That is remarkable. Where did you say he was, again?"
You both exchange as much information as you can regarding the demons you've seen.
After a few minutes pass— choking down a few more mushrooms— you softly ask, "you didn't see an orc down here, did you?"
Alarm discolors Ofelia's features. "An orc?"
"He meant well." The wine takes the edge out of your voice as you recall Orgoth skewering you with a javelin. "He professed to be the greatest warrior to have ever lived. I didn't doubt it. You might want to exercise some caution if you encounter him— of course."
Celegwen makes a note of it on her maps. "Did this orc have a name?"
"Orgoth." Guilt creeps down your back. You stare at your hands.
The elf is oblivious to how uncomfortable she's making you feel. "Was he poor company?"
A long moment passes between you all. You gather your things. "I'd better get going."
Both women give each other a look that makes you want to leave even faster.
"Thank you again," you mutter, slinging your backpack over your shoulder. "Come on boy."
He skips to your side. Ofelia starts, just as you go to walk out of the passage. "Richard—"
You wordlessly take a bundle of fresh-smelling food from her hands. It's a long road to the library. Ray trots alongside you as you exit, ducking your head slightly as you return to the ruins through a narrow passageway.
Just a short walk away, the heat and smoke of the fire vanishes. A cold shift in space creeps over you in pitch-blackness. You take out a torch for the light and heat, and walk for another hour or two. Eventually, the passage opens back out.
You're surrounded by stone on all sides, fish your map out, and plot your course.
>A] Beeline for the library. You'll cut through multiple large chambers, but you're willing to risk whatever's in them to get to your destination faster. You do know that Celegwen labeled two of them as containing large demons, however.
>B] Cut around the larger chambers, by going through the smaller rooms littering the ruins. They are disjointed, and you don't know what lies in most of them, but you would rather contend with smaller creatures than risk the larger demons.
>C] Go all the way around the larger rooms, and return to the top level. Malimos' spiders patrol the vast majority of the space— according to the maps— and he did say he'd call them off of you. It may be the safest path, and you can then descend back down to the lower levels before reaching the library.
Chapter 6: Cinders of the Occult "Kindle my paradise."
Things have been hard enough. The last thing I want to deal with right now is another greater demon.
Though your hand is trembling slightly as you hold the torch aloft, you pay it little mind. While your body feels better than it has in a long time, your head is still a mess. Rolling the parchment back up and stowing it safely in your pack, you turn your attention forward. There's no sight or sound of anyone, but trying to not get washed away in a storm of self-pity is proving more and more difficult as voices echo in your head.
"Keep an eye on him. We still don't know what he's capable of."
"Come on, handsome..."
"Father—?! There's no way you—"
"I knew he was sick."
Your footsteps quicken— desperate to put more distance between yourself and the room the women occupied. Ray pants alongside you and whines just slightly. It must be obvious how anxious you are. You run over how else you could have played out the situation over and over again, trying to think of some other way things could have gone. Yet no matter how you try to spin the situation, you keep coming back to the same conclusion.
I can't stop pushing people away.
Your footsteps slow.
Everyone leaves— or I run away.
You barely notice the light that's growing from the end of the corridor.
What's wrong with me?
You come to a complete stop, and put your head in your free hand. Ray rubs his nose against the side of your robes. He affectionately nuzzles you as you try to keep a straight face, and break out into nervous laughter. "Ehehe. At least— at least I can talk to you, Ray. Heh— we've— we've been friends longer than anyone else has stuck around me before. I've probably said more to you than to anyone else. You— did you know that...?"
You kneel down next to the mastiff, and bury your face in his coat. He whines, and cuddles you back as you try not to cry.
I've been down here at least a week with only a single lead. Even if I can't stop alienating people, and have burned every bridge that I've crossed— save for Storm's— I'm probably just stressed.
Sniffing, you hold onto Ray a little tighter.
There's nothing wrong with me. I nearly died twice. Three times, if the seizure counts. Anyone would be acting strangely in my position. I just need to calm down.
"The Gods are down here with me— even if no one else is."
The task at hand requires all your focus. Drying your eyes, you look to either end of the passage. Though your vision is blurred, the need for torches decreases the closer you walk towards a new source of light. Blood-red candles dot the floor every few yards as you walk. They emanate with a faint glow— similar to what you saw in the chamber with the greater demon. Ray shows no signs of stress or alarm. You hesitantly poke one candle with the end of your torch. Its flame doesn't respond to wind, or even a firm touch.
Sorcery.
Peering around the nearest corner reveals a broad opening, with many more candles illuminating it. Some hang suspended in the air, while others rest on the floor of the ruins. Crude rock rises to a high stone ceiling. Bars obstruct many of the passages leading out in all directions. You press on, grateful for both the map in hand, and the women who have thoroughly traversed this labyrinth.
The eerie silence is only punctuated by the scuffing of your shoes against the floor, and Ray's panting. Heightened senses and the utmost caution presses deeper on into the chamber.
Just around the corner— following the path you've charted— your slow steps save you from a fall. You shout in surprise, and put out an arm to hold Ray back. Your boy obediently hangs back.
Soft footsteps come from one of the large chamber's many passages.
Mercy. Whatever it is must have heard me.
You look over the ledge. A steep and sheer descent is broken up by steps carved into the stone wall at your feet. Candles continue on a stretch of stone so far below that their light is merely pin-pricks.
>A] Hold your ground. Get out your shield and mace, and face whatever's coming towards you. It'll take time to climb down. Time that you might not have.
>B] Try to hide. Extinguish the torch, and see if you can slip behind one of the stone outcroppings. Wait for whatever it is to run past, and then climb down carefully.
>C] Try to hide, and get the jump on whatever it is coming up behind you. No doubt it's more demons— and you'd rather have the element of surprise on your side.
>D] Write-in.
Your voice is barely perceptible. "Ray."
He growls aggressively, while staying close by your side. Taking a step away from the ledge, you quickly set down the torch. It's not needed with all the candle light, and your mace and shield are a more prudent choice. The steps are barely audible, but you brace yourself for several minutes. Some demons are intelligent enough to try to lull humans into a false sense of security. You've seen it before.
Though it's hard not to wonder if you imagined the sound, you don't relax. Taking a few steps boldly forward, you leave the sharp decline behind you. "Come, Ray."
The sound of the footsteps suddenly intensifies. As you swing your weapon and shield around, your green eyes go wide.
Across the corridor runs the smallest creature you've seen in quite a few years. The demon's skull is bare upon only its face. Spikes run along all the rest of its head, and down all of its back. Tattered rags adorn its body, but the fabric collapses in on exposed bones, and a hollow center. You almost breathe a sigh of relief at the imp as it eyes you curiously. Bile dribbles from its bony mouth. It's keeping its distance— obviously trying to size you up before attacking. Its small feet barely makes a sound as it scurries slightly closer.
You smugly look down at your dog. This is child's play, but there are likely more around here. Staying on high alert is befitting of the Father of the Church of Mercy. But the question isn't how much Mercy to demonstrate here. The question is how quickly to kill this imp before its allies arrive. They travel in packs if their kin hasn't already been picked off— and this one doesn't look nearly bloody enough for your liking.
You tighten your grip around your mace— and hesitate to strike. Giving into violent impulses may grant you temporary relief from your angst, but it's not a permanent solution. It's noisy, and bloody, and it may be wiser to call upon Spirit. Seeking out other imps through Her could avoid an alarm or an ambush.
>A] Kill the imp with your mace. There's no need to call upon the Gods to destroy this demon. You're willing to risk more imps coming if it means saving your strength.
>B] Suffer the imp to live long enough to intimidate it. Interrogate the creature for information on where its companions must be. Then kill it with your mace.
>C] Pray to Spirit to discern the imp's true form and the whereabouts of its companions. They likely have a link to one another. More importantly, you likely can trust the creature as far as you can throw it (and you can't throw anything very far).
>D] Write-in.
While the weak demon skitters around the corridor before you, you're conflicted. It slowly inches forward and back in the same fashion as a trained swordsman. Despite it wielding nothing but a rusty sickle, your blood is pumping.
The anticipation of violence is accompanied by familiar apprehension. You've had to push yourself in the ruins more frequently than you'd like. You've been closer to violence more frequently still.
A chill runs down your spine as you think back to your recent prayer to Vengeance, and how closely He brought you to Malimos' violent history. The chill turns to a cold sweat as you recall how horrifically close you felt to the Catalyst. You nearly triggered the phenomenon.
The weakness within the hearts of mankind is near and dear to you. After all, you've felt it many times before.
Edwin's screams rip through your skull, as his broken body writhes on the ground at your feet. Blood and bile drips from your hands and mouth onto the bones protruding from his tortured flesh. The building pressure in your head— and the desire to kill your tormentor— left no pity for this boy in your heart. He had broken just as many of your bones.
Your first prayer to Vengeance was a miracle. For Him to have blessed a child was nearly unheard of. It felt unbelievably good. As you collapsed to the floor— clutching in on yourself— the agony was perfect.
The damage was done.
"Richard?! What's— what's wrong with you?! Oh. Oh, by all the Gods—!"
You don't know whether it was your mother pulling you away, your own will, or the Gods Themselves that saved you from the Catalyst. The God of retribution left nearly as quickly as He had come.
You HAD to know why. Why were you so weak? Why were you so susceptible to temptation? Why did you feel it again and again? How could you feel the Catalyst, and live to tell the tale? You studied obsessively for years afterwards— pouring your long and lonely years with the Church of Mercy into purpose. Vengeance made things all the worse. Losing your temper. Losing those you loved. Fighting the darkness within the hearts of mankind.
You have been taught the importance of restraint— and for you, it is crucial. Temperance. Restraint. Self-control. Mercy.
You're in a cold sweat now, as you stare at the imp. It seems to sense that you're distracted, and lunges at you with it's weapon. The tense and sweaty grip on your mace swings low, and deflects its attack readily. The creature is nearly as weak as you are. The force of the impact travels up through your main arm, but you do not falter. The threat here is something far greater than a single imp.
No matter how much time I spend down here, I can't forget my mission.
The coarse leather and wood of your shield is held tighter still. Ray whines— practically begging you to allow him to attack the demon.
"No."
You shift your weight to take a single step forward. The imp bristles, and swings again with a poor attempt at a feint. You instantly see through its ruse, and bring your shield into the blow. Its scythe drags over the bloody, wooden surface just as you strike back.
There's no place for Mercy here. The bluntest side of your mace is brought down upon the imp's spiked head with a sickening crunch. Its skull caves in with a dry crack, and instantly crumbles. It's as if the demon is made of dust, and gives almost no resistance.
Before you can stumble forward, you shift your weight, pry out the flanged weapon, and swing again.
Ray continues whining, but you needed this. Red seeps into the edges of your vision with a vicious and eager third blow. Its head is no more. The imp's body slumps to the floor, as its weapon uselessly clatters beside it. A cold sweat clings your scruffy and untamed hair to your face and neck. There's no blood to speak of. Eyeing the end of your mace with disgust, you mutter to the dust and bile adorning it. "Ancient..."
Small, hurried steps echo out from several more of the open passages. The confusing, amplified acoustics of the large chamber you're in makes placing their precise location next to impossible.
Ray's whining turns to growling. Your heart is in your throat. "Let them come."
Even as footsteps rapidly approach, you close your eyes and hold onto Mercy's symbol. You utter a minor prayer— more to calm yourself than to ask anything of the Goddess. "My restraint is my peace."
At least twenty more imps must be coming. The first one was bait. "But my peace shall be broken."
The cacophony of steps draws nearer. You open your eyes— burning as they are with repression. "Grant me detachment. Grant me peace. Grant me Mercy."
The holy symbol is released, to tighten your hands around the mace and shield. Though they're slick with sweat, the hold on your defense stays firm. The rate of your pulse drops, as the overwhelming sound echoes all around.
I may be susceptible to the Catalyst, but I am far from helpless.
>A] Prove to yourself that you can contend with the darkness. Take on the imps with your mace and shield. They don't have any blood to shed, and the violence serves a purpose. You need to protect Ray, and you need to protect yourself.
>B] Bait the imps off of the sheer drop. You're light and pretty fast on your feet, when you aren't suffering from mortal injuries. There's another branch up ahead that you can take, and the fall could even kill some of them. You can use the ruins to your advantage without getting your hands dirty.
>C] Command Ray to back up while you pray to Mercy. Ask Her to protect you both. You've had enough violence lately, and these imps are so weak that it would not be asking much of her to quell their own impulses. As a Father of the Church of Mercy, you don't fear retribution from Her if the situation warrants Her blessing— and Mercy, sometimes you do need Her to stay your hand.
>D] Write-in.
"By me, Ray." Imps may be the lowest demons in their hierarchy, but you know to not underestimate them. While one alone is no trouble, a handful can be lethal. The number that you're hearing...
The footsteps are moving about the walls now. "They've honeycombed the walls?"
Spinning in place to search for anything that can give you an advantage or a safe position reveals a small outcropping. It would be too narrow for most men, but will serve you just fine. You back up, pinning yourself against the uneven surface. Your thin silhouette is barely visible among the candles and dim lighting. Ray dutifully slips beside you. His smaller form is even more hidden. "Quiet, boy."
You wait— clutching at your holy symbol— and don't dare to speak again. Slowly kneeling down to keep your shield at Ray's height is the most you risk.
Just when you think that the footsteps have stopped, the imps slowly appear from around many corners. They furtively lead with the tips of arrowheads, bows, knives, and countless spikes from their own bodies. This smaller and weaker variety of demons are still a lethal threat. A menagerie of broken limbs, bloodied bones and exposed tissue creeps and sneaks over the cavern's floor.
You kiss your holy symbol with sweaty palms. Placing it once more over the rapid beat of your heart, you whisper to your eager companion. "Now."
Ray leaps into the fray, and fearlessly tears into the closest imp. They're hiding in the walls, and around every corner. You sprint forward to meet him and skid to a halt. Shield high, you cry out while deflecting a shower of ranged weapons. "My restraint is my weakness!"
The volley is relentless. As Ray growls viciously and tears the head clean off of the demon in his jaws, the staggered assault continues. Through the rain of rusty weaponry, a few imps dare to run out. They're pierced through and collapse before ever reaching you.
The smell of dust and bile is hot in the air from the decapitated demon that slumps before your boy's proud and eager jaws. You implore your Goddess, "Mercy."
As Her blessed name leaves your lips, the walls rain with enemies. They were far closer than you suspected, and are upon you in an instant. Each word that you utter is punctuated by a dodge, a cleave into broken limbs, and a quick glance to even more attackers. "Meet me! Come unto me— unto my compassion!"
A flying imp bee-lines for your head through the chaos. You'd love to laugh with satisfaction as your mace slams the winged creature out from the air, and into the floor with a wet crunch— but you feverishly keep up the prayer instead. A wave of euphoria washes out to you, as a Goddess reaches out with Her blessing.
"Rejoice, unto the Father's RIGHTEOUSNESS—!"
Warmth extends through your chest as if She was holding you in Her arms. The same heat is rivaled by a rush against the wall of enemies before you. Shield high, you slam the leading demons straight to the floor. All that try to stand and oppose you are crushed under your weapon. It begins to glow with a gentle light as Mercy guides your hand. The entire cavern becomes illuminated. Golden radiance meets and overcomes the blood-red candlelight all around.
You can't wave to Ray to call him forward, but he stays close enough to defend. You duck down to shield him, as you steadily push across to the opposite side of the room. A path of destruction is left in your wake. Slamming your back to the wall, you dig into a nearby hiding spot and rip out an imp from its cover. Your prayer intermingles with its screams. "He who delivers Your blessings unto your adversaries—!" You crush the demon underhand. The effort of smashing his skull against a nearby wall does nothing to exacerbate the soreness that should be all throughout your limbs. Instead, your racing heart and the sweat on your brow is invigorating. "Relief from my distress! Merciful Goddess!"
There's ample crevices to clear out. Keeping your shield and body low, you withdraw from the swarming main chamber into another corridor. Ray tears into another rocky corner to extract another foe. His gnashing teeth instantly crush the demon's skull. In a tuft of dust and grit, you hold your ground. Warm. Breathing heavily. Sensitive to every last sensation. "Mercy, who arouses my compassion—Your generosity is without equal!"
The swarms of imps hiding in the walls up ahead have changed ammunition. The clinking of glass all around whispers like a lover in your ear. With Ray hot on your heels you tear down a side passage and softly continue to pray. "Lend me Your bosom, that I might better take You. Kindle my paradise, and I shall best serve You."
A glass vial smashes to the floor nearby. Plumes of smoke fill the corridor rapidly. Ray appears to be be unharmed— but the second you take your eyes off of the onslaught, an arrow grazes your shoulder. The metal neither stings nor brings you any harm. The slick and foul substance that coated the barbed weapon immediately seeps back out from the wound. Before the weapon clinks off of the wall at your back, warmth radiates from the site of the blow.
Mercy's hand. Mercy's love.
The gentle tone you've assumed drops to a whisper. "My weakness is Your strength."
Dramatically fewer arrows pelt towards you and your raised shield. They're retreating, or you've killed more than you suspected. With your back to the wall, you know that you need to finish this.
>A] Push forward into the smoke, and try to use it to disguise your position. Use the imp's tactics against them and root out the last of the demons before the smoke fades. Mercy protected you from one attack, and you're willing to risk injury to place your faith in Her protecting you from more.
>B] Wait for the smoke to dissipate. Command Ray to stay hidden, and cautiously root out the final few imps. They must be running low on ammunition by this point. Better to be slow and methodical than to risk further wounds. You can continue praying to Mercy while you bide your time.
>C] Wait for the smoke to dissipate, and run. The remaining imps seem much more cowardly and cautious than the rest. They have the terrain and the tactics. Back down the corridor with the steep descent. If they follow, use Mercy's blessing to protect you and Ray.
>D] Write-in.
"Ray. Hide." He immediately obeys the command, and conceals himself behind your shield and robes. The dust and bile from his jaws and face gets all over your frame, but you can't care. Mercy doesn't care. She's with you. Her warmth is all over you.
I won't jeopardize this moment on a handful of imps.
As the smoke begins to dissipate, you lose yourself to a low and heavy whisper. The metal symbol of your station is wrapped between your fingers. The prayer that leaves your lips is punctuated by the clink of metal in your hands. The soothing embrace of a lover. The steady firing of arrows. Sweat sticks to the back of your robes and trickles down your neck. "Though Your vessel cracks with furor, you fill us with grace." Infatuation with the dark and slick gore, and the gorgeous gold of a Goddess' symbol seizes you. "Thank you." Her hands are warm to the touch. "Mercy—"
You brace yourself. Every imp you can see through the last of the smoke is another word of thanks that falls from your lips. They're out of ammunition. Makeshift weapons of simple rocks, splintered wood, and demonic corpses point straight at you and Ray. A few of the monsters step forward with only their horns out for their protection— yet they all fearlessly step over the bodies of their fallen comrades.
You match their procession with one, deliberate step forward. The attempt to bait out an attack works flawlessly. Every imp that possesses a spiked appendage simultaneously rips off an improvised throwing knife. You swing your shield up, and catch a volley of the makeshift darts with expert precision. Not a single scratch gets on you or your boy. A simple command to him carries lethal intent. "With me, Ray."
The fire in your tone gives one of the imps pause.
You step forward.
A demon steps back.
One of the imps outright panics, and hurls a glass vial straight at you. As the the blackened, venomous container soars through the air, you realize it holds sorcerery within. Before it can strike you, a holy light flares forth. Not only does the burst of radiance prevent the caustic liquid from burning straight through your shield— the entire contents of the container drip harmlessly to the floor.
A deep pit instantly burns through the stone underfoot. The demon that tossed the container turns on a heel, and tries to run.
A smile paints your features as you point your mace towards the offending imp. "Ray!"
Your dog leaps through the air to kill. You leap behind him, while bashing every potential threat aside with renewed force. Mercy's symbol draws close against the palm of your hand, flush against the hilt of your weapon. The heated metal drives down with all the force you possess.
The last remaining demons' skulls smolder. Sunlight is in the palm of your hand. The air is intoxicating. Shouts of ecstasy intermingle with the slaughter. You lose yourself.
Standing among radiant and burning bodies, you breathe hard. A few more blessed moments are spent relishing the sensation of your Goddess. Streaks of gold and warm yellow light fades from your eyes, while looking around in the low candlelight.
Your heavy breathing slows. The low-burning torch you set down can still be seen flickering around the bend. Before even wiping the sweat from your brow, you set about wiping the soot and embers from Mercy's holy symbol. It's buffed to a shine before you're satisfied. Meanwhile, Ray paces around you. He's clearly worn out from the fight, but still keeps on high alert. He's searching for more to kill. Love and longing is still all through your voice as you talk him down from his homicidal fervor. "Easy, boy. Good boy."
Viscera and guts litter the floor from the many demons you and your dog tore to pieces. Dust and bile is so thick upon your mace and shield, you're certain you will be incapable of completely cleaning them ever again. More of the filth covers you from head to toe. You wipe streaks of gore from your face, while musing that this is a small price to pay for Mercy's embrace.
Even if I can't feel Her now, Mercy is always with me.
Mercy's warmth eventually dissipates from your body. A healthy burn is left in its wake. The strain of the fight isn't weighing on you like it should, and this fire is nothing like the blessing of Flesh. You hesitate to pause, or to rest. Even taking anything out of your pack seems like a risk while deciding on how to proceed from here.
>A] Search the imps and their weapons while you don't hear anyone else coming. It's uncommon to find anything of value on demons— especially ones this weak— but they were incredibly old. It may be worth the time to investigate.
>B] Get some food out of your pack for Ray, and spend a few precious minutes rewarding him. It's worth taking the risk and removing your gear to ensure he's well-fed and happy. Take a breather for yourself, too. You feel you've earned it.
>C] Go back to the sharply descending staircase and begin to climb. There's no telling what else is in here, or if the imps sounded an alarm— and you aren't sticking around to find out.
>D] Keep moving forward. There's a second branch in the path here. It seems to be a longer course than the one you initially plotted, and several demons came this way, but it could be easier to traverse if the ground only gently descends.
>E] Write-in.
The healthy burn makes way for the rapid beat of your heart, a burn in your lungs, and a flush upon your face. Only a few deep breaths later, and you set about removing your backpack.
Ray is on edge from the fight as well. He paces around you, nudging at the few imps lying about the floor to confirm your kill.
Prayer and exertion has smoothed out the usual stutters and pauses from your tone. It feels phenomenal to be dealing with creatures you know how to handle. "Easy. Easy, Ray. They're dead. Come here, boy."
You fish out Ofelia's parting gift from your pack, and pat Ray on the head after he's bounded over. Though he sits politely for training, you give him his reward without further ceremony. You kneel down beside him and glare with (justified) paranoia at the surrounding, spiked, dried out corpses. "You're welcome." The instant he's done inhaling the roots and vegetables, your boy plops down on the floor and looks to you with wide eyes. You scratch his ears, and sweetly command him to stay put.
He could use the rest. I'll have to wait until I'm sure we're safe.
Walking over to the imp that first threw the enchanted glass vial at you, you carefully prod at it with the end of your mace. The motion cracks its flesh. Bits of dust float off of its corpse. The closer you scrutinize it, the older is seems.
No blood. It's been a very long time since these demons have suffered another human.
Thinking back to your teachings from Father Edmund, you try to determine how old these demons must be. However, there are no telling markers here. No runes carved into their flesh. No blood. They couldn't even speak. Cautiously lifting aside the imp's rags— with your long hands wrapped up into your sleeves— you search for pockets or anything else hidden on its person. The clinking of glass gets your attention. There are three, small, glass vials within the imp's filthy clothes. They're no longer than your pinky finger, and are filled to the brim. Holding one of the containers up to the scarlet light makes your trained eyes go wide. A black substance smolders and smokes within.
"Cinders of the occult. Mercy. This is the work of a dark creature."
With a bow of your head, you say a small prayer. Were it not for Mercy's protection, this sorcery could have killed you or Ray instantly. Wrapping your hands was the right call. The liquid's properties can catch fire from the slightest heat, so you delicately settle all three to the floor.
A mindful search of the other imps reveals no gold or possessions, save for a handful of stashed appendages that double as daggers. Poisoned arrows litter the floor as well. It's extremely dissatisfying.
The utmost caution is used to conduct a more thorough inspection of the imp with wings. For the briefest of moments, you catch a marking of some sort inscribed on the leathery skin of the creature. Experience and panic has you pull back rapidly. It saves your sight.
A flash of blinding purple light bursts forth from the imp, and lights its body into a surreal flame. By the time the light dissipates enough to dare bringing your arm down from your eyes, only a line of runes is left on the ground. The script is burned straight into the ground— in the same language as one you've transcribed from the walls of the waterway.
Ray whines from the spot you commanded him to stay in. Your heart skips a beat— terrified that he'd been hurt from the light— but he's simply scared for your safety. You fidget with your holy symbol. There might still be enough time and safety here to investigate.
>A] Stay put and take the time you need to attempt a translation of the runes. No doubt someone knows that the imps were killed, but you need to know what this means. You're hardly a linguist— but you're more educated than most men thanks to the Church's teachings. Surely you can piece this together, given some time.
>B] Make a written copy of the runes. Take the vials off of the imp, grab a few of the spikes for good measure, and press on down the corridor ahead. You're not taking any chances backtracking and you aren't leaving potential weapons behind— even if it's dangerous to stay put.
>C] Don't waste any more time. Commit the runes to memory, and leave as quickly as possible. Go back to climb down the staircase. The cinders of the occult are an incredibly dangerous weapon. You won't risk carrying them while climbing, and the course you plotted is surely the best way forward. There's no use sticking around here. The runes can be translated later when you're somewhere safer.
>D] Write-in.
As quickly as you're able, you produce a scrap of parchment and make a duplicate of the runes with your neat writing. It should be easy enough to decipher the symbols at a later time— when you aren't surrounded by evidence of slaughter. Ray continues to whine as you put up the spoils. It's unusual. He normally doesn't complain this much when commanded to stay.
You pause with your work and walk over to him, with a quick glance around. Concern that you've spent too much time here creeps into your voice. "What is it, boy?"
There's no pointing in any concrete direction. He continues to whine, and you have to assume that the source of his worry is deeper into the ruins. "We'll be out of here soon." You pat him on his head, not wanting to torment him with further questioning. "It's okay."
The cinders of the occult need to be secured. You return to the sinister mixtures— fingers shaking— and get a spare undershirt from your pack. With great difficulty, you manage to keep your hands steady enough to make a small package around each one. As much cushion as you can create goes around them in knots and folds, before stashing the entire bundle in a side pocket of your bag.
Mercy forbid it, but I doubt I'll have the time to dig through all this equipment if the need arises.
Ray's whining intensifies as you move over to the other imps. The tremor is back in your hands tenfold. You know better than to dismiss his behavior— especially if he's frightened of something you don't suspect to be a threat. "Tell me, Ray. Up."
The instant he picks himself up, your dog moves to bolt down the corridor. He still knows better than to wander out of your sight. Circles are made just up ahead, with increasingly higher pitched whines. You swiftly snatch three of the demon's dagger-like barbs off from their corpses, and shove them in another compartment of your backpack. Brows furrowed, you come up behind Ray, and usher him forward. "Slow, boy. Show me."
He's extremely bothered by having to slow down, and whines all the harder. Your growing concern mounts as the two of you continue on ahead. There's something that can be heard through the walls.
It's hard to make out at first— but as the minutes crawl by, the muffled and agonizing sound increases in intensity. You instinctively clutch at your holy symbol. It sounds like not just one person is being tortured, but many. It makes the heat and low light suffocating. There's no certainty how far underground you are, but the collapse of any of these hollowed walls would mean your death. Thinking back to your small living quarters in the Church of Mercy ensures that you won't let this matter stop you. You've never minded small spaces before— though your tolerance is soon challenged.
An impossibly tight opening in the wall comes into view. It's barely taller than you are, and only a hair wider. Emaciated as you are, it would still be a challenge to move through without taking off your pack and squeezing in sideways.
Ray sticks his nose ahead, while whining incessantly. Your pale face blanches further. "You can't mean..."
Looking around for an alternative reminds you that there should be a passage diverging from this corridor. Celegwen's maps have a note that the other path would lead to one of the larger demons. It should be just to the side of where you are currently standing, but there's only stone wall on either side of you— save for the narrow opening directly ahead.
Your fingers tease at Mercy's symbol. There's no seeing how you would get to an alternative route. Squinting in the dim candle light, you peer deeper through the narrow passage. Through the cramped crack, there is another path. It's a sharp bend up ahead that must open out. The screams are coming from that direction.
>A] Continue ahead through the narrow passage, and follow Ray's guidance. Take off your pack and move it behind you as you inch through. If you need to make a fast retreat, you want your things at the ready. Command Ray to stay close— but keep him ahead of you. His smaller body can still squeeze through the passage with more ease than you can.
>B] Continue through the narrow passage and keep Ray ahead of you— but throw your pack ahead as well. You want to keep your eyes in one direction while moving through such a narrow position. Follow Ray as far as he'll take you. His nose is onto something, and you intend to find out what.
>C] Detour from the narrow passage through the sharp bend. Follow the sound of the screaming and crying. People could be in danger. It wouldn't sit right with you to ignore it, even if you're uncertain of how far off track that path will take you.
>D] Search for the passage to the chamber of the larger demon. It has to be around here somewhere. Caution is prudent, though. The muted crying and screaming is making your skin crawl. (Write-in how you'd like to search)
>E] Write-in.
The screams echoing through the hallowed walls are just beyond your reach. The sound is disconcerting— but Ray's constant whining is far worse. Deep within the pit of your stomach, building anxiety tells you that there's something worse lying just ahead.
I have to keep my priorities straight.
You grit your teeth— doing your best to turn a deaf ear to muttered words and countless moans— and take off your equipment. With heavy deliberation, you decide to sling your mace and shield over your pack. It will have to be dragged separately. A level tone is manageable, despite your mounting dread. "Ray. Move ahead."
The mastiff inches forward, squeezing through the unbearably narrow passage at an almost breakneck speed. You dare to hiss at him, "Ray!"
Your boy's whining continues, but he stops moving just before disappearing from view.
"Good boy, Ray. Slowly. Let's go."
A few painstaking moments are spent finding an angle to enter through. The crack is even narrower than it first appeared, thanks to the jagged stone within its interior. No candles light the way. The mace on your pack has to be re-positioned just to drag it behind you.
Not wanting to be trapped alone and in the dark, you take out and light another torch with as much care as you possess. Ray paws at the stone, with his tail wagging hard against the narrow walls. His nose continues pointing towards the impossibly narrow passage beyond. In a low voice, you usher him onward. "Go on boy. It's okay. Come on. Slowly."
Step by step— inch by inch— the screams grow louder. If you weren't mistaken, you'd almost think they were coming from inside the walls.
Ray strains against your commands to slow down. Constant reminders to ease up, and ample reassurance is quickly drowned out by humans crying.
Within half an hour's walk, it's become unbearable. "Ray. Stop."
The crescendo of suffering all around is almost as concerning as how tired you've become. Simply dragging your gear and carrying a torch is an ordeal. Brows furrowed, you pause. "Come on, boy. It's okay. Just a minute, boy. "As badly as you'd like to reach over to pat his back, the space is too cramped. The most you can do is reassure you both. "My weakness is their strength. Let's go, Ray. Slowly."
It's not necessarily your physical limitations that are wearing you down so fast. It's how tight the wall is around your chest. Fully exhaling becomes a struggle with each shallow breath.
It's been quite some time since any light but your torch was visible. Ray has been valiantly keeping the lead, but suddenly comes to a complete stop.
"Ray? What's wrong, boy—"
Your dog begins to back up, and bumps into you. Aggressively snarling is pointed towards some unseen and unheard source up ahead. You break out into a sweat.
Don't panic.
The screams and shouting all around escalates within seconds. What felt like unbearably sharp noise moments before reaches a deafening shatter. The torch in hand is nearly dropped in your frantic attempt to put your hands to your ears. Ray barks and snarls with enough viciousness to leave a trail on the drool upon the floor. He's practically knocking you over in a desperate attempt to retreat.
"Ray!"
>A] Back up. Back up as fast as you can. Keep the torch out, and use it to cast light on whatever may be coming. Pray to Mercy if you must for protection, but don't let whatever it is get to you and your dog.
>B] Hold your ground. Whatever it is that's coming can't possibly be worse than running. Pray to Spirit to reveal whatever it is that's causing the source of the sound, and use Her blessing to combat it, if need be. Let Ray back up behind you, and keep him safe.
>C] Press on. Command Ray to follow you, and lead the charge. You can't carry a weapon, but you are a weapon. Pray to Vengeance to strike down whatever creature has likely caused the sound of this suffering. The Gods are just.
>D] Write-in.
A dull pressure builds in your head from the deafening chorus. It's miraculous that the pain hadn't been triggered sooner. You murmur a word of thanks to Mercy, despite how dire the situation is. Ray's snarling adds to the cacophony that drowns out your speech. You step over him so he can get safely behind you, and drop the torch.
I need more than Mercy to contend with this.
While your boy faithfully holds his ground behind you, you lean against the stone and pry your hands from your ears. There's no need to shout to be heard. Spirit is within you.
You speak quickly, while knitting your fingers together. The pain in your head builds rapidly. A trickle of blood runs down the tops of your hands, as your dust-caked nails dig into scarred and mottled skin. The screams and cries get closer as you swiftly fall into prayer. "Spirit! Grant me your sight! Wisdom of the immaterial, permit me to see where there is darkness! Permit me to feel where my hands are not able! Forgive this flawed form! Shape my innermost self! My weakness is your strength!"
Deeper than within flesh and bone, unbearable wisdom stirs. The presence compels you to fall to your knees, but the passage is so narrow that you are unable to do more than keep your hands together. You press them to your brow, closing your eyes.
The pain doesn't stop— but you can understand it. You know beyond any and all doubt that the pain is necessary. You know that you suffer, but that this suffering will pass. The pain remains. Spirit wills it.
You open your eyes. White light drenches the corridor. Ray howls, pressing himself against you as he attempts to move forward once again. Your eyes could not see why, but Spirit bestows sight beyond sight. From the direction you came— flooding the entire corridor behind you— is a writhing mass of mouths. The screaming, singular mass has coalesced from hundreds of slain demons. They crowd into the passage, and slowly seep towards you with lips agape.
Ray's growling reaches a fever pitch. Before you is a smaller, bleeding mass of lips and teeth as well. Your Spirit can discern collective words through screaming madness.
For the briefest of moments, your blood runs cold. You know that they're speaking directly to you, as Spirit's white-hot blessing leans in. These creatures know you. They know what you've done to their kind, and to other humans. They can see through you, and all of your weakness.
Your eyes flare with a pale light, and can see clearly— more clearly than you have ever seen before. These lips, teeth, and tongues are all different. Scarred human men, telling tales of old battles fought. Women, cracked with paint. Children.
You want to vomit, but Spirit assures you that you are not trapped.
You and Ray have made it out of worse situations before.
The Father of the Church of Mercy should not suffer the judgement of demons, no matter their form.
No matter their words. Even if their words are true?
Especially if their words are true.
You are not trapped, afraid, or even alone.
Not while you have Spirit.
The torch you dropped flickers and burns. The reminder of reality keeps the mass behind you at bay for the briefest of moments.
These creatures are not afraid of the flame. They're relishing the moments that remain before killing you.
>A] Use the wisdom of the immaterial to anticipate the demon's movements, and avoid them. Pour your own vitality into the demon ahead of you as soon as there's an opening. Disrupt its broken form, and destroy it. It will literally take a lot out of you, but you need to move forward.
>B] Reach out to demons on either side of you to prey on their innermost insecurities. Prey on their fears, their desires, and everything they cannot hide from you now. Threaten the demons into retreating.
>C] Communicate with the demons. You can literally see right through them. Ask them to withhold their attack, and try to talk it down. You can't imagine gaining an upper hand in such a tight space— and you're scared they'll hurt you or Ray before reaching you.
>D] Write-in.
You draw out Spirit's blessing. Hands together— heels dug into the dirt— the pearlescent light from beyond your eyes flares out. A monstrously ethereal quality seeps into your voice, and echoes through all of the passage. "Our most perfect quintessence has delivered your judgement. The bringer of eyes! The animating force! The PREVAILING Goddess sees ALL! She sees your weakness. She sees your wasted lives. She sees the children that you have consumed, and all the horrors that you endure."
Ray tucks his tail and whines, while backing against the wall. The malevolence that resonates from you is not your own.
"She offers you utter annihilation, as you face Her vessel."
The writhing masses before and behind you quiver. Their screams fade into nothingness, as your voice dominates and overtakes theirs.
"Lest you suffer yourselves, Her vessel offers you his MERCY! HE sees not the wisdom of eradicating you from existence— so She will suffer you long enough to make a retreat. Do so now. While you have time to extend your misery only unto yourselves— LEAVE US!"
Your words shake the very walls. Though the writhing mouths before you recoil and back away, you continue still. "Flee! Flee while you are still able. Preserve your unnatural lives! The one thing you still value. Seek your solace, your suffering, and your CURSE far from Her sight!" You take a step towards the demon ahead. "Do not pray for Her forgiveness!" The white flowing through your veins is visible to the naked eye. Wringing your hands tightly together, you show the sacred visitation to the monsters all around. "Do not pray. For you are unfit for Her blessing. You are fit for death. Death, at the hands of Her vessel! Death, if you endure for another moment in Her presence—!"
The hammers of your voice pounds against the stone all around. Ray curls up deeply behind you in terrified silence. The walls tremble, and push against both masses of demons as they back away. You show your hands once more to the demon behind you, and speak once more in a voice as harsh as your Spirit.
"Leave us."
Heavy silence suddenly weighs between you, the demons, and your dog. Your heart thrums as Her will flows through you. Though your ears ring from the intensity of your own speech, Spirit reassures you that there will be no permanent damage. This too will pass.
Parting your lips to speak once more results in a scream from the mouths all around. "STOP! Have Her! Leave us. Leave us to rot—!"
The heat running through you comes with the hands you hold to your stilled heart. The symbol of Mercy before your chest is even hotter to the touch.
Spirit's guiding light sears into every tortured inch of the enemy before you. You will not relent. "Leave us!"
With the command, the last of the demons slink and slither over the stone. Their retreat takes them from human sight. The honeycombed structure all around restrains their agony, as they part into the stone itself. The mass is stretched thinly, up and down the entire length of the corridor. Their lips close— and you realize you have been surrounded by the beasts all along. There are also more demons within the stone. Pockets of space in and around these catacombs house monsters of every kind. Minor demons. Imps. Some that have died long ago lie inert and decaying at the floor of barred and cramped housing.
As far as Spirit can grant you sight, she shows you the ageless prison. The expansive nightmare is positively packed with trapped, and endlessly weakened monstrosities. Endlessly screaming.
Ray is practically crying, with his tail tucked. You desperately want to reassure him. Spirit persists with you, while you kneel down and clear your throat. There's less humanity through your tone, but enough for your boy to recognize that it's you speaking. "Ray. It's okay. It's me. It's alright."
It's no wonder that he's been worked up so badly. The mastiff growls, but permits you to scratch at his ears. Continuing to pet him is partly to calm him, but mostly to calm you.
Not only is the demon of mouths still within the walls— just a few feet separate you from countless more.
>A] Proceed through the passage now that the demon of mouths has retreated. You don't have the time or Spirit to spare on these creatures. Release Her, and press on. Pray that you never have to see this place again.
>B] Use Spirit's wisdom to talk to the demon as you walk. It's clearly insane, but you're willing to risk setting it off to ask a few questions. It might be easier than forcing your will on them as well. (Write-in any questions you want to ask.)
>C] Use Spirit's blessing to tap into the essence of one of the imprisoned demons. Learn what makes them tick. Each Spirit responds differently to being seen by another. It's extremely dangerous, and you'll have no control over your body as you do so. But your curiosity is getting the best of you, and you have never encountered an opportunity like this before.
>1] An imp, torn into pieces, and suspended in wire like a macabre art exhibit.
>2] A lesser demon, encased so tightly in stone that it cannot move.
>3] One of the mouths within the wall, now that they're separated from the whole.
>D] Write-in.
Myriad images of demons are seared into your vision, and you can't shake them. You shudder, and close your eyes.
I've seen enough.
There's no chance to kneel down or to thank Spirit for Her blessing. The demons surrounding you now may not remain intimidated forever. The multitude of other demons could not be contended with alone, either. Not even with all the skill you possess as the Father of the Church of Mercy.
I need to leave this place as fast as I'm able.
Spirit ebbs and flows along with your excruciating headache. Now that the immediate danger has passed, She reminds you that the pain can be dealt with somewhere safer. That somewhere further down the corridor may have more air.
My weakness is Her strength.
You pause while attempting to pet Ray in his distress. He's whining, and compulsively licking the sides of your hand. You can't quite lean over to get at his level, but you at least manage to pat him on the head. "Come on, boy. Just a little bit further. Up."
He rises obediently, keeps his tail down, and stays behind you. You snatch up the torch from the floor. It's now waning low. You couldn't fumble with your gear to get another one out now if you wanted to.
Time's wasting.
It's hard to not glance over your shoulder frequently to make sure Ray is still close behind. It's unnecessary as you resume inching down the passage, as he's bumping into your legs constantly— but he's a much better sight than the many demons within the walls, or the mouths that cling to the surrounding rock. There's no use speaking to them any further.
The rising pain in your temples is almost too much for Spirit to guide you through. Sweat sticks to the back of your robes, which have become further scuffed and marred from dragging along the stone for so long. It feels silly to think about your appearance at a time like this— but Spirit always has a way of reminding you of your insecurities.
It's no wonder I could intimidate a monster.
You know that it was only possible through Her blessing. You alone are nothing to fear. My weakness is Her strength.
You are weak. The pain is too much. I don't care if I die here. I have to stop.
Spirit has shown you an exit. A reprieve. You need to endure, lest you suffer the same fate as all of the demons She has shown to you. It feels like I'm being crushed. The pain is too much.
Squandering Her gift is unacceptable. You are weak. You only need to trust in Her. I have to stop.
Her retribution will be great. It always is.
The end of the passage is just up ahead. The walls of the corridor were being leaned against with all your weight, though you hadn't realized just how badly you were using it for support until you stagger out from the opening. A near-collapse instantly follows. Falling to one knee, you wrap your hands around your head to try and wrestle with the pain. Ray cautiously steps out behind you, growling ferociously as you take a moment to try and compose yourself. You can't contend with Spirit's blessing any longer. The agony is unbearable. You release her.
Even the faint red light around you is intolerable. Screwing your eyes shut into relative darkness is easier on your head, but you can't take any comfort in even the residual sight that Spirit granted you.
The pain you're wrestling with is coming from more than a physical ailment. Insecurity cascades over your absence of Spirit.
I'm weak.
I can't help myself.
Nothing that I do is of my own accord.
I would have died in that hole.
I couldn't even protect Ray.
Who am I to be blessed?
Who am I to ask anything of the Gods?
Better that it's dark. Better to be surrounded by demons. Better for no one to see me like this.
Ray nudges you out of the downwards spiral. Despite having your hands wrapped around your head— even though he's clearly still frightened— he's trying. Your dog finds a way to worm himself into your arms, so that you clutch onto him instead.
I don't deserve him. I'm so self-absorbed. I can't believe that I took him down here.
You bury your face in the mastiff's coat as he continues to whine. There's no attempt to compose yourself. Spirit has completely drained you.
I refused every offer for an escort. I lied to them. I said that I didn't want to put anyone in danger— but I just wanted to die alone.
Ray's whining increases in pitch. You don't pay it any mind.
I've had ample opportunity. I know that I can't do it, though. I'm weak. I still want to help. I can't help myself.
A sob catches in your throat.
Everyone's thought me a fool for coming down here. They were probably relieved. They're probably going about their lives. Elevating another priest to my position. Someone who isn't going to scare the people. Someone who doesn't have to be watched. Someone who isn't—
Someone has been watching me.
You sniff, jerk your head upright, and stagger to your feet. Pain robs you of your balance.
Mercy, no, no, no, no— how did I not hear anyone coming—?!
From a nearby hallway— leering out from the shadows— is a demon. You grab hold of your holy symbol, and instantly take a step backwards. Ray's whining must be because of the creature.
Simply looking straight at the mass of complete darkness makes your eyes swim. A shroud of death obscures all light, shape, and form that could constitute the demon's shape. Only from the base of the black shawl's cloth can you see any appendages emerge. A number of glossy, metallic limbs slowly extends outwards towards you. Thick, sticky strands of gore fall from its barbed fingertips as they trace through the blood pooling underneath its shroud. More of the crimson liquid catches on the height of your vision. Atop the demon's towering shroud is a single human skull. Red viscera endlessly pours from an unseen source over its bone, in such a quantity that you cannot discern any other color on the creature. Its voice is wet, as blood pools and congeals around the demon's mouth. Without any lips, its words are soft and almost intangible.
"You've been killing my imps, Father."
This is unmistakably the keeper of the countless imps you and Ray just slaughtered. However, the demon makes no motion to attack. Anyone not paying close enough attention to their surroundings here could easily mistake the monster's dense and dark form for a fixture of the ruins.
I haven't been paying attention. How could I have let this demon creep up on me?
You tighten your grip around Mercy's symbol. It's cold once again.
>A] Confess. Yes, you killed the imps. Anyone— given the chance— kills imps. Ask the demon what his judgement is for your actions. See if you can come to an agreement. You are far too weak to fight this demon right now. See if you can talk to it. A peaceful arrangement might be prudent.
>B] Bolt for the next chamber. It's been awhile since you've been able to look at the map, but you are certain that these passages open up just a little further beyond. If this demon is vengeful, you'll want more room to maneuver in. You might be pushing yourself to your limit, but you don't want to die to a creature like this. Not now.
>C] Call Spirit back to you, while you're this weak. She will be strengthened tenfold, and smiting this demon would be child's play. You don't know how badly it would affect you, but you're willing to take the risk to kill a major demon outright.
>D] Write-in.
Your knuckles whiten. You're no liar. You're no coward, either. Your shoulders have been slumped, with your back bent with the weight of sin. The bend in your spine straightens out. Your voice— bitter and dark— utters two words: "I did."
"You did." The threat in its voice is still unmistakable.
"I confess: I killed your servants." The pits around your eyes suck in the little light in the room. Green orbs deep within the recesses of strain flicker up at the demon with lethal intent. "Their husks must still be lying on the floor of your home."
The demon shifts. Its death shawl brushes against the stone floor. "They have been mine for many an age, Father. You know... the pain of losing your children."
You recoil, offended beyond belief.
"I am... displeased." The demon motions forward.
Threat raises a fist. Within your grasp are the hands of Mercy. The gold gleams in the low light. Your voice raises in pitch, and you can't help but pour all the vitriol you're holding towards yourself out to the monster. "Mind yourself, demon. Mind yourself, and your children. I am not in any mind to tolerate you." Your hand begins to tremble, outstretched as they are.
You grasp onto your arm with your other hand to steady them, but keep your eyes fixed on the bleeding face. Your words hang for a moment in the air. The tension is palpable. Ray growls, while staying closely behind you.
Blood drips onto stone. The greater demon motions forward again. "I will take from you... what you have taken from me..."
"Know your PLACE—!"
Your words are like knives as you dare to strike the demon's threat down. It halts its procession.
You straighten up further, and stare straight through the demon. Ray growls at the blood pooling on the floor. The liquid inches slowly towards you. Spite seeps into your voice. "We will make no concessions, demon. You think you can make an arrangement with a Father of the Church of Mercy?"
Mimicry of the demon's trailing tone is spit at the creature with each subsequent word. "You... are... treading... on dangerous ground." The holy symbol in hand is brought to your temples. The pain in your head is excruciating. "A man of the Gods stands before you. You will endure my judgement."
The blood beneath the demon creeps further towards you. A long tendril congeals, and snakes upwards from the floor. But the pain in your skull is already as bad as it can get without you collapsing.
Each word drips with acrimony, as you dare to threaten the demon once more. "Listen to me."
The tendril stops growing. It's pointed directly towards Ray. Several more branches of congealed blood collect from under the demon's body, forming lethal spikes and barbs. They're all pointed towards you.
"I don't think you understand your position. I haven't just killed your imps. I've killed hundreds of your kind. Wiser, faster, stronger demons— time, after time. Do you see me?" You lower your hands slightly, showing your scarred and gaunt face to the demon. Your pallid flesh practically reflects the low light. You relish the look on its face as it moves back slightly. "Yes. You understand, don't you? You see how much the Gods have taken of me?"
You lower your hands further, leering at the demon in sick pleasure from being able to use your looks for something. "It's all been to kill your kind."
The demon draws back. You flash your teeth at him. "I hunt you. I have given everything for the hunt. I am going to put an end to all of you. You can try to strike me down. You can take what I love. But you can't stop this. My pain is going to be the death of you. Of all of you. Stay down."
The demon lowers its tendrils away from only Ray's body.
You fall to one knee. The strain is almost too much to bear.
"How are you ending us?" The demon tilts its skull slightly, and retracts all of the blood you can see into its body once more. A tilt of his skull to your baffled expression. "How? How are you going to stop our kind? We are infinite. I know that you can feel it." Wet words— ripe with knowledge— cling to the air. Toying. Taunting. "The Catalyst is threatening you... even now."
He's scared of you, and hides behind the wall he emerged from. This demon knows how close you've come to activating it. Your threats have been taken seriously.
Good.
You can't afford to take your eyes off of this creature.
>A] Ask the demon plainly how it knows you've struggled with the Catalyst. See if you can get some answers while it's docile, and push your luck with being honest and open. You have to think of Ray's safety, too, and getting too antagonistic could backfire.
>B] Tell the demon about your plan to cure humanity of the Catalyst. He's hiding something. Try and pull some information out of him through coercion. Intimidation is intoxicating, and you want more.
>C] Threaten the demon again, and force him to tell you anything he knows about the Catalyst. Pray to Spirit if you have to, to see through him. The strain will be worth it.
>D] Write-in.
"Threatening me?" A whisper is assumed, to try and not upset the (fading?) pain in your skull. Keeping your composure is a losing battle. The whisper becomes inaudible— afraid as you are of the answer. "How would you even be able to tell?"
The demon chuckles, and drags one its metallic arms through the air. He waves it in a nonchalant manner, outlining your silhouette from a distance. "Your... disgusting human form..." You cringe, drawing into yourself. He's obviously pleased to have bothered you. "...is offensive even to a demon without eyes."
Your green irises linger on the demon's bleeding skull. The void of its deep, swollen sockets bores into you. The demon's eyes— those pits of congealing blood— are pouring over your scars. The deep recesses. The pockmarks. The myriad old wounds. Most are paling, but many more are still fresh. You want to turn away, yet he stands before you in his own twisted form.
The monster's morbid attire floats against the low red light, casting long shadows down the corridor. The spindles and spires of congealing crimson undulating beneath him continue to threaten you— despite all your warnings.
Your sunken cheeks and darkened eyes cut and shape his darkness. You return his stare, as you both judge each other terribly.
You recoil into yourself at the thought, wanting to protest. Wrapping your arms around your sides— almost as if to cover the scars that your robes surely conceal— you mutter. "A demon has no place judging a man."
"Judging? No." One of the demon's bloodied tendrils snakes and slithers along the doorway.
You tense— expecting an attack— and nearly cry out to threaten him. But the demon is doing something odd. He's drawing.
This demon has some nerve.
"Stop. No glyphs—" You pull your arms from your sides to grasp your holy symbol. It stops for the briefest of moments. Droplets of blood fall to the floor. You narrow your eyes, and see that the demon was not scrawling runes. He was drawing a demon.
"You know what it is, to see without sight." A free arm gestures to its absence of eyes. "You know what it is, to see what others cannot. I can see right through you, Father. I am attempting to illustrate something to you. May I? Or will you kill me for attempting to educate you?"
You look sideways at the demon. Glancing between it and the bloodied inscription, a deep frown etches itself in your face as you begrudgingly say, "I will strike you down the moment your hand strays, demon. But go on."
The demon speaks slowly, while its spiked fingertips trail back onto the stone. "It's quite clear how long you have been contending with the Catalyst. Most humans would have broken under a fraction of the strain. No mere priest stands before me."
Your face grows paler by the moment as you watch the demon sketch the figure on the wall. This drawing is a caricature of you. Gaunt. Withdrawn. Thin limbs are grotesquely broken out of shape. The entire figure is covered in blood, and is backed by a halo of bile. Radiant wings outstretch from its form in a grotesque mockery of Mercy.
You clench your furiously shaking hands around your holy symbol, wanting to strike down this demon with every fiber of your being.
I can't. Not just yet.
"Something is terribly wrong with you. You—by all rights— should have activated it a lifetime ago. I see the strain inside of you. Your body is failing, Father. You have exhibited violence and spite unlike many men. Yet... you persevere. Is it your—" The demon struggles to speak. Blood catches in its throat as it tries to mutter the next word, and is unable.
Through your fury, you manage to speak up. It's always made you uncomfortable that demons can't speak of the Gods. "...blessings."
"Yes. Blessings." The demon slips deeper into the shadows still. It seems to be in pain, but it's difficult to tell. He's barely visible now. "A twisted thing to call them, yet here you are. A man. Unfamiliar with the Catalyst."
A heavy silence weighs between you. The demon is surely still scrutinizing your form. You want to hide from its piercing stare, but you hold your ground— determined to get a straight answer.
You spit, "If your claims are true, you can see that I don't have time for your games. Speak plainly."
"Malimos' demons told me you were coming. If you listen closely, you can hear them in the walls. The spiders."
Your eyes narrow. The ghost of a memory crawls over your arms, as you recall the spider's den. You haven't heard anything— but that might be what's been scaring Ray all this time. "What did he tell you?"
The demon holds a hand out to stop you from stepping forward. "He was terribly amused. He didn't take your mission seriously, Father. Yet— he still seemed to respect you. He recognized your sincerity. He... cautioned me. I see that you and your threats are sincere as well." The demon spreads its many arms, and lowers the bloodied tendrils. "I know that you could kill me where I stand."
The bloodied etching in the wall is drying. Your troubled image seeps deeply into the stone. The dark circles under the caricatures eyes stare back at your own. You shudder. "I'm not a demon."
"Not yet."
You want to vehemently deny anything further coming out of this creature. "You don't know what you're talking about—"
"No. I do not know. I do not know... how to cure the Catalyst. And I do not wish to. Most demons of my caliber have no desire to die, and fewer still would wish to become human again. Most of our ignorance is willful, Father— as your forms are... weak. It is... a fate worse than death..." Palpable disgust looks you up and down yet again. "The Catalyst feeds on what little strength you have in you, Father. On your violence and fear. You know at least this, as I know this."
Your grip on Mercy's symbol is tight enough to alarm Ray. His continuous whining is punctuated by a firm nudge, followed by firmer pulls still, as he tries to get you to stop hurting yourself. You can't. Hearing this is something you were not prepared for.
You want to respond, to interrupt, to stop this demon from speaking— but you can only listen speechlessly. You're afraid of what you might say.
"You are right to be afraid, Father. Something... something is very wrong with you. Your form is so broken that I cannot see it withstanding the Catalyst. Your... blessings. They affect you in a way I have never witnessed. I don't understand it, and I won't claim to. If you will suffer my presence a moment longer, I may send a message to Malimos' spiders. I wish to know the answer to this riddle as well." The demon stretches a hand down the passage beyond, gesturing to something unseen. "I cannot leave, but they can grant you safe passage. If they will... endure your presence. I may call for them... to escort you to a place of answers."
"Wait!" Finally speaking, your voice is hoarse from emotion. You can't endure another person— let alone another creature— leaving you so soon. You have so many questions. "Please— explain! I still don't understand—!"
"The Catalyst took my strength— my sight— and has amplified it to heights you cannot comprehend. I see through you and through all things, Father."
You can't look at the demon any longer. Your eyes remain fixed on the image on the wall. "What do you really see, then?!"
The demon hesitates to respond.
"Don't toy with me—!" The snap boils over with your frustration. It echoes down the corridor, cruelly suspending your words in time.
You immediately realize what you've done, and the symbol of Mercy falls from your hands as you race to cover your own lips in horror. The greater demon laughs in amusement at your outburst. "Do you really wish to know?" Seizing your panic to leer forward, the demon comes out of the door frame and into full view. Its spectral silhouette casts a shadow over you and Ray, blocking out all light in the corridor.
You put yourself between the demon and your dog, eyes wide in terror. You raise your hands to pray. Panic drenches you.
Contempt fills its voice, as it leers. "I see a man. A man seeking answers— that he is not ready for. I see a frightened boy— taken from his home. I see a Father torn from his children— alone in the world. I see a vessel..."
You don't dare take your eyes off the demon, hands knitted together in prayer as you rapidly beg Mercy to guard you. You gasp as they're cut. He effortlessly knocks aside your effort with impossibly sharp limbs.
"Let me grant you sight, Father. I wish to see you break."
Chapter 8: Endure "The flesh is weak. The mind has faltered."
"You shouldn't have done that—!"
Your breath is labored, as you struggle to knit your hands back together. It's useless. Your long digits can barely press against one another, and every attempt is more agonizing than the last. This attack against your prayer is the greatest offense you can conceive of. Your green irises bolt up— furious and terrified— while your hands hang uselessly at your sides.
"I like that look." Its wet voice drips over you, as you stagger backwards. Revulsion stirs in your dangerous miasma of emotion. "It seems I should have done just that, Father. It would appear that I've saved my life."
You try to project your voice. "Stay back...!" Your words waver. Your vision blurs. Blood is pouring from your hands at an alarming rate.
Is this Mercy's doing? Is She trying to save me from this creature? Is this retribution for my outburst?
The ground is giving out from under you. You can't even see Ray.
"What have you done— what have you done with Ray?!"
"Nothing, Father. Nothing. I am taking you to a place where your blessings will not be of any use to you."
"What are you talking about?! Where is he—?!" You struggle to hold your ground, and fall to one knee. Though your vision is blurred, you can see the blood pouring from your hands well enough. The stream is intermingling with new bloody tendrils that extend from the greater demon's shroud. Your plea is almost made to your own body. "Stop..."
Mercy's protection carries a faint, radiant light through your veins. You know that the wounds will slowly heal.
But this is too little, too late.
Your eyes bolt open even wider as you realize your sacrilege. It's a good thing that you're already on your knees. You curl into yourself— wanting to beg for Mercy's forgiveness. Yet the demon interjects your thoughts with streams of laughter. "What's the matter, Father? It's clear to my eyes how deficient you are. Does this really come as a surprise—? To be devoid of the blessings you seek? To be on your knees before a greater demon?"
You sneer, trying to raise your head from the weight of your sin. "Stop. Stop talking..."
A moment of horror is spent struggling against the literal weight that you realize is pressing down upon your skull. A bloodied stalk of viscera drips into the back of your shirt, along the nape of your neck, and is creeping up into the strands of your filthy hair. Every hair on your body stands on end in utter revulsion as you shout. "Get away from me!"
Stalks of bloody fingers tighten against your scalp. "Only when your eyes have opened."
The shadow around the two of you deepens even further. You can't see anything.
"Let me go—!"
"I'll release you in the Catalyst of your own choosing, Father. Tell me. Tell me now..."
The blood pouring down your scalp seeps behind your eyes. You try to bring your hands up to tear them away, but it's useless.
You can't see Mercy's light.
"Tell me where you wish to go."
Your mind feels like it's breaking. You scramble to not panic. To focus. All you can think of is Mercy. You've questioned Her blessing, and now you're going to die. If you could just go back. You want to show Her that you haven't forsaken Her tenets.
You need to do something. You need to make things right. You've been a Father of the Church of Mercy for years. You've served the church almost your entire life.
You know where you wish to go.
You need to go back.
>A] To the people you most protected. To the city of Anson— the day demons broke out in the town square, centered on a city of thousands. To the bloodshed and carnage you halted through Her teachings.
>B] To the worst wounds you've healed. To the battlefield. To the side of your first mentor— Father Edmund— on the day he nearly died.
>C] To the time that exercised your greatest restraint. To the broken streets of your childhood home of Pontos. To the mud in your face, to the broken bones in your skin, to the first scars you received.
>D] To the place where you first felt Her. To your isolation, your abstinence, your chastity. To the Church of Mercy.
>E] To something else entirely. (Write-in.)
You war with yourself to think of just one moment in time. You've dedicated almost your entire life to Mercy's tenets— but you've done more than that. Your mind slips somewhere darker. Back to your first time with Vengeance...
Not now. I need Her.
"Take me back..." The pain in your head and hands is robbing you of your senses. It's a struggle to speak with the crushing weight upon your skull, but you continue to mutter, "to the face... of the undeserving..."
"What's this?" The demon leans in and tightens its grip around your head even further. You can't help but let loose a scream in agony from the pressure. "A childhood memory? Enough to trigger a Catalyst? I doubt it, Father. But... let us see..."
The pressure mounts even further, reaching a level of pain you did not think possible. Your scream cuts through the darkness as light bursts before your eyes, and obstructs all shadow.
From the piercing light all around comes a familiar view. The sky overhead is gray and muddied— almost as much as a peasant's mockery of a trade route.
The glare fades before a dirt road. Ramshackle houses line either side of the little fishing village, petering off into farmland that's struggling to get through the famine. Sprawling weeds and the steady forest beyond your childhood home leers over you with an enormous sense of dread that cannot be seen. Your face is in the mud.
You cough and splutter, barely able to breathe. The continued pain in your head is almost as crippling as the dirt you're being pushed down into by a small group of children.
Children?
Every attempt made to look up, to clear your eyes, or to wipe your face is met by being shoved down again. "Come on, get up Richard!" The boy standing over you teases, as his heel presses down against the small of your back. "What's a matter? Scared that Mercy is going to hurt you if you do? Ahahahha!"
The voices of three other children call out to mock you. "Mercy! Mercy!"
A redoubled attempt to right yourself gives a glimpse at your awkward limbs. The sight of them nearly makes you collapse all over again from shock, as your arms have yet to be marred by the Gods. They're too long for a boy your age. "Leave me alone—" You cough from further surprise. Your voice comes out timid and weak— younger than the crops on the horizon. To make matters worse, the pain in your head is making you sound even weaker.
The children's taunting redoubles. One of the other boys comes over, and kneels down. "Or what? Are you gonna tell on us? Are you gonna beg for Mercy?"
Pain shoots through your skull. You nearly collapse. The bully seizes the opportunity to spit in your face.
One of the girls nearby croons, while egging him on. "Oooooh, is Richie scared?"
"He should be!" The boy in front of you boasts, and moves as if to leave you in peace— but quickly turns and kicks you in the face. There's a sickening crack as your nose breaks. You can't help but let out a sob as blood bursts forward from the bridge of your nose.
That's never going to heal.
The boy takes a step back to better shout at you. "Serves you right! Ha—!" He calls to the other children. One of the girls balks, but the other boy seems impressed. "Didja' see that?!"
You know how this went. You could stop it now. You could stop them. You could keep them at bay. You could quell this boy's hatred. You could even kill him, if you so wished.
Instead, you stay recoiled while trying to protect your face. So much blood is weeping from the site of your injury that it muffles your voice. Any attempt to wipe away any of the blood from your upper lip and mouth just smears more across your features. It muffles your speech even further. "Leaff me alowne."
There's another kick. You double over, trying not to cry.
There's a voice in the back of your head.
"This isn't enough, Richard. I know you've endured worse."
You mutter, "get out of my head..."
The children around you all go silent for a blessed moment.
"Are they talking to you?!" The boy that shouts kicks you again— this time in the ribs. There's another disgusting CRACK as you recoil into yourself.
"Stop..." It's not clear if you're speaking to the demon or to the boy. "You don't understand."
"I can, and I will. You're still blind, Father. Blind to what has broken you. Blind to what can make you whole. Let us see where your sight truly lies."
You can endure the pain. You have before. You know that your parents show up in a few hours to find you lying in the dirt. You nose is never the same, sure— but wounds do eventually heal. You have been through worse.
>A] When you took retribution on this boy beating you down. When you struck him with Vengeance.
>B] When you were kicked down harder. The first time you sneaked away from the Church of Mercy.
>C] When you felt lonelier. When you stayed. When you realized you needed the Church of Mercy, and that they didn't want you.
>D] Write-in.
You mutter, in a haze of pain and blood. "I'll leave them alone..."
The children around you are terrified. The boy that's been beating you down even pauses for a moment.
The demon agrees. "They're not of any concern." Its wet voice sticks to the insides of your temples. You want to rip your skull open, and get him out— but you can barely lift yourself up, struggling as you are with the broken bones.
The boy takes his foot off of your back. He looks about ready to run when you continue speaking, despite the excruciating pain you're in. "I was tired of being alone. There was no... Mercy here..."
"Good. Show me."
The pain in your head impossibly intensifies. You can feel the cracks in your body and the tears in your bones, as the agony splits you in two. You find yourself running. Running from the pain.
There are trees. Anson forest. The sky overhead is brewing with Storm. Clouds roil, and you think of the Gods for just a moment.
Uttering a small prayer for Storm is purely a request for Him to leave you alone as well. You were tired. Tired of the pain. Tired of the Gods. Tired of the backhanded clergy. Tired of Father Edmund asking what was wrong with you. Tired of the priests who you knew were whispering— muttering— resentful that someone of such low birth was permitted into their ranks.
You were tired of being watched. Tired of everyone being so afraid. Tired of being forced into service. Tired of your tenets, of the abstinence, of the chastity. Tired of everything.
You're running.
You emerge exhausted— head splitting— out of the woods. You're young. A teenager, dressed in stolen clothes. Disguised. Not wanting to be seen as a member of the Church. You hide your symbol of Mercy beneath your shirt. The gold chain may yet give away who you are, but you have not abandoned the Gods.
You're just tired. The wider houses and bustle of the city of Anson was comforting. You didn't know at the time that you would save the lives of everyone in this city, and have your station respected as the leader of the Church of Mercy.
They didn't know your face now. Scarred, yes. Gaunt, yes. But not that recognizable— you'd hope. You'd hope— as you slow down, too tired to run— that your feet would leave little evidence of your escape. You step into the soft soil leading up to the city. Father Edmund couldn't have known you ran away. Not yet.
It's the dead of night, and most of the streets are empty. You did not know the streets of the city then, and it took you a long time to find a bar.
You were tired of abstinence. Smoke and silence choked your senses as you stumbled— head still reeling— before discovering a dingy drinking hole near the outskirts of the city. No one but the barkeep paid you any mind as you collapsed into the first stool you saw. Pushing coin at him, you put back drink after drink.
You numbed the pain. Numbed the thought of Mercy, and of Vengeance. Even the pressure in your head seemed to fade ever so slightly.
Your eyes and the barkeep's met a few times, weighing one another with one another with equal disrespect. You hoped he'd not remember you as you silently left— barely able to walk straight. The wine at the Church of Mercy was always too watered down. It would be years before you'd pray to Agriculture and lose the ability to enjoy these simple pleasures.
Vision blurrier than ever, you staggered the wrong way down dark streets. Your long fingers brushed against something soft. Softer than you'd felt in years.
Horror sinks into the pit of your stomach— as you've realized that you have brushed up against a woman.
"Get away from me!"
Her shrill voice practically screamed. You must have startled her. "Sorry, sorry—"
Your voice is coming out too softly. It's barely audible over her increasing panic. You try to gesture— to articulate an apology— and manage to somehow bump into her again.
"GET AWAY! HELP—!"
You stagger backwards, trying to apologize. To explain. "It was just an accident— I'm sorry, I'll leave—"
Taking another hesitant step backwards, you catastrophically manage to bump into someone else in the street. It's been years since you last drank. You've horrifically overestimated your limits. Immediately, you turn to get away. "Excuse me—"
As you turn, a fist slams into your face. The wet impact is deafening, and knocks you off your feet. All that registers is the pop of cartilage and bone permanently shifting out of place. The immediate attempt you make to drag yourself upright is cut short.
A nearby puddle catches on a teenager's reflection. This is closer to what you're used to. You're paler than any human rightfully should be. Awkward, twitchy, and tense. Scrawny, with hair that's a complete mess. Ill-fitting and stolen clothes adorn your broad shoulders. All of your gaunt recesses and scars show far more battle and wear than anyone your age has any right to have.
It's no wonder that the woman was afraid.
The figure above you bellows, "get away from her!"
Panicked cries fade into the distance. She must have ran.
"I didn' mean do— you don'dundersdand—" The blood coming from your nose is completely obstructing your words.
"Shut up." A familiar kick drives soundly into your chest. Air rapidly leaves your lungs as the strike sweeps you onto your back. Any attempt at staying upright is stolen away as the man kneels down beside you. He notices the chain around your neck. Your soul leaves your body as he snatches at it. "What's this—?"
You try wheezing. Leave it. I'll kill you. Don't you dare touch Her symbol. But nothing comes out. The wind has been completely knocked out of you.
The man yanks at the chain, and pulls it cleanly off from your body. The clasp digs into the back of your neck and breaks off— leaving the holy symbol dangling from his grasp. As his greed eagerly eyes the gold, the peasant suddenly exclaims in recognition. "You—!"
Rapid steps take him backwards. He drops the symbol like it's been put to a flame. You manage to swipe the symbol out of the dirt, and clutch at it as if your life depended on it. The man frantically looks around him to see if you're with anyone.
As he steps back over towards you— and raises a foot over your face— it's clear that it's you he's recognized. "I haven't forgotten what you've done, Richard. Edwin wouldn't have forgotten, either."
The boy you crippled. Your eyes bolt open in recognition to this figure— blurry as he is. You grew up together.
Crunch.
He keeps kicking your face in.
Crunch.
It's getting harder to breathe.
Snap.
The pain in your head reaches a crescendo.
"Are you still there, Father?"
"Please—" You rasp the words through a crushed throat. 'The pain—'
"I knew you could endure, Father. You see? You see that this isn't enough. The... blessings are not here, Father. But you still are."
He's right. There were no Gods here. The Church found you that night, after some merciful peasant dragged you indoors and reported the assault. Mercy did not save you that day. It took you months to heal. Months of constantly being watched. Waiting. You thought you had learned your lesson— but you still abused Them. You turned from the Gods.
>A] When you prayed to Agriculture, to save the country from the famine.
>B] When you prayed to Spirit, to know with absolute certainty what the clergy was doing.
>C] When you prayed to Flesh, to try and undo the damage.
>D] When you tried to induce Dream, to escape from the world.
>E] Write-in.
Choking— lying on the streets, barely able to breathe— rain pounds on your face. Storm clouds erupt overhead. You manage to speak out, even though no one is there.
"Take... me... home..."
You close your eyes.
When you open them, you let out a sob. Your face is wet, still. You're back in the Church of Mercy. No light filters through the small window in your room within old stone walls. Rain and thunder beats down with reckless abandon on wooden Storm shutters. You're younger, and are wearing old flaxen robes. The frayed hand-me-down garments are even older than the ones that you took with you to the ruins. A few scars are missing from your hands as you look them over.
The corner of your eyes catches in your reflection in a cracked mirror hanging on the far end of your room. Your hair is mussed, but your green and wet eyes stare back at you. You're sobbing— completely overwhelmed by something at the back of your thoughts. The pain is still there. It punctuates every heave of your chest.
A melody echoes down the corridor, as a number of men and women sing praises to Mercy. The choir mercifully disguises the sound you're making, but it can't stop the cascade of intrusions into your mind.
You beg, and ask the voice directly this time. "Stop."
The demon's voice echoes. "No."
It might as well have been a lifetime ago that you were in the ruins with Spirit alongside you. This was different. This time. This place. This memory. You had begged the Goddess. Pleaded, even. You suspected that the clergy resented you. That you were an unwanted intruder.
You needed to know. She's in you. This didn't feel like abuse of Spirit's blessing. This was knowledge that could aid your mission, and aid your service of Her.
This is what you told yourself before you invoked Her: to know beyond a shadow of a doubt what the clergy truly thought of you.
"I don't want to remember—"
You sob, and clutch at yourself as the voices come. Her white light courses through your veins. Spirit causes the blood to protrude from your skin, as She fills your mind with their words. Their thoughts. Their secret and most hidden sentiments.
Their Spirit.
"He's a blight on our good families. It's unthinkable. He's a scar on the Church."
"Did you hear? What he'd done? I thought we were putting him down like a dog— not some pet to be paraded around."
"This has to be a mistake. The King wouldn't permit it. I'll take my complaints up to His Mercifulness personally, if I have to."
"If we can't get him to leave willingly, we'll push him until he snaps. The boy already looks like a demon. Better to contend with one more and be done with this nasty business."
"Stop! Stop it—!" You clutch at your head, and curl up on the straw mattress. Trying to hide from the sound does nothing. Your body heaves as you continue to cry. Each motion only intensifies Her blessing.
"Keeping him alone hasn't done a damned thing."
"Don't want him actually losing it. Give the boy a dog, at least. We won't even have to mind him if he goes collapsing on us again."
"A priest!? I'll die before I have to work with that lunatic—scaring the people half to death. I have half a mind to transfer now—"
"Besmirching our good name! Getting the people up into a frenzy! Making the rest of us look like charlatans! My sons nearly died in that last sermon! I'd kill him myself..."
"Wouldn't be too convenient to send him on another expedition? I'd rather risk five of our men and see him gone—"
You can't speak. You couldn't hear yourself, even if you did. Sobs continue to punctuate the choir, as they echo throughout the high halls beyond your small room. It feels like the walls are closing in.
"Ugly son of a bitch."
"No better than a demon."
The demon reminds you, "they're all right, you know."
Hysterically clutching at your head, you screw your eyes shut. Tears overflow. You can feel it tearing at you. Threatening to consume you.
The Catalyst.
Clutching at yourself tighter.
Spiraling.
Your body is draining.
Millions of little cracks along its surface are leaking every fiber of your being.
"The man's so obsessed with the Gods. Can't even see the people around him."
"I'll die before I serve under him."
"Maybe one of these prayers will finally kill him."
"I'm sorry.
I'm sorry.
I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
"Richard. Richard, it's okay. I'm going to get help."
No one at the Church calls you by your given name. Fear for your sanity opens your eyes. You frantically look around.
The demon is lying on the floor, still as stone. Ray is unconscious right beside it. Your dog's breath is ragged. He's obviously been badly hurt. There's too much blood all around to deduce the extent of his injury straight away. You immediately move towards him, but a hand is on your shoulder. It feels like the greater demon's shadow is still leering over you, as you sob and fight in a panic to get to your dog. There's blood covering you from head to toe, and the damp resistance of your slick sleeves and shirt does nothing to help matters.
Blood is up to the upper arms of the halfling you met— how long ago could it have been? She's leaning over you. The white light of Spirit has left you— but your heart is racing faster than it ever has. The blood on her matches the jet-black poison leaking out from the demon's body, and onto the floor of the ruins. "Hey. Hey, Richard. It's Ofelia. It's okay. It's okay. I'm going to go get help."
>A] Ray comes first. She can go get help. You need to see to your dog. Now.
>B] Ask her to stay and at least keep an eye out while you see to Ray.
>C] Beg her to not leave you alone. Demand an explanation as to how she killed the demon while you take care of Ray.
>D] Write-in.
Hysterically— hands shaking— you try to move Ofelia aside. Your body is so ragged, it's hard to get your limbs to cooperate. It almost feels like the greater demon's weight is still pressing down on your skull. She sees how hard you're struggling, but keeps putting up a resistance anyways. It's infuriating. "You're hurt, Richard. That thing was— I don't know what it was doing, but you should stay still."
"Just— JUST let me see RAY—!" You keep trying to push past the halfling, and finally she steps aside. It's impossible to properly stand. Staggering, you nearly collapse next to your dog. "Ray—"
Kneeling down next to him, it seems that he was wounded while you were under the greater demon's control. There's a deep injury in his side. It's deeper and wider than your thumb. He may have been impaled by one of the bloody barbs. Though your hands are still lacerated— and it takes some nudging with the sides of your chest and arms to get your fingers to sit how you want— you knit your fingers together.
Ofelia is staring at you, and she opens her mouth to say something.
Your voice is hoarse and torn from crying so hard. "DON'T LOOK AT ME—!"
Kneeling over your mastiff's body— face turned from her— you know that Ofelia closes her mouth and moves to leave. "I'll be back." She's speaking from a distance. "The demon is paralyzed. I'll be back. I'm getting Celegwen. She should be able to help. I'll be back as fast as I can. Don't get near the demon again. The poison will last. Just keep away from it."
Exhaustion won't permit you to reply.
You would never forgive yourself if you couldn't heal your boy.
The words of the clergy intermingle with demon's, in an unholy, internal chorus.
"They're all right, you know."
"Did you hear? What he'd done? I thought we were putting him down like a dog— not some pet to be paraded around."
"Don't want him actually losing it. Give the boy a dog, at least. We won't even have to mind him if he goes collapsing on us again."
Though you'd like to keep crying, you tighten your fingers instead. The pain is intense enough to make you suspect tendons are near the threat of snapping, but you don't care. The Church of Mercy has little respect for animals. Unfit as they are for the blessings of the Gods, Ray was purely given to you for protection. To use your gifts to save him borders on sacrilege. Though this wound you're eyeing may not be able to be healed through medicine...
>A] You don't care. You don't care if the elf and her magic might be able to heal Ray. The deep scars in your side are evidence enough of her healing capabilities. He might not have that much time. You know Mercy would want to spare you the loss of your best friend. You'll pray— consequences be damned.
>B] You care enough to try waiting. Keep watch over your boy, and get the elf to heal him the instant she arrives. He's tough— and will be able to pull through her administrations. You just hope there's enough time.
>C] You'll use your medicine. Your backpack is still right in the room with you, right near the narrow corridor you came out of. Use the most effective tools at your disposal. Your fingers are extremely damaged, but you're an expert healer. You know you can endure the pain to try and heal him.
>D] Write-in.
You choke out each word. "Hold on, boy."
The pain is immense as you force yourself to move. To keep going. It's an ordeal to get your fingers to cooperate, let alone to get your equipment. On shaky legs, you stagger over to your backpack. Its contents remain untouched.
The Gods are Merciful.
Falling to one knee— too weak to stand for long— you try to pilfer through your things. Even gently moving aside the contents is excruciating, and you're getting blood everywhere. Ultimately, you settle on looping an arm through the bag, and drag it over to Ray.
Collapsing next to him, your breath comes out in shallow pants. Your head is going lighter and lighter as you examine his wounds. Suffering through manipulating the cut bone and flesh of your hands, you speak almost as much to yourself as to your dog. "Hang on— Mercy— hang on. This won't take long—"
You're beside yourself, and can't help but sob as you gently look to his underside. The full extent of the damage is unthinkable.
"No—!"
The wound goes through the other side of his body. Remnants of the black poison clings to the interior of your boy's skin. You're beside yourself. The amount of care it takes to manipulate your cut hands, to keep your blood out of Ray, to produce tinctures, to unwind bandages, and to work all the herbs that you need is taking too long.
Every attempt is made to correctly apply mixtures. To fasten them securely. To suffocate your weeping, even as your eyes spill with tears from the pain. Ray's breathing isn't improving. The herbs are slow to act, and the best that you have. They should keep a man from the brink of death, and will certainly slow his bleeding— but there is something fouler at work here. Something beyond the measure of mortal healing.
Ofelia and Celegwen have yet to return. You're alone with Ray. Alone with the paralyzed demon. Alone with its poison spilling onto the floor.
This wound is too severe. Your headache still hasn't subsided. It feels like you're going to pass out— vision swimming, head light, with your hands shaking horrifically.
You crumple to your dog's side, sobbing hysterically. One of the empty medicine vials in hand shatters as it uselessly falls to the floor. Oozing, creeping, black liquid threatens to inch ever closer to you and Ray. You might have bought his wound some time— but there's something worse coming.
>A] Move Ray's body as far away from the poison as you can manage, and wait for Celegwen and Ofelia to return. Let the elf use her magic to try and heal him. Hopefully it will be sufficient, after your administrations. You've at least bought him some time. You might not have the strength in you to do much more.
>B) Pray to Mercy to heal Ray's wounds of the poison. You're the Father of Mercy, and you normally need not fear Her retribution. There may be consequences, but you can't bear to risk losing Ray. Not now. Not like this. If nothing else, you know She should protect you. If nothing else, you want to still trust in Her.
>C] Write-in.
The broken glass is of no concern as you clutch onto the side of Ray's body. You're soaked with blood and exhaustion, but you can't rest. You need to get him to safety— at least until Ofelia comes back with help.
It's out of the question to pray to Mercy for Ray... but Flesh...?
The weight of Mercy's symbol presses heavily against your chest as you force your hands together again. "Please—" Your breath hitches. Hands burning cold with the intensity of their pain, you can no longer tell if the blood drenching your sleeves is coming from the wounds or not. There can't be much time left for you if you keep pushing yourself. "Flesh of my flesh, lend me Your strength. I ask not for Your blessing for myself, but for another—"
You sway, dizzy from the blood loss and pain. Smoke and heat rises from your hands. In spite of the fear of death, your trembling voice continues. "Take my weakness. Make my hands whole, that they may lift Your name higher. Fill me with Your blessing, that I may continue to serve You. Let my weakness be Your strength."
The tendrils of smoke build. Skin and muscle— bared open, and torn seemingly beyond repair— begins to stitch itself back together before your blood-shot eyes. You are luckily already on your knees, and graciously thank Flesh with the little wind left in you. Not a second of Time is wasted. You take hold of Ray's body, despite him weighing more than you do. Every ounce of strength and violent intent in you stares at the demon's inert form for courage. You barely manage to drag your dog's body away.
The women still haven't come back, by the time you laboriously reach the furthest edge of the room. Ray sleeps soundly.
The faint red light of candles in passages beyond illuminate your swaying shadow. Your prayers cease. Flesh leaves you. You can't stop crying— unsure if it's because watching over Ray is bringing you little comfort, or because you feel so empty.
The poison must be doing a number on Ray's body. You can't help but note as you kneel over your dog that his breath is ragged— but he's holding on. You tighten the healed, pink, and newly healed scars atop your knuckles in fury. Kneeling beside your boy, you unfasten the side compartment of your pack containing the cinders of the occult.
One vial should be enough.
Thanking Flesh once more for your steadier hands, you tear off a length of clean bandages to safely handle the glass. Nothing greets your prayers in reply. Not even His familiar warmth.
You try to not think too much about the growing emptiness as you bundle cloth around the liquid-filled vial. The fabric blessedly hides your reflection from sight. Unsteady from blood-loss, you precariously tilt on your careful walk over to the demon. Poison clings to the soles of your shoes. The monster's form is completely inert. You would have mistaken it for dead if Ofelia hadn't said anything.
Tossing the bundle from a safe distance ignites the greater demon's form. Bright blue flames spread instantly over its skin, but stops short at the liquid seeping from its body. It's almost as if the fire is eaten away by the toxin. You shudder, and back up— never taking your eyes off of its form as it burns away. There is nothing beneath its shroud. Nothing but blood.
As the sapphire flames lick at the stone— and illuminate the last of the demon's smoldering form— you collapse next to Ray. Holding his body next to yours is a battle to keep from trembling. You can't stop crying.
Chapter 9: Dedication "I only want to help. To cure. Why can't they see that?"
"Richard!?" Ofelia is shaking you. Her voice is frantic. You practically jump out of your skin, and back up away from her long before realizing what's happened.
The halfling's face is beet red from running. Celegwen is with her, looking as distraught as someone of her race can. The flames have burnt low. Acrid smoke fills the chamber, and floats menacingly at the top of the room. Celegwen says over and over again, "just grab him, Ofelia, just grab him—"
"RICHARD, WE NEED TO LEAVE—"
"Ray!" You start, frantically looking around. He's right next to you— and his breathing is harder than before.
"Just grab him—"
You can't calm yourself. Something is horribly wrong. You can't tell what it is, and you don't care. Still on your knees, you practically cling onto the bottom of Celegwen's tattered skirts— and plead with her. "You have to help him. Please. Please. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Please help him. I did everything I could— and it wasn't enough. I can't— Please. You have to understand. Just help him—"
You can't keep yourself upright, and curl up into yourself as you sob. The elf pauses a long moment, before speaking in a low voice. "Help me, Ofelia."
The substantially shorter woman runs over, and somehow offers a shoulder to lean on. You can't quite make out the incantation that the elf mutters as she kneels down to Ofelia's height. The end of her staff is placed near Ray's body. The gnarled wood glows with a familiar darkness. Stars materialize into view as a force you're unfamiliar with radiates outwards— then condenses into your dog's side.
The elf's form goes slack, and Ofelia struggles to hold her weight up. You know you couldn't do anything to help in your current state, and it's only making you more upset.
As Celegwen stirs again, her hair is on-end. She quickly smooths the immaculate strands out, and stands upright.
Eyeing the motionless form of your dog drags only one question from your lips. "Is he...?"
"He will not be alright if we fail to get you both out of here." The healer walks over to you and extends her hand. "I need your help. Stand up."
Ofelia makes no indication of lifting you or Ray. Instead, she rolls a shoulder to the side as she drawls. "I can't believe I left you alone for less than an hour—"
"Not now." Celegwen shakes her hand impatiently. "Come on, Father. Get up. We need to go. This air is foul. There is a safer corridor that we have cleared out. It lies beyond here. I need you on your feet. I cannot carry both you, and your dog."
>A] Take her hand, and get moving. Follow the women to this safer corridor— and take Celegwen's word that Ray will be okay.
>B] Don't take her hand. Check on Ray yourself, and then follow them to their hiding place.
>C] Demand an explanation from Ofelia. You need to know where she went before you do anything. They left you alone next to that demon for who knows how long. Ray could have died. You could have died.
>D] Write-in.
Normally you would recoil at the prospect of touching someone else— but you're so spent that you simply can't care. Your bloodied and scarred hand wraps around Celegwen's without hesitation or tremor. She effortlessly pulls your light frame to your feet.
A look of alarm passes over the woman's face at how easily she's able to lift you. She doesn't mention it— politely averting her eyes— and looks over to Ofelia instead. "Keep him moving. Don't stop. I will be right behind you." With another incantation, any and all emotion drops from the elf's features.
Her companion nods, and briskly walks towards an opening that is flooded with fumes. The blue flames that lick at the demon's corpse have been reduced to little more than embers. Your eyes linger on the bright piles of ash— and you realize that Ofelia is talking to you again. "Come on, Richard! RICHARD—!"
"...sorry. Sorry." You're so dizzy. Shakily taking a few steps forward, you can't remember the last time you lost this much blood. Every attempt is made to jerk your eyes away from the demon's bleeding skull. Its reduction to a pile of ash. The crisp and bloodied residue that's been burnt into the floor. A scorched reminder of your failings.
"Richard. Come on." Ofelia takes you firmly by the hand, and tugs you away. "It's dead. Let's go."
A faint darkness glows from Celegwen's body, as she seems to effortlessly lift your dog's form. His breathing has improved, thanks to the extent of her administrations. As he's shifted atop her shoulders, you catch a glimpse at the dark and angry scar where Celegwen surely extracted the poison from his side.
Ofelia won't stop tugging on you. "This is useless! RICHARD, you're goin' to be the death of us—!"
She properly wraps your arm around her shoulders. The halfling's physical and emotional stress manages to drag you only a few steps forward before you snap back to reality, and get moving with her. "I'm sorry." Your steps are significantly longer than hers, and break the hold with a shaky pace.
Magic twists Celegwen's voice into something deep and unearthly. It rings out from behind and before you and the rogue. "Ofelia."
"Right, right." A cough, as you all approach an exit to the long corridor. Small fingers give you a damp handkerchief, while wrapping a matching cloth around her button nose. "Cover yer face."
It's hard to breathe. Keeping the small item to your face, you're forcibly reminded of having your nose and throat kicked in.
Ofelia resumes tugging on you.
You don't even murmur an apology, and keep your shoulders bent in sobs as you keep walking. Smoke is thick in the corridor. Celegwen seems to be protecting Ray with an aura of some sort. The sorceress has yet to cover her own nose or mouth— but it does nothing to alleviate your worry. Barely taking note of your surroundings, you all pass through a haze of faint red light. More candles illuminate more stone. More passages. More honeycombed walls of this portion of the ruins. The many demons trapped within crawls more intensely over your skin than the blood that's cooling over your sodden robes.
You all must have walked for some time before the smoke peters out. The corridors eventually rise along a slight elevation. Clearer air gives way to brighter light.
More sorcery?
Ofelia tugs on your moist and bloodied sleeve, urging you to take a sharp turn. You hadn't even noticed the opening in the wall beside you, due to the angle of the rock and stone.
Or is it a trick of the eye?
"This way. Don't get lost. Come on."
You follow her, and easily keep up with the halfling's exhausted steps. Her silent pacing leads you on for at least another hour. Celegwen's plodding behind you both is a reassuring reminder that they didn't leave Ray behind.
Mercifully, Ofelia leads you all to a small camp before you drop from exhaustion. Her cookware and other belongings are scattered around the remnants of a dwindling fire. It looks like the small, enclosed space was left in a hurry. There are more maps (of places unseen), notes (in two languages you don't recognize), and bits of (scuffed) clothing scattered everywhere. A far cry from the neatly disguised campsite you saw that they had set up before.
"Okay, Richard— you've got some serious explaining to do." A flush discolors Ofelia's freckles, as she points to the floor. "Sit. Eat. Talk."
You do none of these things, and look intently behind you to Celegwen's procession. Her heavy steps meets you both after just a moment. She's sweating— brow knitted with strain— and uses a gentle motion to properly set Ray down beside the campfire. It's extremely jarring to see an elf looking so burdened. She drops to the floor beside your boy the instant he's safely settled down.
You collapse beside them both as well, wanting nothing more than to bury your face in Ray's fur. You force yourself to take a moment to examine his wound site. Celegwen must have burned out the poison. The entry and exit shows no signs of infection or complication. It's completely dry and intact.
You look to the healer with tears brimming in your eyes. Her long lashes flutter slightly. She's closed her own silver orbs in exhaustion.
"Richard." Ofelia remains standing. "What the fuck happened back there?"
>A] You're in no state to relive everything you just went through. Ask Ofelia why she came looking for you. Ask HER what she saw. Thank her at least for saving your life— but you need answers too. Why was Ray so hurt? Did she find him that way? What took her so long to get back? Why didn't she kill the damned demon when she had the chance?
>B] Try to explain. The halfling saved your life. You were with the Catalyst, and had absolutely no control over the situation. It's going to be hard to talk about it, but she deserves to know what's going on.
>C] Pass out. Get some rest. See if you feel any better when you wake up. There's a time and a place for everything, and rehashing that nightmare is simply not on your agenda right now.
>D] Write-in.
Ofelia's question hangs in the air. Trying to hide your face in embarrassment, you can feel her stares at you even as you turn your trembling shoulders away. Cringing suffices, while you wrap your arms around yourself. "Stop looking at me—"
"Okay, okay." She walks opposite of you, and finally sits down beside Celegwen. A show is made of stoking the campfire. "I'm just cookin'. Take your time, Richard. I just want to know what happened. Here—" She's holding out another handkerchief. You make no effort to take it. "You're still covered in blood—"
You shakily take the cloth and rub at your face with it. The black, acrid substance you're so eager to be rid of is still wet enough to scrub off. You shudder from the chill of your robes that will not be so easy to clean, and curl into yourself.
Many long minutes pass by with only your sobs punctuating the crackle of the fire before you finally can speak. "I contended with— with a number of demons."
Both women remain silent. You stare intently at the nonjudgmental fire. The green in your eyes flickers and waves. It's hard to see, but you're grateful. You don't want to know how these women are reacting to what you want to say. "The greater demon took interest—" Your voice cracks. "He wanted to see me break. He made me remember."
Ofelia waits awhile before moving to get her cooking tools. Her back is kept to you. "Remember what?"
You bury your face in your hands. The blood on them is probably smearing on your face, but you can't care, and draw your knees up to your chest. You don't want to say anymore— but you can't stop yourself. "Pain. And— and isolation. How despised I was, and— and am—" As you sink deeper into yourself— and utterly fail to keep it together— it becomes harder and harder to speak. "I felt like I was dying. Over, and over again. And— and something worse—"
Both women look at you with alarm. Though their stares are cutting you like a knife, they can't possibly make you feel worse.
"The Catalyst. I felt it. I can still feel it— I feel so empty. I can't feel Them! I can't feel the Gods!"
Burying yourself in the sleeves of your robes, a final attempt is made to hide your face. A few more minutes creep by, as heat finally comes back into your body. The warmth of the fire is enough to make you sick. "I don't know what he did. What the demon was capable of. I felt so— I felt so weak. I couldn't do anything. I deserved this. I wasn't ever fit for Their blessing. I couldn't even save Ray—!"
Your voice gives way to hysterical sobbing. It feels as if your body is cracking. This is too dangerous. You can't calm yourself down— and the Catalyst triggers in people who can't wrest control over their emotions. Each sob is another fracture. "He was right. They were right. That's— that's what he said. That they were all right."
>A] Stop talking. Ask Celegwen or Ofelia if they can do anything to help calm you down. You need to get a hold of yourself. Humans aren't meant to exhibit this much emotion. You're going to lose yourself at this rate if you can't do something.
>B] Keep talking. Genuine catharsis is something you've literally never experienced. Getting to speak openly like this— even if it's dangerous— is worth the risk. Pray to Mercy to keep yourself grounded, if you must, but you need to talk.
>C] Write-in.
Though you bury deeper into your sleeve to hide your face in shame, you don't want to stop talking. You need this catharsis. To feel like— for once in your life— like you can speak without restraint. Without repression. Without fear.
Fear still pulls at the depths of your soul as words pour out from you. The cracks in your voice intensify in their desperation. "I am a mark on the Church. I came from nothing. My parents were farmers. Everyone— everyone in the Church is family. Their position is their life. Their home. Everything. I've just— I've just come in and ruined everything. Even the other children in Pontos knew that I wasn't right. That I wasn't— that I wasn't okay."
Raising your head slightly, you clutch at the building pressure as if it will relieve the agony. It only mounts as you continue. "I'm always dealing with this. This pain. It's not constant, but it's— it is debilitating, and I don't know why. We can't heal it— and the Gods won't take it away. Mercy knows I've tried, I've tried, I keep trying—" Your voice takes on a desperate edge. "—but nothing helps. Everyone— EVERYONE, my entire life— they've resented me. I stopped letting people get closer. I've been so afraid. I don't want people to see who I am!"
Putting your head back down, you drop your hands to wrap them around yourself. The mockery of a hug brings you no comfort. "The greater demon could see me. He knew— he knew how weak I am. How many times I have prayed. Prayed to be stronger. Prayed to be wiser. He knew that I had ran away so many times before. Trying to leave the Church— trying to have a normal life." Your breath catches in your throat, and you gasp in agony as your headache spikes. "Trying to get away from all the resentment."
Ofelia starts moving towards you, but seems to reconsider as your breath catches. Celegwen parts her lips, as if she would like to something— but ultimately doesn't speak either.
You can't stop the floodgates. Though your voice is hoarse and raw, you continue sobbing. "I don't understand. The Church is my life. The Gods are even more to me. I dedicate myself to Them. I do everything— everything for Them. I abstain. I am chaste. I show restraint. I am Merciful. But everyone— everyone just— everyone just hates me for it. They hate my conviction. They're so scared. They see— " You lift your head up in a fit of insanity, and bare one of your arms to the women before you. "Do you see?"
The skin is marked and scarred almost beyond recognition. The remnants of the demon's administrations and Flesh's healing are there, yes— but there are so many more scars still. Many of the light lines and indentations are so old that they should have faded from sight, yet countless other markings persist in raised and angry ridges over them. The pain in your head almost makes it too difficult to keep your arm outstretched. "My body is Their vessel. It scares people.I scare them— and I can't blame them. But still. Still..."
You pull your bloodied sleeve back down, and draw back into yourself. Arms around your knees. Muttering. "Still, I pray. Still, I worship. Still, they call me the Father of the Church of Mercy."
Hanging your head, you run viscera-coated fingers through your hair. The brunette strands are slick with the demon's gore even before you make the motion. As pieces cling between your palms, you want to vomit. Your other hand goes to your lips. "The greater demon. He saw how close I've come to activating the Catalyst. It's been so many times now. I am— I am pushed to my limit. Time, after time—" Distress escapes in a single sob from your lips. "No one should have to live like this." You take your hands out of your hair, and place them both over your face. You wish you could stop crying.
Beyond all comprehension, your body seems to have steadied itself a bit.
It still feels like you need to say more.
>A] "I want to go home. I need to leave this place. I've seen enough. My mission was to explore, and I've witnessed enough horror." Talk about home. Talk about what you do miss. Talk about what you need to go back to.
>B] "I came down here to find a cure to the Catalyst. I can't imagine getting answers like this. I need more information. I need to go deeper." Talk about the Catalyst. Talk about your obsession. Your darkest fixation.
>C] Pray to Mercy for guidance. You are being pulled in every direction. These women have been silent as the grave, and respectful while you spill your soul to them. Take a minute to pray to Her and center yourself.
>D] Write-in.
It bears repeating. "I can't live like this. Empty, and alone. Surrounded by contempt. I— I know what I've done, but it's not— I haven't deserved this." Blood clings your hair to your neck and brow as you shake your head. You try and wipe the strands aside, only to smear more across your forehead and cheeks.
"What is wrong with me? I only want to help. To heal. To cure. Why can't they see that?" Questions brew between your allies. You don't wait for answers. "I want them to see that. They won't, though. They refuse to. They'd rather see me dead— even if it wouldn't appease them. Even if it would only make them sleep easier."
All of the fight is out of you. You force yourself onto your knees, and grasp Mercy's symbol tightly between your hands. "Now that I— now that I can't feel the Gods. Who's strength is my weakness."
You bow your head, and pray. Wrought as your voice is with emotion, you keep it as steady as you can. "Mercy, I am the Father of Your children. The guardian of Your people. The keeper of Your blessings. I am the messenger of Your word—" Choking on your speech, you're unable to keep your composure. There's nothing. Her warmth, Her voice, Her blessings. You feel none of it. There's absolutely nothing.
You curl in on yourself, holding Her symbol closely to your chest. "I— I'm so sorry—"
Ofelia finally says something. "It's not your fault, Richard." Your sobs carry over her speech. "When I found ya', that demon was doing somethin'. I don't know what. It looked like its blood was behind yer eyes, or somethin'. I was scared what would happen— if I killed it while it had you like that."
Vividly recalling the feeling of the greater demon creeping into your skull makes you want to retch. Ofelia's filthy rag from the floor is picked up, and you continue trying to scrub the blood off from your face as she speaks.
"I don't know what it did to you, but I'm sorry things got so bad. You shouldn't have gone off by yourself so deep into the ruins. There's worse things than that down there. Seen a lotta' crazy humans since we've been travelin'."
Celegwen perks up. "You are not the worst human we have seen, Richard."
A desperate, small laugh bubbles out. You hate it, and can't keep it down. "Not the worst?"
"No. If I understand correctly, most of these demons were far worse than you at some point, too. Even the one you just killed. That was very, very reckless of you, though. You and your dog could have suffocated from those fumes. We could have even interrogated the demon—"
"No. No. You both can take what you need— you can explore— but I will not tolerate another demon. I want to go home. I need to leave this place. I've seen enough. My mission was to explore— and I have witnessed enough horror."
Ofelia softly asks, "where's home for you, Richard?"
"The Church of Mercy. It's a week's travel from the surface— across from the river Morinburn. A few day's travel from the capital."
The sass in Ofelia's voice has been replaced with genuine homesickness. "What's it like there? Home?"
"You can always hear the river. The air is as clean as you can hope for. There's— there's lots of farmland. I never thought that I would miss the smell of barley." Ofelia may be offering you a smile— but you continue looking away. "We get a lot of travelers seeking refuge at the— at the Church of Mercy. I get to see a lot of people who need help. We're more on the outskirts of the city, but we watch the borders. Protecting the fields, scouting the forests. Repairing our defenses. Aiding— aiding everyone who loses their homes, and their families. I do get out a lot— to help with the fight— and to service the surrounding cities and villages. It's— it's not much."
The sick, wet sound of your hands clenching at the robes over your knees is so disgusting that you almost let go immediately. "But I— I do need to go back."
The growing emptiness within you is somehow more disturbing than being soaked in demon's blood. Feeling as disgusting on the outside as you do on the inside, you compulsively want to keep praying.
The state of your attire may be even worse than you suspect. Ofelia nods towards your figure. "Do ya' have any other clothes? Celegwen has a cool trick to clean up blood— but I think she's too worn out?"
The sorceress appears to be in a daze. She's either sleeping upright, or is in deep meditation. Only her ears twitch at the sound of her name. "Healing and carrying your dog was more than I should have done today. I am afraid you will have to deal with the mess through mundane means."
>A] Ask for some privacy, clean up, and change out of your holy vestments into spare trousers and shirt. It won't feel right, but you need to get out of these bloodied clothes eventually. Those stains aren't coming out anytime soon. Get some space while you're at it, and try to sort your head out. You could use some time to yourself.
>B] Endure the women's company while you get the most of the stains out of your holy vestments, and change out of view. Modesty and chastity are tenets of Mercy, but being seen out of religious clothing is hardly sacrilege. These women saved your lives. Maybe you can get some answers from them while you clean up.
>C] Keep praying to Mercy. You can endure the blood for awhile longer. You have more pressing issues right now than cleanliness. You can't feel Her, and you miss Her already. This isn't right. You surely just need to keep praying.
>D] Write-in.
Embarrassed by your appearance, and ashamed of your behavior, you keep your eyes downcast. "Of course. Is there a source of clean water nearby? I'd like to— I would like to clean my holy vestments—"
Ofelia makes a face at the word. You don't have the patience to explain, and simply gesture to your robes in frustration. The small woman moves to get a pot off of the flame. "Ah. No need. Gwen made some for us last week. We have plenty to spare." A few cute and dramatic sounds are made as she carefully moves the water adjacent to you. "Ah, AH— ah! Careful—"
"Thank you."
One, long, awkward moment passes before you avert your eyes. "Don't look at me."
Both women mock offense as your face flushes. Celegwen has the decency to turn her back around and resumes her trance. A bigger show is made by the other blasphemer— turning her nose up— and moving to the other side of the room. Ofelia teases, "yes, of course, your holiness."
Once you're certain that they're actually keeping their eyes off of you, you rapidly dig through your backpack. Fishing out a spare change of clothes in one hand, you rapidly undress with the other. A tapestry of old battle scars paint a grim picture in the low heat and light of the room for only an instant. Your sunken and paper-thin abdomen and arms are the first to rapidly be covered by a black shirt. You're thin enough to not need to unbutton it before slipping it overhead. The knotted scars winding all over your back, chest, and legs soon are disguised as well. There's a few inches to spare on the lace up the sides of your trousers, but the blessed, clean, dry, and black fabric hides the last of your discomfort from view. Only once you're done refastening the smallest notch on your belt do you dare to make a sound. "Alright. You can stop teasing me, Ofelia—"
The halfling pipes down from her whistling to the wall, and looks over her shoulder. She lets out a wolf whistle. You want to die.
You return to the pot of water, and slump down as she looks to your shaking hands. Fishing out a precious, slim bar of soap is an ordeal. Ofelia is making some sort of face at you. You frown in return. It's likely that her scrutiny has fallen on your shirt and trousers. The fitted fabric is betraying you. Having loose-fitting robes is a luxury, as they typically hide just how skinny you are. Without anything left to the imagination, it's clear by the angles of your shoulder blades and elbows that Flesh has wasted away most of your muscle. Agriculture has made it harder still to eat or drink. You curl into yourself in mortification, with your face a deeper shade of red. "I told you not to look at me."
"Richard, we've really got to feed you more."
The pot of boiling water before you is an open invitation to get off the grime, sin, and sensation of a demon still clinging onto your skin and bones. You plunge both filthy hands— along with your holy vestments— straight into the pot. The sensation doesn't immediately register. Scalding heat hits you as a rush of frigid pain.
"DON'T—!"
You set about scrubbing the items, and all of the viscera from underneath your nails before Ofelia can protest further. There's no strain in your voice. You sigh in relief. "It's okay." As the blood parts from your hands, catharsis washes over you in waves. The roiling bubbles and blistering skin is nothing compared to the shock you've been put through. "It doesn't hurt."
She doesn't seem convinced, and rubs her own hands nervously from a phantom burn. Without saying another word, the blonde walks besides the fire— and moves to get out more cookware.
Your breath slows thanks to the repetitive motion of cleaning your skin, and scrubbing at the cloth underhand. It's soothing on more than a physical level. Strength and warmth seeps back into your tone. "You said— you said that you met other humans. Ones worse off than I am. Can you tell me about them...?"
The pallor on her skin becomes even whiter at your question, but Ofelia replies evenly. "Everyone we've found down here has been completely insane, Richard. I didn't mean to be so forward with ya' when we first met— but we had to be careful. Gotta' look out for ourselves. Especially with the stunts you've pulled—"
Even through her trance, Celegwen has the tact to clear her throat. The otherworldly pitch is only unsettling for a couple of coughs, before she speaks in her usual tone. "Ofelia."
"Right, sorry. It's just— you gotta understand. I'm not used to this stuff, Richard."
It would be difficult for your hands to look any worse. You continue indulging the cathartic impulse to scrub, and speak softly. It almost as if you sound like yourself again, too. "I understand."
Ray snores soundly in his sleep. The familiar noise is immensely comforting. You're not certain if the elf can hear you, and speak more softly still. "Celegwen?"
Her eyes clear from the clouds and gloss that poured over them. "Yes, Father?"
"Your healing. I am— I am entirely unfamiliar with it. You saved— you saved Ray, when I couldn't—"
"It's a difficult spell. I'm not at all used to using it— and your dog likely would have not survived were it not for you work, too." She offers a small smile. "Give yourself credit where it's due."
Dropping your eyes back down to the reddened water, you stare intently— and scrub harder.
>A] She's right. Give yourself a little credit for healing Ray as much as you did. Thank the women for saving both of you again, but don't be afraid to pat yourself on the back. Maybe you and Celegwen can exchange some information on each other's healing capabilities.
>B] You can't handle the compliment. Thank Celegwen again for healing Ray, and ask her and Ofelia how they contended with the greater demon where you failed. You can't stop ruminating over your failure. You need to know how you could have done things differently.
>C] Deflect. You're still in no shape to try and have a conversation, and having these two women be so nice to you is only making you feel guiltier. Ask Celegwen about her Magic. See if you can get the subject off of you. Ask Ofelia about her knowledge regarding poison, too.
>D] Write-in.
Your frown deepens. "Thank you, again." The elf's small smile drops as you pointedly ignore her reassurance. "I don't understand it. How you— how you were able to contend with that demon—" Your green eyes are raw. They look intently over at Ofelia's form. Her small frame is crouched over the fire, boiling more water. Your eyes meet for a brief second, before you glance down to wring out your robes.
The rogue's voice momentarily becomes more sinister than anything you'd expect from a woman of her race. "I couldn't have done anything if it wasn't so distracted." She catches herself, and looks to you with genuine concern. "Do ya' really want to hear this, Richard? I mean..."
Your knuckles whiten from the force you twist the fabric underhand with. You swallow hard, and try to get a hold of yourself. Contending with your own demons puts a waver in your speech. "I need to know. How I— how I could have done things differently."
How I could have been less of a failure. How I could not be so weak.
Ofelia keeps her stare fixed onto your back. The urge to squirm and hide is shoved down as she replies. "I don't think ya' could have killed it, Richard. When I found you, your dog was already on the ground. It looked like he put up a hard fight." She glances over at Ray's sleeping form with a wilting frown, then back to you. "The room was so cold. It looked like you had been under for awhile. I was scared, Rich— I mean, Richard. It looked like it was inside your head. I thought it might just kill ya' if I did anythin'."
Your hands are shaking too hard to be of any use. Setting your vestments aside, you keep your head bowed.
The low tone of Ofelia's voice drops to a whisper. "I used my best poison on it. Took it out of another demon down here. One to freeze its blood. It wouldn't have been able to hurt you like that, Richard. I made sure it wasn't going to move again."
All of the flush is gone from your face. Holding yourself— as if clutching onto the fitted fabric around you as if it could keep you safer— you mouth an inaudible reply. 'Thank you.'
"It didn't let you go at first, though. I was scared for you, Richard— but—" The halfling raises her volume in bewilderment. "—you pulled yourself out of there. I must have tried to wake you up for an hour, but you finally came to. Never seen anythin' like it."
I was in the Church of Mercy. I was with the Catalyst. I couldn't have done that.
"What? I...?"
She shrugs. "That's what I saw. I don't know how you humans work. I just made sure that bastard wasn't gonna try anythin' weird with you. You were in bad shape." A small laugh makes every attempt to downplay any offense. "You still look in pretty bad shape, to be honest."
You avert your eyes again, trying to process her implications.
"I didn't want to leave ya' until I saw you were awake. But I was worried what might happen if that monster— I mean, demon— resisted the poison."
She wasn't certain it would work?
"Don't give me that face. You know you can't be certain with these things! Besides, who knows what might have happened if I killed it outright— or if I even could have? You had to burn the damn thing to be sure."
You tighten your arms around yourself, at the sight of the flame dancing over the greater demon's corpse. "Yes. I did have to burn it."
Celegwen can't help but pipe up. "I still think that was terribly excessive, Father, but..."
You don't have any regrets. There was no information that demon could have had that would have justified keeping it alive.
Ofelia brings over another pot of water. This one is nowhere near as warm. Steam still rises from the surface, but she hovers beside you long after setting the item down. "Okay, Mr. Hotshot. Don't hurt yourself this time." You begin to protest, but she speaks over you. "I don't care. Gods or blessings or whatever— just get this finished up so I can clean my damned pots. You need some rest."
>A] You can't take one more sleight from these women about the Gods. Lecture Ofelia, and try to explain to her why this means so much to you. You appreciate her hospitality, but she's over the line.
>B] Don't push the issue. Clean up your robes, and get some rest. Between the physical, mental, and spiritual trauma you've endured today— you can't deal with anything further. Ask the women if they need help keeping watch, or if this resting spot is as safe as they say.
>C] Don't push the issue, and talk awhile longer. See if you can get anymore information from the women. (Write-in any specifics.)
>D] Finish cleaning, and take the time to make an extended prayer to Mercy. The void that's creeping into the deepest roots of your body is becoming impossible to ignore. You don't need to convince these heathens of anything. You need to connect with Them.
>E] Write-in.
"I won't take much longer. I would like to get some rest, but there is— there is something that I have to do first."
Ofelia and Celegwen both look at you curiously.
"I need time to pray. I can't— I can't take the first watch, but I can take the second or third—"
"That isn't necessary, Father." Celegwen holds up a blood-streaked hand. "I've been resting while you spoke. I will be keeping the whole watch." You shift uncomfortably, unsure if the elf was even listening to you. "I wasn't trying to be rude. I could hear every word. The spells I used to help your dog simply took a great deal out of me. I hope you can understand."
You look down at your hands and grimace. They're streaked with watered down blood, and are still filthy. "I understand." You nod your head, and set to rinsing the robes and your hands one more time in cleaner water.
"I'm sorry we didn't find you sooner, Father. But I'm glad you're safe. Please get some rest. I'm going to start patrolling. Ofelia, sound the alarm if anything happens. Anything." Celegwen gets to her feet. Her movements are much lighter than before.
You keep your eyes firmly fixed on the soap and water as you feverishly clean the rest of your robes. It's going to be impossible to get the stains out, but you've at least gotten the bulk of the blood and viscera. Ofelia practically jumps at the pots as you wring out the last of the excess water. "Finally—" She whisks away the well-used metal. "You're more thorough than my mother."
You wince, and shy away from the halfling. A nearby, rough, stone protrusion is used to hang-dry the damp garment on. The scrubbing at pots is the only sound that carries over your speech. "Thank you. You didn't have to."
"'course I did. People should look out for each other." She picks up on your discomfort after an extended pause. "Maybe you humans don't. You sound like you've been hurt pretty bad, Richard. I think my Pa' wouldn't be happy with me if I made all that any worse."
"You haven't."
Ofelia's scrubbing stops abruptly. She stands up, admiring her handiwork. "Good as new!" A broad smile beams over at you, whether you return it or not. "Some jobs need a little more elbow grease than others. You might need a whole lot, Richard, but I think you'll be okay." She lowers the pot, gathering her cooking implements. "You want the fire going while you pray?"
"I will only need it for a moment." You step over to your backpack. From the very bottom of the lowest compartment, you tear into the pocket sewn into the lining. Safe and dry are several long, beeswax candles. You take out a single one. They're another extreme luxury, thanks to your position in the Church.
Ofelia gives you a jealous look with a low whistle, and waits patiently while you soften the bottom of the wax, and light the top of the wick. "Lucky you. That'll last at least a few hours, huh? Don't stay up for too long." She finishes cleaning up, and spreads out a bedroll for herself from a hidden cache in the side of the wall. "Wouldn't want you passing out again."
You carefully bring the candle over to the far end of the room. It's fastened firmly on the stone floor. You're certain that it's secure, and that there are no nearby drafts to disturb you. "Good night, Ofelia."
"'night, Richard."
Fire dwindles to embers. Embers dwindle into ash. Before long, the only light in the room comes from the single candle before you— and the dim redness of the ruins further beyond.
Chapter 10: Mercy "She has given Her gift freely."
Taking Mercy's holy symbol between your palms, you bow your head in prayer. The clawing emptiness that's been growing since the greater demon held you is all-encompassing. Your hands shake, even as they grasp one another in reverence to Her. The clean smell of a burning wick is a welcome reminder of warmth as you steadily pray. The gold between your fingers is cold to the touch.
Though you begin silently, before long you can't help but speak aloud. You need Her to hear. "As the children of Mercy turn to the Father, so too will he turn to the Mother. In the darkness, She brings light. In our pain, She brings solace. In our weakness, She brings strength. We do not presume to hear the Goddess. We do not presume to suffer in silence. Her works are in our comfort. In our healing. In our restraint. Her silence is Merciful."
The flame before you waxes and wanes. You trim the wick only as needed. The prayer becomes more and more feverish as the hours wear on.
"...our adoration and love for you need not be spoken, for She hears— She hears, She hears us speak. She has worked through the Father. She has given Her gift freely."
It's getting harder to see. Your throat is hoarse and dry. The flame burns low, yet you still diligently trim the wick, right your shaking hands, and clutch onto Her cold symbol.
"...I am so sorry. I'm sorry, Mercy. Please..."
The gold hands of Her symbol seem to sit awkwardly in your palms. It's nowhere near as reassuring as they always have been. Nothing feels right. Desperation claws at your voice.
"Mercy. Please. Am I unfit for Your blessing?"
The palms of your hands press to your rapidly beating heart. You whisper. "Is this body too impure...?" You clutch so tightly at the holy symbol in your hands that you're no doubt bruising yourself. "Have I not given everything for You? I do not ask for your blessing, Mercy. I ask for your voice—" Your voice breaks, trying not to start crying all over again. "For your warmth." Your whispers are raw. "I ask for your embrace."
The candle burns out.
Despite your exhaustion— despite forcing yourself to lay down— you lie awake for hours. Her holy symbol is warm to the touch. Clawing emptiness fills your aching limbs and your tormented skull. You fall asleep holding warm hands. Thinking of Her.
The Goddess.
Mercy.
>A] She has Her message. She has something terribly, terribly important to tell you.
>B] She has Her mission. She knows of something that must be done. Something that only you can do.
>C] She has Her blessing. Something to give. Something to receive. Something that She wishes to work through you.
>D] She has Her embrace. She wishes to comfort you. She wishes to reassure you. She cannot see the Father suffer like you've suffered.
>E] Write-in.
That night— deep in the dark— She visits you.
The warmth in your hands spreads along your body. Heat courses through every vein, every muscle, and deeper still. You are not in the ruins. You are not in Corcaea. You sink deeply.
Deeper.
Deep into the embrace of Mercy.
All of the trauma and emotion of the day does not slip from your senses. The cracks running along your body are the very fissures through which the Gods have blessed you. You do not need to hide as Her light greets your eyes. You do not recoil from Her sight— from Her working through you. You are not ashamed.
As you sink deeper into Her tender welcome, you can recognize the clawing insecurity, your doubt, and all of your fear. A lifetime of servitude, worship, and abject devotion is before you. She is emotion.
You see the light of Mercy.
Her embrace is through you. She is in you, and all around you. Not as a woman, but a soft and shifting form of light and gold. You do not see gold. Soft edges are mercifully shaped in Her likeness. She wishes to grant your mortal self an image of worship. You do not see light. She has hidden Her eyes, that you may not go blind before Her. There is no need to fall to your knees, to beg, or to offer yourself to Her. There was no need to ever ask for forgiveness. Every plea was already heard.
There was no need to question if She left you. She has always been by your side.
You do not see Her with your own eyes. You cannot.
There was never any need to doubt if She heard you. She is Merciful.
You feel Her. You feel Her with your mortal flesh, and hold Her as tightly as you can. She embraces you in turn, with waves of relief that trivialize the might of Storm. Her light caresses you. Mercy keeps you steady, as you feel like you could lose yourself to Her.
No words need to ever be spoken between you. Her embrace is everywhere. You are supported, and loved, and held for the first time. She holds you. She needs you.
She loves you.
Father.
Nothing needs to be said between you, yet She gifts you with Her word. You listen in perfect reverence. The Gods are Merciful.
Our love for you is infinite. It is unbearable, to endure as the Father suffers.
Her embrace tightens around you. You sink deeper into Her endless embrace. You do not need to reassure Her that you never wish to leave, yet still She blesses you with kindness.
The world is full of cruelty.
She holds you more tightly than ever before. Mercy does not need to acknowledge the failings of your race— yet still She bears witness to it.
You suffer, as Our Children suffer. Do not be afraid, Father. You know what must be done.
Thoughts of your mission flit across your mind like a bad dream. The Catalyst. The cure. She isn't speaking of it. The Gods will it.
Your voice is warm and tender, as you hold your lover beside you. The Father asks one question of the Mother. "What must I do?"
>A] "You must stop your search for the Catalyst. Return to the Church of Mercy. Do not suffer this place any longer. Serve Our will— as you have served Us for these many years— and live your life in peace. There may be pain. There may be suffering. But you, Father, can root out the corruption in Our Church. It is Our Will."
>B] "Now begins the War of Extermination. You must assemble your clergy. Assemble the Mothers and Fathers of the Church, and purge the land of any and all who oppose you. Abandon the pretense of curing the Catalyst. The only cure for it can be a swift death."
>C] "Seek my Relic, Father. Seek my symbol. Deep, deeper still within the lands lies an answer to your pain. I entrust you with this mission. This most holy mission— to obtain not the cure to the Catalyst— but the cure to your pain, and so many others. Do this, and go forth with Our blessing."
>D] Write-in.
Mercy's warmth fills you. Stretching through the reaches of the deepest fibers of your being. Resonating through your tortured skull. Healing you. Making you whole again. You listen to Her with abject devotion, and She delivers Her message.
"Too long have you suffered."
Her outstretched hands are warm as they lay on your chest. Reassurance that you are never truly alone.
"Gather Our children, Father. Though the only cure to the Catalyst is death, the afflicted themselves need not be abhorred. Gather Our children, and find one that appears taken by their weakness. Find one that still possesses kindness in their heart."
Long after each word been orchestrated, the choir of Her gift lingers in your memory. Awe-struck, you want to ask how— but will not dare to speak over an unparalleled commandment of Mercy.
"Grant them Our blessing. Grant them peace, through Our symbol. You cannot do this alone. You must seek Our Relic, Father. Seek Our symbol. Deep, deeper still within the lands, lies an answer to your pain. We entrust you with this mission. This most holy mission— to obtain not the cure to the Catalyst— but the cure to your pain. The cure to the pain of so many others. Seek Our Relic. Do this, and go forth with Our blessing."
Her hands have been outstretched, and lying under your own. They begin to part. You want to stop Her. You want to stay like this forever.
You know that you can't.
"You are never truly alone, Father."
I don't want to go back. I don't want to leave You.
Her warmth steadily leaves your frame.
Please.
"Please—"
Tangible, mortal words part from your lips as you lay on the stone floor of the ruins. The room is cold. Your eyes have yet to readjust to the darkness. You lay on your back facing the ceiling— heart racing— as you try and contemplate what you just experienced. The cold. The emptiness on either side of you. You wrap your arms around yourself, desperate for Her embrace again. Mercifully, Ofelia is still inert on the other side of the room.
Mercy.
You play Mercy's words over and over again in your mind. Mercy's words. Mercy's embrace. You want to go back. You stagger to your feet, sweat sticking to the back of your shirt. Though you're drained as if you haven't slept at all, you manage to find your things. You want to be with Her— but you know. You know that you have something terribly important to do. A mission.
Ofelia clears her throat from the opposite side of the room. "Goin' somewhere?"
You nearly fall over in surprise— struggling to get dressed as quickly as possible. "Y-you were awake—"
"I wasn't goin' to go sleepin' after everythin' you went through... yesterday? Hard to tell down here. Gwen came back awhile ago, cleaned your robes proper—" Legitimate concern is pointed at your visible shaking. "Hey. Hey, are you okay?"
So much as attempting to fasten your belt has your head spinning. You feel like collapsing again.
>A] Tell Ofelia about your vision, and that you have to go once Ray is back on his feet. You have something extremely important that you need to do back home. Thank her for her help, but part ways here. Both of these women ARE thieves— you are deeply indebted to them, but you don't wish to have them join you in your holy mission.
>B] Wake up Celegwen, and tell both women about Mercy's message. Ask them if they know what She could have meant by Her Relic. Don't make any promises to travel together further— but after everything they've helped you through, they deserve your honesty.
>C] Wake up Celegwen, and tell them about Mercy's message. All of it. Ask them to join you on your quest. You owe them both your life, and they are both clearly capable fighters. You could use their help, wherever the search may take you.
>D] Write-in.
You nod your head, even though it's highly unlikely that Ofelia can see the gesture in the dark. "Wake up Celegwen. I— I have to tell you both something."
Ofelia seems even more concerned. "Gwen! Hey, hey, Gwen. Get up. Come on."
There's a series of shuffles and scrapes as the halfling tries to jostle her companion awake. "Hmm...? Ofelia, I don't want to do anymore laundry..."
You pace nervously beside the remnants of the campfire, with your hands shaking harder than ever. Shoving the nervous digits into your pockets barely calms them.
While Ofelia jostles and argues with Celegwen to awake, you at least note that the cloying emptiness has mercifully left you. "Get up, goofball. It's Richard! He's up too, come oooon—"
Ray's snoring punctuates their argument. It's an enormous relief to hear him sounding like his usual self again, but you can't relax. By the time Celegwen gets up, you have kneeled beside the fire to stoke it yourself.
Ofelia instantly makes a fuss and shoos you away from the ashes of the old flame. "I'll take care of this— you just sit and talk. What's goin' on?"
"Yes, Father...?" It's as if the elf has had twice the sleep you have, in half the time. She lightly sits beside you and Ofelia. "I was trying to sleep."
It's a struggle to sit still. You settle for nervously wringing your hands. "The Goddess of my Church visited me last night: Mercy."
"I'm— guessin' that isn't normal." Ofelia offers. Both women's stares are scarcely lit by rising embers.
You dart your eyes away. "It's unheard of. This isn't the first time that I have been visited by the Gods— which is unusual enough. But never—" You wrap your arms around yourself. "—but never like this. Never from Her. Mercy— Mercy had a message." You paraphrase— embarrassed by the intimacy of Her message— but determined to preserve its integrity. "Gather Our children. Find one that appears taken by their weakness. Find one that still possesses kindness in their heart. Grant them Our blessing. Grant them peace, through Our symbol. Seek Our Relic— to obtain not the cure to the Catalyst, but the cure— the cure to the pain of so many others. Do this, and go forth with Our blessing."
Her message hangs in the air.
As smoke begins to trail up from the fire, Ofelia breaks the harrowing silence. "That couldn't have been no dream. You've never talked nearly that confidently before Rich— OW—!"
A small shake of Celegwen's wrist works out the sheer force that she punched the halfling with. Both women wince as she continues to interrupt. "I don't profess any knowledge of your Gods, Father— but this sounds extremely important. Thank you for sharing this with us."
Both women exchange a look. They likely want to say something, but hold their tongues.
The passion in your speech softens into its usual, withdrawn tone. "This is the most important message that I could bear. The direct word of the Gods is my life's work. I know that you both have already helped me so much— but I wanted you to know— I want you to know— because I need your help."
Ofelia's jaw drops. "Where is this coming from?! You were quick to leave bef— GWEN WILL YOU STOP HITTING ME—"
The bully gives you a sheepish smile. "This is a lot to ask, Father. I don't know the first thing about your Gods, but it is clear just how much this means to you. I... need to deliberate further on this."
"You don't speak for both of us, Gwen." The rogue actually looks hurt. "...but I don't think I get what you're askin', Richard."
"I— She— we need your help. This Relic— I can't imagine that finding it will be easy. You both spoke before of artifacts within the ruins. Strange, powerful, dangerous—"
Something between concern and offense worms through Celegwen's explanation. "Those were magical artifacts, Father. Again— I do not know of your worship— but Magic is a different thing entirely."
"I— I see."
"What do you suppose this relic is like, anyways?" Mischief flashes in Ofelia's eyes. "Sounds... useful." The threat of retribution in your eyes makes the small woman recoil. "Okay—! Okay. Got it. But what do you suppose it does, really? How do you even think we could find it?"
We?
"I hadn't even asked—"
"Ya' sure did. I don't know about knife ears here, but it wouldn't sit right with me to see ya' wander off again so soon. I'll at least keep my eyes out for ya' until we're out of these ruins." Ofelia elbows the woman beside her a few times, and flashes you a toothy smile. You almost offer her one back. "Really, Richard— you had more than a brush with death back there. This place isn't fit for men. Mankind, I mean. We didn't think you'd pull through, first time we found ya'. Second time I find ya', you're nearly dead too. Maybe a bit worse off than that."
Her tone drops further. "Where do you think you're gonna keep looking for this Relic? Weren't you down here looking for the cure to some Catalyst?"
>A] You are stopping your search for the cure to the Catalyst. Mercy firmly instructed you that the search was not Her will. You are not one to scorn the word of your Goddess. This Relic has the capacity to heal— and you may find a way to contend with demons through Her that you did not think possible before.
>B] You are not abandoning your search for the cure. You are postponing it. It's unthinkable to ignore Her word, but you know that there may come a time in your future when She sees an end to humanity's suffering. You will pursue the relic now, and the Catalyst will be your priority when the time is right.
>C] You are using the search for the relic to further your search to cure the Catalyst. No doubt, you'll find ample information in your quest that could help with both missions. You don't need to abandon what you know is a greater threat to humanity to further Her will. You may be the Father of Mercy— but you're a human, too, and you cannot stand by while your Children suffer.
>D] Write-in.
For a brief moment— reassured by the holy symbol underhand— you dart your eyes up to meet Ofelia's.
"Richard?"
Passion steadies your voice. "I haven't abandoned the search for the cure. You have to understand: I must respect Mercy's will. This Relic— this quest— this is something I have to do." If only how tightly you were grasping onto Mercy's could stop the renewed tremor in your voice, too. "I— I can't forsake humanity, though. I won't forget. I will resume— I will resume the search for a cure to the Catalyst when the time is right. When She wills it."
Celegwen finally responds. "This doesn't sit right with me, Father."
Lifting your gaze, you can't restrain your snap in reply. "You just said that you don't— that you don't know the first thing about the Gods."
How is that any way to respond to a mission from Mercy— to the most divine calling that a man could ask for?
More upset with yourself for speaking out of turn than with the elf, you keep your gaze down.
Show some restraint.
"I don't." Celegwen insists, "but this doesn't sound like it's your choice at all. It's not right."
"You don't understand."
A soft blow from Ofelia deters the elf's reply. "She has a point though, Richard. You seem, well— eager to hurt yourself pretty bad to help these Gods of yours. It's been buggin' me for awhile, too. Might not have been my business but, yeah. I'm makin' it my business."
The scars littering your hands and face are betraying you. You are not protesting. You need to explain. "I want this. I don't have to do this because Mercy wills it. I have to do this because I will it. This is my life. My choice."
A heavy silence falls over the room— save for Ray's steady snoring. Your hands ache from holding Mercy's symbol so tightly, but the sensation is comforting. The heat radiating off of the metal is an enormous comfort in the face of such scrutiny. Celegwen breaks the silence just when it's become unbearable. She clears her throat. You look up to see that she's holding a small, dark, twinkling mass out to you.
"What's this?"
"It's a promise."
The starlight within the small object coalesces before your vision and reflects off of your eyes as they widen. The elf's light and accented voice takes on newfound sadness. "I want to help you, Father. Ofelia has someone to go home to— but I do not. Judging by the way that you treat yourself, I suspect that you do not, either."
No matter how much her words may sting, she's right. "You understand more than you let on."
"It's alright. Perhaps we could take the time to understand each other better. I would like to travel with you, if you would have me. Perhaps we can find this Relic— or even your cure. I'm sure that there is much knowledge to be gained from your journey, even if we cannot."
Her hands are so much steadier than yours. An entire night's sky is suspended within her palms. The thought of anyone else holding such a beautiful and delicate object is unthinkable. It's almost as if it's suspended in Time. It raises the question once more about how different Magic and the Gods can be, but Celegwen interrupts your thoughts. "Hold out your hands."
You hesitate.
"It's not a curse, I promise."
Stiff and trembling, you part your hands from your holy symbol. The first attempt to steady them is met with Celegwen gently taking hold of your wrist. You tense, with every hair standing on end at the light touch. "It's alright." She delicately lays the starlight in the palm of your hand before you can pull away. Forcing yourself to relax— and to not drop the precious item— is met with sparks and the impression of words upon your skin.
Your eyes widen in amazement as the object flickers, and fades completely from view.
Ofelia lets out a groan. "That was so much cooler than when you promised to help me out, Gwen. What gives?"
"You didn't have a mission from a Goddess, Ofelia."
"I know, but aaauuuugh, cool it, won't ya'? Gonna' give the poor guy the wrong idea—"
You discreetly wipe off your hands off onto the side of your pant legs as the women bicker.
"So. Richard." Ofelia moves to make breakfast. "You conveniently ignored my other question: Where on earth do you think we could start searching?"
>A] The ruins. Ofelia and Celegwen have found Magical artifacts through their expeditions, but that doesn't rule out something holier. You never did make it to that library, but you're reluctant. The demon you contended with down here was terrible, and they said that what lies beyond is even worse. Perhaps you all will be stronger together?
>B] The Church of Mercy. There are many books back home that you've never been able to read— or even taken the time to. Where better place to begin searching for information on a holy Relic than in Her greatest Church? If the Church of Mercy itself doesn't turn up anything, you have resources. You can call for aid. You want to go home.
>C] Write-in.
You want to see the surface again, and miss the Church of Mercy— your home. You've even said as much, but you can't give up now. Not when you've already come this far.
Is the nonstop tremor in my hands from how much blood I lost yesterday? Or is it the prospect of facing down demons greater than the ones I have already lost to?
Your voice is barely above a whisper as you respond. "Here in the ruins— you both have found magical artifacts— but that doesn't rule out the Relic. You both— you both never did explore that library... did you?"
Both cartographers look remarkably concerned. Ofelia continues gathering her cooking supplies as she says, "we didn't want to risk it. There's a lot of crazies down there. But, well, I've been lookin' for somethin' of a cure myself, y'know?" She reluctantly admits, "my Pa's been sick for a long time. Can't take any unnecessary risks, right? He wouldn't be happy with me if he even knew I was down here to begin with."
Your desire to heal overwhelms the urge to shy away. "Do you know what he's suffering from?"
The halfling stops her deft work chopping vegetables and boiling water to look up at you. "Something dark. My Pa isn't on the best terms with some of the family's customers. He got his hands a little too dirty, if you take my meaning. Upset the wrong kinds of people." She turns her attention back down to the stew pot, minding her hands and utensils as she gently stirs the mixture. "He was getting too old for the business. He's stubborn. Wouldn't let me help him outright. This is the best I can do. Here— taste this—"
You stare awkwardly at the outstretched spoon in front of you, and try to politely refuse. The halfling makes an exaggerated sigh, and goes back to cooking. There's a distinct slouch in her shoulders. Wanting to lift her Spirit, a strange thought occurs to you.
"'The cure to the pain of so many others.' Do you think that the Relic...?"
Her eager eyes widen. "Now there's an idea! Richard— do you think...?"
Celegwen's methodically answers Ofelia for you. "We haven't ventured back to the library, or properly inspected any of its contents. It's placement is highly unusual. It would surely be a good place to start looking."
You can almost feel the weight coming off of your shoulders as the two women eagerly rehash the route they last took to the library. As the smell of Ofelia's cooking wafts through the cold, you hear something... stirring. It's heavy, strong, and roused out of a deep slumber...
"Ray?!"
Your boy is dazed, but as soon as your eyes meet, he gets himself up and practically tackles you to the floor. He licks at your face as if he hasn't seen you in years. You struggle to remain upright, with all the life coming back into your voice for the first time in days. "Ray— Ray, it's alright! Good boy. Who's a good boy? You put up a good fight, didn't you? Come here—"
Long arms wrap around your dog, and hug him as he refuses to calm down. You can feel the knotted scars on either side of his torso. They're dried, and healed. Your boy is going to have some trouble with exerting himself in the days to come. You make a firm motion for him to sit. He obliges, but wags his tail furiously.
"Good boy. Stay. Take it easy, Ray."
Ofelia chuckles. "He must have smelled the food, huh? Hey, Gwen— this is probably gonna attract some trouble. You mind doin' the thing?"
Rising and picking up her staff, Celegwen makes an elaborate gesture with her free hand. The scent of the stew completely evaporates.
The chef deflates ever-so-slightly. "There's no way to do that without ruinin' the meal, huh?"
"Yes, but it would be a waste. I can only do so much, Ofelia. You know this."
With a groan, Ofelia sets about serving the meal. As you can't help but hug Ray again, you notice that he's still got some blood on him. "I— I need to clean him up." Your speech is a little distorted as your boy continues licking at your face. "Can we have some more water, Ofelia?"
Some spare rags and a spare flask are shoved at you. You make quick work of wiping down the remaining blood and viscera on Ray. Extra time is spent making sure that his wound is clean and dry. He nervously whines as Ofelia starts gathering dishes.
A piping hot and odorless bowl is thrust into your hands the moment that you're done attending to your dog. You can't even think about food, let alone entertaining the look that Ofelia is giving you.
"We're not goin' anywhere until you eat, Richard. Don't try and pawn it off on him, either." A gesture is made with her fingers, to her eyes, and back to you a few times. "Eagle-eye is watchin' you."
>A] Try to remind Ofelia that it's extremely difficult for you to eat. It's safe to say that these women aren't going to balk at anything else you can tell them. Maybe the story of your prayer to Agriculture will distract her enough to slip the meal to Ray.
>B] Force yourself to eat something just to appease the halfling, and give the rest to your dog. It's going to hurt, but you do need to eat eventually.
>C] Try your best to do as she says, and suffer through the pain. You probably won't be able to keep the meal down, but better to try taking care of yourself than to starve.
>D] Write-in.
Nervously looking at the food, you caution Ofelia, "we might be here awhile."
She shrugs. "You think I care? Just eat. You need it."
Wincing, you try to defend yourself. "I've tried explaining to you before—"
She isn't paying any attention, serves a dish to Celegwen, and resumes staring at you intently.
Surely the pain can be made into something tolerable. You try breaking the stew into small pieces, and eat as slowly as possible. It's like swallowing glass or forcing down very small needles. Immediate and intense. A flask of wine is shoved at you from the visibly upset halfling by your side. Though you can't taste the liquor, it makes the rest easier to choke down. Vaguely trying to recall the last time you ate or drank anything at all doesn't help matters.
"It wasn't always like this," you try to offer.
"It's horseshit is what it is." She's pouting.
Celegwen at least is respecting your space. She seems distracted by something.
You suffer through one more bite and have to stop. It's as if your throat is closing. Coughing and making every attempt to drink, you splutter through a few more words. "It had to be done." No one minds waiting for you to clear your throat from the sensation of pins sticking along the entire length of it. "There was a famine. Even as a kid, there was— there was something wrong with the crops. My parents, they— they suspected that the last King was to blame. He was Vengeful. Years of hunger—" Another coughing fit cuts you short.
Ofelia's frustration as she refills your wine borders on anger. "I thought Corcaea was well off. You know? The land? All things considered."
"It is now. I worked with the Mother of Agriculture for a time..." You're struggling to speak. "She didn't mind. I knew my way around a farm—" You slide the bowl away from yourself, unable to look at it. "Ray." A single point at the dish. He eagerly inhales the remainder of the stew.
You got through less than half of it— but that's better than usual, and at least you got some nutrition. "Mother Bethaea was... terribly distraught. She blamed herself for the famine."
After several more minutes of coughing, you can bring yourself to finish. "She took her life. Before— before I could properly help."
Though your companions look at you with alarm, they don't even comment on you pawning off the rest of your meal. "I— I suspected that it wouldn't work. Asking so much of the Goddess. Agriculture listened, though. She blessed the fields. The orchards." You clear your throat.
The pain's relaxed a great deal. Just getting food out of your sight is usually good enough. You finish the story with a murmur— not knowing what else to say. "The Gods are Merciful."
Both women stare at you in bewilderment. Ofelia in particular seems too conflicted to articulate any given emotion.
You keep your eyes down, shying away from their stares until Celegwen finally speaks up. You can't hear anything other than the deep concern all throughout her tone. "The alarm. Something is coming. Father— get up."
Demons (Seen Thus Far)
The following demons listed are sorted by the deity they are associated with, followed by order of appearance.
Demons of Agriculture
Archdemon Yech the Disgusted (Catalyst of Generosity. Known in life as Eric Yarbury. Resides within the ruins of Ostedholm: The City of Darkness. Awaiting your return.)
Deceased. Catalyst of Hunger. Worked under the dominion of a demon of Mercy, under control of Adrian Morris.
Demons of Dream
Menniath – Major Demon (Deceased. Possible relation to Father Wilhelm.)
Demons of Flesh
Remigius – Incubus/Succubus (Shape-changer, military commander, and entertainer. Suspected Catalyst of Desire. Resides within the ruins of Ostedholm: The City of Darkness.)
Deceased. Catalyst of Fear.
Deceased. Assaulted the courtyard of the Church of Flesh. Killed through an alliance of Father Friedrich, Father Wilhelm, and Father Anscham.
Demons of Mercy
Archdemon Idonea (Deceased. Possessed the Relic of Mercy. Fallen Mother of the Church of Mercy.)
Aurelius, Freya, Philomene, Delara and Esme – Minor Demons (Daughters of Archdemon Idonea. Resides within the ruins of Ostedholm: The City of Darkness.)
Demon of Moths (Deceased. Manipulated a demon of Agriculture while under the control of Adrian Morris.)
Demon of Tenebrosity (Deceased. Under control of the Demon of Illumination.)
Demon of Illumination (Deceased. Communicated briefly with Mercy before committing suicide.)
Demons of Spirit
Beltoro (Catalyst of Knowledge. A dear friend, who bestowed several hundred years of knowledge on you through a shared mental connection. Resides within the ruins of Ostedholm: The City of Darkness.)
Aldreda (Catalyst of Thread. Intensely suicidal. Resides within your dungeons, awaiting your return.)
Demons of Storm
Mondost – Greater Demon (Deceased. Sorcerer, creator of the cinders of the occult.)
Deceased. Fought and restrained on the steps of the royal palace. Ultimately put to rest with the aid of the royal guard.
Demons of Time
Archdemon Arkthros (Catalyst of Grief. Resides within the ruins below the holy capital city of Calunoth. Allied with King Magnus. Aware of your alliance with Archdemon Yech. You last parted ways on neutral terms.)
Demons of Vengeance
Multiple Deities
The Demon of Agony (Deceased. Burial site and memorial located beneath the Church of Mercy.)
Praxilyos (Catalyst of Scintillation. Resides within your dungeons, awaiting your return.)
The Demon of Interpretation (Catalyst of Interpretation. Resided within your dungeons. Domain has since been destroyed as the demon transformed into an entity known as "Interpretation". See entry on Adwin Sebastian Anscham in the Master Character Reference for more information.)
Anomalies/Unknown
Malimos "The Master of Webs" (Resides within the ruins of Ostedholm: The City of Darkness.)
Malimos' Children – Minor Demons (Bell Spiders. Resides within the ruins of Ostedholm: The City of Darkness.)
Offala – Minor Demon (Deceased centipede demon. Allied with Warchief Orgoth.)
Nefret – Lesser Demon (Demon of Mouths. Resides within the ruins of Ostedholm: The City of Darkness.)
Tsilorm – Greater (Deceased. Death shroud demon.)
Nehliht – Minor Demon (Deceased. Carrion beetle demon.)
Doppelganger
Deceased. Collective demons comprised of members from the cult of Inertia. No association with any of the Gods. Apparently no upward bound of how many individuals it can absorb. Up to fifty unique bodies seen so far within one demon of this nature. One was fought in a cultist hideout on the outskirts of Eadric, now is compacted into a 5'x5'x5' cube flooded with pine resin. The other was fought in the river district of Eadric, and was evaporated.
In one swift motion, Ofelia covers the dishes, gets to her feet, produces a dagger from (seemingly) thin air, and starts stalking behind Celegwen. Her voice drops to a hiss, while slicking her blade with an extremely foul looking substance. "What is it?"
"Something cold." The elf whispers to you, "I have a perimeter set, but it was trapped far later than usual. Something is wrong."
Dipping low to the ground, Ray growls and sticks his nose at a passage near the end of the room. One that leads deeper into the ruins.
"Stay down, boy."
Despite the roar of the fire, cold seeps into the room. Ofelia hides her dagger, and swiftly throws more kindling into the blaze. "Stay near the flame."
Your backpack, shield and mace are sitting on the opposite end of the room, where your robes were hanging to dry. Your holy symbol is still warm to the touch, and resting soundly around your neck. It's the only source of heat on your entire body. Celegwen seems unfazed by everyone's breath clouding into the air, but Ofelia begins to shiver.
Crystals of ice gather around the edges of the furthest passage.
Something is coming.
>A] Pray to Mercy preemptively to protect you all. Ask for Her warmth. You aren't going to fight in your current state. You'll guide your new allies as best as you're able.
>B] Pray to Spirit to seek out the true form of whatever it is that's approaching. You won't sit idly by after everything you've been through.
>C] Wait, and see what you're contending with before making any moves. Put your back to the flame, and follow Celegwen's and Ofelia's lead.
>D] Write-in.
The entire stone corridor ahead is rapidly eclipsed by ice. Your body stiffens. It hurts to even blink, thanks to how intensely the cold has gathered. Celegwen remains utterly silent. Ofelia slips into the shadows.
As the doorway becomes frozen over, and plumes of moisture billow into the room, you shiver. Clutching onto your holy symbol grants no respite from the trembling in your hands, but its warmth radiates through more than your hold. You are far from alone. Mercy is listening.
There's no need for speech between you and your Goddess. Bowing your head, you say just one word.
"Mercy."
A flash of heat swells from Her symbol. The intensity of Her gift knocks you off your feet. You nearly stagger into the flame at your back, and take a knee. "Thank you."
Reeling with shock, you dare to part your hands. Ray has remained dutifully by your side. One palm is placed to the ice on his coat, and spreads the heat from your fingertips throughout all of his body. He offers you a grateful glance, while you try to look for Ofelia. She's even smaller than your dog, and will freeze far faster.
Panic seizes you. She's nowhere to be found, and icicles are forming from the perpetual dew on Celegwen's hair. The sorceress has remained deathly silent, but you catch that her lips are barely moving. An incantation.
At the furthest corner of the room, a collection of stars forms and shapes around the shadow. It must be a spell for heat, as a similar enchantment briefly falls over Celegwen as well. You don't dare to make a sound. They're too distracted to notice what's creeping along the nearest wall, but you catch it instantly.
It's as if the inscriptions embedded into the walls of the ruins are dripping off. Ice and crystallized paint flecks into the air. All light and heat that surrounds the space is steadily being pulled into the emerging shape of a man's painted face.
Through a Goddess, you speak as quietly as you can. "There." Celegwen whips her head over to the shadow. "Don't get too close."
You take a step backwards towards the flame. It goes completely out.
Darkness drenches the room. A voice creeps along the stone. Each syllable drips and gathers into the edges of your mind. It's worse than any poison. The major demon plies itself around Mercy's warmth, and siphons all that it can. "Aaaaah, sssssso, you've found yoursssself falsssse hope. A lie..."
Both hands clutch onto your holy symbol. On shaking legs, you command Celegwen and Ray— praying that Ofelia hasn't strayed off too far. "Stay close—"
"You've sssssurrounded yourself with heathenssss and thievessss, Fatherrr."
The absolute absence of light has you twist around in an attempt to determine the demon's location. At the same moment you move, Celegwen's voice rings out. Her speech is indecipherable, while a ball of heat and starlight bursts out from her position. For an instant, a flare of light illuminates the entire chamber. The blast nearly drops the elf backwards, as she braces, and fires the explosive buildup of energy straight at her enemy. She screams.
The blast slams into a dripping, floating, peeling monstrosity just a few feet away. The demon is more humanoid than any you have witnessed before. Rancid fog and gathering mist drifts up from an icy form in the shape of a man— who absorbs the entire spell that's fired his way.
The explosion disappears as quickly as it was produced, and the demon laughs insanely. "Generousss. Ssstupid." Darkness eclipses your sight once more. "Do you wisssssh to give me more of yoursssself, woman...?"
A horrific scream punctuates the night. Your heart leaps to your throat.
>A] This is a major demon. They don't get much badder than this. Try to use Mercy's blessing to quell the demon's emotions. Bless it with restraint. Bless it with Mercy. You've done it before on hundreds of people at once. You can possibly do it again on a single demon.
>B] Try to talk to the major demon. Force might not be an option here, and lives are on the line. What could this demon want with me? How does he know anything about me? Are these assumptions? Is this a game to him?
>C] Command Ofelia, Ray and Celegwen to attack the demon while you guard all of them. Mercy would not permit you to use Her gift to harm another— but you certainly can use Her gift to protect another.
>D] Shield Celegwen with Mercy's blessing. Pour everything you have into protecting her from this monster. Trust in your companions to fight back while you help who's most in need.
>E] Write-in.
The gold and heat underhand radiates deeper than flesh and bone. Mercy pours into you, as you pour yourself into Her. She wants to work through you. You will protect your friends.
You will show Mercy.
Ray whines horribly, and backs further away despite your commands. Celegwen's screams are unbearable. You skirt around her precariously suspended form, through mist and fog. She's desperately trying to get a hold on her staff, but it has been cast far aside on the floor. The major demon is paying her no mind, despite exerting utter dominance over her form. You cannot feel her warmth. With each step, radiance melts the frost upon the floor. You cannot see her eyes. Golden light sears from your vision.
Mercy grants you illumination. Darkness cannot eclipse Her blessing. You clearly see Ofelia backed against a far wall, who is intentionally staying her hand. Celegwen's blessing will hold.
Your friends should not have to endure for long. You press forward fearlessly, and part your hands before a monster. Reaching out with divinity, you manifest a glow with the intensity of the sun. The entire chamber flares with light, with heat, and the voice of a Goddess. You speak everywhere. You are everywhere. She wills the blessing of restraint, and control, and the desire to save through the tension in your fingers, and all the will in your heart.
"Your cruelty and your malice is a blemish upon Her light. She sees your violence. She sees your sin. In Her infinite forgiveness, Mercy sees all— and in ultimate generosity— asks NOT for your death! Her vessel sees you, and wills you to stay your hand."
Your hands twist, and tense, with the gathering solar control underhand. "You will stand down." Complete devotion, and memories of your first sermon flit across your memory. You try to think back, and close your eyes. "You will not strike."
Abject worship of Her tenets. The desire to save. The desire to heal. The need to stop all carnage.
Encompassed in Her light, all the metal in your eyes opens wide. "You will find Mercy in your heart."
The major demon reaches back. It's trying to take. The cold twists and writhes and seeps deeply, and deeper still, down into the depths of your soul. The two of you lock hearts, as he contends with Her blessing.
A discordant and nightmarish break rips your voice from the Goddess.
"DON'T YOU TOUCH HER—!""You will find Mercy in your heart."
Hideous cackling escapes from the major demon, as he takes in as much light and heat as he can stand. Cracks and blisters of shadow splinter the ice of his body. Ofelia collapses in the corner of the room, in a desperate bid to stagger out, and strike the creature down where he stands. An unseen dagger remains suspended in mid-air. Tendrils of ice and paint had instantly streaked up to catch the item. It fractures under the intensity of the cold, and breaks into mist and frost.
Sparks of divine retribution flare from your sight. Tension and warmth is willed into the inert forms of your allies. They're so cold. Celegwen has yet to cease screaming. She's unbelievably resilient, but even seconds under this monster's hands may be too much time.
You raise your hands with open palms, towards an unseen sky. Beyond demons. Beyond the ruins. You grasp the heat coursing through all of your body, and raise Her higher still.
"You will stay your hand."
Laughter pulls at the innermost reaches of your mind, with a pull, and a tug. It's worse than blood behind your eyes. It's worse than having to remember.
This demon wants to make you forget.
Something small slips away. An old melody. Your favorite bookmark. The right pressure with which to hold your calligraphy pen.
Something more. The taste of your mother's cooking. The smell of barley. The sounds of the Morinburn river.
One by one, the strands of your history begin to unravel. You scream in absolute agony— and remain standing. Fighting. Willing yourself onto this monster.
One outstretched hand is clenched into a fist. Weakness and strength ebbs and flows into one another, from your speech, to your body, to your command. "You will show restraint. You will show Mercy."
A crack forms in the cold. It's so small, it's almost imperceptible. A light in his darkness. A command that gets through. It wrestles with the deepest fibers of your soul, as the major demon does show restraint.
He plucks and pulls away at your mind, yet has the grace and Mercy to leave something important behind.
>What could be so important to you, that even a major demon would grant you Mercy?
>What could you hold so dear?
>(Write-in what you choose to keep.)
The demon wants to leave something behind that will hurt you. Something that has haunted you for many years.
Father Edmund. His screams echo through your mind. Ice seeps into it. The demon toys with the surface of your predecessor's memory. He creeps and crawls— laughing hideously as Celegwen's screams grow ever weaker. You're losing her.
The demon's voice is as shrill and cold as its touch. Its chill pierces through your mind as he speaks. "Anotherrrrr faillllluurreeee, Fatheerrrrr?"
Strain and the void that is the heart of its creature threatens to slip from your hands. You contort your fingers, wresting its shadow away. Divinity flares from the effort from your eyes, the sweat that can drip freely from the heat on your brow, and the struggle that it is to speak.
"No. Father Edmund died so that others may live. He refused for me to save him. That one... last... time..."
The field of battle. The last major demon that you fought— together. He sacrificed himself, but not before ensuring that you were respected. He gave you his title. It remains beyond your comprehension.
"Foooliissshhhh."
"Wise. He saw to it that I would go on to lead the Church of Mercy after his passing. I have mourned the loss of my mentor— but I would never wish to forget him. His death has brought us together, demon. I will see to it that his wishes are respected. I will see to it that our meeting today is NOT in vain."
Ice threatens to creep across your skin. Steam rises, as it instantly evaporates from the sun stirring beneath your skin. The monster digs deeper, and deeper still. He's looking for anything to threaten you with. To twist the knife.
Though you may have nearly forgotten of the good in humanity, you will NOT forget. Not of being pushed into the dirt. Not of words whispered behind your back. Not of other people trying to make you leave.
You remember all of the people who wanted you to stay.
The demon recoils. Every attempt is made at domination.
You show it a destitute little girl, who would break what little bread she had to feed the neighborhood strays.
The chill of the season of Worship. Ice creeping onto the windows of the Church of Mercy, and all the warmth that melted through the frost. Old blankets by the fire. A single beam of light cutting through the blue, first thing in the morning.
Not the smell of your mother's cooking, but all the love that went into it. Her arms around you. Reassuring you. Always loving you.
The woman who found you in the streets of Anson, who dragged you out from the rain. She kept you safe, until you could be taken home.
The things that have kept all-too-familiar pain away. Not just the reasons you swore yourself to Mercy— but all that She represents.
The demon writhes in agony. You smile slightly at it. You can't help yourself.
"I'll killl yourrrr frienddssssss! I'll ttaaaaake everythiiiiiing you hooold deaaarrrr—!"
Ofelia. Celegwen.
The degree of warmth pouring from your hands and soul cannot be contained. Exerting domination over frost and chill permits you to hold the demon in place with one hand. With the other, you instill more light into both of your allies. Ofelia's form stirs— and Celegwen's screams mercifully stop.
Tenderness wraps around your speech, and dissolves the echo of the major demon's shrieks. "I will never forget their kindness."
The major demon's screams redouble. He plunges into your mind, trying to take anything that he can.
You show it a day before you became a priest. Before you knew Mercy's light. When all you had were the scars upon your hands, and the desire to help. You show the demon the first person you felt you ever truly saved: a young boy, trapped and afraid. He called for help where no one listened. You saved him from a collapsed barn, out on the fringes of Eadric's countryside. You listened to the runaway's story. You showed him Mercy without ever needing to invoke Her name— and he worshiped you. Not the Goddess. Though you never saw him again, you will never forget the look on his face when he saw you were there to rescue him.
The demon tries to pull away. To run. Celegwen collapses to the floor, as its hold on her melts away. She slips from his grasp, as he tries to slip from your mind.
You pull him in close, with a firm embrace. You take the demon into one, final blessing.
You take the demon to a quiet hill, overlooking the Morinburn river. The trickle of water, and the sound of a lazy bend floods back into your senses. The demon completely loses its hold on you— and you keep it there. There, with the scent of barley, and apples, drifting over the bend in a broad stream. No one was there with you, save for a few fishermen far down the river— and your neighbors, tending to the orchards beyond your sight.
You did not need the Gods. You did not need Mercy. You didn't need to remember, or forget.
You simply rested, and quietly enjoyed the afternoon beneath an apple tree.
Soft dripping registers on the borders of your mind. You come back to the present— and witness the major demon melting into a collection of ice water and paint before you. It does not slip away. A stalemate is reached. The demon has shown you Mercy, and you have done the same unto it.
Celegwen's screams have stopped. She's no longer in the demon's grasp. It's alive— and its attention is bent on you. All of its malice. All of its cruelty. All of the power that remains in it to indefinitely keep a hold on you, and only you.
>A] Question the demon while you have its attention. Give Ofelia time to get up and strike it down. Ask it anything you can that will lead you to the Relic, and keep its focus on you.
>B] Question the demon about itself. You've only encountered a major demon once before— and your mission from the Church was to investigate the ruins. See what you can learn about this creature, and buy Ofelia time to kill it while it's entirely distracted.
>C] Keep the demon in your sights, but check on Celegwen. She was under this major demon's control for far longer than you're comfortable with. You'd need more of your focus to heal her, but you at least want to see her condition. If it threatens her again, inflict more memories on it.
>D] Write-in.
With the demon's focus so firmly fixed on you, you dare to risk reaching out to your companions. You haven't forgotten about Ray, or Ofelia— and you know that their corporeal forms will have enormous difficulty affecting such a spectral demon. Its body is almost entirely liquid. As the creature drips in and out of existence, frost undulates on the floor in and around it. Every lance of frost is met with your heat. Every cloying, icy pull is held at bay. You must protect them.
The light of Mercy, and your desire to shield your allies permits you to reach out in the all-consuming darkness.
Ray is cowering in the furthest reaches of the room, backed up against one of the frozen doors. He's terribly frightened, but dutifully refuses to run. You will not force your boy to fight something he could never keep down. He knows that you will keep your best friend safe.
Ofelia's form stalks ever closer— waiting for an opportune time to strike. She's terribly cold. You worry for her, and reach out— knowing that Celegwen is in an infinitely worse condition.
She's alive. Celegwen has managed to lay down, and has placed herself into a deep trance. Her mind has wandered somewhere that neither you nor Mercy can reach. You're a masterful healer of humans— but possess no experience with elves. Mercy grants you with enough warmth to fill her empty form, but it's impossible to gauge the full extent of her condition from where you stand.
Keeping the demon in its place consumes your thoughts, your mind, your body, and your soul. Each attempt to reach out to your allies is met with its frigid pull. Each attempt to return Celegwen's kindness is clutched onto, from the edges of your light, to the gold consuming your vision.
You have to take your eyes off from the sorceress' inert form, and bear down on the demon. Your heart is torn. You have lost so much, and have been hurt so many times. Killing this creature where it stands. Not losing the things that are dear to you. Showing it Mercy. Remembering the goodness in the world.
You will not forget.
The demon locks hands with you, as the distance between you completely closes. It cackles, and clutches its spirit within your own. Fury and a solar flare bursts from your eyes, as you war with its vice. Searching. Seeking.
You show it Celegwen's healing. Her sacrifice. Her kindness. Mercy cracks and fractures through palpable breaks in your body, and you keep yourself together. You are bound by memory, and keep yourself grounded for your friends.
A small form stalks ever closer. It's a marvel how a halfling could recover so quickly. Her small, terribly cold frame is poised for death. There is no fear in her heart. Ofelia is utterly devoid of Mercy. Eager, and willing to kill something so threatening.
Neither of you have to exchange a single word. She's ready to strike.
>A] Aid her. Keep the major demon distracted while she tries to kill it. She was able to subdue the greater demon that nearly killed you. She certainly has the competence to put this one down, too. Trust in her.
>B] Stop Ofelia from striking. Don't let her risk getting hurt. Imbue her with Mercy. Try again to force the demon to stand down. Mercy's message was to "grant them peace, through Our symbol." Use Her symbol.
>C] Write-in.
A choir of judgement and Mercy echoes through your voices. "We will not forget. Thank you for showing us what we needed to see."
In a desperate, final bid for control, the demon bends its will. Twisting crystals of ice and a toxic flurry of paint entangles around all of your body. A vortex of darkness swirls with paint, and splatters in streaks from the ceiling to the floor. Your light pierces it. You stay your hand. Both hands wrap around your holy symbol. You are Merciful.
Ofelia is not. In her terrible silence, the killer sneaks up behind her prey. An unseen darkness is shrouded beneath her cloak. The only thing in your possessions that would escape the light of a Goddess.
Your grip tightens, in prayer to the Mother for protection.
Tossing her cloak aside, Ofelia reveals the cinders of the occult. In a split second, the demon realizes her ploy. Spikes of paint and ice are launched at her form— and she has already thrown the bundle. The cloth protects the dark Magic from impact for only a moment.
Both vials shatter on impact. The major demon is instantly consumed into a warp of deep space. The entirety of its ethereal form is expanded, and shredded into a blue flame that rivals its own ice.
A nightmarish and unearthly scream drips and sticks to the inside of your mind. In its death throes, the demon reaches out one final time. Tendrils of darkness and sin wrap around the writhing mass, and lash out towards you. Wanting for something precious. Something pure.
You remind it of your friends, and step closer to the flame. Both hands reach forth, and offer Mercy.
Mercy in death. The only cure.
Screams echo all around. In its final moments, the major demon freezes the walls. It freezes the floor. It pulls and drains all the light and life out of the room that it can muster. The flames around its convulsing form continue to rise, and fear pierces your heart like a knife as you think to your friends.
Mercy is protecting you, but you are not alone. "Ray!"
He bounds over to your side, fearlessly slipping over ice and stone on his way to you. You envelop him in Mercy's blessing, and guide him to a stop. Though Ofelia is on the brink of collapse, and Celegwen remains unconscious on the floor, the demon continues to writhe in agony. His frost and flame thrashes against the entire room.
You reach both hands out, and will restraint into the creature with every fiber of your soul. There's a crack, and a tear, and a desperate cry threatens to spill from your lips from the sheer force of compacting the monstrosity back in onto itself.
Ofelia manages to scream at you through the chaos. "RICHARD!! We have to go! Leave it!"
You won't be able to keep it down for more than a few moments. Smoke is rising fast.
Celegwen's inert form catches on the corner of your eye. Mercy is keeping you safe— but your Flesh is weary. It's unlikely that you could carry her.
>A] Continue your prayer to Mercy. Protect Ray with everything you have, and keep the major demon down as long as you can. See if you can lift Celegwen with your frail form, and tell Ofelia to lead you somewhere safer. You got terribly lost following her here, and you don't want to lead anyone into more danger.
>B] Command Ray to run ahead and find somewhere safe. Pray to Flesh to grant you strength, to take Celegwen and Ofelia out of this place as fast as you're able. Both women are in no condition to run, but they don't need to be. You'll protect them wherever you go.
>C] Plunge deeper into the ruins, into the poison and the frost. Maintain your prayer to Mercy, and drag Celegwen if you have to away from this place. Go down the corridor that the demon came through. You have wasted enough time in this place. You have your mission, and you have the Goddess. You are not afraid.
>D] Write-in.
The instant you motion to shield your friends, toxic smoke and fumes escape from the demon's charring body. Ray whines behind you, with complete trust that you will protect him.
A soft, and loving tone reaches out to your boy. You want to protect him so badly. "Ray. Go. Find safety."
A bork and a whine in protest. He hesitates, and only inches away from your side. The flurry of paint and cold is terrible.
With every ounce of strength remaining in you, you bring your arms together. You contain the paint, the ice, the flurry, destroy the ice blocking the exits, and bellow to your dog. "GO!"
He bounds out of sight, and tears across the ruins.
Ofelia is desperately trying to lift Celegwen. She's completely incapable of budging her. Sweat sticks to the back of your robes from the absolute limit you're pushed to, but you manage to whip your head around to her. "GO!"
No hesitation or protests reply. She staggers— stiff from the cold— and heads after Ray.
You can't wait for her to get to safety. Poison is consuming you. It leeches into your skin, burns your nose, sticks to the back of your mouth, and worms its way into your lungs. You don't have time to slide the demon's last breath out from its lips.
Tenderly whispering your gratitude to Mercy, you release Her from your form.
There is a deep need. A need for your tortured skin, your poisoned lungs, and your thin frame. You choke through the fumes, and the flames licking all around. Rapid, terrified, and weak speech is what you need, as in moments you will die from this smoke and ice.
"Flesh of my flesh, take this poison from my lungs!" You stumble to Celegwen's body, and drape her unconscious form over your shoulders. "This cold from my bones! This pain from my body!" Lifting with your legs, struggling with everything you have to get to your feet, you cry out. "Take my weakness, and grant me your strength!"
Smoke billows from your Flesh. A familiar burn takes a deep breath into the toxic fumes, and all of the ice seeping into you. There's the desire to work. To push yourself. Celegwen's form is as light as a feather, and you bolt with her for the passage that Ray exited from. You even take a moment to sweep Celegwen's staff, your robes, and the backpack, mace, and shield off from the floor. The equipment is effortlessly tossed over your shoulder— and you run.
Peels of flame and smoke burst from the corridor at your back. The woman that you carry clings onto the world, and finds a hold on her gnarled staff while you sprint.
Slick stone and ice flies past you in streaks of red and blue. Candlelight comes back into view, as flurries cling to the walls and your skin. You leave them behind, as narrow and branching pathways emerge one after the next.
The honeycombed walls— hollow as they are— offer blessed acoustics so far underground. Crackling cinders are at your back. The drip of a demon melts, and sinks into oblivion. Celegwen's ragged breathing beside your ear. Barking.
Good boy.
There must be trouble. You peel down one of the elevated paths nearby, as it picks up rapidly. It's a marvel how keen your dog's nose is— he picked up fairer air even through this labyrinth.
Something must be wrong, as Ray abruptly stops barking. You keep Celegwen clutched tighter still— and are all the more relieved for it.
At the top of the incline, you have to abruptly skid to a stop. "Ray! Ofelia!"
The halfling draws her cloak in tightly, and cries out as you narrowly skid past her. She spins around— dagger drawn, eyes wide, breathing hard— but immediately recognizes you. "Richard?! What the— how—?"
You'd like to respond, but your words are taken from your lips. You screech to a stop at the peak of a colossal network of corridors. They are covered in bloody, red spiderwebs. From the pitted, cavernous floor— to the monstrously high, cavernous ceiling— are the same strands you have seen once before. Spiders upon spiders crouch before you. There must be at least thirty of them. They have normal appendages and mandibles, but they are monstrously over sized— at least two feet across at the smallest. Their coloration is dark, dripping with blood, and partially hidden. Each one of their bodies is shaped like a bell, in a grotesque mockery of the church bells you're so fond of.
You recoil, and whisper to your dog. He's growling at the monsters with vicious abandon. "Good boy."
Out of breath, Ofelia does her best to whisper to you. "Richard— oh, fuck. You got Gwen. Good. Hey— hey. They haven't tried attackin' us."
Deep, resonant devotion drops even further as Flesh works through you. As severely as you want to work, the spiders make no motion to even antagonize you. "He— he kept his word."
Chapter 13: Soil and Whiskey "Consume my heart away; sick with desire."
He has his own alarm system...
The bells around each spider's form twinkle from the slightest movement. You eye them with hesitation. "He swore that he would command his demons to— to not attack me or Ray. I can't believe it."
>A] Ask the demons to step aside so that you all may exit. You can't tell if they're sane enough to listen to you— let alone if they'll respect a command from you— but it's worth a shot. You'd rather not deal with fighting 30 demons when you've got an unconscious woman on your back.
>B] Try to send one of them— or all of them— as a messenger to Malimos. They might not listen to you, but they'll listen to him. Maybe you can ask the Master of Webs for another favor. He did say that he would remember you for the next thousand years.
>C] Threaten the demons to step aside. Use Flesh's blessing to crush them if they resist. You suspect you could kill them all before they could even sound an alarm. Compared to the painted demon, these spiders are child's play. What's more, Flesh seems quite pleased to stay with you for the time being. You're itching to use your body.
>D] Write-in.
With a heave of her chest, Celegwen's ragged breathing breaks out into a coughing fit. You gently ease her onto the floor. Though Ofelia doesn't move to help you, it's plain how concerned she is. The way that Ray is bristling makes it even clearer how badly he wants to attack.
"Down, boy." The timbre and resonance of Flesh and your voice catches the mastiff off guard. It takes a minute, but he defers to your judgement, and gradually lessens his growling.
With Ofelia's help— she does her best to support the elf's weight while you dig for medicinal supplies— you make quick work of gathering everything you need. The small woman is still out of breath from running with Ray, and pants, "you took so long to catch up. I didn't think you were goin' to make it out of there. What happened— and what's the deal with you? I mean, I'm not complainin' about yer voice—"
Looking over your significantly more muscular shoulder to the corridor you all came from shows no sign of smoke— yet. The volume of paint and ice that you and Celegwen inhaled should have killed you both. She has had nothing in the way of Flesh to clear her body of toxin. You sweep the elf into your arms, and get to work.
Herbs. Poultices. "Those vials that you threw, Ofelia— they are still burning. The smoke nearly overtook us. I'm sure more will come. My prayer to the God of Flesh was answered, and I was able to carry Celegwen— but I don't know how much longer I can stay with Him for. I don't feel it now, but..."
Extreme worry stops Ofelia's rapid breaths. You try to not pay any mind to the look. Grateful that your body is cooperating for once, you shout to the spiders. "My name is Father Richard Anscham. I have humored your 'Master of Webs.' Honor him and his word! I ask for safe passage through this place, as he has promised me and my companion!"
Pawing at the stone, Ray resumes his growling at the spiders. They make no motion to cooperate— save for twinkling and chiming as they sway and leer.
All your intent shifts to gently guiding Celegwen, in hopes that she can drink a tincture you've prepared. Most humans would be incapable of stomaching the mixture, but you know her constitution can take it. Her eyes remain open, but glossy. She responds slightly to the motion, and manages to not choke or lose any of the drink. If you didn't know any better, you'd think she was awake.
Fear coats Ofelia's untrained eyes. "Do you think she's...?"
You shake your head. "We won't lose her." Repressing the urge to swear, you speak once more to the spiders. "Do not trifle with me. I will seek out Malimos if I must. Do you need me to write a letter? Do you wish for the Master of Webs to know how his children have misbehaved? Do you really wish to try my patience?"
Floored by the way that you're speaking, Ofelia doesn't dare to interrupt. One of the spiders complies, and dances along its legs with almost as much dexterity as its master. The droplets of blood suspended along the strands remain undisturbed as it skitters before you in a matter of seconds.
You tense, and move yourself directly in front of Ofelia and Celegwen. Ray growls and begins barking hysterically as he inches forward by your side.
"Ray. Stay down."
The spider spins and twists a series of webs. From it comes the most grotesque square of parchment you've ever laid your eyes on. It had the audacity to bring you something to write on.
Ofelia is too shocked to make a witty remark. "Is this a joke?"
Eyeing the bloody parchment sideways, you speak slowly to the spider. "Will you take this to him?"
The spider stares back at you, then bows slightly. It may be mocking you, but it's impossible to tell as this demon is too young and savage for speech. Its obedience is— at the very least— impressive. The spider's fangs drip with blood— obscenely mirroring an animal drooling before a meal it cannot touch.
Malimos clearly knows how to discipline his children.
You gently lower Celegwen's head onto a rolled up blanket. The tincture will work quickly, and you can safely monitor her condition while seeing to these creatures.
"Ofelia, take her." The halfling quickly moves and (with some difficulty,) takes her from your arms. While examining the parchment intently, you're greeted by dense and dripping webs. The texture is morbid, but inviting. Rather than pick it up, you fish a writing implement out from your pack and use the tail end of it to inscribe a letter. The blood parts before your motions, leaving behind a request for safe passage.
The greater demon is terribly patient, and easily amused— but you still hesitate, unsure of just how much to say.
>A] Ask Malimos for any information he has on the Relic. Any direction, any word, any rumor. Anything. Surely— in his many lives— he's seen or heard something. You need information badly and this is an unprecedented opportunity to ask something of a demon.
>B] Propose that Malimos grant you safe passage to the library in exchange for bringing no harm to his demons. See if you can push your luck. You know this path must eventually lead down to the lower levels again, and their protection would be enormously helpful while you tend to your allies.
>C] Inform Malimos that you have postponed your search for the Catalyst, and share with him that you've made a few new friends. He was unbelievably taken with your story before. You would rather express your gratitude, give him another story, and be on your way than to ask anything further of him.
>D] Write-in.
Between the stone floor, the horrific parchment, and Celegwen's constant coughing, it's impossible to get the pen pressure quite right. Still, you write the rest of the message as concisely as you can.
Master of Webs,
I urgently implore you to grant my allies and I safe passage through the ruins. In my company (along with Ray) are two women: Ofelia Banks and Celegwen. They have saved my life, and now risk theirs to aid me. I have postponed my search for the cure to the Catalyst— which will no doubt amuse you— to seek a Relic of enormous importance. The Gods Themselves have entrusted me with this search. Please call off your children as soon as you are able. I must continue my mission.
I pray that this letter finds you safely.
May the Gods have Mercy on you, Malimos.
"Hurry." You slide the bloody note towards the nearest spider with the end of your pen. It snatches the dripping silk out from your grasp, and begins to skitter away. "We won't wait. I'll know if you're delayed! I swear to you! DON'T toy with me!"
The minor demon makes its way through the cavern, up a network of webs, and to one of the many walls high above. It vanishes from sight and straight into a crack in the wall. It's impossible to tell where it's actually headed, but you have greater concerns to attend to.
Your time with Flesh is running out. There is no longer smoke wafting off your skin. His intense heat has abated. The God works to make you whole. Removing the poison. Keeping you on your feet through impending exhaustion.
Ray will simply not stop growling at the spiders. You scratch him behind his ears, trying to reassure the protective hound. "It's okay, boy. It's okay. You did good. Stay." Kneeling beside Ofelia and Celegwen, the usual timidness returns to your voice. "...are you alright?"
Ofelia's eyes wander over you. "I'll be alright. I'm just a little cold. I'm more worried 'bout Gwen and you. That was some stunt you pulled back there. I didn't think I'd see either of you again, if I'm gonna' be honest."
Holding Ray closer, your joints begin to ache as Flesh drifts further away. Worry creeps in. "I could never abandon someone in my care."
Your exhaustion is intense. No matter how much you wish for Him to stay, Flesh parts from you. You trail after the sensation, and slump heavily forward. Ray supports you as much as he's able. The concern in Ofelia's voice mounts. "Richard— Richard! I can't look after all of you. Come on, big guy. Stay up. You didn't even answer me properly— like usual."
"I'm... not ready to die." You murmur, struggling to stay upright. "It will— it will take more than a major demon... to keep me down..."
Your eyes are heavy, and your body is begging you for rest. The lack of food, water or proper sleep is catching up hard and fast. Flesh left you so quickly. Your unwillingness to use His blessing seems to be coming with a milder price than usual, but a price nonetheless.
He wants you to take care of your body. A small smile flits across your features— mostly in respect to the God, but also to your ally. "Now is not the best time."
>A] Ask Ofelia to employ any measures necessary to help keep you awake. You need to be alert. This is no place to rest. Suffer through the exhaustion awhile longer, or at least until you hear back from Malimos.
>B] Let Ray and Ofelia guard you and Celegwen. You're about to pass out. You're not going to be of much use, conscious or not. Ask the halfling to wake you as soon as there's trouble.
>C] Sleep, and ask Ofelia to only wake you if her life is in danger. You did everything you could for Celegwen, and the spiders seem to be holding back. You have to rest eventually. You haven't forgotten about the smoke behind you— but you simply can't push yourself any further.
>D] Pray to Dream to keep you awake. It's risky— there's no telling how long He'll keep you awake for. But you're willing to deal with the consequences of the Gods much more so than the consequences of this demon-infested nightmare.
>E] Write-in.
Your breathing slows. Your eyes close despite your best efforts. Leaning heavily against Ray, you're barely able to stay upright.
The world goes dark for the briefest of moments.
"Richard! Richard, wake up— please wake up! I don't know what to do! Don't pass out on me! Come on—!"
You jerk your head upright, trying in vain to stay awake. Ofelia helps prop you up, as your face sinks against Ray's fur. You want so badly to not rest.
The tincture you gave to Celegwen has started to produce a wet cough. She'll expel the paint from her lungs, but it's going to be messy business. "Keep Celegwen on her side," you murmur. You're barely able to articulate the words.
You're given a nod in reply, and Ofelia releases you to shift Celegwen over.
"Don't let her choke. Don't stop— don't stop her coughing." You start to knit your hands together, to pray, to beg for Time— but you don't have it in you. Simply moving yourself off of Ray's side causes you to crumple to the floor.
Your limbs feel like they're made of lead. It would be suicide to ask for anything more of the Gods. Praying back-to-back between Mercy and Flesh has you worn to the bone. You think with no small degree of horror at the myriad stories you've heard of the Church of Time, and the heavy toll that worship takes on Her priests. While Mercy was unbelievably kind to you— protecting you and your friends without asking for anything more in return than to be with you— Flesh is demanding his price.
You're at your absolute limit, shake your head, and try to straighten up again. It's no use. "Good boy, Ray." All the warmth in the world returns to your commands. "Keep watch. Stay...."
Your eyes and limbs are so heavy. You just need to sleep. Your eyes close.
"Richard!"
Repressing your groan, you try to see what the woman wants as she leans over you. "I need sleep, Ofelia. I'll be alright. I just— I just need some rest. Wake me up the moment— the moment that there's any trouble, okay?"
Speaking at length is more than you can do. You don't hear her response as you drift off to sleep.
Mercy does not visit you in the darkness.
"Richard!" Ray's growling punctuates the halfling's worried tone. "Wake up! HURRY! Come on—!"
Wincing and pulling away from the woman leaning over you is an exercise in restraint. Every inch of you still aches. Every sound you want to make as you sit upright is muffled, with sleep clinging to your voice instead. The bleary way that you open your eyes, and the hand that ruffles through your hair completes a more innocent image. "What's happened?"
"The spiders Richard. They're actin' really weird. Really weird."
It's like a hot wire through your spine. You shake the last of the sleep from you, in the low red light.
"Please get up—"
You bolt upright— grabbing instinctively for your mace and shield— but instantly ball your hands into fists instead. The spiders are filling the corridors immediately before you with even more webs.
You snap to Ofelia, "how long have they been like this?"
"Only a second— okay! Okay! A couple of minutes! Yer a really heavy sleeper, Richard. I was about to dump some water on yer head—"
"Mercy." Your whisper is covered by one hand in horror. The bell spiders are slowly covering the entirety of the cavern before you in dense, wet, and dripping webs. It's clear that a message is slowly taking shape within their work. This must be the minor demons' best form of defiance against their master's wishes. But it's not the congealing flesh or fluid upon every web that's making your stomach turn.
You clutch at your holy symbol because of the acrid scent of paint that's wafting up from behind. You whip your head around, and can't see anything down the descent— save for tufts of blue and white smoke that's steadily rising. "Ofelia, stay with Ray."
Staggering to your feet confirms the worst: the short amount of rest you got granted some relief from your pain, but not nearly enough. A tilting, teetering jog takes you a short ways down the cavern. From floor to ceiling are plumes of ice and lacquer. It obscures the extent of the damage to the corridor's stone, and would block off all sight of any roaming demons. The buildup of toxic fumes steadily pushes towards your location. It couldn't possibly fill the entire corridor you're currently occupying— let alone the entire cavern— but your alarm is immediate. There's no telling what the body of a major demon is capable of. Not even in death.
You sprint back towards your companions. The spiders are still spinning, as you frantically look to the corridors beyond for an exit. "The smoke—"
Ofelia is a step ahead of you, and strikes a spark into her small lantern. The flame softly illuminates her gloved hands, and stretches her small shadow up to the highest reaches of the caverns beyond. In every direction are holes in the ceiling. They reach higher than any other chamber you have entered thus far. Even at your back, there are more entryways into the ruins that you have already traversed.
Malimos no doubt has a far reach.
Your eye catches on two descending corridors just a little ways beyond. They're obstructed by the durable, ruby-red webs in between— but one is casting a faint green light. The other is broader, darker, and closer to where you stand. Dread sinks into you. Most of these passages descend. You're at the highest elevation in this area. The smoke will rise— and when it does, it will stay here for some time.
Celegwen's severe coughing has yet to abate. Ray whines, and sticks his nose towards the incoming toxin. You grumble. "We need to move."
"That's what I keep tellin' you." The lantern is lowered just below the frown of its keeper. "But what about them?"
A painstakingly crafted, and downright beautiful set of letters has formed in the webs ahead. The first words read, "Dearest Richard."
You repress your mounting fury at the demons for wasting your time. At the rate that they're going, there will be no time to read what Malimos addressed to you.
>A] Try to wake Celegwen as fast as you're able, and give her a shoulder to lean on while you escape. Threaten the demons with Vengeance if they don't finish Malimos' message as quickly as possible and provide you all with a method of escape. You're reluctant to lean on the Gods so much— so quickly— but you can't risk your friend's safety. Demons won't take a threat from the Father of the Church of Mercy lightly.
>B] Bust out the smelling salts, drench the elf in water, and use every trick up yours and Ofelia's sleeve to wake Celegwen. You need to move and you can't pray for everything. Threaten to beat the demons to death with your bare hands if that's what it takes to get them to hurry up. You may be tired— but you're also pissed. You know Ofelia's competent enough to handle a few young demons while you help your companion to safety.
>C] Write-in.
Turning your back to the spiders and their excruciatingly slow motions, you command, "stay back. I have an idea—!"
"Richard!" Ofelia calls out behind you as you run towards the decline. The small woman moves behind Ray, to better shield herself from the myriad demons up above. "What the fuck are you doing?!"
You ignore her question. You can explain later— when you all aren't under the threat of poison or suffocation. Within seconds you stumble down the length of the cavern, through the corridor, and right up to the edge of the encroaching smoke.
You stop just shy of the wafting threat. Hands together, you bow your head and plead to the Goddess. Life, death, and everything in-between enters your speech. "Agriculture. This humble vessel supplicates to Your bounty. Bring forth Your blessing. Bring forth Your soil. Take this vessel— as cracked as it may be— and flower through it. Blossom through me— over me— and unto the demons who defile Your gifts. Bring forth Your earth."
The green in your eyes intensifies tenfold. Down into the creases of your fingerprints— deeper than the scars adorning your knuckles— and there within the palm of your hand is Her pull. Death Herself leans into your light, and leeches all that you have to give.
Agriculture blossoms forth. The stone at your feet cracks, blisters, and ruptures before the intensity of your invocation. A violent heave tears the rock asunder, in an explosion of soil and devotion.
You step forward to meet the might of the earth. With a sweep of your hands— intending to coax the gravel and silt before you—you're overwhelmed by Her pull. The silt in the air drains you. The clouds of earth gathering within paint and ice seeps your vitality.
The draw of Agriculture becomes an unbearably tight hold. Both of your hands are brought together. From the tension of your grasp, all of the earth before you compacts. Your grip becomes tighter. Extracting enough material for your barricade threatens the integrity of the surrounding walls. The entire corridor begins to crumble from the sheer intensity of Her embrace.
Within the stone— buried beneath the grout— is life. A sweeping motion coaxes out moss, moisture, and all of Agriculture's bounty. From the slurry of mud and growth comes the fruit of your labors.
You dig your heels in— head light from the strain— and endure. As you do so, the earthen wall you have created solidifies completely.
Fire lances through your temples and all of your body. Bowing your head once more with trembling hands, you struggle to even place your fingers together in prayer. There are no breaks or weaknesses in the newly built structure. The corridor beyond also remains sound. You're searing with dehydration and hunger— but still, you thank Her as you release the invocation. "Blessed be the Goddess of our harvest. Thank you Agriculture— for your bounty."
Staggering backwards, you make an uneventful retreat to your companions. The instant you reach the top of the corridor, you take a knee. It does nothing to alleviate the strain. Ray pants and bounds over to you. A few nudges are made to try and reassure you.
Ofelia runs over, and gasps as she sees you collapse against your dog. "Richard— holy shit, WHAT did you do—?!"
You wince at her exclamation. The pain in your head flares up at the sound. "I closed off the passage behind us. The smoke shouldn't penetrate the corridor any longer. I— I needed to buy us some time. I have to rest, Ofelia—"
Looking your frame up and down— paying no mind to you cringing at the scrutiny— Ofelia frowns. "You've lost more weight. I don't mean no offense, but this Goddess of yours? She's really gettin' on my nerves, Richard. She's not treatin' you right."
Returning her frown, you wrap your arms around yourself. There' a lot of room to spare. The edges of your sleeves are poked by the bones of your elbows, and the blades of your shoulders. The entirety of your robes are hanging more loosely now than ever. It's impossible to ignore that you're terribly hungry. Looking anywhere else in the cavern but at Ofelia, your eyes fall on the red webs. "I'll be alright."
The caverns beyond have a beautiful message painted over them. From walls, to floor, to ceiling are multiple styles of writing. The work is clearly from countless different spiders who have worked to deliver Malimos' intent.
Dearest Richard,
Time trickles down my many webs with the steady pace of ages long past. My children pass along them as well, bearing your word, conferring upon me this "blessing." Oh, Richard, as you have amused me once you have done so again. I long to hear greater tales still of this naivete, this mission, this quest! To perceive your buxom complements, to be regaled once more of your daring! I thank you, Richard, for I laugh still. I titter not along my webs— but deeply now, within my hollow being. You have surely granted me another hundred ages. I grant you safe passage in many thanks for this: my most mirthful diversion.
Through the many ages, through the ruins, through laughter and tears,
—Malimos
Ofelia stares slack-jawed between the message, and you. She's speechless. You don't quite know how to respond, either.
Mercy's words echo in your mind.
Gather Our children, Father. Though the only cure to the Catalyst is death, the afflicted themselves need not be abhorred. Gather Our children, and find one that appears taken by their weakness. Find one that still possesses kindness in their heart.
>A] Tell Ofelia about Malimos. Not the half-measure you gave her when you first met, but the proper story. Explain the demon's strange demeanor. She deserves to know.
>B] Deflect. Reassure Ofelia that you need to take care of yourself and get moving. These webs are notoriously difficult to dismantle, and you're going to need your strength to deal with any number of them.
>C] Ignore the rogue's questioning stares entirely. If she insists on asking, remind her that you've already told her about Malimos once before. You have far more pressing concerns. Malimos is content with your story. You're content to leave it at that.
>D] Write-in.
Your body doesn't want to cooperate. Trying to adjust yourself as you lean against Ray, you nearly fall to the floor. Seeing your struggle, Ofelia comes over with your pack, and uses it to prop you up further. Ray growls a good deal at her interference, but ultimately lets her help support your motions. It's a wonder how long the two of them must have been together to have built this much trust.
Even twisting around to get a few rations and some water from your pack is a lance of pain through your empty stomach. A break is long overdue. Pain or no, you need to stop pushing your body so hard.
"About damn time." Strain is all through Ofelia's stare, as she watches you shakily attempt to drink. Her glances go to Celegwen, and a brief distraction. The small woman helps her companion with the help of a handkerchief. Though Celegwen's coughing has slowed, she's expelling a large volume of discharged paint and bile.
Your stomach turns, while finishing the flask of water you brought within a matter of moments.
The rations stare at you menacingly.
"Richard?" A broad gesture is made towards Malimos' message. "Is this the guy you told me and Gwen about before?"
"Yes. I didn't properly explain it before, but he was— is unique." As you try to adjust into a more comfortable position, the ration is offered up to Ray. He wolfs it down with delight, and leans up against you scratching at his ears. "Malimos was the first demon that Ray and I encountered in the ruins. I had yet to see any of his children. It was as if— as if he was waiting for us. He was frighteningly ancient, Ofelia. I could not do anything to harm him, so we spoke at— at length."
The blonde sits a respectful distance away from you. Her gaze constantly flashes to the minor demons and their work. "I ran into these monsters almost as soon as I came in, too. Scared me half to death to see 'em again. What on earth did you tell him to get so..." She waves her hands around, at a loss for words.
"Civil? He— he did threaten us, of course— but even given the opportunity, he didn't harm Ray. He never made a move to harm me, either. I thought that— I thought that if I talked to him, I might be able to glean some information from him. I tried asking him questions about himself— and about the ruins. He was— he was vague at best. Or perhaps he is too old to remember..."
Stomach aching with hunger, you pause the telling to clutch at your sides. A few, slow, small bites of another ration are forced down. Taking your time at least mentally prepares you for the sensation of glass coating your mouth and throat. Pain is still written all over your face. Ofelia leans over with her own wine skin. It's pushed into your grasp. "Here."
You don't refuse. It does help, while many painstaking minutes are spent working through the food. It will keep you going for longer than roots and vegetables— but by the time you're through the second ration, it's like someone's poured molten iron down your throat. Like seeds are in your lungs. You cough all through a pat on Ray's side, as he lays down next to you. "You must be tired too, boy."
Celegwen's coughing has stopped completely. The rogue in your company excuses herself, and gets up to check on her once again.
"How is she?" The question might be a better distraction than suffering through the last of the rations in silence. The pain is peaking, and it's better to be over with it.
"I'm no healer, Richard. I guess she looks and sounds alright."
As you get back to your feet, Ray instantly meets your swaying steps. "Good boy." The wine and food has your head lighter than ever, and you happily kneel back down as soon as you're able.
The elf in your company has been scarred all along her elegant, shapely form. Burns from frost, streaks of paint, and patterns from poison wind up from her feet, to her legs, and you keep your eyes to her face.
Most of the lacquer has been wiped from her lips. You are a professional, and lean in closely enough to hear her heart and breath. It seems to be calming down.
The elf suddenly stirs.
You jump out of your skin, and jerk away instinctively. Pulse skyrocketing, you clutch onto your holy symbol and keep it to your heart as if your very life were in danger. It's too late to repress the extreme response. Ofelia clicks her tongue. "Scarier than any demon, huh, Richard?"
Heat and embarrassment flushes your face almost as severely as the hurt in your tone. "Celegwen? Can you hear me?"
The woman's eyes flutter as they focus. "I've heard everything."
She turns, and slowly looks to you both. Ofelia practically jumps onto the sorceress, and hugs her tightly the moment she sits up properly. "Gwen! I thought we were going to lose you. Are you okay?"
"I will be fine. Thank you for watching over me, Ofelia."
The two hug for only a few moments longer, before Celegwen pries her off.
"I'll get somethin' cookin'. We're okay here, right Richard?"
"Yes." A quick, beet-red nod. "I'll tell you the rest of the story in a moment."
Ofelia busies herself with cooking supplies, and Celegwen gives you a deep bow of her head. Though the elf hides her eyes— and seems like she's still too weak to stand— she finds the strength to speak with her usual tone. "I cannot express my gratitude to you in words alone, Father Anscham. I owe my life to you."
You could not be any more embarrassed, and avert your eyes as well.
>A] Remind her that she's saved your life twice. You still owe her. You don't want to be rude, but you can't give yourself credit when you still feel like you owe these women so much.
>B] You're too flustered to articulate a response, but you can show your appreciation. Continue checking on her condition while you finish your story about Malimos.
>C] Graciously accept her thanks. Your supplies are exhausted, and so are you, but you were happy to give everything you had to save a friend.
>D] Write-in.
A long, wine-filled moment passes. Timidity and kindness wraps up all through the warmth in your face, and the smoothness of your tone. "You speak as if you had not saved my own life."
She lifts her head, and meets your eyes. Silver and green reflects off of low lantern light for a precious moment.
"My supplies may be exhausted— and I may be, too— but I am happy to give everything that I have to save a friend." You give her a rare smile. Fire-wine pales in comparison to the knowledge that you've saved another life.
The two of you break eye contact as your anxiety sets back in.
You can hear her grin. "A friend." She starts looking around the cavern for anything to clean up with, but stops short at the message spun throughout the cavern. "I see you three have been busy. I do not recall this author. Ofelia?"
The serious attempt at assembling a meal without a fire is cut short. The halfling looks terribly worried. "You sure you're alright, Gwen? Richard told us about this monster before. Remember?"
She's baffled, and doesn't respond.
You're too spent, and your heart is racing too quickly to do much more than give the elf's blisters and burns a careful once-over. With a gesture for Celegwen to come closer, she obliges a brief examination.
Vacant eyes. Clear lungs. Warm to the touch— but the demon did a number on her.
"Celegwen. Did the demon take anything from you? Any memories?" It's incredibly fortunate that you contended with the major demon as well as you did. "Can you remember...?"
A delicate hand is placed to her temples, streaked with frost burn and paint. "It's hard to say, Father. Give me just a moment."
Trying to not pressure her, you give a brief nod. She immediately becomes lost in thought.
Every attempt is made to trust Malimos' word, and to not give the ever-present minor demons any attention. Their twinkling intermingles with Ofelia's clinking of utensils and plates. With a pat to Ray's side, you prompt him to help you back over to your gear.
Ofelia fusses over your motions, and goes to fetch your equipment for you. "No you don't. Stay put."
"You didn't have to—" As soon as she drops your things beside you, you're given a light rap on the arm. On skin sitting tightly over bone.
The concern on your ally's face looks downright painful. She mutters while shoving your bag next to you in frustration. "Skin and bones... absolute nonsense. Horseshit humans, and their horseshit Gods. I can't believe this..."
Your usual frown returns as you look through your dwindling supplies. Everything is a mess— thanks to rifling through your things with Flesh's blessing. You at least find one of the last rolls of bandages. Gesturing with them towards Celegwen interrupts her reverie. "I don't mean to interrupt— but those burns need to be looked at." You shyly offer your hand, and gesture for her to do the same.
"Of course." She snaps out of the trance immediately, and offers up the damaged skin.
Despite the trembling of your hands, your skills are almost without compare. The elf shows no signs of distress as you tend to her wounds. "The demon. It had to have known my age— or how many memories I had to offer it. I could only offer it what I thought was expendable. I fear it took more— but I cannot remember what. It is terrible to think of what would have happened. Were I... in its grasp... for a moment longer." The distant and plodding nature of Celegwen's voice trails off into nothingness.
Ofelia sobers up quickly. "I'm glad you still remember us, Gwen."
"I wouldn't forget you."
Despite saying something similar not too long ago, you glance away from the feeling of infringing on a private discussion. You finish administering aid to Celegwen's wounds, and examine the bandages thoroughly when you're done.
She clearly feels your eyes on her, and generously distracts you from the moment. "Can you remind me, Father? Of this— creature? I wish to know the meaning of these words. This seems highly unusual."
"Yes." You let out a sigh in relief. "Of course."
Ofelia scoots over to you, Ray, and Celegwen. Little wrapped packages of leaves encase a medley of vegetables in her arms. She hands them off to your companions, and plies you with another flask instead. "It'll help."
It's gilded, and embossed with a family crest: A charred, white oak tree stained with letter 'B'. The instant you uncap the container, the scent of a first-rate liquor hits you. It's smoky and inviting. Halflings are renowned for their ale, mead, and wine— but this puts the watered down liquor at the church to shame.
You still hesitate to drink. There's nothing in Mercy's tenets about abstaining from liquor, but this seems strong— and you're about as light as they come. "I don't know if I should—"
"It's not some ordinary ale, Richard. This is my family's specialty. I'm not a healer— but this whiskey is about as good as it gets."
>A] Have a mouthful to be polite and give the flask back. No matter how much it'll help with the pain or hunger, you'd rather have your wits about you while you speak. Get some more water while you're at it.
>B] Drink until it helps. Praying to Mercy, Flesh and Agriculture in a single day has put a heavy toll on your body. You could use a hand, even if it knocks you out. You need to rest anyways. Finish your story, and try to use some moderation.
>C] Have as much as you're able. You've been able to stomach liquids far better today than food, and halflings have a way with Agriculture. They may not recognize the Goddess, but they certainly recognize Her works. Drink, see if it helps, and try to loosen up for once.
>D] Write-in.
Uncertain as to what 'as good as it gets' means, you raise your eyebrows. Ofelia's face lights up while you take a drink out of courtesy. The burn is immediate— but not like the pain of eating. This is something far more pleasant. Smoother. A flush comes back to your face, and additional warmth spreads from your tongue to your voice. "This is excellent, Ofelia. Thank you."
"I knew you'd like it. Don't mention it. You can have the whole thing if you like. Go on, and finish talking."
Welcome relief spreads throughout your body as you work at the drink between words. "The greater demon— Malimos— as old as he is, he said that he had not been visited by anyone who could stretch his mind. Not for ages."
Celegwen tilts her head. "What did you do?"
"I didn't trust him. I— I tried to impose Vengeance on the demon. It was a terrible mistake. I severely underestimated his strength, his age— and his cruelty." Smoke, peat and concern from both women fills your senses. "My prayer to Vengeance— it nearly triggered my Catalyst. Vengeance showed me the extent of what the demon had inflicted on others. So much— so much suffering— I can't even begin to describe it."
You've already nearly finished the flask, and sheepishly try to pace yourself through the rest of it. "It would have been suicide to confront him directly after that. You've seen how the Gods work through me. I was weakened and needed to protect myself and Ray. I obliged Malimos' request, and humored him. I told him of the Gods— of my childhood—"
"Like..." Ofelia murmurs, "about what, exactly? That's kind of a weird thing to ask for."
The last of the flask gets drained. Your head is light, and the memories are a blur. You've trusted Ofelia and Celegwen with your life— but your judgement is badly impaired. The liquor's hitting hard, and you're not quite yourself when you're drunk.
>A] You're far more open than you should be. Tell the women what you told Malimos, and then some. Expand on what you wished you could have said to the demon. Talk to your friends, who have been so kind to you. Maybe talk to them a little more than you should.
>B] You're depressed. You can barely keep the angst down as it is. You have endured so much, and all of those repressed emotions have to leak out somewhere. Get some catharsis. Let them know how you really feel.
>C] You're neurotic. You fixate on the Gods, on demons, on your failings, on your weakness. A lifetime of repressing your emotions is only possible when you have your guard up, and your defenses are most certainly down.
>D] Write-in.
You're no drinker. The obsessive buzz that plagues your mind, the tension, and the repression slides away with each passing moment. Your muscles ease up, providing some blessed relief from the constant strain of keeping yourself still. You can't help but laugh softly. Your speech is decidedly slurred, and getting worse by the minute— but you don't mind. "It was strange. I ashked myself— why? Why had I even told him so much? But it doessn't matter now. If he— heh. If he had killed me, I wouldn't have betrayed any informasshion that— that could have hurt anyone elsshe. And if he let me live? It would— it would only have hurt myshelf."
Celegwen softly prompts you to continue. "I see."
"I talked at length about the Gods. I don't know why I bothered! Demonsh can't speak of them, and ssshurely— he didn't care. I shupposhe he would have needed conteshxt. Eheh. They've been shuch an enormoushh part of my life—!"
Your speech is cut short, as you grasp onto your arm. The spasm that's running through your wasted muscle isn't violent, but it's enough that you don't want any uncontrolled movement to hurt Ray. He's still dutifully leaning next to you, so you try to let go of him completely. Your boy sticks his nose into your side— trying to reassure you that it's okay to hold onto him for support.
Trying to not pay any mind to your appearance or awkward motions, you settle on leaning against him. Both women are looking at you with concern.
"N-normally it's just tremors. I'm shure you've notishced by now. Flessh haaas taxed me ssoooo much by now— that my muscles don't always want to cooperate!"
Ofelia is clearly upset. The halfling really seems to have a soft spot for your health. You hold up a hand to protest— and immediately regret doing so. The violent tremor drops, as you nod with more reassurance. "Look: I'm alright! Really. D-don't shyoou worry."
"Horseshit." The rogue crosses her arms, wrapping her cloak around herself. "But, come on. What happened next? You're really avoiding the subject here."
"I waaaas getting to it." Even the stone floor feels inviting when your body has this much relief. You do your best to ignore the occasional spasm in your arms and legs. Reclining into warmth, the slight tilting of the world, the numbness and absence of inhibition, you speak freely. "I told him about my cshhildhood. About my first prayer to Vengeance." The haze in your eyes drifts over everyone present. "I was bullied. B-beaten. Ssheveral cshhildren in my village hurt me very badly. I had— had— I had had enough. One day— ehhe. Aha. Ahaha ha—."
Nervous laughter spills from you for several more moments. There's no need to repress it. "I th-thought I might acshually die. I was sso scared, 'Felia. Gwen. I ashked for His aid. A-a— and I had no idea until it was too late. What I had done."
Though you are struggling to speak coherently, you press on. Ofelia's and Celegwen's fuzzy outlines sway a bit before you as you lean forward. You have to stress how important this is to you. "Vengeanshe iss our God of r-r-retribution. Hish judgement — it was terrible. It waas to break every bone that Edwin had broken in m-me. To inflict the same pain that I— I had felt soo many timess before."
Ofelia fishes around for something in her bags. She comes over, and tries to ply you with some water. Your hands are shaking far too severely to hold onto anything. A silent shake of your scruffy hair politely declines the drink.
You're far more concerned with continuing to speak. "It was over—" Your breath hitches. "—in an instant. I waaas hurt as well. The blood. Th-the bile. Having felt all of Edwin'sss pain? All of his insecurity? And his suffering? I couldn't do anything. I couldn't heal him. I was only a child."
The soft burning sensation in your throat is welcome relief as you speak at such length. Both women, Ray, and the spiders beyond are staring at you— and for once, you don't mind.
Celegwen speaks up. "Such a thing would be punishable by death in the Verdant Dominion."
"Gwen, that's so fucked up—!" Ofelia shoves her. "He's tryin' to talk to us—"
The elf raises one hand in protest. "My people abhor violence against one another in any form. How are you still with us, Father? Do humans not care for one other?"
"N-no." You start— then stop— and realize what you're saying. "Y-yes. I mean, th-the entire villagshe turned on— turned on me. I had crippled Edwin. E-everyone was out for my blood. But my parentssh are— my parensh are good people. They protected me. Th-they showed reshstraint despite everything. The—" Big pause. Deep breath. You will not butcher Her name. "ChurchofMercy. Waaaas who they evenshtually shent for me. They— the Church— wasshh going to kill me! Their compasshion waaas unbeliebable. Though it— it was likely was because— because I was so young."
Ofelia blanches. She looks like she wants to say something. Celegwen looks like she wants to say something.
"I was ssho young, and not only able to cshannel Ven-gean-ce. But I— but I survived. They gave my parentshh more land. Took care of them. Th-they took me." Your voice cracks. "Raised me."
Your eyes glaze over a bit as you try to remember how much of this was for Malimos, and how much you've just been dying to tell to someone— anyone— for most of your life. Sincere laughter falls from you in relief. "The Cshchurch has not been kind to me! Th-they've pushhed me s-so hard. They've always been scared of me. I have— I have been very alone. M-my f-family is going to end with me." A trembling hand goes to your heart. "I can be a v— a veshshel for the Gods, but I h-have— I have never—"
Both women look to each other. Ofelia shifts a bit. "You told all of this to the demon, Richard?"
Your green eyes are hazy and unfocused as you try to make out her curly hair. Her bright blue eyes. "Yesh. I— I did. Well. I left out a few details."
The liquor alleviated your pain, alright. You can barely make out the edges of the cavern, let alone the spiders beyond. Ray gently leans against you for support. He is still alert, and keeps an eye on you when your defenses are so low.
You feel like you could talk about anything.
>A] Keep talking about your history with the Church of Mercy. Shit, talk about your history with the rest of clergy, too. Ofelia and Celegwen deserve to know— heathens that they are. Besides, they don't seem to mind knowing how horrifically your history has been (with something you love so much). Seize the opportunity!
>B] Talk more about the isolation. Chastity is only a tenet of Mercy as the leader of Her church. It's unheard of for someone to reach your rank and not have a family of their own. To be a Father without children has had you subject to endless ridicule. Talk a bit about the few times you sneaked away from the Church. Talk about your first crush, about feelings unrequited, and about needs unmet.
>C] Write-in.
You're blissfully unaware of the trembling in your hands, or even the occasional spasm in your limbs as you sink deeper against Ray and your equipment. The relief from your pain is so substantial, you don't know how to properly thank Ofelia. It's unbelievable how understanding and kind both of your allies have been to you. You want to keep talking. You're struggling a great deal to articulate what you want to say, but this is a rare opportunity. You've never had someone to confide in before— let alone two friends.
"I've never been— I've never been able to really... well..." The moment you gesture with your hands, you stop abruptly. They're shaking badly, and the blush upon your face is like fire.
Ofelia catches on with a smile (that's perceptible even through your inebriation). "I get it, Richard. Figured as much! Way you were lookin' over Gwen earlier—"
The elf sharply inhales, and starts coughing through her own drink. Ofelia pats her back several times as they try to keep her from choking. The redness over your cheeks and nose manages to deepen further. "It wassh a mm-medical— a mmmemdical examinatsh... a check-up! I mean, I haven't— I didn't—"
With the complete clearing of her throat, Celegwen saves you. "I know, Father. It's alright. You clearly didn't mean anything by it."
"'course he didn't." Ofelia can't resist making a mockery of your creed. "He's a man of the cloth! Isn't that right, Richard? Wouldn't even take advantage of poor Gwen here?"
Crossing your arms over your chest hides the open hands of your holy symbol. "Of coursshe not!" You seriously want to dig deeper into this. More nervous laughter escapes through fonder memories of other sins. "I'd even tried— I mean, I had left the Churcsh before. Awful sshecurity, f-for how much they act like— like they're 'fraid of me." A self-deprecating smirk. "Maybe they wanted me to leave."
Celegwen respectfully remains quiet, but Ofelia is all smiles. "Look at you! What a rebel! Where did you go when you left 'em?"
Dulled senses ignore her sarcasm. "Jussht to get away, sshometimesssh. The countrysiiide. The river. Th-there— there was a g-girl—"
Celegwen and Ofelia both lean in, unable to help themselves. Almost in unison, they both say, "oh?"
You loosen your arms a bit, and look sidelong at the two women. "Sshe was b-beautiful. Kind. V-very shy."
Celegwen whispers, "what was her name?"
You pause, trying with all your might to not butcher it. "Isabel."
"Pretty." Ofelia swirls a cup in the air. "How long were you two together?"
"Well we w-weren't exshactly... it was... c-complicated. I'd rather n-not get into it..."
An explosion of groans carries over you trailing off.
"You can't just say that." Celegwen's pink lips pout.
You cross your arms. A slight tilt of your nose to the ceiling.
"Oh, goodness! Richard!" Ofelia puts her hand to her chest as she feigns her heart breaking. "You've locked yourself away from us. How could we compete with this divine creature?"
Celegwen feigns equal exasperation. "Do you think she's prettier than us, Ofelia?"
"Of course. He said she was beautiful." The halfling mutters, "I can't remember the last time I showered."
"Perhaps she was kinder than us as well?"
"Pffft, of course! You're a monster, Gwen."
"Surely they had long entanglements through the countryside, making many fond memories together—"
"No, no. More like saucier encounters late at night." Her voice drops to a sinister whisper. "Things that we'd never hear of from such a holy man." You can't help but smile. Ofelia flops onto the stone floor at her back. "Awww, come on, Richaaaard..."
You keep your lips sealed, head swaying slightly. Your eyes are so heavy. It's becoming more difficult to stay awake. The liquor worked through you very quickly— but you're relieved to have had even this much respite. There's still more you want to say, but it's becoming a challenge to articulate anything at all.
>A] You're not done talking. Say one last thing before you pass out. Something you'd never usually be able to say. (Write-in.)
>B] Stay up a bit longer before you lose consciousness. You want to fall asleep to the sound of someone talking. It feels so good to not be alone.
>1] Ask Ofelia for a story about herself.
>2] Ask Celegwen for a story about herself.
>C] You've earned some proper sleep. Get some rest. Ask Ofelia and Celegwen to not wake you unless it's an emergency, and warn them that it could be awhile before you naturally rise.
>D] Get some rest. Everyone's supplies are surely low. There's no food or water to speak of in this spider-infested cavern (or not that you can see right now, at any rate). Go to sleep, and ask Ofelia and Celegwen to wake you in no longer than a day.
"'nuf 'bout me. Itsh sho good to not be alone. Leeetssh hear 'bout yooou." A finger is pointed towards the blurry figures before you. It's so much more comfortable to let your shoulders loosen, and for your head to slump forward. "Gwen? 'Felia?"
Celegwen seems to be a bit shyer than her usual self. "I'm having some trouble remembering most things." A pale, bandaged blur must be a hand going to her temples. "Give me just a moment."
A small form sits close enough for comfort. "You goin' to be alright, hotshot? Wasn't exactly expectin' you to really finish that whole thing."
"...mmhmm. Jusht... want to hear somethin' nice. From one of you. Oooor both of you."
"Okay, okay." The blonde settles down closer to you.
You almost don't mind the close proximity. You're altogether too tired to shy away anyways. Ray nuzzles his head underneath your arm, giving you some proper support to sink into as well. "You're the besht," you murmur. Your speech is muffled as you nestle against his soft fur.
"Better hurry up, Gwen," Ofelia's smile is audible. She puts a finger to her chin, obviously hard-pressed to think of something. "I've got it! Don't fall asleep on me, okay, Richard?"
"...mmhmm. 'kay."
"I come from a huge family. Huge! Eight brothers, four sisters, me, my Ma, my Pa— and a whole lot of relatives. It's a headache. But once a year, my Pa would always do somethin' just with me for my birthday. It always meant a lot. Usually— I don't know how you do this stuff back home, Richard, Gwen— but usually we have a huge party."
"No." Celegwen might actually be irritated. "Celebrating the passage of a single year would be terribly excessive."
Ofelia pouts. "That's ridiculous. Richard?"
You shrug. Too relaxed to indulge in self-pity, you mumble into Ray's side. "I'd never had a party. Cake maybe. I know schome families do, but not like that. In the schities, schure. But n-not for me."
The story is forgotten for a moment. "When's your birthday?"
You struggle to remember it for a moment. The Church of Time makes things convoluted. "The schecond of the Blinding Moon— or the schecond of the Sschetting Moon. Either way, itsh at end of the year."
"Okay. I'm throwing you a damn party when we get out of here." You raise your hands to protest, but they're trembling too violently to be of any use. You put them back down and let Ofelia continue. "...anyways, where was I? Oh. Right. So— Pa knew all the fuss wasn't my speed anyways. He'd ask me one thing I'd like to do that day.— then he'd do everythin' he could to make it happen. I was a simple kid—"
"Still simple," Celegwen snickers.
"Look who's talkin'!" She's blushing almost as much as you are. "Anyways. It was always something sweet. Cookin' somethin' together, fishin', hikin' somewhere new. But the year I came of age, I thought he had forgotten completely. I couldn't find him anywhere. I found a note, instead. He pinned it to the damn ceiling. I had to stack half my furniture to reach it. It said, 'come and find me.'"
A small smile spreads across your face. "Well? Didjou?"
"Nope. I spent the entire day tearin' apart the house. They all thought I was a nutcase at first! I wouldn't let 'em help me at all. I kept findin' clues— little notes he had left around the place. 'fore long I was outside, checkin' the neighborhood. And after that, I was on the road." Her smile softens. "His notes took me around all the places we'd been together before. I went hikin'. I went to the little pastry shop down the street. He took me through the vineyards and fields. I came home late— and it all took me back to the kitchen." She sniffs. "Where we made my first birthday cake together. I was about ready to give up—" A sudden flip of the cloak around her shoulders is made with a flourish. You catch a bit of starlight under its hood. "—when he appeared out of nowhere, wearin' this! The absolute nutter! It fit him better than it does me! He gave me a big ol' hug and said he'd been waitin' since that mornin' for me to find him. Promised me I could have it if I'd grow into it."
The halfling rubs her eyes a bit. You want to say something reassuring, but you're at a loss for words, articulation, and fine motor control. You sit there quietly— not paying any mind to your arm as it twitches under your robes— and let her finish.
"I haven't, of course. But I don't think I've gone anywhere from home without it. Maybe one day I'll be as tall as you, Richard— and he'll have to get me a new one."
The rogue offers you a melancholy smile. You give her a genuine one back. "One q-quest at a— at a time..."
She punches you gently on the arm. You're so heavy with sleep, food, and liquor that you don't even respond to the motion until a few seconds later.
"Okay, Gwen. Whaddya got? We're losin' him."
The elf delicately sits down closer to you both. The flush on your cheeks couldn't possibly get any worse. You try to not let it bother you as Celegwen speaks up. "The major demon seems to have taken an enormous volume of my memories. I can distinctly remember a few things that are trivial— but it has robbed me of over a century of experience. There are many, many holes where there should not be any. I fear my knowledge of the arcane will suffer because of this."
Ofelia looks at her with extreme alarm. You can't help but calmly inquire, "what could be sho trivial?"
She hesitates. "...I like pink flowers of rose campion. I like the birds they attract. I enjoy the smell of dust— in old books and unexplored places— but I like the smell of seawater more. I like the heat of the beach, and the sound of sand as you walk over it." Shyness makes her speech almost inaudible. "I like the notches in my staff. How worn it gets where my hands sit on it. How it has warped with Magic over the years. Little things. Lots of little things."
Though you're struggling hard against sleep, as you recline back you manage to say, "thatsh not trivial."
"I hope you're right, Father. Get some rest. We'll keep watch."
As Celegwen's words leave her lips, you slip away from conciousness.
Chapter 14: Still as Stone "Everything is caving in."
>A] Sleep as long as you can. You desperately need this rest.
>B] Sleep until you hear something. You passed out surrounded by demons. They may be sworn to leaving you and Ray alone, but you still don't trust them.
>C] Sleep until someone wakes you. Surely Ofelia and Celegwen will alert you if there's something urgent.
>D] Write-in.
You sleep soundly— until Ray's growling infringes on the edges of your mind. You hesitantly attempt to rub the sleep from your eyes.
A smile crosses your features, as your arms and legs feel better than they have in ages. The pain has abated in your stomach and throat— and there is no pressure to speak of in your head. Blearily looking around the cavern reveals no spiders.
A lantern's light passes right over you. The leafy green in your irises flickers in the light as you throw up a hand to shield yourself. Though your fingers are trembling, a sober and quiet voice leaves you. "Stop—"
Ofelia lowers the hood of her lantern further. "Sorry. Ya' scared the shit outta me." Ray is right next to her. They're both looking worse for the wear, their hair is matted, and your dog's scars have darkened— but they both have no sign of a recent fight on them. "Hey, Gwen! He's up—"
"Not now, Ofelia." Standing a fair ways behind the halfling is a sorceress, and her small cluster of stars. She's gathering them together in almost absolute darkness.
Though you just managed to get up, your attention is entirely on Ray. He's visibly upset by something. The remaining sleep falls off of you as you kneel down beside him. He immediately begins licking you, and pushing against your hands to get your attention. "Hey. Ray. It's alright. It's okay, boy. It's good to see you, too. Show me." Whining anxiously, he sticks his nose into your hands. Growling ensues as he points to the walls, ceiling, and floor. With a reassuring pat on his side, you turn to Ofelia. "What is going on...?"
The worry in her voice is unmistakable. "You slept for a few days, Richard. Might as well have been dead, but Gwen told me to leave ya alone. We're low on supplies. The monsters just left. Your dog seemed to be pretty upset. He's been pretty well behaved 'til now. Just diggin' while you were asleep. Not gonna lie— it was weirdin' me out." You look down to your boy with no small measure of concern. He hasn't been this upset since your encounter with the demon of mouths. "Are you okay? I was scared that the whiskey had gone bad or somethin'. Never seen a guy sleep like that before. It's been four days."
The pallor on your face worsens. "I— I probably pushed myself too far. Praying to Spirit alone takes a lot out of me— but I went far beyond that. Thank you for watching over me—"
As you move to stand, Ofelia practically pushes you down to the floor. A ration is shoved into your hands. "It's the last of the food. Make it count. We need to start moving."
Your wide eyes dart from the abrupt way you're being held down, and back up to Ofelia. "You said Celegwen was able to make water for you both. Is she...?"
"Nothin. Not for days." The blonde's curls are so matted, they barely bob as she shakes her head. "She's startin' to get the hang of it again, but she says it's goin' to be slow."
Celegwen's voice shines out. A collection of light coalesces into her hands. "Aha! I've got it—!" Ofelia eagerly darts away to see the discovery. It's the least you can do to painfully wolf half the ration down. Getting the pain over with as quickly as possible, you use a spare hand to lead Ray with you to see what the fuss is about. "I've got it." A swirl of light and darkness is held aloft in the spellcaster's fingertips. She dances the mass over and around her hands.
Happy for a distraction from the pain, you choke out, "what is it?"
"Dissipation. I've been meaning to clear these webs for days."
"You don't mean—" Ofelia deflates, and eyes the food you're choking down with extreme regret.
"I wouldn't waste our time on something so mundane, Ofelia. We can scavenge once we get out of here. Father Anscham's barricade is far too sturdy for me to have removed— but the webs!" She practically skips away from you both. Looking into the caverns beyond, a strand of starlight is pulled from her hands. The sorceress drags it over one of the many webs. As the shadow passes over each web, it vanishes. The elf grins ear-to-ear. "I can make quick work of them. It is good to see that you're awake, Father. Let us continue with the expedition."
You nod your head, entirely unsure of what to make of all of this. The rest of the ration gets choked down, and you scramble to get some water from your flask as you gather your things. There's only a mouthful left. Ofelia gives you an apologetic look, seeing how much you're suffering. "We'll find more. Come on."
The sight of her over-sized backpack gives you pause. You hadn't even noticed it before due to all that has happened. With a shake of your head, you take your bloodied mace and shield, and sling your own (featherweight) pack over your shoulders. Kneeling down to Ray, you murmur, "it's okay, boy. We'll be alright." You're never one to disregard his complaints, and prompt him again with a gesture. "Show me."
Unable to pinpoint the exact source of the issue has Ray beside himself. Celegwen speaks up on his behalf. "The spiders went into the walls. I suspect they wished to take advantage of your rest, Father. It is a good thing that you awoke— though they do sound further away now."
"Keep your guard up." Keeping your mace in shield in hand has you almost feeling like yourself again. The sleep was sorely needed, but needling insecurity is still at the edges of your mind. You pat Ray on his side, repeating yourself in an effort to reassure him. "We'll be alright, boy. Come on."
As Ofelia raises the hood on her lantern and illuminates the corridors beyond, Celegwen pauses in her work to remove the webs. The elf notes, "I suspect that the broader path here will be the shortest route to our destination. However— this light up ahead is curious. That passage is nearly the same color as your eyes, Father. That green one there." You cough profusely, and hope that the women chalk it up to the ration. The sorceress waves her staff to the left and right. Numerous, narrow openings can be seen leading down and out from the cavern. "These are clearly used by the spiders to navigate within the ruins rapidly. I suspect that many of these paths will be a shorter route to our destination."
Ofelia seems utterly perplexed. "I don't trust that light, but I don't particularly want to waste our time either. You got any tricks up your sleeve, Richard?"
>A] Take the darker, closer path. You have two torches remaining in your gear, and Ofelia seems to have plenty of light to spare. The faster you get to the library, the faster you'll have answers— and hopefully— the faster you can get out of the ruins.
>B] Take the narrow, lighted path. You aren't exactly claustrophobic, and preserving your resources seems prudent right now. The light may even lead to a source of food. Try and reassure Ofelia, and take a risk.
>C] Pray to Mercy for guidance. Ask her to illuminate the branching paths, and see if she can guide you to your destination. There will certainly be more demons, but you are not afraid. You have your friends.
>D] Command Ray to lead you through the branching paths. He is extremely anxious however, and will likely need a lot of encouragement. Ray is very well trained, but he's still only a dog. Hope for the best, and instruct him to search for...
>1] Water.
>2] Food.
>3] The library.
>E] Write-in.
"Give me just a moment." Bowing your head, you take your holy symbol between your fingers. With a soft and clear voice, you pay no heed to Celegwen's or Ofelia's scrutiny as you pray.
"Mercy. The Father is basked in twilight. I seek your illumination. Raise Your dawn over this demon's shadow. Reveal my enemies— that I may cast them from this world. Expose their corruption— that I might strike down those who would oppose you. Clear my eyes! Guide me— so that I may not stray from Your immaculacy!"
Heat rushes through your holy symbol. A golden light flares from your eyes, hands, and mace. It pierces the darkness, and illuminates all the caverns beyond.
The impossibly complex labyrinth is packed with spiders. Ray's anxiety is painfully clear to you now. Every nook and cranny is positively lined with hungering demons. Before doing anything else, you kneel down— placing your holy symbol around your neck once more— and wrap an arm around your dog. "It's okay, boy. We're going to get out of here."
Mercy doesn't want to tax you. Her warmth, tenderness, and light fades as soon as it came.
In the absence of Her blessing, darkness completely shrouds your enemies from sight. Respect for the Goddess and for your own safety has you speak out as firmly as you can. "We need to move quickly. Malimos' spiders are everywhere. I suspect that they won't hold back for much longer." Your eyes dart to the darkest path. "Let's move. If you suspect this way will be the fastest, Celegwen— then let's take it. How much light do you have, Ofelia?"
"No more than 6 hours. If we can find oil— or you got any miracles up your sleeve— we can go longer. That's all I got, though. What about you? That light woulda' been damn useful."
You frown. "I have a few torches left. Mercy's blessing is a gift, Ofelia— not something to be squandered when we have resources to spare."
"Fine, fine."
Celegwen makes quick work of clearing a path to the broad and darkened passage. The elf has refastened a large volume of daggers to her body, has her sword in its sheath, and continues carrying her staff. The spell within her hands is dismissed— and hangs back. "One of you should go first."
You pause. Caution is prudent— but you want to protect your friends, more than anything.
>A] Lead in the front with Ray by your side. Let Ofelia follow with the light, and have Celegwen bring up the rear. The halfling needs protection, and the elf's keen hearing will likely be of better use behind you all. You hate sneaking up on people, anyways. Taking a bolder approach might have you feeling like yourself again.
>B] Let Ofelia lead, with the light lowered. She is unbelievably quiet, and has excellent eyes. No doubt she'll spot trouble long before you in the dark. Follow closely behind her, with Ray and Celegwen bringing up the rear. You've been through enough in the last week. The last thing you want is an unnecessary fight.
>C] Write-in.
"Ofelia, do they really call you 'Eagle-Eye' back in Spira?"
You've never seen a smugger expression in all your life. "Pfffsh, Richard, please. Of course! No one's got keener eyes than me."
"Alright. Keep them out for trouble, then. Can you still see alright with the lantern lowered?"
"Yep. Not as well, but this'll get the job done." She lowers the shutter and swings the dimmer light around towards the dark passage ahead.
Gently patting Ray's side, you usher him to follow you. "Let's get going, then."
A long pause hangs between you all. You politely nod towards Ofelia, and to the corridor beyond. "Lead the way."
Your point-woman snorts, and laughs lightly to herself. "That's what I thought! Come on. Don't follow too close, 'kay?"
One more nod is given to her, along with an additional command to Ray before you proceed. "Slow, boy. Come."
You all walk for what feels like hours. It's slow going, as Ofelia stops every few feet at the smallest outcropping or spiderweb. The rogue not only keeps a close eye on your path, but also keeps watch on the oil.
Her and Celegwen remain utterly silent as the decline increases rapidly. You're relieved to not be running (for once), and for the darkness that rapidly covers you all. Even Celegwen's slight shadow was concealing yours.
Drawing your arms around your horrifically thinner frame brings little relief. By the time that the third hour has elapsed, you're sweating and trembling. So much rest has your body feeling substantially better, but you're more easily strained now than ever. It's further incentive to keep your eyes forward, and to do nothing more than think.
Small talk would be inappropriate. Smiling is fine. If what you can remember of recent peat and smoky stories shared in the night— you've talked quite enough already.
Another hour slips by, before Ofelia hugs the wall. "Damn floor's all busted. Watch yer step. Seriously."
This is nothing compared to the narrow passages you've squeezed through before. You lead Ray on with a little difficulty, and try to scrutinize the stone floor ahead. By all appearances, it seems to be ordinary. You follow Ofelia's haphazard lead as she inches around narrower and narrower footholds. There's some unseen danger she's stopping for, inspecting, and testing. The complex pattern is almost dizzying, but there's not a single moment where you all backtrack or encounter any hindrance to your plodding march.
The procession stops after another half hour. Ofelia's voice is as somber as you've ever heard it. "Stop."
"Stop, Ray." He pauses by your side, panting.
Ofelia whips around to glance between you and Celegwen. Her face betrays her alarm. "There's almost nothin' in the floor up ahead. I could probably walk safely on it— maybe you too, Richard— but not both of us at once. And Gwen, you and the dog will collapse it for sure." You cringe, and cross your arms in an attempt to hide your shallow waist. "No offense. I'm just tellin' it like it is. More importantly, there's no safe route across. I can see a bit through the cracks. The lantern's been leakin' light down somewhere deep— very, very deep. This bit of path probably comes out somewhere deeper still. No tellin' how far down this place goes, I guess. But I'd rather not find out."
It's impossible to make out what she's describing. Darkness engulfs either side of the corridor, and steals away the lantern's light. Pulling back on her hood for a moment, Ofelia runs a hand through her hair. It's slick with sweat. "Gwen? Y'got anythin'?"
"I could potentially dissipate some of my weight— but it would be terribly dangerous to do so all at once. I fear for how it would affect the dog, as well—"
You interrupt, bothered. "His name is Ray." It's trivial, but Ray deserves more respect than anyone else you know. The least they can do is refer to him by his name.
"Of course, Father. Ray would likely be harmed or upset by the process. I could attempt to remove the trap, as well. Is there a mechanism that I could possibly...?"
"Nope." Ofelia explains, "no mechanisms, no levers, no pressure plates. Not exactly man made— at least I don't think. The floor's been hollowed out or worn away 'til almost nothin's left." She mutters, "probably not an issue for those damn spiders, but a big issue for us." Her voice lifts as she throws her hood up, and turns her back to you all. "Stay put. I'm gonna scout ahead a bit."
You nod your head, trusting her eyes far more than yours. The rogue sets the lantern on the floor beside you, and seemingly vanishes.
After a few moments pass by— staring uselessly into the darkness ahead— you hazard a glance to Celegwen.
She seems utterly unfazed by the exertion of the descent. Her silver hair and fair skin is immaculate, as she stares off into distance. "She'll be back. Don't worry."
Several minutes pass with only the faint crackle of the lantern for company. Its flame licks and burns away as a constant reminder of your waning resources.
Ofelia's shadow rapidly approaches as she returns. Throwing her cloak back, her face is aglow with enthusiasm, and her whisper is almost a conversational tone. "It opens up just further ahead. You won't believe it! This is a way shorter route, Gwen! Would have saved us a lot of time."
"Good." The elf returns the excited whisper. "How far do we have to cross?"
"It's about as long as a church—" She wiggles her eyebrows at you. "—is tall. The rope won't make it."
Celegwen stares dead ahead. "Any breaks in the floor?"
"Was sturdy enough to hold me the whole way. I took my time. Richard would definitely be fine, but there's no way your butt's makin' it across. And definitely not Ray's, either."
The last venture you had with climbing drops your voice to a murmur. "What is up ahead?"
"Trash. A lot of it."
"Trash?" You repeat, unsure if she means it literally.
"Yeah. Big old pieces of old buildings, metal, some stuff I didn't recognize. Far as I could see, almost. There's definitely some shelter out there. Could be hidin' trouble. There's some proper— still standin'— buildin's mixed in with all the trash. I recognized one of 'em. Was past a big ol bridge."
You dare to hope. "The library...?"
"Yeah. We're gettin' closer."
A long silence hangs between you all. You suspect that your new friends have absolutely no idea of what you're capable of— or that they simply don't want to ask.
>A] Offer to go ahead of the group. See for yourself what lies beyond, and pray to Agriculture. Use Her gift to strengthen the path, so that your allies may safely pass through. It's risky, of course, having so recently prayed to her— and with the lack of food. But you can't imagine a safer way of guaranteeing everyone else's safety.
>B] Ask Ofelia to go on ahead, and offer to stay behind with the rope. Pray to Flesh to strengthen you, and let Celegwen and Ray move across with you as a support. With any luck, you should be able to support both of their weight effortlessly and scale across behind them.
>C] Write-in.
Ray's whining finally calms down as everyone mulls over how to proceed. You pat him on the head, and hazard a question to Celegwen. Unfortunately, it comes out as more of an awkward joke than the genuine question you intended it to be. "Celegwen, you couldn't levitate yourself and Ray over this, could you?"
The elf gives you an unamused look. "No. I don't suppose you could have your Gods undo the decay, hmm?"
Your blood runs cold at the thought.
Now would be a bad time to tell her that I could try.
A more reasonable idea strikes you. "Ofelia. You said there was a good deal of debris further beyond?"
"Right. Watcha' got in mind?"
"I— I can't— I can't really climb. But maybe we can make something for Ray and Celegwen to walk over."
The halfling balks. "There's no way we could stick anythin' in the walls, Richard. They're solid stone— and you know I couldn't lift any of ya' if I tried."
You give her a slight smile. "I'll take care of it. I'll need your help, though."
The look pointed at you is made with infinitely more skepticism than you'd like to see. "I don't want you gettin' hurt."
"I'll be fine—"
The look both women give you stops you in your tracks. Ofelia in particular looks deeply concerned. "You've been pushin' yourself real hard. You're scarin' me a little." The amount of worry in her tone is downright distressing. "You're not lookin' so great, Richard. Maybe there's somethin' we can do that doesn't mean ya have to lose anythin' else? And I don't just mean yer weight, either."
An unsightly blend of indignation and guilt roils in you.
Is she seriously questioning my use of prayer?
>A] Keep your emotions in check, and don't comment on the repeated mention of your appearance. Tell Ofelia that she's completely out of line to question you like this, and let Celegwen know that you don't appreciate her remarks, either. Go ahead and pray to Agriculture and fix the path alone if you have to. These women have absolutely no place to question your connection to the Gods.
>B] Let your emotions get the better of you. Tell Ofelia to stop harping on your appearance. It's cruel. You're just trying to help. Go ahead of the group, fix the path, and put the women in their place if they question your prayer again. They have no idea what you've been through to get to where you are. Don't stand for their judgement.
>C] You aren't used to depending on other people, let alone having them care about your well-being. Swallow your pride, and ask Ofelia what her alternative might be. You have been pushing yourself extremely hard, and you're just as worried about your health as she is. Work out something that won't be so taxing on your body or mind.
>D] Write-in.
"You have a point. I know you're just concerned." Holding your arms even more tightly around yourself, you try to get a feeling for just how little you have left to lose. It's terribly awkward even crossing your arms. Your waist is so slender that there's hardly anything to hold onto. Between the knotted scar in your side and your harshly protruding ribs, it doesn't feel like much. "I'm concerned, too. There's not much left of me to take. I know that Flesh wants me to take better care of myself—"
Celegwen interjects, "what do you want, Father?"
You hold onto yourself even more tightly. A frown etches itself into your face. A long moment passes before you deflect, "do you two have any better suggestions?"
Ofelia shrugs, still sounding disgruntled. "Your idea sounded fine, Richard. I just don't want you disappearin' on us."
"It's far from fine." Celegwen huffs. "We clearly have no idea how much this Goddess of yours will take from you— and we have no way to get your strength back without resorting to even more desperate measures."
"Agriculture normally doesn't take this much out of me. I'll be alright." Celegwen's eyes are practically drilling into you. "Really," you insist, recoiling at the stare. "I wouldn't still be here if that was all it took."
Silence hangs in the air.
Ray nuzzles up next to you. He's clearly antsy. You scratch him behind his ears, relieved to not have to explain yourself to someone. Still, you force yourself to elaborate. "I— I really appreciate the concern— but we need to get out of here." It's difficult, but you manage to glance to the halfling and elf. "Can I depend on both of you?"
Ofelia perks right back up. "Course you can."
"Yes." Celegwen speaks softly. "You likely won't need to move more than a few pieces of debris to get Ray and I across, Father. If Ofelia can help you scavenge, I believe we will not need to construct any permanent structures. That should not take too much out of you— no?"
"No. That should be fine."
With a nod to you over her shoulder, Ofelia sets off. "Give me a minute to get ahead. You'll want to leave your stuff, too. You're already pushing it."
She vanishes from sight. Kneeling down next to Ray, you put the mastiff's nose in your hands and command his full attention. "Stay, boy. I'll be right back. Take good care of Celegwen."
With a few licks on the sides of your hands, he's all business. You take off what you thought was your terribly light equipment— your nearly empty pack, the mace and shield— and set them all beside Ray. "I'll be right back." You repeat, patting him on the head again.
"We'll wait." Celegwen reassures you, leaning slightly against her staff as she waves you along. "Ray will take care of me, won't he?"
You look wistfully over your shoulder as you turn away, before properly setting off after Ofelia. The low light of her lantern barely illuminates the stone floor and walls ahead. It's soon completely out of sight. You're forced to completely trust in her guidance— before long, you can't even see your hands in front of your face. You don't dare to reach out further to feel for the walls. Worried of setting off some other hazard, you're terribly grateful for how few strides it takes you to reach the end of the corridor. It can't be more than a minute or two before a dull, gray light breaks up ahead.
This doesn't make any sense. This is a straight passage. The light should have been visible far sooner.
A few hesitant steps take you from your elevated vantage point, down a steep decline. The cavern opens up into such a large chamber, you could almost mistake the area ahead for a city. Stone buildings reach out into the distance. The decaying structures are dotted with boarded windows, dilapidated doors, and not a soul in sight. Countless mounds of debris are stacked in piles higher than the many homes beyond. Some tower off in the distance. This portion of the ruins must be unbelievably ancient, for how decayed everything appears. The scent of rotting cloth, parchment, metal and gore is heavy in the air.
Ofelia reappears— seemingly out of thin air— and makes your heart skip a beat. You smoothly repress your response, but she seems to have noticed anyways.
"Don't be so glad to see me." She snickers, and leaves her hood up with a gesture for you to follow.
You reluctantly step further out into the gray light. It further illuminates the many stone buildings. They not only protrude from the soft soil of the landscape, but also lean against high, jagged walls. You crane your neck back, trying to see to the tops of the cavern— and to your horror, there's more spider webs. A hollowed out network of countless holes dots the entirety of the ceiling.
"I wasn't too happy to see them, too," Ofelia mutters. "Come on. Time's a wastin'."
You wince at the phrase, but follow Ofelia as she sets to searching through the debris. Her eyes are remarkably keen— it only takes a few moments for her to spot two beams of metal that are the right length for your purposes. One is protruding neatly from a pile of metal, and the another is leaning hard against a nearby building. You frown, as the latter is visibly covered in a thick sludge.
"Come over here for a sec." Ofelia whispers, pulling on the side of your robes and gesturing for you to duck behind a mound of trash. You oblige her. "Figured the wood over here might be too rotten. Stone's no good, can't carry it for shit. This'll have to do." She chucks a small stone at the collection of metal housing the first beam. Nothing happens. Watching intently for any motion, she chucks another stone. There's still no movement whatsoever.
The halfling sighs. "Can't be too careful."
You give her a nod, legitimately appreciating her caution— when something stirs. Rather than from the pile of debris, there's motion off in the distance.
A shadow on the furthest reaches of your vision begins to seep along the floor of the cavern. Whatever it is must be massive.
Ofelia looks at you with abject terror. "Please tell me you can see that."
Even at a great distance away, you can make out the edges of the demon's form. Its carapace looms above the top of every building. "No. It's a minor demon. It looks as if it has been feeding often, but on what—?"
"Minor!? It's..." It looks like she's going to be ill.
"It's what?"
"It's got corpses in its mouth, Richard. I'm gonna be sick—"
You grimace. There's no need to get a closer look. The demon is heading your way— and a faint glimpse of gray, rotten, dripping carcasses can be seen around the borders of one building.
>A] Try to sneak back with Ofelia. Work with her to get the metal out of the debris before you return. See if you can still get Celegwen and Ray across, without alerting the demon. You all will be much stronger together. Surely with Ofelia's help, you can get back before the demon reaches you.
>B] Don't risk it. Double back as fast as you can. You all will have to find another way around. There's no way you're risking moving a bunch of metal while a demon is headed your way.
>C] Contend with the demon yourself. Tell Ofelia to sneak back and find a safer route around with Celegwen and Ray. Pray to Agriculture and Vengeance to exact Their retribution on this creature. This creature has gorged itself on your fellow man. Let it waste away.
Your voice is barely above a whisper, but stays firm enough to grab Ofelia's attention. "It's not too late to get the materials we need. Lend me a hand."
"You're crazy—!" She pulls on the back of your robes, trying to get you to hang back. "Wait. It's already heard us—!"
You firmly pull away from her. "There's no time to wait. Ray and Celegwen are counting on us. I thought you— I though you said I could depend on you?"
Ofelia huffs. "Yeah, 'course. But that doesn't mean we gotta' be suicidal neither."
Despite her protests, the halfling sidles up next to you. She struggles to match your pace as you sneak behind the myriad piles of debris at a breakneck speed. You keep your eyes almost completely fixed on the demon as it slowly shambles through the weaving piles of trash and waste. It seems to have entirely discarded the human torso it was eating, and has set its sights on you both.
As quietly as you're able, you get up to the first metal beam, and pick off the debris that's burying it. The object is quite thin, but will be enough for your allies to stand on.
The minute it's free, Ofelia catches up and moves to wrest the object loose. "Gimme a hand—" She suppresses a shout, and squeaks as she's practically lifted off the ground. "You're stronger than ya' look! Okay, okay— careful. Don't bump into nothin'."
The piece of metal is almost exactly as long as the corridor is wide. You strain a bit to lift it (now that Ofelia is shouldering far less of the beam), but it's definitely manageable. You'd compliment her for spotting it, but you're far more concerned with not knocking into any of the debris stacked and leering around you.
Your slim frame and the halfling's remarkably smaller shadow slip in between the myriad towers of filth, keeping out of sight of the demon as you continue to move back to the other piece of metal. You muffle a groan as you kneel down, and gently lower your purchase to the floor. The new target is slick with some sort of grime, though it's impossible to say what.
Skipping ahead— despite obviously being out of breath— Ofelia sweeps something up from a nearby mound of wreckage. She huffs, "stop— stop. Wait."
She rushes back to your side, and uses a rag to cautiously wipe down the object. Both of you breathe a sigh of relief, as the filth does nothing upon being disturbed. Long before she gets the metal in a respectable condition, you wrap it under your arm, and maneuver it out from the pile. Both objects in hand, you can't be bothered to care about impropriety. Your eyes are riveted on the demon the moment that you're done lifting. The source of the foul and blackened substance is heading your way.
From an opening in the winding buildings ahead, you get a full view at the scale of the demon. It vaguely reminds you of a hister beetle— though you can't imagine it flying, given its size. The colossal, glistening insect casts a shadow over every spire of waste as it silently creeps forward. The minor demon's jet-black form drips with secretions of rot and ruin. Where the beetle's mandibles should be is a human female's face. The skin and features of the monster are grotesquely stretched to accommodate its larger frame— as within its maw are no fewer than ten human bodies. The corpses are in varying states of decomposition, and all are in the process of slowly being eaten. Hundreds upon hundreds of maggots crawl from within the wet pockets of her eyes.
Despite having ample prey at her disposal, the demon's attention remains entirely fixed on you.
Permitting this demon to live for even another second makes your skin crawl. Ofelia steals your attention away, tugging at the other end of both beams. "Come on—" She whispers, already worn out. "—this way."
You both snake around the piles of debris, and do your best to stay out of sight.
It might be your imagination, but it feels like the demon is moving towards you faster than before.
Ofelia is seriously struggling with the items you're carrying.
Your limbs are burning as well.
This isn't going to work.
As you both arrive at the entrance to the passage, you motion for Ofelia to set down the metal, and usher her inside the corridor.
"I'm not leavin' you out here."
You set both beams down. "Do you trust me?"
"Yes, but—"
"I'll be there. Go."
She begrudgingly turns from you, and sets to running for the rest of your company. It dawns on you that the corridor is far too small for the demon to fit through. If you tried to bring it inside, its body would block the exit entirely.
You're running out of time. A shadow casts over the entire cavern wall. Your hands itch. Though you desperately want to kill this demon, you have more than yourself to think of.
>A] Lead the minor demon away from the opening, and fight it where you have more room. You don't want to take any chances. Pray to Agriculture and Vengeance to strike down the demon outright. You'll be better suited to leading your allies out once it's dead.
>B] Pray to Flesh to take away enough of the demon's form that it will fit into the corridor, and lead it inside. Use its carapace as a makeshift bridge. It may not be as stable as the metal, but you'd rather kill two demons with one stone.
>C] Stick to the plan. Pray to Agriculture to help you move the metal along the passage. You should be able to make it before the demon reaches you, and it might be easier to fight it where it can't reach you. Still, you're taking a risk. You don't like the look of the substance dripping off of it— harmless as it may seem.
>D] Write-in.
Gritting your teeth, you tear away from the metal that has been laboriously brought over. Ofelia is trusting you to come back alive. Running a good hundred feet from the cavern's far wall— and the passage housing your friends— you skid to a stop near more debris. The ghastly pallor on your face, your cold sweat, and the depths of your eyes lock with the demon.
You chuck a rock in its direction, and realize that the creature is utterly blind. It has been following the sound of your movement. The worms within its eye sockets snap towards the falling debris as you bring your hands together.
In revulsion, you pour yourself into prayer. This demon will not stop its march. You will stop for nothing.
"Flesh. Make skilled my hands. Steady them. Make me the instrument of Your design. Through my weakness, let us cleave away this disease! That we may rid this demon of its contemptuous form: Lend me your strength!"
Red smoke parts from every scar upon your hands in thin tendrils. The coils of deadly intent sharpen into blades. You part your fingers— and strike them through the air towards her muscle and bone.
Your material weapon snakes through the open space between you and the demon in trails of smoke. It worms its way beneath the monster's carapace. You can't help but grin, and lean your head back as a God works through you.
A single crack appears in the demon's shell. It splinters outwards in a burst of gray and weeping flesh— and severs a colossal chunk of the demon away. The vertical slash parts the swathe of carapace and meat. It crashes to the floor of the ruins in a thunderous roar. A flock of birds flies off in the distance.
You have no time to consider the ramifications of how much noise has been made. Plumes of dust and smoke obscure the furthest reaches of the demon's lair from view. Its master parts her lips to scream, and half a dozen corpses slip from her lips to the ground far below. A silent wave of death is emitted in the wake of each dead body, as grubs pour out from the demon's throat in their place. They spill onto the bodies that are colliding one by one to the floor— and every worm crawls straight towards you.
You hold your ground for one more moment. Both hands are tightened into surgical knives. The shape of the corridor is in your mind's eye as you sweep your weapons through the air. You swiftly and decisively carve another tremendous portion of the demon's flesh from the opposite side of her body— and turn to run for your life.
Daring a look behind you could be fatal. At you sprint— and push the renewed muscle and sinew on your building frame to its absolute limit— you hear the monstrous crash of destruction at your back. There are no screams. There are shrinking piles of debris, and a carapace that fractures. Maggots scatter in all directions. Only when you reach the entrance to the cavern do you dare to turn and see what's heading your way.
The deafening collapse of another slab of meat and shell has pushed silt and debris high into the air. In its death throes, the demon writhes and collapses to the floor. All of her momentum makes her unable to stop, even on few remaining legs. The beast careens forward.
You lift your eyes for but a moment, to turn and run into darkness. Ofelia warned you to proceed with caution, but your battered shoes pound against the stone as the entire passage trembles and quakes. The screech of shell against stone is terrible. The demon collides with the front of the passage, and must be destroying the fragile structure at your back with each passing second. Your heart uproots through your lungs as you fly down the length of the corridor in a matter of moments.
Hundreds of fractures in rock, and dirt crumbling behind your feet puts terror through one command: "RUN!"
There's no opportunity to stop. Ray bounds after your heels as you make a mad dash away from the falling floor. Ofelia and Celegwen were already on their feet, and run right behind you.
A precipice gives way from the demon's approaching form. Plumes of dust, a black miasma, and countless maggots are sent up into the air. Below the monstrous bridge you've brought into the corridor lies an endless abyss. All-encompassing darkness continues below, with such depth that you cannot fathom it ever ending.
Flesh leans into your exertion, keeping you moving, and taking you all back the way you came. The tremendous shaking and chaos subsides.
The dust hasn't even begun to settle as you slide to a stop, and look frantically around in the soot for your allies. Ray is wheezing. Ofelia is coughing. "Celegwen?!"
A hand sets lightly on your shoulder. You nearly jump out of your skin, but the touch rapidly retreats. "I'm right here, Father."
The elf sounds altogether too calm, given the situation. Ofelia is panicking, and no longer cares for how much noise you all are making. "The FUCK was that, Richard?!"
Covering your face with the hem of your sleeve, you delay a reply. Kneeling down and trying to get clearer air, you do your best to comfort Ray. He's clearly upset, but has yet to bolt, or do anything more than stay right by your side. "Easy, Ray. Easy. Stay, boy."
"RICHARD! SERIOUSLY?!"
"Calm down, Ofelia." Celegwen doesn't do so much as raise the pitch of her voice. "I'm sure that he has a valid explanation—"
You can't afford niceties. "Stop talking. Save your breath. I'll explain when we're out of here."
Your lungs aren't burning from anything other than the physical exertion. Flesh is keeping your body working as well as you could hope, but you're acutely aware that your companions are going to suffocate if they can't safely get out of this polluted air.
Plumes of dirt and decay can't obstruct your view to the demon's body. It has completely filled the corridor— leaving a narrow gap between the ceiling that you could squeeze through. You could certainly carry one (or even) two of your companions at a time with you while scaling its body. But you can't possibly get everyone to safety at once.
>A] Grab Ray and Ofelia, and let Celegwen climb behind you. You can safely assume her longer limbs can climb faster than the halfling's, or even your dog's. Scale the minor demon as soon as possible. It's likely too weak to move, if it isn't already dead. Tell Celegwen to dissipate its head if there's any sign of trouble while you get everyone else to safety.
>B] Grab Ofelia and Celegwen, and let Ray climb behind you. He's a trained combatant, is smaller, and has been with you on countless missions. He can handle himself while you get the women to safety. Scale the minor demon as soon as possible, but drop the women and pray to Vengeance the second there's any sign of trouble.
>C] Hold out, pray to Vengeance, and ensure the demon is killed before you try to scale its body. You can heal your allies later, or carry them all through if you must— but you don't want to risk the demon moving or collapsing the entire tunnel now.
>D] Write-in.
Your voice is low and even as you try and stress the severity of the situation. "Please help me cover Ray's nose and mouth. Do the same for yourselves, and stay back."
Both terrified women look between each other, but they follow your instructions as you kneel down. There is neither the time nor the air to waste on explanations. There's ample room to work as you fold your fingers together.
Ofelia's coughing fades into the back of your mind as you pray. Your holy symbol is cold against your neck and chest. Sweat soaks the back of your robes, slick against the gold and black. The smoke from your prayer to Flesh is rapidly dissipating, but the God is still with you— and you need more than His blessing to contend with this demon. You won't take any risks. Not when you're entrusted with the survival of your friends.
It scares you each and every time you pray to Vengeance. It's also something you love dearly. A genuine connection. The knowledge that you're understanding Him in a way that no one else truly can.
A familiar rush of blood flows from your lips and out from your hands, mere moments after wordlessly invoking Him. Your bond is terribly strong. You may have been unable to strike down Malimos with Vengeance, but you certainly are able to call upon Him now.
Your blood intermingles with black bile of yours and the demon's own making. You will strike down whatever remains of the demon before you— in the same way that it has done to so many others.
The mordancy pouring from your own Flesh seeps into the dust and stone. It congeals and networks with the demon's long history. You swallow the urge to vomit, and all the acrid bile dripping over your chin as a woman's face leers towards you.
The demon is still alive. She could not fall, even through the administrations of Flesh. Her eyes are clouded with decay, but something worse than a gaze bores into you. Through a haze of insanity and hunger, she seeks understanding.
You understand. You can taste the Flesh of the many creatures she's consumed. You can feel the absence of all the lives she has claimed. There is no regret. No Mercy. Nothing but a bid at power, and an endless search to fill the gaping void within her. The minor demon attempts to taunt you as you gain a greater understanding of her failings: A wasted life. More lives stolen. Maggots spill in heaps from her lips, as she is clearly incapable of speech.
You feel the pull.
The cloying embrace.
Not of a woman.
Not of a God.
The pull of the Catalyst.
Every fiber of your being tells you to pull away. To turn, to run, to drop your hands, and to never look back on this place again.
You lean into it.
You are embraced by both Flesh and Vengeance.
Strength stirs within you. Amidst the hunger, longing, and retribution. There is no fear in your heart. You deeply missed taking Vengeance.
He listens.
You close your eyes, and reach out. He grants you your purchase. Deep into what once was the heart of the minor demon— you take hold of this monster's appetite, and turn it on itself.
The demon writhes. She shakes the walls of the corridor. The blood and bile pouring from your hands has been coursing into the creature. The connection seeps out of her— and courses back into yourself. Into your hands, your nose, your lips, your throat—
You immediately turn and vomit. The taste of rotten flesh clings to copper and acid.
Great plumes of red smoke waft from the minor demon's flesh. She's choking on the already hazardous air. You can see through blood-streaked eyes that the monstrosity is wasting away. She's eating herself.
Flesh purges the last of the demon's influence from you. He clears the smoke from your lungs, and takes the rot from your throat. You try not to lose yourself to the pull of both Gods. They work together— through you— to destroy the demon's utterly.
It's not often that a human can endure the blessing of a single deity, let alone two.
You feel yourself splitting.
Divinity pulls at the edges of your strained mind and body. It's odd.
It reminds you of the Catalyst.
Hands trembling— clasped together as they are— you release Vengeance. The blood and bile completely dissipates, as if the liquid were nothing more than wind on the air.
At some point you must have fallen to your knees. As Vengeance parts completely from you, you collapse entirely.
Ray rushes to your side, despite your command to stay put. You try to throw an arm over the mastiff's side to help you onto your feet, but the sudden motion turns the last contents of your stomach. You vomit again, and mutter your gratitude to Flesh and Vengeance all through it. Your thanks persists for a good, long moment after.
You feel a pull once more. "Get up." Celegwen pulls you to your feet. It seems effortless for her to lift you, and she clearly doesn't mind the blood streaking your face and hands.
Ofelia shoves a handkerchief into your hands. Dazed as you are, you don't even acknowledge the gesture.
The elf wraps one of your arms around her shoulders, practically dragging you with her. You can feel Flesh's blessing leaving you— but as you try to resist, His strength floods through your tortured muscle and bone. A sharp pain accompanies it. Horror soaks you to the bone as you realize what you've permitted.
The sight of Flesh's vessel being lifted is a terrible offense. You rapidly try to right yourself, but it's too late. A voice that is decidedly not your own makes only one request.
"Release me."
You recoil in absolute mortification, and raise both filthy hands to your bloody mouth. As hard and as quickly as you can, you pull away from Celegwen and Ofelia. They're both coughing terribly, and are too consumed by the miasma of decay to run. Though you've successfully shaped the demon's corpse into a bridge to span the distance ahead, the air is still foul. Smoke continues to rise in plumes off of the demon's corpse as it consumes itself.
Now is not the time for apologies. There isn't time to make amends to Flesh, either. You need to show the God of Action that you haven't forsaken His teachings. You lower your hands from your face, and wrap the handkerchief around Ray's nose and mouth. With a slight touch to your holy symbol— streaking it with blood— you murmur a small prayer to Mercy to keep him safe for a moment longer. Pointing firmly down the corridor, both women look at you. They're baffled.
You struggle to force your voice into normalcy, and pray that your dog will understand. Looking him firmly in the eyes, you command, "go on, boy. I'll double back for you. Go slow."
He obediently heads towards the end of the corridor, nose to the floor. Your boy's rapid steps take him up the slope of the demon's face, and he narrowly slinks through the opening at the top of her body. He disappears from sight within seconds.
You don't waste another instant. Your hands tremble, but they whisk Ofelia off of her feet with ease. You hold her aloft with one arm, and take the elf by the hand with the other. They look at you like you're absolutely insane, but are too shocked to protest. Both women try their best to keep from choking on the noxious air as you tear into a run. The halfling clutches onto you for dear life, and Celegwen can barely keep up as you push yourself.
The three of you deftly scale the demon's carapace. Flesh's blessing courses into you with renewed need. You clear the length of the demon in a matter of moments. There are massive margins left between the corpse and the ceiling. You duck and weave over a number of pitfalls in the top of her monstrously long body, and catch the gray light of the ruins beyond. Massive plumes of smoke filter out of the corridor. You pass by Ray only a third of the way along the demon. A swift exit is made.
There are no maggots outside the corridor. No corpses. Anything and everything that followed you into the tunnel of death has fled, or is in hiding.
You set Ofelia back down, and release Celegwen. They both stare at you— mouths agape— as you tear back into the corridor to retrieve Ray. He's still slinking across the demon by the time you reach him.
You sweep your boy into your arms to carry him back across. Your steps are made quickly at first— but the demon's carapace groans under your combined weight. It shifts under you just as you reach the tail end of the corridor. Ray trusts you with his life, but squirms against your hold. He sensed the ground giving moments before you realize what's happening. You release him from your arms— practically throwing him to safe ground.
The demon's corpse groans and slides against the walls of the stone corridor. It screeches, and in monstrous roar— it tumbles out from underneath you. You leap across the last few feet of its body.
The precipice below the demon's form stretches on indefinitely.
Time slows as you throw every ounce of momentum towards safety. Towards the other side of the divide.
The demon's corpse falls far below the depths of the ruins. The treacherous cavity left in its wake is behind you, as you crash to the edge of the opening. Teetering for a moment, you swing every muscle in your body forward. A few steps are made onto solid ground. You right yourself.
Ofelia, Celegwen, and Ray all are waiting a few yards away— scared for their lives. You take a few more cautious steps forward, and away from the ledge. The sound of the demon's carapace crashing into some unknown depths echoes throughout the entire cavern. Ofelia takes a few steps back. She won't take her eyes off of you.
Celegwen takes a step forward, and slaps you cleanly across the face. Your ears ring for a moment from the force of it. Her words hit you a moment after she says them.
"Every creature in this entire level would have heard that. What were you thinking?"
You can't help but see the streak of your own blood and bile that's on the elf's hand where she struck you. Flesh is still with you. It's a good thing, too. It sounds like there's something else coming off in the distance.
You've never seen Ofelia look so frightened. You stare hard at the streak on Celegwen's fingers, unable to respond. The halfling's voice comes out almost as timidly as yours usually does. "We can talk later, Gwen. We need to hide—"
The elf spits, "no. I won't go a step further until I know we aren't traveling with a madman." She repeats, "what were you thinking?"
>A] There is no time for this. Insist that you all get somewhere safer before you say anything. Get a hold of yourself and apologize, but refuse to elaborate until you're all in hiding or out of harm's way.
>B] You won't tolerate this sort of treatment. Celegwen was the one that interrupted your prayer and endangered everyone. You single-handedly took down that demon, and she can't even thank you for it? Tell her exactly what you were thinking: you were trying to save her life.
>C] Sincerely apologize. Dismiss Flesh's blessing and do what you can to look after everyone's injuries. Try to get Celegwen to calm down and move somewhere safer. She isn't so mad that she's forgotten your title— you don't want to, either.
>D] Write-in.
You lower your eyes— red as they are with blood and gift of Flesh. Your murmur is addressed to both the God, and to the woman standing before you. "I'm sorry."
The blood clears. The smoke fades. You release your connection to Flesh— empowering though He may be. You'll make it up to Him in other ways. You'll do better. Be better. The streaks of blood and bile across one of your scarred and shallow cheeks get smeared further, in an attempt to make yourself look less like a madman.
There's no use trying to clean yourself up. You can feel your robes snagging on your emaciated frame— and you swear to yourself to not disappoint Flesh in this way again. "I'm sorry." You say it again, with your voice returning to its normal pitch. Every word is still heavy with strain. Ray bounds over to you, worried sick. You don't quite give him the attention he needs, as you're far more concerned with the way Celegwen and Ofelia are looking at you now. Their judgement is far closer to what you're used to from other people.
To your immense relief, Ofelia's expression slowly softens. "Thanks, Richard. I know we couldn't have handled that monster. But— really, we don't have time for this. You have to be hearin' that, Gwen—"
The elf looks deeply conflicted. Her long ears are twitching. You try to reassure her. "I promise, I will explain later. We can't stay here."
Celegwen gives you a hard look. "If you jeopardize our safety like that again—"
You cut her off. The sound of hundreds of legs skittering towards you all is unmistakable. "Staying here is doing just that."
You're trying hard not to show how exhausted you are. Now is not the time. Taking hold of your holy symbol in one hand just streaks it further with blood and bile. You try and wipe the bulk of it off onto your robes, and place a hand on Ray. His breathing seems to be mellowing out now that you're all in clearer air. The sorceress in your company still seems enormously dissatisfied. You lean against your hulking dog for support while asking, "are either of you hurt?"
Ofelia clears her throat. "Nah. Throat's a bit sore, but I'll be okay— so long as we can get going. I've had enough of this."
The halfling grabs hold of her companion's arm. Celegwen eyes you as she's pulled away— while still failing to answer your question. You suspect she's hurt in a way that you can't heal merely with prayer. With a pat for Ray on his back, you motion to move. He looks up at your deep frown with concern.
If only everyone was as understanding as my dog.
"Come on, Ray."
Ofelia carves a winding path through the network of debris. It slowly opens out from the ruined corridor, and into the gray light of the demon's lair. Countless speckles of shadow move in the distance. Not only can you hear them— you can now see a great number of imps emerging. Their small bodies are adorned with pieces of trash. Horns peek out through rotting helms. They pick through the debris on just as high of an alert as your company. They know you've killed their master.
The rogue curses under her breath, then motions to you all to keep silent. You gesture to Ray to not make a sound in turn, while pushing yourself to keep up with the girls' pace. Despite Ofelia's shorter stature, she is moving as if your lives depended on it. It seems she's primarily pulling along Celegwen so she doesn't stray from your weaving path.
The four of you snake deeper into the cavern. Slipping behind countless pillars of debris, stone and larger fragments of metal jut out into view. Scarcely hidden behind the highest buildings and mounds of trash is a small division of imps. From some unseen source, they're filtering into the disgusting labyrinth you all occupy.
Celegwen could not look any more irritated. She eventually pulls away from Ofelia to better sneak behind her. You all take great pains to dodge and weave through cover, out of sight of the ever-increasing enemy. Ofelia's keen eyes and Celegwen's acute hearing make it readily apparent how these two women have survived for so long within the ruins. The halfling seems to spot movement far beyond what you can even begin to identify— and the sorceress no doubt is hearing footsteps lighter than anything you can notice.
You hold your holy symbol tightly— grateful beyond words to have their aid as you all slip between the shadows. After what feels like an hour of slinking around rubble— and evading all detection— Ofelia moves to slip even further into darkness. You're starting to seriously have trouble keeping up with her.
Both women vanish.
Before panic can properly set in, you're pulled firmly by the back of your robes. You stagger backwards from the motion— nearly pulled off your feet— and slip in between the stones directly behind you.
Gray light barely filters into the ruined building you stand in. There's piles of trash and debris stacked to the ceiling, blocking off view of the outside. The windows are boarded fast. Only a thin doorway before you seems to be unblocked. You urgently lean out to the street. to see Ray spinning about in distress. He's led inside before even turning to see your other companions.
Both women are terrified, and are worn to the bone. You hadn't even noticed, but Celegwen had been carrying all of your things this entire time. The elf shoves the backpack, shield and mace into your hands before crossing her arms, and taking a step back.
You look down at your things with dismay. Dust, blood and crushed maggots cake the sides of the pack's fabric. You brush everything off as quietly as you can, then slide down to the floor. Exhausted, you keep your back and head against the wall. Trying to listen as closely as you can for movement, it's easy enough to make out the sound of imps sweeping the cavern. Celegwen moves off to the rest of the building, examining for any other ways your pursuers could enter.
Seeing the chance for respite, Ofelia drops down beside you and makes a motion with her hands as if she's writing. You fish out some parchment and ink, and hand it to her with an apologetic look. She offers you a pained smile, and scrawls something rapidly.
The paper is handed back to you. It reads, 'I don't want to die down here. What are we going to do?'
>A] Tell her you'll hold out until the searching imps leave the area. Move as soon as you can. You don't want to give them time to find you, surround you, or make a defense. Everyone is tired, but you don't want to risk being found. You won't do any more fighting until you've rested, then will sneak across the cavern as quickly as you're able.
>B] Insist on staying put until everyone can catch their breath. Take the time to reassure Ofelia, and try to explain to Celegwen why you acted so strangely. You trust Ofelia enough to stay in the shelter she's found for a short while, at least. Keeping the trust of your companions means more to you than anything right now. Keeping quiet and saving everyone's resources would behoove you all.
>C] Ask Celegwen if she can dissipate the sound around you all. She seems pissed— and staying put for awhile could be risky. You'd rather take that risk though, have her hear the words from your own mouth, and attempt some proper rest than to move forward like this. Elaborate on what happened in the corridor, so she can at least understand.
>D] Write-in.
You give Ofelia an apologetic look, and take the parchment from her. Rather than write a reply back, you begin to pen a request to Celegwen. It's unbelievably frustrating to try and keep your hands steady with how badly they're shaking. Tedious as it is, you force the digits to produce your usual, neat handwriting. The message is consequently short. 'I want to explain. Can you dissipate the sound around us all?'
You get Ray's attention before you stand, and silently put a finger to your lips to keep his whining down. The mastiff hasn't made a sound— clearly shaken from recent events— but you want to be careful. You pat him on the head, scratching behind his ears for a moment before getting to your feet as silently as you can.
The sound of imps running just a few feet away is a constant reminder of how much danger you're all in. Ofelia gets to her feet as well, and follows closely behind you.
Does she not want to be the closest one to the exit? Or is she just that worried about me?
The walls and rotting furniture are all sticky with decay. Celegwen is standing off in what was once a small living area. You don't dare to touch the elf, and settle on holding the note aloft instead.
She immediately notices it, and takes the parchment without a second's hesitation. As she reads, her eyes light up at your suggestion— though she still seems aggravated.
With a look around the building, the elf gestures for you all to come closer. You kneel down— waving to Ray to come and join you— and the mastiff promptly complies.
Everyone backs against the furthest wall of the building as the sorceress among you whispers into the end of her staff. As she holds the knotted and twisted wood close, a small bubble of space coalesces from her lips. Within seconds, a transparent sphere expands around you all. There's a complete absence of all light and sound.
You hold Ray close against you, trusting him to not panic. The darkness dissipates entirely. Gray light can be seen once more through the cracks and holes in the nearest wall.
Celegwen says, "stay close. I produced the effect in a very small area to save my strength." The sorceress sticks a hand out in front of her, waving it only a few feet around you all in a radius to demonstrate. "Anything beyond here can easily be heard."
Equal measures of appreciation and impatience are being pointed at you. It's making you terribly uncomfortable. "Thank you," you murmur, keeping your eyes downcast.
Ray conveniently gives you someone else to look at, as you continue to hold him close to you. You issue a few commands, now that you can speak. Better to not take any chances. "Sit, boy. Stay. Good boy, Ray."
Your eyes stay lowered. "I wanted to explain what— I wanted to explain what happened."
The elf bristles. You can feel her staring at you expectantly. Ofelia simply draws into herself in fear.
They both have the decency to not interrupt.
You nervously wring your hands around the gold over your heart. Your voice is much more confident as you speak of the Gods, but your anxiety is plain to see. "You've both seen me pray to the Gods before. I— I do not control Their will. I am a vessel through which They work. It is my choice to use Their gifts, but they are not given freely. It is Their divine right to use Their gifts as they see fit." You look at Celegwen— as uncomfortable as it is— to stress what you're about to say. "I didn't mean to offend you— and I certainly never— and I certainly never meant to endanger anyone. I was trying to save your lives."
The elf shifts— clearly wanting to say something— but you continue. "Your interference could have killed all of us. The God of Flesh granted me strength while I contended with that minor demon. Taking hold of me while Flesh was working through me is a terrible offense. I am to use my own weakness—" The slip has you blush with embarrassment. "—His strength, I mean— when He sees fit to grant it."
You cast your eyes down, ashamed of yourself. "You took that from us. It's nothing short of a miracle that Flesh permitted me to stay with Him. I've neglected His teachings." As you draw closer into yourself, your bones are prominent against the pieces of cloth that hook and hang over your emaciated frame.
Nothing can stop the determination that takes over your low tone. "I intend to correct that." Both women seem to be at a loss for words, so you continue. "I know you made a promise to me. I never meant to betray your trust."
Celegwen's expression finally softens, but she doesn't reply.
A few more moments pass by before you ask, "would you permit me to pray for a moment to Mercy? For all of us. I'm unfamiliar with how long your sorcery can stay in effect, but I only need a few more words. I— I would like to keep our hunger and thirst at bay."
The heretic remembers herself. "This effect will last so long as I keep it in place. Time is merely an issue for you two. I'm sure Ofelia will appreciate the effort— but, Father— this is all deeply troubling."
Ofelia's usually rosy complexion is pale and haggard from stress. "Ya' mean well Richard, but this is… a little much."
You pull into yourself further, while trying to repress the hurt that you desperately don't want to be seen across your face. Mercy does not need to hear your words outside of the spell. She is always with you.
Your words to Her are soft— barely a whisper— yet your holy symbol responds in turn with heat and intercession. The gnawing hunger fades. The ache in your throat and mouth dissipates.
Ofelia looks to you with extreme relief as you lovingly whisper your gratitude to the Goddess— then breaks out into nervous laughter. "Somethin' weird isn't gonna happen to me now, is it?"
Unable to offer her a smile in return through the offense, you cringe. "No, Ofelia. Mercy and I have a very close connection. She does not see fit to judge me for such a small request. No matter how we feel now, we will still need to eventually eat and drink. This is simply to keep our strength up." You are still desperate for accountability. "Celegwen. Can you please remind me to find us some food and water, just as— just as soon as we're able—?"
Her silver hair bobs as she nods. Contrary to Ofelia's disheveled hair and dirt-stained skin, the elf still looks impeccable. "I assume you both need to rest. I can keep an eye out, but we will need to move quickly."
You almost smile. She seems to have come around— at least, so far as you can tell.
Ofelia makes an exaggerated yawn, with her a voice dripping with sarcasm. "Oh yeah, sure, let me just take a nap while this place is swarming with monsters."
Looking down at your arms again— robes hanging inches looser than before— the start of your smile vanishes. You say with no small measure of difficulty, "I do need to rest. I— I would greatly appreciate it if you both could keep watch. Please wake me if you suspect anything is amiss. Anything."
The two women exchange glances.
"I'll do my best. You sleep like a rock. You know that?" Ofelia punches you gently on the side of your arm. The strain on her face is evident, but she's trying to stay chipper.
Celegwen seems disgruntled, but nods her head. "It would be wise to let the search die down. Perhaps the imps will assume we fell down the precipice. I will set up an alarm in case they find another way in here."
A few moments pass with both women glancing at you. They're clearly waiting for you to rest before moving.
The gnawing sense of discomfort at the back of your mind is forced front and center. You can't ignore it any longer. "Celegwen. Ofelia. I didn't mean— I didn't mean to frighten you."
Their silence stretches on for an age.
"I know." Ofelia darts her eyes away.
Celegwen shakes her head. "There is madness in your race, Father. I see it in all of you. I understand that you meant well— but what you intend, and what we see can be entirely different things."
The rogue balks. "What the fuck kind of thing is that to say, Gwen?"
Silver eyes lock onto you. "I made a promise to aid you, Father— and to stay by your side for as long as I can. I intend to uphold that promise— but I will not silently abide by reckless endangerment of my friend's life. Nor of my own." Celegwen unstraps her short sword from her back. Wielding it with one hand, she keeps her staff within the other.
Looking towards the exit, she moves to leave the ring of silence around you all. "We will see how we fare with swarms of imps and the ruins on high alert, now that the minor demon is destroyed."
Turning her back, the elf leaves you, Ray, and Ofelia within the orb of silence. "Get some sleep, Father. I'll see to the watch."
Crossing her arms, the blonde beside you huffs in frustration. "I know you didn't mean nothin' by all the fuss, Richard. That whole mess took a lot outta you, didn't it?"
Blood and bile streaks most of your hands, robes and face. It's difficult to not take Celegwen's comments to heart. You're painfully aware that you likely do look like a madman, and only manage to shrug.
"I know we'll be alright. Just give her a little time. The old hag is really slow on the uptake, sometimes." A rag is produced from her backpack. "Here—"
"Thank you." A brief effort is made to wipe off the worst of the gore from your hands and face.
"Get some rest, 'kay? I'll probably join ya' soon enough. Gonna try to calm down Gwen a bit. Ray will look after ya', right?"
You nod, and permit Ray to lick at your cleaner hands. There's no use trying to get all the blood out from under your nails. Adrenaline and chaos was keeping you on high alert— but as soon as you try to relax, you slip deep into unconsciousness.
You're awakened by Ofelia.
"Richard! Richard!! RICHARD, GET UP, DAMMIT ALL—!"
Sleep hangs off of you like a lead weight as you bolt upright. It's unbearably dark.
Ofelia is shaking you hard. "RICHARD!"
Pulling away slightly, you murmur with as much urgency as your sleep-addled mind can process. "What's wrong—?"
"Fer fuck's sake Richard, get up. They've found us. Those imps— they're surrounding the building—!"
Ray growls from beside you at the unseen threat. You get to your feet as fast as you can. Staggering slightly, you register that Celegwen is standing just a few feet away. Her face is slick with sweat. Staff and sword in hand, she's glaring at the opening you all initially entered from. Starlight is flooding out of her weapons to hold the enemy at bay with a solid wall of arcane energy.
Ofelia tosses you your gear. You catch them with a little difficulty, and rapidly strap on your backpack and shield. Your mace weighs heavy in your free hand as the rogue stammers. "Richard, we don't have any way outta' here. I've been searchin' the buildin' for a long while, but it's all debris. This whole place is really unstable, and there must be fifty— no, sixty of 'em out there at least!"
>A] Find a structural weakness in the small building. Have Celegwen hold off the imps, and break down the wall. Create enough of a mess to escape, and run for your lives away from the swarm of imps. You know that Ofelia saw the library from the entrance to the cavern. Maybe you can make a break for it.
>B] Hold off the imps yourself. Have Celegwen dissipate some of the wall so everyone can quietly escape. Create a distraction to buy everyone time, and sneak away as soon as you have the chance. (Write-in what kind of distraction you wish to make.)
>C] Pray to Vengeance to wipe out the swarm of imps in one fell strike. Remove the problem entirely. It will likely take a lot out of you, but you'd rather deal with the problem now than later.
>D] Write-in.
You can handle a dozen imps, but this is too much. "Where— where is the building the weakest?"
Ofelia gives you a downright demonic grin. "Suicidal as always, Richard." Without waiting for a response, she gestures for you and Ray to move towards the back of the building. "Come on, over here! Quickly—!"
"Hold on, Celegwen!"
There's no reply to your attempt at reassurance as you run to follow Ofelia. The rogue slinks behind a pile of rubble, and disappears entirely into the shadows. "In here. There's a huge break in the stone. Looks like it could come down easy."
You slide in sideways between the debris. You don't quite thank Agriculture, but you're grateful for how little there is of you to get between the stone and rubble. Surely enough, you can see the gray light of the cavern beyond a large crack in the wall.
You call out to Celegwen, and turn your mace around. "GET READY TO RUN!"
From a pivot of your feet, up through your torso, and into all the strength your arms possess, you drive the back end of your mace into the opening. It takes no further effort to drive apart the building. With a hard twist of the handle, the stone instantly begins to crumble and break. You don't have time to deliberate over the lack of pain from your shout, and swing your shield overhead.
Guarding yourself, Ofelia, and Ray as best as you can prevents every large chunk of stone overhead from crushing or maiming you all. You don't want to wait a second longer than necessary. Your arms instantly ache from the downpour of rock. Fighting to keep your balance, you brace against the edge of the opening at your back, and kick the wall out in front of you. A passage is made just wide enough to escape through.
"Go!" You practically shove them outside. "Run! To the library—!"
Your command is cut short as you deflect a series of even heavier stones. Ofelia's and Ray's small figures disappear from sight as they run off into the cavern beyond. Celegwen comes up from behind you, and practically dives into the opening you've created. At the last possible moment, she reaches back, and pulls you by your robes to follow. You nearly hit your head as you break out of the collapsing building. Dozens of imps screech and skitter as they see you escape.
A torrent of demons pours out from inside and all around the building. Several more are hot on your heels just from the opening you created.
You run for your life, while tossing aside the stone and dust that had collapsed on your shield. Daring a look back is out of the question, so you make a quick inspection of your companion. Celegwen keeps the pace. She's unharmed, but looks more exhausted than you've ever seen her.
"You sleep far too heavily, Father—"
Nothing further can be said as you both catch up and overtake Ofelia and Ray. Both your's and Celegwen's imposing strides are double that of the halfling's.
The elf groans as she realizes what needs to be done, takes the lead, and grabs the small woman's hand to pull her along. You all sprint further ahead with renewed effort. A stampede of imps overflows from the debris behind you all.
Ofelia lets out a small shout. "Th-this way!"
Shield in hand, you dive to the left, and deflect an arrow as it streaks by. It slams into the wooden defense— rather than into your friends— and nearly knocks you off of your feet.
All the stamina you possess goes into a mad dash behind your friends, while keeping your shield held high. Ofelia guides you all through a series of stone pillars and towering debris. Her haphazard course and use of the environment keeps most of the imp's ranged weapons at bay, but you're rapidly losing steam.
Unused to pushing yourself so hard in such a weakened state, Ray literally pushes you ahead when he can. You pour yourself into the flight with renewed effort with his encouragement.
A number of remarkably tall buildings leer ahead. Their windows are darkened, and not a soul can be seen. The light suddenly shifts hard from gray to black.
You almost stop in place, but Ofelia calls out, "keep moving!"
The elf holds her staff aloft— still keeping the lead— and shouts in a fluid, bright language beyond your comprehension. Light appears from the end of her weapon, and takes in a small radius of the darkness ahead. The occasional arrow streaks past you, but the aim rapidly becomes more haphazard. Before long, it stops entirely. Every attempt to look behind you is futile. Darkness is all-encompassing, save for the faint radius of dissipation Celegwen has maintained.
Your footsteps and everyone's hard breath becomes the only source of sound.
The ground slowly shifts from a rocky plain to smooth and polished stone. It's harder to keep your traction— scuffed as your shoes are— but you push yourself to keep the gradually slowing pace.
You're relieved beyond description when everyone comes down to a walk. Celegwen mutters something under her breath, and shrinks the radius of her spell to just barely cover your bodies. Ray whines as shadows close in on you all, but you shush him.
Something pierces the silence. There's a strained sound up ahead. It's akin to a human's voice— and almost sounds like screaming. You strain your ears, and can make out the noise.
It's a nauseating blend of sobbing and laughter.
Something mad lies ahead.
Celegwen turns to you slick with sweat and dust, and as pale as a ghost. She gestures to the darkness beyond. It's nearly impossible to make out, but there is the faintest outline of a building that extends up from the shadows. No windows can be seen on its face. There is no light to be found. The only evidence of life is the echo of countless humans in a fit of insanity.
"Do you see it?"
You nod, kneeling down to keep Ray steady. "Yes."
Ofelia's voice is low, out of breath, and deathly afraid. "Keep your guard up. There's humans ahead."
Chapter 17: The Heart of Humanity "Fervent beats beneath the surface."
The sight and sound of your pursuers has long since vanished. Darkness consumes the path ahead— which you cannot discern. The sorceress in your company continues to illuminate only your faces. The only forms you can make out beyond that of your companions is a towering building on the horizon. If you squint, you can discern buildings further beyond the tower's outline— but the surrounding structures are of little concern. You have suffered much to get to your destination. You don't want to get distracted now.
It feels as if you all have been walking for hours in the darkness. The barely perceptible weight of your pack is a harsh reminder of how far your resources have dwindled. You're reminded as well of how much you've been through. You'd thank Celegwen and Ofelia for aiding you as much as they have— but you're afraid of making a sound. What was once all-encompassing silence is now frequently punctuated by hysterical screaming, sobbing and laughter. It can't be from a single individual, as the voices from the buildings ahead wildly differ.
Your body aches. The burn in your limbs and lungs from running for your life, marching forward without pause, praying to multiple deities within the span of a few hours, and the stress of your current situation bears heavily on your emaciated frame. Still, you press on— nudged occasionally by Ray. He's obediently obeyed your commands to remain silent as you march on, and has kept you on your feet each and every time you feel your strength faltering.
Just when it feels like you can't take another step, Ofelia waves from ahead, then back to Celegwen. They traded places at the lead of your company as soon as the pace had slowed.
The sorceress murmurs a spell into the end of her staff, which dissipates all light from it for the briefest of moments. Starlight flows around you all in a halo. The sound of screams and laughter ceases for a blessed moment. The only thing you can hear is Celegwen's methodical voice. "We're here."
Although you cannot see her, you can not only hear Ofelia speak out— her voice seems to be everywhere. "This is fuckin' weird, Gwen. Can we get a lil' light?"
"I cannot sustain both effects simultaneously, Ofelia. I'm at my limit after fending off our attackers for such an extended length of time. I fear it will be long before we can rest again, if we proceed ahead."
Even the restrained and timid nature of your tone echoes around you all. "You both have been here before— and cautioned me that this place was terribly guarded. Is there no place to rest nearby? I can make out quite a few buildings, and although— although it's difficult to tell if they're occupied— surely there must be somewhere we can regroup."
Celegwen replies, "it has been no less than two weeks since we were last here. The patrols have no doubt changed, but there was an abundance of demons in this area when last we came. I had hoped that our reckless escape from those small demons would have pulled them away, but there may still yet be some remaining. There are many humans here as well, Father. We were attacked by several of them on our last excursion to this place, and deemed the venture not worth the effort."
"We've got us much more important things to search for now, o'course." It almost sounds like Ofelia is trying to reassure you. "I think Richard and Ray can handle some trouble, but I dunno what else might be up there. It's damn hard to make out anything. I can scout ahead, but the space up ahead is a real pain. Might take me awhile."
>A] Ask Ofelia to scout ahead alone, while you and Ray guard Celegwen. Give the elf some time to recuperate, and take a breather as well. Decide on a time to go searching for her if she takes too long to come back.
>B] Insist that you all stay together. There's safety in numbers, and none of you are entirely certain what you're getting into. Make a clear path towards the entrance, come what may.
>C] Pray to Spirit to discern exactly what lies ahead. Her blessing can reveal demons, liars, and blasphemers (exactly the sort of humans that no doubt plague this place). Your own spirit is worse for the wear, but maybe invoking Her can help.
>D] Write-in.
The usual trembling in your frame isn't from muscle wasting or strain. The sound of countless men and women lost to the Catalyst— faint as it is— is almost enough to make you weep. Face wrought with worry, you turn to Ofelia. You trust her skill enough to not have to spell everything out. "Please scout ahead for us. Carefully. There's— there is something that I need to do here."
Mercy's warmth, radiance and words have always brought you tremendous comfort. The tremor all throughout your body subsides as you take hold of your holy symbol. The gentle heat radiating from it further eases the pain in your hands and limbs.
She asked me to bring Our children together. Perhaps I can bring Her light to even the darkest of places.
A halfling's reassuring grin meets you— even in this near-absolute darkness. "You got it. You both stay safe. If I'm not back in an hour, come for me. 'Kay?"
Leaning down just slightly, Celegwen places a hand on her shoulder. "That won't be necessary. Keep your eyes out for yourself."
With a nod, the blonde gives the bulk of her equipment to Celegwen. You can barely make out the myriad daggers she retains and stashes inside and around her clothing. It looks as if the weapons and a small pouch with unseen contents are the only items important enough to keep close to her side.
You stop the woman moments before she turns to leave. "I'm going to pray, to— to guide my children. It may diffuse their madness. Please try your best to not hurt them."
"You think you'll be okay?"
You don't know how to answer. A long moment passes. "I couldn't forgive myself if I didn't— if I didn't at least try."
Fidgeting, you glance away from all eyes staring in disbelief at you. Even Ray has his gaze fixed on you. You rapidly murmur, "just stop looking at me and go on ahead."
A huff is made in reply, before Ofelia laughs to herself. "Alright, alright." She turns and slinks off into the shadows. Her voice trails behind you all for moments after she's left.
"Good luck."
The echo of her farewell fades. Celegwen respects your request to avert her eyes as she asks, "how dangerous is what you're attempting to do?"
"The last time that I attempted to sway so many at a single time, it robbed me of— it robbed me of blood. Not much more. I may lose consciousness—" You give your dog a pat on his side, ever-relieved to have his company. "—but Ray will see to it that I'm alright. You will not be in any danger, Celegwen. The Gods are Merciful."
"I'll continue the spell for as long as I'm able. I am very tired, though, Father. I wish to rest as soon as we can—"
"There's no need. Mercy is with me. You can drop the spell."
She seems to be coming around further, and murmurs into the end of her staff. The sight of her releasing the aura around you both— and seriously trusting in you— further eases your nerves.
The starlight that has been enabling you to speak to one another without detection fades from view. The only light that remains comes from the faint outline of the library ahead. Taking a knee, you gesture to Ray to come to your side— just in case.
The shadow that now envelops Mercy's holy symbol cannot eclipse Her warmth and light. The countless cracks along your soul slowly begin to mend, thanks to the comfort of Her embrace. You don't need to speak. There's no need for words between you. You bow your head, and reach out to the countless souls ahead of you that have likely never felt the Goddess of Compassion. You think to your first sermon, and how lost the people of your hometown were that day. You think of how close they all were to falling from Her light indefinitely.
There is no need to speak— but you can't help but whisper a prayer. "Mercy. The afflicted need not be abhorred. The Father asks not for retribution, but for Your grace. Let Our children into Our arms. That We may love them— that We may guide them— release them from their turmoil."
As the last words leave your lips, Time escapes you. The weakness of your flesh is made irrelevant. Every last flaw within your spirit is forgotten. Mercy grants you endless comfort. The Mother reaches out to Her children with open arms.
The Father asks for them to remember hope, and they listen. Hundreds of lost souls have forgotten until now what it is to love. These men and women have fallen so far into their own darkness that they have turned from their very Goddess. They have turned from themselves— and all that it is to be human. Their insanity may have granted them safety from their captors, but it cannot save them from sin.
The connection you all share runs deeper than the skin.
Deeper than blood.
Deeper than even the base of the ruins.
Though your children have been lost, they know that they are found.
The radiance working through you permits your mortal eyes to gaze upon an unholy congregation. They filter down the stone steps in a daze. A familiar, soft glow emanates from their eyes. Not even the darkness of the ruins can stand between Mercy and your children's return. No demonic city can contain them. Their procession is made with your love in their hearts— and Mercy in their sight.
That very same light is in you. It is not merely thanks to the Goddess of Compassion that you can gaze to every lunatic here with an open heart. You stand considerably taller than most men and women of Corcaea, and can recognize the gathering before you as your kin. Unwashed. Untamed. Unhinged. Every bit of tattered cloth and the filth upon their faces obscures all identity, history, and sensibility.
You did not truly come to the ruins for history or nobility. Your bleeding heart looks out to faces lined with weariness. One or two lost souls collapse from exhaustion before ever reaching the crowd before you. Others lean hard onto their fellow man for support. Those with the will to stand of their own volition wait silently for your answer. Several dozen people have now filtered out from the darkness— but many did not possess the strength to reach you.
As the all-encompassing darkness relents, your heart catches in your throat. The very ground you stand on seems to have shifted. Old and new blood alike litters the floor of the ruins. Though the stone underfoot is solid, there are impossibly deep pockets of darkness all around. Your eyes swim as you try to focus on any one of the chasms. A single misstep in this area looks as though it could lead to a plummet down to the base of the world itself. It's far easier to focus on the mounds of debris that loom around every corner.
The buildings up ahead are far closer than you first suspected. All are perched at a stunning elevation. Few railings or banners flank the staircases that lead up to a city of light. Massive towers, sprawling halls, and myriad stone columns creates a dizzying display of sorcery. The moving architecture up ahead is from an age far more advanced than any you recognize.
Your trained eye attempts to focus on the city's illuminated heart. The very sight of it makes your head spin. Though the countless chasms all around appear endless, the base of this structure must extend even deeper still. Its base is shrouded in a darkness that not even Mercy's light can pierce.
Reeling backwards from the abyss, you try to focus on the stairs ahead. You have to crane your neck backwards just to catch a glimpse of the entrance to the library. There must be hundreds of steps between you and your destination. It's a small comfort that the peak of the stairs lies not even halfway up the central structure. No matter how deeply you've delved, you know that this building must be enchanted. It not only extends to the bottom of the world— its outline reaches up into an endless night.
The taste of copper is a bitter reminder of the humans that you are asking to save. It's been years since you last asked so much of Mercy. Though you would like to speak out— to reassure Celegwen, or to speak to your flock— blood flows freely from your lips. The strain of losing so much has you waver— but neither hours of pursuit, illness, weakness, or waking nightmares will stop you.
There's just too many of them.
There must be fifty of your children heading towards you— and every one of them feels like another fracture in your soul. It's more than you can take. More than even the Goddess of Love can permit.
You recognize your limits, and wouldn't dare to ask Mercy to hurt you. You release your embrace just enough to keep the men and women gathered before you at a safe distance. They silently waver, with their eyes glazed over by the blessing of Mercy.
A large volume of the screams and laughter from within the city has subsided. It looks like— for a time— you have quelled their madness.
There's no telling how long this will last for.
>A] Try and speak aloud to the humans you have gathered. Attempt to guide them with your voice. Preach Her word and hope that it takes someone. Anyone.
>B] Look through the crowd. Try to find a human that looks to have been down here for the shortest period of time. Question a singular individual, if they can still speak.
>C] While the crowd is subdued, make a break to find Ofelia. These humans are clearly insane. You would much rather run for the library while there are far fewer people inhabiting it than to risk having a mob on your hands.
>D] Write-in.
You bow your head once more. With thanks to Mercy for Her gifts, you release Her. Gold fades from your vision. A shaky effort is made to wipe the blood from your face. Your robes are so filthy, the gesture is practically useless. Even an attempt to stagger to your feet has you nearly collapse from the effort.
Ray moves right by your side and leans into you to prevent a fall. You grit your teeth, and try to rise again. You're so dizzy, you have to immediately take a knee again. Every limb aches and burns. You may have exerted Mercy's will over far more individuals in the past, but these lost souls were far harder to sway. It's a miracle you're still moving at all.
Celegwen sees your struggle to rise, and comes up behind you. Before you can protest, she wraps your arm around her shoulder. You're only a few inches taller than her, and are significantly lighter. She's able to help you to your feet with some effort.
"Thank you." You murmur while trying to wipe more blood away from your face— hoping to not get any on her.
She looks out to the subdued mass before you. "It seems that whatever you've done has worked."
"It won't—" You wince, interrupting yourself to clutch onto your sides and chest. Your lungs and heart feel like they're on fire.
The elf gestures for you to lean harder into her. "Are you going to be alright?"
"It won't last for long." She doesn't call you out for deflecting. "Please help keep me on my feet. I am— I am not finished here."
Her sword is put up to better shoulder you, while her scowl persists. "Go on."
Over swaying bodies and weary heads, you look to the furthest edges of the crowd. It appears that no one else is leaving the city yet. "I hate to ask..." You dare to meet Celegwen's gaze for a split second— before you dart your eyes away. "Can you dissipate the sound around us all? I want them to hear me in the back, but—"
"No. You'll have to make this quick, Father."
The frown on your face is etched about as deeply as it can get. You won't compromise Mercy's word, and straighten up as best as you can. Pain radiates within your chest, throughout your back— and stops at your voice. You are a preacher, and speak clearly.
"I know you are lost."
You look to the last few humans trickling down from the library's steps. There's not a demon in sight. You dare to throw your voice further.
"Do we not all stray? Is it not human to turn from one another? There is no need to wander. My children, you have been blessed. You have been embraced by Mercy. She has guided you away from your madness and into Her light. You need not stray from Her path. You need only accept Her into your heart—"
A wave of blood comes up with a violent cough. You restrain yourself as best as you can, turn your head, and spit the crimson to the floor of the ruins. It takes a moment to remember how to breathe, with how badly your chest is aching. It feels like it's getting harder to stand, but you redouble your efforts. You almost thought you saw someone move in the crowd.
"You need not practice Her tenets to feel Her this day. You need not fear Her. There is nothing to fear more than the absence of Her light. There is NOTHING— no greater suffering— than to stray from Her path."
A hooded figure has his head bowed not in delirium— but in thought. As desperately as you want to continue, you're unable to speak any further. The start of more blood is at the back of your throat, and all throughout your chest. The last of your strength goes to projecting one more phrase.
"The Gods are Merciful."
You double over and pull away from Celegwen as you cough violently into your sleeve. She grabs you hard by your shoulders and waist to keep you from collapsing to the floor. Ray whines against your side.
Something has gone horribly wrong. This much blood shouldn't be flowing after an invocation. Just as Celegwen opens her lips to speak, you wheeze, "there—! That— that man!" You point with a violently trembling arm. So much blood has been produced from your cough, crimson can be clearly seen against the black of your ragged sleeves. "Please. We need to—" Another wet cough interjects your plea. Frustrated, you simply point again and try to pull Celegwen towards the man's direction. She complies, and shoulders all of Ofelia's gear as you slowly make your way into the crowd. "Step— aside—!"
Another frustrated motion is made to the throng ahead of you. With a wave of your arm, the quelled mass gently parts before you.
I'm still controlling them.
They move with complete subservience as you're helped towards the hooded individual. He remains unresponsive, and keeps his head bowed as you approach. His appearance gives you serious pause. His face is scarred— though nowhere near as much as yours. His skin is paler than death, though he seems relatively young and unharmed by the ruins. Aside from the redness of his hair, the many freckles discoloring his features, and his presence here at the base of the world— you're taken aback by how normal he seems.
He doesn't speak. The man is either lost in thought, or is unwilling to acknowledge your company. You all stop a few feet before him. There's no sound to be heard of violence in the distance. No sight of anyone approaching. Nevertheless, Celegwen says, "we need to be brief, Father."
>(What do you ask of this stranger?)
You swallow another wave of blood, and look the lost soul straight in the face. "Step into Her light, my son. There is no need for fear."
The man raises his eyes to yours. They're full of light.
"You are not afraid. Speak, my son." You try to not lose your patience at his nod in response. "There is little time for us here. What would you wish for yourself?"
His voice comes out dry and withered with strain. "Mercy."
You can tell the tone was once strong, despite its current state. Yet even after scrutinizing his tattered clothing, you can't make out any identifying markers. No crests. No holy symbols. Nothing of note save for the unusual hue of his hair and skin. "Who are you?"
The man's voice sinks deeply into himself, as if he could find the answer in his very soul. "I do not recall."
"You seem to be far better off than many, here— do you know why?"
"I hid." Vigilance suddenly hyper-focuses the man's features. "They are coming."
The footsteps are unmistakable now. Ray begins growling, and Celegwen starts to pull you away. "We don't have time for this, Father—"
"No—!" You cough, and struggle against her with everything you have. There was courage in this man's tone. You match his intensity, despite barely being able to stand. "Lead these people away from here. Seek the surface to safety. Look for the spiders with bells. Tell them that Father Anscham is guiding you— Celegwen, please—!"
"There are demons ahead, Father. You have attracted them once again."
The elf succeeds in dragging you away— but neither her, nor the rapid beat of your heart can stop you from hearing his reply.
Chapter 18: The Stairs to Ostedholm "Try not to think about who you could have saved."
Though the crowd remains subservient, they begin to disperse as Celegwen drags you away. With a final attempt to wrest yourself free, you spit, "can you at least see what's coming?"
She's looking for cover. "A number of demons have recognized our location. They are wielding spears, Father. I suspect that they are poisoned. This does not bode well for us or Ofelia—"
Ray snarls at an unseen figure. Before you can process what threat is in the distance, a javelin streaks into the crowd. Every inch of you tenses as the weapon sails within arms reach— then impales a woman's head directly beside you.
The sound of the weapon's impact and the crack in her skull doesn't even register to your senses. Every nerve screams to run from the item sticking out from both sides of her head. A few strands of her black hair drip with blood as Mercy's light fades from her eyes. Celegwen makes a mortified sound as the woman's body collapses to the floor. The victim lands face-first with a wet crack. Blood pools from under her split skull. It's the only motion in sight.
None of the humans around you turn to flee or fight. They are restrained. They are Merciful.
Your blood runs cold.
>A] Command the mob to flee for their lives, and rise to defend them. Pray to Flesh to strengthen you, and charge the demons without fear of immediate death. You are barely able to stand now— but with His blessing? You certainly can make work of your mace and shield.
>B] Use the mob as a human shield. Sneak away with Celegwen and Ray. Try to find Ofelia, and get into the library while the demons are clearly pulled out of it. You are no coward, but these men and women may already be too lost to be saved.
>C] Call out to the man you spoke with, and demand that he lead the crowd to safety. Pray to Mercy to protect you all, and seek out Ofelia. Her talents would be better aided if you created enough of a distraction.
>D] Write-in.
Two more spears streak through the air. Two more people are impaled. The congregation that you've pacified is utterly incapable of defending themselves against the growing onslaught. You call out to them in desperation.
"FLEE! Flee for your lives! These demons know nothing of Mercy!"
No one seems to respond, and Celegwen will simply not stop pulling you away from your flock. You struggle with the bulk of your shield, and silently vow to stop shaming Flesh as you unshoulder your defense. Pain carves through your chest from calling out. It's more painful still to resign to a distraction. The command you make to your allies is made with as much severity as you possess.
"Get down."
The broad, circular, metal-banded shield you keep in hand is positioned towards the source of the attack. Celegwen helps you kneel beside a nearby pile of debris. Your thread-bare silhouette is completely concealed as you all crowd behind your shield for cover. Ray leans hard against you as both a defender, and a reminder of comfort. Your free arm wraps around him for his own protection, too.
A poison-tipped spear flies over Celegwen's head, and makes her flinch as you speak.
"Ofelia will have heard me. We just need to buy her a little time. Stay close."
The crowd around you slowly begins to disperse. They're moving away from the library— and towards the lair of the demon you just slayed. You grimace at the thought of every wave of imps that chased you here— until you catch sight of the man you spoke to before. It's hard to make out anything more in the growing darkness, but he seems to know where he's headed. He's taking a number of men and women by the hand, while attempting to guide them in an entirely different direction.
You bow your head, and pray to Mercy to keep you all safe. The words scarcely leave your lips, and you feel Her beside you. You feel terribly drained, yet relief overwhelms your exhaustion. Through the light in your eyes, you witness every spear streak harmlessly past yours and Celegwen's heads.
The diversion will be worth the effort. Parting your arm from Ray, you begin to fish around in your pack for a torch.
Sweat and fear for her life puts newfound strain into Celegwen's speech. "What are you doing?"
The lord of defense will not wait idly by. "Creating a distraction— so you can fight back."
She looks at you with her teeth gritted, and nods.
"Start grabbing spears."
The flint in hand is struck. Sparks fly over treated wood. You wave the torch overhead, and watch as the kindled flame blazes forth. Before cinders fall onto the blood of your sleeves, or smoke climbs into the darkness above, Celegwen bolts away from you. She's an open target.
You swing the fire and light overhead and bellow, "OVER HERE—!"
At least five spears shoot around you in reply. The sound of Celegwen sprinting and sweeping up the projectiles is music to your ears. She's pitting the enemy's weapon against them— and grants a further distraction away from your congregation.
As more people filter away from the city, you nudge Ray closer behind you. He's snarling with enough intensity to alert any demon to your presence. Your constant reassurance to him intermingles with feverish prayer.
The Goddess of Protection is with you.
"Stay, boy. Mercy— we'll be alright. Stay. Good boy, Ray. Mercy, tolerate this transgression. Guide their aim, that they may be restrained. Come on, Ray. Stay here with me—"
You're cut short by the sound of a devastatingly heavy object crashing to the floor. It can't be anything organic. The entire field of battle goes silent for an endless moment.
You realize that Ofelia has likely taken down one of the demons, and redouble your efforts. "COWARDS! COME ON! CAN'T TAKE A SINGLE PRIEST?!"
Pain spikes in your temples from raising your voice. Fortunately, giving into the urge to curl into yourself saves you from another javelin. The weapon sinks straight into your shield, and its point penetrates straight through the other side. Your ribs are only an inch away. You let out a ragged breath, and mind the weapon as you brace hard against your defense.
Countless weapons sail through the air, and they're all pointed your way. The enemy may be aiming for the bits of your robes that are too loose to keep flush against your body.
For many long minutes you frantically pray, and dare to wave the torch from time to time— but the pain in your head is building rapidly.
Your words fade, and you don't dare to call out again. After several more minutes, the pain in your head is almost too intense to see— let alone inspect the source of four more deafening crashes.
You can barely keep the torch aloft. Crouched deeply behind your shield, Ray pushes up against you for your continued, mutual protection. Someone taps on your shoulder. You turn around wide-eyed, and swing the flame in hand their way.
It's Ofelia. She's up to her elbows in blood, and grins sheepishly at you as she catches the torch by its handle. The blood on the rogue's arms is not her own. It's black, full of viscera, and is obviously a demon's. Her weapons are slick with the same substance. She doesn't offer you a hand to get up, and neither does Celegwen. You both slowly lower the torch while Celegwen runs up to you both. She discards a spear from each hand.
Everyone collapses to the floor. The demon slayer speaks out first. "Got 'em."
"Yes, you did." Celegwen sighs.
You remain silent, and wince at their every syllable. Though your head is splitting, you dare to look up from behind your shield, and confirm the kills. The inert bodies of four minor demons can barely be seen in the dark. Inky, jagged knives protrude from their bodies in every direction. You're reminded of cacti. Each one of the figures is twisted into a distinctive shape, despite their many spikes. The one with the longest limbs is adorned with spears, and was likely the source of the assault. Others are more squat, and seem prime for defense. They likely worked in tandem. All of them have suffered from Ofelia's skill. Tar-like blood leeches away from their forms, and there are no other figures to be seen. No humans. Nothing but the city beyond, and your breathless allies.
You breathe a sigh of relief, drop your shield, and return to laying on the ground. Relief soaks into your tortured frame as you stop moving for a blessed moment. You speak partially to the Goddess, and somewhat to the rogue beside you— but mostly to the floor. "Thank you."
"You're welcome." Ofelia gives you a fleeting, genuine smile— before dread takes her gaze to the city above. "Yer gonna hate me for this guys, but we can't stay here. There were way more up ahead. Way more. Looks like they've beefed up the security here since we last visited, Gwen."
The elf's exasperation is breathy, but deathly serious. "Of course they did. Were there any safe passages this time around? Any gaps in the patrols?"
"Oh yeah. Richard's stunt got a good number of 'em pulled out. They're all worked up. More are comin', sure, but we got a good bit of relief here. At least near the entrance. Not sure if you wanna just barrel in there, though. There's always all the side passages, but they're guarded pretty heavily. I could try and carve some of 'em up, but I'd rather have you three behind me..."
>A] Suggest that you all go in the main entrance to recover for a few minutes, then back out and take a side route. Defer to Ofelia's judgement as to what's the most manageable. You can't properly think with your head splitting the way it is.
>B] Go straight to one of the side passages. Ask Ofelia what your options are, while you have a few moments of relief. It will no doubt be difficult, but you'd rather not risk entering the front of such a heavily protected building. You can rest when you know you're somewhere safe.
>C] Go straight into the main entrance. Rest as long as you're able, and deal with whatever trouble comes your way. You'll deal with any demons or humans as they present themselves. You can't think ahead when you're this tired.
>D] Write-in.
The low torchlight sears onto your closed eyes, and burns into the growing pain within your skull. Ray licks the sides of your robes while whining in reassurance. It's agonizing to speak, but you have to try before your headache reaches critical mass. "You have— you have been here before. I trust your decisions. I am more than spent."
Ofelia leers over you. You draw into yourself. She flashes you another smile. "I gotta' get this gunk cleaned off me sometime, and you're lookin' worse for the wear. Let's head inside. If anyone gives us trouble, we'll give 'em what for."
"Hopefully after a break." Celegwen's voice drags as she moves to stand as well. "Come on, Father. On your feet."
"I would like to, but I will— I will need a hand." The light is unbearable, but being pulled to your feet or being carried blindly would be far worse. Grimacing, you let your eyes drift open. Celegwen is kneeling beside you— right where Ofelia was just standing.
You can't help but let out a gasp in pain as Celegwen firmly grabs hold of your free hand, and pulls you to your feet. Slinging just one of your arms around her shoulders, the elf is able to support you with far more ease than you're comfortable with. Ofelia picks up your shield, and pouts as Celegwen gestures for her to hand it over. They don't need to exchange any words to stress that the equipment is far too large for a halfling.
While they distribute the rest of everyone's gear, you keep a hand to your skull. Celegwen takes the torch from you as well— and promptly puts it out. "This is going to attract far more trouble than it's worth."
You can't protest. Easing the building pain occupies all of your concentration.
It's quiet and dark. We're moving slowly. Try to stay calm. Try not to think about who you could have saved. There will be a time for that…
Later.
Keep moving. Keep it together.
Ofelia takes the lead. Ray keeps a close eye on you and Celegwen from the rear. The elf can apparently see well in the dark, and murmurs a word of direction from time to time as your group navigates.
You keep your eyes shut through all of it. Blood sticks to the soles of your shoes.
Everyone pauses in front of the enormous staircase leading up to the library. Where there was once a flat, unbroken plane of solid stone is now a narrow bridge.
"The space has changed." Celegwen murmurs as softly as she can. "It's a good thing you're staying close. Ofelia may have gotten lost if you hadn't created such a distraction before as well." She offers you a slight smile.
You keep a hand to your head, and don't particularly care to deliberate on how this could have affected the men and women who were trying to escape this way. Your grimace lessens, and you try offering a nod.
The pain in your head spikes tenfold. The rogue in your midst takes a cursory glance around before darting ahead to scout. Her voice ramps up your agony even further. "Is he going to make it?" The halfling corrects herself with some annoyance. "Up the stairs, I mean?"
It feels like a knife is being driven into the back of your skull. Barely able to stand, you lean as much as you can onto Celegwen. Her frown is palpable, as you fight to stay aware of your surroundings. "Father?"
"I'll b-be fine." Stammering fails to get the words out as quickly as possible. An attempt to right yourself has you leaning even harder against Celegwen.
She bends slightly from the motion, then suddenly slings your shield over your pack with a single hand. You nearly collapse, but she keeps you on your feet. Her slender hands shift you almost onto her back, gets both of your arms around her shoulders, and enables her to carry all your weight. The sorceress gives you a reassuring grimace. "You'll be fine."
"Come on." Ofelia calls out from just a few yards ahead, squinting into the shadow and unnatural light. "I'm sure they'll be looking for us. We'll hide once we're inside."
Replying is out of the question. As you all ascend the stairs leading into the tower ahead, you can't part your hands from clutching at your head and chest. It's difficult to place where the pain is more severe, but nothing is helping.
Celegwen looks at you periodically as you do your best to help climb. The stairs are steep, smooth, and there's no railings to speak of. Ray nips at the elf's heels every time she falters or pauses.
You do everything in your power to help her with the effort, and Ofelia runs back frequently to check on you both, but everyone is worn thin. Your estimate was correct. There are easily several hundred steps leading to the library's entrance.
By the time you all reach the top of the steps, you're all ready to collapse again. Yet Ofelia is either undeterred by her exhaustion, or too frightened for your collective safety to rest. She rushes ahead to closely scrutinize the front doors.
You hadn't even noticed the entrance. Her small, blonde, hooded silhouette is hazy. The loss of so much blood is stealing the last of your sight and strength. It's been some time since you attempted to aid Celegwen with the climb. Any additional motion sets off another explosion of pain.
The halfling produces a small bag that she's kept close to her person. With her gloves back on, she extracts several small tools. The long, thin, and metal devices are used to fiddle with something inside of the grooves within both metal doors.
A small click causes her to jump back. The rogue silently tackles you and Celegwen to the ground right at the top of the stairs. Celegwen cushions most of the hard fall. As she groans from the landing, Ray growls, and continues aggravating Ofelia's assault on you. You don't call him off, and struggle not to scream. "Wh-what's wrong—?!"
The door slowly opens. Ofelia is visibly sweating, deathly pale, and looks over her shoulder in abject horror. "Stay down."
"Ray. Down."
The mastiff obliges instantly, but continues his growling. There's a faint ticking sound. It stops as soon as it starts— and is followed by a faint melody.
Ofelia has yet to stop staring. "The fuck?"
The woman underneath you may have temporarily fallen unconscious. As Celegwen stirs, all the blood left in your body rushes to your face. Sandwiched between two women, you scramble to get off of them. Ofelia permits you to move safely aside before she creeps towards the door.
From your position on the ground— now a safe distance away from both women— you see the blonde scrutinizing a mechanical instrument that's come out from beneath the door. It's what's responsible for the quiet melody.
This music is too quiet to be used as an alarm. For what purpose—
With a groan, Celegwen slowly drags herself off of the floor. "What trap was worth that…?"
"It's a music... box? Thing?" Ofelia is making no motion to test the item before her.
You awkwardly wait for Celegwen to get to her feet and help you up. A quick command is made to Ray as you all get back on your feet. Ofelia has carefully opened the entrance, and permits everyone to step into the doorway of the library.
On the planks of a wooden floor lies a small instrument. It's no larger than a child's toy, and vaguely resembles an organ. It's almost as enchanting as the real, gargantuan instrument you've seen in the holy capital's church. The tune it plays carries a high pitch, creates a mechanical noise from within the contraption, and is something you have never heard before. While Ofelia closely scrutinizes the object, Celegwen looks towards it with curiosity as well, and moves you directly in front of the doorway.
You gasp. Hundreds of books, scrolls, loose pages, and countless sagging bookshelves hug the walls. The library is not only lined from floor to ceiling with parchment— the very first room you lay eyes on is teeming with life. It's no wonder why the humans you saw earlier were gathered here. There's running water, and greenery overflowing from a little stream running through the room. There's no telling where the source of the stream could be— but the ceiling stretches on upwards, and out.
There are many rooms beyond here. The pain in your head is hard to ignore— but you move slightly ahead, and pull out from Celegwen's grasp.
"Hold on, Father." The elf warily keeps an eye on your swaying steps. "I know this is urgent, but this object is of great concern. Please wait just another moment."
It's the least you can do to wait. Leaning hard against the front of the building for support, it appears that the walls here are all painted. It's a similar custom to what's practiced in the capital city. You wonder if the humans here are to blame, or if this is the work of someone else before Celegwen steals your attention away.
The sorceress begins to conjure something with her staff, then stops abruptly.
"What's the matter?" Ofelia pipes up, having hid behind the door.
"I'm getting ahead of myself. Let's get inside." The elf is frowning so deeply, you think you might see a single wrinkle form in her face.
Ofelia cautiously wraps up the musical device in a spare handkerchief. Holding it at arm's length, she delicately places the item with the rest of her things. Celegwen mercifully lends you a shoulder again to enter the library. You sigh in relief, and stagger forward. There's a collection of terribly moldy armchairs in one corner, but the elf offers to help you lean against a desk instead. You collapse against it, relieved beyond words for the break.
Ofelia closes the doors behind you all, and murmurs, "not yet. Get some water, Gwen, Richard. Ray. I'll gather some moss. There's a safer room ahead."
You genuinely don't know if you can go any further. You're desperate to explore the countless pages spread out before you— your eyes want to devour every word on every spine on every book— but you can barely make out the wood on the aged desk you're leaning against now.
>A] You need to rest. This is as fine a place as any. Ask the women to close the doors. See if Ofelia has any way she can secure them. Otherwise, offer to pray to Agriculture to grow some plant life as a makeshift barrier.
>B] You just want to grab a few books. You know there must be more in the other wings of the library— but you can make out more bookshelves from here, and you're starved for knowledge. Stash as many tomes as you can carry into your bag while the women scavenge. Push yourself to the other room, then collapse there.
>C] You won't protest. Drink some water, save what you can in your own water skin, and trudge on to the safe room. There will be a time for rest, and this is not it.
>D] Write-in.
The kindness you've been shown makes every excruciating word worth the effort. "I know our supplies are low. Is there— is there any way I can help—?"
The strain on both women's features soften. Ofelia speaks gently. "Just take care of yourself. We'll rest soon. Try to drink something."
You wince, nod, and try to not collapse.
It dawns on you that you can't walk yourself over to the stream. Every effort to get your legs to cooperate is moot. Severe embarrassment is pointed with your pleading look to Celegwen. It would be unthinkable to actually ask for any more help than she's already given.
She gives you a small smile, shoulders you again, and takes you both over by the water. The sound is heavenly. You haven't heard clean, running water in ages.
When was the last time I saw a stream?
The sun?
Even moss?
How long have I been down here for?
"Father—" Celegwen keeps her eyes off to the stream. "—I know you've been through a lot. Drink. We'll rest very soon."
You blink a few times. The pulse in your head makes even the small motions an ordeal, but you nod to her. She's leaned you down to the floor and you hadn't even noticed. Both hands tremble as you move to cup a little water in them.
Getting a good look at your palms in unnatural light turns your stomach. They're absolutely caked with the blood and bile you produced from your prayer to Vengeance. You reach for your water skin instead. The stream is cold, clear, and shows no signs of pollution from any demons.
Though water seeps into the parchment all around, and has no doubt ruined many of the pages, you make a note of the surrounding area. There's a hope you can come back here again.
With shaking fingers, you manage to fill your water skin without polluting the stream. It's stashed away for later. You simply can't handle any more pain right now. "Ray. Here, boy. Drink."
Another spike of pain hits you every time you speak, but looking after your boy is far more important. He's seen to, the bulk of the mess on your hands is cleaned up, and you wipe down your holy symbol for good measure. Celegwen doesn't say a word until you're finished.
"Ready?"
As she helps you once again to your feet, you hope it will be the last time. "Yes."
All of Ofelia's things are cleaned. She packs her equipment with as much greenery as can be pilfered, and most of the blood is removed from her arms.
As you set off, she takes all of your company's equipment, and scouts ahead to make sure that the way is clear. It takes several turns around progressively more complex paths to leave behind the steady trickle of water.
Every hallway is lined with wood and a faint golden light. Every wall is adorned with more paintings or etchings of a forgotten civilization. The ceiling lowers the further you all walk. The chambers you pass through become narrower. There are no windows to speak of. The deeper you venture, you know with absolute certainty you would immediately become lost were it not for your guide. It's slow going thanks to how often Ofelia doubles back or scouts ahead— but after what feels like an hour of navigating, the rogue vanishes from sight.
Her voice is muffled, thanks to a narrow opening between two innocuous bookshelves. "Hidden room's still here."
"Looks like it was occupied for a bit. Gimme a sec."
You and Celegwen couldn't stop Ofelia even if you wanted to. The blonde remains out of sight for a more few minutes. You nervously look down the hallways in either direction, but there are no patrols to speak of.
The halfling reemerges, and gestures for you all to come inside. You have to kneel down slightly to fit below the narrow opening between both bookshelves, and gesture for Ray to follow you. The space is so slim, Celegwen has to release you from her support for either of you to slink through.
Everyone manages to fit through the gap. On the other side lies a narrow, dusty, windowless, and uncomfortably short library. Your hair practically scrapes the top of the ceiling— matted as it is with blood— so you duck as you enter for comfort's sake. Both walls and the far end of the corridor are flanked with books from floor to ceiling. A few stacks of parchment, faded scrolls, and rolled up maps hang from the shelves. More tomes are piled up against a few spare ladders. There's no light— save for the same unnatural glow that has illuminated every other area of the city thus far.
Neither the obvious sorcerery, nor the absence of furniture could prevent Ofelia from setting up shop. She's piled a collection of a vagrant's rags against a far wall, and is laying out her things on a clean and dry expanse of the wooden floor.
You can barely move, exhausted as you are. Ray leans into you, and you put a hand on him while you wait for Celegwen. She manages to slide into the small entryway with far more difficulty than you had, keeping her chest down as best as she's able. The elf is flustered as she reemerges next to you all, but she still offers you assistance in getting to a decent resting place beside Ofelia.
The instant you lay down, you drop against your pack without even bothering to take it off. Ofelia chuckles, but can't possibly be as relieved as you are.
"Get some rest, Richard. I'll keep the first watch while you all sleep."
You barely hear her last few words, as you're already unconscious.
Someone is shaking you.
"Richard." Ofelia whispers as loudly as a demon-infested library permits. "Richard! I don't know why I always have to be the one to do this shit. RICHARD!"
Heavy with sleep, you wave your arm to move the halfling aside. What little muscle remains sears from overuse of your limbs. She stops shaking the minute you mumble, "what? What is it?"
"Richard, I know you like to sleep like the dead and all, but we can't stay here forever. It's been several hours. Hope that's enough."
The damn headache has finally subsided. With a frown, you rub some of the sleep out of your eyes and blearily try to adjust to the low light.
Before you can get your bearings, Ofelia shoves a handful of food at you. "You're not gonna' like this either, but we're not readin' 'til you eat."
Your frown deepens further as you take the package from her hands. "I did mean to ask you something." Waking up properly, you catch Ray sleeping soundly at your feet. Celegwen is in a trance as she sits with her back to a nearby bookcase. Your actual question is momentarily forgotten. "Why didn't you wake both of them?"
"Ray can't read and Gwen carried you up here. Eat. And is that really what ya' wanted to ask me?"
You continue stalling. "No. I— I want to take better care of myself. I was hoping— I was wondering if— if you could help me? I'm worried about Flesh—" Just as Ofelia starts to smile, she lets out a groan. Your whisper takes on a far more enthusiastic tilt. "You'd probably like him! His most faithful adherents treat their bodies as their place of worship. I could— I could learn a thing or two from them." Your resolve meets her dead in the eye. "From you."
She stares down to the untouched food in your hands. "Start with that. I'll see what I can do."
You take a deep breath, and slowly work at the wrap. It's just boiled leaves, moss, and other (unidentifiable) plant life. It's completely tasteless, and feels like glass going down. You try and tell yourself that it's worth it. It's slow going, but you manage the entire thing. As badly as you'd like to not pay any attention to your body, there's no ignoring how angular and gaunt every inch of you has become.
The halfling pushes more into your hands just as you manage to choke down some water. She's glaring at you, but is kind enough to not make any further comment.
>A] Pace yourself even more slowly. Try talking a bit to Ofelia while you eat. She's trying to help you. Even if it hurts, you know this is for your own good.
>1] Ask her about herself. You barely know her.
>2] Ask her about her time in the ruins. She sounds like she's been down here significantly longer than anyone (other than Celegwen).
>3] Ask her about Celegwen. They seem to be extremely close. The halfling no doubt knows a lot about her.
>B] Take the food with you while you look through the bookshelves. Try to eat while you read. Maybe it will take your mind enough off of things enough to make the pain manageable.
>C] Respectfully give the rest of the greens back to Ofelia. It might be all you have, but nothing is worth the amount of pain you've dealt with lately. Ask her if she knows of any good recipes she can share with you once you're out of the ruins, and get to searching the shelves.
>D] Write-in.
The hundreds of books lining the walls are infinitely more appealing than normal discussion— but this is a rare opportunity to learn something from your companion. The very little you know about Ofelia and Celegwen hasn't been much of a concern, but it looks like you all will be traveling together at some length.
I am here to document my findings.
Your journal is fished out, tucked under one arm, and a bundle of greens is held with the other. You're saddled with more before you even get to your feet. Your limbs still ache, but even a few hours of sleep has done wonders for your body and mind. A low, respectful, and subdued tone is pointed at Ofelia as you make a point to keep eating. "Would you accompany me, while I— while I look over these shelves? I know that you came here to search for a cure of your own, but I— I don't know very much about you."
The books give you an easy excuse to avoid eye contact. You're terribly unused to speaking to others at any length like this, and pray that the honest attempt at conversation doesn't sound too awkward. As your eyes wander, you see tomes ranging from singular slips of paper, to hulking volumes that strain the wood they rest upon. The books are haphazard, and are clearly unorganized. It seems like a shot in the dark to locate specific information.
You have so many questions.
Ofelia scarcely comes up to your hip as you walk side-by-side, so she looks up in reply. "There's not much to say." Her usual sass is entirely absent. "I've done a lot. Been a whole lotta places. But I don't got a lot to me, Richard." Her voice grows distant. "Ya' think that's why that cold demon mostly left me alone?"
You can't help but shake your head. Tearing your eyes away from Classical Diction, Magicke of Yeast and Time, and Glory & Magnificence of the Wilds, you pick the smallest and most slender book in sight off from the shelf. The pages of 151 Illustrated Seaxes are relatively unharmed by Time, save for a thick coat of dust along the edges. While offering the book out in response to Ofelia's question, you silently flip open a few of its pages.
Depictions of exotic and mundane blades from various corners of the world brightens Ofelia's face, and puts light back in her eyes. You whisper, "not a lot to you?"
The two of you exchange the book as if it's a priceless artifact. Completely enamored with its pages, Ofelia flips through them with increasing eagerness. "This is incredible! Okay. You know I got a way with knives." The cornflower blue of her eyes lingers on a single, luminous illustration. "Ain't seen nothin' like this before. I make due with what we can find, and the bit I got from home, but this..."
You lean in, and inspect the entry she's pouring over. The weapon on the page seems to almost jump off of it. A blade made of gemstones reflects and refracts light from the surrounding area off the page with such intensity, it lights up the area around you both. You can't help but murmur, "this is useful. Keep that page open."
The two of you stroll further down the hall.
"If I'm not being too forward, why are you so adept with them?" You're a gentleman, and wince as you try elaborating. "It's extremely unusual for a woman— let alone a halfling— to be so..."
She takes no offense. "It's unusual, yeah. All of my sisters are family types. Couldn't get their hands dirty if their lives depended on it, y'know? But they're doin' somethin' I can't, too. Sittin' around. Waitin'. Actin' all nice and proper. Manners, and bowin', and all that mess. I wanted to help in other ways. My Pa wasn't very understandin' at first— but after enough years of the work, he came around. I wouldn't take no for an answer, if you understand my meanin'." The killer stares hard at something unseen. "I worked real hard to get to where I am now."
You have no idea how to reply, and at least offer a nod in acknowledgement.
Looking for anything that might help you and your cause provides a welcome distraction. You're rapidly realizing how impossible it would be to search through every tome— let alone translate them. Estate & Economy, Charting the Unknown, and Properties of Matter & Air all leer at you with gilded spines and withered pages. You move to fish out your journal and pen, and pause.
Ofelia's eyes are boring into the untouched food in your hands. Wanting nothing more than to not offend her, you try to work at the wrap. Rather than slowly pick at it, you try inhaling the contents outright. The pain is immediate and intense, but it's at least over with quickly.
You're reluctantly plied with more food. Though you've both been whispering, Ofelia speaks so softly that her words almost becomes inaudible. "I hope it isn't too awful. I'm used to cookin' outdoors, but it was too risky to make a proper fire in here."
"It's—" You cough, despite how hard you're trying to restrain yourself.
Both of you look with alarm towards the entryway. There's no sight of any movement, and you muffle all further sound into your sleeve.
It takes you a minute to regain your composure, but you eventually continue, "it's fine. I've told you before— it's no fault of your own. I imagine— I imagine that you can do even better with a proper kitchen?"
She beams, "'course I can."
Pouring over the shelves, strange runic alphabets and a few Elvish tomes stare back at you. You make a note to have Celegwen look over the exotic script, and clear your throat a few times. "I'm willing to bet there are some recipes buried in here. Do you have any favorites, Ofelia?"
The halfling's eyes gleam. "There's a buckwheat honeycake recipe that I'm an expert at makin'. It's so much better if you let it sit out overnight, so all the spices come together." She leans in, and winks. "I always add brandy to mine."
You chew at the greens in hand, and try to imagine it. The sensation of needles and glass doesn't abate, but it's a welcome change to have some positive associations with food. "That sounds... really nice. Maybe you could copy it down for me?"
She could not look any more delighted as you offer her a blank page of your journal, and eagerly writes down the ingredients. The rogue clearly has no idea how to use your pen, and presses the nib too firmly to the parchment.
You take the barely legible page back. "Your handwriting is a little heavy—" The vegetables you're choking down are almost as dry as your speech. "—but this looks wonderful."
"Very funny. Try not to sound so excited!" She can't help but laugh, and reaches up to jab you lightly on the side of your arm.
"Really. Thank you." You let the ink dry properly before closing your journal.
"Hope you get the chance to try it one day." A few more pieces of food are shoved at you before Ofelia turns to go. "I'll uh, leave you to the books. Let me know if you find anythin' interestin', 'kay?"
"Ofelia." You whisper as loudly as you dare to grab her attention. Your eyes grazed over a heavy tome. It's dog-eared, well-worn, and the cover is a sweet shade of blue. The spine of Belbaina's Cookbook looks handwritten with love. You fetch it off of the top shelf— where the halfling no doubt never would have seen it— and hand the book off to her. "I could use your help searching. Maybe we can look through this later?" Her eyes go wide. You put a finger to your lips, as your frown relents. "Let's wake up Celegwen and get to work."
She nods enthusiastically. "Sure— though I don't have the faintest idea what we could be lookin' for."
Your eyes widen as they pour over the countless entries of the many shelves lining just this one room of the library. Periodically, there have been footsteps off in the distance, too.
You can't imagine you can cover every book here— especially given how precious time is— but maybe you can focus your search.
>A] Search for the oldest tomes you can find. A holy relic is (no doubt) something that has been around for a terribly long time. Look through books on...
>1] Religion. Mercy has been worshiped by many humans before you.
>2] History. There is much to be learned from what has already transpired.
>3] Prophecy. Perhaps someone else has heard of your search.
>B] Search for the newest tomes you can find. You need current information, and as recent as you can get. There's no use digging around with outdated information. You need to look for...
>1] Wealth. Any note of someone coming into an object of great value.
>2] Corcaea above-ground. The Church of Mercy itself.
>3] Corcaea below-ground. Any information that could pertain to the ruins.
>C] Write-in.
"Anything regarding the ruins. Anything pertaining to our mission. Look for the oldest codexes you can find. Have Celegwen search through anything in a tongue you don't recognize. We will— we will cover more ground if we divide the search."
Ofelia nods and briskly goes to wake the elf. You flip through a great number of the items on the shelves in the low lighting. Taking care to not bend any spines— after each thorough examination— you gently place each book back where you found it. A few particularly colorful covers stand out, but one looks newer than all the rest.
The writing on the spine is self-indulgent to an extreme, and wraps from the back to the front cover. The title simply reads, 'On History'. You pull it off the shelf, and upon opening it, you immediately make a face. It's even worse on the interior. Flowery illustrations and decadent script details gross exaggerations of Corcaea's history. You flip through the first few chapters quickly, and read as fast as you're able through purple descriptions of King Magnus, and all the Kings before him. King Vaughn, King Frederick, King Samuel, and King Thaddeus are described in excess. You have never even heard of the last two until now, so your curiosity is piqued. Despite the lack of relevance to your current search, you try to skim what you do recognize.
"And unto his holiness we doth profess the most suffering. His Vengefulness hath taken from us. As thine royal visage looke upon the blasted field, thine grain spoilt, and our hearts doth weep for thine people." You wince, and try to eat a little more while you read— grateful to even have what's been given to you. The famine only ended recently. In between mouthfuls you continue muttering. "...owe to His divine reflexion we doth offer our flesh, 'i this, the hour of our reckoning... profligation of our impulses most shameful might not but now be taken unto his essence, eradicating our manifestations forevermore..."
Your voice is hardly a whisper as you read a few more entries aloud to yourself.
How have I never heard of these men?
"Immutable though the darkness may be— still, still, we seek illumination. Through His Spirit, we have attained peace. There is nought left. We must endure..."
You can't help but make a sound, and practically choke on your food. "...and up from the earth did they come? Titans, great and terrible— winged and feathered were their offspring and yet coarse and chromatic were they. Lapidated, they fell deep within the place of their birth, heralds of the King—"
A faint sigh escapes from your teeth as you try to contain your distaste. It's a fair assumption that the remainder of the book is as fanciful. You flip through a few more pages and confirm your suspicions. "...did tumble and quake a storm so fierce that none doth withstand it. Cleaving the land in twain, rending Desolation from that which we now call home... creatures of the sky and earth, whomst reside now on the Throne of Ellor..."
This is all nonsense.
Frowning, you flip to the back of the book to try to gauge just how fanciful it gets. There's an illustration of a man towering above a castle, who's raising his hands to the sky. "A fairytale." The banner underneath the figure catches you off-guard, however. It reads, "Cause of War."
Flipping back through the earlier entries on Corcaea (where the children's stories hold some weight), there's talk of a trade route that once ran from the northern continent to where you currently reside. This is impossible, as the Cabochan Strait lies to the north. There's further entries on a civilization eclipsed in darkness. The pages illustrate a bountiful land wasting away under a red moon, that could only be saved by the return of the Gods. You scoff.
More fanciful yet are talks of a time when men determined their own fate. That they existed before the other races. Before the Gods exerted their will over the world. By the time you reach an entry on marriage between King Frederick and his many devotees— in the name of worshiping Flesh— you close the book with a thud, and a deep blush across your features.
That's enough of falsehoods and fairytales.
You slide the tome back onto the shelf and continue your search. You keep your eyes peeled on the topmost shelf (where Ofelia and Celegwen will have more trouble spotting anything of interest), but you also comb for books regarding the Church of Mercy. You can recognize Her name in more tongues than any other. After what must be another hour of searching, you gather several items of use. Faiths & Heresies of the Old World, Treatise on the Merciful, an old religious pamphlet, and an ancient diary all bear mention of Her. The diary even has your church's oldest symbol— a pair of outstretched hands— etched into the spine.
You flip over the pamphlet first. It's the easiest to read, thanks to a woman's inhumanly delicate script. It lists a number of Mercy's tenets, along with methods of observing Her.
You fondly tuck it into the side of your journal before flipping open the diary— then drop it from your hands immediately. The thick human leather of its cover stares at you as it falls open to the floor. 'LIES' is etched into the dried flesh of the item in a harsh script.
It falls open as it hits the floor. You can't help but grasp onto your holy symbol, frantically looking around down the hall, to your hands, and to the diary. No one seems to stir, other than Ofelia and Celegwen moving through the shelves closer to the entrance of the room. No curse takes you over. There is no indication of any influence from demons or sin. Silence pervades the library.
Nervously moving to open the diary with the edge of your shoe, your heart drops. Inside the pages lies the confessions of a mad man. The handwriting begins frenetically. Every sentence escalates in viciousness. Love and obsession clearly drove the author beyond insanity.
You realize you may be looking at a chronicle of someone taken by the Catalyst. The book is picked back up with your sleeves around your hands, and tucked under your arm. It will be stored alongside anything else you find for your research. This sort of material could be crucial— when you have time to give it a more thorough examination.
You flip through Treatise on the Merciful quickly. The margins of each page are filled in with the complaints of bored priests. You can't help but be slightly amused by caricatures of commoners and clergy that accompany their notes. "We've run out of wine. These copies will take much longer. Oh, my hand. Let the reader's voice honor the writer's pen."
The contents of the Treatise itself are miserable. It paints a scathing image of the Church through criticisms of Mercy and Her practitioners. You practically want to burn it, but out of respect for the men who penned the book you slide it back onto the shelf.
The last book— Faiths & Heresies of the Old World— looks far more promising. Though it's crudely written, interesting entries catch your eye right from the start. It looks to be an account of lost Gods. An elaborate pantheon for halfling society is detailed that encompassed every grain, tree, rock and animal. The sacrilege of elven society is also elaborated on at great length. Accounts of humanity exacting divine punishment towards the heretical race is detailed, along with the animosity it brewed between your cultures. You suspect that the historical relevancy of the material is outdated after reading an account of peoples who worship a God of ice deep to the south. There's also reference to a fertility culture on an island far beyond the coasts of Corcaea— also north of the Cabochan.
More interesting to you than any of this are ancient accounts of worship of your own pantheon. It eerily mirrors your own experiences. "Upon prayer to the God did our most devoted suffer most hideously... from the mouth and eyes..." You cringe. "They could not be saved."
Flipping ahead, you search for anything relevant to your mission. While there is an entire chapter on Mercy, the information is ancient. The tome as a whole is large and rather heavy, but you decide to take it with you as well. You hardly have anything in your pack at the moment, and assume it won't be any trouble for the time being.
Ofelia nearly scares you half to death as she suddenly speaks up from right beside you. "You're going to ruin your eyes—" She had to have walked up to you silently. Both of your hands manage to find a place over your chest, as you fight to not gasp. "—and your heart at this rate, too—"
You give her a tired glance, and try to get your pulse to calm down as you whisper. "Any luck?"
"Yeah. Couple a things. I don't know how Gwen knows so many languages. Guess she hasn't forgotten everythin'! Come take a look."
Piles of books are on the floor along the way back to your campsite. Snaking through the stacks that the blonde has clearly left in her wake, you resist the urge to put them all back before rejoining Celegwen. Ray is still sleeping beside her. He must have been exhausted. You set down the remaining food you couldn't finish next to him, and make note to wake him properly once you're done searching. Your dog makes no motion to budge, so you cast your full attention to the mountain of research by his side.
Celegwen is positively surrounded with books, parchment, scrolls and journals. Each one is seemingly older than the last. She looks up to you with a genuine smile. "Good to see you on your feet."
It's frustrating how timid your voice sounds as you reply. "I couldn't have— I couldn't have made it without your help. I see that you've been busy—"
The elf offers you a seat next to her. "Yes. I don't know how much help this will be, but we've found an absurd amount of information regarding the ruins. It's primarily historical accounts of what these buildings were once for, but I hope there will be something of greater use for you in their pages."
Bewildered, you look over the stacks of books around her. "How much have you been able to translate so far?"
Pride puffs out her substantial chest. "Five pages."
Five pages.
You've looked at over five separate sources in the same length of time. Straining to keep your calm, you ask, "of which book...?"
The sorceress holds it up to the light. 151 Illustrated Seaxes is propped up above the elf, so it can conveniently illuminate her working area. Celegwen slowly reads aloud, "Architecture of the City of Lights: Ostedholm. I suspect this is our current location."
"What has it said...?"
"There was a lengthy introduction crediting the architects of the city. I believe I am halfway through it."
You take a deep breath, fiddling nervously with your holy symbol with your free hand.
Halfway through an introduction. This isn't going to work.
At least you seem to be on the right track.
>A] Target books that on the layout of the ruins. You suspect that if a Holy Relic is in a place this miserable that it would be heavily protected, if not easily accessed. If nothing else, you might learn how to better navigate out of your current position. Maps don't require nearly as much translation. No doubt you can make faster work of them. You can even make out a few maps that the women have found on loose-leaf parchment from here.
>B] Ask Celegwen if she can dissipate the books that aren't related to the Relic. She got a fair amount of rest— surely she's up to it. Though the thought of destroying so many priceless works of literature cuts you deeply, your search is for an object greater than all of them combined.
>C] Pray to Mercy for guidance. You can recognize that searching this single room likely won't turn up any more results, and it sounds like the patrols are back outside. You'd hate to invoke Her for something so small, but the only thing more precious than your resources right now is your time.
>D] Write-in.
Looking to the loose-leaf maps littering the piles of parchment, you say to your fellow scholar, "I know this sounds crazy. But is there any way you can dissipate all of the books that don't pertain to the Relic, its maps, the ruins, AND the Church of Mercy?"
She's visibly upset by the suggestion. "That would be nearly everything."
You nod, looking equally distraught. "I know."
Celegwen looks to her staff, as it's propped up next to one of the ladders beside her. The grief in her eyes trails off to the many books beyond. "It would be a terrible waste— but I assume that all of these books can't possibly be read or preserved."
"Fuckin' scholars—" Ofelia groans. "Get on with it!" A shooing motion is made with her hands, as she hisses, "the patrols are back. I don't think we can stay here much longer."
You give a pleading look to Celegwen. A long moment passes between you two, but it seems to do the trick.
"It's for a good cause," the elf rationalizes. "I will try."
Chapter 20: Knowledge's Price "The immaterial must be known."
"Please stand back." Celegwen is not hesitating.
You gratefully and quickly nudge Ray awake. He happily licks at you rather than giving the food laid out for him any attention. With justified worry for his well-being, you lead your dog safely away. Dragging the bundles of leaves and moss far from the stacks of books, you give him a brief command to stay.
Ofelia creeps over by the entrance to keep watch. You and Celegwen rise to your feet and give one another a wide berth.
The last member of your company has been deep in thought. Taking her staff in one hand, the elf spreads both arms out with a grand gesture. A methodical incantation parts from her lips as she motions towards a slowly expanding cloud of darkness. Neither the language she speaks, nor the stars that manifest are familiar to you.
The sound of her voice fades from comprehension, and the impression of a night sky is left in the spell's wake. With a sweep of gnarled wood and her slender fingertips, Celegwen points towards the length of the library. The darkness that she's created continues to seep out from the end of her staff, and sweeps every book in sight from off the shelves. You almost reach out to stop the nearest loose pages from falling— but the items silently tumble into the void, and vanish without a trace.
The abyss of starlight and endless darkness wraps around the scant number of items that remain. Tendrils of shadow sweep and drag all the remaining books back towards you, then neatly stack them into piles that reach the ceiling.
Celegwen gives you a broad smile, and leans hard against her staff as she ends her incantation. You gaze wide-eyed to the piles of material. A colossal mound of papers contains only maps. Another has books only detailing religion. Several more are purely on architecture. More still are on the study of history.
It looks as if Ofelia wants to clap. "Very impressive, but how the fuck are we going to get through all of them?"
"I'll take care of it. Thank you, Celegwen." Both women look at you nervously as you give Ray a pat on his side. It's with equal hesitation that you knit your fingers together. "I'll be alright."
Ofelia crosses her arms. "Sure. And what do you suppose you'll have to clean up after this?"
"My Spirit." You close your eyes, and bow your head. "Nothing more."
Silence overtakes the study.
Bringing your clasped hands to your heart, you pour yourself into a whispered prayer.
"Spirit. I have strayed far from your path. Guide me. Take from me once more. Grant me your sight, that I may learn. Grant me your essence, that I might strengthen my own. Aid me. Through the wisdom of the immaterial, restore my most essential being—! My mind. My soul. Lend me your eyes— lend me your Spirit!"
White light streaks through your veins. Sight beyond sight floods from the tips of your fingers, up through your arms, around your neck, and suffocates you with divinity. You gasp as a Goddess looks out through the pearls of your eyes.
You can see everything. Information flows into you. You can see the labyrinth of the ruins clearly. You know the interior of these buildings from the interior of every hall, down every winding corridor, and into the base of their very foundations. A system of pipes now courses through many places once used as homes, or sites for worship.
The lost city of lights worshiped Mercy's radiance. Its bloated hive of humans failed to understand the meaning of restraint. They wished to use Her gifts for selfish purposes.
It makes little sense. There are massive holes in the knowledge spread out before you. The history of Ostedholm's people is incoherent. They collapsed under the weight of their own hubris— but you do not know why they fell.
It bothers you deeply. Your head feels fit to burst, but you need more. You lean into Spirit's gift, and all the exhaustion that it brings.
You take in all of the labyrinth within your mind. Levels below the city. Great caverns that were once excavated and explored. Prisons made therein to contain all who fell from Mercy's light. Darkness to shroud those unfit to see their folly. Grand stretches of open air, miles upon miles below the earth. Underground gardens. Countless demons.
Something in the back of your mind wants to stop the intake of information, but you can't. The fall of Ostedholm floods into you. They were consumed by demons, madness, and the depths of the earth.
You know that the land has taken in many more civilizations. There's countless mention here of other ruins. Other homes. Other prisons.
But the ruins are not just prisons.
Unclasping your hands, you bring them to the sides of your skull as if it could keep your head from splitting.
No physical injury can be seen. The Goddess of the Immaterial continues to grant you the knowledge you seek. Maps upon maps detail the findings of men who wished to see the world.They were explorers and travelers— like you— who sought knowledge. They were seeking answers, and a cure.
Their chronicles tell of great and terrible objects. They were housed in the greatest font of knowledge that this country had known in an age. Stashed away beneath the depths of a tremendous library lay a testament to the very Gods. The most glorious tribute mankind had ever constructed was ran by the devout, the wise, and the sane— until the bitter end.
Until the Catalyst.
Taking a knee, you try to repress a scream. An unearthly plea leaves you instead. "Stop. Please—"
There's more.
More history.
More ruins.
More fallen civilizations that snake and wind under the country. They are deeper than the tallest buildings of your nation's capital. More dangerous than any foe you could hope to encounter on the surface. So much more has been reported by these men.
So much has been written by these survivors. You know their names. Their writings. The Catalyst worked its way through them, too. It took them, and robbed them of their humanity. Each and every last one of them.
"Stop." You fall to your knees. Wrapping both arms around yourself, you plead, "stop. Stop. Stop."
Drawings. Murals. Diagrams. They've been painted on the walls of the ruins not merely as stories. They've been left behind by these survivors before and after they have turned as warnings.
Some of the books written before you have been penned by demons, too. Those intelligent and sadistic enough to chronicle their exploits did so with gratuitous descriptions of their methods, murders, and madness.
It's feels as though your skull is beyond the point of bursting. You can't help but moan— trying to contain all of this information— and beg for Spirit to release you.
Spirit is not Merciful— but She does listen. White floods from your eyes and veins as She leaves you. As She slowly subsides, the pain in your head abates. Spirit drains away from your body. You're left with nothing.
Vacant.
Cloying.
Nothing.
Ray is already at your side. You hadn't noticed him, but wrap your arms around him instantly. As you try to not sob, he leans into you, and encourages you to hold him closer.
The sound of footsteps registers on the outskirts of your hollow mind. There's the impression of every corridor and path leading through this building. There's certainty that if any place contains the Relic, it will be here in the city's depths. The hallways are designed to shift as needed. The enchantment placed on them permits the entire building to change weekly.
The demons in this area are newer than those that you read of.
They must have turned from humans that have explored these ruins. They fell to the Catalyst.
"Richard?" Ofelia must be staring.
You know nothing of the demons you've encountered before, of the passages that led down to Ostedholm, of the strange space leading up to the library, of Malimos, of anyone, or of anything.
Your entire being feels like a vase that's been overfilled and then shattered to pieces. You clutch onto Ray, and bury your face in his fur. He leans back against you with no protest. It's utterly embarrassing, but you need the comfort. It's almost most than you can stand to even sit upright.
Both women are staring as you cringe away, and hide against your dog. You desperately murmur, "please don't look at me."
There's a slight sound as Celegwen shifts in place. "Do you need anything, Father? Is there any way I can help?"
Ofelia chimes in, "yeah. Seriously."
>A] Refuse any help. Try and compose yourself. Show some restraint, shove down the building anxiety, and let the women know that you know how to get to the lowest levels of the ruins. This is no time to break down.
>B] Talk a little to Ofelia and Celegwen. You've had brushes with death almost on a daily basis for weeks, and you're barely surviving. Vent a little, and see if it helps. They've been nothing but understanding. You're sure it would be alright, even if it's hard.
>C] Ask for some time to yourself. You need to sort out your thoughts on your own. Spirit challenges you in a way no other God does— and you rarely, if ever, rise to the occasion. See if a little space and self-recovery will do you some good before you set out again.
>D] Write-in.
The words of your clergy cling to the back of your exhausted mind.
Ugly son of a bitch.
No better than a demon.
Ofelia tries again. "Richard, I know you're upset. Can you please talk to me? To us?"
Pulling completely away from Ray (he immediately starts whining), you stop kneeling and sit on the ground. Burying your face against the filthy cloth over your knees, you hold onto your legs as your voice breaks. "I feel helpless."
"You looked pretty damn cool, like, just a minute or two ago—" You can hear Celegwen firmly punch her in the arm.
Ray leans against you even harder as you try to ignore the sound of both women walking over and sitting right across from you. "Why, Father?" Kindness hangs off of Celegwen's voice. It's only making you feel worse.
"I don't deserve for you both to be so— so kind. I don't deserve the Gods' blessings. I can't save any of these people."
"Is that not what we're here for?"
You take a long moment to battle with the urge to break down. Your eyes sting. Your chest aches. Ray nuzzles into one of your stick-thin arms. At the very least, his close contact eases your emptiness in a minuscule way.
"There was no mention of the Relic. I don't even know if what we're looking for is here. It— it—" You choke out the rest. "—it doesn't matter. I could read every book in this Gods-forsaken place, and it wouldn't bring back—" You blink away a swell of tears. "All the people who were lost here. We have been walking through a graveyard, and fighting people who didn't even—" It hurts to breathe. "—who didn't even know what they were doing wrong. Everything is wrong. I can't cure them. I can't heal— what's happened here—" A sob catches in your throat. "I don't even know what I'm doing—! There's so much that I don't know. And it feels like the more I learn, the worse off I am."
Ofelia scoots just a little closer. "You didn't know. And you've been fightin' for yer life. You haven't done anythin' wrong."
"I haven't done anything— anything right either—! Innocent men and women killed, all because of me. I've thought I've been doing the right thing— I've put you all in danger. I haven't even found a lead." The fight to keep your voice down wins out over the struggle to not break down crying. "Just look at me! Flesh is ashamed of me. Spirit knows it. She knows my failings. I'm— I'm..."
Both women are either respecting your space, or are too preoccupied with the implications of what you're saying to respond.
Their silence is agonizing enough for you to continue. "I'm weak. I'm not a King, or a God, or a sorcerer. I can't do anything on my own. And even when I try— even when I devote my life to what I love— I can't do anything right. I waste away. I abuse Their gifts—! I get overwhelmed—! I'm weak—!"
There's something on you. You look up in terror. Small as she is, Ofelia is able to hug you as you sit on the ground.
Every hair on your body stands on end as you tense. You've never been held by anyone so affectionately— save for your mother. Unable to respond, you look to Celegwen for help. An easy out. Anything.
She comes over and hugs you as well. Your tears evaporate as your mind scrambles to make sense of what to do.
"You're too hard on yerself." Ofelia's voice is muffled as she speaks into your shoulder. "We've gotten ya' in some trouble too. You've saved mine and Gwen's life a couple times now. Ya' gotta' stop actin' like there's no good in ya'. It's not right."
>A] Pull away from both women and ask for some space. Respectfully ask them to not touch you like that again. You appreciate their kindness, but you can't forget your position— and you honestly just don't want anyone that close to you. You've been through enough. Try explaining to them why you are so hard on yourself.
>B] Permit Ofelia and Celegwen to hug you a bit longer. You're panicking, but on some level you're getting some extreme catharsis from a little contact. It may not be human contact, but it's something. You just need a minute to digest exactly how you feel. (How do you feel?)
>C] Let your friends give you a hug. Let them comfort you. Let someone into your life. Sure, you're not certain if your heart will ever stop racing— but you need some good in your life, and you've trusted these women over far more substantial things. Let them in a little closer, and finish venting.
>D] Write-in.
Ofelia isn't lying to you, and Celegwen isn't protesting. They genuinely think that you're a good person— and you know they're right. Your long arms tremble as you awkwardly wrap them around your friends. You're still young, but twenty-four years has been far too long without having anyone in your life to hold.
Everything is too hot. You try to muffle every tear that escapes— hating how ugly the sound is— but it's difficult to care. Burying your face in Ofelia's sleeve, you sob as hard as you can as she tightens her arms ever so slightly. Relief washes over you in waves. It feels so good to have someone hold you.
You don't want the moment to end. No one feels the need to say anything for a long while. Ray's panting interjects your broken breath and sobbing from time to time, but it's difficult to hear him. You eventually try pulling away from Ofelia out of embarrassment, and apologize through tears, "sorry for— for ruining your shirt—"
She waves a hand dismissively, and expertly keeps her arms around you through the motion. "No big deal. Don'tcha worry 'bout a thing."
"I'm still worried about where— where we're headed. What might happen. This place, and— and the people that—!" Your voice breaks, as you fight all the harder to keep your volume down. "—that were here! The ones that— that haven't left—"
Celegwen lifts her head up. "I promised to help you. I understand the risks. I'm sorry for being so hard on you. I did not understand at the time how much you're struggling with, Father. You are much stronger than you give yourself credit for." She whispers, "do try and keep your voice down, though."
You're crying too hard to speak.
Ofelia pats you on the back as you nod, and she clearly doesn't mind that you're soaking her shirt. "Hey, hotshot? It's okay. You've been through some crazy stuff, but Gwen's right. Remember what we said before? No one else we've met down here had their shit on as straight as you." She pulls away from you gently. "Gimme just a sec, okay Richard—?
Reluctantly letting her go, Celegwen takes your attention away by pulling you in closer. She gives you a smile that skips a few beats of your heart. "It's alright."
Ray hangs back with no idea how to respond to the situation. Placing your chin over Celegwen's shoulder, you bite your lip, and try not to get tears all over her bare skin. Her sparse sleeves don't do either of you much good— but the elf is much closer to your race's height. There's no need to pretend that you're being held by a human woman, though. You're simply relieved beyond words to be next to a friend.
After a few more minutes pass, Ofelia's whispers register from right behind you. "No one seems to be payin' us any mind. Either the patrols are deaf, or they're just used to the sound from the other people down here— oh, Richard—"
Celegwen holds you tighter as your sobs redouble. "Do you think any of those— of those people will make it to the surface...?"
The silence that follows lasts far longer than you'd like. Celegwen mercifully breaks it. "I don't think any of us can answer that with any certainty."
Ofelia adds, "I hope they do. They sure stand a better chance now than if they hadn't met ya', right?"
You nod. It's all you can do, distraught as you are. At some point, Ofelia returns to hug you again. You knit your eyes shut, and allow yourself to sob.
The thought of not having to deal with any pain keeps your tears flowing freely.
Time wears on all of you.
After what feels like half an hour— or maybe more— your tears finally start to subside. You can't bear to break away from the hug, so you try talking at a little more length. Your throat is cracked, dry, and burning from crying for so long— but it feels so good to be so open. "I've—" Deep breath. "Been raised my entire life—" The deep breath you just took catches on the start of another sob. "To not— to not trust anyone. To keep people away. It's— it's so terrible. I know you must have— I know you must have thought that I was crazy—" You swallow hard. "Leaving so soon— before. I didn't mean— I didn't mean anything by it. It's— it's just— it's just hard. Thank you. Both of you. I won't— I won't let you down again. I—"
Celegwen pulls back to sternly stare you down. You're too exhausted to shrink away, and merely wince at her eye contact. She only dares to smirk when she thinks you're no longer looking. "It's alright, even if you do. I know you're trying as hard as you can, Father. That's more than enough."
"You humans got too short a life to live for all this nonsense." Ofelia's voice is comically muffled next to your sleeve. "I've said it before, and I'll say it again: it's not right. People ought to be good to one another." She holds a finger up to you, and pulls away to slink over to her equipment. A handkerchief is retrieved.
You're unable to resist asking, "why do you have so many of them?"
"What? These?" She waves the cloth around delicately before firmly handing it over to you. (You take it without complaint.) "People always get upset when they're away from home. I figured I'd need plenty where I was goin'." She smirks. "Looks like I was right."
You can't quite return the cheeky grin that she breaks into, but your expression softens a good deal. Pulling away from Celegwen at last, you dry your face. It's hard to not feel ashamed for your behavior, but your friends were as understanding as you could have ever hoped for.
Looking to the handkerchief, you're unsure of whether or not to hand it back to Ofelia.
"Keep it," she says.
Your green irises dart up to her, unsure if you heard her correctly. "I couldn't."
"I don't give a shit 'bout yer customs. Keep it."
"You're— you're sure?"
"Yeah, of course. You gotta make it up to me by takin' better care of yerself! The less I see ya' usin' it, the better!"
The corners of your mouth almost pick up as you tuck the cloth away in one of your pockets. "I— I can do that."
Celegwen moves to stand, and doesn't take her eyes off from you. "Do you think you'll be alright, Father?"
You sniff while looking out over the many books surrounding you. It's a wonder that you feel so much better— even after having prayed to Spirit. A ghost of a smile crosses your face as you murmur, "I think so."
"OhmygoodnessGwen, did you see that?" Ofelia practically trips over herself as she leans in towards you.
You shirk away, and wrap your arms around yourself. The smile fades as quickly as it came. "See... what?"
The sorceress is also grinning, and gracefully deflects away from Ofelia's teasing. "If I'm not mistaken Father, you understand the content of this material now. Do you not?"
"Yes." You pull a bit further away from Ofelia, who is now leaning into your personal space. Ray bounds forward, pushes himself between the two of you, and slobbers all over her hands in his eagerness to help. "Ofelia, please. I'm fine."
The halfling sarcastically deflates, and battles with the mastiff to get away from her. She goes back to her equipment, and sets to readying her things. Your hands are still trembling, but given how relieved you are, it's a lot easier to still the rest of your body. It takes seconds to gather your things, leave aside what you now know beyond any doubt, and ready yourself to go.
Ofelia thrusts more food into your hands the instant you move to leave. Your frown is back in full force as she asks, "so. Where are we going?"
Chapter 22: Short on Time "Barring any interruptions."
You know you want to get to the lowest level of the ruins, into the caverns beneath the city of lights. The question is how. Even if you all pick your path carefully, getting there will still take several days of marching. You don't know when the buildings last reoriented themselves with absolute certainty— and if you don't make it below the ruins of the city within a week of the last change, you could be caught between buildings... or worse.
>A] You're taking the shortest route possible to the lowest level of the ruins. It will be extremely dangerous, as imps and minor demons surround the levels you current occupy— but you may ultimately save time (that you can't afford to waste). You can take advantage of the strange geography here, now that you know it like the back of your hand. It will take only a day, if you all push yourselves.
>B] You're taking the safest route possible. You've endangered your friend's lives several times already. You'd rather take the extra time to pick out a path away from the patrols to descend. You'll be cutting it close to the safest window to travel down here. It would likely take several days of pure marching, let alone time to rest— but you know they're worth the precaution.
>C] Write-in.
"We're heading towards the lowest level of the ruins. There are caverns down there that once— that one housed many demons. There were caches as well, of— of magical artifacts— even deeper below the earth. I strongly suspect that we'll find the relic there, if it's— if it's to be found in this portion of the ruins at all."
Adjusting her gear— ready to go— Ofelia pipes up. "Assumin' you know the way, then?"
"I do. I'd like to take the shortest route we can. This building reorients itself periodically. I am— I am deeply concerned for your safety, were we to be caught in it. We won't get very far if we don't resupply. Celegwen— is there no way you can conjure any food or water? We could side-track here to gather what we need, but I wanted to ask. I recall that you were able to— to do so before—"
She tries to give a patient, level, and methodical explanation. "We have been running for our lives and watching our every step for days. I simply haven't had the time to try. I was able to withhold my fundamental knowledge of the arcane from the demon that took so much from me— but I cannot relearn these skills without time and practice. It's taken me over two hundred years to master the art, and I had much of that stolen from me, Father. I cannot possibly hope to relearn everything I once knew in the little time we have here."
Time.
A cold sweat hits you. It would be unbelievably dangerous. You've never prayed directly to Her before. You've always exercised the utmost prudence with Her. But with where you're going— what you want to do— you genuinely don't know what to expect. You could lose your way, or be lost without resources. You might not have time for scavenging if you're only going into greater danger. You normally would never be able to give back the elf her lost time— but you're far from a normal man.
Your fear is impossible to mask as you inquire, "how much time do you think you would need?"
"Only a few days to grasp the start of the spell. I would need much, much longer to master it. Conjuration is incredibly taxing on me— but I recognize our need is great."
Your heart sinks. Demons do not subsist as humans do. The library may be the last place for a long while that you will see any resupply.
Mother Aimar, leader of the Church of Time, has only written to you once— on the day you became the leader of the Church of Mercy. She formally welcomed you into your rank, and nothing more. You have never been able to speak to her at length and know very little of her practitioners. The Church of Time is nestled deep within the Folorast mountains. It's several weeks away from your home— by horseback— at best. You've never found the need to journey to see her, and have respected Time enough to never invoke Her.
You have no idea what you'd be getting into. You've only heard whispers, warnings, and caution against ever trying to turn back the sands.
>A] Pray to Time, despite the warnings. Grant Celegwen the days she needs in order to relearn conjuration. Your need is great. You are willing to take the risk, and you aren't willing to wait until you're desperate. You don't want to waste any more time or resources, and this is a gift that no one else could possibly give your friend. One that could ultimately save all of your lives.
>B] Stay your hands. Double back to the library, gather as much food and water as you all can carry. No matter how many demons have repopulated the area, you're more willing to contend with a challenge you know you can face. If things ever get dire enough, you can always attempt the prayer then— but you'd rather wait.
>C] Write-in.
You echo Celegwen's words back to her. "Our need is great..."
Conflicted, you fidget with your holy symbol and keep your eyes downcast. You are hardly a coward, but you can't help but feel like one. Especially when lives are on the line and you can't even make up your mind. Your verdant eyes fall onto your hanging robes, your thin wrists, and you grit your teeth. Your need is great, but there is no telling how high the cost may be of invoking Time here. You would ask Spirit for Her aid as well, but you know it's more prudent to respect the will of the Gods. Besides— there is another way to gather resources before you set off. One that doesn't require invoking Them.
"We need to double back to the front of the library." Wistfully looking over the small room you've been occupying, it's difficult to mind what a mess Celegwen and Ofelia have left . Your eyes linger on the disarray and empty shelves. Melancholy creeps into your voice with the reminder that you may be the last person to ever read the tomes of Ostedholm. "We'll gather as much food and water as we can carry. I understand that the patrols will likely have returned, but..."
You can feel the two women scrutinizing you as you trail off.
"But what?" Ofelia asks.
"...but I fear it may be our best option."
She sighs sarcastically. "We're headin' into certain danger. Whatever are we to do?"
Celegwen chimes in with a cheeky smile. "Surely, we fair maidens are better suited to a safer path."
Kneeling down, you scratch Ray behind his ears while masking your amusement. "I'm glad you're both alright with it. We'll move quickly. I suspect that it will take a full day of hard marching to— to reach the lowest level of the ruins, barring any interruptions."
"Let's get goin', then." Ofelia's smirk subsides. "You leadin' the way, hotshot?"
You give Ray a pat on the head, and motion for him to follow you. "Good boy, Ray. Here, boy. If it's alright with you, Ofelia, would you please keep ahead? I can direct us, but your eyes are far better than my own."
"I see how it is." The halfling is already heading out of the room. Her voice drops to near- incomprehensible murmurs while she rambles to herself. "Usin' me as a meat shield, eh? I make fer a pretty poor one. Of all the nerve..."
You all slowly file out of the room you've been occupying. Ofelia slips out first, motioning for everyone to safely follow. "Hurry." She whispers, "this place is swarmin'."
After Celegwen manages to slip out of the exit, you pat Ray on his side. His ears are back, and his tail down. There must be danger ahead.
"Come on, boy." You whisper reassuringly, "good boy, Ray. Going to do something real nice for you when we get back home. We'll get you a steak. Big as your head. Just a little while longer, boy. Come on. Let's go."
Ray eventually makes his way out. You're the last to leave.
Your eyes linger for only a moment on the spot you and your friends occupied as they hugged you for the first time. You try to sear the image into your memory— desperate to hold onto some good in the world.
You turn and leave. It's effortless to slide out into the hallway— and you're immediately pulled by your robes. You nearly let out a gasp, but put a hand to your mouth to muffle it. Celegwen puts a finger to her lips as she finishes pulling you behind a sharp turn in the hallway. Beside her are Ofelia and Ray. They all look terrified.
Celegwen keeps the finger to her lips, and points to your right. You follow her hand, and see two imps skittering along the ceiling just down the corridor. They're decked to the teeth with knives.
You take your hand off of your mouth, placing it over your holy symbol instead. Its warmth is faint but reassuring, as always. Your pulse slows. Looking to your companions, you gesture with your free hand towards the opposite end of the hallway.
Everyone immediately takes off. You and Ofelia wordlessly coordinate your return to the front of the building. She stops you all frequently, while ducking around countless corners, slipping behind protruding columns of stone and weaving behind bookshelves. The labyrinthine structure of the city of lights is a challenge to navigate— but fortunately, you both know the way to your destination.
Each and every time the rogue pauses you continue to guide her. Your combined efforts see you back in one piece— but just as you think the coast is clear, Celegwen holds out a hand.
Your company comes to a stop.
Wordlessly, the elf puts her hands to the sides of her head like a pair of horns. She bares her teeth in the cutest conceivable imitation of a demon you've ever seen. You struggle to not make a sound at the sight. It looks as if Ofelia is repressing her laughter as well. Celegwen pouts, and motions for you all to inch forward. You put out a hand to stop Ray from leaping ahead, and leer around the corner with as much caution as you can.
The water-logged and moss-filled entrance to the library is as invigorating as it was the day before— save for the demon centered in the room. You only risk a brief glance at it, and struggle to place the figure in any hierarchy. It's neither a man or woman. Neither corporeal nor bodiless. Its shape fizzles in and out of existence, with thin streaks of black and gray. A crisp noise emanates from its humanoid silhouette with each reappearance of its odd form in light and shade.
You pull back around the corner. It's only one demon. It doesn't seem to have noticed you. Surely you can take it.
>A) Motion for Celegwen, Ofelia and Ray to stay in hiding while you charge the demon. Take it by surprise.
>1] Use your mace and shield- pray to Flesh to empower your body.
>2] Pray to Agriculture to grow the surrounding vines into a prison over the demon's form.
>3] Pray to Spirit to engage the demon in a battle of wills. You are feeling fantastic after your last prayer to Her. You want more.
>4] Pray to Storm to engulf the demon in water and lightning. Drown it. Burn it. You aren't taking any chances, even if your last prayer to Him taxed you heavily.
>B] Motion for your allies to help you take on the demon, and charge it together.
>1] Use your mace and shield, and abstain from prayer. You want to build your strength. Give your wasted muscles some work.
>2] Pray to Mercy to protect your friends from harm while they lead the charge.
>C] Motion to Ofelia to sneak up on the demon and take it down while you create a distraction. (Write-in what you wish to do.)
