Catalyst Quest: Books 1-7

Alaric · Apr 20, 2021

Chapter 6: Another Question
"Another answer."

While conserving your own energy is imperative, you're certain that there are those among you who can barely stand. Being the only individual in your company with the ability to discreetly take a watch, you make yet another sacrifice. The very moment you suggest everyone take a rest, the entire congregation gets to the floor.

Without supplies, bedding, or so much as a sack to lie on, the furthest back wall has to make due. The abandoned campsite is free of webs, and as good a spot as any. You drop as well, sit upright, and lean against the furthest stone wall. Keeping your back against a firm surface is more comfort than you can hope for.

The majority of your company is asleep from the moment they're certain you're watching out for any danger. The more paranoid and traumatized of the bunch at least have the wits to keep down, and quiet. The woman that was crying hysterically is kept in the arms of the gentleman that was with her before. You can't help but note how fair her skin and hair is, but it could easily be from the lack of sunlight, rather than nobility.

When you're certain everyone's nerves have wound down, and are taking the time to properly rest, you begin counting. An hourglass would be preferable. You haven't seen glass or sand in years, and are usually terrible at this sort of thing. It's not that you don't have any respect for the Goddess of Ages— your life is simply too chaotic to always pay Time due respect.

One minute. One of the rogues that was closely following you might be masturbating. You resist the urge to go beat him to death. He's promptly kicked in the head, by someone laying next to him. Over significant complaints and grumbling, he completely stops, and is given a wide berth.

Five minutes. Everyone has resumed trying to sleep. The blood in the webs around you has been slowly dripping to the floor. There's puddles of it on the ground, that you hadn't quite noticed at first. Amidst the liquid are chunks of viscera. It's likely a product of the spiders, but you're no expert, and haven't the faintest idea for what purpose the meat might serve.

Ten minutes. The scholar that collapsed from exhaustion snores in his sleep. Everyone is irritated, and he's jostled awake so no one else is bothered.

Fifteen minutes. The greasy young man is fully awake, comes over, and sits next to you. Through a yawn, he nasally introduces himself. "Name's Walter."

You sigh, heavily. He smells nearly as bad as he looks, and you speculate you're in the same boat. "Harvey."

At least your first name doesn't give you any complaints.

"Sorry about the, you know..."

Still unable to see his own movements, the brunette gestures much more broadly than he needs to. "The whole, hole, thing. Wasn't trying to get anyone killed." In a whisper, he insists, "on the contrary!"

Sixteen minutes? Seventeen?

He's staring at you. "You're quiet." Scrutinizing your silhouette through the shade, his eyes narrow unnecessarily. Walter clearly enjoys the sound of his own voice. "I don't mind the stutter, you know. It's fascinating."

Probably eighteen minutes. You scoot a few inches away from the pseudo-intellectual.

"Whatever you find worth saying means more than most, I'm sure."

Possibly intellectual.

>A] "I'm trying to keep watch. Get some rest."
>B] Ask Walter a little bit about himself. It's freakish that he's kept so much of his faculties, but you don't trust that he has all of his marbles.
>C] He's being way too personal, and that suits you just fine. Be just as intrusive. See what he's willing to divulge, when you all could die at any moment.
>D] You're actually seriously bothered that he nearly got multiple people killed. Say as much.
>E] You do appreciate the attempt to save everyone's life, even if it was misguided. Express some gratitude.
>F] Write-in.

Just to be safe, you glance around the rear of the cavern you're all in. There's no movement, and no indication that anyone but the two of you are awake.

This man did try to save all your lives. It's worth saying at least a few things, even if thirst makes every word more painful than usual. "You d-did g-get us closer to an exit. No one was hurt b-by your actions. I appreciate it, even if no one else d-does."

"Yes." He's particularly pleased with himself. "I did. You're welcome."

"What are you d-doing d-down here, Walter?"

"Studying," the legitimate scholar immediately replies. "It's funny, isn't it?"

You silently give him the time to ramble— exactly how you're sure he wants to.

"Compelling, even," he muses, in a distant and haughty fashion. "The company we've all kept, I mean. I couldn't do much reading, Harvey. Not in all the time I've been down here. Not for all the screaming. You'd think it would have been enough to have men— such as yourself, and I mean no offense—" You grunt quietly. It's sufficient. "—to look after me. But no. It's been insufficient."

Something ugly slips into his tone. "I didn't want to leave. There was so much more to learn."

He shifts, and turns to face you completely. The young man is definitely unaware of how twisted his facial features are, given the dark, and his immediate distress. You can clearly see that he's on the verge of tears, or screaming. His whisper is practically a hiss. "I take it you did."

"Yeah." You shift as well, another inch or two to the side. Likely twenty one minutes have passed. "Why would you want to stay?"

"I thought," he continues to seethe, "that my study would amount to something, given enough time. I realize now that it may be impossible. There's simply no way that I could have read it all."

Walter's eyes go wide. Wider than anyone's possibly should. "No one in their right mind could. Perhaps— yes. Definitely. Absolutely. This was the reason I was dragged away. I was to tell you—" he shifts, to get to his feet.

You put an arm to an emaciated shoulder, and slam the young man firmly back down to the floor. "Late. It is t-too late, W-Walt-ter." The name is an atrocity. You try to not let it get to you, but he's already talking again.

"This must be it. I'm certain. You were compelled too, weren't you? To leave? To do something?"

Your nerves are probably just as shot. Walter patiently waits for a reply, as you manage, "it w-was someth-thing I had alread-dy w-wanted t-to d-do. What were you att-tempt-ting?"

Anger and conviction worms its way into his sneer. "I seek to obtain the answers to the questions we all are asking. I know that it lies with our people, Harvey. Everyone can call me a lunatic all they want." He literally turns up his nose. "I'm no fool. I'm a teacher, Harvey. I'm a fucking professor. I'm the only asshole brave enough to say that this is all a farce. The Gods, and their preachers, and all of this bullshit has been the death of us all. They have forsaken us." His nose goes higher. "I thought that I would find answers here. From untouched cities. But I can see clearly, Harvey."

He gets to his feet. "Holy shit. Holy shit."

The strands of nearly-wet hair upon his head wave towards you, as you get to your feet, and resist the urge to shake the young man. Walter is shaking all on his own, and puts a hand to his head. "Literally. That's it. He's holy shit, you know that? The fucking asshole—"

"What are you t-talking ab-bout?"

"That's it. I have to go back. They wouldn't have sent him down here. He came on his own. I couldn't think, with everything going on. It's clear to me, now. It's all so clear—" he tries to muffle a laugh, and fails. "He came for us. Don't you see?"

Concern has contorted your face into a particularly painful expression. "N-no."

"He might look it, but he's not. He's not here to die." His volume is increasing. "None of us are!"

"Keep your voice d-down."

His fervor is legitimately dangerous. A few bodies up ahead move, from the increased noise. "We're here to learn, Harvey— he's going to learn." You're patted on the shoulder, blindly. "Thank you for your assistance. I would like to meet you again, under better circumstances. There's still hope!"

You've completely lost track of the time, and are about to lose one of your charges. He's not making any sense. The lunatic actually tears off, and moves to run back the way you came.

"There's another question, Harvey—!"

Blindly. He's actually very adept at navigating without sight, and seems to deduce where to head without even looking where he's going.

"Haha! Another answer!"

By himself. He's triumphantly weaving around the bodies on the floor, back towards the webs.

You take a very deep breath.

>A] At least make an attempt to stop Walter.

>1] Try to physically restrain the mad scholar. It's a colossal waste of your already limited energy, but he's definitely weaker than you.

>2] Wake everyone up. See if you can get some help. It'll be easier to keep him in line if you have extra hands.

>B] Just let him go. He's a danger to literally everyone in your company. You do not have the time, energy, or patience for any of his lunacy.
>C] Write-in.

Thanks to your ability to actually see where you're walking, it takes only a few confident steps to reach Walter. Ensuring that he's clear and away from anyone sleeping on the floor, you position yourself right behind him, and deftly grab both of his wrists.

"The fuck do you think you're doing—?!" is the only expletive he manages. By the time the last word has left his lips, you've already crossed his arms, wrapped them firmly against his chest, and effortlessly have the man pinned back against you.

He tries kicking up, and back, and you try to not sigh too much as you begin walking him back towards the far wall. "You are g-going to g-get us all k-killed," you levelly assert, watching your step and curving away from everyone that's attempting to rest.

He's making a point of shouting now. "We're already dead!"

Several people on the floor grumble, and get up. It can't have been more than twenty-five minutes of rest for any of them.

The barrel-chested man who was the first to follow you is irate beyond measure, and moves to stand the second he registers what's being said. "The FUCK is going on—"

A body adjacent to him— the auburn-haired man— is up to his feet in seconds. "I'll kill him myself." He blindly tries walking towards you both, fists tense, and nearly trips over someone getting to their feet.

Walter continues to make a fool of himself. "WE'RE ALREADY DE—"
You tighten his arms so firmly against his chest, the air is completely taken from his lungs. "K-keep your voice d-down, W-walt-ter."
"No," he wheezes, "I will not. No one is silencing me! Never again! This is too fucking important! Let me GO!"

At least ten people are awake, and on their feet. Those who have remained on the floor are clearly either too upset to move, or are comforting those who have had enough conflict to last a lifetime. You have easily made your way to the back wall, and reposition Walter's arms just enough that he doesn't have any difficulty breathing. He's still wheezing, from the sheer force you used to get him out of harm's way. Your own arms are already on fire, but it's absolutely worth the effort to ensure no one else dies on your watch.

The auburn-haired man finds a way to stride over. He's got his fists clenched, at eye-level, and waves his imminent attack right towards where Walter's face is. Eye twitching, he scowls, "just say where, boss."

>A] Ask him to knock Walter out, so you all can get moving.

>1] You're pissed, and do NOT have time for any of this.

>2] This is sad, to say the least. You don't have the heart to endure one more person's suffering.

>B] Ask him to get something to gag Walter with. Have one of the priestesses of Mercy restrain him properly. Let everyone get back to sleep for the rest of the hour. Hopefully that will be enough time for the madman to calm down.
>C] You'll make the time for Walter to make his point heard. If nothing else, it should give everyone else who can speak the opportunity to vent to him. Keep an eye out for any danger, in the meantime, and demand that everyone keep their voices down.
>D] Write-in.

Alaric · Apr 21, 2021

Chapter 7: Listen Up
"He does have a point."

"W-wait." You shift your hold, to make sure Walter's kicking doesn't knock him out of your arms. "Hold on. W-Walter."

He's seething, and assumes a pompous tone. "What."

"You w-want to m-make yourself heard." A small crowd is forming, thanks to the sound of your discussion.

"No shit," he spits, turning up his nose again.

"G-go ahead," you offer.

He ignores it. "Let me go."

"N-no. You'll run."

He makes a point of kicking you. "Fuck you, Harvey."

"Fuck y-you t-too, W-Walt-ter." You tighten your hold, and promise, "I can have you g-gagged—"

"That isn't necessary," he wheezes.

You don't let up. "P-prove it, th-then."

The man standing before you keeps his fists up, but remains quiet. The small crowd that's formed is grumbling, but everyone seems too fed up with the situation to interject.

It's a miracle that so many of them look more alert than before.

You're all patience and discipline, but the sheer stress of the situation has your speech slipping. "D-don't w-waste y-your ener—" the g is too difficult to pronounce, you know it, and try, "sit d-down. All of y-you." You reassure them, "I'll b-be keeping an eye out."

To make a point, you get to the floor, Walter in tow. He huffs, despite the care you take to not injure either of you. Upon hearing the sound, "fuck you Harvey, they'd hear me better standing," the majority of the men and women around you begrudgingly do the same.

It's easier to get a vantage point of the cavern with so many heads down, and you can instantly tell two of the congregation are starting to nod off from sheer exhaustion. The auburn-haired man stays standing, seething.

You nudge your charge with the side of your leg. "Half an hour, W-Walt-ter. T-talk."

He clears his throat.

"Q-quiet-tly," you hiss.

He clears his throat as quietly as he can. He thinks he's hilarious. You elbow him in the side, hard.

"Alright!" He finally concedes. "Alright."

He seems nervous. There's a long pause. He actually, definitely is nervous. He's sweating, and you manage to murmur, "g-give a shit ab-bout n-nerves some oth-ther t-time."

There might be a smile, or a raised eyebrow in reply. He lets out a light laugh. You don't care what he thinks. Your eyes are fixed on the back of the cavern, the bloodied spiderwebs, the men and women shaking and fighting with exhaustion.

"Listen up," he finally snaps, in a whisper, to anyone that cares to listen. You can see about two people who actually give a shit. It's the priestesses of Mercy, who are holding hands, and definitely are holding back any any all desire to do harm. The rest are clearly looking for an excuse to beat him to death.

"We're all doomed. You know it. I know it. Our King and our clergy, present company included, have no fucking intention of doing a thing about the Catalyst. I've known for years that there is an answer. We are the answer—" several people write him off as utterly insane, get up, and go to lay back down. He's unperturbed, and continues, "and there is one fucker alive who's actually trying to do something for us! Don't lie to me. Don't tell me you'd all given up."

No one dares to reply. The two nobles both look at each other simultaneously— the lovers, in the dark— with stars in their eyes. They get it. You're pretty sure you get it, too, but Walter really likes to hear the sound of his own, nasally voice.

"That fucker back there hasn't given up on us. I didn't want to go, and I'm sure plenty of you thought you wanted to stay, too. But that's the thing, isn't it? We all went off running. Not just for our lives. We've got something! There's something here."

He jerks hard against your hold, but you keep your arms firm. "Daddy Asscum back there," the clown chuckles, and is punched, "has something going for him. He wouldn't have come down here for the King. Sure as shit not for just any of us. He's got an answer. I'm sure of it. He tried to save our skins, despite whatever the fuck is going on— and I'm going to get that answer if it kills me."

He kicks harder against you. He's too weak for it to do much. "Let me go. You're not helping anyone. They aren't going to follow me—" he kicks harder, with his long and bony legs, "and I'm going to run my fucking mouth every second I can if you won't. You're obstructing my work. I'll come back if I get an answer, Harvey—"

The portly rogue, with his awful mustache, makes a point of moaning indecently as he rolls over. Clearly having faked sleep, from his position on the floor just a few feet away, he groans, "just let him go. He's not much fun at all, is he?"

In the dark, you can actually make out the split tongue on the bald man you saw earlier. He's not laughing, as he yawns, "we're not much better than any demon, to hold a man against his will." Something disgusting weaves into his narrow eyes. "Not that I'm complaining. He does have a point, though."

A few of the men grumble in agreement. One of the priestesses of Mercy— she has an average chest, and is fairly short, but is definitely the curvier of the two— falls back to the floor in exhaustion. While blindly looking to the ceiling, she groans, "this is all fucked. She—" you're sure she's speaking of her Goddess, "—wouldn't want this. Not even to save our skin. He's gone." She's referring to her church leader, for sure. "We're done for. He's got a point, yes, but you're a fool if you think for a moment that Father Anscham did this for our sake." You can practically hear her nose wrinkle. "And your sense of humor is repugnant."

Several men agree wholeheartedly. The clown actually offers full criticism, fighting through a smile to not ruin his joke. "She's right." He loses it, exploding into giggles, fighting through it only to say, "Dick Asschum is much funnier."

He explodes into full-blown laughter. The bald man adjacent practically pins him to the floor, in a poor attempt to muffle his outburst. "Will you shut up—!"

There's still no movement in the cavern. The demons you sent out have been gone for a suspicious amount of time.

Walter turns up his nose further. "I do not have time to engage in petty insults with petty women" several men are outraged, "over the quality of my character! Let me go, Harvey." He's stopped kicking. He's furious. "Let me go."

>A] The gag and restraints would be good, now.
>B] The gag, restraints, and knocking him out would be preferable.
>C] You won't waste anymore of anyone's time, nor will you hold a man against his will. Let him go, but give him clear instructions on how to get back safely.
>D] Take the time to give Walter instructions on how to get back, and how to safely navigate the library. This lunatic is determined, and if you're going to release him, you want to give him a fighting chance at survival. You're not getting any rest, anyways.
>E] Write-in.

"W-we know w-what w-we came here for. W-we alread-dy had our chance, and we failed."

The twist in Walter's face is audible. He's so upset, he can't speak. You barely can, either, but this is too important to not say. "W-whatever Anscham came here for, it w-wasn't us, sure. B-but he d-decided to save us. You saw w-what state he was in, after w-what he d-did. You can't let his effort go to w-waste."

A number of the men and women in your congregation lift their heads, if only just slightly. One or two of them actually look back, over their shoulder. There's some muttering, asking if they think the priest is going to live. Walter's completely stopped struggling.

"W-we n-never—" you swallow hard. Speaking at such length is insanely uncomfortable, but you're a fighter. "I've never seen anyone even attempt t-to save a soul d-down here."

Everyone looks straight at you. They've seen someone who's tried.

You're still trying. "The Fath-ther g-gave us all an examp-ple. Th-three men," you take an arm off of Walter, to point to a corridor that should be lined with corpses, "that b-blocked th-that entrance, followed in his st-steps."

You let Walter totally out of your arms, and get to your feet. "Y-you have a chance to leave th-this place. I'm n-not afraid to b-butt heads with you, W-walt-ter. Not if it st-stands a chance at saving your d-dumbass."

"Hey," he huffs, getting back to his feet just as quickly.

"Y-you n-need your f-fellow men." You pause, and look out to your congregation.

They're all awake. Their eyes are wide, in the dark, but they're trying to look at you. To your charge. To answers, and someone willing to fight for them.

"Th-they n-need you," you quietly assert, putting a hand firmly to the slender scholar's shoulder. A bell tolls, far off in the distance. "C-come on," you mutter.

Grief is distorting the man's otherwise fair features. "You don't know what you're asking. I've lost everything, and not just for this."

"N-no." You shake him, by only one shoulder, and grab firmly onto the other. "Y-you haven't."

He looks like he's going to cry, and wipes at the side of his face just for the show of it. He knows full well that he hasn't lost everything.

You all have each other.

The tolling is getting louder. There's no panic running through the men and women with you. They've taken heart, and get to their feet. Those that still have makeshift armor, shields, or swords immediately grab them, despite having almost no rest to speak of.

You shrug off your hands from Walter's shoulders. He rubs at them, while miserably muttering, "we can't see shit, Harvey. What's happening?"

Daring to raise your tone, you warn, "ev-veryone c-cov-ver your faces, w-with w-whatever y-you can. Th-there's ice up ahead."

The priestesses of Mercy immediately strip off swathes of the bottoms of their skirts, and blindly work towards covering as many faces as possible. Everyone else tries to do the same, with whatever cloaks or spare fabric they can find.

Two of the rogues that were tailing you earlier walk up to get your attention. It's the behemoth with the awful sense of humor, and the lecher. "We're going ahead," the fatter of the two whispers. "Came this way a few months back. I'm sure something's happened."

Looking with understandable fear back over his shoulder, the taller scoundrel snorts, "you think? These saps don't need to see whatever's causing it."

More apologetically, his compatriot nods to you, "we'll give you some fair warning, if we can."

"G-go," you quickly reply. "N-no flame. It's all p-paint. B-be careful."

>A] Proceed as quickly as possible, with everyone's weapons drawn. Balance is not nearly as important as speed. You trust everyone to look out for each other, if anyone slips.
>B] Ask everyone to prioritize keeping their footing, and proceed cautiously. Put anyone capable of fighting at the rear. Even if there's pursuit, you're more worried about the terrain than demons at this point.
>C] Write-in.

>Roll 1d100. Best of 3 will be used.

Alaric · Apr 21, 2021

Chapter 8: Sharp and Sour
"Magic, or a priest, then."

>Rolled 88 (1d100)

A group of five, fighting-fit men (or as much as you could hope for) take the initiative to keep their swords at the ready. You stride over to them and ask as quickly as you can, "c-can you hold the line?"

Their choir of reassurance is music to your ears.

It takes another full minute to get everyone into the descending passage. The priestesses of Mercy insist that everyone holds at least one other hand, to prevent any falls from taking down the weakest members of the group. You sprint to the head of the pack, pull your cloak over your nose and mouth, shove aside as much of the fallen barrier as possible, and try to not hyperventilate.

The spiders are unquestionably back. Everyone's nerves are already fried enough, without the light tinkling of the demon's bells alerting you all to their presence. From your position at the bottom of the corridor, you can't see what's happening in the rear, as everyone is moving once again in single-file.

They're trusting you to feel out the safest path possible. With a ragged breath, you turn your attention forward, and begin a slow, careful procession. The slicks of ice upon the floor are almost entirely shrouded in mist. The clouds of paint can be smelled even through the fabric upon your face. After only a minute, you can practically taste the sharp and sour substance. More alarming are the streaks of paint upon the walls. They thicken the further you walk along, but you keep your eyes open.

As you move through the corridor — to your pleasant surprise — there's a few markings upon the wall. It seems that the rogues who ran ahead tried to leave a trail for you. Your close observation of your surroundings and the terrain makes identifying the markers very simple. Of course they're all buttocks and crude representations of male ejaculate, but you don't particularly mind. It's enough to lighten your mood as you wander deeper into catacombs and sin.

There's a few falls, but everyone's incredibly cautious pace minimizes any damage. No one sounds as if they're seriously hurt. You're far more concerned with the clash of swords at the rear, but it seems only a single demon had the gall to pursue you all. It's held at bay, for quite some time after having caught up.

You shove down every instinct to run, and your patience is seriously rewarded. At the rear of the group, there's rejoicing. It sounds as if there are swords being stashed. No one dares to call out, but you hear whispers. Your focus is still on the network of winding and descending corridors ahead, but it's hard to not listen.

A message passes down the line. It seems that someone at the back of your congregation wanted to send word, and had each person whisper it to the next. By the time it reaches the halfway point, between the two dozen of you, everyone seems in a slightly better mood. There's relieved mutters, and one of the women is softly crying from sheer relief. The last person to receive the message— Walter naturally stuck himself right behind you— is all smiles.

"Harvey," the lunatic whispers, "hey."

"Wh-what?"

"They ran. The demon. The guys in the back scared them off." He sniffs. "That's their message. I'm certain that the creatures didn't want to come any further, but don't tell them I said as much."

You won't. There's something much more pressing. The scrawl on the paint beside you is of a skull, as you turn yet another corner ahead. Your blood runs cold, and you stop dead in your tracks.

Everything is cold. The small room beyond is plastered with a forgotten flurry of ice. Flakes of the substance are upon the walls, and drift through the air in suspended animation. Crystallized paint is smeared in melted icicles upon the ceiling, all the way down in columns to the floor. At its center is a corpse. It's melted down, and is easily one of the most disturbing things you've ever laid eyes on. The figure's head is like a man's, wreathed with a crown of solidified paint. The orb of ice is swimming in a melted puddle of blue and black.

The issue— and source of what you suspect will be nightmares for many years to come— is that its body is glowing. The same strands of light that moved you earlier today are ensnared around the creature. It's nailed to the floor, punctured through its limbs in beams of solid gold. It's in a sterile, definitive way, that looks agonizing even in death.

The demon's blackened mouth is hanging open, its eyes having melted from its nonsensical, painted skull. It feels like it's staring at you. The scent of paint is sticking to the back of your throat, and your gag reflex is making itself known.

>A] Warn everyone to steer clear of the corpse. Vomit, get it out of your system, and take another route.
>B] Ask Walter if he can deduce if it's safe to proceed, and dry heave for a few moments. You can't remember the last time you ate, anyways.
>C] Boldly go where a psychopath likely went before. You'll move ahead, shove down your nausea, and try to steer as clear as possible from the body.
>D] Write-in.

"What th-the fuck," you mutter, before briskly pulling back the rag on your face. Staggering a few feet to the side— to vomit away from the group— is the least you can do.

Walter is happy to whisper, "what?!"

It takes a few moments. The smell of rot and paint intensifies every second your nose and mouth isn't covered. A few waves of dry-heaving end the miserable experience, as the taste of sickness persists on your mouth. It's additional insult to every word, as you painstakingly describe to Walter what you're seeing. By the end of it, everyone is shifting very uncomfortably.

The scholar seems even more nervous than before. "I see. You're certain it's dead, then?"

Those damn eyes. "Positive."

"I've never heard of a demon so powerful being killed by another," he muses, in the haughtiest voice imaginable. "There is no indication of any flame, is there not?"

"N-no smoke, n-no scorch m-marks. Lots of ice."

"Magic, or a priest, then. We bore witness to a sorceress, and the very Father of the Church of Mercy just a few hours ago. I'm certain they were the ones responsible." He grumbles, "we're lucky to have come through in their wake. Can you see to the passages beyond?"

"N-no." It curves away, though it's level rather than descending. The little bit of the corridor you can make out seems to be just as slick with paint and ice.

"Are there any other rooms? Exits? Anything?"

There's more indication of an abandoned campsite, though the wood is utterly ruined. Immediately to your left and right, unmarked by the rogues, and also brimming with lethal material are two passages. They both arch back upwards. You let Walter know.

"Back-tracking seems unwise. Moving forward may lead us into whatever Father Anscham and the elf left in their wake." His frown is audible, as he sighs heavily. "I suppose we would be better off being mauled to death, than starving down here in the dark. I don't know what you expected."

A man just behind Walter with a particularly deep voice, interjects, "these tunnels are full of 'em. Demons. We'll die either way. Let's get it over with."

Everyone behind you is shifting, and seems eager to move. It may be that they're simply too anxious to stay in one place, but you're positive that something needs to be done.

>(A ROLL MAY BE REQUIRED FOR ALL OF THE FOLLOWING. Write-ins and strategy may help enormously.)
>A] Proceed as cautiously as humanly possible.

>1] Ask everyone present how they would like to proceed. Trust in their collective strengths.

>2] You have a pretty good idea of how to handle this. (Write-in.)

>B] Back-tracking is probably worth it. This demon has your blood running cold.

>1] Take the leftmost passage. It veers steeply upwards, and may provide relief from the paint fumes.

>2] Take the rightmost passage. It's more level, and may not be a huge delay.

>C] Write-in.

Alaric · Apr 21, 2021

Chapter 9: Our Merry Band
"We're all a circus."

Quietly, you set about the monumental task of identifying everyone's strengths.

It turns out that Walter is the only academically inclined soul among you. He happily leans against a far wall, getting paint all over his tattered finery while everyone else discusses how to proceed.

Another cerebral gentleman is shockingly the bald-headed man with the split tongue. It seems he's survived in the ruins through sheer manipulation, even of demons.

Despite how sharp he is, he can't remember his name. Most of the people among you can't.

"He's a snake," Walter sarcastically offers.

Everyone is amused. You collectively agree upon nicknames, for simplicity's sake. The snake prefers being called a serpent, and that suits you just fine. He sets to discussing a plan of action with Walter (who now is only answering to Professor), once they've figured out who can perform any sort of combative task.

Serpent's only ally is the damn clown. The sandy-haired, bulbous-nosed young man confesses to have a problem with compulsively stealing, and thrill-seeking— under the premise that he'll be trusted to keep watch once you all can provide some light. Klepto is to stay at the front of the pack, just behind your brainier associates.

The grizzled man who doled out multiple swords— Claymore— is immediately identified as the most skilled combatant. He's sharper than Serpent's tongue, and was responsible for holding the line against the spider pursuing you all. The brunette takes up the rear guard.

He has two friends. The hulking man who you first met is aptly labeled "Chesty." It's less of a mouthful than Clarence Chester Connelly. He's shockingly fast for his size, is friends with Claymore, and offers to take up a position near the center of your group, alongside another one of their compatriots.

You offer to call the salty, auburn-haired sea-dog Irefist. Not only because you can say it without stuttering, but for the threats he's constantly dealt since meeting him. He's stronger than Chesty, and just as capable with a blade as Claymore. The man's got no sense to speak of, otherwise, but that's fine by you.

There's about ten other men in the same boat, who were all following Irefist. Leadfoot, Steelhand, Coppertongue, Goldenrod, and all the rest set about arguing over who gets what ridiculous nickname, while you properly meet the priestesses of Mercy.

They're both wearing a single gold earring as their holy symbol, and are easy enough to spot among the few women in your company. Sister Corbon— the aggressive firecracker that's more akin to a broomstick than a woman— has a dour attitude. The brunette is a pyromaniac, and the absence of any torches has her nerves on end almost as much as her fellow priestess.

Sister Tirel— the shorter, bauble-covered one with much better hips and chest— is infatuated with the gold of her church. Like Klepto, she's familiar with trinkets and valuables. Both priestesses promise they have the capacity to heal, if necessary, and set to looking after the most disturbed of your group.

Nobility. They're hopeless for each other, and came down to the ruins explicitly to die. The blondes are still struggling to not turn back, and are both paler than you are. The lady— Lady Edith Douglas, to be precise— has the fairest figure you've ever seen, and is objectively gorgeous. She thinks "Starlight" is poetic. Her lover, Sir Allan "Stardust" Douglas, is just as particular. The strong-jawed, shaven ponce has dyed his hair black, though the roots of his yellow locks are peeking through thanks to weeks underground. The resemblance to his sister is uncanny. They're still wearing finery that's tattered and filthy, thanks to your present living conditions.

They're siblings.

>A] You are not judging anyone down here. Move on.
>B] You're judging.

>1] Keep it to yourself. (Write-in any complaints you may want to address, when you all aren't fleeing for your lives.)

>2] You really need to say something. (Write-in anything you wish to say to them, or anyone else.)

"Wew. This is seriously not the time to even remotely approach this issue," you think to yourself. "Those who live in glass houses should not throw stones", you immediately rationalize. "By all the Gods, I would rather house with incestuous nobility before spending a minute longer in Ostedholm," you firmly decide.

You remain silent, and stoic, as Stardust and Starlight inform you that they both spent most of their youth training in combat, horse riding, diplomacy, various exotic languages, myriad instruments, know how to read and write, and other countless other privileges afforded to the highest class in Corcaea.

They stay firmly protected in the middle of the pack, alongside a skittish young man— Jitters— who's survived thanks to overwhelming paranoia. He's proficient with knives, and swears his aim is true enough to not threaten anyone's livelihood. Goldenrod, Bronzebeard, and Irefist all create a firm circle around them.

The flame-obsessed priestess wishes to be addressed as Spangle, and voices multiple complaints as everyone looks hopelessly in the dark. Further direction comes quickly.

Walter and Serpent are whispering to each other in a heated argument, and the former declares himself the lead researcher of an echo chamber. Professor Echo continues to whisper, (now directly to you), "we'll move ahead, and keep the flame out. I don't give a rat's ass how much it bothers anyone. If they don't see us coming, we'll stand a much better chance at surviving."

"You're an imbecile and a hypocrite—" Serpent hisses. "—but we've wasted more than enough time. At least you're willing to not put all of us at risk." He turns in the wrong direction (unable to even see you), and asks, "Harvey, was it?"

>A] Harvey is fine.
>B] You actually like your last name, and would like to be addressed as Algrith.
>C] This is a circus. You're amused, and would like to be called its ringleader.
>D] You're the damned master of ceremonies. For everything you're going through, you'd like some levity, too.
>E] Write-in.

"We're all a circus," you smirk. With a considerable amount of focus, you breathe out with each enunciation, and manage to almost clearly say, "call me th-the ringleader."

Echo and Serpent can't hide their grins in the dark. The greasier of the two bows with a flourish. "Your generous, gilded cage suits me poorly, Ringleader. May I offer my expertise, on our merry band of freaks?"

He's flicked on the side of his head.

"I'll fucking kill you if you touch me again," he immediately snaps, going for Serpent's neck.

You wrangle them both behind you, with much less effort than before.

"Lead the way, then," the bald sinner sneers, rubbing at his throat.

Alaric · Apr 21, 2021

Chapter 10: Demons in the Walls
"Fortune favors the bold."

Everyone is beyond high alert, as you cut a wide and sweeping path around the corpse. The scent is atrocious, even through your mask. The sheer amount of caution you all take prevents any disastrous falls.

The ascent into the corridor beyond is very welcome relief. Paint and mist persist upon the walls and floor, long after you leave the demon's body behind, but the toxin gets thinner by the minute.

The markings upon the wall switch after a time from the crude caricatures to simple arrows. It's not merely because of the lack of paint to sketch in. The walls and floor move from smooth stone into a rockier, rougher, and more natural surface. It's a labyrinth, pocketed with countless spaces to harbor more demons.

You all must travel for another hour, two, or three. Exhaustion has your limbs aching in ways you didn't think possible. Every drip of moisture off of the honeycombed caverns sends another shock through your spine. You're twitching at every sound, wondering if you could collect enough moisture to have something to drink, or if the moss that's barely visible between the cracks in the walls are completely poisonous.

The procession is faltering, and nerves are at a fever pitch. It's been hours without sight or sound of another creature, and every shadow your gifted eyes touch upon feels like another threat towards your life.

Something uncanny casts an actual shadow ahead. Finally devoid of paint, and mist, you heed Walter's counsel to keep the group in the dark.

The rogues that left you all behind are in the chamber ahead. It's their shadow upob the walls, but once again, it's bizarre to an extreme.

There are everlasting candles lining the entire corridor ahead. A collective gasp and sighs of relief come from every single member of your congregation, as the light comes into view. Gently arching stone beams— at least twenty feet high— capture the bulk of the shadow.

The gentle, golden light mercifully gives you some relief from the intense pools of blood coating the entire floor. A single skeleton is at its center, in a death shroud. The demon is easily ten feet tall from end to end, though you can't tell where its limbs begin or end. The odor of paint is well behind you, but everyone keeps their faces covered.

Decay hangs hot and heavy in the air. It's sweet in all the wrong ways, and clings to every surface. The hulking man and his portly companion are giving it a huge distance, and run right up to you in the low light. "You made it," the taller of the two whispers, over the sound of multiple people retching.

"Th-the m-markings helped," you whisper in return. "Why d-did you come b-back…?"

Smoothing his mustache nervously, the other scoundrel admits, "didn't want to get too far ahead. There's a problem."

The chambers beyond are allegedly packed with demons. They are not in the corridors and passages themselves, throughout the central levels. The issue is that they are in the walls. 'Randy' (the lecher) and 'Mick' (the prick) are scared shitless of them jumping out of the walls, of course, and suspect some sort of trap.

The highest levels of the catacombs clearly lead back to the spider's chambers. The demons unquestionably know you're here, though they seem to have only tolerated your presence momentarily.

The lowest levels have open chambers. Mick was bold enough to scout one, which contained a colossal demon. He says it was larger than the one in your current location, and seemingly at rest. He's no expert though, and doesn't want accountability if it gets loose.

You ask around, to see if anyone knows how to proceed. The two priestesses of Mercy only have experience with treating injuries from within their home, but save for a few outbreaks resolved by others (Father Anscham disturbingly resolved several immediately, and Father Edmund with before him), they have little in the way of knowledge on the weakness of mankind.

It's at least a small comfort to know that the paths in the catacombs weave around each other. Climbing may tax you all heavily, given everyone's exhaustion, but it at least leaves your options open.

>A ROLL WILL BE REQUIRED FOR ALL OF THE FOLLOWING. Options A, B and C are mutually exclusive.
>A] Start with the high route. You'll know what you're facing, even if it's likely going to get someone killed.
>B] Take the central paths. Try to give everyone some moral support, and head into the unknown.
>C] The lowest chambers may not be totally occupied. It's extremely dangerous, but you're too terrified of your other options to risk taking anything else.
>D] Strategy, in addition to your congregation's suggestions, could definitely help out with this situation. (Feel free to write in additional plans of attack or methods of approaching these routes, in addition to voting for A, B, or C.)

>Roll 1d100. Best of 3 will be used.
>+10 THINK SMARTER, NOT HARDER
>+5 CONTINUING A SNAIL'S PACE

>Rolled 80 (1d100)

Anxiety is drenching you, nearly as much as the prospect of encountering a single one of those spiders again. While larger demons, and the lowest levels of the catacombs are intimidating, it's at least more agreeable than confronting certain death in any other level of the ruins. Why demons are trapped within the walls and lower chambers still escapes your wildest imaginings, so you turn to the professor. "I t-trust you to invest-tig-gate th-these d-demons b-below."

"No," he smiles.

"You are th-the only one of us smart en-nough to n-not g-get killed right away."

He frowns, particularly to Leadfoot picking at something in his ear. Several more minutes pass, as one of the other men at the rear of your congregation start picking a the walls, and on each other, out of sheer nervous energy. "You have a point," he concedes, frown deepening. "Alone?"

"Alone." You promised you'd butt heads with him, if necessary. Klepto is all smiles, the moment he realizes that he's evaded the first bit of a watch. You make a point of stressing, "we are all count-ting on your wit-ts."

The gangly, greasy young man is given a sword, a makeshift shield, and ties back his hair. From the time he snakes ahead, down, into the caverns below, you immediately begin counting the seconds.

About fifteen minutes pass by. You use them to reassure your company. Not only would Walter's death give the majority of the congregation what they're already hoping for, but it would narrow down one passage as certainly lethal. Everyone is completely confident that this is a win-win situation, and are almost chipper, until rapid footsteps are heard down the hall.

Everyone tenses. Only Professor Echo reappears from around the corner.

No pursuit. No injury.

He's white as a ghost, sweating like a pig, and shakes his head. "It's safe."

"What d-do you m-mean," you start, with legitimate worry. Looking over his shoulder, you confirm that no one is following him, save for an unmistakable scent of white lilies. It's weird, and makes every hair on the back of your neck stand on end.

"They're cells," he breathlessly mutters. "The holes in the walls. Someone— or something— is keeping them here. The demons in the walls." He looks like he's going to be ill. "They're jailing demons. This one is too large to be kept in-between the corridors. It's all fucked, though. I think it was all white," he mutters, voice shaking nearly as badly as he is.

"You don't think," Serpent spits, whispering, "what did you actually see?"

"The demon kept gesturing for me to come over," the brunette sneers back. "I ran. Don't give me that fucking look. The cell was in ruin. Don't think I'm being cute. The floor was all fucked, like a mirror." He wraps his arms around himself. "I'm positive it can't escape, but the whole thing was fucked."

"Th-then we had b-better b-be careful. Stay b-behind Serp-pent," you offer.

The scholar gets a good deal of his composure back at the very suggestion, and gladly keeps his slender frame almost entirely out of sight. Both men position themselves side-by-side, after some arguing, and that suits you just fine. It seems Walter's taken to the shield, but hands the sword with distaste off to Serpent.

Now that the lighting has improved, the majority of the congregation takes heart with at least one person beside them. Your terrified line of madmen begins to look more and more like a formation. There's miserable sobbing and screaming from the walls overhead, but it fades almost as soon as it came.

Proceeding through the passage in silence becomes increasingly difficult. The stone underfoot gradually deepens, until it becomes a steep decline. No one has rope, but the metal and corpses you scavenged make for better holds on the walls and floor than just your worn soles. The passage winds as it descends, and is ultimately so disorienting you have no idea which direction you're headed. The rogues among you are making a point to leave trails, in rocks, etchings on the wall, and are constantly muttering notes on where you're headed and how.

Echo pulls hard on the back of your shoulder, after what feels like an eternity of wandering through low candlelight and paranoia. You wave your arms as broadly as you can, and signal for everyone behind you to come to a full stop.

There's water on the floor, about a hundred feet ahead. The surface is reflective. With extreme caution, you're the first to approach it. Swiping a pebble off the floor, you toss it into the water. It doesn't sink. The rock stays on top of the liquid, as it ripples.

You continue, fearing staying another instant in these ruins more than anything that could lie ahead. Keeping as low to the ground as possible without crawling, you move with utter silence. The liquid has no temperature, and has no reflection to speak of. It feels as if reality shifts, the very second you step upon it.

There is no color to speak of, save for the sweat and heat on every inch of you. Your pulse is so loud, you're certain that the prison beyond will be alerted to your presence. There is only an expanse of white, and it feels as if you're pulled straight into it. The walls are lower than any other you've seen thus far in the ruins. Without crouching, you'd have knocked your head on the ceiling, which is flat, and lined with insect carapaces. The water upon the floor stops rippling, though it's speckled with rocks. If you didn't know any better, you'd say that the demon less than five feet away from you had been trying to escape.

The wall in which the demon is perched stretches out, impossibly, to accommodate a beast that is no shorter than fifteen feet tall. It has no face. It has no body. It is immaterial, but you're certain that where a face should be is an endless void. Where its hands should be, at the end of nonexistent arms, is a shifting form.

It's unmistakably waving right at you, and is nearly in arm's distance. It laughs.

The demon starts to crawl out of the completely open window, that should be holding it at bay. You can't tell if anyone is behind you.

Everything smells like flowers. It's very quiet.

You've never felt so alone.

>(A ROLL WILL BE REQUIRED FOR ALL OF THE FOLLOWING.)
>A] RUN

>1] FORWARD, AND AWAY. You're panicking too much to see what lies ahead, and you DON'T care.

>2] BACK, BACK THE WAY YOU CAME. Surely you can backtrack?!

>B] Keep it together. Continue your slow movement. Motion for everyone to follow you. If you die, you at least won't be known as a coward.
>C] Stop entirely. Don't panic.

>1] Try to make out exactly what this chamber is.

>2] Stop long enough to look ahead.

>D] Write-in.

>Roll 1d100. Best of 3 will be used.
>+5 NATURAL LEADER
>+5 STRENGTH IN NUMBERS
>+10 THIS ISN'T YOUR FIRST RODEO

>Rolled 85 (1d100)

Your breath is shallow, your eyes are wider than humanly possible, and there's so much sweat on you that your palms are slick. The demon rapidly crawls out of the window, on hands and feet, upon only three limbs. The movement is erratic. It's moving faster.

It's on you.

It's on you, and it's happened so fast that when you reach your hand backwards, you practically scream, "D-DO TH-THE SAME!"

There's a hold on you. Four holds on you. The demon is leering at you, with a face that's slowly pressing out from the interior of its once-concave face. Its features make no sense, as if the creature has forgotten what a human looks like.

It makes your face. The smooth expanse is shifting, as a scream is being loosed straight into the side of your left ear, from a face that looks exactly like yours. You can't hear, but you can see, as an impossible hand coils out. It comes from the depths of its immaterial arms. One is on your chin, lifting your head up and towards the nightmare's face. Its other hand is on your shoulder, pulling you towards the window across the chamber.

The third hand is on your eye. It's pressing. Deeper.

You cannot breathe, and half of you can't see. You want to vomit, from the scent of sickly sweet flowers that you will not forget for the rest of your life. You do not scream.

The last hand is clutching onto yours with such an intense grip, its nails have dug straight into your skin. It's the most beautiful thing you've felt in your entire life. You do not scream, as you hyperventilate, and take the most fearless steps forward you've ever mustered. You're not a coward, as you drag Serpent fully into the chamber, and mutter to him over and over again to keep moving forward.

It's licking your eye. The fucking demon has invented a tongue, explicitly for licking your eye, while you try and ignore it. It doesn't feel like anything, but you can see it, in your mind's eye. It's somehow worse than feeling it.

It's like it's wrapped its tongue inside the socket, up, into your brain.

"Forward," you choke out, unable to breathe, or to look back. "K-keep hold-ding on. All of you!"

You can't see your congregation, but you can feel them. That has to be enough.

It's impossible to stand fully upright in the chamber, and as hard as you can, you pull Serpent with you. He's not screaming. The man is absolutely in shock of some sort, but you don't care. The demon isn't screaming. It's whispering incoherently to you, as it remembers language, and begins to mimic your tone. The laughter was so thin, you couldn't decipher a tone from it, but here one is. The demon picks up on the distress in your voice, shaping mere words into something obscene.

"Ah, ah— ah-ah— ah— aaaa— aaaaaahhhh—"

This time you do scream, as you heave your ally forward with every last ounce of strength left in your exhausted limbs. You wrench yourself away from the demon's grasp on your shoulders, and taking every bit of care you can to not let anyone slip out of another's grasp, you make it out of the other side of the chamber.

Serpent is holding onto Walter, who is holding onto Klepto, who in turn was leading the rest of the chain of your congregation. There's over twenty of you, and it seems any one person touching the room affects the rest. When you finally stagger out of the lair, there's still no light in your eyes. There's no color. The twenty odd men and women behind you remain connected, and most of them are panicking. You can see clearly into the room, now, and bark for them to stay together, as all the life leaves you.

Up ahead is another chamber. It's connected by a thin tunnel, which is no more than ten feet long. The passage you're currently in is barely wide enough for you to stretch an arm out in, let alone for someone else to comfortably stand beside you. It's clearly a bottleneck— to keep the demons imprisoned here from leaking out— while giving their jailers room to move.

You try to not hyperventilate.

Their jailers are somewhere down here, too.

The path ahead curves hard to the right, and almost straight up. It's sadistic, but you're positive it will lead you all closer to the surface.

>(A ROLL WILL BE REQUIRED FOR ALL OF THE FOLLOWING.)
>(Your remarkable leadership will grant a +10 flat bonus to future endeavors you bring your congregation on, if you take the point.)
>A] Press on. Ostedholm hasn't done wonders for your sanity, and these people are counting on you.
>B] Back the fuck up. There were other routes you could take, and you're no maniac.
>C] Order someone specific to move up to the front with you. (Specify who, or what function you need filled if the particular individual doesn't matter! e.g. any man with combat proficiency other than Claymore, one of the priestesses of Mercy, Irefist, etc.)
>D] Write-in.

>Roll 1d100. Best of 3 will be used.
>+10 INSPIRING LEADER

>Rolled 93 (1d100)

Ostedholm hasn't done wonders for your sanity. It's not madness that's wormed its way into your speech, however.

It's bravery.

"FORTUNE FAV-VORS THE B-BOLD! RUN! ST-TICK T-TOGETH-THER! N-NO MATTER TH-THE ODDS!"

It's not necessary to drag anyone, as you all collectively make a mad dash through a living nightmare. Those at the rear can be heard screaming. You and Serpent dig in blades and heels, to scale up the highest slope ahead of you. Every man and woman behind follows suit, as fast as they're able. They've taken heart, but are surely fighting with everything they have to not lose their minds.

You are the first to emerge in the next cell, which is comprised entirely of canine teeth. Immediately, your hands are shredded to pieces on the ledge up.

Recoiling is not an option. You fight through the instinct. Despite the grotesque lacerations, there's no pain. It may be adrenaline, or an illusion, but you CANNOT linger.

The small, rounded room houses a singular, razor-sharp cage at its center. Within the cage unfolds a behemoth, pressed so tightly up against the bars that it's bursting out from every space. Its face is made of mouths. Its eyes are teeth. It has no limbs, no nose, no ears. The entire creature is a mass of cuspids and decaying molars, shaped into orifices. They all are screaming hysterically.

The demons sobs in such a human fashion, you wonder if it may have retained thought or coherency.

The thought leaves as soon as it came. As it screams, the demon's mouth opens, and another face rapidly exits, more decayed than the first. It's as if there are multiple monsters housed within the maw of the first one, and they keep coming. The pasty, pale, plaque-encrusted teeth keep gnashing, as you drag yourself up with only a single arm into the chamber.

Hoisting Serpent up with a grunt, you fire him a look that says he'll have worse things than demons to worry about if he turns back. Walter is deathly silent behind him, gasping as he shreds his unscarred palms.

You boldly sprint ahead, teeth flying out underfoot, and practically drag everyone after you. The screams behind you are growing, and you bellow over it, sprinting as hard as you can dead ahead.

"WE'RE HEAD-DING OUT! KEEP M-MOVING! ALL OF YOU!"

Walter hands off the useless piece of metal for a shield to Serpent, screaming, "HE'LL NEED IT!"

The item is thrust to you, before you even exit the chamber. "Don't stop," Serpent demands, "even if the whole thing collapses."

Everyone just behind you can see that the narrow corridor beyond is lined floor-to-ceiling with pressure plates.

Behind you, there's definitely someone in the last room who's lost their mind, or has been eaten, or suffered a fate worse than death. Those entering the canine prison with you can't afford to linger, as the demon within is expanding by the second. There's so much screaming.

You grit your teeth, and charge.

>(A ROLL WILL BE REQUIRED FOR ALL OF THE FOLLOWING.)
>A] Dive, shield first, and try to not activate a single trap for as far as you can leap. Even if no one else makes it out of here alive, you're living to tell this story.
>B] Intentionally activate a straight line of traps, to grant your congregation a clear path ahead. Prioritize protecting your face, if nothing else.
>C] You're praying to Flesh for some fucking strength, and barreling straight in. Look after the people behind you, if you can. The time for caution is over.
>D] Write-in.

>Roll 1d100. Best of 3 will be used.
>+10 INSPIRING LEADER
>+10 THE GODS ARE MERCIFUL

>Rolled 63 (1d100)

You're not normally a religious man. Skepticism has you wondering what God would enter this cursed passage, but there's no time for questions.

In fact, you're scared shitless of wasting another second. Keeping the bulk of your makeshift shield over Serpent and Echo, you charge straight into certain death. Leaving screams behind, you bellow over the gnashing of teeth, "F-Flesh! Lend m-me your strength!"

The prayer is bungled by your speech impediment, but you seriously can't care.
The first series of steps sets off a barrage of projectiles. It happens so fast, all you register is
THUNK
PLINK
"HARVEY?!"
THUNK
THUNKPLINKTHUNKTHUNK

As your shield eats and deflects at least thirty missiles, you're pushed back a full foot from the sheer force of the impact. Serpent and Walter continue to shout, right behind you, and keep you on your feet by leaning into you with the limited strength they have. Some of the projectiles are harmless as fast-moving pebbles. Others are barbed, and stick straight through your defense. One pierces straight into your arm, pinning your Flesh to your shield as you scream, "FUCK!"

The corridor is hopelessly narrow, but you don't stop for an instant. Likely due to the agonizing pain and blood dripping straight from your forearm, your left foot catches on one of the dozens of plates.

"T-Time!" It practically stops. Something in the wall clicks. "F-For T-TIME!"

The device within the walls is so ancient, only a mist of sand and dust ejects from what should have been arrows straight into your face.

No breath is in your lungs to cough with.

There's an opening ahead.

Something impossibly heavy is moving overhead. The grating of stone is unmistakable. Desperation soaks into you. You charge down the passage, screaming, "FOR TH-THE M-MOTHER! M-MERCY! G-GRANT US YOUR P-PROT-TECTION!"

A colossal shift in the rock overhead can be heard, closest to the exit. Suspecting that it's meant to seal the entire passage, your own scream joins that of everyone behind you. You are heard, over them all, "FOR TH-THE F-FATH-THER! HEAR MY PRAYER—! SH-SHIT!"

Emerging onto the other side of the rock and stone is less of a sprint, and more if a squeeze. The chamber is impossibly narrow. Your sprinting might as well be suspended in a single moment. Your eyes go so wide, you should take in every speck of light in the room, but you've ascended and turned into a pitch-black passage. Devoid of all candle light, only the persistent sun in your vision grants you view of two behemoths.

The first freely persists within the walls. In that singular instant, you understand that it is the walls. The grating sound, closing in on your congregation, is of the jailer. It's a demon composed of stone, and lips. They're all female, and quivering with such extreme fear that you have to question everything you know. They're painted with blood, slick with decay, speckled with dirt.

She's screaming.

In that one moment, the screams behind you are seemingly endless, while the monster before you falls completely silent. Its lips creep from within the walls, without shape or function. It is clearly hiding in the shadow of a larger demon, that it was in the process of releasing.

Everything should be black as night about you. The jailer is releasing a form akin to a human. The second demon's upper body is shaped like a scale. Each arm is balanced in tandem, and its mouthless head comes to an inanimate point. You're reminded of a blade. A fountain of endless, blackened blood is pooling from the tip of the imprisoned demon's face. The substance is swirling along its body. Upon the flat surface of its outstretched hands is a void.

One is reflecting your shadow, in an unmistakably human form.

The other is intertwining with the demon comprised of mouths.

They look like they're embracing. Possibly comforting one another. They are devoid of eyes or faces, but you know these monsters have stopped whatever they were doing, and are looking straight at you.

Your sanity is threatening to slip, as the moment passes, with unstoppable momentum. Every surviving soul behind you is being dragged into horror upon literal horror.

>A] Keep running, as hard and as fast as you can. Go straight around the spectacle.

>1] Keep quiet. Pray to Spirit that everyone does the same.

>2] Scream at the top of your lungs to everyone what's happening, and try to guide them around both demons.

>B] What the FUCK (Write-in any way you might wish to engage this scene, or to cope with what's happening.)

The prison has become so narrow, you have to turn sideways to continue moving forward. Behind you is a choir of terror. There are clearly members of your congregation being skewered alive, in the steep and narrow passage you've exited. The squish and squelch of meat being chewed on is unmistakable. Bones crack. Further behind them is hysterical sobbing, of someone who's completely lost their grip on reality.

You can't blame them. You're a quiet man, so as you run, you scream internally, and pray to Spirit with every last fiber of your soul that they will do the same.

The Mother and Father of Mercy truly listed to your prayers, to have shrouded this cell in darkness. Only you can see the room itself moving. Coated as it is in orifices, lips, mouths, and teeth, it is no jail. You are inside of a demon, who is housing many others. Tendrils of the stony monster undulate from the walls, stretching out into makeshift limbs. Only you can tell that the demon in the center of the chamber is being unshackled from its restraints.

You have been screaming internally, and bite down on your tongue hard enough to draw blood. Only you can witness a pair of manacles, bearing the weight of some unknown sin. They are opened from the demon's impossible wrists. The leaden cuffs collapse to the floor with such weight that it crushes the stone beneath.

Everyone collectively jumps out of their skin. Someone's going through an experience worse than a panic attack, at the entrance to the chamber, unable to identify what's happening. Your prayer intensifies, though you're rapidly losing the ability to think.

The freed demon rolls its shoulders stiffly back. It has no face, so the demon of mouths wraps itself with one of the tendrils onto the face of its prisoner. One of the mouths parts from the main mass. The tendril draws back. Upon the sharpened, eyeless visage is now a pair of lips.

It smiles at you. It knows you can see, as you run for your life. You're screaming to yourself, still. The teeth upon the creature are white, and piercing. The grip you keep on Serpent's hand is that of death itself. You might be breaking his fingers. You are gritting your teeth hard enough to make them crack.

You are a quiet man. A brave man. You haven't lost yourself.

Not yet. You can only keep praying that everyone follows suit. Out of the chamber, up a flight of winding stairs, you ascend out of the opposite side of the chamber. It is not carved out of the ruins. You have to remember how to breathe. Your head is light from exhaustion, and nausea is hot on you from the prolonged stress of your situation. The stair levels. The walls are so narrow, you can no longer run. You turn sideways, suffocating, and try to not scream out loud. You think of a Goddess, and Her blessing, and it takes every last ounce of strength left in you.

The mouths are all along the walls. They're everywhere. The beat of your heart is nearly louder than the screams and hysterical sobs behind you, but you press on. By all the Gods, you do not falter.

Despite the ache in every inch of your Flesh. Without fear of how much Time it may take, writhing in the dark. Knowing that there is light, at the end of this tunnel, you remember to breathe, you scream to yourself, and you stagger OUT from the demon's hold.

Right back into another corridor within the ruins. A plea leaves the lips of every man behind you, who emerges to the same sight. They are still alive, panicking, pale, vomiting or in the throes of insanity.

You're in a barren cavern, next to an incredibly steep incline. You're positive it leads away from the madness behind you. Up, towards the light. The surface. Hope. Humanity.

You stagger forward, in absolute darkness, trying to not vomit. "Mercy," you hear, from less than twenty people behind you. "Mercy."

>A] Lead a prayer to Mercy, while you all move ahead. You need some form of relief.
>B] Explicitly pray to Father Anscham. You've seen him work more miracles, even on you all, than the Goddess ever has.
>C] You're probably cracking, but have a better idea of how to boost morale. (Write-in.)

Alaric · Apr 21, 2021

Chapter 11: Almost Made It
"They live up to their reputation."

Swallowing pain, pride, and a brief surge of sickness, you keep staggering forward. The hold you've kept on Serpent's hand was so crushing, it takes a full minute of active effort to unstick your joints, peel each other's nails out of the other's skin, and stiffly wring out your fingers. There's crescents dug deep into your palm, and the fucking dart is still jammed through the shield, straight into your arm.

You ignore all of it, and dare to raise your voice enough that even those still within the demon should be able to hear you. "Hey."

The normalcy of your tone disarms almost everyone who's made it out. Klepto, in particular, seems totally fine. The maniac has a broad grin plastered across his face, and beams up to you like he's enjoying himself. "Yeah?"

You nod to the steep slope, leading away from sin incarnate, but keep your eyes on weary faces. Everyone is lined with grief and stress, but they're a lot more alert. A lot more sane, despite everything. "We've m-made a lot of p-prog-gress," you point out.

Starlight pulls her hair back, the second she gets into the cavern, and throws herself against a wall to retch so violently that blood comes up.

"Alm-most m-made it," you shout, over Stardust's compulsive reassurance that his sister will be alright. "You've all come from th-the surface. It's really n-not m-much farth-ther. You kn-know how d-deep we've d-dived." Her puking is really worrying. It's a lot of blood, and smells like death, but you continue shouting, "th-the G-Gods are M-Mercif-ful!"

You make a note to avoid the phrase in the future. Claymore pulls up the rear, alongside Irefist. They're dragging the legless corpse of Goldenrod out of the demon, and refuse to let the man go.

Everyone collectively panics, for a second time, but there's no one on the other end. No pursuit. Claymore spits a wad of blood at the passage, the moment they're all in the cavern. He drops the body, and sets to punching the wall so violently he breaks his hand. You all hear the snap, and everyone completely understands.

By your count, there's 18 of you left. No one is in pursuit. With complete determination, you turn your back, and keep walking ahead.

Something worse has to lie even further beyond, for anyone to not be chasing you further. You look up, to the steep slope leading out of the catacombs. It's nearly vertical, about thirty feet tall, but rough enough to be traversable.

Some lunatic seems to have chased several imps just off the ledge. One of the corpses is completely blackened, and you know better than to get remotely near it. Everyone is shifting nervously in place, too shaken to press on, and far too scared to retreat.

"We've m-made it th-this far," you assert. "It was th-thanks to our own m-merit. Our own skill! You can b-be afraid, but w-we can't st-stop n-now. W-we w-will all d-die, if w-we st-stop now."

You turn towards the ascent, resolving to lead an actual prayer. "M-Mercy—?"

Jitters runs up to you, and pulls so hard on your shoulder that you're nearly knocked off your feet. Even Sister Corbon has more meat on her than he does, but fear is giving him strength. It's soaking into the deep pits of his pale gray eyes, beneath his frayed and blackened hair. "Get away from there." More nervously still, he waves to Mick and Randy, and reassures you, "we'll check it first."

The scoundrels run over, and make excessively quick work of testing the area. You encourage everyone else to "g-get the fuck away from th-the walls!".

You whisper the prayer to Mercy, as you all come closer together. The priestesses are both alive, and are feverishly praying under their breath as they see to bite marks, lacerations, and missing appendages.

Neither can invoke their Goddess. You pray to Flesh. Chesty has an arrow sticking straight out of his right shoulder, and snaps the item off right next to his skin. He's easily the best off out those in the rear of the procession, who all got the worst of it. Your wounds are seen to, and your soul goes out to someone in worse shape.

You pray for Father Anscham. He's still somewhere below these Gods-forsaken ruins, flirting with blasphemy and terror. You all ask for his survival, from any God who will listen.

The scoundrels come back, away from the wall. They're all heathens, and don't give a shit about the Gods, but they'll accept your word. "Th-thank you all."

"Don't thank us just yet," Mick spits, jerking a shaking thumb at the ledge. He's not embarrassed by how fried his nerves are, and mentions, "there's some cinder up there."

"Wh-what?"

"Flame," Randy helpfully offers. Spangle practically jumps out of her skin. You fire her a warning glance. She seems to like it, and so does Randy, who more happily continues, "seen it before, down here. Nasty stuff." He's grinning, and looks green around the edges. "Magic."

"We're all going to die," Walter bemoans behind you, "and I no longer care how."

You all climb. Exhaustion threatens to kill anyone who dares to rest, but no one among you is stopping now.

At the peak, you actually pause, upon seeing the cavernous chambers ahead. There's still candles. Scorch marks decorate one of the walls, as evidence of some sudden, violent flame. There is fortunately no trace of smoke, or paint. Only natural stone, with countless pillars and pockets between them. Over a dozen corpses are nestled in hiding. Most of them have the eyes burned out of their skulls, and the rest are beaten to death wherever they were hiding.

Echo helpfully asks, from next to your shoulder, "what the fuck," but even he has to pause.

The imps are all wearing gear. Weapons. Actual armor. Most have pouches. Pouches that might have food. Skins that might have water.

Klepto sniffs next to you, in a terribly excited way. "It's definitely bait. Doubt there's any coin."

"I'm going for it," Mick grins.

>A] "No looting, for the love of Vengeance." You'll throw them both off this ledge before anyone's life is put in unnecessary risk.
>B] "Just don't get anyone killed." Let the rogues do what they do best. Defer to Jitters on how to keep everyone safe.
>C] "EVERYONE TAKE COVER!" You aren't taking ANY chances.
>D] Write-in.

You twitch, duck, and instinctively shout to every other member of your congregation, "EV-VERYONE—" they're already crouching, flinching, and clinging onto each other for dear life, "T-TAKE C-COV-VER!"

From your vantage point at the top of the ledge, heart thrumming, you simply can't stand the loss of one more life. Your nerves aren't dying down, looking to the perilous slope beneath you. The narrow corridor, comprised of a single demon.

A freed monster, lurking within its shadows.

The moment Mick and Klepto commit to scaling over the wall, you hurl yourself up with them. There's a scuffle. It's pointless, for how tired everyone is. The three of you barely scramble on the ground for a moment, already seriously injured, before you settle on grabbing them both by the collar.

You all get to your feet. The scoundrel is easily twice as broad as you are, and the compulsive thief twice as insane, but you don't care. "N-no loot-ting." You feel sick to your stomach. There's a nightmare on the loose, in the demonic corridors beneath your feet, and you'll throw these men off this ledge before they risk one more life. "For th-the love of Veng-geance."

Mick shrugs you away immediately, intentionally shoving your injured arm. "Fuck off."

You shoot daggers with your eyes, and he seems to actually respect the challenge.

Sniffing again, Klepto doesn't move to take your hand off of him. He's obviously thrilled, and leans in. "What are you going to do about it?"

Someone over the ledge moans like a dying thing. It's probably Stardust. "No. No. No—!"

There's frantic scrambling, for everyone to climb up all at once. Your congregation is legitimately too frightened to speak coherently, save for Echo. His voice is distant, and high, as he rasps, "the demon. It waited. It waited. Run."

Spangle is the first one over the top of the ledge. She's laughing compulsively, grinning ear to ear, and is trying to hoist Randall's fat ass out of harm's way. "Where," she demands, pointing to the corpses strewn about the cavern. "Which ones? Which ones have the fucking cinders?!"

You try to not laugh, too. You want to vomit, or die, and can still see the monstrosity in your mind's eye.

Meanwhile, a priestess of Mercy wants to use these demons against each other.

At least they live up to their reputation.

>A] Help Randy and Mick identify which imps contain magical flame. (A ROLL WILL BE REQUIRED.)
>B] Help Spangle launch an attack against the demon pursuing you all. (A ROLL WILL BE REQUIRED.)
>C] Keep Klepto from getting anyone killed.
>D] Get the rest of your congregation as far away from the impending chaos as humanly possible.
>E] Write-in. (A roll may be required.)

Walter continues to challenge your position as the most intellectual man in the group. He's right, of course. This situation is beyond salvaging. These people are insane, and no one is going to look after themselves if you don't.

As you help to pull up the last of your congregation from the ledge, it seems Chesty is still badly injured. He seriously appreciates the assistance, even if you're too worn out to be of much physical use, to get another three injured souls to safety. You scream to them, and to everyone who's still able, to keep running.

You don't need to tell them twice. Walter and Serpent continue to take the point, and tear off into the corridors beyond, with almost everyone is in tow.

The thunder of everyone's collective footsteps drowns out the approach of Electrum. She can't help but huff, skidding to a stop beside you, "need a hand?"

You don't bother replying, while the priestess helps you heave the largest member of your congregation back onto a level surface. All three of you pale. Chesty doesn't linger a moment longer, fleeing faster than you can even register what's happening. While Spangle continues to laugh like a mad thing, and the crackle of flame picks up on the edges of your hearing, there is a nightmare below.

Vertigo and horror threatens to take the world out from under you. Over thirty feet down, at the base of the catacombs, comes something darker than shadow. The demon from before, with its pitch-black body, and arms like scales, slinks out from the narrow corridor that once imprisoned it.

The monster shifts and slides adjacent to the walls. Its approach completely obscures the floor beneath it. It takes its time. It takes in all light around it. It takes a long moment to wait at the base of the ruins.

It's planning something.

Claymore runs to your side, staring the demon down, with two swords drawn while you holler to everyone to keep sprinting. You entertain staying with him, for the briefest of seconds. It would be a noble way to die. A valiant last stand. A story worth telling! One of taking your demons head-on, with nothing but your own two hands.

You did not come to the ruins to die, and run for your life.

Randy has already taken off running. His and Mick's silhouette veers around a corner, having already done their duty. They're far off in the distance, with Klepto in tow. Rather than run, the blonde is lingering around a nearby corridor. He's frantically making something, with a few baubles in his hands, but the lunatic can't take his eyes off of something behind you.

You make the mistake of glancing back over your shoulder. Electrum, Spangle, Claymore, and Irefist are all launching an assault. The men are holding the line, at the ledge, while the demon has stretched its body from the base of the cavern.

It has kept the base of its body on the floor, easily thirty feet below, and has effortlessly expanded to fill the entirety of the catacombs beneath it.

Spangle laughs, screaming, "FOR THE GODDESS OF LIGHT," and moves to hurl something straight at the creature.

You turn away from the sight of madness, and run. Through winding caverns, and corridors, as fast as your exhausted legs will carry you. It takes seconds to catch up to the group. It takes only one more to eclipse them all, and to scream, "RUN! IF YOU V-VALUE YOUR LIVES, D-DON'T LOOK B-BACK—"

There is a massive explosion, from the corridor behind you. It feels as if the walls are going to collapse, for the sheer devastation reverberating through the floor.

You're an expert navigator, and keep your footing. Mick's swearing is audible throughout the passage, while everyone else screams.

You do everything in your power to keep them moving. "G-GO," is punctuated with shoving Echo ahead, with—

There's another shake, and another explosion. Chunks of rock and ruin drop from above.

Nothing more needs to be said. The entirety of your remaining congregation tears off, away from the heat and smoke. Away from Spangle's manic laughter. Rough rock, and hollowed out caverns leer and pitch in the shadow.

The corpses of imps are left behind you. Every shape in the dark feels like it's grinning, with white teeth, as you flinch away from everlasting candlelight.

After what could be seconds, or minutes— and is likely no more than an hour— you start to feel your body again. The floor, before long, grows damp. There's a red light that should be leering ahead, for the glow cast upon the worn and weary faces of your company. In silence, too shocked to speak, too frightened to turn back, you all move ahead. There's so much heat up ahead, the water upon the ground is rising in a mist. There's sweat on your brow, and you've never felt so tired in all your life.

You hazard a glance back. Walter is still right behind you. The sickly sheen upon his pale skin is not your biggest concern. There's a yellow tinge to Echo's eyes, and for all the grease in the strands upon his head, there's something more concerning.

The yellow hue is upon his irises.

You blink some of the sunlight out of your vision, and realize that the color is upon everyone's eyes. It's not a trick of the light. Serpent's eyes may be nearly shut, in a perpetual sneer, and particularly when he realizes you're scrutinizing him. You try to not think too much about it. Not about the scars lacing the side of his exposed scalp, or the gash that divides his tongue.

More than enough of your company is unwillingly injured. Chesty is shouldered by Irefist, who is being closely tailed by Jitters, who has been the only one speaking for some time. He's tearing into Klepto for threatening everyone's life, while the freak tries to not laugh.

There's footsteps rapidly approaching from down the corridor, and the sound of Electrum calling ahead, "don't kill us. Please. We're just around the corner. No one's chasing us."

She sounds hurt.

>A] Stick to the front. The company you keep might kill you before the ruins gets the chance to. You're not giving anyone an inch, from here on out, and word can get to you if necessary.
>B] Klepto can have the honor of scouting ahead, as intended, while you see to the priestess. Send Jitters and Serpent with him, for accountability, while you're at it.
>C] You're not micromanaging. Run to the rear of the group, and see what's happened. You're legitimately too exhausted to tell anyone else what to do right now.
>D] You're so paranoid at this point, you don't even trust the sound of the priestesses' voice. Get everyone to keep running. If she's actually catching up, trust that she'll make it to the group when you have line of sight.
>E] Write-in.

Without hesitation, you run to the rear of the procession. The lot of you are too exhausted to care about tricks, traps, or any further despair. While the rest of the congregation filters out of the catacombs, you weave past their limping and twitching forms to the back. Turning the corner, leaving the group to their own devices, the only thing left to ache is your heart.

There's a blessed sight. All three of your congregation members are alive, and are covered in the spoils of battle. Electrum is breathing hard, slumped over Claymore's shoulder, and has horrific burns covering the lower right half of her body. Wincing, she offers you a pained smile. "The Gods are Merciful, right?"

Claymore has also acquired a nasty burn, running along the right side of his face. The short, middle-aged fighter shows absolutely no indication of pain, despite blood dripping onto the pauldrons he's slapped on. Throwing a flask to you, with a straight face, he takes a second to adjust a set of bracers and to wipe some of the blood off of his cheek.

Vials clink inside the pouchesall along his frame with each movement. The ache in your arms is so extreme, you almost drop the flask before getting a good hold. Wary of even uncapping the item, you give it a wary look.

"Oil," the swordsman mutters, in a rustic accent. He runs a free hand over his widow's peak, that will probably be gray before any of you get out of here alive. "No food, unless Klepto took it all fer himself."

Spangle is bringing up the rear, walking backwards with a sword in hand. The broomstick of a woman dares to fire a glance over her shoulder. Psychotic energy has her spine straight, and a fire in her eyes. "We got him, Harvey. With Magic to spare."

You slow to a walk, placing yourself alongside the three victors. There's a few gasps up ahead, but no screams, and you're certain this is more important. "Wh-what was it?"

"A demon of Vengeance," Electrum rasps. "It may be unkillable."

Whatever color was left in your face drains away completely. You wonder if even your freckles will survive the ruins, as Spangle insists, "if it isn't dead, it'll be wishing it was."

Claymore spits a wad of blood, and shoots another out of his nose with a sniff. "Nothing left of it."

It's clear that Electrum is too hurt to even care about propriety, as she's shifted upright. "Not that we could tell."

Her support nods to the cavern ahead. "They've all been quiet."

>A] Take an extra second to thank them all for risking their lives.

>1] Briefly.

>2] Try to convey how much this means to you. They're legends.

>B] You're seriously stunned, and need a further explanation.
>C] You're probably going into shock of some sort. Hang back with the three most competent fighters among you, and quietly proceed ahead.
>D] Write-in.

You're just about at your mental limit. Hanging back with the only three members of your congregation that seem capable of looking after anyone (including themselves,) you briefly mutter, "you risked your lives. Th-thank you."

You glance up to the corridor ahead, wondering how Irefist escaped so quickly. Nothing more needs to be said. The four of you share a few moments of mutual respect and gratitude, as you walk in silence.

Alaric · Apr 22, 2021

Chapter 12: Remember the Sun
"The prince painted a gallant picture."

Coming around the corner, it feels as if the humidity about you all will never relent. Clouds of steam are rising from the water upon the floor. It keeps rising, until you're sloshing— ankle-deep— towards a disturbingly well-lit chamber. There are torches upon the walls of the corridor, rising up towards increasingly high ceilings. The walls must stretch fifty feet ahead, by the time you all filter out, into a massive lair beyond.

The source of the gasping you heard is immediately clear. The expansive chamber ahead is obviously man-made. Or rather, demon-made. Dozens of dizzyingly tall pillars rise above. They're supporting a flat ceiling, illuminated by what should be a red glow. The chamber isn't quite how you remember it.

There's still sun in your eyes, and the hue is starting to bother you. You might be going into shock of some sort. It's getting increasingly harder to think, or focus, and you're merely getting snippets of what's passing by. Multiple people wave to your entrance with legitimate relief.

Your congregation is not passing by. The chamber is several hundred feet across, by any measure. You can see Echo and Serpent in a heated argument, far ahead, though they're nearly obscured. The thing that your mind wants to shut out, and positively can't, is concealing almost everyone in the distance.

You slowly approach it. It is not water that you're walking in. It's blood. The blood of the largest demon you've ever laid eyes on. The creature has a single torso, like a horse. Its four legs are shaped like the muscular arms of a man, with hands for feet. Upon the torso are no less than ten more torsos, of armless men. None of the men have eyes, or arms. Their bald faces are smeared over, as if someone had burned the eyes out of their skull. The unsettling stretches of smooth skin upon their shoulders is mottled, and rotten.

Each humanoid torso is easily twenty feet long, but the bulk of its body must be forty feet across. Its alabaster skin is laces with burns, in disturbing patterns akin to lightning. There's pools of water trickling out of the beast's ten lips, like a fountain out of some nightmare.

It was killed, you think to yourself. It was killed by something, or someone. This demon was killed, despite its size, and your congregation is so stunned by the sight that a few of them have sat down in the blood, just to try and collect themselves.

Serpent runs over to you (likely dragging given his slender build). Echo trails behind him in a daze. Claymore, Spangle, and Electrum actually lift their horrified gazes to the bald man, just as he approaches. The self-mutilator is relieved beyond measure to see you. In a whisper, he proposes, "there's no movement in any of the blood. It's well lit here. If anyone is coming, we'd see them from a mile away. I can't imagine anyone making it home at this rate. We should rest."

Hands to his knees, out of breath and clearly scared out of his mind, Echo ignores Serpent entirely. He nods to Spangle, Claymore, and Electrum. "Good work."

Serpent blinks. He has tattoos on his eyelids. It disarms you enough to almost miss his sarcastic, "thank you."

They all barely respond. Claymore manages to wince, "yeah. Yer welcome."

The scholar nods towards Spangle, the countless clinking pouches upon all three fighters, and begs, "destroy it. Please. We can't take any chances."

Electrum winces. The burns on her arm and tapered sides are still bleeding freely. "Can we not."

>A] Rest here, and leave the demon be.

>1] Serpent can have the first watch, if he's so desperate to get everyone some rest.

>2] There's no conceivable way you can stay still. Offer to look after everyone, even if you're definitely going on two days without sleep.

>B] Kill it. Kill it with fire.

>1] But get everyone else as far away as possible, first.

>2] Try and stick around, to see if you can use this space to rest.

>C] For the love of all the Gods, keep moving.
>D] Write-in.

Without sleep for two days, you look again to the inert and graying corpse. The demon isn't going anywhere. You're sure of it.

You're also certain that you won't ever sleep soundly again. Through a haze of exhaustion, you give everyone a weary smile. "Rem-memb-ber the sun?"

Both priestesses beside you lift their eyes, and smile in turn. Echo straightens up, just a little, and scoffs. "Naturally."

You ignore his pompous attitude, and immediately ask both sisters of Mercy, "is th-there any way you can attend to th-the wound-ded?" Serpent gives you a pained smile, too, as you insist, "I'll keep watch."

It's a small matter to staunch the bleeding on Electrum and Claymore. The priestess is incredibly resilient, and the swordsman is psychotically devoted to combat. Once you're certain that they aren't on death's door, Serpent goes to inform everyone that you're all finally getting some rest. He relays your comment about the sunlight, too, and it seriously helps.

The bloody lair is far from ideal, but everyone props themselves up against one another. To sleep, to pray, to look over their wounds, you're given some thanks as you run a head count.

"Thanks for going ahead. Idiot." Walter "Professor Echo" Middleton is coming around. His fair hands are lacerated, and there's something wrong with his health, but he's otherwise fine.

"You made the right call. I'm certain that this is the most rest we'll see for some time." Serpent is almost totally unscathed, and confesses he was using you as a human shield. You can't blame him. The man at least lends you a hand, to check on his friends.

"Should have seen it coming! Thanks for keepin' an eye out." Chesty is keeping the arrow in his shoulder, until you get to the surface. The priestesses are worried about it turning foul.

"Yeah." Irefist escaped from the explosion, in time to salvage a huge haul of supplies from the cavern, and to drag Klepto to safety. Both men collectively picked up five flasks of oil, a pouch of 80 (incredibly rare) solid gold coins, and a silver locket. The gaunt and auburn-haired man has kept a wide berth from the clown, and seriously appreciates your company. "Just say the word. We'll kill him twice over."

"Brilliant. Imagine what we can do with all of this!" Electrum is certain you all will divide their findings, to get everyone some shelter and care on the surface. She pilfered as much as she could during the fight. The priestess has at least second degree burns on her lower body, and severe wounds on her right arm, but she still takes the time to count out 300 silver pieces for bartering.

You're more concerned with Spangle. The priestess has fashioned bandoliers of pouches. The clinking you heard is confirmed as vials of explosive material. She, along with Claymore, have outfitted themselves with thirty "cinders of the occult," (the flame Randy pointed out,) five flasks of "abyssal tar," (allegedly much more powerful, but has to be applied in advance) and one transparent, orange liquid within a bottle. It has no name.

"Wh-what d-does it d-do…?"

Spangle flashes her teeth at you, like a wild animal, as she puts the item deep within a cushioned bag. "I'm looking forward to finding out, Mr. Ringleader."

"I'll rest when I'm dead. You should probably get some sleep, though." Claymore is sharpening four swords, and takes the time to equip every other able-bodied man with whatever scrap metal he found.

Randy stayed so close to Mick, he's completely unharmed. "We're not all heroes." The former pilfered a singular flask of water, which is desperately shared among you all. The latter grabbed a gemstone, which may be enchanted, but he refused to part with it for further inspection. "Piss off. ...can't believe you tried to stop me."

Jitters is trying to not fall asleep, propped up against Starlight and Stardust. They're all talking in low voices, and you don't want to intrude. They're already discussing some plan for escape, once they get out of the ruins, and it seems extremely complicated.

Bronzebeard has discovered that Klepto is immune to all forms of intimidation. The brute's patchwork facial hair and beady eyes are laced with blood, from beating the clown the moment he had the chance. "Get off of me, Harvey. I'll make him shut the fuck up if it kills me!"

His own abrasions and wounds are treated by Spangle, while you see to the psychopath.

Klepto found several trinkets. They're obviously enchanted, and priceless. You realize that even under threat of imminent death, he was toying with them, rather than running for his life. "Please. You thought the flame collapsed the passage? I'm not just a pretty face. Hehe."

There are 15 members in your congregation, including yourself. You slump to the floor, on the edge of the group, after ensuring everyone else's needs are attended to. Looking out to the cavern beyond, you finally get a moment to consider your own agenda.

>A] Your need for retribution is great. Armor, swords, and an actual shield will suit you fine. You're a common man, have been wronged in every way, and are going to set things right with your own two hands.
>B] Spangle has the right idea. You want to learn from the powerful priestess. Even if her pursuit of Magic is blasphemous, you can't blame her. Getting to the bottom of her inability to invoke is alarming, to an extreme, and deserves your attention.
>C] Electrum's practical concerns are yours, too. You want to help her track the coin and valuables in your possession, and ensure that they're used wisely. She easily seems like the sanest of the bunch, and you could use the emotional support.
>D] Whatever Klepto is up to, you want in.
>E] Nobility is no joke. Neither is disgracing their family line, in treason, escape, or suicide. You want to learn more, when there's actually an appropriate time.
>F] It's going to kill you, but you're starting to think you can do it all. Shadow everyone. The welfare of these men and women could not mean more to you, even if it comes at great cost to yourself.
>G] Write-in.

Looking out to the still water, the currents of blood, and the fifteen lives in your hands, you decide to keep your thoughts to yourself, for now. They need to rest, and their welfare means more to you than you could possibly say, anyways.

Getting up with a groan, you cringe at the disgusting sensation of your cloak and pants sticking to your legs. Shrugging off the treated wounds on your arm, ignoring exhaustion, and defeating hunger, you look for everything you need to finish this journey.

"Claym-more," you whisper, walking right over to the fighter.

He's still pacing, clearly too on edge from the fight to sleep. "Yeah?" The edge of his beard picks up, happy to see you, but is far too stressed to truly show it.

"I n-need some g-gear. A sword and sh-shield. An-ny arm-mour you've found."

He's worried, but doesn't say a word. The fighter instantly sets about showing you all the scavenged supplies he can. You're both smiling, a few minutes later, as he gestures to a pile of weapons and gear. "Best I could find."

You don't need to be told how substantial this find is. There's a pile of goods. It usually falls to scavenging, in Corcaea, to obtain anything in the way of weaponry. There are no mining operations that you're aware of. Copper is used widely, if only because smiths usually know how to use it. Tin and lead gets repurposed, sure, but in such small amounts it's hardly worth mentioning. Ironwork is only done by master craftsmen, under the King's command.

The ruins are a resource. This may be the only opportunity for you to get a decent weapon, for good, long while. You've heard of masterwork weapons made in Calunoth, given to priests of Flesh before being sent out to battle, but they're practically myths to simple men like yourself. The church of Flesh seizes and distributes anything located, anyways. Its leader— Father Friedrich— seems to think that only his forces and any civilians working under him rate more than haphazard pole arms, or whatever wooden instruments you can make.

"Sh-shame, really," you nod, towards multiple broken shields.

"Not that Father Fred isn't a blood-thirsty, hot-blooded, complete fuckin' lunatic," Claymore scowls. "Respectable, by any measure." You both smirk. "But we all need armor, too. It's a load of shit. Here, try this."

Claymore happily points out an iron sword. "It's almost pure. No question it could take a beating. Gonna raise eyebrows on any street, but I doubt you give a shit."

Its durability and weight is comforting. You know you could beat anything to death with it that isn't killed outright. "Yeah."

A more traditional blade catches your eye, thanks to the gold plated upon its hilt. Silver is inlaid all along the blade, which has been carved out slightly to make it much lighter than a usual weapon. "The make is fine," Claymore shrugs. He almost seems offended. "You fancy takin' over for Anscham?"

Only the Father of the Church of Mercy rates wearing gold. The metal is so scarce, it's only used for his holy symbol, and a few ceremonial robes. You're certain that both priestesses of Mercy have the usual imitations, for the holy symbol and robes of their station. It's tacky, of course. The silver is more elegant, in your opinion.

It's fitting, that silver is only worn by nobility. The King's children. A metal second only to His gold.

Claymore sniffs, bothered, and nods to direct your attention to an even more audacious item. "Demon-make. Might be more our speed."

It's a short sword, with a handle far more ornate than you're used to. It's still a simple shape, but the metal is glossy, and looks incredibly thin. Picking up the exotic sword proves it's almost weightless. You hold up the blade, and can slice a hair off the back of your hand effortlessly. "N-new kn-knives are d-duller."

You take a few swings, relishing the sound of air singing past the item. It's your only indication of wielding it at all.

"Made for close combat. Would be piss-easy to use in the city," the former resident of the capital notes.

After the swords are set aside, you're reassured that there's a number of more mundane daggers and short swords, if you're really interested. More importantly, two shields were found intact. One is the standard, round affair, with bands of iron. The other is made of the same, odd, incredibly light metal as the exotic sword.

It's smaller than the round shield, and would offer less coverage, but you're confident you could move faster with it. The veteran obliges you, as you hold up the item, and steel yourself for a kick right towards your chest. The shield holds, but the emblems of thread upon its face are odd, and you're not certain of its long-term stability.

What Claymore has done to wind up down here escapes you. The obviously retired, master blacksmith smirks, while you both mull over the haphazard pieces of armor. You'll be lucky to get anything that remotely fits you, but even a single bracer would be worthwhile.

"What's it gonna be?"

>Your congregation is using or bartering with everything not put to immediate use. The following are mutually exclusive. Majority vote will decide.
>A] You're strong, and can easily wield a weapon.

>1] Take the iron sword. It's weightier, hardier, and can make the most of your build.

>2] Go with the exotic, shorter sword, for ease with street-level combat. It might come in handy in narrow ruins, too.

>3] You can't resist the gold-hilted sword. It's practical now, and may sell for a small fortune to a bold (or treasonous) buyer later.

>B] You need all the protection you can get.

>1] You'll favor the basic, round, larger shield. It's flexible, and you've got plenty of experience using them.

>2] Try the triangular shield. It may grant you more protection, though you're uncertain of how reliable its ornamental face and metal will be.

>C] Armor is a shot in the dark. You'll take what you can get. (Once the vote is locked, the DC will be made transparent for the majority vote. If the DC is met, you are guaranteed to get that item. The higher above the DC you go, the higher quality/better fit the item will be. If the DC is not met, you're out of luck, and will only have your shield. Best of 3 will be used.)

>1] You'll take anything. (NO DC MYSTERY BOX. Your QM will roll, and determine the parameters. You're guaranteed something!)

>2] Bracers would be nice, at the very least. (VERY LOW DC.)

>3] You want something more substantial for your shield arm. (LOW DC.)

>4] A helmet is priceless. (MODERATE DC.)

>5] You'd kill for something to cover your legs with. (HIGH DC.)

>6] A fitted piece of segmented armor would be a Godsend. (VERY HIGH DC.)

>7] You were told a story as a young boy about a hero in plated armor. You really want to believe that your story will be as fantastic. (HIGHEST DC.)

You have a hope. A dream.

>You are guaranteed your iron sword and large shield.
>Roll 1d100. Best of 3 will be used. If the DC is not met, you find nothing further worth using.
>For a scavenged suit of plate armor that fits well enough for use, in the year 605, in the country of Corcaea:
DC 95.
>Each point above 95 will represent one part of the suit being a VERY high quality item:
>96 - helm
>97 - arms
>98 - legs
>99 - breastplate
>100 - the entire suit
>When you roll, you can specify one of the following attributes (this is optional):
>Perfect fit
>Extreme durability
>Exotic metal
>Ridiculously cool design
>If a 100 is rolled, all characteristics voted on by all voters will be assigned to the entire suit.

(Good luck!)

>Rolled 67 (1d100)

As you get on your hands and knees, up to your wrists in the bloodied water of a demon's lair, you think back. Not to the lacerations along your wrists, the stab wound in your arm, or the unmistakable scent of rot stuck in your beard. Not to the nightmares behind you, and not of the ones you imagine ahead.

You think back to a story you were told as a little boy, laying in an actual bed, buried in the linen sheets up to your nose. To your mother, and the smell of barley as she tucked you in and recounted an old tale. She said it was passed down from her mother. The seamstress always loved to Dream, and had a knack for silly voices. You remember them all clearly.

"There was once a great castle that covered all the land. It stretched from the bottom of the world, up to the very tips of the sky! In the castle's highest tower, up, hiiiigh up on the tallest peak, there was a beautiful princess.

She was guarded by a terrible demon. The icicles of its eyes, the blizzard of its breath, and the chill of its voice was more fearsome than the howl of the wind! It was more fearsome than the might of the Storm! The mountains themselves trembled in its wake!

One day, a prince with hair like fire set out to rescue the princess. He was trusted with the mightiest steed in all the land. In one hand, he carried his father's sword. In the other, he took up his village's shield. And upon his brow, he wore something greater than the very King's crown.

The prince wore a suit of armor. The flame upon his brow shone brightly, reflecting high off of its polished surfaces. From the spikes upon his shoulders, to the plated gloves upon his hands, the prince painted a gallant picture.

He rode up to the castle and slayed countless foes. They fell beneath his steed, they fell upon his shield, and they fell beneath his sword. Neither man nor demon could lay a scratch upon him!

The road was long, and full of peril. At long last, the prince confronted the demon! There, upon the highest peak, up at the tallest tower, he saw it:

The demon was the mountains. The demon was the icicles upon his armor, the blizzard of his breath, the chill in his voice, and the howl of the wind.

The princess came to her champion, and took him by the hand. She had been waiting, to tell him that the real demon he faced..."

"...was the j-journ-ney."

The year is 605. You live in the country of Corcaea. No matter how badly you want to find an entire suit of armor upon imps, here at the bottom of the world, you have to face reality. There's nothing. It's all junk. Claymore absolutely went through the trouble of looking for the best gear he could, but it's sodden.

"Harvey?"

You pick up the iron sword, and get to your feet. The weight in the palm of your hand, tugging at your arm, and weighing at your shoulder feels excellent. Its balance is superb. You feel like you could kill someone just from moving at them too quickly with the item in hand. In the other, you pick up the large, wooden, banded shield. It nearly covers you from shoulder to knee, even though you're a little above average height. The ancient piece of defense is still solid. The wood isn't rotten in the slightest. It could even be used offensively, if you really threw your weight into the metal edges.

"Th-thanks," you manage, nodding towards the blacksmith.

Claymore gives you a frown, and sets to clearing away all the gear he painstakingly gathered. "No problem."

>A] Stay a minute, and talk to Claymore as best as you can. He seems like an alright guy, and you could do with being a little more grounded right now.
>B] Starlight and Stardust are still talking. Go see what it's about.
>C] Go distract Electrum. She's compulsively counting, and might appreciate the company.
>D] You never thought you'd say it, but you wouldn't mind Klepto right now.
>E] Take some time to yourself, and go finish the rest of the watch alone.

>1] You're pretty upset.

>2] You just need some time to think.

>F] Write-in.

The urge to distract yourself is as unshakable as your need for rest. With a quick glance around the bloody camp, you confirm that a number of your congregation are still awake. Just to be safe, you nod to Claymore. "Could you take th-the next w-watch?"

"'Course." He still looks worried. "Go get some sleep. Or try to."

You offer him the straightest face you can muster, and nod towards Electrum (who is compulsively, repeatedly counting the several hundred coins you've all acquired), Starlight (who is practically transparent, for how pale she is), and Stardust (still talking). "I'll b-be ch-checking on th-them all, first."

A firm slam on your back later, "get some rest if you can, then," and you're staggering back over to the curvy priestess. Blinking a few spots of sunlight out of your eyes, it's easily enough to see that she looks as tired as you feel. The piles of coin and the few valuables you've all collected are stacked neatly upon a broken shield . She's repurposed the fractured metal into a makeshift table, to keep the items out of the blood and water around you all.

Squinting in the low light, smiling slightly, you'd almost say she's taking a little comfort in the eerily neat piles of ancient currency. The extreme anxiety running through her, and the fact that the woman doesn't so much as raise her head when you approach is enough cause for concern. "Electrum," you quickly snip, enough to snap her attention away. "Come w-with m-me."

Briskly walking away wrests the priestess from her neurosis, straight to her feet. It would seem that Sister Corbon is merely so tall and gangly in comparison, the woman before you always looks shorter than she really is. She's actually much taller than average, and barely has to look up to you. "Harvey? Is something wrong?"

At the edge of the group— backs propped up against Jitters' sleeping frame— both nobles in your company stop their low whispering upon seeing you approach. They look far too exhausted to even stand, but Stardust holds out a hand. It's the symbol of Mercy, and you're seized with the desire to complete the gesture.

As you both clasp hands, for a brief moment, the lord gives you a pained smile. His features are just as fair as his sister's, save for his strong jaw, and the breadth of his shoulders. The grip he gives is crushing, but a level, resonant, and confident, "name's actually Allan. Thanks," disarms you almost completely.

He nudges the woman leaning against him, just as Electrum closes in on you all. The golden-haired lady jolts back upright. You've only heard her scream or sob hysterically, in over a full day, so it makes perfect sense that her voice isn't much more than a rasp. It's still as delicate as the rest of her. "Lady Edith. We owe you our lives, ser...?"

You wince. "Alg-grith."

They wince, offer a pair of condescending smiles, and in unison say, "pleasure."

Electrum doesn't wince, but appreciates the distraction enough to politely excuse herself. You're given a slight pat on your shoulder, and a low, "thanks for looking out," before she walks off.

By the time Sister Tirel collapses next to Spangle, and immediately falls asleep, the nobles before you have resumed their incredibly low tones. The two speak almost in unison, completing each other's train of thought, while Stardust seems to prefer leading.

"Listen," Allan tries, with a more sincere smile.
Edith's tone is even softer than before. "Harvey."
"We cannot return to Calunoth."
"Father will have Allan killed."
"If I'm going to die, it's going to be on our," they squeeze hands, "terms."
"And seeing as how Father Anscham has conveniently intervened..."

They both gesture for you to sit down. You give up on sleep for just a minute longer, and accept the audience with royalty. The damp conditions in here are beyond miserable. The stone underfoot is soft with chunks of viscera, from forgotten monsters. The torchlight on the walls is searing, the heat is unrelenting, but you're a fighter. It all is, at the very least, keeping you awake a moment longer.

In incredibly hushed tones, enough that you all have to lean in (realizing how terrible everyone smells, you all then promptly lean back another inch), you all try to whisper to one another to not wake Jitters.

"The Church of Mercy cannot refuse anyone from their doorstep," Stardust firmly reminds you.
"It could give us a little extra time," Starlight muses, "and ensure that everyone is given the chance to heal."
"To think." The faux-brunette stresses. "Magnus will eat us alive if we go straight back."
"I'm certain that plenty of us here would suffer the same fate."

You can't help but catch Mick and Randy out of the corner of your eye. "Th-they d-don't know wh-what th-they're d-doing. It could b-be w-worse."

The actual logistics of getting everyone to Eadric— the most heavily fortified city in Corcaea, weeks away by foot in the best of conditions— is far more complex than any of you need to elaborate on. It's as good a plan as any. Odds are most of your congregation are a lot smarter than they let on.

Most of you likely have nowhere else to go.

>A] Leave the twins to their business, get some rest, and encourage them to do the same. You all seriously need to sleep.
>B] Talk for a little while longer. They're being unreasonably kind, and seem much more level-headed than you suspect. (Each of the following will eat into the time you have to rest. Any prompts selected will be cumulative. Needless to say, you may not get any sleep if you pursue them all. 3+ prompts, or possibly write-ins, will require a roll to stay awake!)

>1] The King is supposed to be Merciful. This is bullshit. Say as much.

>2] Reassure the twins that you're going to do everything you can to look after them, until you all get to safety.

>3] Ask Starlight and Stardust about their combative skill. You haven't seen them do a whole lot of fighting, and you seriously need everyone to pull their weight.

>4] This is the first time you've talked to nobility, and you're honestly a little curious. Ask a few harmless, casual, lighter questions about them.

>5] Write-in.

It occurs to you that the hold you and Allan started has not stopped. The lord also seems to realize the awkward position, releasing the iron grip to rub at his own wrist at the same time as you. Both of your wrists and hands are poorly wrapped with makeshift bandages from the priestesses of Mercy, and the cloth practically peels apart as you let go.

The shredded skin is stinging, and you are both probably too tired and traumatized to have really registered it at all. You get back to your feet, tactfully offering, "I'm g-going to sleep."

A pair of grateful, equally tired smiles are fired to you. "Sleep well," "Harvey."

There's a decent spot, slightly elevated out of the water and chunks of sodden demon flesh, that offers you an almost-dry vantage point. You drop your shield to the floor, make sure your sword isn't getting soaked, and watch the torchlight for a few more moments. There's no movement in the colossal chamber. Not a single fly is to be found on the corpse of the gigantic, fallen demon. Mist dances in your eyes, from the humid atmosphere, and from an old hope that's gone unfulfilled.

You dream of plated armor in the dark.

Full plate. Glossy, gallant, ceremonial plate. Worn with battle, tested with time! Something befitting of a hero. Something your mother would have been proud for you to wear. One day.

Alaric · Apr 22, 2021

Chapter 13: Light in the Water
"He hasn't left us."

Your eyes drift open of their own accord, likely no more than an hour later. More movement on the edge of your senses has you yawn, stretch, regret moving so much, and stiffly get back to your feet. You're still exhausted. Everything aches, the cavern is just as miserable, and most of your congregation is still at rest. Still, about ten people are restlessly moving to leave, and clearly want to wait for everyone to be back on their feet before moving forward.

To your absolute astonishment, even a short period of rest seems to have done wonders for everyone's faculties. Mick (picking at his ass), Randy (eyeing the motion), and Jitters (keeping a wide distance) are all trying to patiently explain something to Serpent (yawning) and Echo (looking disgusted). You ignore the creak in every joint of your body, sweep up your sword and shield, and make your way over.

"It's flooded," Randy says with exasperation. "I've said it twenty times. I'll say it again. There's no way through."

Serpent continues to yawn, twisting the disgusting split in his tongue to emphasize it. He seems to take extreme satisfaction in the lecherous look he's given from Randall, and leers, "and I'm telling you, that makes no sense."

"It has to filter out somewhere." Walter looks green around the gills. More than usual. "This ruin is too large, too ancient, and infinitely too shitty to have anything air-tight. It's a trick, or a trap."

Jitters nods to you as you approach, his slender shoulders relaxing at the sight of you. "Harvey." You nod back. The petite thing looks to the passageways at your back. "We scouted ahead. Everything's flooded down there. Something must've happened. There's a couple dry tunnels leading out, but you're not gonna like it."

"Try m-me."

Mick spits, successfully launches a wad of phlegm about twenty feet away, and laughs triumphantly. The missile lands directly on top of Klepto's (formerly sleeping) forehead. The clown immediately begins laughing upon awakening, which completely ruins the hulking rogue's mood. He scowls, "no going back. Don't know why nothing's followed us. Somethin's fishy."

Randy smirks. "Is that supposed to be a joke?"

"Stop," Jitters immediately fires back. "For the last time. We're not swimming through there. No way." Twitching more than usual, the young man gestures to a far-off corridor. "The only other passages we found were trapped—" Serpent gives you a knowing look. "—but it looks like someone's been off that way before. Dry as a bone. Could come out up top? Everything that leads down, and definitely out, is totally flooded, though."

"There's light in the water." Serpent nods to you with a cheshire-grin. You almost catch a gleam on his bald head. "Like the sun. I'm not getting in the water, though."

Randy gets infinitely too close, and walks two fingers along your shoulder, leering, "there's leeeeeches, Harvey. All aglow. Must be hundreds of 'em." The urge to burn your clothes is immediate. You shrug him off. He continues, nonplussed, "they're not moving. We could be. Could figure something out."

"Will you stop," Jitters snaps, actually making a motion to rub at his shoulders and brush off his own sleeves.

Echo sighs. In a distant fashion— to the ceiling— he muses, "it is, at the very least, a more pleasant view than our present company." Straight to you (more levelly), he manages, "we could test it. It could take some time, but I'm sure I could think of something."

>A] Chance the dry corridors that you know are trapped. It's your comfort zone, no matter how nightmarish or dangerous it may seem.

>1] Leave everyone you can here, and only take the men you know are adept with this environment. You'll double back when there's a clear path. (A HIGH ROLL WILL BE REQUIRED, and more time will definitely be taken.)

>2] Everyone is starving to death. You're all going, even if it complicates things. (A VERY HIGH ROLL WILL BE REQUIRED.)

>B] Inspect the flooded passages, and invite everyone to help you brainstorm. There MUST be something you can do. (Feel free to write-in any ideas you may have off the bat!)
>C] Wait for Walter to come up with something, and give everyone else a little more time to rest. He works best alone, and you could use a little extra time, too.
>D] Write-in.

"Let's th-think of someth-thing," you agree.

It's a short matter to wring out, tie up, and create a pseudo rope out of spare cloaks and skirts. As most of you have holes in your tattered clothing, the heat within the demon's chamber is actually welcome.

No one wants to dip into the water, to brave the passages beyond.

The most obvious point of exit is a narrow tunnel, at the farthest end of the chamber. It slants almost straight down, is flooded to the brim, and is filled with a huge quantity of luminescent leeches. If you stand back far enough, you can see almost clear to the end, before it takes a sharp bend. Water is distorting whatever is in the distance.

Walter sniffs, and nudges you with the side of his elbow. Starlight and Stardust seem to be taken with the corridor, looking to the faint yellow light with stars in their eyes. You can't help but share the sentiment that it's almost beautiful. The parasitic worms are grotesquely over-sized, but their radiance masks all but the vaguest outline of their forms. It casts a glow through the water, showing that the smooth, seamless corridor continues far off into the distance. It clearly opens up somewhere. Be it another incline, a trick of the light, or some kind of sorcerery is uncertain.

You know that there's no leverage to speak of within the chamber. You optimistically suggest looking to the other flooded passageways, wondering if you could create a pocket of air. Wondering if anyone could even find something to hold onto, wanting for any tools at all, you lean over to Spangle.

A small, singular whisper, and an expansive motion with your hands is all she needs to hear. "B-boom," you smirk, nodding to the bandolier upon her bosom.

Sister Corbon's eyes light up. The same, horrific, manic energy is immediately back upon her. "The tar could certainly create enough heat to maintain an explosion, even while submerged." She's grinning like a maniac. "It would normally be impossible to light underwater, but with what we have at our disposal? Harvey. Harvey, our lovely Ringleader. It might take all of them," she looks like she might cry, "but we could absolutely create a trail. It's possible. It's possible! Harvey, you genius—!"

The priestess is practically vibrating with enthusiasm, until Klepto fires her a disparaging frown. "What do you suppose you'd do, once it's started?" She blinks, and obviously hadn't thought farther than the possibility of flame outlasting water. He keeps frowning. "Women. Not much fun to be had if we're all boiled alive." A nod is given to you, without missing a beat. "I wouldn't mind trying it, though."

You blink. "Wh-what."

"You want to create an outlet, is that right?"

"N-not n-necessarily."

"Then what the fuck do you mean, Harvey. We can't just make a dead end."

Something strikes him as hilarious, and totally derails the man's train of thought. He breaks down, into a fit of giggles, as you try to not lose your patience.

Klepto buckles in half, wheezing. You stare for a moment, dumbfounded, until the psychopath totally loses his composure. "It needs—"

He's clutching at his sides, trying to not cry. You patiently stand, and wait, until he declares, "a STORM drain! AHAHAHA—!"

The priestesses of Mercy are both wide-eyed, look to each other, and back to the lunatic. Electrum quietly notes, "he might be onto something." She jerks a thumb back, to the monstrous corpse behind you all. "Could have done something to seal off its lair. Demon of Storm?"

Spangle twitches. "Sure is enough fire around here. And water. Not so sure about the rest. I still say we blow it up."

Serpent leans around, seemingly materializing from right behind the priestess, to assert, "if there is a blockage, I don't see how it can be removed. Even if it's melted down. And we'll be wasting our best weaponry."

Clearing his throat, taking a broad step forward, Echo places himself between you and Spangle. She's taller than he is. The priestess scowls down at the scholar, while he tries to pull you into a hold, around you shoulder. "Ringy. Harvey. Really." He whispers, "if you send them in, they were going to get us all killed, anyways." He leans back, as if he hasn't just suggested a suicide run. "It might be worth looking into, though."

Mick is already tying the rope around his broad waist. He's taking several pouches, of the cinders, from Spangle. "Yep."

Klepto is right behind him, doing the same. He's fussing with one of the devices he fashioned, from the fallen imps. It looks like an over-sized pair of metal scissors. "You tell him, Echo."

>A] Grab the rope, and take the lead. You know enough about maneuvering in shitty spaces, without speaking, to handle this. "Sure thing, Walter."
>B] "Wait. Wait just a minute." Take the explosives and whatever demonic device Klepto's fashioned away from both men. Implore them to merely investigate.
>C] Demand that Spangle come with you, to supervise whatever operation might be necessary.
>D] There HAS to be a better way to do this. (Write-in.)

"W-we g-go in," you nod, to both men, and to Spangle, "and inv-vestig-gate." Taking the explosives from Mick, with a warning glare, you continue, "th-the walls." The cinders are handed back to the priestess. "G-grates." You cautiously extract the demonic item from Klepto's hands. "Any outlets, b-before anyone d-drowns. Come right b-back, and w-we'll make a plan of attack."

Mick goes in. "FUCK it's SLIMY—" Klepto is tied right behind him. "AHahahaha." The length of rope is kept held with Irefist in front, Claymore behind, and Chesty as a human anchor at the very back. The rest of you filter in-between, keeping a reasonably loose hold to allow the makeshift rope some slack.

Deep breaths, from both. They go under.

A few seconds pass. There's only a slight pull, as their silhouettes get further, and deeper into the watery corridor. They're both obviously proficient swimmers. Corcaea's villages are entirely centralized around its two largest rivers (Eventide and Morinburn), and you're hard pressed to think of anyone you've ever met who can't navigate even a fast-moving stream.

You can't remember the last time you drank from a clear stream, and practically salivate over the pool ahead, until there's a rough tug on the rope. Everyone immediately, collectively, pulls both men back as fast as humanly possible. It takes less than five seconds of shouting and mild chaos, to drag the two lunatics back out of what should be certain death.

Spluttering, Mick cursing, they're covered head-to-toe in leeches. Klepto scrambles onto solid ground, and retches, clearly having inhaled one while laughing. The larger of the two simply rolls onto the floor, coughing up water, as Electrum runs over to peel the parasites off of him.

You stride over to the better off of the two. The rest of your congregation promptly drops the rope. Several run to the edge of the water, looking suspiciously with fists and swords at the parasites. The rest form a perimeter around you, and those brave enough to have ventured forth. Mick doesn't quite look to you, nodding, "thanks, babe," to the unamused priestess at your side.

"What happened," she scowls, as everyone else keeps an incredibly wide berth. The leeches are disgustingly bloated, and at least half a foot long by any measure. Their luminescence has persisted out of the water, and you have to wince to look at the two men they're clinging to.

Electrum begrudgingly runs over, to help out Klepto. His sandy hair is promptly brushed out of his face, as he's rid of the worm he inhaled, and chokes out, "it lets out, alright. Really long swim. We could see to the end. It's, heh. Heh. There's actually a drain." The priestess beside him looks impressed, as he continues, "up, into a big cavern. Comes right out at the waterway."

The bite marks on both men look disgusting. You try to not recoil, as Mick is rolled over, to have a series of them pulled off his back. The creatures bit straight through his clothing. He groans, "something fucked up the walls, all through it. Same marks as what's on the demon over there." He waves, weakly, to the grotesque burns marks all along the monster behind you. "It actually looks weak enough to blow out. The walls. Probably a bad idea, though."

Serpent was eavesdropping, and chimes in from the perimeter around you all, "it could collapse the entire exit."

With a nod beside him, Jitters snips, "there's a few other passages, without any bugs."

"I'm not doin' this shit all day," Mick snaps. "You get your scrawny ass in there, if you think it's such a good idea."

The junkie beside him giggles. "As much as I'd like to," Randy winks at him, from across the way, "thank you, Randall. It would be better to keep moving. There's nothing in the way of water we can use here. We're far too close to the surface to waste our precious time. Isn't that right, Walter?"

The professor is thinking intensely about something. His attention is snapped, out of the reverie, to distantly mutter, "hmm? Oh. Oh. Yes. Sure."

Irefist elbows the scholar hard enough to send him staggering. "Out with it."

"You son of a bitch—" he starts, and you're already striding over, putting yourself right between the two men. "Oh, don't give me that face. Gods. Fine. Fine, Harvey. I was just thinking— there were plenty of tunnels past here. If I remember correctly. This doesn't make much sense." The intellectual looks around, and plainly asks everyone, "who came down here most recently?"

To no one's surprise, the majority of you can't remember. The priestesses of Mercy are the best bet, having left their church only a few months past.

Something's seriously bothering them. "Father Anscham," they both mutter to each other, almost simultaneously.

Spangle scowls, getting the last of the leeches off of Mick. "You don't think...?"

"It's possible," Electrum bemoans, looking like someone's got a noose to her throat.

You give both women a questioning glance.

>A] You really don't have time for politics, religion, or anything more complicated than your immediate survival. Tell them to voice their concerns, or to get out of the way.
>B] There's something going on here that could have placed all of your lives in jeopardy. Try to be patient, and give them some time to speak.
>C] Go send someone else to investigate the other passages, and leave this affair to the more cerebral members of your congregation. You're seriously worried about how much time you've all spent here, and want to get moving.
>D] This all seems extremely suspicious. You have your own thoughts on the church of Mercy, and are happy to voice them.

>1] King Magnus is an oppressive monster, and his theocracy has been the downfall of humanity. If he's sent someone down here on his behalf, you want to know.

>2] Father Anscham is practically still a child, yet has proved a more capable defender of your people than any of his seniors. If he's intentionally placed you all in harm's way, you want to know.

>3] You'd really like to know why both priestesses are down here. Now.

>E] Write-in.

They're reluctant to speak. You aren't, even if it's infinitely harder. "W-we've lost a lot. N-not only d-dozens of lives. M-more th-than th-that." You frown to Serpent and Walter, "your th-theories," and frown more deeply still to the priestesses, "or your creeds? Th-they're g-getting in th-the way."

Everyone gets a lot quieter. You look to them all, expectantly. "All of us sh-should v-voice an-ny susp-picions, or concerns. Th-this is ab-bout m-more than any one of us."

Electrum grimaces so intensely, you think she might hurt herself. She's too furious to say a word, but her fellow Sister manages. "We left the church, the moment we found out what was going on." She looks around, to all of you. It's not that she wants to preach, but you suspect the woman can't help herself. "They've always kept demons in Eadric. Always. For restraint. For study." She's bitter. "It shouldn't have surprised me." Resentful. "I should have realized it, sooner."

You catch Spangle digging her nails into the palm of her hand. You realize that it's not just anger that's soaking her. A little blood drops into the water below, and from her lips. It's from compassion. "They'd been keeping Father Anscham, for years, down there. With them. Demons." She looks like she could vomit. "I'm sure that's what he's been treated as. I'd heard rumors. Whispers. And I've been lying to myself." She's shaking. "I wanted to ask. I did want to know what was wrong with him."

She stares straight at you. Her eyes are red. "It was too easy to find out. He's been nothing but honest with us. He always has been. We disgraced our church, the Mother, and the Father, Harvey." A hand comes to her lips, trying to restrain something ugly. "To lie is to sin, you know. I don't think there's a soul left, back at home. Not a single one of us that had done a thing about it. To really help him."

Everyone is shifting very uncomfortably. "How do you know this," Walter asks.

Desperation cracks Sister Tirel's voice. "I asked. Brother Dalton knew. He'd known for years, and was worried for his sons. Can you believe it? But they knew. Most of them."

Spangle twitches. She's fighting back something hideous. "We left, the moment we realized. There was nothing we could do. Not for him. Not for Her."

A sideways glance from Serpent is infinitely nastier than anything you'd ever want to lay eyes on. "He didn't come down here for you."

"No," Sister Corbon spits.

"He isn't here for us," Allan grimaces. He's holding tightly onto Edith, and they both look like they're going to be ill.

"He's been hurt," Electrum winces. "Badly." She sounds like she's going to cry. "I doubt he'd remember my name, let alone my face. They've done worse things than work him into an early grave."

Lady Edith murmurs, distantly, "he's seeking one."

With a little more horror, you all look to the colossal demon, felled by an obvious invocation of the Gods themselves.
To the flooded passageway ahead.
To the wounds and scars of battle, lacing all of your figures.
From a chase away from a small army of imps, most of whom were called away.
To smears of blood, along countless walls.
To the exhaustion slaking you all, from a chase out of nightmares.
Demons, who were frightened into submission, cowed into retreat, just at the sight of more humans.
Pursuit. Flight. Away from certain death. Out, to the surface, compelled by a force greater than something you care to understand.

Everyone is talking in low voices, together. It's mostly about the few rumors they'd heard. The odd behavior of the priest. The terror and subservience of those who have worked under him.

His obsessive, all-consuming fixation. The man is said to be preoccupied with the Catalyst. To put his passion before any human life.

You know better. You all are still together. You still have each other.

You can't help but feel your skin crawl. There's just a dog, and some elf leading a young man to the bottom of the world. He's going deeper, while Spangle grits her teeth, and with more fury than you thought a woman capable of demonstrating, she snaps, "I am NOT going to let his sacrifices go unheard."

She hikes up her skirt, and goes to wade into the corridor beyond. "Come on. All of you. I don't care where you're all going." Looking to the ruins, the flame, and to unknown danger ahead, she sneers, "I don't care if Mercy's left me. He hasn't left us." The priestess is too angry to cry, and snaps to you all, "not yet! Let's make it count for something."

Jitters can't help but protest. "That's all well and good, but the passage is flooded, Sister."

"Fuck you. I'm swimming," she snaps. With a look around the room, wide-eyed, baring her teeth, Sister Corbon sneers, "are you coming, or not?"

>A] You don't even know where to start. Follow your congregation's lead on this one. You can ask more questions later.
>B] Hold on. Seriously. Before anyone gets themselves killed, you need a proper explanation. Not conjecture. Not speculation. You need to get at least get a few answers, before you lose anyone else.
>C] This is REALLY bigger than any of you, but you're not losing focus. See who the strongest swimmer is, to go ahead immediately with Spangle. Implore everyone else to wait. If the passage does collapse, you can't stand the thought of losing anyone else.
>D] No matter how distraught these priestesses are over their leader, you have your own people to worry about. Search through one of the other corridors. It may take more time. Spangle might not listen, but you're willing to try.

>1] Beg her, if you have to.

>2] Let her go.

>E] Write-in.

Klepto is right after Sister Corbon, without a moment's hesitation. The rest of you have understandable reservations, about getting back into the suspiciously clear water, swimming with parasites, without a nearby outlet. "Who's th-the strong-gest swimm-mer here," you frantically ask.

It's not that you want to steal the spotlight. The thought of anything happening to your people is simply unbearable. Irefist sniffs, insulted. "Worked on the coast for a year or two. Could drown a fish, if I put my mind to it."

"S-P-PANGLE," you bark, as she takes a quick breath in, already about to go under.

The woman actually pauses. She's tied her holy vestments behind her, the yellow-gold fabric in such tatters that she could easily make several knots. Klepto's lingering in the water just behind her, now without the rope. He's been saddled with a huge quantity of explosives, acquired a dagger from somewhere, and isn't grinning.

Worry knits your brow. "St-stay safe. For Fath-ther Anscham."

The priestess' breath catches. She chokes down a sob, and nods to you with more red in her eyes before. "I will." To all of you, eyes to the water, she murmurs, "the Gods are Merciful."

Sister Corbon goes under. Klepto is right behind. You turn to Irefist, "please g-go after her."

He sprints, and without question, leaps from the edge of the water, to dive in head-first. Before he even hits the water, you look to everyone, desperately. "Wait. Pl-please." There's a huge splash. "G-give th-them Time."

They listen. Electrum stays at the edge of the water, and backs out, to pull several leeches off of her legs on the (relatively) dry land. You give them Time, and it's agony. You try holding your own breath, just to guess when to go after them. If they'll still be alive.

Ten seconds pass.

Twenty.

Thirty. Your lungs are burning, but you force the hold on your breath. It's hard to not wonder how much worse it is, to fight instinct, while bitten by parasites in the dark.

Forty. There's still no movement.

Fifty. Everyone has come up to the edge of the tunnel, to try and see what's happening. You have to take in a sharp breath. The sheer discomfort, and pain, is more than your already exhausted body can handle. It dawns on you that all three of your swimmers have gotten much more rest than you have, and hope for the best.

A minute. It's been a full minute, and there's nothing. No movement in the water, nothing on dry land. Nothing but the curvier priestess of Mercy, staring intently into the passage, visibly shaking, hands clasped together. She's been praying feverishly under her breath, and is probably beating herself up for not going straight in after her fellow Sister.

Lady Edith manages to go over to the woman to console her. "Have faith."

You all take a little heart.

Seventy seconds.

Sister Tirel asks you all to pray with her. You don't really know how, but she assures you that just the thought means something.

Eighty.

>A] Go in after them.
>B] Wait.
>C] Ask someone else to at least see what's happened.

>1] Mick. He's at least demonstrated he can handle the passage.

>2] Electrum. She's obviously dying to go after Spangle, anyways.

>3] You're probably forgetting someone. (Specify who.)

>D] Write-in.

Ninety seconds have passed by. Everyone is shifting, and you try to speak out to them. There has to be an explanation. You have to wait. To trust in your friends.

"If th-they found a way out, th-they m-might b-be resting on th-the oth-ther side, b-before com-ming b-back to us."

A few nods are given to you. "He's right," Walter quietly agrees, "and we'd be fools to go after them. You'd think the imbeciles would have let us know what they were planning, before tearing off."

From behind the scholar, Serpent reluctantly agrees, "give them a few more minutes, at least. They may have needed to swim much further, to find any passages that would be useful. Safety may not have waited, on the other side."

Electrum fires him a look that could kill. "I know she'll be fine. We'll wait."

Two full minutes have gone by, with no movement.

Three.

Four.

Five full minutes. Electrum looks like she might cry, but she keeps her hands clasped, knuckles white, and stares at the damn water. Jitters keeps a watch out, parting from the group to patrol the cavern while you all stand, looking to the leeches and shadow. It's less beautiful by the second.

Six minutes.

Seven. You realize you've been clenching your teeth, and move your jaw a little, to alleviate the pressure.

Eight. The humidity is not the reason for the sweat on every inch of you.

Nine. You wonder if there's some way to clean the fucking water. If the demon behind you all might be edible, in some capacity. You've never been so tired. The buzz in the back of your mind, of exhaustion and fear, has every one of your nerves on end.

It's been ten solid minutes, when the water around all of your feet starts to ripple. Everyone staggers back, most of you holding onto someone else. Claymore gets out two weapons, you can't help but draw your sword and shield, Chesty takes out his short sword, and everyone else looks like they want to die all over again.

Looking around the cavern, wildly, you realize that the tremor is coming from below your feet.

The ripple becomes an erratic, violent shake.

The water within the tunnel is frothing. The leeches are disappearing from view, pulled off by some unseen force.

A violent heave practically explodes, from under the ground, somewhere far off in the distance. The noise is muffled, but it's unmistakable. A groan below the earth hits you, so deep and resonant that you wonder if the world itself is screaming.

There's a hurl, from within the tunnel, that rapidly starts to filter the water into some unseen direction. The blood all around your ankles is pulled in an immediate, violent shift.

Most of you scream. Everyone staggers.

>Roll 1d100. Best of 3 will be used. Write-ins may help.

>Rolled 65 (1d100)

>Please roll 4d100. A total of 3 voter's rolls are needed, for a total of 12d100.
>To be clear, each voter please ONLY roll 4d100.
>Every roll will count. The additional +15 will apply to each roll individually. You do not need to add the modifier yourself, as I will add everything when the rolls are finished.
>+10 INSPIRING LEADER
>+5 CAST-IRON FRIENDSHIP

>Rolled 28, 28, 15, 9, 30, 70, 16, 55, 5, 98, 68, 50 (12d100)

>All rolls in this quest are based on degrees of success. DC was 50 to stay standing, reduced to 40 from your permanent bonus to leading the congregation.

Ringleader - 43 + 15 (fighter, with an iron anchor) = 58

Professor Echo - 43 - 10 (non-combatant with a health issue) = 33

Serpent - 30

Electrum - 24

Starlight - 45 - 5 (seriously traumatized woman) = 40

Stardust - 85 + 5 (nobleman, with combat training) = 90

Randy - 31

Mick - 70 + 10 (huge scoundrel) = 80

Bronzebeard - 20 + 10 (hardened fighter) = 30

Claymore - 113 + 10 (veteran blacksmith) = 123

Chesty - 83 + 15 (have you seen how built this guy is) = 98

Jitters - 65 - 5 (out on patrol) = 60

With a scream, you slam your sword into the sodden ground at your feet, and hold on for dear life. "HOLD ON!" You have to flex, to keep hold on the hilt of your weapon, while you reach out to the closest person. Of course, Walter is right next to you. "TOG-GETHER!" The scholar is infinitely too weak, and lets out a shout as the water underfoot dramatically intensifies in its pull. "EV-VERYONE!"

The hairline space between the tips of your fingers, and the back of Echo's shirt, is just enough for him to slip out from your hold. "T-TAKE EACH OTH-THERS HANDS—" Beyond your best hope, he digs in his heels as he slides, shifts his weight toward you as you shout, and grabs back on your hand.

Gratitude soaks into Walter more than the foam kicking up around you all. The vice of his grip, upon your sliced palms and fingers, is as a tight as your hold on Serpent just a few hours past. "You son of a bitch—! FUCK—"

With his other, outstretched, yellowed fingers, the non-combatant starts a chain reaction, and grabs onto the next closest person. It's impossible for everyone to keep their footing in the chaos. A tide of surging water is coursing from the entire, colossal chamber you reside in. You try to not think about your congregation at the other end of the disaster, as Serpent slips completely, and is dragged screaming into the corridor beyond. Electrum screams, "MERCY—" and leaps clear after him.

You try to not marvel at the psychotic devotion to a Goddess that's left her. Claymore, at the very back of your group, hears their shouts as well. He's scowling, weapons drawn, and you barely catch his telegraphed intent.

Kneeling down slightly, bending your knees, and pushing your feet into the soil underfoot, you brace yourself with all the strength you can muster.

It grants enough space for the veteran to run towards the opening. Claymore charges past all of you, and leaps into the water, with a knife between his teeth.

The splash nearly drowns out the sound of Bronzebeard losing his footing, "FER FUCK'S SAKE—" and is swiftly sliding against all of your feet. The fighter lets out another shout— and likely all the air in his lungs— right before being submerged.

Randy is dragged under, right after him, as Mick legitimately screams after the other rogue. "DON'T YOU DARE DIE ON ME—"

You look on in horror, as the brute scrambles to not let his compatriot slips from his hands. It's useless, and the rogue goes completely under the tide.

It is a tide. The cavern you all are in was flooded up to your ankles. Attempting to drain or divert the sheer amount of liquid here was a suicide mission. There's fibers of muscle burning in the back of your legs that you didn't even know you had.

Jitters, who was walking near the opposite end of the cavern, has already been dragged towards you all by the tide. He seems to intentionally keep his footing, and tries to rejoin everyone. It's only as Chesty picks up the slender rogue by the back of his shirt, concerned of him slipping, that he barks, "DID YOU SEE ANYTHING?!"

There's a huge gasp, and a splash, from the surface of the water. At the entrance to the corridor, Claymore resurfaces, with Serpent in one arm. He stabs a bloodied dagger straight into the wall, using the weapon as makeshift climbing gear with his free arm. The bald and bleeding manipulator in his hold isn't smirking for once. Coughing up a huge volume of water, bleeding from the side of his head, he looks to be on the verge of unconsciousness.

The blacksmith gets them both onto flat ground. Jitters is looking around frantically, obviously sweating more than the surge of foam kicking up beneath his feet. "They're all going to hear this. There's nothing yet, but Gods, we need to move."

Stardust was keeping Starlight in place long enough to help with her footing, but he expertly slides through the water, to help Serpent and Claymore totally back to their feet. Everyone is soaked in blood, sodden chunks of viscera, and water well up to their knees. The current has been violent, but there's another rumble, off in the distance.

Claymore bends his knees, and follows your lead. Wading forward in the water with Serpent now over his shoulder, the veteran slams a heavy iron sword into the ground beside you. Side by side, you form a slight barrier, to keep anyone else from sliding straight in.

He nods to you, blood pouring from a cut on the side of his mouth. Seconds later, the current intensifies. You nod back, grit your teeth, legs searing in complaint, and try to endure. Walter's grip on your hand is agonizing, but he's found a stable stance, and is trying to help Edith stay up with everything he has.

Mick is happy to scream, "THIS IS BULLSHIT," while Echo sneers to him, "we'll drown all three of them."

The breath in your lungs threatens to give out. There's actually a slight opening of air, in the corridor beneath your feet. The gap can't be more than a foot between the top of the corridor, and a heavy current of frothing water beneath. You're not sure how, but the water filtering out is going somewhere, FAST.

(A ROLL MAY BE REQUIRED FOR ALL OF THE FOLLOWING.)
>A] Go in. All of you. Now. The only thing worse in this place than the ruins are the demons that inhabit it.
>B] Try your luck, and wait until there's a bigger opening. The walls are coarse, those leeches are still in there, and some of you are badly hurt.
>C] Write-in.

>Roll 1d100. Best of 3 will be used.
>+10 INSPIRING LEADER
>+5 PARANOID HUMANOID
>+5 BUDDY SYSTEM

Alaric · Apr 22, 2021

Chapter 14: Fleet of Foot
"If no man can catch you, could a demon?"

>Rolled 61 (1d100)

"EV-VERYONE, KEEP T-TOG-GETHER. J-JITT-TERS!" His name is more painful than the burn in your sword arm, "KEEP AN EYE OUT!"

Claymore grunts, from the weight of Serpent losing consciousness for a moment. Echo happily reaches over, to flick his forehead and get him awake, while you continue to shout, "B-BE READ-DY TO J-JUMP! W-WE'LL HAUL ASS TH-THE SECOND ANYTH-THING COMES OUR WAY!"

Clutching onto you even tighter, Walter grits out, "if we wait for something to show up, it's going to get dragged in with us, Harvey."

"I kn-now."

The gap in the cavern below is increasing by the second. The decline is incredibly steep, and the rock revealed is far more ragged than a flooded passage had any right to be. Either it was very recently flooded, it's enchanted, or the ruins are more sadistic than you initially thought.

There's a scream, from the far end of the cavern, that is distinctly inhuman. Jitters immediately gets off of Chesty's shoulders, hollering, "move! MOVE! SIX IN THE NORTHERN WING, THEY'VE GOT—" a few stray projectiles sing through the air, fwipping past everyone's head, "—ARROWS?!" The weapons look more like severed horns, ripped clean off the demon's bodies. "There's more coming. Gods." More screams. "FUCK IT! JUST GO! GO!"

Claymore rips his sword out from the ground, and readjusts his hold on Serpent. Chesty immediately runs over, to take the (possibly) dying man out from the blacksmith's arms. Using one of the broken shields for a brace, Chesty slings the bent wood under his back, gets them both down, and intentionally lets the current take him into the jagged darkness below.

The leeches are out of sight. Countless projectiles streak past. Claymore throws his shield up, sprinting off to try and deflect as much as possible from the group. You all scramble, frantically, to try and protect yourselves from the onslaught. In the flurry of moving bodies, "GET DOWN!" the foam of water, "GO!" the sound of pained laughter, "WAIT UNTIL KLEPTO HEARS THIS," someone screaming in agony, "WHY?!" and your own efforts to stay on your feet, "KEEP M-MOVING," it's almost impossible to tell what's even happening.

You focus on getting your sword, protecting Echo as best as you can, and making sure everyone gets down. Shield aloft, you kneel, and keep almost all of yourself protected. A bitter clink nearly knocks you back, as some monstrous arrow flies off of the metal upon your defense.

The burn in your arms matches the heat in the room, the warmth of the water positively soaking you, and the fever in Electrum's speech. She stayed back, with you and Echo, with the metal shield you had ignored during the watch. "Let's go," she spits, putting a hand to your shoulder in an attempt to brace you against something.

There's three more thunks against your shield, straight into the wood. The froth, and specks of water in your eyes, get wiped away on your shoulder in a frantic attempt to see. You look around wide-eyed, confirming that everyone else has escaped.

You turn, grabbing Walter as he breathes, "finally."

Both of you get fully to the ground. Snapping the arrows upon your shield, slamming your shield beneath you, you get ready to move.

It's instantly enough to get the momentum you need, and you're practically pulled under the second you pick up your footing. You and Echo cling onto each other, both holding tighter still to the shield at your back. It's the only thing keeping you both from being ripped to shreds.

The current is moving fast enough to take you clear under, into the corridor, and to be taken into complete darkness. Water gets straight up your nose, and into the back of your throat. Coughing through the sour, sharp, slimy mixture, you're reminded of blood and copper. The breath in your lungs all but leaves. There's still sun in your eyes, illuminating the steep descent, but the rapidly draining passage is moving by you so fast that almost all the details are escaping.

As you skid, and force a sharp breath, fearing you're getting water in your lungs, the water continues to descend. The floor is leveling out, and you're falling by the second. It can't be any more than six feet tall, in any direction. All along the ever-rising ceiling are scorch marks.

You take in a breath that absolutely gets water into your lungs. Walter plainly gasps beside you, trying to not vomit all of the water he's clearly swallowed. There's thousands of streaks, in the shape of lightning, seared right into the stone. It's nightmarish, for the outline of hundreds of the parasites burned straight into the walls. It's not human. It's not demonic. The burns are glowing faintly orange, deep within the recesses, and only a God would be capable of unleashing the sheer length that the obvious invocation lasts for. It doesn't light the passage.

You don't dare to loosen your hold, feeling the light burning straight into your eyes, and whip your attention away. There's a scream from directly behind you, closing in fast.

Electrum is trying to not cry, shouting, "THEY'RE COMING!"

It's almost comical, to see her still using the heavy iron shield at her side, while sliding on another, and keeping a third slung over her back. The woman has enough balance to stay kneeling upon the tenuously floating wood beneath her.

Appropriately, she's begging her Goddess for protection.

You're certain that no one is listening. From the top of the corridor behind you, you can almost catch the silhouette of a few imps. Their reddened, spiky forms are almost akin to small children. Their small size has enabled them to snake into the passage, and to crawl along the ceiling straight towards you at a breakneck pace. They seem hurt, somehow, as various holes along their bodies are dripping more blood into the water below.

You whip your head back around, against all instinct, to look ahead. The runoff that you've been sliding on is draining faster by the second. You have absolutely no idea where you're going, but there's an obscene amount of terrain to work with, just up ahead. You're confident that this outlet leads back into a colossal waterway. One with more corridors than anyone could hope to explore in a lifetime. It's your comfort zone, your element, and you're confident than no man alive could outpace you there.

The question remains: if no man can catch you, could a demon?

>A] Make sure Echo is safe with Electrum, and tell them to run ahead. You're going to try and kite these imps away from your congregation. (A MODERATE ROLL WILL BE REQUIRED.)
>B] Have faith in the priestess of Mercy. Get ahead with Walter, and pray that she can catch up. (A HIGH ROLL WILL BE REQUIRED.)
>C] Do everything in your power to meet back up with the rest of your men and women, with everyone in tow. (A VERY HIGH ROLL WILL BE REQUIRED.)
>D] Write-in. (A ROLL MAY BE REQUIRED.)

>Roll 1d100. Best of 3 will be used.
>+5 CUNNING
>+5 FLEET OF FOOT
>+5 WILLING TO KILL ANYONE WHO STANDS IN YOUR WAY

>Rolled 95 (1d100)

Snapping a priestess out of prayer doesn't come easily.

It's a good thing you're a heathen. "W-we're all g-going to d-die if you stay! Take Echo—"

"I'm NOT leaving you," Electrum screams, eating two more missiles into the shield at her back.

"YOU'RE N-NOT L-LEAVING ME—" you bark, as Walter gives you an understanding and terrified nod in agreement. He's shaking, as the water descends enough for you to all get to your feet. The scholar already knows what you want to attempt. You all stagger to your feet, into a run, as fast as any of you can manage. Echo breaks to the right, staggering over to Electrum. As a shield is thrust into his hands, he shouts, "meet us up top!"

The corridor opens just head. "I w-will! G-GO!"

You turn, shield in hand, skidding through the water to face the imps behind you. The last two members of your congregation tear off from your sight, out into the passage beyond. The imps don't slow their procession for a second, thinking you the easier target.

Their attention on you is as razor-sharp as their weapons. The monsters are ripping the spikes off of their bodies, leaving enormous, gaping wounds in their wake without any indication of pain. You bend at the knee, taking two more hits straight into your shield. Skidding back slightly, you barely have a moment to get any traction to jump.

You have to jump, straight back, at the very last moment. It keeps you from being impaled by four more weapons, straight into your legs, right under your shield.

There's no fewer than ten imps crawling down the halls. They're skittering along the walls, the ceiling, and the floor, on all four limbs. It's clearly for speed, not necessity. Some of them rip an entire limb clean off— possibly for the thrill of it— and let loose a choir of screams.

You baited that attack. They HAVE to take another second to fire, being far too stupid to wait and stagger their attacks with any consistency. You're off running, turn your back the second you're able, and scream, "COME ON!" Your pulse is pounding so hard, you forget all trace of exhaustion. "LET'S G-GO!"

The cavern has been blissfully emptied. Spangle, Klepto, and Irefist should be heralded as Gods among men, you think. Whatever they did has worked, to drain the vast majority of the water. Any demons, (leeches, imps, or otherwise,) are nowhere in sight. The high, rocky ceilings are unlit, but you can see clearly. Without missing a step, you frantically veer HARD to the furthest tunnel. It's away from the ripples in the water, where Echo and Electrum are surely headed. The cavern is enormous, and there's only a single clear exit.

You know better, and can make out countless recesses in the walls. "The fucking spid-der d-dem-mons," you huff, predicting an attack from behind. The tell-take fwip-fwipfwip of objects hurling through the air, straight behind your line-of-sight, gives you half a second to dive, roll, and escape with your life. The sword and shield in hand are not barriers. You've gotten your hands dirty before. You're a fighter, and use every tool at your disposal to your advantage.

Upon landing, getting to your feet, you're unable to shake the sight of ratty webs. They're cobwebs, still moist from the cavern, but in disuse from the state of these passages. They'll suit you just fine, as you spin on a heel, to swing down your sword, and knock a missile straight from the air.

You grin, and pick out the best route. Ducking, below the next volley. The imps are fast, and lethal, but cripplingly stupid. You've lived down here for nearly half a decade, and have learned a thing or two about surviving on your own.

Into the next tunnel. It's steep. Through another pitch-black, narrow, short and featureless corridor. It's a labyrinth. Down the first corridor, there's a hole directly ahead.

Good.

You jump straight into it. The fall is just as short as you predicted. The spiders would need to travel vertically, but why waste space? Gaining momentum, back into a run, you immediately slide feet-first. Gliding along the ground, you keep yourself low, to duck and weave under fifty solid feet of winding caverns. Your sword gets put to use, slicing down and batting away any webs necessary, with its heft and satisfying weight.

The burn in your arms and legs means you're alive. You're back, out, and into the waterway within minutes. Your sense of direction is phenomenal.

The imps can't say the same. You look around frantically, with the sunlight in your eyes, to the high, man-made, stone walls. The suspiciously blood-lined, corpse-riddled walls. There's so much moisture here, you can't fathom anything but an incredibly recent fight having taken place.

A scream behind you whips your attention back to your own pursuers. Three particularly sadistic imps have used the corpses of their brethren as swords. A glance over your shoulder reveals them hacking their way out. Fear for your congregation spurs you to take an illogical direction, screaming to the imps behind you, "HERE!"

They catch onto the sound of your voice instantly, as your rapid footsteps splash through MUCH higher water than you remember before. It's filtering out, pouring in huge quantities from drains in all directions, but it's enough to put resistance in every step. There are small waterfalls from gaps in the floor, which you gladly make a beeline for.

Jumping straight over one.

A satisfying screech trails behind you. One of the imps can't stop in time, and skids straight into the deadly fall. Its cry lasts long, long before it ever hits the bottom of the world.

You try to not laugh. You need the air, for how hard you're running. Diving hard off from the central waterway, away from chains, grates, and rocks, you navigate into one of hundreds of alleyways and tunnels. They're so thin, you have to forgo your defense entirely, and keep your shield to your side.

The tunnels have pitfalls and holes in all directions. You erratically leap over the first four, stick the last landing, and duck to let a volley of projectiles impale the wall ahead. Shifting direction the second you land, the screams of two imps behind you is like music to your ears.

Both demons can't stop their momentum, and impale themselves straight onto their own weapon.

>A] Laugh, and continue.
>B] Focus, and get the fuck out of here.
>C] You can do better than this. Try to kill them all. (A VERY HIGH ROLL WILL BE REQUIRED.)

There will be time to laugh later, when you aren't running for your life. You're an optimist, despite everything, and remind yourself to do so as soon as you get the chance.

Over pitfalls, through the winding alleys, through every narrow stone passages. The sound of your pursuers grows weaker by the second, drowned out by the rush of water beneath your feet.

You run. Thirst, hunger, and exhaustion makes each and every step agony, after mere minutes.

You run for what must be hours. Through the winding passages, creating the most erratic path you can muster, it's almost impossible to keep on your feet. The burn in your chest feels like it's never going to leave. A searing pain lances your skull, likely from dehydration, but you keep moving. Focusing on your steps. Focusing on your form. Keeping the momentum.

Don't get complacent. Don't get distracted. Focus.

Thousands of murals have passed you by. You're so tired, you could barely even see them. The writing is in a script forgotten by time, further adding to the background noise. As you hone your vision, it's clear that the carvings are embedded straight into the wall. Not a single image repeats. They may be a blur, at a glance, but you know every illustration is different.

The odd script is short, beneath each image. It's likely a memorial. You hazard a glance, to the stone underfoot, and can make out more writing still.

It's not that the water underfoot is dirty, necessarily. There are simply so many names carved into the stone, their shadows distort the water.

Around the tightest corridor yet, you squeeze through the wall at the last moment. Letting out a shout, as your cloak catches on the ragged wall, you're positive you're running yourself to death. You're getting sloppy, but emerge back into the center of the waterway.

In its main passage, and the sight of infinitely more blood. There's actually streaks of blackened viscera swimming in the water ahead. It's freakishly heavy, resting at the base of the stream, and unmoving from the steady tide. All the water is flooding back the way you came, into the lowest portions of the ruins.

Behind you is a massive obstruction in the waterway. A totally collapsed passage seems to have landed recently. It's devoid of blood, fills the tall cavern floor-to-ceiling, and is devoid of any grates. It looks as if your congregation blew an opening clear through the central mass, but your heart stops dead in your throat.

There's trip wire up ahead. Thousands of feet of it, strung precariously in and around the corridors. Flecks of blood, and a little skin, can be easily seen at neck-level right at the start. Trying to not hyperventilate, you slow to a walk, and dart your gaze back from the way you came. The sound of pursuit is so far in the distance, you're certain you can risk a moment of caution.

Surely enough, the blood and gore upon the razor-wire does not continue down the passage. The work is far too delicate, and too intelligent for a demon to have constructed. It's not made to slow down a pursuer at all. There's intentional, massive redundancy: to kill anyone running this way as fast as possible.

Nervous laughter spills over your lips. You laugh, and laugh, and try to not pass out.

You feel a little ill. Someone in your congregation is badly hurt, and there's only a few ways back up from here that you're certain of. A steep ascent, no more than an hour's walk ahead, would need to be scaled in order to get to the highest level of the ruins. It's perilous, and all of you are likely too exhausted to manage it, but it's the most obvious.

There's also additional ducts in the waterway. They're impossibly narrow. If you're pursued into them, it could mean certain death— but they may be easier to scale.

There's also a passage you ignored, your first time coming down here. The space was nonsensical, obviously enchanted, and was crumbling into nothingness. It would be a nightmare to traverse, and none of your congregation would have risked it, but it could be your fastest route.

>A ROLL WILL BE REQUIRED FOR ALL OF THE FOLLOWING.
>Your only tools at your disposal are an iron sword, your large shield, a rotten leather belt, and the tattered cloak upon your back. Shoes are not optional for this mission.
>Write-ins may help.
>A] Head for the rocky, straight ascent. Rejoining your congregation is probably your best bet for survival.
>B] Trust in your men and women. Risk going for the highest water ducts, to save your energy.
>C] You're not wasting another second, if you can help it. Chance the odd passages you never walked, in hopes of beating your congregation to the top of the ruins.

>Roll 1d100. Best of 3 will be used.
>+15 IN YOUR ELEMENT
>-5 ABOUT AN HOUR OF SLEEP IN TWO DAYS
>-5 STARVING
>-5 PROBABLY DYING OF DEHYDRATION

>Rolled 96 (1d100)

The sound of imps screaming in the distance is faint. Between the hunger, exhaustion, thirst, filthy water, sweat, blood, and sin drenching you— it's a lot. Too much for you to linger. You trust in your allies, and run clear away from where your congregation is likely headed. Away from the obvious exit to the waterway. Away from any ascent, or Magic, or anything else that might obviously reconnect you all.

No one could rightfully accuse you of cowardice, as you unsling your shield, and angle it precariously to fit into one of the nearly-vertical ducts leading to the top of the ruins. No one could shame you for taking the shortest possible path, as you jump up, and have to brace your shoulders and back against the wall.

No one could fault you, for beginning the arduous climb, almost straight up, to head back to sanity.

You think of the sun, as you keep your eyes up, and ignore the ache in your chest. The burn in your legs might as well be the heat of your favorite season. Sure, you have no idea if it's actually Devotion on the surface, but that doesn't matter! It could be a different year entirely, for all you care. You look up, to the perilous climb, and you laugh. It's not a suffocatingly narrow, pitch-black, slick death-trap.

The ascent is filled with a faint yellow light. As light as the thought of the First Reaping. Of barley, in the fields all around Wearmoor. Forget the famine! Forget that you might not get any food where you're going. You aren't starving to death. You aren't dying of thirst. There's sun in your eyes, and an imp right behind you.

Welp, you think.

Your footing slips. The rock beneath your feet crumbles. You scramble, and climb up, and away, as fast as humanly possible. Clinging to find another surface takes half a second, for how tight the passage is.

The entire chamber beneath you utterly crushes in the eye and skull of the demon just below you, as it collapses beneath your desperate climb. It happens so fast, the imp barely rasps in its last moment of life. You can't tell if there were any others, before the rest of the duct closes in on itself behind you.

You're almost too stunned to pause. To stop here is absolutely to die, so you keep moving, and try to not worry too much that the walls all around you continue to shake for many long minutes after.

It's been about ten minutes of climbing, almost straight up. The trembling within the stone all around you somehow intensifies, the higher you climb.

It takes a while. You feel like you're dying. Movement is almost worse than death, but you keep going.

With all the caution you can muster, shifting your shield overhead, you agonize through the last of the ascent. The duct splits off, into a flatter runoff, and there's no sight or sound of anything at the break. You hurl your upper body onto the ledge, too tired to pull yourself up with proper form, and muffle a groan from the effort.

A few pebbles drop from the ceiling, followed by trails of dirt, from the steady quake.

Dirt. Not water. Not mud. Not blood, and not stone. Dry dirt. You're so relieved you could cry. The split in the duct ascends, with no water in it to speak of. Dragging yourself to your feet, you almost lurch immediately back into the pit behind you. The iron sword in hand gets slammed into the ground, for you to keep your balance.

Something is off, and you can't pin what, but you have to keep moving forward. Though the corridor you're in ascends, it's pitch-black ahead. Were it not for the blessing that's persisted upon your vision, it would be utterly impossible to see, no matter how long you took to let your eyes adjust.

Fear for your congregation soaks into you, in the quake, and the last stretch before the surface. What's up ahead makes your blood run cold.

There are spider webs. They're coated in blood— the thickest you've ever seen— and they are everywhere.

>A] Start cutting down a path as quickly as you can. You aren't lingering a second longer than necessary.
>B] Proceed with caution, but call out the minute you hear anyone.
>C] Sneak ahead, as you can effortlessly do, and try to stay concealed at least long enough to determine if you're the first one to have made it this far.
>D] Write-in.

Alaric · Apr 22, 2021

Chapter 15: Rictus
"Demons should not be able to smile."

The shield goes back up, your sword in hand, as you move almost-flush against the side of the wall. Sneaking ahead in virtual darkness is almost effortless. It's fortunate that you're by yourself, with no one to look out for. Weariness is on you with such intensity, you have to jolt your gaze back upright several times.

From the dry floor beneath, to the dense webs ahead, it's cut a cautious path that you travel. Glancing back over your shoulder almost constantly confirms that there is no further pursuit. It seems that the collapsed passage completely blocked off the demons on your trail.

It's possible that the constant tremor in the walls is what scared them into submission, too. There's no time to dwell on it.

The webs are disastrously thick. You confirm it, the moment you reach them. Your sword is rapidly made into a sort of scythe, to move aside any strands you can't step over or weave through. The blood upon them is wet. Crimson slakes your weapon within seconds of proceeding forward.

The shaking is only getting stronger, for every minute that passes you by. It's definitely not from the ducts you left behind. In total darkness, your divine sight pores over the strands of webbing all about you, looking for some structural flaw. Some incoming collapse. They're familiar. Terribly familiar, and as you reach the top of the ascent, into a broad cavern beyond, you see exactly why.

A shout escapes you, and you put your hands to your mouth in horror. It takes an impossible moment to register everything in full.

The cavern beyond is brimming with a dense weave of crimson. The hundreds of red strands are thick, with the blood and gore of fallen men and women. They're wound up, into little bundles. It's certainly the corpses of a few stray travelers. They are still. As still as your congregation, on the opposite side of the cavern, who are mostly walking with makeshift torches. They've stopped completely, looking around frantically for the sound of your voice. Their faces are worn, and weary. Klepto has a huge swathe of bandages wrapped around his neck, packed with as much blood as what's upon the webs. Spangle's and Irefist's hair and faces are blackened with soot. Everyone else is soaked to the bone, upon every other inch of them, with the myriad substances you yourself are plagued by.

At the front of the pack, with hope against hope, Lady Edith calls out, "Harvey?!"

They can't possibly have hoped to see you, in the utter darkness you're walking in, but your shout was a dead giveaway.

There's another rumble, deep within the walls, and closer than before. All of you whip your heads, towards a rush of wind. The actual source of the commotion. Swords, shields, and screams fly up, all in unison.

No one moves. You all know that you're stronger together, but this is something beyond any of you.

It comes from the shadows. A behemoth, that seems to peel itself out of the very stone around you all. The demon's visage is crushed, like a man's face pressed into the eyes of a spider. The stony, rictus, and split grin upon its face tilts, and teeters, as all eight of its spider-like legs skitter with monstrous speed along the webs before you all. Its body is as broad as the entire cavern. The blackened and bloodied rock upon its legs cover the rest.

Everyone screams. The rush of wind is purely from the way it's glided right into the cavern, filling the entire space almost instantaneously. This is its lair. The rumble within the walls was its laughter. The monster is laughing, as the vertical divide in its jaw grates together in a deafening roar. It's as if an avalanche has entered the chamber, that is simply delighted to greet you with impending death.

This is probably the master of webs.

You clutch onto your ears, to try and block out the awful, sickeningly sweet, and decidedly sadistic leer that follows. "Harvey. Our crimson..."

It smiles. Demons should not be able to smile. "Coated..."

Several rocks fall from the ceiling. It's moving faster. "Confidant."

It knows you didn't tell anyone present about its message. You don't know how, or why, but there it is.

One of the corpses is crushed, from the boulder that fell from overhead. The squelch of its rotten flesh being destroyed cannot be heard over the commotion. The demon laughs again, harder than before, and you wonder if your heart might stop from the sheer volume of it. The scent of rot is clinging to the back of your throat. The sword in your hand is iron. The sweat on you is worse than anything you've ever felt, and this behemoth seems to be carved from something older and stronger than the mountains themselves.

The demon has skittered straight over towards you, before you could even get your footing. It's drooling mounds of blood, from between its moss and bone-speckled teeth. One strand lands on your shoulder, as it perches along its webs, and hovers mere feet from your face.

"Leaving so soon?"

>A] "Yes." Run.
>B] "Yes." Back away. Very, very slowly.
>C] "Yes." Gesture for your congregation to flee for their lives. You'll have died for something.
>D] "Yes." (Write-in.)
>E] "No." (Write-in.)
>F] You seriously can't think with this thing in your face. Pray to all of the Gods that someone in your congregation thinks faster than you can.

"Y-yes."

The demon's laughter stops, completely. Clicking its teeth together, lolling its head to one side, Malimos leans in a mere foot from your face. "Tell me, Harvey. Tell me what makes you think anyone…"

It's hard to know if the demon needs air, but it takes in a deep breath, leaning along your shoulder. Another strand of blood drips onto the frayed fabric, burning straight though. "...will suffer you to live."

Malimos is exactly close enough that you can discreetly gesture for your congregation to flee for their lives. They immediately, quickly, and quietly comply.

You ignore the burn on your shoulder and all fear of death.

You lean in. "Fath-ther Anscham sends his reg-ards."

With another sharp breath, Malimos draws back. He's tittering. Amused beyond all comprehension. "You fancy yourself to have strayed? To be a bedfellow to sin? Will your merry band of blasphemers—" They're slipping out of the corridor. "—and belligerents—" They're out of sight, but you keep the straightest face possible. "—tarnish your souls even further? Each and every moment you tarry may bring you further from your LIGHT, Harvey."

You frown, "wh-what?"

An exasperated sigh escapes from the demon. It smells like moss, and blood. "Your Father has kept the company of murderers, liars, thieves and insanity for longer than you can imagine." The distance between you both evaporates. "Hours. Days. Weeks." The demon is at your ear, impossibly whispering, "he's still alive, you know. There. Down, at the bottom of the world."

>A] You'll send for help for the Father of Mercy the second you can. Try to leave, now, and think of yourself.
>B] Why the fuck is this demon capable of speech? Not that it's very capable, let alone sane, but you're legitimately too stunned to flee.

>1] Say or ask something. (Write-in.)

>2] It clearly loves to run its mouth. Linger, to buy your congregation more time.

>C] Write-in.

"I kn-know," you laugh back.

The demon looks at you with more amusement than humanly possible. "OooOooh?"

"He's n-not t-trapped d-down th-there with th-them. Th-they are all…"

You and the demon say in unison:

"...t-trapped w-with him."
"Ensnared, within his web."

All the humor leaves both of you. The sweat on your brow drips with almost as much intensity as the demon's salivating, which it wipes away with the side of a stony leg. You try to not vomit, as Malimos gives you a few inches of space out of sheer respect. "Honed to an edge, sharper than the most indecent blade. Wilier than a fox, and redder still. The world is your stage. 'Leader of the ring,' was it?"

"Y-yes."

"You see the strings, do you not, and the ways with which he pulls them? The binds upon the soul. The cracks and crevasses, through which he slips?"

In a much quieter tone, certain that your congregation is being bought precious seconds to flee, you reply with a question of your own. "Could you th-think of anyth-thing th-that could st-top him?"

Stone cold silence is the only reply.

An eternity might as well pass, amidst glistening blood, and webs in the dark.

At last, you're given a strained answer. It sounds like every word is actively hurting the monster. "That which he covets most. Healing. Protection. Compassion, and that which I cannot speak."

"M-Mercy."

"In a different form. Yes." Like a female gossip, Malimos perches his head upon his two front-most limbs. "Whence I heard last, our dear priest has been most intimate with the obscene obsession. The fixation, upon which our fates may rest." The demon gasps, obscenely, "passion, through pain, and pleasure, most foul. Harvey. He has embraced it, with an unholy devotion that even I must admire."

In a deep tone, deeper and fouler than the depths of the earth, Malimos decrees, "the obsession will break him, long before any of my kin will seize upon his weakness." He leans in, just enough to drawl at you, "do you wish to aid him?"

>A] "What do you have in mind?"
>B] "Yes."
>C] "No."
>D] Write-in.

The stony spider removes his head from the bends in both front-most legs. One wraps itself delicately behind your back, as if he was trying to pull you in as a sane human would. The touch is like granite, slick with blood, and nauseating to an extreme.

You've never been more certain of anything in your life. "Yes."

"Never before— in all the ages I have weathered— has a more favorable wind blown this way. Heed this warning, Ringleader. Heed it, and hold it dear:

The debauched denizens within the halls of this home know NOTHING of restraint. They will snatch it, from our dearest Richard. They will take from him his light, and his healing— but they cannot take his hope. YOU, and your gaggle of sinners, must illuminate the world above. If you truly wish to aid Father Anscham, it falls upon YOUR shoulders, to bring the sun back to the surface."

He pulls away. "Leave this place. Richard is naive, and may yet lose himself to our demons and despair. His compassion is his weakness. Take your strength. That which no man can take from you. Be his pillar. Be the ruins within the darkness. Be his foundation. Be his knife in the shadow, the steel upon his shield. Go where he cannot. Speak where he is not heard.

Malimos whispers, "that you may give us all another age."

>A] Wew. (Write-in anything you want to say in reply.)
>B] Go.

>1] Thank the demon for his counsel.

>2] A deal with a demon will never leave your lips, but you'll heed his warning.

>C] Write-in.

This feels like a dream. Like some horrible nightmare that's come to an end. You move to leave, and can't believe the words that fall from your lips. "Th-thank you for th-the counsel, M-Malim-mos."

"My dearest Harvey. May we meet again, upon a brighter day." He backs up, clearly unblocking himself from the corridor beyond.

"If only ev-very dem-mon were the same."

Alaric · Apr 22, 2021

Chapter 16: Panic Fades
"Who survived?"

The corridor ahead is a gentle ascent. Effortlessly, the master of webs sweeps aside enough to permit you to freely exit. It's clear that your congregation painstakingly hacked away just enough strands to escape.

Your steps quicken with every stride, but at the mouth of Malimos' lair, you hazard one last glance behind. He has a few of his bell spiders at the rear of the cave. They were waiting for you to falter, and die, but you can fear almost nothing these ruins contain.

They're behind you. Looking ahead, you head up, and out, of the rocky and natural tunnel. It has no outlets on any side. There are no impossible spaces. No slums. Not a single pitfall, prison, or painted wall is in sight. The walls are dry, and devoid of any leeches or floods.

Before long, the webbing gives way to a clear passage, worn with wind. It must have been an hour of solid climbing. Your very soul is aching, but at long last, you see it:

The sun.

"M-Mercy," you stammer, fighting to not fall to your knees.

Using your sword to get enough support, just to stay upon your feet, you try to not buckle down or collapse on the spot. The sight is majestic, in all its simplicity. It's late afternoon. A light breeze carries the scent of dried leaves on the air, and rustles the piles scattered beneath every bare tree. Shades of crimson and amber catch on every shrub and flower of Corcaea's western wilderness. The ruins open. They open, and end.

You stagger out. Dried grass crunches underfoot. There's a chill on the air, that shakes the dampness on you to the bone, and it's wonderful. The fresh air could not smell sweeter. There are birds chirping, off in the distance. The fallen stone that lingers a few feet ahead is so worn with time, it holds no threat whatsoever.

You made it out.

It takes several long minutes to gather your composure.

One of your congregation members is scouting, in the trees ahead. They all clearly split up just to look for you.

It's Professor Echo, of course. He hasn't noticed you yet, and has his arms around his shoulder, shivering as he tries to wring more water out of his hair.

>A] Cry. Gods, you never thought you would see the sun again. Go run over and give him a hug.
>B] Keep it together. You have a mission, and need to get everyone together to figure out where to go next.
>C] You're positive everyone is going to want to seek the Church of Mercy. Get together with Spangle and Electrum. Say a prayer before hitting the road.

>1] For everyone who couldn't be here with you today.

>2] For everyone among you who had the will to survive.

>3] For Father Anscham.

>D] "FUCK, WHO SURVIVED??" Drop everything, and make sure everyone is okay.
>E] Write-in.

Panic drenches you. "Echo?"

He sprints straight your way. "HARVEY!"

The scholar skids to a stop, a few feet from you, to put his hands in his sodden pockets. There's red spiderwebs in his hair, creases upon his young face, yellow in his skin, and gold in his eyes. He gestures to you with one arm in disbelief, while running the other through the mop of grease on his head. "You're okay. Holy shit. What happened—"

"Who surv-vived."

He smiles.

A good deal of your panic fades, as the two of you walk away from the ruins. Beneath the canopy of forgotten woods, under the light of Mercy, everything feels like it's illuminated.

There's a stream, just around the way. You practically dive face-first into it. It doesn't matter how badly you cloud the bend with dirt and decay. It's like ecstasy, and the blessing of a God, to feel fresh water on your face. To slake your thirst, and to actually look at everyone else in your congregation— who's doing the exact same thing— feels even better.

Commotion breaks out instantly. You're swept up into a hug by Randall ("g-get off of m-me") ("don't be shy!") while everyone else registers that you're alive.

Lady Edith has her hair down ("Harvey!") right alongside Spangle and Electrum.

The two priestesses seem extremely worse for the wear. Electrum's burns are horrific, clearly turning from the foul water you all waded through for nearly two days. "The Gods are Merciful. I knew you would make it."

Spangle seems fine physically, but she's twitching at every snap of the twigs on the riverbanks. She simply sniffs, and offers you a small quirk of her lips through a hard frown.

Sir Allan is right beside them, keeping watch from the bank with a sword and shield in hand. He nods, as Claymore, Irefist, Chesty, Serpent, and Klepto grin to you. The majority of the men's clothes are practically in tatters, and can't seem to set their weapons down. The thick bandages around Klepto's neck are absolutely clotted straight onto his skin, but he offers you a broad grin.

Mick pulls Randy off of you, grumbling, and gives you a nod. "Glad you made it out. Thanks."

Almost everyone mutters some form of gratitude. It's overwhelming, as you spin in place, sweating. "Wh-where are J-jitt-ters—" there's no sign of the slender, shorter rogue, "and B-bronzeb-beard...?"

"Gone," Serpent calls from the bank. He's too exhausted to stand, but he gestures to the forest, and up to the north. "Said they were making for the Church of Vengeance, of all things."

Mick spits. "Good riddance. Kid had a stick up his ass nearly as big as yer balls, Harvey."

Leering, Randy happily grins, "you would know."

Honking sounds ensue. You shove them both aside, as Irefist fires the scoundrels a look that could kill. "Shut up, both of you." With a milder frown to you, he insists, "they'll be alright. Bronze has some family up north."

You breathe. "Sist-ters." They both snap upright. "Could you d-do us all a fav-vor?"

Electrum flashes the palms of her hands to you. "Of course."
Spangle's grimace relents, if only slightly. "Say the word."

"B-before w-we g-go anywhere. To th-the Church of M-Mercy," you look around, and see virtually no one complain, "or oth-therwise. Can we p-pray?"

They're both stunned. A few slender strips of wood become makeshift candles, placed in the last of the sunlight, right along the riverbed. No one could count exactly how many men and women were lost in Ostedholm. You make sure that there's at least three, as you all bow your heads, and pay your respects.

"For th-those who could n-not b-be here with us tod-day."

----

All of you had voluntarily left for the ruins. Despite legend of the danger within, many men and women go missing in them each year. The few who have returned are usually scarred, and traumatized beyond all recognition. It's common knowledge in Corcaea, that anyone who comes back from their venture is to be brought immediately to the Church of Spirit.

Your work had only just begun. The Church of Mercy is located in Eadric, and the venture on foot was grueling. Scavenging in the wilds, defending your congregation from stray imps, and keeping everyone's morale high enough to keep anyone from turning to the Catalyst pushed everyone well past their breaking point.

Alaric · Apr 22, 2021

Chapter 17: The Church of Truth
"Lies, deceit, and slander."

You all arrived in Father Anscham's home at least a week later. Farmland and wilderness alike was hostile, to an extreme. It was impossible to track the time. Exhaustion was your bedfellow. Starvation was your mistress. Thirst was no longer your master, but the high walls of Corcaea's most defended city were a blur. The procession of your congregation, straight up to the steps of the church, are fuzzy.

You distinctly remember one thing. You finally collapsed from exhaustion at the steps of the Church. Barely able to see the priests who ran out to greet you, or the robe that you took hold of to impart a single message.

To uphold your mission. To bring the sun to the surface. To be there where the Father of the Church could not speak, you had asked for one thing:

>A] Mercy.
>B] Shelter.
>C] For the love of all the Gods, send a rescue party for Father Anscham.
>D] Write-in.

"M-Mercy. For th-the love of all th-the G-Gods. Send a r-rescue party, for F-Father Anscham."

The robes you clutched onto shifted, just slightly, as a balding priest kneeled down. He took hold of your own tattered cloak, with a hand missing its index finger. A hulking arm pulled you in, tightly enough to take the breath from your lungs.

Brother Theobald Stace, the current leader of the Church of Mercy, brought you right up to his lips. The sadist waved away anyone approaching from the front of the building. All appearances as smiles, he whispered to you four, terrible words. One sentence. No breath.

"He's not coming back."

-----

>You've been walking for hours, retelling your tale, and there's a lot more left to say.
>Father Anscham specifically requested that your experiences within the Church of Mercy be glossed over.
>Ultimately, this is your decision to make.
>A] Respect Richard's previous request. Gloss over the events that transpired in the Church of Mercy, and get to your activity on the congregation's behalf.
>B] This is horrifically important, if he hopes to one day return to Eadric. Don't skip out on any details. (THIS FLASHBACK MAY CONTINUE INTO THE NEXT THREAD IF THIS OPTION IS CHOSEN.)
>C] You're honestly exhausted. Your venture into the ruins was easily the most traumatic experience of your life. Come back to the present, and end your retelling here. Respectfully ask the Father of Mercy if he would like to participate in the conversation, while you briefly touch on your more recent affairs.

The Church of Mercy is a place of restraint. Father Anscham specifically asked that you refrain from going into detail about any of your time spent there. You understand completely. He's been through a lot, and primarily at the hands of the sadists running his former home. The least you can do is show the priest your respect, and cover your movement in the capital city.

It's hardly a sin, to withhold information from Richard. He's used to it. This is all overwhelming enough as it is. He does not need to know what happened. Not yet. Possibly never. Not even if it's the reason you're still fighting for him today.

There's no need to get to how quickly you and your congregation were addressed. How quickly you all were pushed to silence. The immediate call for the Church of Spirit, to have you all put away. You were to be studied, exiled, or worse. It would take a few weeks for them to answer, and they were long. You rested, and recovered slightly, in isolation.

It was a struggle to get even a single honest answer. They wanted to keep everyone quiet. No rescue party would be sent. Brother Stace was nothing more than a figurehead, enabling the Church of Truth to propagate more blasphemy than even you could stand. It was said countless times that Father Anscham abandoned his position, his home, his family, and all the Gods.

The man really running Eadric— Brother Adrian Morris— wielded no sword. The man watched, and waited, and whispered.

Lies. "His behavior was a threat to the lives of our King and country. Richard was a compassionate soul, but he could not share his gift with others. We are all safer, and sounder of mind, without such a compulsive, erratic, and unrestrained influence in these hallowed halls."

Deceit. "The boy's Spirit was broken beyond all compare. He refused Father Sullivan's aid. He never made a single attempt to send aid to Murgate, on the cusp of disaster. Look at where it's led us now. His proclivities and sin were forgivable— under my care— but this is one venture he could not be saved from."

Slander. "Sending any one of our sane, healthy, and devout clergy after him is, quite frankly, an insult. Our resources are stretched excruciatingly thin. The Church of Mercy is expected to answer to every outbreak in Corcaea, and the Goddess has not heeded our prayers in some time. King Magnus suspects that the very Father of Mercy SPURNING Her works is to blame. I fear the worst, without jeopardizing one more life on his behalf."

Brother Stace was somehow worse. "It was a blessing. For him to have found peace, in his own way."

You had to do something.

>A] You would not be silenced. You would take the GOOD word to the streets, and fight this injustice with the actual tenets of Mercy: truth, compassion, light, protection, and healing.
>B] You straight up tried to kill these bastards. (Feel free to write in how!)

>1] Theobald.

>2] Morris.

>3] It was more like several very real threats, to both of them, that they took very seriously.

>C] You accepted a steep bribe, to protect your congregation, and to quietly relocate to Calunoth. You're hardly a coward. The priests wanted you all to disappear into the crowds, and fade from the picture. Joke's on them.
>D] Write-in.

You're cunning, and accepted an incredibly steep bribe from the priests of gold. Without saying a word, you were granted horses, coin, and ample supplies to relocate your entire congregation to Calunoth. The pretense was that you all would slip into the crowds, quietly live out your lives, and never worry Brother Stace or Morris again.

Klepto appreciates you. The joke was on them. You all laughed, riding on horseback out of Eadric. Mick informed you of five assassins he had hired, with Morris' own coin, to kill him. Randall was beside himself, as he had done the same.

The pursuit on your heels lasted every one of the nine days you rode across the country. Beyond farmland, winding rivers, clear skies, and countless fortifications. The ruins that cover the land are truly an asset. Most buildings in Corcaea are built upon the crumbling stone foundations, with more rudimentary wooden structures built as needed. They provided glorious cover, beautiful respite, and felt like a home away from your demonic home.

Alaric · Apr 22, 2021

Chapter 18: The Good Word
"They are your freaks."

Calunoth is always the exception. The sprawling hive of stone and activity is built up, and out, from every skilled laborer left to mankind. It sits upon ruins, but the city is a testament to survival. New, segmented districts are designed to keep in outbreaks. The most formidable walls in Corcaea reside in and around an entire cathedral ward, with a monumental castle at its center. The barricades run all through the city, with constant checkpoints to deter the spread of outbreaks even further. It's a necessary precaution, for the densely packed population.

Upon almost every building are their stories. It's custom, for citizens of the capital, to paint upon their homes and places of business. It's an ancient tradition, from a prior King of Dream. You would learn of these stories, and your people, but the first concern on your mind was a mission:

You had to spread the GOOD word. You owed your lives to Father Anscham's sacrifice. It had been well over two weeks since your escape from the ruins, without any word of his survival. Hope remained in your heart. The men and women who swore to aid your cause were just as determined, to bring light to the painted city, and to expose rampant injustice.

You're a Ringleader, and have several elements of your circus to track. You said to yourself that you would shadow every one of your congregation members, in darkness and sin. The time presented itself, to follow through.

Professor Echo was bent with an unholy obsession. There was no talking him out of it. The man's mission was to break into the royal library. It's nestled deep inside of King Magnus' castle. The most heavily fortified structure in the country houses countless secrets, and your scholar is focused on nothing but the truth. He's stopped sleeping, barely eats, and has probably bathed once since exiting the ruins.

"I don't want anything to do with murderers or thieves. Let them wallow in the gutters, like rats, while we all lose ourselves. It's idiocy. People are going to die. We're all dying, and help isn't going to come. I'm going to find a way. There's an answer. If anyone has it, He will. You wouldn't let me go back. I won't stop moving forward. I'll kill you if you try to stop me again. Don't give me that face! I'm more than a genius, Harvey. I'm your expert. ...so let me help you."

Randy and Mick were inseparable, positive that the streets would bring nothing but death. Their brilliant strategy was to utilize the worst of the ruins beneath the city: for transportation, shelter, and spreading the good word.

"Fleas, Harvey. We're the fleas on your back, and the bugs in their bed. There's too many sick fucks who need some light out here! We all need it." Mick never stopped surprising you, as he laughed, like he wasn't trying to take responsibility for the worst of mankind. "I'll look after em. Give 'em something to sleep on, if you can get a damn soul away from all this mess up top."

"We're not running," Randy stressed. "Everyone needs somewhere to lie down. You do what you need to do, and we'll take care of the rest. I've got a few old flings up north, and who knows? We'll see if I can get anyone else to turn up."

The Sisters of Mercy were all fire. Spangle was determined to lay waste to Brother Morris and Brother Stace. The broomstick was probably incapable of it, but nothing could stop her from trying to rally as many clergy members as possible. Upholding her duties, as a proper priestess of Mercy, were put on standby.

"I'm killing them from the inside, Harvey. Just you wait. Father Anscham left so few of us in Eadric. His kindness will NOT go unheard. There's hundreds of us in the capital. Something has gone horribly wrong. Mercy may not be listening, but they will. I'm going to make them listen. We're getting the truth out there, and I'd like to see anyone try and stop me."

Electrum was elated beyond all measure to handle supply and finance. While her talents as a priestess are substantial, her mind seemed to be her primary asset.

"Give me a week. We'll have shelter, and enough weapons to outfit an army."

"P-plate?"

"I'll see what I can do."

Starlight and Stardust were rightfully terrified. Edith was almost inconsolable. "Father will have Allan's head, if we're found. I won't stand for any more bloodshed. I've seen enough. We want to live, Harvey, but never under His rule. Never again."

"I want to help," Allan emphasized. "But we need to let this blow over. I know Father Anscham will sort out his affairs. We have to think of ourselves, Harvey. You're welcome in our company any time, but please, don't ask anything more of us. We only want peace. Bring us that sun. I'll come out of the shade, when our whole world isn't on fire."

The remainder of your congregation was a unit of raw power. They're easily the most terrifying combatants you've ever witnessed. By far and away, they're the most respectable men you've ever known. Sure, they're all a bunch of freaks. But they are your freaks, and have sworn to help you in any way they can.

Claymore and Electrum were inseparable, every time they reconvened. The two were making an armory, to outfit what they suspected would be countless wanted men and women. Anyone who would hear your message. Anyone who might need to fight for their lives. The King's fury was that of legend, and your newest enemies are incredibly powerful. Claymore was rightfully agitated. "The armor isn't feasible. Sorry. I'll get you something as soon as I can. Metal is scarce, but we aren't. Let's get every hand we can take, Harvey. I'll give them all somethin' to hold onto."

Klepto swore up and down to literally sing any praises you needed to spread. His pursuit of adrenaline was ignited to an extreme, at the thought of speaking out against the theocracy. The clown was easily the most enthusiastic about your endeavor. "I've been working on a routine. A ballad, a few poems. Real catchy. Nothing explicit. It's going to knock them right into your ring, Harvey!"

Chesty and Irefist were ready and willing to go along with whatever Serpent had planned. "The professor wants to bury himself alive," the manipulator hissed. "It's fine." You know he actually cared deeply for Echo, and the two of them kept in close contact. "One of us needs to be your eyes on the ground. I'll tail anyone suspicious. Keep us a step ahead. You'll be the first to know if there's any word of the Father's survival."

The start of your work was easily the most influential. You had a scarce two weeks before things escalated completely out of control, and you had to make them count.

>A] You helped Walter break into the castle.
>B] You gave Spangle the support she needed, to recruit clergy to your cause.
>C] The finances of your congregation had to be sorted first. You got some quality time with Electrum.
>D] You investigated the routes, shelter, and plan that Mick and Randy formed.
>E] You got the twins to safety, with hope for the future of your country.
>F] You hit the pavement with the freak show.

>1] Claymore, in battle.

>2] Klepto, in spreading legend and myth.

>3] Serpent, Chesty, and Irefist in subterfuge.

Keeping in contact with Mick and Randy was top priority. They at least had the decency to fill you in on their plan, before descending beneath the city. You caught them under a decaying bridge, as you all shivered in the miserable weather.

"You know I can work a tunnel better than anyone, Harvey," Randy winks. Mick laughs, hard. The lecher continues, "honestly. We all know this shit is going to go south. I'm not getting caught in the thick of it. We'll get to a few of my old haunts, clean up the place. You swing on by if you need anything."

A snort of general agreement, from Mick. "Don't go dragging any guard in. I mean it. You'll get us all killed. We'll keep this nice and low. Let the sisters do their thing, if anyone gets hurt, right?"

"Th-they have th-their own p-plans, M-Mick."

"Shit. Well. There's enough space to work with. I can't imagine anyone tracking us down. Might even work for," he chuckles, wiggling his eyebrows, "you know."

The twins immediately took both scoundrels up on their offer, when you suggested it the next day. Without any care for the fact that they would be in ancient sewers, or the company they'd keep, your suspicions were confirmed that everyone could handle themselves well enough.

Save for one man. Your attention was really fixed on Walter. The greasy, pompous, genius of a man, who thought that breaking into the King's castle was the best course of action.

Over a mug of beer, you both settled into Electrum's first safe house, and developed a plan of attack.

"T-to M-Morris," you grinned.

"Cheers," Echo laughed, hard enough to not immediately drink.

"Kn-nowledge is p-power," you frowned, through too much foam, and the extremely watered down brew.

"Cheap-skates," Walter muttered. "I'll have words with Electrum. Don't mind me, Harvey, I'm just rambling. Go on."

"H-how d-did you p-plan on ent-tering th-the castle?"

A few airs come into the pseudo-intellectual's voice. "A rudimentary hypothesis is insufficient, for the experiment I endeavor to pursue. Further research is necessary, before I embark on any tests of the guard or castle grounds."

"A hyp-p— a wh-what?"

He gives you a shit-eating grin. "I don't have a plan."

"G-good. I w-want in."

Echo slams his mug on the table. "I knew I could count on you."

"It w-won't b-be easy."

"Nothing ever is. ...except Randy." He looks over his shoulder, like the lecher would honk at him at any second. "Don't tell him I said that."

"I w-won't."

You pause, and decide it's better to honor Father Anscham's tenets. Honesty can sometimes be the best policy. "Y-you are n-not th-the m-most su-" this is going to be impossible, "y-you sp-peak p-plainly, Echo."

"Yes. Only an imbecile would waste anyone's time with anything less."

"Y-you m-move p-plainly."

"I move confidently!" He takes a large drink. "With purpose."

The beer isn't helping, but gives you time to offer, "how ab-bout a sugg-ggest-tion?"

"Go ahead."

>A] You'll stake out the castle, and gather as much intel as you can, for as long as you safely can, before going in.
>B] The sooner you do this, the less time anyone has to predict the attempt.

>1] You'll go in with Echo, and create the biggest distraction possible for him. Maybe several. It's going to make it nearly impossible to see him again anytime soon, but he's worth the effort, and you do actually trust his capabilities.

>2] Offer point-blank to escort Echo into the castle, with as much stealth as you can muster. He'll need to hug your ass, and could still catastrophically mess up the effort, but it's the simplest.

>C] Before you know anything about the home of the King, you're certain that there's probably some convoluted and utterly ridiculous plan that would get this accomplished faster. Or, at least, with far less risk. (Write-in.)
>D] Get drunk, and enjoy one night of normalcy with a friend on the surface. Brainstorm as many stupid or ingenious ideas as you can fathom. Maybe one will stick. (A ROLL WILL BE REQUIRED. Write-ins may help.)

"Lets d-do some research."

"You know I can't say no to that."

"I kn-know."

Taking your time to thoroughly stake out the castle was worth a few precious, additional moments with the most resourceful members of your congregation.

The next day was spent being saddled with explosives from Electrum.

"We had a few left over from the ruins. You're going to need it a lot more than I will, where you're going. Try to not worry about the clergy out here, and focus on anyone that can invoke in there. Really. We can handle ourselves. Just stay safe, alright? The Gods are Merciful."

Weapons, from Claymore.

"Don't let him take any throwing knives. He's too happy to run his mouth. I can't imagine the damage the lunatic could do with a blade, but here. A dagger or two is at least enough to get him out of rope. Maybe give it off before you split. Your call. He's probably better off not being seen rollin' heads, is all. You get me?"

"You n-need m-me to d-do th-the d-dirty work. In case he can't g-get out. Th-they could b-blame any d-deaths on m-me."

"Yeah. Well. I don't need you to do anything. He sure will. Just take the fucking armor, Harvey. I know it's not plate, but I'm not lettin' you get yerself killed. We'd rather have you out here, and I need you back in one piece. ...not letting these cunts rest that easy."

The segmented, full-sleeve armor fit like a dream. Sure, it was iron, but the weight felt remarkable. It was barely a burden, once it was worn and fully in place. On your shield arm, and under your cloak, you felt closer to a walking fortress than a man, during your last trip of the night.

A priestess of gold thrust an obscene amount of coin into your hands, later that evening.

"I'm not taking 'no' for an answer." Electrum was practically sweating, for how nervous she clearly was at the idea of your mission. "We'll get more. It's nothing."

"W-Walter n-needs you t-to know, Electrum."

"What's his problem, now?"

"He hated th-the b-beer."

"He's lucky I haven't abandoned every last one of my vows." The priestess of compassion couldn't help but look upset.

"A j-joke."

"Pfft. Sure. We have to cut corners somewhere. He'll be thanking me, when you don't have to deal with half the city guard. You don't want to take any chances, okay? We've all been through too much to lose anyone."

"I w-won't let anyth-thing happen."

"Don't take any chances, Harvey. The Gods aren't Merciful. Neither is the King. We need to get out there who actually is, if no one else will."

Alaric · Apr 22, 2021

Chapter 19: The King
"Tag!"

Regrettably, getting past countless checkpoints almost amounted to chance. Electrum's safe house was in the outskirts of the slums, nestled amidst whorehouses and sin. As far from royalty as one could safely hope for. You still needed to get into the city proper, through the gardens encompassing the mercantile districts, and beyond the cathedral ward to even see the base of the castle.

>Roll 1d100. The first three rolls will be used. Each roll will be counted, with degrees of success. A critical success may reveal critical information.
>Any strategy to bribe, coerce, sneak past, or otherwise get through security to the districts before the castle may grant positive modifiers.
>Any tactics to keep Echo from mouthing off may also help.

>Rolled 63 (1d100)

Compared to exiting the ruins, escaping clutches of the Church of Restraint, and avoiding capture for the last nine days, it was almost too easy to get into the city. Though word of multiple assassination attempts in Eadric had certainly already reached the holy capital, there was too much bustle for you and Walter to both to not slip through undetected.

Cramped buildings nearly put the dense crowds to shame. Vagrants, pickpockets, merchants, guards, clergy, and innocent citizens alike packed the streets in all directions. The last of humanity took some comfort in the King's protection, while the rest took complete advantage of it.

You and Walter were no exception. Getting to the center-most, mercantile districts quickly became an ordeal. Keeping you both from losing anything on your person was one thing. Greasing the palms of the guard, to convince them you actually were entering the central wards for business, was another. You'd rather not think too much about what Electrum's hard work went to— let alone how the priestess even acquired so much coin— and try to think of the gardens.

Actual greenery. The fucking famine had ended, thanks to a martyr. The land had been cursed, for as long as you had known it, but no longer. There's legend that Father Anscham cultivated a flower that can cure any illness, under tutelage of the last Mother of the Church of Agriculture, and her work had become something of legend. While Mother Bethaea may be dead, and her home in Wearmoor is still in disarray, there's still plenty of evidence of her work. The fucking famine had ended, thanks to her sacrifice.

The streets were packed with wares, and enough distraction to get up to the cathedral ward without further incident. Even from a great distance, the peaks of the King's home could be seen scraping the sky. Painted glass reflected countless hues, upon high walls, across broad streets, and upon every onlooker below. You wrestled your way through the crowds, barely got through the intense security, and strong-armed Walter into keeping quiet as you approached the base of the castle.

The next week was spent camped out, moving position as frequently as possible. Ample cover was provided. Aside from the enormous iron fences, myriad lamps, ever-lit torches, hundreds of moving fountains, and bustling gardens, there was cover in the form of gold. Disturbingly similar to the King's children, statues of traitorous nobility littered the courtyard. There's rumor that "the Merciful" turns any opponent to his authority into solid metal, if they so much as look at him the wrong way. You're not sure how much validity there is to it, but unmistakably, life-size and life-like figures were an enormous asset as you trailed each and every guard you could.

Eavesdropping revealed that the castle is primarily staffed by clergy of Mercy. In direct service to the King, and ALL unable of invoking Mercy, they had largely been stationed within the church's walls for their own (immediate) protection. Whatever had happened with Mercy completely escapes you, as a common man. You know that the majority of the women within the castle walls are in direct service to the King, and are at least at work to try and propagate the royal bloodline. Each one of his descendants is marked as nobility, and every one of them within Calunoth requires further guard, still.

The most populace force in the country is meant to be directed by Father Friedrich, leader of the Church of Flesh. It would seem he's been stretched thinner than anyone rightfully should, as his forces have been largely pulled away to the capital. Every corner, hallway, and narrow street felt like it was packed with clergy of Flesh. Rumors of a demonic outbreak, and your congregation's presence in the capital, ensured that a curfew was imposed before you even began your observation.

Nastier rumors surfaced, that you and your congregation were to blame for the demons themselves. The church of Spirit had organized an impossibly erratic schedule for the guard (rather than the church of Time,) which was meant to confuse you. The man responsible— Father Henry Sullivan— was smearing more than just your company's good name. He was launching a full-blown campaign to bring you out of hiding, and smeared Father Anscham's reputation with everything he had.

Walter assured you, repeatedly, that Klepto would have the situation under control.

You both poured your efforts into identifying a few weak entry points. The front of the castle was out of the question, but there were a number of high towers that were largely unguarded. The lowest levels were only accessible via ducts and grates below the city, which you both laughed at, happily traversed, and found multiple outlets into the library itself.

Further rumors that Father Wilhelm had been pulled away from his home in Somerilde proved fruitful. His clergy, from church of Dream, was pleasantly absent from the night watch. Echo surmised that sneaking into one of the lower levels of the library, under cover of night, would be your safest bet to get him into the library unscathed.

That night, there was no moon in the sky. Slicing through a window of painted glass, dropping Walter off, and leaving the scholar in one of the lowest levels of the royal archive took only a matter of moments. The guard was sparse, given your extreme caution.

The amount of time you took away from the rest of your congregation had paid off.

Professor Echo gave you a firm embrace.

>Feel free to write in any parting words you give to Professor Echo.

No matter what, you swore to see each other again.

The ultimate question was how you were getting out.

>A] With sword and shield. You'd stay on the defensive, and try to take as few lives as possible. (A HIGH ROLL WILL BE REQUIRED.)
>B] With the explosives Electrum provided you with. People will die, and she might benefit from the items later, but you and Walter will live *now*. (A LOW ROLL WILL BE REQUIRED.)
>C] With your wits. (Write-in.)

>Roll 1d100. Best of 3 will be used.

>Rolled 96 (1d100)

Knowing full well that you'd be back for Walter, not a single further word between you both was necessary. The sight of Professor Echo immediately sifting through books from high shelves, grinning like a maniac, and swearing that he would get you all answers, put hope in your heart.

The iron sword you'd been entrusted with was in hand. Your shield was out, with no pretense of stealth. The pitter-patter of guards' feet could already be heard down the hall, and retreat was not an option.

Sprinting down the tall bookcases rows, you raised as much commotion as humanly possible.

You've been doing this for years.
Knocking down a dozen books with an outstretched arm as you ran.
Diverting hard into a nearby hall.
Leaping clear over a sleeping priest of Flesh behind it, shouting "SLACKER!" as you ran.
Charging off towards a nearby spiral stair.
It took seconds to steal all attention away from Walter's location, with almost no effort.

Cries for defense, and to find your location, followed far behind. You scaled only a single floor, despite how deeply you both had entered the library, and split back off into the shelves. With a giant heave, muscle grateful beyond reason for a couple weeks of rest, you turned over an entire bookcase. The collapse was deafening. Every single librarian must have heard the fall, and pursued you long after you emerged back into the castle proper.

Your shield immediately saw to its job, as five priests of Flesh were waiting just at the top of the stair. You laughed, right in their faces, to glance off of only the first hit, duck down, slide behind them, and slice out every one of their ankles.

Another collapse followed, while they screamed, and tried, and failed to come straight after you.

Skirting around the clergy, down countless halls, you weaved a gloriously erratic path. There was no telling where King Magnus' chambers might have been, but luck against luck was on your side. From a study, at the furthest end of one of the tallest towers, "the Merciful" emerged into full view. He had a guard, of about thirty men, but they weren't your concern.

Disturbing doesn't begin to cut it. Shifting light seemingly emanated from His figure. The King looked to be a moving statue. Solid metal comprised and adorned every inch of Him, from the skin upon His radiant face, to the strands of his yellow-gold beard, to the gaudy regalia and cape upon His back. With no scepter or visible weapons to speak of, you could almost assume that He Himself was a weapon.

You sprinted towards Him, full-speed. Shouts followed. Chaos followed, as before anyone could register what was happening, you leapt up, planted a hand on a guard's shoulder, and vaulted over him to soar over the King.

Arm outstretched, you bopped King Magnus on the top of His crown with the blunt end of your sword. "T-tag!"

King Magnus snapped His gaze straight to you, yet was unable to comprehend the sheer insanity of your actions. You soared over the crowd of guards, and landed in a full sprint on the other side of their group. The King was stunned, but surely heard you screaming with laughter down an adjacent corridor, "YOU'RE IT! HAHAHA!"

Running was insufficient, from that point on. Your escape from the castle became a blur, of iron on iron. Every single guard in the palace must have been appointed to your capture. As a 'madman,' 'a threat to the country,' 'a red-haired demon,' 'a coward,' and all sorts of other nonsense that came shouting after you.

They chased you, and you made it out of the castle having only taken four lives.
A priest of Flesh, who tried to crush your skull between his hands.
A chambermaid, who jumped in front of a priestess of Mercy, before the holy woman could toss boiling tar in your face.
And two common men, waiting at tower you had to leap out of, who's obstruction would have cost you your life.

Landing hard on the stone outside of the castle, running off under a dark, cold night, you've never laughed so hard. The entirety of the palace was up in arms, and there was no chance anyone would look for Walter for a very, very long time.

Alaric · Apr 22, 2021

Chapter 20: An Icon
"They looked to your light, and the promise of a better tomorrow."

It took at least four weeks of running for your life, hiding in the ruins beneath Calunoth alone, before you got word from any of your congregation. Serpent had found word of Father Anscham, relayed to you by a street urchin. The Father was alive, and not well. Having been escorted by Father Wilhelm to the Church of Flesh, they both were in the company of Father Friedrich. The three church leaders had allegedly made an alliance on the field of battle, quelling an outbreak, saving the lives of hundreds, and...

They weren't doing anything for Father Anscham. He allegedly looked worse than death. Plenty of rumors were circulating that he was literally a demon. Something had gone horrifically wrong, in the ruins, and the price couldn't have been worth it. There was some artifact, sure, and mention of some new legends. Curing incurable diseases. Restoring limbs, and making them anew out of solid gold. Things that even the King is incapable of.

Things that no one in the country is capable of. Father Anscham was invoking Mercy, when no one else in the entire world seemed fit to. He wasn't returning to the Church of Mercy, and your congregation was still singing his praises.

You strongly suspected he wouldn't be coming for anyone, anytime soon. You had to do something. Everyone was in horrific danger, but you were being chased, and had to hide for your very life.

Nastier rumors were spreading. Poison was spreading, in the city. Demons were running amok in Calunoth. Your congregation was still being blamed, and the situation was growing worse by the day.

Your followers were growing by the day. You had to do something about it.

>Roll 3d100. THE FIRST THREE POSTERS WILL BE COUNTED.
>The first set of three rolls will be for the chances of reconvening with Walter, Spangle, and Electrum.

>The second set of three rolls will be for the chances of reconvening with Mick, Randy, and the twins.

>The third set of three rolls will be for the chances of reconvening with Claymore, Klepto, and the last of the freak show (Serpent, Chesty, and Irefist.)

(Anyone who rolls can opt to not meet up with one of the groups of the congregation, and look for the people following you instead to gather more information. No roll will be needed, if you choose to do so.)
Example:
>First roller
"Rolls 3d100."
58, 67, 90

>Second roller

"Rolls 3d100"

99, 100

Don't meet up with Randy, rolling for Mick and the twins.

>Third roller

"Rolls 3d100"

20, 45, 29

>Feel free to write-in anything you wish to say or do with ANY members of your congregation, regardless of what order you're rolling in.

>Rolled 80, 71, 86 (3d100)

Having risked everything to get Echo out of harm's way, your first objective was to get as much information as you could. It was a catastrophe. The security around the castle had increased to heights you did not think possible. A priest of Storm had been brought to the capital. There were members of the church of Spirit stationed at high towers, and hundreds of citizens in new guard posted throughout the city. Even approaching the district seemed impossible—but you're no coward.

You're also a common man. The segmented armor upon your shield arm, the defense in your hands, and the hope in your heart was not enough to break back into King Magnus' home. The joy of tagging multiple guards was almost worth it.

They stabbed you. Two guards stabbed your sword arm, and you never wanted for full plate more in your entire life for the following three days. Three days of sewers, and ruins. The burning pain in your arm rivaled the heat of the sun itself. Three days, before you barely found Spangle, preaching an underground sermon.

The priestess spoke of her leader. She swore that Father Anscham had not abandoned the church, her Goddess, or her countrymen. She spoke of light, with flame, devotion, and love. There were clergy in the audience, and no one stopped your procession to rejoin Spangle.

She hugged you tightly enough to take the wind from your lungs. "Harvey." You were immediately pulled aside, as four priestesses of Mercy were called over, and addressed your wounds. "You idiot. You moron. I thought I'd never see you again."

She cried, and wouldn't let you go until you got a full night's sleep, a bath, and actual food. Returning the explosives to her was an absolute necessity. "We've all been hiding. The King could not be more outraged. You lunatic. Tag?"

"It w-was hyst-terical."

She couldn't help but give you that shark-like grin. "Funniest shit I've ever heard of. You're a madman. A real jester. Klepto is jealous. No one's ever going to top it."

"Th-thanks."

"He's put a warrant out for anyone that even associates with us. Our fucking circus. We're striking back wherever we can, but there's just too many of them, Harvey. Too many innocent people. I'm trying to spread the word. Klepto's beside himself, and won't shut his mouth. He's having a good time, but it's been rough. Is Echo okay?"

No news was better than good news. Upon learning that you couldn't even get near the castle, Sister Corbon found a way to safely get you underground. To safety, and to one of Electrum's new safe houses. At the time, Sister Tirel was holed up in mercantile district.

Right under the King's nose. You all couldn't laugh, but you smiled. She didn't hug you. Electrum fussed, and fidgeted, and would not rest until your wounds were completely set and mended.

The priestess was losing herself, under the stress and isolation. "I've prayed night and day for you. Our Ringleader. Look at you. I've been getting everything ready. We're going to MAKE them listen, Harvey. He has NOT abandoned us."

Both priestesses were struggling horribly with Father Anscham's prolonged absence, and the utter lack of news from Beorward. Shaking with some awful blend of devotion and anger, Sister Corbon couldn't help but add, "neither has Mercy."

You told both women about the miracles worked in the Church of Flesh. There was no way to know, at the time, what nightmares would follow.

"We're going to show them." Electrum couldn't be calmed down. "I won't hide forever. Working through the city isn't enough. There's so much wrong with this world. We have to show them. We'll show them all. You just tell me what you need, alright? Anything. I'll die before I let them ruin him. Before they ruin all of our lives."

There was no finding Mick or Randy. Both men were far too proficient and what they did. Your fleas had buried themselves under the city, and whether they were alive or dead remained a mystery.

The following day.

News reached Calunoth.

The Father of the Church of Mercy was formally been removed from his position.

Brother Richard Anscham was to be the first church leader in history, to be stripped of his title.

The nastiest rumors you've ever heard followed. That he elected to stay in the Church of Flesh, to abandon his own congregation, and had completely lost his mind. That the ruins had destroyed the last of his thread-bare sanity. That the man had nearly caused an outbreak in Beorward, through invoking another God.

He could invoke other Gods.

You reached the twins, Claymore, Serpent, Chesty, and Irefist. Klepto had gone underground, clearly planning something obscene. Research and information would eventually come from Professor Echo. Safety and transportation did ultimately save the lives of hundreds.

There was a last stand. Your heart was breaking. It was the last move you were able to truly make against the King and His men.

It was the last time you all were somewhat together. The men and women in your company looked to you for guidance. To show humanity what you stood for. To make a difference.

You needed to make it count, for something.

>A] To survive. You begged your congregation to stop lashing out at the King, Father Sullivan, and the citizens of Calunoth. You wanted the violence to end, even if it meant abandoning your vow to uphold Father Anscham's word. Being labeled a coward was worth saving the lives of thousands.
>B] To thrive. You poured yourself into locating the Flea Circus, and developing sustainable shelter for everyone who attempted to escape the theocracy. It wasn't pretty. Blood was spilled. It's far from perfect, but it's your legacy.
>C] To fight. You'd rather have died before you fled from one more foe. You all launched a valiant last stand, to tear apart King Magnus, break His will, and unseat His authority with everything you had.
>D] To serve. You never stopped believing that Father Anscham would come back for you all. His sacrifices, and the lives of every other soul who was lost in the ruins, should never be forgotten. You are not a holy man, but you became something of a preacher. An icon. A martyr for heathens, sinners, and every lost soul who had yet to turn to the Catalyst.
>E] To learn. You got back into the fucking castle every chance you could, doubled down with Walter's research, and learned to read and write proficiently. You're cunning, and honed your mind to a razor-sharp point at the expense of all other things. You followed a scholar, and knew that Father Anscham would benefit most from your study— not your blade.
>F] Write-in. (Due to the nature of this prompt, subject to QM discussion/approval.)

There was one soul who brought your congregation together. There was one sacrifice, that enabled an escape from the insanity of Ostedholm. It took one invocation. It took sacrifice, by men who's names you'll never know. You refuse to let go of their memory. You have hope in your heart. There was never a doubt in your mind— not one single day— that Father Anscham would come BACK for you all.

He's a sinner, and a heathen. He may have lost his mind, and every rumor definitely had some truth to it. He was unhinged. A masochist. Bent with an unholy obsession for knowledge at the worst of times, and compassionate to an extreme without fail.

The priest was the only man in the world capable of invoking Mercy. Father Anscham was the rightful leader of the Church of Mercy, and you swore to serve him with everything you have.

The first few days were spent acknowledging that you are not a holy man. As a treasonous sinner, and an escapee from the ruins, you appealed to your fellow heathens. They listened, about a man of ALL the Gods, who did not turn a blind eye from the worst of humanity. They didn't need to know of either of your deals with demons, deep in the dark.

They looked to your light, and the promise of a better tomorrow.

The next few weeks passed by, as you became an icon. You had begun recruiting the best of humanity to your cause. Electrum and Spangle worked tirelessly, disguising themselves among their fellow clergy, to spread the good word. The people listened. They heard of a man, with gold in his eyes, and a fire upon his very flesh, who was unafraid to speak his mind. It may have been in shadows. You may have been called a coward. But for all the pain it caused you, and the battles you did not fight, you knew you were heard.

To threaten the livelihood of the last of humanity— to question the rule of the King— was to turn from the Gods themselves. You became something of a martyr. The following months grew longer, with each passing death. Devotees to your word rallied in the streets. Hundreds were consumed by the King's sun, as your congregation lurked in the shade.

His ire was swift, and no prisoners were taken.

Father Sullivan may have ruined all of your reputation, and damaged Father Anscham's credibility beyond repair— but he was not alone. All too many citizens feared to live their best lives. To emerge from the shackles of restraint. To shun the creed of apathy, and to speak out for what they believed in.

Who they believed in.

He came back.

By all the Gods, did he come back. There was rumor of demons being culled, on the edge of the city. Ripped to shreds, by a demon, with only weapons and sheer brutality. Of breaks deep into the worst of the slums, amidst demons, women, revelry, drugs, and deceit. That somewhere in Calunoth, Father Anscham was desperately looking for answers.

That he was desperately looking for all of you.

The conflict came to a head. Brother Morris, Brother Stace, and Father Sullivan panicked, and redoubled their efforts. The slander turned to outright pursuit of Father Anscham. Klepto fought it back, with everything he had. He undermined the Father of Spirit's sanity, thwarted his best efforts, and put off the threat of capture for as long as possible.

A nightmare was brought upon Calunoth. Poison infested the markets, and the demonic presence blamed upon your congregation was a daily occurrence. The priest of Storm was ruining the very air you breathed, and it seemed as if death was coming for you all.

Lady Edith and Sir Allan fled to the deepest recesses of the ruins. Far below the city, they were ironically the only friends you had that you didn't worry for. Mick and Randy took anyone into their care that they could, to try and protect them from the toxin. People were starving, and living like rats beneath the city, but they held onto each other.

They held onto hope, that this would pass. The Gods weren't listening.

One of their own was. The priestesses of Mercy held onto hope against hope. They rallied the clergy, crept through the shadows, and healed as many as they possibly could. It broke them, wore them to the very bone, and they swore it was worth every single second. Every day, for the eight months it had taken to be reunited with the leader of their church.

You all needed a hero.

Serpent tailed Father Anscham, with everything he had. Alongside Chesty, and Irefist, they combated each and every assassin on his trail. You organized defenses, alongside Claymore, to weaken and break away every single physical barrier to the man's efforts. His work was cut out for him. Not even all of your best efforts were enough, as you were driven further and further into hiding.

The Father was driving himself into the ground, to clear your names. No one cared about the priest's obvious insanity. The company he kept was utterly absurd. His methods were erratic. He was unhinged, in all the best ways. You knew without any doubt that he would have wanted to join in your game against the King.

The problem was that ultimately, Father Anscham only answers to one man in the country: King Magnus, the Merciful.

The inevitable was coming. The rightful leader of the Church of Mercy was making himself known, to King and country. He was proving himself, all over again, and you had to make a call. Out of every step you had taken, every choice you had made, and everything you had endured— it all ultimately came down to one, single conclusion:

>A] You had truly forsaken yourself, a long time ago. You can't remember your life before the ruins. Serving the Church of Mercy, and helping to lead the country to the greatness you KNOW humanity is capable of, is your calling in life. You'll follow Father Anscham to the ends of the earth, if it means protecting mankind from itself.
>B] You are a traitor. Your hatred for King Magnus is only eclipsed by your grief over every life His actions have lost. You hope to unseat Him, and become more than a prince. You want to become a King, and will stick by Father Anscham's side each and every moment he can help you to set the theocracy right.
>C] Walter's research was, truly, the most important aspect of all your time back on the surface. He had made a breakthrough, and obsessively began tracking Father Anscham's own research. He's one of your best friends, and even if you aren't as sharp, you'll defend Walter's and Richard's quest for answers with everything you have.
>D] Write-in.

Walter's research was, truly, the most important aspect of all your time back on the surface. It's not that you didn't have your own goals.

Sure, you had forsaken yourself. There was little hope of you remembering life before the ruins. You had been lying to yourself, for a very long time. Your mind had rotted, deep down, at the bottom of the world. Your sanity had slipped long, long ago. But you had a calling in life. In insanity and sin, one singular thought had remained.

Every life is worth saving.

The church of protection had its leader. Father Anscham had risked life and limb to go after Mick and Randy. He took on a demon of Storm, just to get to Spangle and Electrum. He saved the lives of hundreds, in a single day, and that's to say nothing of the rest of his work in the city. He came after you, and he's going to try and go after everyone else. He's been a hero.

You're getting ahead of yourself.

Professor Echo had made a breakthrough, by obsessively tracking Father Anscham's own research. After months of gathering information, (which you confirmed in many risky visits), his devotion bore fruit. Walter's faith had been rewarded. There was a breakthrough, and he refused to tell it to you.

Not until he was guaranteed to be taken to safety. Not until he was confident that he wouldn't be killed, the moment he breathed word of his findings. Paranoia had warped Walter's mind, even further beyond his usual neuroses. He would be alright, in time. You knew that Sister Tirel's arm had been replaced. Sister Corbon's spirit had never been sounder. Mick was looking after his people, and Randy was back at your very first safe house.

You returned to the ruins beneath Calunoth, with more good news for the twins than anyone could hope to hear. There was no question that Father Anscham could reunite almost all of you. His title had been formally restored, as Father of the Church of Mercy. Brother Morris and Stace were to be exiled, or worse. Father Sullivan...

You'll ask Father Anscham, about Father Sullivan, when the time is right. There's a lot you both need to discuss, and he's already incredibly overwhelmed— but he needs to know.

You will defend Walter's and Richard's research, with everything you have. From the depths of your soul, by the sword in your hands, between the slashes on your shield, and with the sweat on your brow. You never needed a suit of armor. You've never wanted for a princess, and not for one second have you fancied yourself a prince.

The year is 606, and in your home— the country of Corcaea— the souls of mankind belong to demons. The road you travel is perilous, but the sun itself is in your smile. You are Harvey Jay Algrith. A common man. An icon. A martyr. A preacher, a sinner, a prankster, a heathen, a traitor, the most wanted man in Corcaea, and the Ringleader of your circus.

Alaric · Apr 22, 2021

Chapter 21: Overwhelmed
"How have you kept yourself together?"

You are Father Richard Anscham, leader of the Church of Mercy. Gold plating is across your irises, and all throughout your previously scruffy hair. The metal is evidence of extensive invocation, to a Goddess, and it practically catches on the light of Harvey's smile. He beams to you.

He's like the sun itself, despite your procession through the ruins beneath Calunoth. Algrith doesn't mind that your shirt is in tatters from a battle recently fought, or how many scars are upon your chest. He doesn't care that you're unhinged, and could barely register a thing that was going on around you all. Not as you traveled for hours in unnatural lightning, and sin, and definitely not now.

You've been walking together for well over a solid day. Though Mercy is your lover, exhaustion is a close second bedfellow.

You start, with a soft-spoken tone, exhausted and honest, "can we—" and compulsively cut yourself off.

The only thing you fear more than breaking down hysterically in front of Harvey is the Goddess of Time. You want to ask to stop. You've been through a lot, and are trying very hard to not cry.

Almost everything you've learned of this man is a lie. Algrith is no coward. He is not a lunatic, or a traitor. He's cunning, fleet of foot, willing to kill for YOU, and is easily the bravest man you've ever met.

He's happy to slow the pace, even though your long strides haven't faltered for a second. The ruins you've been traversing are nauseating. The landscape is constantly shifting, yet the master navigator seems to anticipate and work through it all with ease. Winding staircases bend and move around you, speckled with shifting hues of violet and magenta.

Walking through your gardens, back in Eadric, felt more like a challenge the last time you were home. This has seriously been nothing.

You've both been through so much.

"F-Father Anscham, we can w-wait. R-really."

You're insanely overwhelmed, and barely know where to begin addressing this all. Listening doesn't come easily for you, and neither does restraint, but you're going to try. You are going to start with the ruins, take several deep breaths, and try to not cry.

>(You've been addressing Harvey by his last name, prior to hearing his story. Feel free to vote on if you'd prefer to call him by his first name, nickname, or stick with Algrith.)

>A] Compassion isn't exactly weakness, and you're not ashamed of your emotions in any capacity. You're just, really, trying to keep it together. There's a lot to discuss. (A roll will be required, to keep yourself together. This prompt is entirely optional.)
>B] Take Harvey into an enormous hug.

>1] You're the Father of Compassion. Put some heart into it.

>2] You're a priest of Mercy, AND of Flesh. You can make Spangle's hugs looks like child's play.

>C Try to convey one fraction of your appreciation.

>1] For never revealing your tenuous partnership with Malimos.

>2] For getting your congregation to safety, and guarding them all these many months.

>3] For never losing faith in you. (THIS WILL ADD A NEGATIVE MODIFIER if A is selected.)

>D] You have SO MANY QUESTIONS just about the ruins alone.

>1] Malimos was trying to help you? Yech was ready to kill him. Is he on anyone's side? Did he say anything else? Does Harvey have any spiders on him???

>2] Walter never went back into the ruins?!

>E] Write-in. (For the sake of pacing, multiple prompts selected or very long write-ins may be spaced out over several updates.)

With a sob, you pull Harvey straight into a big hug. "Thank you. Thank you so much— for everything you've done—"

Your voice breaks, as you tighten the hold, and bury your face in the Ringleader's crusty cloak. He's hard as a rock, smells like stale sweat, and neither of you care how disheveled you both are. Clutching harder, and doing your best to not get tears all over yourself, you don't even try to not cry hysterically.

There's too much that needs to be said between you, and you don't need to get ahold of yourself in the slightest. "Harvey—"

He nods, and hugs you back. It's really nice, to be able to speak freely, and you know he understands how hard it is for you.

"You got them—" your breath hitches, as you take in a ragged breath, "you got them all to safety. You looked after our congregation, all these months, and— I— I don't know how I can ever—"

You can feel his smile. "G-give Electrum whatev-ver repaym-ment you want."

You smile, and laugh, wiping away an incessant stream of tears. It won't stop. You're only choking up harder, relieved beyond all belief that your Ringleader is even alive at all. "I will."

"You and Echo can't t-take a j-joke."

You sniff. Reliving so much of the ruins has you too shaken up to respond normally. You have to ask. You need to know, about a monster. One who has likely laughed itself to death by now. "You— Malimos was— he was trying to help me, all along. I should have known. Yech—"

"Who?"

A little bit of your soul leaves your body. "An archdemon, of Agriculture. One of my dearest friends. He wanted to kill Malimos, for doing nothing to stop the release of most demons from Nefret's—

"Who?"

"The demon of mouths."

"Oh."

"She released every demon in the prison."

"Whew."

You feel like you might faint. Harvey is more than happy to give you a shoulder to lean on, as you breathe, "it's a very long story."

"We have T-Time."

You really don't. "I have so many questions. Please. Don't— I don't think I can handle on more person dodging a single question. Mercy—" you pull back, keeping only one hand on Harvey's shoulders. He's still wearing armor, beneath his cloak. He's still expecting to fight, or to be killed at any moment. You can't wipe your eyes enough.

He's infinitely too reasonable to not take you back into a hug, to pat your shoulder, and try to quietly reassure you that it's okay.

Several minutes pass. Your chest is aching, and it's not from how hard you're crying. Pride is of no use to you, and neither is regret. You need answers, and have waited months to ask. "Was Malimos on— on anyone's side?" It's unfathomable. He was utterly insane. "Did he— did he say anything else—"

Harvey shakes his head, shifting his cloak slightly. His cloak.

His cloak.

Fear drenches you.

Your heart is in your throat, and you forget how to breathe. Sharply, you pull back, from his ratty
Unwashed.
Cloak.

You pull back further, and try brushing off part of his sleeve. To brush off the golden, enchanted robes upon your own skin. It's crawling, and itching, like a thousand blood suckers are upon you. "You don't— they couldn't have—"

"F-Father Anscham."

"They put one on me, Harvey. As— as I left the ruins. A spider. He had offered—"

"N-not to m-me."

"It would—" some of the wind is falling from your sails, "it would only take one."

"I have b-bathed since th-then. P-promise."

You pull back, fully, and sit down. Hands to your forehead, you run a few fingers through your hair, and let your shoulders shake. Harvey sits right next to you. It's hard to breathe, but you manage.

No more than five minutes pass by, and your breath is almost level. You turn, get a standard scowl going, and firmly insist, "please. Was there anything— anything at all that he said?"

"It's b-been half a year, F-Father."

"No." You might be ill. "Everyone—" you're itching to write, to produce a calendar, and to demonstrate just how grotesque your congregations disregard for Time has been.

It's not their fault.

They've waited, and couldn't have realized for how long. "You all have been through so much. In three days, it will have been eight months since you left Ostedholm, Harvey. I was in Beorward for— for four months, alone. I've already been in the capital for sixteen days."

It's hard to think about anyone, or anything, other than expressing your extreme gratitude. It's alright, if the fighter doesn't have anymore answers. You want to lay down. You want to be sick. You ignore the prickle on the back of your neck. There are no spiders here. Malimos is on the other side of the country, and though you are in the ruins, you are not in Ostedholm.

You made it out of the ruins, but you still haven't cleaned up the cobwebs in your mind. You hug Harvey again, bury your face in his shoulder, and cry your eyes out. Nothing makes any sense, and it's alright.

"Thank you."

>A] Apologize, as tactfully as you can, for not getting to Calunoth sooner.
>B] Let him know, before he follows you, that you haven't been well. Honesty is a tenet of Mercy.
>C] The ruins DID do a number on you, but you want Harvey to know that you're at least in good hands. Tell him a little about the company you've kept, and all the help they've been.
>D] Ask Harvey how he's kept himself so together. This isn't just research, or an INTENSE need to know why the invocation to Mercy affected him differently from everyone else.

>1] It really is, though. You're not fooling anyone. Make your intentions clear, but stress that you value his opinion on your mental welfare, too.

>2] You just want to treat this hero like a friend. You owe him that much.

>E] Write-in.

You can't shake the sensation. There's obviously nothing on you. You've been killing and inspecting every suspicious spider you've seen for months, when no one has gone ahead and cleaned every cobweb from your quarters in advance. It still feels like there's something crawling, inside your clothes, and inside your skin. Nothing like an invocation. Nothing so intimate. It's horrific, and resisting the urge to scratch, or scream, is like a nightmare.

So you sit, and let your shoulders shake, and try to keep it together. A small hand presses a handkerchief between your fingers. "Hey. I'm right here, hotshot. It's okay."

"Thank— thank you, Ofelia."

The assassin's bushy, sandy-blonde hair is packed beneath the hood of her enchanted cloak. She waves the curls slightly, nodding to you, as the divinity in her burnt-out eyes sears from within the shade. You had completely forgotten that the halfling was even walking beside you, by the time that Harvey fully launched into his story. One of your best friends is "right here", and squeezes your hand. Pouting ensues, until you comply with using the damn handkerchief, even if it's not doing any good.

You all sit there, for several long minutes, as you get your composure. You aren't about to let your friend's hard work go to waste. Not anyone here, and not for the clergy who isn't with you now. Not for Brother Wilhelm's trek across the country, everything he had done for you, or for his father's hard work. Not for the months you spent tormenting Sister Cardew, with a shattered mind. Not for the age it felt like you had Cyril at your throat, to look after your body. Not for everything Father Friedrich did, to help ease your soul.

You've all worked too hard, to not make the continued effort to stay grounded. The ground beneath you is smooth stone, lightly emanating an impossible glow. You may be traumatized from your last experience with a city of light, but you are going to FOCUS, and try to get it together. The staircases, archways, and corridors in all directions bend and warp into one another. Some ascend off into space. Others veer hard into walls that appear out of thin air.

This is all way too much for you to handle. You've been doing so well, and strongly suspect that it's because everyone you know is eager to withhold information. It feels like you're drowning in questions most days. Now that you're getting answers, you barely know what to do with so much information.

Prayer has been your saving grace, after getting overwhelmed with the responsibility of your station. The tenets of your church mean even more, to piecing your soul back together. Even without the Gods (and perish the thought,) more than anything, you're an honest man. You choke out, "Harvey." He wrapped an arm back around you at some point, clearly having picked up on how much comfort you take from it. "You— before you follow me—"

He can't help but smirk. "It's a little late for th-that."

"No." A full scowl is necessary. "Father Sullivan has been right." The red-head looks like you've killed Walter. Ofelia blanches. Both of them quietly, and patiently listen. "I have not been well. I cannot begin to tell you how many times I nearly died, within the ruins alone. You know what it was like, on the highest levels."

There's no color to begin with, but Harvey's freckles somehow stand out even harder as he pales. "...highest?"

He's probably been too absorbed in your meeting, to have noticed how hard you've been fidgeting with the chain about your neck. Just as you all have walked, you've embedded angry, red crescents into your palms. It stings, and you long it, as you take hold of the support for your Relic.

The holy locket gets waved, slightly. Both of your symbols catch on the odd lighting, as your brow furrows. "We," you gesture towards Ofelia, as the pain across her face could not be more extreme, "—found more than this, at the bottom of the world. It's been months, Harvey. Months. I still have so much work to do. There is never—" you take another ragged breath, grimacing, "there is never enough time for anything."

"We're m-making Time," he mildly offers.

Legitimate confusion lances the hurt expression that's painted upon your face. Confusion, and curiosity. You want to be normal. You want to be friends. It's not easy, to reign in the obsession, but you manage, "I can't lie to you. I need to know how the invocation didn't affect you. I just— I don't want to make this into anything— anything like research. You're nothing short of a hero, Harvey."

"Th-thanks."

"I found a way to lose myself. To crack. I can't say enough how badly I want for things— for things to be different. To do better. To be better. It's been slow going. I have— we all have worked so hard, and I am— I never want things to get so bad. Never again. How have you kept yourself together?"

Harvey pauses a moment, and mildly replies, "I have t-to."

>A] Save your questions for another time. Let Harvey and Ofelia talk, and work this out of your system. Let yourself be upset. You do have a lot of tools at your disposal, and are usually much more composed than this. It's just a lot to process at once.

>1] The sheer injustice of such a good person having their life ruined is unbearable.

>2] Gods, there's a lot of trauma.

>3] It's just been a REALLY long day.

>B] You still have SO MANY QUESTIONS

>1] About the invocation to Mercy.

>2] That reply was way more intelligent than Harvey gives himself credit for. He's talking about the Catalyst, isn't he?

>3] What about Victor? Harvey never once mentioned Mad Dog, yet Randy and Mick treated him like a brother.

>4] No, seriously. You need Harvey's help just as badly as any other member of his congregation. Press the question about his stability, and ask for a practical answer.

>C] Formally acknowledge the extreme skill involved in executing the game of tag against King Magnus. You're serious to a fault, and are rapidly realizing how badly you've needed some levity in your life. You can't take one more relationship starting with silence, stoicism, and secrets.
>D] Write-in.

The absence of levity in your life has you in a perpetual frown. It wasn't until leaving the ruins, that you even felt capable of smiling. It's been a few awkward months in Cyril's company, as the priest has done his best to help you loosen up, and not even his antics have done the trick.

You love your friends, and won't let yourself fall to pieces. They don't need to know how devoid of normal experience you've been. You're going to learn with what you can get, make use of Ofelia's handerchief, and clear the worst of the red from your eyes. "Is that what you called it," you sniff, fighting through a crooked smile, "when you made a fool of King Magnus, and half of his guard?"

"N-no," Harvey grins. "I n-never had to d-do it. B-but you b-bet I th-thought it was g-going to b-be hilarious enough to try."

The smile is winning out. "Oh?"

"You sh-should have seen th-the look on His face." He starts to put on a falsetto. Ofelia's been keeping her composure magnificently, but Harvey's impersonation of the King is too much. "'oh, m-my crown, whatev-ver will I d-do? If only Fath-ther Anscham were around to d-defend m-me—'"

"Stop," Ofelia giggles.

"Oh, no," you muse. "Please. Continue."

You're given a hand, to get back on your feet. You're pleasantly surprised by how much effort Harvey clearly has to put into lending you a hand at all. Not that you need it, but confirmation that your last invocation to Flesh is persisting is an enormous blessing. After a short groan, the Ringleader teases, "th-the crown was th-the easiest target. D-do you kn-know why?"

"Why," you and Ofelia ask, simultaneously.

Harvey taps on the side of his temple.

"He does not have a big head," you grin.

A red eyebrow is raised at you. "Come on."

"It's mostly gold, and— and His beard— I— Mercy. Harvey, you may be on to something—"

Ofelia laughs with no shame whatsoever, as a set of scarred fingers make a mockery of a crown upon Algrith's head. Back to walking, he goes through a few motions of poorly re-enacting the scene. It's all while insisting, "Klepto must b-be rubb-bing off on m-me."

"How'dya suppose you get through this mess," Ofelia politely inquires. She's got a glint in her eye, like she's mentally taking notes, as you all approach a sheer rise in the scenery ahead.

"N-not m-much further n-now. J-just d-don't hold your b-breath," Harvey smiles in reply. "Seriously. Th-the water is an illusion. Th-the twins will b-be right up ahead." A knit forms in his brow, turning to you briefly to ask, "you th-think you'll b-be alright?"

You're the beast tamer. The main event. The screams in a crowd are usually all for you, even if your Ringleader is keeping the show running. This won't be a relationship started with secrecy, or silence. There will be time for him to learn your story one day, too.

The bravest, and most loyal man you've ever met deserves your honesty. "Never better. Lead the way."

Alaric · Apr 23, 2021

Character Sheet

"Permit me to invest my time. Permit me to invest in your efforts. There is so much that we can, and will do. I never wish to inflict harm upon anyone. I ask for something far greater. Something that cannot be given: Self-acceptance of our flaws, and willingness to learn from them."

Name:
Father Richard Anscham

Titles and Affiliations:
Leader of the Church of Mercy, Foremost Researcher of the Catalyst, the Hands of the King, Founder of Harvey Jay Algrith's Blasphemous Congregation, Ally to Archdemon Yech

Nicknames:
Demon of Faith, Demon of Gluttony, Demon of Speed, The Father of Compassion, The Father of Honesty, The Father of Healing, The Lord of Excess, The Lord of Light, The Father of Love, Conqueror of the Ruins, The Beast Tamer, A Man of All the Gods

Disclaimers:
Our protagonist is an unreliable narrator. This is a reflection of his life experiences, innate conditions, and the choices our voters have made.
How you choose to manage Father Anscham's well-being (or enable his inclinations) is up to you.
Confronting, accepting, and overcoming personal demons is a central theme of Catalyst Quest.
This format is a unique opportunity to directly explore what these elements mean to YOU.
The following information is far from exhaustive, and is subject to change at any time.

All numbers mentioned are for a d100 system. It's also worth noting that mechanical modifiers are highly situational, used only when deemed necessary by the QM, and write-ins may influence any element at any time. This is because Catalyst Quest is primarily narrative. We work hard to incorporate all well considered input into this collaborative story— even when it means trying to punch out an orc riding a giant centipede— to make sure player decisions matter as much as possible.

VERY HELPFUL THREADMARKS:
The Pantheon: As a man of all the Gods, studying Them has been your life's work.
Demons (Seen Thus Far): Be it for atonement or execution, you've always had a preoccupation with demons.
Supporting Cast: You have many friends and enemies.

Age: 25
Date of Birth: The 2nd of the Setting (or Blinding) Moon
Height: 6'2''
Weight: 320lbs
Hometown: Pontos
Place of Residence: Eadric, Eadric Castle
Identifying Features: Gold hair, startling green eyes, covered in scars from head-to-toe. Most notably has a crooked nose (broken multiple times without setting correctly), and a deep gash across the chest from abusive invocations of Dream. Almost always seen wearing a small, golden locket in lieu of a traditional holy symbol. Bears a symbolic golden ring on the left hand.

Obsessive: The Catalyst— the phenomenon that turns men into demons— cannot turn you (33 times and counting). You will do anything to save the world from its influence.
Compassionate: Kindness, devotion, and love define you. Easing the pain of mankind is your creed. Salvation is your bond. Some of your greatest allies are the worst mankind has to offer— and you wouldn't have it any other way.
Masochistic: No longer suicidal. Tendencies towards self-harm have improved under supervision. (Inappropriate responses have not.)
The precise nature of this inclination is a delicate and complex subject that is touched on through our quest's narrative.
Unhinged: Your perception is not always accurate.
Insatiable: 7/8 churches agree that gluttony is a sin. You're courting the Goddess of the other one.

Agriculture

"It's up to you to spread Our good-will. You are not the Father of Temperance, Richard. You're the Father of Love. Compassion. Hope. Give yourself to the ones you care for. Find your lost children. Show them that there is an answer. Help me save our world."

You love Agriculture, for better or worse. The passion you share is enough to facilitate a physical summoning. This process taxes your soul itself, but the down-to-earth Goddess has been happy to lend you some guidance on how to make the process easier. She would never wish to hurt you, after all.

(More information on Agriculture and summoning can be found in The Pantheon informational threadmark.)

A few petals are missing from this green dahlia. It looks like an ordinary flower to the untrained eye.

"Take it, if you wish to accept this gift. Taste it, if you would like to sample all of my works. Consume it in full if you dare."

It seems that Agriculture tastes a little like celery. Beetroot. Carrot. It's bitter, and you know that dahlias can be harmful in excess.
You were too floored by the experience to do more than reassure yourself that you are resistant to toxin. Swallowing the small sample of a divine flower came with no pain. No curse.

Agriculture has gifted you with a green dahlia. This item will eventually blacken and die.
It has enabled you to sample all of Her domains, after only taking a bite.
Excessive use of Agriculture's domains, maintaining Her gifts, and partaking of Her bounty (many times a day) has made the boons granted to you from this item permanent.
You have no idea what may happen if you consume the entire item, but you intend to do something with the Goddess about it.

(This same information is also listed under your Prized Possessions.)

Agriculture— the Goddess of Poison— has blessed you with an inhuman resistance to toxins. The limits of this resistance have yet to be fully tested, but it has already saved your life on several occasions.

Dream

Deep in the darkness, the God of Nightmares has been spurned.
Dream has heard your prayers, your demands, and has accepted all the challenges that your service presents.
Do you accept His questions?

Dream has visited you numerous times in your sleep, without you intending to invoke Him. The last physical visitation was objectively a surreal and nightmarish figure, but you were inspired beyond belief by the experience. These visions are fleeting and difficult to decipher, but you have regarded them all as a blessing. Dream has bestowed upon you foresight, opportunities for recovery, and aid for your grief— despite your deep seated abuse of His gifts. Even being struck by waking nightmares, becoming disfigured from His inflicted scars, or having natural night terrors restored to you has done nothing to assuage you from worshiping Him— and for good reason.

It is thanks to Dream's opportunities for reflection and self-reliance that you have learned to forgive yourself, to accept your flaws, and to own up to your mistakes. Though you have many regrets, they have all been a part of what's made you Indomitable.

Sitting upright, and looking to the intense scars all along your thick wrists and calloused hands has never felt sweeter. You did want the evidence of your abuse to be accentuated by a demon. You did tell the demon of interpretation that excess and lust are the lesser of all evils. In your hands, gluttony and masochism can be tools of indomitable willpower. Pain and indulgence has been more than your shield.

The Lord of Light will not hide from his innermost darkness.

The God of Visions is happy to accommodate a BROAD range of applications for your strengths.
This is one of your defining attributes, but has been brought out in full by your worship of the God of the Night.
Not only will this trait be made manifest through our votes and prompts, but you also have a permanent mechanical bonus as well.
(This information can be found under Mechanical Bonuses and Maluses > Divine Pacts and Boons > Indomitable)

Mercy

"Another age could pass Us by. The stars may fall, and the oceans run dry. But never— not in all of Our imaginings— could We hope to love another as much as you. You have blessed Us.
You have granted Us the will to endure."

"You are more than Our vessel. You are more than Our light, Our compassion, and Our protection. You have granted me hope. Hope for a better world. Hope that Our love may be known by any willing to open their hearts and souls once more.
It is difficult, still, to endure. We should not be here."

The bond between you and Mercy is unlike any other. She is the light and love of your life, and will come to you even without speech. Still, it's far from easy to handle the Goddess of Emotion.

"This is one thing you need never ask for. You can always speak with me."

While summoned, Mercy is dependent on your love, light, compassion, and proximity. (They all seem to hold equal significance to Her.)
Intimacy has been capable of extending Her physical manifestations to upwards of 3 days at a time.
Distressing the Goddess through confrontation, distance, or otherwise not demonstrating Her love language taxes you proportionately.

You see each other every Sunday, at minimum— at which time no one else can invoke Mercy.

"Promise me, then. Promise me that you will live your best life. No matter what den of sin you must enter, or what enemies that come upon Our door. No matter what illness may befall you, or how dearly Our tenets are tested. Promise me that you will stay true to yourself, Richard. Your search for answers. All of your compassion, and humility, and love. Never stop sharing hope with the world. Never let your light go out."

You have forged a PACT with a GODDESS.
Severe psychological and emotional consequences can and will result if your word is not kept, and your promise is broken. (E.g. actions unbecoming of Mercy's tenets, self-destructive behavior, and/or sabotaging your self-improvement.)
This permanent boon applies to all actions befitting of your promise to Mercy (e.g. forging new political alliances, sparing enemies, healing the sick, protecting the weak, etc.).

Storm

"We are the Tempest. We will cast ourselves over this offense. We will obscure. We will haze. We will cleanse. We will extinguish this sin, and guide you from darkness and shadow. We will take you from the City of Lights."

For reasons unknown, both of your invocations of Storm were preceded by incredibly intense visions of Him.

Spirit

She'll wait, as She always has.

During your last invocation of Spirit (one of the few that was not abusive in any way), the Goddess appeared before you in a vision. Consulting the priestess of Spirit in your company (Sister Cardew) about this matter left her so shaken, she discarded her holy symbol. She believes that this was a sign that the Spirit should not be worshiped through physical displays, but through respect for the immaterial. You have yet to discern the meaning behind the Goddess' apparition.

Transcendence

The world itself is a part of you.

"Mercy. Agriculture. I know you are with me. Guide me. Come unto me. Love me. Let us transcend."

A connection between Mercy, Agriculture and you— the sun, the earth, and the lover— has yet to be fully understood.
The following abilities likely reflect the qualities of you all. They persist with or without invocation.

Resistance to toxin: When present, Agriculture can pause or remove this at will.
Identify all properties of life: Prior locations, current composition, an item's means of production, and any presence of poison can be deduced through the ingestion of edible substances. This is GREATLY heightened through invocations of Agriculture, to encompass almost any discernible property of the substance in question.
Attunement: Mercy's and Agriculture's domains can no longer cause you pain in any respect. Damage sustained from these elements has been massively reduced as well. (E.g. Over-exposure to sunlight or heat, excessively imbibing any material, consuming poison, etc.)
Ecstasy: Physical sensation pertaining to either Goddess (personal healing, weight, or otherwise making contact with Them/Their domains) has become continuously, disproportionately pleasant.
Sensitivity: Proximity to natural substances directly correlates to a disruption in focus. It's been most noticeable with food and drink, but this applies to all sources of life and light.
Limitless: All aspects of life and death are susceptible to your increasingly insatiable nature. Be it on research or recreation, hunger and fullness are no longer obstacles. They are enablers.

Vengeance

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 invocations of Vengeance seemingly have no limitations.
The first time you ever called upon the Gods was as a young boy, to strike down another child with impunity.
(Edwin, a neighborhood bully, threatened to break your legs. You broke every bone in his body that he had broken in you, first.)
You crippled him— destroying his family's life during the famine— and were accused by your village of having become a demon.
Insidious experimentation was conducted on you by the Church of Mercy throughout your youth as a result.

Vengeance has always answered you without question— triggering your Catalyst each and every time.
Invoking Him is the ONLY thing that does so.
You have felt this phenomenon thirty-three times now, and have yet to understand its mechanism.

Healing: Having been trained in the art of medicine under the Church of Mercy, your skill is renown. You've occasionally heard rumor that you're regarded as the most capable healer in the nation. (Given all that you've accomplished, you're inclined to believe them.)
Demonic Expertise: As the foremost researcher of the Catalyst, you are incredibly familiar with the weakness within the hearts of mankind. At a glance, you can typically recognize a demon's association with any deity, their general capabilities, and how you can best approach them through your own skills (or invocation). This is not limited to your personal alliances with demons (such as your good friend Archdemon Yech), or your mission with Agriculture to offer salvation to any demon who seeks it.
Diplomacy: "Being a gentleman means much more than saying 'please' and 'thank you,' or yielding to the whims of others. That is a shallow, and unfortunate representation of how a man should conduct himself. Being a gentleman means carrying yourself with confidence, and showing respect towards all people.

When faced with hostility, a gentleman does his utmost to defuse the situation without violence. Only when violence is inevitable will a gentleman strike hard, and decisively— so as to not prolong the predicament. You should understand more than anyone that at times, all we can do is put a stop to this madness. To end our enemy's lives before they willingly become demons.

Your canvas is not merely the walls of our home, or the form you assume. Sometimes we can do more. A gentleman seeks to understand the full picture. Do not settle for the mistakes of the past. Let's paint a better vision for tomorrow."
Political Power and Influence: "Sometimes the world itself must be changed."

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Thanks to your position as the leader of the Church of Mercy, you are only second in power to the King of the nation. Requisitioning forces, reallocating supplies, or giving essentially any order to any individual within Corcaea would not be overstepping your boundaries. (Bear in mind that not everyone takes kindly to your shattered reputation, though. Some people may disagree with your methods regardless of how much power you wield.)
Beast Taming: You've said before that your dog is the real hero of your story. Be it dogs, horses, or lions (such as your treasonous knight), you excel in taming the hearts and minds of others. It's often said in jest that you've even been capable of taming the King Himself.
Combat: In addition to your veteran, first-hand experiences, you trained with the leader of the Church of Flesh for months— and Father Friedrich is a master of combat. Melee is your specialty. Though Piety is your long sword, maces and shields make you feel right at home. Hand-to-hand combat, ranged, and exotic weapons are familiar to you, too. It doesn't hurt matters that your build and position as a man of all the Gods makes you an incredibly intimidating presence on the field of battle.
Fishing: Having grown up on the banks of the Eventide River, your fondness for fishing was nurtured at an early age. Furthermore, you were relocated to the Church of Mercy— adjacent to the Morinburn River— and have often snuck out at night just to cast a line. You're incredibly proficient with spears and nets, and can fashion these implements on the fly. Father Wilhelm, leader of the Church of Dream, has shown you a few techniques with or without lures, as well.
Agriculture: Despite growing up during a famine, you have always had an affinity for all things that grow. Under the tutelage of Mother Phyllis Bethaea (martyred leader of the Church of Agriculture), you cultivated a new herb that can heal any poison. You've selflessly taken on curses in the name of the land, and have the Goddess of Agriculture's favor. This is to say nothing of your deep appreciation for gardening. The sprawling grounds you've nurtured around all of the Church of Mercy are your legacy as its current leader.
Literacy: Knowledge is power, and the Church of Spirit dictates who wields it. The majority of Corcaeans are illiterate— but you were trained in the art of reading and writing by your first mentor, Adrian Morris. It has enabled your scholarly pursuits, honed your mind, and granted you a deep love for the written word. Your calligraphy is quite nice, too.

In addition to your literacy, you are regarded as a scholar. The vast majority of your research has been dedicated to the Catalyst, but you never shy away from an opportunity for more knowledge. Religion, history, architecture, horticulture, and fiction are all subjects of your intense interest and study— enough to have called upon the Goddess of Knowledge Herself for further research in.

Faith of a Goddess: "Promise me, then. Promise me that you will live your best life. No matter what den of sin you must enter, or what enemies that come upon Our door. No matter what illness may befall you, or how dearly Our tenets are tested. Promise me that you will stay true to yourself, Richard. Your search for answers. All of your compassion, and humility, and love. Never stop sharing hope with the world. Never let your light go out."

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Don't respect a man for making a promise. Respect him for keeping it.

+10 FAITH OF A GODDESS

You have forged a PACT with a GODDESS.
This bonus can and will be lost if your word is not kept (e.g. actions unbecoming of Mercy's tenets, self-destructive behavior, and/or sabotaging your self-improvement.)
Severe psychological and emotional consequences can and will result if your word is not kept, and your promise is broken.
This permanent modifier applies to all actions befitting of your promise to Mercy (e.g. forging new political alliances, sparing enemies, healing the sick, protecting the weak, etc.).
Green Dahlia: "You are not the Father of Temperance, Richard. You're the Father of Love. Compassion. Hope. Give yourself to the ones you care for. Find your lost children. Show them that there is an answer. Help me save our world.

If anyone can bridge the distance between us all, it's you."

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Death made you a promise, and sealed it with a kiss.

~~+10 TO CHANGE IS TO GROW~~
+20 GREEN DAHLIA

Any action taken befitting of the Goddess of Growth, Generosity, Fertility, Life, Nature, Death, Harvest, Bounty, and Agriculture will receive this bonus.
It can also be used to offset a portion of the maluses you currently have as a priest of Her church.
Actions taken that deprive you or your fellow man of Her blessing may permanently remove this bonus. (e.g. encouraging stagnation, ignoring an opportunity to give, neglecting your own growth, distorting the cycle of life and death via murder, etc.) Be advised that serious consequences will result from abusing this gift.
The Goddess of Generosity has been eager to answer your demands for more of Her works, in the name of finding a cure for the Catalyst, and in devotion to Her. Maintaining the blessings you have already been given slowed the decay of the modifier.
Excessive use of Agriculture's ability, upholding your oaths, and showing Her unrivaled devotion has made it permanent.
Indomitable: Sitting upright, and looking to the intense scars all along your thick wrists and calloused hands has never felt sweeter. You did want the evidence of your abuse to be accentuated by a demon. You did tell the demon of interpretation that excess and lust are the lesser of all evils. In your hands, gluttony and masochism can be tools of indomitable willpower. Pain and indulgence has been more than your shield.

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The Lord of Light will not hide from his innermost darkness.

+10 INDOMITABLE

All rolls to CONTROL your response to pain or indulgence will now benefit from this bonus.
The God of Visions is happy to accommodate a BROAD range of applications for your strengths.

Vim and Vigor: This is a recurring, temporary bonus granted from eating and drinking a significant amount in one sitting.
Liquid Energy: Every little bit counts. This minor, recurring bonus has been granted from caffeine, or proper nutrition on the heels of massive blood loss.

Soul Ache: A recurring pain has been felt in your soul itself, in the wake of invoking Mercy and Agriculture for four days straight.
It has steadily increased as you've invoked the Gods. You are unsure if there is a limit to how much you can push yourself, but the effects have become debilitating.
This colossal, persistent malus was last seen at -100.
Comfortably Numb: Your left leg was recently skewered by a barbed arrow, which was slick with a caustic poison.
Though you successfully removed the object (and Mercy cauterized the location instantly by flooding it with molten gold), severe nerve and tissue damage was unavoidable.
Dexterous movement and/or putting serious strain on this limb may be compromised for the foreseeable future.
Blood Loss: Due to a catastrophic surgery attempt on the floor of a cave (to remove a barbed and poisoned arrow), you recently lost a serious amount of blood.
Naturally healing from this event will reduce this malus over time.
As of 2/7/606: -10 BLOOD LOSS

Masochism Tango

Bonuses	Maluses
Immunity to pain.	Inappropriate at the best of times.
Can aid in intimidation.	Active loss of control over actions.
Delay treatment of injury or exhaustion.	Exacerbated by urge to self-harm.
Major combative benefit.	Counter to your pact with Mercy.

Priest of Agriculture

Bonuses	Maluses
Inhuman resistance to poison.	Most physical activity has been passively affected.
Identify any natural substance in any quantity (via ingestion)	Difficulty focusing on surroundings while imbibing food or drink.
Weight can be useful.	Public image.
Major utilitarian benefit.

Your Relic

Mercy has always been there for you.
In your darkest hours— without so much as the will to live— She turned to you for hope. The Goddess entrusted you with a divine mission:
To seek out a fallen child of Mercy, who still possessed kindness in their hearts. They were to bear Mercy's symbol.
By granting peace to a single lost soul, you were promised relief from your pain, and the cure to the pain of so many others.

The lost soul was an archdemon, and a fallen Mother of the Church of Mercy.
Mother Idonea possessed a piece of a long-lost King. In her care, this Relic was a symbol of light. A pact was made with Idonea. You granted peace to three of her children.
In return for your sacrifices, compassion, and unwavering devotion, Idonea left you with an answer to your prayers with her dying breaths.

This Relic is now your symbol.

A pair of clasped hands, for alliance and prayer.
A pair of bent swords— as you are known for turning violent intent towards compassion and good-will.
To some, the swords more closely resemble a skull: for every demon that you've conquered or accepted (inside and out).
Your Relic bridges the gap between the Gods' will, and those who will open their hearts. A small mirror is contained within: an object of truth, housed between all of your symbols.

Your Relic has been used thus far to:

— Grant the tenets of Mercy to demons and clergy alike. (Doing so to a demon stripped you of that tenet of Mercy. The clergy did no such thing.)
— Heal your pain, and the pain of others. (Your Relic must be held by the individual who requires its aid. Up to two people are eligible at a time.)
— Ally the strengths of others (including demons, other races, and invocations of the Gods Themselves). The effects of this social bond are so strong, they may be permanent. Invocations allied in this manner do not tax the invokers normally, but all of these properties are not fully understood at this time.

— By opening your Relic, you can reflect your honesty and truth upon the viewer— or helps them to see their innermost reflection.

Mercy's Ring

This divine, solid gold ring is a symbol of yours and Mercy's commitment to one another, and a physical reminder of the pact you both share.

"Promise me, then. Promise me that you will live your best life. No matter what den of sin you must enter, or what enemies that come upon Our door. No matter what illness may befall you, or how dearly Our tenets are tested. Promise me that you will stay true to yourself, Richard. Your search for answers. All of your compassion, and humility, and love. Never stop sharing hope with the world. Never let your light go out."

Severe psychological and emotional consequences can and will result if your word is not kept, and your promise is broken.
This permanent boon applies to all actions befitting of your promise to Mercy (e.g. forging new political alliances, sparing enemies, healing the sick, protecting the weak, etc.).

The Green Dahlia

A few petals are missing from this green dahlia. It looks like an ordinary flower to the untrained eye.

"Take it, if you wish to accept this gift. Taste it, if you would like to sample all of my works. Consume it in full if you dare."

"It seems that Agriculture tastes a little like celery. Beetroot. Carrot. It's bitter, and you know that dahlias can be harmful in excess.
You were too floored by the experience to do more than reassure yourself that you are resistant to toxin. Swallowing the small sample of a divine flower came with no pain. No curse."

Agriculture has gifted you with a green dahlia. This item will eventually blacken and die.
It has enabled you to sample all of Her domains, after only taking a bite.
Excessive use of Agriculture's domains, maintaining Her gifts, and partaking of Her bounty (many times a day) has made the boons granted to you from this item permanent.
You have no idea what may happen if you consume the entire item, but you intend to do something with the Goddess about it.

The Church of Mercy: The largest church in the nation. This building's cloisters (and the surrounding grounds of Eadric Castle) are intended to house anyone who seeks safe refuge.

It is tradition for the Father or Mother of the Church of Mercy to make one significant addition or improvement to the building in their lifetime. Your legacy is a sprawling series of gardens, for both healing and recreation.

Below the Church of Mercy are a series of dungeons. The labyrinth closest to the surface is intended not only to contain any human threats that the Church has to hold-- it is intended as a stop gap for what lies below.

The lowest levels of the Church of Mercy are permanent holding cells for threats that cannot be killed or contained by any other force in the nation. YOU are currently responsible for every single one of these demons, and there are NO locks on any of their cell doors.
Your Gardens: Breathtaking gardens sprawl in and around your home. These herb gardens, orchards, recreational fountains, topiaries, and divinely blessed vineyards are your legacy as the leader of the Church of Mercy. You've tended to the land here for over five years, and have even seen to the gardens with the Goddess of Agriculture.

There is no understating what a positive impact your efforts have made on the populace of Eadric. Personal gardens are a common sight in almost every single home in your city.
Eadric Castle: Home.
In addition to securing the Church of Mercy, some key features are:

The Tower Keep: The most secure structure in the nation. One single priest of Flesh (Brother Garrick) was capable of holding off a siege at its gates. The lower levels (aside from the main hall) are currently occupied by your research team, who are turning many rooms into an open library.
The Great Chamber: Sits on the second floor, just below your solar in the tower keep. This is where your most veteran priestesses have taken up residence.
The Solar: The highest point in the castle, on the third floor, where you're meant to reside. (Recently ransacked and occupied by a corpse, and will need to be investigated before you can lodge there again.)
Stables: Currently housing your stallion, Impetus. Walter Middleton's gelding, Bastion, is also kept there (along with the horses for most of your other tenders.)
The Curtain Wall: Best view in the city.
Inner Bailey: Contains kitchens, barracks, stores, the stables, and workshops. Currently occupied by 13 members of your caravan from Calunoth, and a handful of citizens who survived the Night of Embers.
Moat: In need of repair.
Secret Passages: You're intimately familiar with how to navigate in your home, and can travel through the sprawling castle grounds more efficiently than any other man alive.

Yech's Flask: Conjured by Archdemon Yech to commemorate your historical alliance. This simple, gold-capped flask has two unusual properties.

Demon of Faith: Out of genuine respect for your trials and triumphs, Yech imbued this item to bear a checkmark for every invocation you have made to Vengeance (and in turn, how many times you have felt the Catalyst). The gilded underside currently has thirty-three tallies.
The Lord of Generosity: Stating a drink to the flask (with the intent to consume its contents thereafter) fills the item with that drink. The conjured liquid will then pour endlessly. You have experimented thoroughly with this property, and found that liquor, tea, water, oil, caffeinated beverages (not native to Corcaea), thin soups, and even chowder could be conjured in this manner. It has also produced ice cubes (in cocktails), flower petals, seeds, and intact pieces of vegetables (all as components of other drinks).
Yech's Enchanted Shield: Conjured by Archdemon Yech to commemorate your historical alliance. This matte, black, large shield is made of an exotic metal that you have yet to identify, and is unusually light to hold. It has demonstrated the ability to deflect or absorb almost any attack directed at it, barring that you are capable of withstanding the force of the blow.
Yech's Enchanted Mace: Conjured by Archdemon Yech to commemorate your historical alliance. This demonic weapon is unusually light to hold. As a sharpened and flanged mace, it requires a specific holster. You need to have a new one commissioned, as yours currently does not fit.
Endless Satchel: By all appearances, this is simply a tasteful, medium-sized bag with a few gold buckles. You know that the interior is an endless carrying space-- so long as you can get items through its small opening. What the space inside is like has escaped your observation this far, but it appears to be dry and cool enough to safely preserve grain, parchment, and paintings.
Enchanted Robes: Father Atticus Wilhelm, leader of the Church of Dream, gifted you a priceless set of enchanted robes. The garment is imbued with special dyes that can change its color on command. In addition, placing a hand to the item and stating a specific form of attire will command the garment to take on the desired cut/length/style. While you prefer using it to wear holy vestments befitting of the leader of the Church of Mercy, it has created the appearance of everything from executioner's garb to a farmer's tunic. Lastly, the item is self-cleaning. The clothing takes in any grime or stains it has accrued on command, and may passively do so as well. (The item is always cleaner after you've left it alone for awhile.)

Atonement: Your armory was ransacked. All that remained were two weapons your former jailer— Theobald Stace— had used to torture you in years past. You embraced your pain, invalidated it, and chose to literally weaponize your trauma. Rather than take offense at these mockeries of your foremost patrons, you wish to honor Them through each object instead.

"This surgical knife embodies Mercy's will. The strength I have been granted. An instrument for agony, an embodiment of my actions, and all of the healing made possible because of it. Atonement."

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Harvest: Your armory was ransacked. All that remained were two weapons your former jailer— Theobald Stace— had used to torture you in years past. You embraced your pain, invalidated it, and chose to literally weaponize your trauma. Rather than take offense at these mockeries of your foremost patrons, you wish to honor Them through each object instead.

"A thresher. My enemies have sown the seeds of discord. This weapon will do well to loosen the strangle-hold on our nation in the seasons ahead. Agriculture has truly blessed me with Her Harvest."

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Piety: Father Friedrich sent this long sword from Beorward to Calunoth. The mighty weapon has not left your possession since. It requires two hands to properly wield, and lives up to its namesakes. Piety has withstood bolts of lightning, smited undead foes, and has never once spilled the blood of an innocent.

Father Edmund's Last Letter: Mother Aimar kept this letter for three years after Father Edmund's death. It was passed on to Father Wilhelm just weeks before he rescued you from the ruins, with specific instructions on when to give it to you. The circumstances of Father Edmund's life and death have been an enigma, and you have been under too much grief and strain to investigate the matter thus far.

"Father Richard Anscham,

People will try and tell you that you don't deserve the title. Never let anyone tell you otherwise.

I know I am placing an enormous burden on you. I know that you might not feel ready for so much responsibility. It will likely be years before you even begin to understand everything that this means for you. I had a lifetime to prepare myself for it, and I squandered all but the last few years.

This has never been about me. This has never been about the title. This is about YOU, Richard, and one thing that I NEED you to KNOW.

You've earned it. You have done so much good for this world, for the little time you've had in it.

I'm sorry. I'm sorry that I wasn't there for you. I'm sorry for everything.

Everything but this. I know it won't make things right, but there needs to be no question in any man, woman or child's mind in this whole damn country that YOU earned it.

Keep proving them wrong. You've earned your place in our world, even though you never needed to prove a thing.

You've earned all of our devotion. I trust you. I know you are more than fit to wield more than power, or wealth, or titles.

You've earned all of our love.

You've earned a life of your own.

You never have to say "yes," but I know you will.

I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, for all of the years of ignorance and neglect. I can't make it up to you.

This is not about making amends.

You shouldn't forgive me, and you never have to. I want you to live the best life you can. Not for me, not for anyone. Not even for Mercy.

I know She loves you. I do, too.

Live for yourself.

Good bye, Richard."
Beltoro's Apology: After enduring the memories of Beltoro— an ancient demon of Spirit, comprised of 21 hands— you communicated with them via writing. One of your greatest sacrifices was giving this demon your restraint after it penned this message. It has not left your person for a day since then.

Father Anscham,

Thank you for coming back. Thank you for upholding your word. Thank you for already doing more than she swore to do. Thank you for attempting to help us find ourselves once more.
You know I cannot speak of it, but you have so much more than even I once possessed.

Please accept our apology.

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Dog-Shaped Fishing Lure: A gift from Father Wilhelm during your seclusion in the Church of Flesh. It's easily one of the kindest and most precious things you've ever laid eyes on.
Father Wilhelm's Nightcap: This gold-threaded nightcap is covered in little embroidered animals. It has an exceptionally long tail, always helps you sleep better, is terribly stupid, and you love it.

Alaric · Apr 23, 2021

GLOSSARY OF TERMS

TERM	DEFINITION
Domains	Aspects of the natural world that the Gods embody.
Tenets	Guidance (intended for clergy only) which is penned and published by the Gods' church leaders, based off of the church leaders' personal views. You have not been made privy to the tenets of every church.
Prayer	Speaking to a deity, typically to praise them or to ask for their blessing (without expectation of exceptional power or ability). Most clergy pray to some extent prior to or during invocation.
Invocation	Channeling the ability of a God through one's own body (typically after a lifetime of devotion). These abilities can range wildly, and individuals often can possess unique abilities depending on their connection to their associated patron.
Summoning	Facilitating the physical manifestation of a deity through a personal connection. You are unaware of anyone else capable of this feat, though you have done so for both Mercy and Agriculture.
The Church of [God or Goddess]	Additional information on the holy people and places associated with each deity.
Misc. Information	See: Mercy>The Relic, Agriculture>Green Dahlia, Vengeance>The Catalyst

Studying the Gods' will has been your life's work, and is far and away your greatest passion.
The information below has been hard-won through blood, sweat, and tears.
These entries are not exhaustive, and new findings surface frequently.

You alone possess the ability to invoke Them all.

THE PANTHEON

Domains

Growth, life, bounty, harvest, the earth, poison, death, and generosity.

Tenets

Invocation

Typical Use

Locate, identify, and purify poison.
Create new growth.
Manipulation of preexisting earth.

Personal Affinity

Manipulate the cycle of life, death, and everything in-between (sprouts to venerable trees have been tested thus far).
Identify, contain, and remove any toxin (you now possess an inhuman tolerance to toxins even while not invoking).
Diagnose organics through ingestion (this also applies to a great extent while not invoking).
Sense all life.
Organic transmutation (an in-depth knowledge of each substance involved required).

Indications of Abuse

Catastrophic weight loss.

Vestiges

Weight gain (proportionate to the duration and intensity of the invocation).

Summoning

The Goddess has stressed that this is a sacred bond. One which tests your soul itself.

Partaking of Her gifts eases the process, in the following order of significance:
Eating; drinking; or keeping Her (significant) bounty in, on, or near you in any other capacity.
Agriculture has mentioned that devotion such as demonstrating your generosity (She likes flowers, chrysanthemums are Her favorite), gardening, or praising Her other domains can also reduce the strain and/or harm of these appearances on you— though not as notably.

The Church of Agriculture

Location:
Wearmoor, the City of Vitality.

Leader:
Formerly Mother Phyllis Bethaea (passed away in 602).

Well-Known Functions:

—Production, allocation, and distribution of Agricultural material throughout Corcaea.
—Works in conjunction with the Church of Flesh for construction and mining (primarily utilizing the ruins for resources).
—Identification and cleansing of natural toxins.

Pertinent Details:

—Mother Bethaea has been martyred. The famine that plagued Corcaea for over a century came to a close thanks to you personally taking on a curse from the land. You have yet to take public credit for this venture, but have corrected anyone who has asked you about the matter (as the public thinks she is to thank).
—You spent an entire season of Harvest at the Church of Agriculture in the year 602. Though you were deeply familiar with the activity and peoples there at the time, you have not been welcome back since then, and communications with the church has been entirely cut off.
—You have two spies stationed in Wearmoor (Chesty and Serpent), who are to gather and send information regarding the Church of Agriculture to you as soon as they are able.

Green Dahlia

"Inner strength. Commitment. Honesty. Kindness. Dignity. Instability. A symbol of diversity, and positive change. Take it, if you wish to accept this gift. Taste it, if you would like to sample all of my works. Consume it in full if you dare."

"I've given you more of me. Our connection runs deeper than the earth. Deeper than death itself. Call upon it. Make Our will manifest. Any of it. All of it. I can't say I've ever tried this before— but I think you can handle it. We'll make sure that your work doesn't suffer, either way. I cannot decrease the intensity of my gifts, but I can certainly spread them out. So call upon me. The more of me you utilize, the less reliance we should have on Growth alone."

"This is yours. Consume it, destroy it, do whatever you see fit with it. Just remember that my works do not last forever. I don't need to tell you that the head will blacken, and eventually die. I know you won't forget, and I won't be offended if you're afraid."

Domains

The moon, stars, rest, imagination, prophecy, interpretation, the arts, and the night.

Tenets

Invocation

Reverie

Remain awake for days on end.
Visions of past, present, and future.
Prophecy through interpretation.
Project fantasy onto reality.

Indications of Abuse

Difficulty awakening from natural rest.
Sleep lasts for days on end if uninterrupted.

A God Scorned

Expulsion of paint from the lungs.
Impossibly deep and disfiguring scars (yours is a single streak across your chest).
Waking nightmares.

The Church of Dream

Location:
Somerilde, the Frozen City.

Leader:
The Seer of Somerilde, Father Atticus Wilhelm.

Well-Known Functions:

—Serves to defend the southern border (thanks in part to the Folorast mountains), in conjunction with the Church of Time.

Pertinent Details:

—The closest you've ever traveled to Somerilde was to Father Wilhelm's vacation home, less than three day's travel by foot away.
—An open invitation has been extended to you by Father Wilhelm. You are welcome in Somerilde at any time.

Domains

Action, strength, aggression, perseverance, achievement, muscle, bone, and the material.

Tenets

Invocation

Peak Performance

Unnatural strength and endurance.
Inhuman physical resilience.
(Temporary) increase in musculature.

Proper Form

Strength.
Stamina.
Speed.
Endurance.
Rapid self-healing.

Indications of Abuse

Tremor.
Slower natural healing.
Weakness.
Accelerated exhaustion.

Physical Misconduct

Neglecting natural abilities.

The Church of Flesh

Location:
Beorward, The Red City.

Leader:
Father Galterius Friedrich; Brother Cyril Trebbeck presiding.

Well-Known Functions:

—Training grounds for all of Corcaea's martial fighting forces.
—Possesses the largest armory in the country, eclipsing even that of the King.
—Night life that rivals only the capital.

Pertinent Details:

—The Church of Flesh has a high barrier to entry. At your current weight, you are not only unwelcome on its doorsteps— Father Friedrich cautioned you against even approaching the city. (This is an improvement, as you both recently reconciled, and were formerly receiving regular death threats.)
—Five months of the year 605 were spent here, primarily in isolation, as you voluntarily surrendered your freedom of choice in the name of recovery. To say the least, your behavior within its hallowed walls was regarded as unacceptable. The residents of Beorward largely do not take kindly to you as a result.
—Brother Trebbeck is a near and dear friend, and a stalwart ally. You are obligated as the leader of the Church of Mercy to supervise his new appointment, regardless of any personal issues you have with his place of residence.

Domains

Compassion, restraint, healing, honesty, light, gold, the sun, love, and all emotion.

Tenets

Invocation

Intended Use

Light.
Comfort.
Temperance.
Slow healing.
Protection.

Paragon of Devotion

Rapid healing (can extend to others).
Artificial tissue or limb replacement.
Melt enemies (blinds onlookers).
Impose physical and/or emotional restraint.

Indications of Abuse

Chest pain, followed by production of blood from the mouth.

Summoning

"This is one thing you need never ask for. You can always speak with me."

While summoned, Mercy is dependent on your love, light, compassion, and proximity. (They all seem to hold equal significance to Her.)
Intimacy has been capable of extending Her physical manifestations to upwards of 3 days at a time.
Distressing the Goddess through confrontation, distance, or otherwise not demonstrating Her love language taxes you proportionately.

You see each other every Sunday, at minimum— at which time no one else can invoke Mercy.

The Church of Mercy

Location:
Eadric: The City of Shields, Calunoth's Last Defender, The Bulwark, Mercy's Refuge, The City of Curatives, and home. Informally recognized as the capital of Corcaea.

Leader:
The Father of Compassion, Lord of Light, The Hands of the King, and Leading Researching of the Catalyst: Father Richard Anscham. (You!)

Well-Known Functions:

—Cannot turn away anyone from its doors who seeks refuge. Consequently used as temporary housing for many individuals on the heels of large demonic outbreaks.
—Your healing is renown. Many individuals will travel across the country to come to the Church of Mercy's doors seeking relief from their pain.
—The central defense of the nation, and the front-line for all domestic disputes. Answering demonic outbreaks or restraining unruly individuals around the country is often handled by your clergy.
Your men and women frequently work in tandem with the Church of Flesh as their personal defense, or as healers on the field of battle.
—Adrian Morris (former priest of the Church of Mercy) made missionary work his legacy. In years past, it was a common sight for clergy of your church to preach in far-flung villages.

Pertinent Details:

—You've lost your position as leader of the Church of Mercy once before, for a span of nearly six months (for damn good reason). King Magnus restored your title, but the effects this has had on your reputation have not been kind.
—King Magnus "the Merciful" is technically the only man in the nation who's authority you answer to. He is NOT the leader of the Church of Mercy, but possesses the authority to step over your decisions (if He deems necessary, be it by His decision, or in answer to an appeal from someone else).
—A secondary, smaller Church of Mercy is in Calunoth. You intentionally have avoided visiting it.
—You recently summoned Mercy at the Church's altar, during a sermon with several hundred people in attendance.
—You alone are privy to the (figurative) keys below Eadric castle (as your former jailer, Theobald Stace, recently destroyed every single lock in the building). The Church of Mercy is known for restraint. You are responsible for the care and confinement of all the demons who are imprisoned below it.

The Relic

Mercy has always been there for you.
In your darkest hours— without so much as the will to live— She turned to you for hope. The Goddess entrusted you with a divine mission:
To seek out a fallen child of Mercy, who still possessed kindness in their hearts. They were to bear Mercy's symbol.
By granting peace to a single lost soul, you were promised relief from your pain, and the cure to the pain of so many others.

The lost soul was an archdemon, and a fallen Mother of the Church of Mercy.
Mother Idonea possessed a piece of a long-lost King. In her care, this Relic was a symbol of light. A pact was made with Idonea. You granted peace to three of her children.
In return for your sacrifices, compassion, and unwavering devotion, Idonea left you with an answer to your prayers with her dying breaths.

This Relic is now your symbol.

A pair of clasped hands, for alliance and prayer.
A pair of bent swords— as you are known for turning violent intent towards compassion and good-will.
To some, the swords more closely resemble a skull: for every demon that you've conquered or accepted (inside and out).
Your Relic bridges the gap between the Gods' will, and those who will open their hearts. A small mirror is contained within: an object of truth, housed between all of your symbols.

Your Relic has been used thus far to:

— Grant the tenets of Mercy to demons and clergy alike. (Doing so to a demon stripped you of that tenet of Mercy. The clergy did no such thing.)
— Heal your pain, and the pain of others. (Your Relic must be held by the individual who requires its aid. Up to two people are eligible at a time.)
— Ally the strengths of others (including demons, other races, and invocations of the Gods Themselves). The effects of this social bond are so strong, they may be permanent. Invocations allied in this manner do not tax the invokers normally, but all of these properties are not fully understood at this time.

— By opening your Relic, you can reflect your honesty and truth upon the viewer— or helps them to see their innermost reflection.

Domains

Knowledge, intelligence, wisdom, identity, abstraction, and the immaterial.

Invocation

Observed Mastery

Creation of immaterial space.
Transference of critical memory and meaning.
Treatment of traumatic memory.
Inhibit self-harm (in others).

Personal Mastery

Locate sinners.

Personal Abuse

Mind-reading.
Intimidation.
Instant, permanent consumption of knowledge (in limitless quantities).
Sacrilegious communication.
Viewing memories of the deceased.
Injecting traumatic memories.
Obstructing treatment of trauma.

Perturbations

Cognitive distortions.
Memory repression.
Instability.
Impulsivity.
Thread-bare sanity.

The Church of Spirit

Location:
Murgate, The Lily-White City.

Leader:
Father Henry Sullivan, the Father of Knowledge.

Well-Known Functions:

—Possesses the largest library in Corcaea. It's one of two. The other is the Royal Archive, within King Magnus' palace.
—The leader of the Church of Spirit controls all communications and knowledge throughout the nation.

Pertinent Details:

—Embroiled in conflict, as Sister Marjorie Cardew has openly challenged Father Sullivan's right to lead.

Domains

Tempest, wind, water, thunder, lightning, travel, and the sea.

Invocation

Observed Uses

Cast lightning.
Manipulation of preexisting wind, fire, water, and lightning.
Heightened sensitivity to wind and lightning (with or without invoking).

Prior Usage

Underwater breathing.
Creation of tides.
Cast fire.
Shroud light.
Lethal gales.
Walls of wind.

Preceding Effects

Disconnect from reality.
Life-threatening seizures.
Aura of Storm's likeness.

Subsequent effects

Loss of consciousness.
Severe weakness.
Confusion.

Permanent Ramifications

Memory loss.
Recurring headaches.
Tremor.
Heightened sensitivity to light and electrical shocks.

The Church of Storm

Location:
Rimilde

Leader:
Father Barthalomew Bennett, Lord of the Tempest.

Well-Known Functions:

—Provides transport along the rivers Eventide and Morinburn, throughout all of Corcaea.
—Consult regarding the weather for all Church leaders.
—Regulates natural disasters whenever possible. Responsible for any and all cleanup, regardless of their initial response.

Pertinent Details:

—Father Barthalomew has been out to sea, and his clergy appear to be deeply entrenched in Inertia's ranks. The corruption's full extent has yet to be discerned.

The Church of Time: Her will is unchangeable.

Domains

Retribution, vindication, wrath, repentance, justice, honor, virtue and blood.

Tenets

Invocation

Observed Uses

Retribution through reciprocation (typically limited to imps in any quantity).

Perfect Equilibrium

Father Nicholas Pevrel has displayed the ability to deliver judgement towards men and demons alike while Vengeance has chosen to visit him.

Spurious Intent

Disproportionate retaliation.

Deviances

Expulsion of black bile and blood.

The Church of Vengeance

Location:
Mauseburg

Leader:
Father Nicholas Pevrel, Justiciar of Corcaea.

Well-Known Functions:

—Settles any and all disputes called upon for fair judgement. (False and/or flippant claims are punishable in turn!)
—Assists with border security. The precise methodology of the clergy of Vengeance is not public knowledge.

Pertinent Details:

—You have become close allies with Father Pevrel, and are housing one hundred citizens of Mauseburg in Eadric. You still owe them a great debt for their sacrifices during the Night of Embers.

The Catalyst

Your invocations of Vengeance seemingly have no limitations.
The first time you ever called upon the Gods was as a young boy, to strike down another child with impunity.
(Edwin, a neighborhood bully, threatened to break your legs. You broke every bone in his body that he had broken in you, first.)
You crippled him— destroying his family's life during the famine— and were accused by your village of having become a demon.
Insidious experimentation was conducted on you by the Church of Mercy throughout your youth as a result.

Vengeance has always answered you without question— triggering your Catalyst each and every time.
Invoking Him is the ONLY thing that does so.
You have felt this phenomenon thirty-three times now, and have yet to understand its mechanism.

Alaric · Apr 23, 2021

Supporting Cast

All characters are listed alphabetically by last name. If a nickname is their preferred method of address, then that nickname will be used instead.
(E.g. Mathers Ormond exclusively uses the nickname "Serpent." Therefore, he is listed under 'S'.)

A

Name: Mother Astrid Aimar
Titles and Affiliations: Leader of the Church of Time
Nickname(s): The Mother of Ages
Place of Residence: Eanlac, the Church of Time
Pertinent Information:

Welcomed you into the Church of Mercy the day you were given the title, via a brief letter.
Knowingly withheld a suicide note from your predecessor, Father Elias Edmund, and has not elaborated on why-- even under direct questioning.
Released a clergy member of the Church of Time into your care without question (who is currently en route to Eadric).
Last communication was facilitated via an invocation to Spirit from Sister Harriet Cardew, to relay that war has been declared on the cult of Inertia. Mother Aimar was preoccupied with a conflict that prevented her from any extended conversation. Her physical appearance was a manifestation of sand, though no explanation was provided beyond the following message:

"You have our allegiance. Continue to NOT waste my Time. Eanlac is in motion. Don't miss your sermon, Father. The Gods are MERCIFUL."

Name: Ser Harvey Jay Algrith
Titles and Affiliations: Knight of the Church of Mercy, leader of Richard's blasphemous congregation (from Ostedholm)
Nicknames: The Ringleader, The Red Lion
Place of Residence: Eadric, The Church of Mercy
Pertinent Information:

Sworn to guard Walter Middleton and Father Richard Anscham with life and limb.
Has a pact with Malimos to support Father Anscham's endeavors, and is on excellent terms with the demon as a result.
Severe memory loss from an unknown source may be tracked to Father Wilhelm's ability to remove memories.
Possesses a full plate suit of masterwork sinewstone* armor.
Temporarily overseeing the security of the Church of Mercy, and Eadric to a smaller extent.

*This priceless exotic metal resembles stone to an untrained eye. It is excruciatingly heavy and durable, though light enough for the knight to wear constantly.

Current image (See threadmark: Demons Seen (Thus Far) under "Multiple Deities > Dream, Time, Spirit" for more information on the Demon of Interpretation.)

Name: Adwin Sebastian Anscham
Titles and Affiliations: Interpretation, (formerly) demon of Interpretation, artist commissioned by the leader of the Church of Mercy
Place of Residence: Eadric, the Church of Mercy, main choir
Pertinent Information:

Formerly a demon of Dream, Spirit, and Time imprisoned within the dungeons below the Church of Mercy.
By accepting its Catalyst of Interpretation (at Father Anscham's urging), the demon appears to have undergone a transformation into the embodiment of Interpretation.
Interpretation has assumed the form and identity of a young man with the likeness of Father Anscham's and Mercy's son. He has agreed to stay within the Church of Mercy under their protection.
Adwin is in the process of painting his Catalyst on the walls, floor, and ceiling of the main choir within the Church of Mercy.
His precise metaphysical state escaped even Spirit's understanding. Adwin is prone to extremely violent episodes if provoked, and has sought isolation in the main choir to avoid further scrutiny.

Name: Helen Anscham
Titles and Affiliations: Protected by the Church of Mercy
Place of Residence: Wearmoor, farmstead
Pertinent Information:

Birth mother of Father Richard Anscham.
Devotee to Spirit.
Birthday is on the 28th of First Sowing.

See Character Sheet.

Name: Robert Anscham
Titles and Affiliations: Protected by the Church of Mercy
Nicknames: Rob, The Mountain
Place of Residence: Wearmoor, farmstead
Pertinent Information:

Birth father of Father Richard Anscham.
Devotee to Flesh.
Infamous brewer.
Does not condone Richard's vows to Mercy, and harbors a grudge against the Church of Mercy for separating Richard from his family.

B

Name: Ofelia Banks
Titles and Affiliations: Allied with Archdemon Yech; under protection of the Churches of Flesh and Mercy; Former resident of the halfling capital "Spira"
Place of Residence: Beorward
Nicknames: Eagle-Eye
Pertinent Information:

Master assassin, poisons experts, and former mistress of a criminal empire.
Journeyed with Father Anscham and Celegwen through the ruins of Ostedholm, seeking a cure for her own people's sickness.
Had her eyes burned out from her skull during a violent invocation to Mercy. Richard restored her vision immediately afterwards. The divine sight she possesses enables her to see in any darkness, and to detect most heretics at a glance.
As a halfling, possesses an inmate dependency on poison to live.
Bears the enchanted cloak of the eagle eye. It can obscure the wearer from any onlooker, and may carry some form of detection or protection from Magical triggers.
Former proprietor of The Honey Bee, in Calunoth. (Ofelia is a skilled baker.)
Currently in a relationship with Brother Cyril Trebbeck.
She's one of your best friends, and has asked that you write to her to keep in touch.

Name: Father Barthalomew Bennett
Titles and Affiliations: Leader of the Church of Storm
Nicknames: Lord of Turmoil, Father of the Sea, Bart, Father Barthalomew
Place of Residence: Rimilde, Church of Storm
Pertinent Information:

This salty sailor is currently out to sea. Having been cut off from news for the last several weeks, and allegedly away from news to the south for months longer, the leader of the Church of Storm is disappointed by his clergy's behavior. (You're uncertain how serious he is about killing them all.)
Last communication was facilitated via an invocation to Spirit from Sister Harriet Cardew, to relay that war has been declared on the cult of Inertia. Whatever work off the coast that Father Barthalomew is conducting has to do with placating Storm Himself, and you've been warned further to resolve the situation at home before Worship hits.
This professional and affable priest is disabled from the waist down. You've deduced that this amplifies his invocations of Storm, though the precise mechanism is uncertain.
To compensate for his lack of mobility, Father Barthalomew is in the possession of a unique chair with wheels. The device is insulated with exotic materials, and can withstand a current of lightning or a rush of flame without any visible damage.

Name: Mother Phyllis Bethaea
Titles and Affiliations: Former Leader of the Church of Agriculture, Martyr of the Church of Agriculture, ally of the Church of Mercy
Nicknames: Lady of the Harvest, the Mother of Growth, Strawberry
Place of Residence: Deceased. Final resting place is in the fields of Wearmoor, buried within sight of the Church of Agriculture.
Pertinent Information:

Your first real mentor. Mother Bethaea took you under her wing for an entire season of Harvest, helped you heal, and showed you how to demonstrate proper devotion to the land. It was your first healthy experience outside of the Church since you were a young boy, and left a lasting impression on you.
Cultivated Asphydel (more commonly known as "Green Bough") with you during your brief service with the Church of Agriculture. The luminescent moss is capable of curing almost any poison, and makes for excellent tea.
The last leader of the Church of Agriculture. Her vacancy has lasted for the last three years.
During Mother Bethaea's service, famine ravaged Corcaea's lands. Her ability to keep the country afloat even in such dire straits made her a living legend.
Heralded as a martyr. The country at large believes that Mother Bethaea sacrificed herself in order to end the famine. You have yet to publicly take credit for the sacrifice you made for the nation (by taking Corcaea's curse onto yourself).
You know that Mother Bethaea took her own life, though Agriculture confirmed to you that your mentor did not wish to die. The precise details of her life and death remain to be seen. Chesty and Serpent have been sent to Wearmoor to covertly investigate the Church surrounding her death, and will report to you when it is safe to do so.

Name: Victor Bonamy
Titles and Affiliations: Former spy for Father Henry Sullivan, now allied with Sister Marjorie Cardew
Nicknames: Mad Dog
Place of Residence: Unknown (Most likely in Murgate or the surrounding area)
Pertinent Information:

Serial killer, cannibal, and unrepentant heretic.
Closely involved with subterfuge in the Church of Spirit, despite being a former prisoner there.
Has some personal relationship with Randall "Randy" Holland, and had a working relationship with Randy and his partner, Norward "Mick" Bauldry (while spying on them).
Both Randy and Mick are out for Victor's blood, now that Victor has had his allegiances made known.

Name: Brother Merek Boyce
Titles and Affiliations: Priest of the Church of Agriculture
Place of Residence: Unknown (Most likely Wearmoor, in the Church of Agriculture)
Pertinent Information:

Allied with the cult of Inertia, particularly in tunnels under Eadric. Was concerned with several specific buildings in the city, who resided in them, and their surrounding areas. (Per Crispin Chapman, under threat of death, and in exchange for repairing the roads north of Eadric.)
The expansive woods north of Wearmoor are protected by the Boyce family— including the outer defenses, and all the ruins in-between.

Name: "Bronzebeard"
Titles and Affiliations: Member of Richard's and Harvey's blasphemous congregation; The Church of Vengeance
Place of Residence: Most likely Mauseburg, the Church of Vengeance.
Pertinent Information:

Parted ways from Harvey's company the moment he left the ruins of Ostedholm, heading for the Church of Vengeance. He has made no attempts at contact since then.

C

Name: Sister Harriet Cardew
Titles and Affiliations: Exiled priestess of the Church of Spirit; Counselor to Father Richard Anscham, in formal employ of the Church of Mercy; Formally tasked as a leading researcher for the Catalyst, in conjunction with Walter Middleton and Father Richard Anscham; Technically a Sister of the Churches of Spirit and Mercy; Mortal enemies with Father Henry Sullivan.
Place of Residence: Eadric, Eadric Castle's keep
Pertinent Information:

Exiled from the Church of Spirit under orders from her blood-related sister, Sister Marjorie Cardew.
Has refused to invoke Spirit until just recently, and said she only did so having NO other options.
Disturbingly strong connection to Spirit. Sister Cardew's first invocation to the Goddess was capable of facilitating cross-country communication (voluntary or not) between every current church leader.
An expectant mother, in a relationship with Walter Middleton (the father).
You and Harriet have allied through your Relic. The effects of this have yet to be discerned.
Privy to a secret archive within the royal library, along with you and Walter Middleton.
An official partner in your research of the Catalyst, your most trusted advisor, and one of your dearest friends.

Name: Sister Marjorie Cardew
Titles and Affiliations: Sister of the Church of Spirit.
Place of Residence: Murgate, the Church of Spirit
Pertinent Information:

Sister Harriet Cardew's older sister (by blood), though both women are estranged.
Mortal enemy of Father Henry Sullivan. Marjorie is actively seeking to dismantle Sullivan's authority.
Drugged Father Anscham on her first meeting with the priest, claiming it was for her own protection. The priestess invoked Spirit to share her experiences with Father Anscham, though the invocation also resulted in learning of his right to lead the Church of Mercy.
She was last seen in extreme distress, unable to cope with or reconcile Richard's right to rule, and terrified of what Sullivan would do to her as a result.

Name: Celegwen
Titles and Affiliations: Exile of the Verdant Dominion
Nicknames: Gwen
Place of Residence: Unknown
Pertinent Information:

Elven sorceress of immense skill and venerable age.
Journeyed with Father Anscham and Ofelia Banks through the ruins of Ostedholm for reasons unknown.
Sacrificed hundreds of years of Magical knowledge to save Richard and Ofelia from Menniath's influence.
Gifted a conjured promise ring to Richard while in the ruins. The gold, gem-studded trinket is still in Richard's possession.
Seemingly recovered her lost memory, up to and including what she was searching for within the ruins. She parted ways from Richard and Ofelia without good-byes or an explanation.

Name: Crispin Chapman
Titles and Affiliations: Merchant
Place of Residence: Eadric
Pertinent Information:

The Chapman family line is incredibly old and well respected in Eadric.
Mr. Chapman is a devotee to Flesh, with many wives.
Betrayed the Church of Mercy and allied with Inertia when he was offered protection against any strife in the years to come.
Made a trade deal with Father Anscham under the pretense of a confession. In exchange for his protection, loyalty, and divulging information on three of Richard's allies, the roads north of Eadric were to be rebuilt as soon as possible.
Parted ways from Father Anscham, having received forgiveness from his confession. Nothing further has been asked of him.

Name: Clarence Chester "Chesty" Connelly
Titles and Affiliations: Member of Richard's and Harvey's blasphemous congregation
Place of Residence: Wearmoor
Nicknames: Chesty, contortionist
Pertinent Information:

Born and raised in Balferth's farmland. Consequently has a knack for Agriculture.
Is illiterate (like the majority of Corcaeans).
Has traveled and engaged in some illicit activity to the south.
Manned the Sigbrooke outpost for several years with Irefist and Claymore.
Went to the ruins with Irefist and Claymore with some hope of picking how he would die. Was allegedly in Ostedholm for several months.
Now stationed in Wearmoor, investigating the Church of Agriculture alongside Serpent (for the express purpose of gathering intel for Father Anscham).

Name: Eckard "Claymore" Sollers
Titles and Affiliations: Smith for the Church of Mercy, Member of Richard's and Harvey's blasphemous congregation
Nicknames: Claymore
Pertinent Information:

Master blacksmith, previously under the employ of King Magnus.
Spent several years manning Sigbrooke with Chesty and Irefist.
Has a long and storied history of killing demons. His lack of a sense of self-preservation is borderline suicidal.
After taking down a demon of illumination without any physical protection, Claymore lost a large percentage of soft tissue on his body. Father Anscham restored his face with a mask of solid gold, and has helped Claymore to heal the rest. Some of Claymore's sight and most sensation on one side of his body has been compromised as a result.
Currently settled in Eadric's mercantile ward closest to the Church of Mercy, in direct service to Father Anscham and his city. He has multiple apprentices, and is in the process of assembling a suit of plate armor for Spangle.
You have commissioned a door from Claymore for your dungeons, and still need to get the required parts before the project can get underway.

D

Name: Brother Thomas Durville
Titles and Affiliations: Priest of the Church of Mercy
Place of Residence: Eadric, the Church of Mercy
Pertinent Information:

Lost his entire family in the last outbreak in Calunoth: his parents in the battle of the cathedral ward, and his sisters to the conflict that emerged within the slums.
Left the service of King Magnus to join your personal ranks, and has no intention of returning to the small Church of Mercy located in Calunoth.
Despite being the youngest clergyman in your care, Brother Durville is an incredibly capable combatant, and can invoke Mercy. He specializes in defense, and favors a halberd and shield.
Having felt that his abilities have been squandered prior to entering your service, Brother Durville is eager to prove himself. He's heard stories throughout his youth about the good you've done throughout the country, and holds tremendous respect for you as a result.

"There are no demons ahead— but I will see if they are coming. Prevention is the best cure, Father Anscham."

Name: Brother Geoffrey Duval
Titles and Affiliations: Priest of the Church of Flesh
Place of Residence: Beorward, the Church of Flesh
Nicknames: Jeff
Pertinent Information:

Fought valiantly alongside Father Anscham during the Battle for Beorward, despite having sustained catastrophic injuries.
Father Anscham invoked Mercy explicitly to save Brother Duval's life, earning this priest's sincere loyalty and gratitude.
Responsible for permitting Father Anscham access to the dungeons below the Church of Flesh, contrary to Father Friedrich's orders.
Good friends with Brother Trebbeck and Elena.

E

Name: Father Elias Edmund
Titles and Affiliations: Former leader of the Church of Mercy
Place of Residence: N/A (Deceased.)
Pertinent Information:

Was a distant, overworked, and neglectful (first) mentor for Father Anscham.
Was aware of the experiments being conducted beneath the Church of Mercy, yet did not actively intervene in Richard's treatment until he was of age.
Died on the field of battle, fighting a major demon and its army.
Bestowed his title on Richard as he died.
Largely thought to have been a madman by the public at large.
Left a suicide note addressed explicitly to you, penned the day before his death. This letter was withheld by Mother Aimar until the year 605, then entrusted to Father Wilhelm to deliver to your person. To the best of your knowledge, only you, Father Wilhelm, and Sister Cardew are aware of its contents.
Buried on the cemetery grounds of the Church of Mercy.

Name: Sister Superior Clemence "Electrum" Tirel
Titles and Affiliations: Financier of the Church of Mercy, Member of Richard's and Harvey's blasphemous congregation
Nicknames: Electrum
Place of Residence: Eadric, Eadric Castle, the Great Chamber
Pertinent Information:

Left for the ruins from the Church of Mercy the day she found out about Father Anscham's history.
Gifted mathematician and financier.
Has a fixation with counting, hoarding and organizing items, particularly trinkets and baubles.
In a committed relationship with Spangle.
Lost her entire right arm during the siege of the cathedral ward in Calunoth. The limb has been remade out of moving gold by Spangle. Electrum's artificial limb allegedly possesses no sensation, and has compromised some of her dexterity.
Superior Sister Tirel's position (also due to lineage, skill, relation to you [as the leader of the Church of Mercy], and ability to invoke) renders her authority second only to yours within the Church of Mercy's walls.

F

Name: Brother Peter Fergant
Titles and Affiliations: Veteran Priest of the Church of Mercy
Place of Residence: Eadric, the Church of Mercy
Pertinent Information:

Has served the Church of Mercy his entire life, and worked directly under Father Edmund.
Left for the capital when he discovered of your former treatment within the Church of Mercy, and has served under King Magnus for only a few years.
Literally the first clergyman of Mercy in the capital to respond when you put out a call to arms.
His experience contending with demons is eclipsed by Spangle's and Electrum's, but otherwise Brother Fergant's position is the highest presently in the Church of Mercy (and likely will remain so even as you get more staff on hand). Not only is he an incredibly competent healer and a walking history book on your church, but Brother Fergant is also capable of invoking Mercy.

Name: Father Galterius Friedrich
Titles and Affiliations: Leader of the Church of Flesh, Corcaea's War Strategist
Nicknames: Lord of Action, the Father of Strength
Place of Residence: Unknown. Last stated that he was en route to Cyno.
Pertinent Information:

He hates his first name.
This venerable war strategist has no living family. You are aware that at least two of his wives and many of his sons and daughters have perished while fighting for Corcaea's safety.
Allegedly the greatest combatant alive. As he was your mentor in weapons and combat for two solid months, you're inclined to agree.
During the Battle of Beorward (while he was invoking Flesh) Father Friedrich allied with you (while you were invoking Mercy) and Father Wilhelm (while he was invoking Dream) through your Relic. The alliance was literally ground-breaking in its intensity. None of you are able to make sense of what effects the historic alliance may have had.
Sheltered you within the Church of Flesh for five months, under your request to be deprived of your freedom of choice. The extent of Father Friedrich's sacrifice during this period isn't entirely clear to you, but you have sworn to repay his kindness.
Father Friedrich appointed Brother Cyril Trebbeck as acting leader of the Church of Flesh, so he could leave for Cyno. He intends to murder the leadership responsible for the conflict to the west. If he is unsuccessful, Father Friedrich will attempt to pull out all forces from Baranfen.

G

Name: Brother Roger Garrick
Titles and Affiliations: Priest of the Church of Flesh, Guard for the Church of Mercy
Place of Residence: Eadric Castle
Pertinent Information:

Capable of invoking Flesh.
Served directly under King Magnus' guard for the royal palace as a veteran clergyman. He traveled in your caravan from Calunoth, and accepted your offer to relocate to Eadric.
Worked as a guard for Walter Middleton during his stay within the royal palace, and is familiar with the scholar's peculiar habits.
Has respectfully abstained from asking about your classified information pertaining to the Catalyst.
Held off a siege at the front of Eadric Castle by himself during the Night of Embers.

H

Name: Brother Percival Holloway
Titles and Affiliations: Priest of the Church of Vengeance
Place of Residence: Unknown (most likely Calunoth).
Pertinent Information:

Works directly under King Magnus as a covert agent, usually disguised as a veteran priest of Flesh.
Saved the lives of your caravan from Calunoth (32 people aside from himself) through a self-sacrificial invocation to Vengeance.
Developed an amicable relationship with your clergy during his recovery from aforementioned invocation.
Worked as a mentor towards you to better understand Vengeance's tenets and how to serve Him in a constructive way.
A strong ally who would like to keep in touch. You both have a regular means of correspondence set up, and he's asked that you write to him when you can.

I

Name: Carlisle "Irefist" Ballard
Titles and Affiliations: Member of Richard's and Harvey's blasphemous congregation; guard for the Church of Mercy
Nicknames: Irefist
Place of Residence: Eadric, Mercantile Ward (across the street from Claymore's Smithy)
Pertinent Information:

Apostate (to the extent of refusing healing from Mercy or Father Anscham on the brink of death).
Ex-sailor and former resident of Rimilde.
Worked in Sigbrooke with Claymore and Chesty for several years.
The last individual seen disposing of the female corpse found in your solar.
In a relationship with Sister Julian Miramond.

J

Name: "Jitters"
Titles and Affiliations: Member of Richard's and Harvey's blasphemous congregation; The Church of Vengeance
Place of Residence: Most likely Mauseburg, the Church of Vengeance.
Pertinent Information:

Parted ways from Harvey's company the moment he left the ruins of Ostedholm, heading for the Church of Vengeance. He has made no attempts at contact since then.

K

Name: James "Klepto" Sower
Titles and Affiliations: Minstrel for the Church of Mercy; Member of Richard's and Harvey's blasphemous congregation
Nicknames: Klepto
Pertinent Information:

Has traveled extensively throughout Corcaea and (allegedly) beyond its borders.
Waged a campaign against the Church of Spirit to unseat their credibility throughout Calunoth and succeeded. His efforts also aided in destabilizing Father Sullivan and distracting the King's guard during Richard's work in the capital city.
Takes no issue socializing or performing for demons, and has done so in your company to great success (particularly with Aldreda).
Lost years off his life due to a curse placed on him by the demon of interpretation. Klepto is counting on you to seek out a representative from the Church of Time to potentially restore his youth.
James has risked life and limb to aid you, and has openly admitted to having severe dependency issues. His namesake is valid, as he has severe kleptomania, along with a number of other emotional concerns. The minstrel has been unwilling or unable to work with Sister Cardew, and told you bluntly before that he's sought aid For his instability without positive results.
One of your closest friends.

L

Name: Lady Laravald of House Courteney
Titles and Affiliations: Nobility
Place of Residence: Eadric
Pertinent Information:

The nobility in Corcaea is purely comprised of blood-relatives to the King. They hold no sway over your church, its tenets, or the way you conduct your business. They possess a dramatically higher social status, plenty of wealth, and pull with countless other families. That's it.
Lady Laravald is directly responsible for bolstering Inertia's numbers at home and in the capital; aiding in emptying the Church of Mercy; getting Richard sent off to the ruins of Ostedholm; and killing many of her enemies personally.
After hearing her confession, you saved Lady Laravald from turning to the Catalyst, and forgave her personally for her sins.
She proposed working as a spy for you within Eadric, after touting that she knows you would sooner die than to see your city fall. The two of you parted ways on incredibly respectful terms.

"You are the Father of Honesty. Let me do the lying for you. I can assure you that I will not compromise your work, aim to unseat and destabilize our enemies, and will survive at all costs. You would be alerted when I find information that merits your clemency, Father."

M

Name: King Magnus "the Merciful"
Titles and Affiliations: King of Corcaea
Nicknames: The Merciful, the Face of Corcaea
Place of Residence: Calunoth, Inner Cathedral Ward, the Royal Palace
Pertinent Information:

The only soul in Corcaea that you truly answer to (and you both are pretty good friends).
Resembles a living statue, and speaks with the voice of divinity. His humanity (or lack thereof) is a matter of great debate.
Father to all nobility within Corcaea. Starlight, Stardust, and Lady Laravald are his children by blood.
Rules the theocracy with a golden fist. He has been out for your blasphemous congregation's blood up until their pardon, and only while they are under your watchful eye. Any threat to the country, its people, or his children is met with swift execution.
Restored your title as leader of the Church of Mercy the day you honored your agreement to restore peace to Calunoth, and has supported your efforts continuously (no matter how extreme the request). King Magnus even offered to personally aid you in tempering your response to invoking the Gods under His direct supervision, which you politely refused.
Received your full report regarding Ostedholm, the Relic, and your relationship with Mercy. You've been trusted to keep this information confidential.
King Magnus also has an alliance with a demon. He and Archdemon Arkthros work in tandem to ensure the security of Calunoth-- above and below ground.
Learned only two months ago of your treatment within the Church of Mercy. King Magnus immediately stripped Adrian Morris and Theobald Stace of their titles as priests of Mercy, and has assigned Father Pevrel personally to investigate the matter. The King has left the fate of your oldest tormentors in your hands.
The King has staved off ALL conflict to the east through a lifetime of concerted diplomacy with elven and halfling ambassadors. His work is in conjunction with Father Friedrich's war efforts to the west, and your defense within Corcaea's borders, to keep the last of humanity from extinction.
The King sincerely hopes to restore peace, and knows His efforts are ultimately futile when humanity has an enemy within. He has entrusted YOU above all others to find a cure to the Catalyst.

Name: Norward "Mick" Bauldry
Titles and Affiliations: Member of Richard's and Harvey's blasphemous congregation
Nicknames: Mick (the Prick)
Place of Residence: Unknown (most likely Murgate)
Pertinent Information:

Took it upon himself to find shelter for several hundred heretics within Calunoth's underbelly.
Was last seen in Calunoth's red district. Randy was tasked with locating Mick. According to Father Sullivan, they are likely now working together in Murgate (to sabotage and/or kill Victor Bonamy).
Potentially sent hundreds of individuals to preach on your behalf to the north. Confirmation was not possible by Sullivan at the time he released this intel to you.
In a dedicated relationship with Randy. You're uncertain of what the details are, and are far too polite to have asked.

Name: Walter "Professor Echo" Middleton
Titles and Affiliations: Research Coordinator on behalf of Father Richard Anscham; Leading Associate of historical developments for the Church of Mercy; Member of Richard's and Harvey's blasphemous congregation
Nicknames: Professor Echo
Place of Residence: Eadric, Eadric Castle's keep
Pertinent Information:

Nobleman from Cathwulf, a fortress deep in the eastern wilderness of Corcaea. What little Walter has divulged about his family has been violent or deeply concerning, but he is reluctant to touch on it.
Went to the ruins with an accompaniment of at least thirty men in order to further his research. He is the only survivor.
Claims that his study has been to determine a cure to the Catalyst. Though he made no lucrative findings in the ruins, Walter's pursuit adjacent to your own research had born great fruits already.
Almost every major breakthrough you've made regarding the nature of the Catalyst has been with Walter's assistance. He's officially your research partner, alongside Sister Harriet Cardew.
In addition to aiding with your research of the Catalyst, Walter has served you as a counselor and aide. His intelligence and absence of conventional morality has made him an invaluable counterpart to Sister Cardew's well-bred guidance.
He is privy to a secret archive within Calunoth's royal library, along with you and Sister Cardew. In addition, he has read every article and book King Magnus imparted to you in their entirety. In short, he is a walking reference manual.
As Harvey's best friend, he is under the Red Lion's protection above all others. Separating the two of them is unthinkable.

Name: Sister Julian Miramond
Titles and Affiliations: Priestess of the Church of Storm, temporarily working under Father Pevrel and Father Anscham
Nicknames: Jules, Snowfall
Place of Residence: Eadric
Pertinent Information:

Along with Father Pevrel and an accompaniment of 100 clergy of Vengeance, she traveled across half the country just to aid your city. Since the hour she's arrived, Sister Miramond has toiled to ensure the safety of Eadric and its peoples.
Father Barthalomew has personally vouched for her trustworthiness.
In a relationship with Irefist. You're too polite to ask for the details, but you did coyly give a rigging knife as a gift to Sister Miramond in Irefist's stead. They both sincerely appreciated the gesture.
Native to Rimilde, though she has expressed a desire to relocate in the future.

Name: Adrian Morris
Titles and Affiliations: Former priest of the Church of Mercy
Place of Residence: Unknown
Pertinent Information:

Technically your first mentor. Morris is responsible for teaching you how to read and write; the art of medicine; the tenets of Mercy; how to conduct yourself as a priest; oversaw your confinement in the Church of Mercy's dungeons; and was directly responsible for your forced invocations of Vengeance.
Known throughout Corcaea for the Church of Mercy's missionary work.
Dedicated his life to supporting Theobald Stace in their mutual research of the Catalyst.
During your first years as the leader of the Church of Mercy, Morris placed himself particularly close to your social work throughout the church. He is deeply familiar with your behavior, preferences, work habits, and has dramatically influenced the clergy's perception of you.
Remotely controlled a demon of Mercy, which held dominion over a demon of Agriculture. They collectively laid waste to Calunoth with poison. In addition, he was the first to root out the location of your blasphemous congregation.
King Magnus stripped Morris of his title as a priest the day he learned of your mistreatment within the Church of Mercy. Since then, his whereabouts have been unknown.

Name: Brother Murdac
Titles and Affiliations: Priest of the Church of Storm
Place of Residence: N/A (Deceased)
Pertinent Information:

Answered summons to Calunoth in response to the poison being spread around the city. Unbeknownst to King Magnus, Brother Murdac was intentionally assisting in spreading the toxin.
You confronted Brother Murdac twice, alongside Brother Trebbeck on both occasions. The hostility you were initially greeted with was eclipsed by the violent second encounter, when Brother Murdac invoked Storm, and attempted to kill you with a shot of lightning. Cyril saved your life by taking the hit.
You killed Brother Murdac through an invocation of Vengeance. It was your 33rd time calling upon the God, who struck down Brother Murdac without hesitation. Several citizens were present to witness this event, as well as Brother Trebbeck.
You have been pardoned from the murder of this priest of Storm, though the social repercussions of taking one of the church's few clergy may be significant. At this time, Father Barthalomew does not seem to know you are responsible for this death.
Buried in an unmarked grave on the outskirts of Calunoth.

N

Name: Brother Eustace Nye
Titles and Affiliations: Priest of the Church of Flesh, in service of the Church of Mercy (under Father Anscham)
Pertinent Information:

The older (more talkative) twin brother of Tancred Nye. These mild mannered priests of action are inseparable.
Formerly under the employ of King Magnus. He traveled in your caravan from Calunoth, and accepted your offer to relocate to Eadric.
Formally tasked with aiding in your physical regimen and training, alongside Tancred. Both brothers favor a balanced (though still brutally punishing) approach to exercise, and are more forgiving of diet or concessions for injury than their usual (Flesh-minded) counterparts.
Spent the night of embers trapped in the Church of Mercy with Adwin and a tortured cultist. He is acutely aware that your son is inhuman, though you have not had the opportunity to properly address the incident for either brother involved.

Name: Brother Tancred Nye
Titles and Affiliations: Priest of the Church of Flesh, in service of the Church of Mercy (under Father Anscham)
Pertinent Information:

The younger (incredibly respectful) twin brother of Tancred Nye. These mild mannered priests of action are inseparable.
Formerly under the employ of King Magnus. He traveled in your caravan from Calunoth, and accepted your offer to relocate to Eadric.
Formally tasked with aiding in your physical regimen and training, alongside Eustace. Both brothers favor a balanced (though still brutally punishing) approach to exercise, and are more forgiving of diet or concessions for injury than their usual (Flesh-minded) counterparts.
Spent the night of embers trapped in the Church of Mercy with Adwin and a tortured cultist. He is aware that your son is inhuman, and seemed deeply disturbed by the incident, Adwin's condition, and your response to his actions. You have not had the opportunity to properly address the incident for either brother involved.

O

Name: Orgoth
Titles and Affiliations: Warchief of the Sacred Band of Cyno (the Orc capital)
Nicknames: The greatest warrior to have ever lived; Conqueror of the ruins
Place of Residence: Cyno (According to reports from Father Friedrich)
Pertinent Information:

Encountered you and Ray within the ruins of Ostedholm. You both fought bitterly, and you barely escaped with your life (even while invoking Flesh).
Orgoth has discovered a means of taming demons. He was allied with a colossal, centipede-like demon named Offala. Reports from Father Friedrich claim that he has disseminated this information, which aligns with King Magnus' claim that this is a typical tactic for his race.
Your knowledge of orcs is lacking. Despite reports that they are unintelligent, violent killers, Orgoth had come to a peaceful resolution with you after the battle. He guarded you for three solid days, and brought no harm to you or Ray when you were at your most vulnerable. Still, the war chief quickly left your company, and booby-trapped his escape route.
His motives for keeping your company, leaving you alive, or why he was present in the ruins is unknown.

Name: Brother Olaf Osmund
Titles and Affiliations: Priest of the Church of Flesh
Nicknames: Ozzie
Pertinent Information:

Formerly under the employ of King Magnus. He traveled in your caravan from Calunoth, and accepted your offer to relocate to Eadric.
Brother Osmund is a brutally capable fighter, who held his own alongside Harvey with nothing but his bare fists and an invocation to Flesh. He is directly responsible for saving your prisoner and keeping Harvey alive during the Night of Embers, and has not even asked for thanks.
Covered in scarring along his hands and arms from aforementioned invocation of Flesh.
Allegedly hails from outside of Corcaea, though you have yet to get any details on this rumor.

P

Name: Father Nicholas Pevrel
Titles and Affiliations: Justiciar of Corcaea; Leader of the Church of Vengeance
Nicknames: The Lord of Honor, the Lord of Wrath, the Father of Righteousness, Rot-Eye
Place of Residence: Eadric (temporarily, typically resides in Mauseburg.)
Pertinent Information:

Judge, jury, and executioner. Unlike other church leaders, Father Pevrel's word is intended to guide the behavior of ALL citizens within Corcaea. Opposing his judgement can be met with pain of death.
This antisocial priest has a hideous reputation for cruelty. These accusations are well founded. You personally have allied with Father Pevrel (via your Relic), and know without a doubt that he is a sadist and a serial murderer with compulsively violent tendencies. Though you both have been enabling each other's proclivities, aiding Father Pevrel with this behavior is one of your top priorities.
Currently residing in Eadric. He brought one hundred clergy of Vengeance from Mauseburg and a single priestess of Storm (Sister Miramond) to restore order to your city. He has lost several children due to the excursion, the Night of Embers, and Inertia's continued presence. You owe him several life debts, to say the least.
He has no eyes, after having asked Vengeance for his sight to be unclouded. You have virtually no idea how he sees, and he is deeply upset by the subject any time you've asked.
Severe alcoholic.
Insomniac. There's rumor that he doesn't sleep. You have yet to see him rest in the four days he's been in Eadric.
Possesses a sword made of pure basin glass. The black, fragile material may be a conduit for his invocations, as you've seen it capable of absorbing blood.
Father Pevrel does not invoke. Though there's rumor that he's incapable of it, you know the truth of the matter: Vengeance comes to him.

Name: Sister Ela Pottinger
Titles and Affiliations: Priestess of the Church of Agriculture
Place of Residence: Likely in Wearmoor, in the Church of Agriculture
Pertinent Information:

An associate of Inertia, involved in the tunneling beneath Eadric. Crispin Chapman divulged that she carries a long sword and bears an authentic leather apron.
You've deduced that she's likely capable of manipulating metals.

"Sister Pottinger requisitioned as much metal as she could afford, from every citizen in the city that would spare their supply. The woman was unbelievably well-funded. I heard talk of copper, silver, basin obsidian, arcstone, and plenty more priceless materials. She had to have traveled with a great deal of company in order to bring it all here, but I never once spotted such a gathering coming in or out of the city. At least not until your arrival, or Father Pevrel's."

R

Name: Sister Adeline Raleigh
Titles and Affiliations: Veteran priestess of the Church of Flesh, in service to King Magnus
Nicknames: Legs
Place of Residence: Calunoth
Pertinent Information:

Has a vendetta against you for undermining her authority, blinding one of her men, killing many more, associating with your blasphemous congregation, standing her up at the royal palace for a race to settle your disagreements, and for invoking Mercy to pin her down through an invocation of Flesh.

Name: Randall "Randy" Holland
Titles and Affiliations: Member of Richard's and Harvey's blasphemous congregation
Nicknames: Randy
Pertinent Information:

Tasked with locating Mick. Last seen in Calunoth's sewers by Serpent, Claymore and Irefist. According to Father Sullivan, Randy and Mick are likely now working together in Murgate (to sabotage and/or kill Victor Bonamy).
In a relationship with Mick. Though Randy apparently had some association with Victor Bonamy (and you've heard rumor of many indecent public displays), you're uncertain of what the details are, and are far too polite to have asked.
Has helped Mick provide shelter for the isolated, downtrodden, homeless, and/or heretical citizens of Corcaea.
A master of subterfuge and assassination. Randy is also allegedly one of the most capable subterranean navigators alive, and has demonstrated ability to maneuver through urban environments that you have never seen outclassed.

Name: Ray
Titles and Affiliations: Guardian of the Father of the Church of Mercy, your home, and all of its inhabitants.
Place of Residence: Wherever he is needed most. (Currently in Eadric Castle's tower keep, guarding Sister Cardew and all of the castle's remaining provisions).
Pertinent Information:

Seasoned demonic veteran.
Expert therapy provider.
Protector of the innocent.
Conqueror of the ruins.
A very good boy.
Noted diplomat.
Your service dog.
Skills include emotional support, disrupting destructive behaviors, detecting/tracking, alerting, sentry, patrol, chasing, intimidation, and lethal or non-lethal takedowns.
Has a severe fear of thunder and other loud noises.
You received Ray as a puppy three years ago, have raised him, trained him, and regard him as your best friend.
For his health, safety, and happiness, you've resolved to stop taking Ray into harm's way. He currently acts as a guard dog for all residents of the Church of Mercy, while under the primary care of Sister Cardew (with Walter Middleton's support). He is in incredibly good hands.
You intend to get a mate for Ray, and have a plan in the works with Walter to breed guard dogs for the Church of Mercy.

S

Name: Wybert "Bert" Selly
Titles and Affiliations: Guard of the Church of Mercy.
Nickname: Bert
Place of Residence: Eadric
Pertinent Information:

An old resident of Eadric, and your most loyal guard. When Inertia attempted to buy him out, he declined for months, even under threat of violence or death.
Walter manipulated Bert into coming to you for protection. The common man immediately divulged his fellow guard's treason, and asked for nothing in return.
As a father and husband, Bert had been terrified for his family's safety (thanks to Walter's efforts). Now that he's spoken out against his fellow guards and Inertia, you've ensured that protection is provided around his home— despite needing every single soul in your employ in the Church of Mercy and Eadric Castle.
You've sworn to Bert that you will make yourself available EVERY night (that's humanly possible) for confessions for the common man. You have yet to follow up on this promise.

Name: Mathers "Serpent" Ormond
Titles and Affiliations: Member of Richard's and Harvey's blasphemous congregation
Nicknames: Serpent
Place of Residence: Wearmoor
Pertinent Information:

You know next to nothing about this cerebral member of your congregation, save for his loyalty to Harvey's cause. When you asked for him to accompany Chesty to Wearmoor, to spy on the Church of Agriculture, and to investigate Mother Bethaea's death on your behalf, he agreed without question.
Seemingly into body modifications. He has tattoos behind his eye lids, has split his own tongue, keeps his head shaved— and you're too polite to have asked about any of it.

Sister Beatrice "Spangle" Corbon
Titles and Affiliations: Veteran priestess of the Church of Mercy; Member of Richard's and Harvey's blasphemous congregation
Nicknames: Spangle
Place of Residence: Eadric, Eadric Castle, the Great Chamber
Pertinent Information:

Left for the ruins from the Church of Mercy the day she found out about Father Anscham's history.
Orator, explosives expert, pyromaniac, highly defensive combatant, and healer of renown.
Infamous for her involvement with your blasphemous congregation, particularly in Calunoth, though more recently for her arson during the Night of Embers.
You bestowed your tenet of healing onto Spangle via your Relic, during the Battle for the Cathedral Ward in Calunoth. She used your ability to heal you both through several lightning strikes, and to replace Electrum's lost arm with solid gold.
In a committed relationship with Electrum.
Sister Corbon's position (due to lineage, skill, relation to you [as the leader of the Church of Mercy], and ability to invoke) renders her authority second only to Electrum's, then yours, within the Church of Mercy's walls.

Name: Theobald Stace
Titles and Affiliations: Former priest of the Church of Mercy; Former jailer of the Church of Mercy; Your former jailer
Nicknames: The Arm of Restraint
Place of Residence: Unknown
Pertinent Information:

You were in Stace's care (within a cell at the bottom of the dungeons) for eight years, during which time he took no issue depriving you of food, water, sunlight, or human decency.
You bit off one of Stace's fingers in your second year of confinement, but otherwise never struck out against him or made any attempt to flee.
He has never forgiven you for maiming him, and is responsible for most of your mental and emotional difficulties, as well as the majority of your physical scars.
The dynamics of your relationship is a delicate subject that we primarily explore through our narrative. That said, it is worth mentioning that you have sought forgiveness for yourself just as much as for him.
Though Stace hates you, you wish to be rid of his stranglehold on your life. Two weapons Stace used to torture you are now in your possession as symbols of your growth and recovery. While Harvest symbolizes weaponizing your trauma, Atonement represents your own failings, and the desire you have to conquer them.

The initial motivation behind this priest's abhorrent actions was to study the Catalyst, in the hopes of finding a cure. Adrian Morris became responsible for enabling their mutual research when Stace's faculties declined.
King Magnus stripped Stace of his title as a priest the day he learned of your mistreatment within the Church of Mercy. Since then, his whereabouts have been unknown.
Prior to leaving the Church of Mercy, Stace destroyed or removed every lock in the building. Claymore has been hard at work replacing those above ground. The effects below ground remain to be seen.

Name: Sir Allan "Stardust" Douglas
Titles and Affiliations: Nobility (direct relation to King Magnus); Member of Richard's and Harvey's blasphemous congregation
Nicknames: Stardust, The Conjoined Twin
Pertinent Information:

Twin brother of Lady Edith "Starlight" Douglas.
Spent most of his youth training in combat; horse riding; diplomacy; various exotic languages; myriad instruments; knows how to read and write; and other countless other privileges afforded to the highest class in Corcaea.
Though you have intentionally avoided learning the precise nature of his relationship with King Magnus, you know that Stardust actively seeks to undermine the King's capabilities, and may intend to replace King Magnus entirely.
He left for the ruins with Starlight to die. They are romantically involved with one another, and did not wish to leave Ostedholm for the surface. (You genuinely have so many greater concerns in your life, you've abstained from so much as commenting on their relationship, and have remained incredibly respectful of their choices.)
Since returning to the world above, Stardust has been incredibly reserved. He and Starlight returned to the ruins after a matter of months, though this time they entered the domain of Archdemon Arkthros, in the ruins below Calunoth.
You are on incredibly good terms with both twins, have treated them like your very own children, and have sought to support and protect them with everything you have. Your initial confrontation with Archdemon Arkthros was purely to reconcile the royal family's issues, and to get them to safety. (All of which you succeeded in doing!)
Thanks to your allegiance with the Church of Dream, you received permission from Father Wilhelm to provide Starlight and Stardust with asylum. They were escorted to Somerilde by Brother Theodore Wilhelm. You were reassured of their safety as recently as this week, by Father Wilhelm himself.

Name: Lady Edith "Starlight" Douglas
Titles and Affiliations: Nobility (direct relation to King Magnus); Member of Richard's and Harvey's blasphemous congregation
Nicknames: Starlight, The Conjoined Twin
Pertinent Information:

Twin sister of Sir Allan "Stardust" Douglas.
Spent most of her youth training in combat; horse riding; diplomacy; various exotic languages; myriad instruments; knows how to read and write; and other countless other privileges afforded to the highest class in Corcaea.
Though you have intentionally avoided learning the precise nature of her relationship with King Magnus, you know that she is enormously favored by the country's ruler. He made no mention of Stardust when you were tasked with finding them, yet stressed that retrieving Starlight was unbearably important. King Magnus also has vocally supported her choices with who she spends her life with.
She left for the ruins with Stardust to die. They are romantically involved with one another, and did not wish to leave Ostedholm for the surface. Since returning to the world above, Starlight has behaved erratically, is prone to emotional outbursts, and has had difficulty returning to daily life. She and Stardust returned to the ruins after a matter of months, though this time they entered the domain of Archdemon Arkthros, in the ruins below Calunoth.
You are on incredibly good terms with both twins, have treated them like your very own children, and have sought to support and protect them with everything you have. Your initial confrontation with Archdemon Arkthros was purely to reconcile the royal family's issues, and to get them to safety. (All of which you succeeded in doing!)
Thanks to your allegiance with the Church of Dream, you received permission from Father Wilhelm to provide Starlight and Stardust with asylum. They were escorted to Somerilde by Brother Theodore Wilhelm. You were reassured of their safety as recently as this week, by Father Wilhelm himself.

Name: Father Henry Sullivan
Titles and Affiliations: Leader of the Church of Spirit, The Mind of the King
Nicknames: The Father of Knowledge, the Lord of Sight
Place of Residence: Unknown. (Most likely in Murgate or the surrounding area, while conflict reigns in the Church of Spirit)
Pertinent Information:

You're not positive what's garnered the massive respect that both the King, Father Pevrel, and most of the nation holds for Sullivan. There's at least rumor that he is expected to know the entire contents of both his own library and all of the royal archive, in addition to his horrifically potent connection to Spirit. (He's exhibited ability you thought was only possible from demonic ability, and has contended with your own mind without losing his own.)
Sullivan was your only visitor in the Church of Mercy during your imprisonment. You did a great deal of harm to his psyche over the years, and led him to believe that you are a demon.
As the leader of the Church of Spirit, Sullivan is responsible for the dissemination of all knowledge throughout the nation. His church is also tasked with gathering any pertinent information for his uses.
The trouble is, Sullivan used his power and trustworthiness to smear your name for most of your adult life (with good intentions). There likely isn't a man, woman, or child in the country who hasn't heard the slander against you to some extent.
His leadership style is questionable, at best. Sister Marjorie Cardew has openly challenged Sullivan's right to lead. Serious conflict is taking place in Murgate right now as a result.
The Father of Knowledge realized the error of his ways QUITE recently. You forgave Sullivan for his mistreatment of you in years past, recognized the efforts he's gone through (for better or worse), and the two of you are trying to make amends. He has gone to great pains to aid you throughout your entire life, and you're more certain of his sincerity now than ever.
The lord of knowledge made more progress with you regarding your memories from Beltoro (the demon of Spirit you gave your restraint to) in one day than you and Sister Cardew have managed in half a year.
While Sullivan swore to stay in the capital to assist your mental well-being, he left abruptly, and has been unavailable since. Though he's in the company of seven priests of Dream for his protection, he was nearly captured as recently as this week. Your last communication with him was also cut off abruptly. If his life is in immediate peril from his clergy, or if the demonic issues surrounding Murgate are to blame is uncertain.

T

Name: Laurence Taylor
Titles and Affiliations: Master Tailor for the Church of Mercy
Place of Residence: Eadric
Pertinent Information:

Intended to relocate to Eadric before even leaving the capital. He's one of the newest residents of your city, and appears to be doing very well for himself (with or without your patronage).
Thanks to his skill and trustworthiness, you've hired Mr. Taylor to outfit the entirety of Eadric's guard with new uniforms (up to, and including Ray). You've given him blanket permission to take on as many aides as he requires for the endeavor, with the endorsement of the King, Church of Mercy, and all of the country.
He's also your personal tailor, who has been made privy to your generous nature. He's an excellent point of contact for networking with the craftsmen of your city.

Name: Brother Cyril Trebbeck
Titles and Affiliations: Presiding leader of the Church of Flesh; Veteran priest of the Church of Flesh; Ally of Father Richard Anscham, leader of the Church of Mercy
Nicknames: Ponytail, Blondie, Beast
Pertinent Information:

Not native to Beorward, and was not born into the clergy. How he precisely came into Father Friedrich's service remains a mystery, despite how similar the two are to father and son.
Confessed to you that he killed his own parents, and was a street urchin for most of his youth.
Took in Elena— an orphan, who's original last name you do not know— as his own daughter. The two survived some extreme ordeal together. It's made it difficult for Cyril to sleep at night.
Cyril's obligations with the Church of Flesh have him away from home frequently. He spent four months last year (thanklessly) guarding you night and day within the Church of Flesh. You both were at each other's throats the entire time, but grew much closer for it.
Appointed as your guard when you went to Calunoth. During the month you were there, the two of you became honest friends, and risked your lives for one another. It culminated in you both allying via your Relic, in the most intense union you've experienced thus far. Both of you had no idea what to make of the event, and were too disturbed by it to properly discuss with any other party.
Regarded as a hero by the city of Calunoth for his self-sacrifice during the capital's worst demonic outbreak this year. The scarring he has is what's remained after you healed him with Mercy's full ability.
You introduced Cyril to Ofelia Banks during your time in the capital. They have since become so close, Ofelia has relocated to Beorward to live with Cyril and his daughter.
Distraught over his increasing distance from his family to the point of treachery, Cyril outright refused his last orders from Father Friedrich. Rather than go to Baranfen, he was ready to flee the city altogether. Father Friedrich recognized that Cyril's strengths lie with the people, and appointed him as the acting leader of the Church of Flesh.

W

Name: Father Atticus Wilhelm
Titles and Affiliations: Leader of the Church of Dream; Outspoken ally of Father Richard Anscham, leader of the Church of Mercy
Nicknames: The Lord of Visions, the Father of Rest, the Seer of Somerilde
Place of Residence: Somerilde (alternates between the Church of Dream, and a vacation home roughly three days out from the city)
Pertinent Information:

Saved your life by meeting you the moment you exited the ruins of Ostedholm. He traveled cross-country with five of his sons to make it there in one piece and on time.
Possesses the unique ability to remove memories via invocations of Dream.
Despite the rarity of art in Corcaea, Father Wilhelm is an accomplished painter. (He's also an excellent ice fisherman, and has taught you a few things!)
Provided you with asylum for several weeks after your exit from the ruins, and helped you travel to see your family in Wearmoor, as well as getting you to Father Friedrich safely.
Allied with you and Father Friedrich via your Relic. The bond between the three of you (while you each invoked your patron deity) literally broke new ground.
Before you even began your work in Calunoth, Father Wilhelm sent you an enchanted robe. This item is priceless. More information can be found on its properties in your character sheet.
Father Wilhelm has kept the knowledge of your demonic alliances, personal failings, and all of your struggles as confidential as you've asked. He is a treasured friend and ally, and easily your most vocal supporter.

Name: Brother Theodore Wilhelm
Titles and Affiliations: Priest of the Church of Dream; youngest son of Father Wilhelm, leader of the Church of Dream; ally of the Church of Mercy
Nicknames: Teddy
Place of Residence: Somerilde, the Church of Dream
Pertinent Information:

Saved your life by meeting you the moment you exited the ruins of Ostedholm. He traveled cross-country with Father Wilhelm and four of his brothers to make it there in one piece and on time.
Though he relies primarily on interpreting the repeating visions he has when he sleeps, Teddy has demonstrated the ability to invoke Dream while awake.
An abusive series of back-to-back invocations has destroyed most of his face. The scarring is uncannily similar to the crevasse in your chest that Dream inflicted on you. (Not pictured here.)
Dear friends with you, Ofelia Banks, Brother Trebbeck, Sister Cardew, and Ray. He's also gotten along well with almost the entirety of your blasphemous congregation. The young priest's promising diplomatic potential has extended towards the support of your return as leader of the Church of Mercy, and cemented the public alliance between the Churches of Mercy and Dream.
Possesses a crippling fear of spiders.

Name: Sister Agnes Willoughby
Titles and Affiliations: Priestess of the Church of Mercy
Place of Residence: Eadric, The Church of Mercy
Pertinent Information:

One of the three Willoughby triplets.
Comes from a well respected family line, and has lived in the Church of Mercy her entire life.
Capable of invoking Mercy. Possesses the highest authority within the Church's ranks out of her other sisters, due to performance during her time in service.

Name: Sister Susan Willoughby
Titles and Affiliations: Priestess of the Church of Mercy
Place of Residence: Eadric, The Church of Mercy
Pertinent Information:

One of the three Willoughby triplets.
Comes from a well respected family line, and has lived in the Church of Mercy her entire life.
Capable of invoking Mercy. Possesses more ability during invocation than Agnes, and regards herself as an incredibly devoted woman. (She laughably thinks herself more pious than you.)

Name: Sister Tilda Willoughby
Titles and Affiliations: Priestess of the Church of Mercy
Place of Residence: Eadric, The Church of Mercy
Pertinent Information:

One of the three Willoughby triplets.
Comes from a well respected family line, and has lived in the Church of Mercy her entire life.
Though she is a veritable beam of sunshine, a competent healer, and one of the kindest people you've ever met, Tilda cannot invoke Mercy. She struggles with impulse control, and is one of the few individuals to have never criticized your own lack of restraint.

Name: Brother Gilford Woodfeller
Titles and Affiliations: Priest of the Church of Agriculture
Place of Residence: Unknown (most likely Wearmoor, in the Church of Agriculture)
Pertinent Information:

Specialists from his family tree— well, specialize in their family's trees. The line of foresters branches off to include the Carpenters, Coopers, Sawyers, and Wheelers. Most of their finest are in the capital. Several are in your own caravan.
He was involved in the tunneling beneath Eadric. Crispin Chapman divulged that Brother Woodfeller wanted information on families involved with trade in Eadric. He proposed that Mr. Chapman offer his services directly to his associates from Inertia. When Mr. Chapman declined, he was threatened into complying (under pain of death).

Alaric · Apr 23, 2021

Current Calendar

Alaric · Apr 24, 2021

Chapter 1: Vertigo
"This is fine."

It took hours to descend into ruins beneath Calunoth. After navigating impossible architecture, escaping heathens in hiding, and running out of an endless detour, the new muscle beneath your holy vestments is aching. It was a gift from the God of Flesh, for demonstrating your endless devotion these last many months.

It's taken an additional day of travel to reach your destination, even with the guidance of the most cunning navigator alive. Harvey Jay Algrith is also the bravest man you've ever met. Traversing the incomprehensible domain of the demon of Time has been like second nature to him. He's been in hiding for months on your behalf, and fears neither capture nor execution. Though the red-head's beard and cloak practically crunch with every broad motion he takes, you can't help but hold enormous respect for the leader of your congregation. The forsaken, blasphemous loyalist looks to the rising city ahead.

The ruins are impossible. As the lair of a demon of Time, there is no consistency in its age or position. Staircases rise and fall simultaneously. The paths you traverse wind in and onto themselves. Archways appear from thin air, and evaporate into chambers that may have never existed at all. The structures ahead are littered with water, somehow making the scene even more disorienting. Rivers without direction flow vertically, pouring into buildings, and flooding rooms that warp with every shift of your eyes. It feels like every time you blink, something has vanished, and you're struggling to not close your eyes for relief from it all.

Here at the bottom of Calunoth's ruins, Harvey points to a waterfall rising straight into the air. He shrugs, as if it wasn't disorienting to an extreme. "Like I said, d-don't panic. It's an illusion, at worst. Starlight and Stard-dust haven't moved in weeks. Th-they should b-be just a b-bit furth-ther."

The mission that's taken you beneath the depths of the capital is on behalf of King Magnus. Every nobleman and woman in the country is a member of his family, by blood. Lady Edith "Starlight" Douglas was your primary concern, as it seems that the King favors his daughter. You've never truly met her, but from the stories you've heard, she's cunning enough to have escaped His wrath. Having thought her dead, the King wants nothing more than to see the survivor alive and well.

The other twin in your circus, Sir Allan "Stardust" Douglas, has been called an aide (at best). He's prone to dying the gold out from his hair, is a wanted man, and fearlessly has taken his romantic inclinations to the ends of the earth. It's difficult to not respect his tenacity. Though the nobleman refused to participate in a single battle your congregation fought, he's sworn to emerge from the ruins the very moment he's certain that he can truly make a difference. He resents the theocracy, bitterly distrusts the King, and may be an opponent to the very organization that defines your life.

You look again to the horizon. It's all stone, in shades of lilac. Trying to concentrate on the way any nearby walls, staircases, or archways that suddenly materialize has your head spinning more than before. Searching beyond, for an exit, is somehow worse.

Your stomach shifts, and you look down to the halfling beside you. Ofelia "Eagle-Eye" Banks is one of your dearest friends, and insisted on coming with you. A horrific accident burnt the very eyes from her skull. Thanks to you restoring her sight with divinity, the assassin is physically incapable of looking away from her surroundings. The poor woman's skin is even more sickly than usual, and not because she's dependent on poison to live. Ofelia has kept the hood of her enchanted cloak up for many hours, and pulls it aside to heavily breathe, "you said this was a shortcut?"

Harvey sniffs, "we could have ran, b-but you seemed worse for th-the wear. Th-their place is m-much nicer th-than you'd th-think. We'll g-get some rest. Try keeping your eyes on th-the g-ground, Ofelia."

The blonde glances down, and puts a hand to her mouth, taking yours with the other. Muttering, "still a walk in the park, right," a slight smile escapes from the edges of her hand.

Things have been easier than you would have expected. No one minds that you broke down completely, after hearing everything Harvey's done on your behalf. The men and women in your company fully accept that you're a little off-kilter. You've been through a lot, but there's progress!

No longer do you disgrace your Gods, King, and country on a daily basis. You've been diligently worshiping your patrons, looking after your health, and heeding the counsel you're given. Your kindness is no weakness. It's commonly known that you have no use for pride, or regret, which is exactly why you are pursuing the twins in your congregation. It's for more than to disband the blasphemers under you from terrorizing the city, or to follow the tasks King Magnus has outlined for you.

There's only a few members of your congregation still out there. They're the only obstacle remaining, before you can truly return to the Church of Mercy. Homesickness has followed you even to the bottom of the ruins, and you know that carrying out your mission will grant everyone in your company the closure they sorely need.

>A] But, honestly, you don't know what to think about the twins. Reserve your judgment (and any serious decisions about their welfare) until after you meet Starlight and Stardust.
>B] There has to be a way to reunite this family, without any more blood being spilled. You want to set things right between the King and his children, even if it might not be your place to do so.
>C] This is actually your business. You are the Father of Compassion, and want to offer shelter at the Church of Mercy to both hidden members of your congregation.

>1] To hide, away from the King. You'll figure out the details later.

>2] To plainly defy His will. You won't stand for anyone coming between them, even if it's not conventional. They aren't hurting anyone.

>D] Write-in.

Sir Allan was absolutely in the right, to refuse the call to battle.

There has to be a way to reunite the royal family. Hundreds of lives have been lost, due to your congregation's actions alone. You want to set things right, for him, and his sister. Still, it may not be your place to do so.

Keeping your thoughts on the matter entirely to yourself, you resolve to withhold your judgement until you actually meet the twins. The landscape has finally smoothed out. Walking straight into the heart of the buildings before you, the world shifts hard, and goes completely black. For a moment, you blink the spots out of your eyes, and resist every urge to grasp for a wall or any other hold.

"Just a sec, hotshot," Ofelia murmurs.

A grating noise snaps your attention to the right. It's accompanied by the trickle of water.

You think back for a moment, to a corridor at the bottom of the world. To a tunnel, in which a God of Storm visited you for the first time. Water in your lungs, and lightning upon your fingertips.

Ofelia's hold on your hand tightens. She beams up to you with a pained smile, and it's sufficient to keep you grounded. She takes you a few steps further in utter darkness, as you both try to ignore the walls literally closing in.

You both catch up to Algrith. The darkness completely fades, and you seem to be back outdoors. It's impossible, and you know better than to question Magic's mechanism by now.

There is a body of water just up ahead. A series of plain, natural, wooden steps descend from your exit. The buildings behind you are utterly shrouded in night, and staring into the abyss at your back has your stomach turn twice over.

The view ahead is far more pleasant. A lavender lake— covered in waterlilies— is surrounded on all sides by a dense forest. Fireflies flit about, dancing over the otherwise still surface of the water. You're clearly still underground, despite the illusion of a sunset off in the distance. Harvey is twitching at the sight of a pale building just opposite the water, and gestures to it. "D-don't hold your breath, or swim," he repeats, "and you sh-should b-be fine."

"Mhm," Ofelia nods, sarcastically jerking a thumb to her left. "Right. The boat's just for show, then?"

There's a boat. It might have not been there before, but there it is. Humble, shallow, probably capable of holding two men. Ofelia might weigh 30lbs soaking wet, and you figure she'd be fine to ride along with you both.

"Yeah," Harvey frowns. "It is. Come on." The fighter glances to you, your jet-black satchel that has endless carrying space, and asks, "...you d-don't have anyth-thing like paper on you, d-do you?"

You are a scholar, a researcher, and have no fewer than two journals, two calendars, a full map of the country, a few drafts of Calunoth's eastern district, and multiple stacks of parchment within your bag. They absolutely cannot get wet. "Yes," you mutter. "Give me just a moment."

>As with all rolls in Catalyst Quest, write-ins can help enormously with situational modifiers. Strategic, creative, or otherwise clever write-ins may circumvent rolls entirely.
>A] Leave all of your research material on the shore. Ask Ofelia if she can part with her enchanted cloak to disguise it, and pray to all the Gods that nothing happens. (A ROLL MAY BE REQUIRED.)
>B] These are easily your most valuable possessions. Having grown up beside two rivers, you can handle a boat like no one else. Try your luck. (A ROLL WILL BE REQUIRED, with a positive modifier due to your background.)
>C] You're positive it's not necessary, but you'd rather hurt your body than risk any further damage to your research material.

>1] Invoke Mercy, for Her protection.

>2] Invoke Dream, and envision a means of traversing this lake without becoming submerged.

>D] Swim, against Harvey's advice, and try to keep your things above the water. (A ROLL WILL BE REQUIRED, with a positive modifier due to your recent invocation to Flesh.)
>E] Write-in. (A roll may be required.)

>Roll 1d100. Best of the first 3 rolls will be used.
>+5 FISHERMAN OF THE MORINBURN RIVER
>+5 GREW UP BESIDE THE EVENTIDE RIVER
>+5 YOU SERIOUSLY KNOW WHAT YOU'RE DOING

>Rolled 95 (1d100)

Unslinging your satchel, you look to Harvey, and declare, "this boat will be begging for another performance, by the time we're done with it."

Ofelia laughs, while the ringleader snorts, "is th-that so?"

You scowl, expertly hiding your amusement, "I will swim, if necessary."

"Want m-me to g-go first, then?"

The urge to hug him again is rising. Ofelia somehow tops the suggestion. The rogue swirls her cape off of her shoulders, loosely folding the enchanted fabric, and hands it off to you carefully. "Don't think so." She heads for the boat, practically skipping. "I'm way lighter." Her voice is almost sing-song, through her weariness, obviously taking heart in a static environment again. "I'll test it first!"

Muttering a prayer to Spirit— "for having such remarkable company"— you stride right ahead of the halfling. Tapping her lightly on the shoulder, "Ofelia," you ignore her groan, while setting aside your shield, mace, and sword.

An inspection is in order. "Just a moment. Full end, less rocker—" you glance to Ofelia, and politely explain, "it should be fine on the still water." To Harvey, "it may look slow," you roll up the sleeves of your robes, and grin, "but speed should not be an issue."

Digging in your heels to the moist sand upon the shore, you plant your hands on the sturdiest planks you can find, and nod for Harvey to get alongside you. "A hand, if you could."

Running over, he gets right up at the bow, and merely guides the boat along the shore. You push off, with a healthy burn through your legs and arms in just a few steps. It's devastatingly heavy, but Harvey is nearly dragged into the water, for how much momentum you got in just a few steps. The veteran expertly keeps his footing, and takes a hold on the boat before it drifts more than a few more feet out.

As you get ankle, thigh, and knee-deep in the water without fear, a chill runs up the entirety of your body from the frigid lake. You grab your shield, knowing full well that almost nothing can get past its defenses, and toss it firmly into the boat. There's still no shift in the bottom boards, and it might as well be water-tight for how little dip there is in the water.

"Ofelia," you nod, as she's already walking over. She grins, and readily accepts your gesture to lift her up. The seat doesn't so much as creak as she sits down, though there's at least a shift in the water. You all conduct several more tests, confirms the ship's complete soundness, and finally take a seat closest to the bow. Keeping your parchment safely secured, on top of your shield, you take up an old oar. A splinter gets in your hand. It's magnificent.

Ofelia insists on sitting beside you, and elbows you with a grin. "No offense, Harvey."

"None taken." He nods to you, as you both begin rowing. "We d-didn't need to b-both-ther, Fath-ther."

"I insist."

The lake is slowly, but surely, turning upside down. The water is completely still beneath you. The boat is still affixed to it. The forest is tilting, and a few fireflies flit off into the sky. The sunset is gradually shifting to the side of the horizon, headed for a position beneath you all. Ofelia takes in a sharp breath, and clutches hard onto your arm, despite you trying to row.

"D-don't panic," Harvey calmly repeats. "Seriously. It'll speed up."

It occurs to you that nothing is keeping you in place, and you are probably about to fall into the sky.

>A] Calmly ask Harvey what he means, and grasp onto the boat like your life depends on it.
>B] Don't panic, and keep rowing. This is fine.
>C] Stop here, get out, and swim. You're not messing around with any sorcery. (A ROLL WILL BE REQUIRED, with a large positive modifier from previous insanely high success.)
>D] Write-in.

With Ofelia firmly affixed to your arm, you keep rowing. "This is fine," you breathe, absolutely not having a panic attack.

The still lake— moving gently beneath the paddle in hand— is still there. The water beneath the boat is like glue, surely keeping the vehicle in place.

The statement is a mantra, of sorts, as you feel the world giving out from beneath you. "This is fine."

The woman beside you takes a deep breath, and forces herself to not move. You suppress a noise, from how tightly she's holding onto you. There's probably no blood moving through your arm, and "this is fine."

Harvey continues rowing right ahead, keeping your pace, as the sky turns beneath all of your feet.

"This is fine," you assert, through gritted teeth, and no air whatsoever in your lungs.

Everything stops, for one,
impossible,
permanent
second.

The entirety of the boat, the sky, the forest, and several fireflies snap hard to the back of the lake.

For a split second, you feel as if five years have fallen off of your life. The collision— from being warped out of the sky, back upon a normal direction, into the boat, right on the seat, as you row onto dry land— has your stomach turn even harder. Nothing makes sense, for a few seconds, and you're so disoriented you nearly lean over the boat to vomit.

"This is fine," you gasp.

The world seems to catch up. Several fireflies zip past the air ahead of you, flying faster than what should be possible, and collide with the pale building at the end of the lake. The crackle of their bodies splatting onto a hard surface rings in your ears for several seconds after their impact.

Harvey casually gets up, out of the boat, and offers you a shaking hand. "See? Noth-thing to worry ab-bout."

Ofelia unsticks herself from the death-grip she kept on your arm, taking Harvey's hand before you can respond, to stagger out of the boat. "A warnin' would have been great," she inhales, trying with all of her might to get up on her feet.

A slightly unhinged grin is fired at the both of you. "B-better to learn b-by d-doing. Not th-that you need to take m-my advice, b-but we could have walked."

With a gentle pull, the blonde beside you is taken away from your side. Practically rolling out from the side of the boat, you get back onto dry land, and give the boat a little pat on the side. "Good show."

Harvey can't help but chuckle, and knocks on the door to the building. Your vision stops blurring for long enough to see a stunning set of extremely familiar windows, beside a singular door. You have an impeccable memory, and the urge to vomit is becoming impossible to ignore.

"We've been here before," you state, as if this is perfectly fine.

"B-before," Harvey replies.

The door opens back into the same fucking building you were in just before you met up with Algrith. It's just four staircases, two hallways, and the window at the end of the hall. The window is is no longer broken. There is no demon of Time present (at the moment), but your heart is racing faster than it rightfully should. Especially given that the home is barren and well-lit.

"Mercy," you murmur, putting a hand to your bare chest.

"Th-they'll b-be here in a few minutes," you're informed, over the sound of Ofelia throwing up on the side of the shore. "Th-thought you'd want a m-minute. Come on in."

You wait just a moment, staying by Ofelia, before re-entering the lair of a demon of Time.

You probably never left it.

Starlight and Stardust might be crazier than any of us.

>A] Try to make yourself presentable, before seeing royalty.
>B] Take a few deep breaths, and focus on composing yourself mentally.
>C] Politely ask Harvey what in the actual fuck is going on.
>D] Write-in.

Alaric · Apr 24, 2021

Chapter 2: The Conjoined Twin
"We simply can't go back, Father."

Taking a few deep breaths, getting Ofelia's hair out of her face as she finishes getting sick, you do everything in your power to compose yourself mentally. Smoothly walking back inside, leading Ofelia by the hand, you calmly ask Harvey, "what— what exactly is going on?"

The rogue beside you sighs, and collapses onto the floor, using her own satchel as a makeshift pillow. Ofelia waves, "don't care. Takin' a nap. Wake me up when this shit is sorted out. Please."

"Of course," you murmur. Dropping your voice to a whisper, you point to the window at the end of the hall, and continue, "we were here just yesterday. I nearly fell, at the top of the stair, as— as a demon of Time pursued Ofelia, and I. That glass should be scattered across the floor. This wall—" you look to the door, which is gone, and try to not vomit again. "This wall is— is definitely the correct— the same one—"

Harvey scratches his beard, for a moment. "Yeah, the demon. D-don't know its n-name, but th-that's a th-thing, right?"

"Yes." You are the Father of the church of restraint, and can handle your emotions. This wouldn't be the first time either of you befriended or allied with a monster. "You know the demon."

Both of the man's scarred hands come up, like you're about to attack him. The lacerations on his palms, from climbing into the lair of a demon of teeth, are still plain to see. He's smiling, of course, and has no indication of actually being bothered by the question. "D-don't g-get th-the wrong id-dea," is his token excuse. "It's a small d-deal. J-just to keep th-them safe."

"Please elaborate." Fidgeting always helps. You favor the ring on your left hand. It's fairly warm, like usual, and extremely soothing.

"It's a d-demon of d-delay, so I ag-greed to pass some time d-down here for th-them. It's as g-good a hid-ding spot as any. Starlight and Stard-dust wouldn't b-be hurt— have not b-been hurt— and I had a place to g-get away from anyone on my ass. Worst th-thing it's d-done is m-make me lose track of a few d-days."

Correcting him as gently as you can, you repeat, "months."

The frown on Harvey's face is deep enough to rival your own. "Not a b-big d-deal. Th-they've b-been safe, and I haven't b-been caught."

Significantly leveler breaths follow, as you take a step back, and allow yourself to fidget more intensely. "What time is it," you murmur.

"Th-that's its th-thing," Harvey apologetically nods, towards the unnatural light filtering into the room. "Can't really tell d-down here."

You take several good minutes to compose yourself. Breathing helps. The room, walls, floor, stairs, doors, and intact structure refusing to budge under any scrutiny helps. Ofelia's mild snoring (which you've never actually heard before, and are extremely relieved to see her sleeping for once), is extremely soothing. There's no need to panic. If this demon purely wants to waste your time, it may not be a serious threat. Of course, it's obscenely powerful. To control such a large domain, it may be a major demon. At the top of its hierarchy. Possibly even an archdemon.

Footsteps from down the hall interrupt your theorizing. Harvey firmly nudges Ofelia, with the side of his foot, and grins, "d-don't fuck th-this up for Fath-ther Anscham. G-get up."

A little groaning, and she's back on her feet. Just in time for you to see two unbelievably disheveled twins come from around the corner.

The golden roots of Stardust's hair catches on what little light is in the room, as he peeks around the corner. The muted yellow in his eyes picks up. Even if he's paler than death, there's still defined cheekbones, barely any bags under his eyes, and a smile plastered across his devastatingly handsome face. You wonder— with some detachment— if there's elvish in the royal line.

You dismiss the though, as relatively short nobleman comes fully into view. The muscle and height you'd expect has wasted away to a slender shadow, beneath a tattered cloak and old finery. He doesn't care in the slightest for appearances, it seems, and leads Starlight by the hand behind him. It's all while beaming at you, with teeth as white as the Church of Spirit. "Come on, Edith— Father Anscham! It can't be. You look fantastic!"

An outstretched hand— the symbol of your church, no less— closes the gap in the hall, as Sir Allan strides right ahead. It's hard to not smile in return.

Lady Edith is practically dragged behind him, with an unfailingly similar demeanor. Her jawline is softer, and the gold in her absurdly long, flawless hair is plain to see, but she's otherwise almost identical in appearance. Another grin is spread right across her face. Even her unpainted lips are tinted, with a shockingly fair appearance given how long they've been in the ruins for. Her cloak almost completely covers her frame, but it's obvious that she's looked after herself, and you're tempted to keep your eyes only at face-level.

Before Allan can totally reach you, Lady Edith steps aside slightly. Clasping her hands, she gently states, "Father Anscham. I cannot believe it. I would not have recognized you, were it not for Harvey's company." With a much milder smile towards Algrith, she nods, "thank you so much."

The year is 606, in the country of Corcaea, and you are a gentleman. Both nobles are positively ecstatic to see you, but at least give you a second to breathe. There's a lot unsaid here, and the usual manners to consider.

>A] Shake Stardust's hand like your life depends on it, kiss Lady Edith's, and give the nobles a fairly casual introduction.
>B] You're extremely well-mannered, and seriously want to make a good first impression. Introduce yourself and Ofelia formally, starting towards Lady Edith.
>C] Etiquette be damned. You are beside yourself, with how happy you are to see these two alive. Give them both a hug, and try to express a modicum of your sincere joy to be in their company again.
>D] Write-in anything you want to say or do right off the bat. (Father Anscham is a little stuffy, but as the Father of Compassion, it isn't a stretch for you to spill your guts the second you see your congregation members.)

Etiquette be damned. You take Allan by the hand, and pull him into a hug with just one arm. He can't help but laugh, putting on a pseudo haughty voice, "Father Anscham, what is the meaning of this—"

Grinning, you gesture for Lady Edith to join you both. Pointing to herself, as if getting hugged is even a question, you give her a cheeky grin that says this is absolutely not optional. Crossing the last gap over to her, you effortlessly sweeping the noblewoman into your other arm.

Both of your congregation members aren't starving to death, as their shoulders aren't as emaciated as their silhouettes appear. Sure, they're disheveled, and probably aren't bathing as often as they could, but you're still relieved beyond measure. "It is so good to see you both. To see that you both are still— still alive—"

A tighter squeeze is necessary. They're both giggling, trying their best to not lose their composure. Lady Edith returns the hug, and Stardust quickly follows her lead. It's as if they're afraid of letting you go. No one minds that you can barely choke out, "Mercy— you both look wonderful, as well. All— all things considered."

Edith nods, amused beyond words.

It's a hard to speak, with stars in your eyes. All three of you are legitimately too shaken to let go of one another, and so you keep hugging while you talk. It's comforting to an extreme, despite how scratchy Stardust's cloak is, or at the sand that's sticking to Starlight's hair.

"You took to the ruins," you murmur, "before the surface. It's— this is a travesty. I couldn't stand the thought of it. This— this is all— you both deserve so much more—"

Stardust pats you on the back. "We have faired well, thanks to Harvey's assistance. We do appreciate the concern, Father, but there's no need to worry yourself."

With a sniff, you pull back, to properly look both nobles over. There's a lot of pain in both of their smiles, but it couldn't be more clear just how sincerely they're happy to see you, too. You don't regret anything— not your absence from their side for the last eight months, nor any action you've taken since then— but a shooting pain lances through your chest at the sight of them.

Starlight clings a little to you, even as you pull back at arms-length. You go back to hugging her, and let the fair woman rest a head against your chest. Significantly taller than both of the twins, you don't mind looking up to murmur, "the Gods are Merciful."

Harvey and Ofelia politely stand a little to the side, arms crossed, and fire each other a quick grin. They're both far too respectful, and prone to being quiet, to even try and interrupt your reunion.

You have so many questions. The possible presence of a demon of Time just on the other side of the wall is a legitimate concern, but you've faced it before, and hope your company will be able to tell if it's coming.

>A] Ask Stardust and Starlight about their time spent in the ruins. Maybe segue into asking why they're risking so much to hide.

>1] You honestly are gaining a serious interest in Corcaea's politics. It relates to your work deeply, and you're sick of being in the dark.

>2] It's not that you have an interest in politics— but their welfare is a serious concern of yours, and this is worth asking right off the bat.

>B] Immediately express your distress over their current location, but only ask if there's somewhere safer you can speak. Everyone has been through a lot, but you don't want to impose anything on these two that may cause them further distress.
>C] Gods, you're relieved to see the twins. Just ask about how they're doing. Try to be normal. It's been nearly a year, and they've risked life and limb for you.
>D] Emphasize how stressed you've been over their welfare. Make your intentions clear from the get-go, and ask them if they would be willing to talk with you about the situation with King Magnus.
>E] Write-in.

Taking a step back, you make every effort to stop fidgeting, and to put on a normal demeanor. Your posture might be impossibly stiff, and there's permanently an unhinged tilt to your gaze, but no one minds. Not for how sincerely you murmur, "it's such a relief to see you both. How are you? How have things been?"

"Well," they both say in unison.

There's a blink, to each other, then mutual grins back to you. "Well enough," Stardust stresses.
"Our health has certainly been fairer than Echo's," Starlight grins.

You can't help but interject, "I couldn't help but see to his health. He should— should be alright, in due time."

"He still hasn't been captured," Stardust asks in disbelief, right to Harvey.

Your ringleader cheekily shrugs, "of course. He's in g-good hands."

A collective grin is working its way around the hall. Stardust takes a knee, to nod to Ofelia, "I believe I haven't had the pleasure, Miss...?"

"Banks," she flushes, "Ofelia Banks. Friends call me Eagle-Eye, but you guys call me whatever you want."

Harvey is quick to note, "she g-got th-the g-guards outside of Osted-dholm. All of th-them."

Starlight takes a step over, to curtsy slightly to your friend, as Stardust stands fully upright. They're both floored, and immediately fire off an absurd amount of thanks and formality. The next twenty minutes or so are spent catching up Starlight and Stardust on what's transpired since Harvey last saw them. They were entirely unaware of your confrontation with Brother Murdac, or the justified death of the priest of Storm. At news of you reconvening with Mick and Randy, they're positively delighted that no one was outright killed. Most importantly, the battle you fought alongside Sister Corbon and Sister Tirel has Stardust torn between admiration, and shock.

"That's Piety, I take it," he gestures, to the sword at your back. You nod, badly wanting to keep the weapon sheathed during such a pleasant meeting.

"It could not have possibly taken on any lightning," Starlight frowns, looking to the unscathed scabbard as if it's cursed.

"The Gods are Merciful," you firmly reiterate. "It took more than metal to save the cathedral ward."

News of your public, dual invocations is unbelievable. The use of your Relic with Sister Corbon more so. At the news of your title being restored, officially, has both of the twins in need of sitting down. Holding hands, they can't help but look up to you, as Harvey finishes recounting the last news he's heard of your exploits.

"We have been cut off from everything," Starlight murmurs. "You said it has been eight months, Father?"

"Yes," you apologetically frown. "Though there is still— still ample time at our disposal."

"It has been easy enough to let the sands slip through our fingers," Starlight muses, in a distant way. "Though I can scarcely remember how."

Repressing your concern is tolerable. You frown, and try to breathe, as the the twins get back to their feet. They look between you, Harvey, and Ofelia. Stardust frowns, "it is so good to see you all. Father, if I may...?"

"Of course," you wave. Even nobility answers to the Father of the Church of Mercy. The only man you truly answer to, in the entire country—

"The King." Starlight clinically interjects, as if He isn't her actual father, "did he say what He would do with any of us, if we came out of hiding?"

>A] He didn't, you never asked, and probably hadn't realized how weird it was at the time. Not wanting to make any assumptions, honestly answer that the King was vague to an extreme, beyond His insistence that NO member of your congregation was to return to the castle.
>B] Produce the note that King Magnus left for you, with the list of urgent issues to attend to within Calunoth. Let the twins interpret it however they see fit.
>C] Write-in.

Sifting through the endless carrying capacity of your satchel, it takes only a moment to extract the last letter King Magnus drafted for you. Glancing down at the sheet, your grin fades to just a slight smile.

The 14th of the Tending Moon was a VERY productive day. A few lines are already scratched out.

"While occupying Our most holy city, the following are in need of your immediate attention:

"̶-̶ ̶T̶h̶e̶ ̶e̶a̶s̶t̶e̶r̶n̶ ̶d̶i̶s̶t̶r̶i̶c̶t̶ ̶o̶f̶ ̶F̶l̶e̶s̶h̶.̶ ̶F̶o̶u̶r̶ ̶h̶u̶n̶d̶r̶e̶d̶ ̶a̶n̶d̶ ̶e̶i̶g̶h̶t̶y̶ ̶n̶i̶n̶e̶ ̶c̶i̶t̶i̶z̶e̶n̶s̶ ̶h̶a̶v̶e̶ ̶c̶o̶n̶t̶r̶a̶c̶t̶e̶d̶ ̶s̶e̶v̶e̶r̶e̶ ̶c̶o̶m̶p̶l̶i̶c̶a̶t̶i̶o̶n̶s̶ ̶o̶f̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶i̶r̶ ̶l̶u̶n̶g̶s̶,̶ ̶i̶n̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶ ̶w̶a̶k̶e̶ ̶o̶f̶ ̶B̶r̶o̶t̶h̶e̶r̶ ̶M̶u̶r̶d̶a̶c̶'̶s̶ ̶e̶f̶f̶o̶r̶t̶s̶.̶ ̶T̶h̶e̶ ̶d̶e̶a̶t̶h̶s̶ ̶n̶u̶m̶b̶e̶r̶ ̶w̶e̶l̶l̶ ̶o̶v̶e̶r̶ ̶t̶h̶r̶e̶e̶ ̶h̶u̶n̶d̶r̶e̶d̶,̶ ̶a̶n̶d̶ ̶a̶r̶e̶ ̶r̶i̶s̶i̶n̶g̶ ̶b̶y̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶ ̶d̶a̶y̶.̶"̶

You personally saved over 60 citizens, and guaranteed the survival of everyone else in the district. Sure, it bloated your body for the afternoon, but the price was well worth it. A perfect invocation to Mercy, and to Agriculture, has your heart singing just thinking back to it.

"- Lady Edith and her aide, Sir Douglas, were last seen in Our company six years past. Her safety is of the utmost importance to Us, though We trust that she has been safe under your care. As previously stated, We cannot bear the loss of another one of Our children. Please ensure her safe return to Us."

It's confusing, to an extreme. You're getting at least three different messages here, for the King's intent, but you're going to sort this out.

-̶ ̶T̶h̶e̶ ̶n̶o̶r̶t̶h̶-̶e̶a̶s̶t̶e̶r̶n̶ ̶d̶i̶s̶t̶r̶i̶c̶t̶ ̶o̶f̶ ̶F̶l̶e̶s̶h̶.̶ ̶U̶p̶o̶n̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶r̶ ̶c̶o̶n̶g̶r̶e̶g̶a̶t̶i̶o̶n̶'̶s̶ ̶f̶l̶i̶g̶h̶t̶ ̶f̶r̶o̶m̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶ ̶s̶e̶w̶e̶r̶s̶,̶ ̶n̶o̶ ̶f̶e̶w̶e̶r̶ ̶t̶h̶a̶n̶ ̶f̶i̶f̶t̶e̶e̶n̶ ̶o̶f̶ ̶o̶u̶r̶ ̶g̶u̶a̶r̶d̶ ̶w̶e̶r̶e̶ ̶s̶t̶r̶u̶c̶k̶ ̶d̶o̶w̶n̶,̶ ̶a̶n̶d̶ ̶k̶i̶l̶l̶e̶d̶.̶ ̶T̶h̶e̶i̶r̶ ̶g̶r̶i̶e̶v̶i̶n̶g̶ ̶f̶a̶m̶i̶l̶i̶e̶s̶ ̶a̶r̶e̶ ̶w̶i̶t̶h̶o̶u̶t̶ ̶s̶h̶e̶l̶t̶e̶r̶.̶ ̶K̶i̶n̶d̶l̶y̶ ̶d̶e̶l̶e̶g̶a̶t̶e̶ ̶t̶h̶i̶s̶ ̶m̶a̶t̶t̶e̶r̶ ̶o̶f̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶r̶ ̶c̶o̶n̶g̶r̶e̶g̶a̶t̶i̶o̶n̶'̶s̶ ̶a̶c̶t̶i̶o̶n̶s̶ ̶a̶s̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶ ̶s̶e̶e̶ ̶f̶i̶t̶.̶

Delegating Father Sullivan to the matter was easily the wisest possible decision. He not only consoled everyone involved, but you facilitated a meeting between the responsible party (Ofelia) and the priest without any further issue.

- The restraint of Mathers Ormond, Eckard Sollers, Clarence Connelly, Carlisle Ballard, and James Sower. Punishment befitting of their treason has been stayed only by your hand. Putting an end to their slaughter of Our people demands the utmost urgency.

There's no doubt in your mind that the Freak Show has killed, extensively, on your behalf. The details are still fuzzy, but you'll address it. They're devastatingly loyal, and won't leave the city so easily.

- Insurance that those who sought refuge under Norward Bauldry's company will not bring further turmoil to Our city.

Mick left your company yesterday morning, assuring you that he would see to his Flea Circus. It's probably worth checking up on him— and the hundreds of heathens in his care— as soon as possible.

- The whereabouts of Harvey J. Algrith.

This is probably something to worry about.

You glance to the Ringleader, brow furrowed. He frowns slightly back, picking up instantly on your concern. There's a silent moment of understanding, that he's to get nowhere near the castle in the near future, as you hand off the letter to Starlight.

She takes it as quickly as possible, pouring over the note alongside Stardust. They both sigh. "He is using you, Father Anscham," Stardust denounces. "He's too twisted to say it outright. Getting you to track us down—"

"Someone who we trust," Starlight mutters, looking as if she might cry. The letter is firmly handed back to you, as Stardust clearly struggles to not crumple the note to pieces. "He's running you ragged, and doesn't want a single question asked. How could you possibly think, let alone challenge Him, when He's demanding you look after half of the city? This—" he's shaking, he's so furious, "this is an outrage. You should be back in Eadric. Not looking after our home, and destroying yourself for— for the common man— all on His behalf—"

Lady Edith delicately puts a hand to Sir Allan's shoulder, and looks to you with red in her eyes. "He'll have Allan killed. I'm sure of it. We simply can't go back, Father. I would rather die than to lose him. He can't possibly understand. He never has, and I—"

"We won't take that risk," Stardust asserts.

Harvey sniffs, "he b-busted his ass just to g-get d-down here, you know. Fath-ther Anscham isn't trying to g-get anyone hurt. You b-both know b-better."

With a smirk, Ofelia glances up to the redhead. Appreciation is written all across her face. You're deeply impressed by how tactful the (typically crass) killer is being, but she obviously understands the importance of this meeting enough to keep her thoughts to herself.

"Father Anscham," Starlight frowns, taking your hands, and clasping them beneath her own. They're cold, and shaking horribly, along with every other inch of her. "We must not be careless. Too many lives have been lost."

"Too much blood has been spilled," you immediately agree. "Which is precisely why I would like nothing more than— than to set things right."

Stardust scowls. "How do you propose we would do that?"

>A] No one will shoot you, as a messenger. Offer to deliver some correspondence from the twins back to the King. Granted, getting down here was an absolute nightmare, but you're willing to expend the time and effort to keep the twins out of harm's way.
>B] You sincerely believe that King Magnus lives up to His title as "the Merciful." Disagree with Stardust's and Starlight's judgement, make a case for the King's compassion, and see if you can sway their hearts. This must be a huge misunderstanding. (Write-ins may help!)
>C] You never want to see these ruins again. Promise to protect Lady Edith and Sir Allan with everything you have.

>1] To take them back to the surface. You'll talk to King Magnus, and figure out His end of the situation. Paying Walter a visit in the castle, for news of his breakthrough, is probably a good idea anyways.

>2] To get them in safer hiding, back on the surface. Mick, Randy, Mad Dog AND Electrum all have safe houses. Do whatever it takes to keep them from harm.

>D] Write-in.

Keeping your hands firmly clasped upon Starlight's clammy embrace, the sheer amount of earnestness furrowing your brow has your face hurting. You're the Father of Compassion, and won't stand for a single soul under your care to come into harm's way. "I swear to both of you— upon ALL of the Gods— that I will not let any harm befall you. Are either of you familiar with Somerilde, and the Church of Dream?"

They're both well-groomed, naturally are familiar with their country's geography, and nod simultaneously. "Of course."

"Father Wilhelm's home is remote. He is—" you struggle to express how deeply you care for his friendship, "he is a stalwart ally, and a good man. I know that he would protect you both as well, without hesitation. The alliance between the churches of Dream and Mercy could not be sounder— and— and what better way to leave the King's attention, than to seek refuge with a man who can make others forget?"

"That's just a rumor," Stardust immediately frowns.

It's unusual, for you to raise an eyebrow, but you do. "I would never lie to you. His ability is without compare. His home is as far away from the capital as we could hope for, and— and away from the King. It is— without a doubt— the safest place you could be. Permit me to act as a messenger, for you both. Please. At least consider it."

Both of the twins shift. There's literally nothing they could say in protest, but you continue. "No amount of time is worth more than your safety. I— I would be more than happy to deliver correspondence for you, if you wish. Not only to Father Wilhelm, though you don't need to. It would be preferable to keep any messages to him as discreet as possible."

You and Father Wilhelm, conveniently, set up a small code and a number of security measures for this very reason, many months ago. He'll remember.

"We would," Starlight wilts, beside herself, as she takes your hands a little more tightly. "I would like to consider it." Glancing to Stardust— not for permission, but for his honest thoughts— she's met with a horrible frown.

Sir Allan looks like he could cry. "Father, I don't think we could thank you enough."

"Thank me when you are safe, and sound," you insist. "We can wait on the message, to the King, or to Father Wilhelm." You twitch. "I will not wait on my own letters."

Ofelia almost giggles, and stops herself, horrified that she's finding humor in it. "Sorry, Richard."

"It's fine," you mutter.

It's fine. Five months of delay with my mail is fine— but never again.

With a LOT more urgency in his voice, Harvey looks to the wall adjacent to you all. "We n-need to m-move. Th-the lett-ters will actually wait. Right, Fath-ther?"

"Yes," you murmur. "Do either of you have a preference, for who's safe house to take?"

"They're all madhouses," Stardust reluctantly smiles. He's sweating, as Harvey shifts, telegraphing with every fiber of his being that you all are going to need to run if you linger. "We can think about it while we get out of here. Fair?"

"Fair," you immediately reply. "Harvey." Nodding to the ridiculous lair you're in, to the enchanted doors, you try to patiently ask, "if you could."

"N-no prob-blem," he nods. "So. Pick your poison." A nod, to the bottom left door. "Way you and Ofelia m-met up with m-me. B-blasphemy, at b-best. Waste of Time." A gesture to the bottom-right door. "Th-the long way." He points to the upper left door. "Pain in th-the ass, but it's th-the fastest." A quick glance over his shoulder, eyes wide, and he rapidly points to the upper right door. "Scen-nic route. No arg-guing. Let's g-go."

>A ROLL WILL BE REQUIRED FOR ALL OF THE FOLLOWING.
>Write-ins may add situational modifiers.
>Majority vote will decide.
>A] Sprint to the upper left door, and heave the stone exit open as quickly as you can.
>B] Take the bottom-right door, and trust in everyone's ability to handle a lengthy pursuit.
>C] Take the upper right door, and pray that there's enough in your environment to handle an incoming demon of Time.

>Roll 1d100. Best of 3 will be used.
>+10 FAVOR OF FLESH
>+5 HARVEY DOESN'T SKIP LEG DAY

>Rolled 80 (1d100)

Sprinting up the stair, before anyone else can even react, you hang a sharp left, and skid to a stop right before a solid stone door. There's no grooves or handles on its ancient surface. It looks devastatingly heavy, and is easily five inches thick.

Harvey slides up alongside you, not even a second later. The walls begin to quake. You take hold of your mace— enchanted, and unbreakable— and hand it off to the man at your side. "For leverage," you insist, planting your feet, and assuming the best form you can. The ground is decaying underfoot. The walls are decaying.

Things are speeding up. There's no question that the building was the one you came to before.

The glass window behind you shatters, blasting lethal shards down the entire staircase. Ofelia, at the base, plainly tackles Stardust out of harm's way.

They'll be fine. Digging your fingers into the deepest groove you can find, at the base of the door, you pray, "grant strength to this vessel. Flesh of my flesh."

Deep breath.

Pins and needles shoot through every last inch of your body, as you heave, and put every muscle within you to its absolute limit. Harvey doesn't need to wedge anything under the door, but slams himself, his hands, and shoulder beneath the door the second he's able. It's impossible to breathe. All 200lbs of your pet mastiff are child's play, compared to the object in hand. Entirely unable to speak, Harvey shouts on your behalf to everyone else, "RUN!"

Sweat, and a fire in your lungs, burns hot for several agonizing, beautiful seconds. Ofelia, Stardust, and Starlight sprint at full speed into the corridor beyond. You can barely see, for the sheer amount of effort you're exerting, and can't help but grin. It's phenomenal, though you don't dare shift your position until everyone is past the archway.

With a strained nod to Harvey, you both slip into the corridor beyond at the same time, and let the door drop back into its initial position. The collapse shatters the rock beneath, with a deafening crack. There's an urge to put your hands to your ears, but you can barely feel your arms.

Praying to all the Gods that it will be sufficient to delay the demon— even for a moment longer— you try to stop hyperventilating, and look to the chambers beyond.

The shortest path out of Calunoth's ruins are somehow more convoluted than anything else you've seen before. The landing outside the door is no more than five feet long, and descends outwards. Staircases lead off, into the horizon. It's abundantly clear that they can be traversed, and are no mere illusion, though their angle would make it impossible without some form of climbing equipment.

Your vision swims, looking to see the twins helping each other do just that. They're climb down a series of sideways steps, like they know exactly what they're doing. Ofelia is still on the landing, back to the wall, eyes wide. "The rope," she mutters to you, and points down. "We'll need it."

There's an abyss. The drop clearly goes straight to the bottom of the ruins— with no end in sight. Darkness looms, from hundreds of feet below. The stone at your back is weathering away, as if sand is wearing down its surface. The flat obstruction to the demon is becoming concave, one invisible grain at a Time.

You gasp, struggling to breathe, "there's no Time."

>(A roll may be required for all of the following.)

>A] There's Flesh. Invoke Him, to traverse this landscape without fear of exhaustion or injury.

>1] Offer to pick up Ofelia, and carry her. She's easily the slowest among you all, and the thought of her being left behind— or falling, even— is unbearable.

>2] Ask Harvey to go ahead with Ofelia, while you tail the twins from the rear of your group. Distract the demon, if necessary.

>B] There IS Time. Stay behind, and stall the demon. You'll play its game, if only for long enough to grant your friends Time to escape.
>C] There's Mercy. Hold your ground, and invoke the Goddess of protection. You're going to show it the tenets of your church— restraint, in particular— in a more tangible form.
>D] Write-in.

Alaric · Apr 24, 2021

Chapter 3: A Streak of Starlight

"Go," you breathe, "now. I'm holding it off. Harvey, please take Ofelia to safety. I will catch up."

The last of the color in Ofelia's face leaves. "Richard. I can't. I'm not leaving you—"

"Go." The walls are shaking. The walls are melting from decay, and it's only a matter of seconds before you're certain a demon will be upon your company. "Now."

Without any protest, Harvey sweeps Ofelia into his arms. She positively screams, "let GO of me! I'll kill you if anything happens to him—!" Algrith is setting off, firing you an apologetic glance over his shoulder, as the blonde in his arms practically sobs, "RICHARD! YOU'D BETTER NOT GET HURT! DON'T LEAVE ME AGAIN, HOTSHOT—!"

"I will find you! The Gods are Merciful, Ofelia! Please take care!"

Gritting your teeth, holding your ground, you put both palms to the door before you. "All of you." Resting your arms for only a moment is not your primary concern. Something is coming. Something deep, and dark, and terrible. You can feel it, in the very depths of your soul. The stone underhand is trembling, from the sheer force that's behind it.

A few grains of sand blow beneath the stone under your palms. The very stone before you is wearing away, to nothing.

There is one Goddess that you hold more dearly than any other. One of protection, and restraint. You take a step back, teetering on the edge of a fall to the bottom of the world without fear. Clasping your hands together, bowing your head, you look to the promise ring upon your hand. It's solid gold, and evidence of your union. There's been no need for words between you both, for a very long Time.

But you want Her to hear. You want Her to know how badly you need Her.

"Goddess of Austerity. Let Your will be known. Come unto to me, for my need is dire. Our children—" She's already on you, though not in a physical form. "—who's very souls are in peril—" Hotter than the sun, working over your very skin. In you, before you can even formally finish the invocation. "Mercy—!"

You don't stagger backwards, despite the sheer drop that's directly underfoot. A radius of faint, golden light is beneath your steps. It is more than a pedestal to walk upon, in darkness and terror. You're reminded of a shield for a split second, before being pulled forward by an unseen force.

The Goddess doesn't need to be by your side, when She can work through you in so many more ways. An embrace wraps in, up, and around even last crack upon your skin. It's not merely that you're littered with scars. Your lover has you lean into the invocation, and you into Her, as your eyes flush with solid metal.

With the sun in your eyes, you dare a glance behind. The forms of your friends are making off, into the horizon, just as you whip your head back around to a nightmare. The last defense between you and your pursuer has eroded into nothingness. In the abandoned home that Starlight and Stardust fearlessly occupied, the walls have been worn to dust. There is a swirling vacancy of space, just like the endless domain you escaped from once before.

Walking calmly up the last set of the crumbling stairs is the form of a man. Upon his cane is a singular hourglass, though there is no sand within. Upon the demon's brow is a streak of starlight. About his body is a constellation of stars, dripping with sand. It pools beneath his feet, clad as they are in polished glass. The armor, cloak, and regalia adorning the figure is imposing to an extreme. Every dully reflective inch of his regal attire reflects stars in a sky that cannot possibly be there. A huge chunk of glass is upon his brow, obscuring all but the deepest, darkest, vacant pits for eyes you've ever seen. He must be nine feet tall, and all in unsettling hues of amethyst.

You grit your teeth, reach out with two hands, and practically growl, "stop wasting Our time."

From the tips of your fingers, and the symbol of your church, pools strands of liquid gold. They're forming bands of solid light. You are the Father of the Church of Mercy, and are bent with all your will upon one, singular tenet: restraint.

From the demon comes a voice: simultaneously spry, ancient, wise, and youthful beyond all measure. You feel sick from its first enunciation, and resist the urge to take a step back with everything you have as it quickly interjects, "wait. You must understand."

There is one Goddess that you fear more than any other. The thought of disgracing Time for a single further second has your skin crawling, all through the invocation. Your lover is on you, keeping you warm through the cold sweat that's formed on every inch of you.

Mercy understands the Goddess of Time, in ways you cannot comprehend. Her will is unchangeable.

You understand demons more than likely any other man alive.

Mercy has sworn to defend you, and will impart Her gifts even onto the like of monsters, if you will it. You respect Her, and would never subject the Goddess of Compassion to anything less than your devotion, and love.

But by all the Gods, do you fear Time. It occurs to you that you've hesitated— despite yourself. It might be demonic influence. It might be just how exhausted you are. It may just be that a war has been raging through your soul, all of your life, and you have rarely had the chance to acknowledge it.

>A] You understand completely. Go after this monstrosity with every ounce of restraint that you have. Mercy would end the world as you know it before seeing any harm befall you, or your children. Nothing it has to say could be more important than the safety of everyone in your care.

>1] Pin it down. It's difficult to manipulate anything, if you can't move.

>2] Get its staff away from its body, if nothing else. This is obviously a sorcerer of extreme power.

>3] Focus on containing the sand. The demon is likely manipulating its domain, rather than itself.

>B] This isn't your first encounter with a demon who could speak. This creature is likely absurdly intelligent, and powerful beyond all measure. You'd pin it as a major demon, just upon a first impression.
>1] Don't fuck around. Demand that it speak quickly and plainly. Bind it to the ground the moment it shows any sign of hesitating.
>2] Listen. Hold your ground, and implore Mercy for Her protection. You are desperate to understand the weakness within humanity. You need this opportunity. You need to TRULY understand what could compel a monster like this to give you a moment to listen.
>C] Write-in.

Hesitation is defeat. Tensing your hands, tensing the restraints you have made, tensing the very bonds of gold and light from within the cracks of your soul— you extend your blessing.

A hundred strands of heat and radiance are upon the demon, before it can even react. You turn your outstretched palms downward, tensing, twisting, and reshaping the bonds into a more tangible form.

The demon is slammed to the floor, with the shackles made of your devotion. Colliding with the stone, it shatters the first few inches of ground in its wake. Your ears are ringing, from the sheer force of it. Dust kicks up into the air, along with countless grains of sand, as the floor trembles. It's still decaying, unstable, and as devastated as the demon's voice. It tries to raise an arm. "Wait."

A wave of your arm is sufficient, to disarm the demon, and scatter its staff off, into the dust of its own making. The demon's gaze trails after it, for only a moment, before snapping its eyes back to you. "You cannot comprehend what you are doing."

Every last gesture is another wave of Mercy's blessing. It's heat, and comfort, relief and euphoria, all wrapped up into the finest recesses of your soul. There's a strong desire to smile, to gasp, and you channel every last ounce of your repression right into your hold. To persist with the invocation, for as long as necessary.

You clasp your hands together. The gesture takes only a moment. With it, you fully illuminate a pair of shackles upon the demon's wrists. There is another, upon its ankles. Tightening your fingers, knuckles white, there are binds around its neck. There is no slack in the mere inch of chain that holds it. The bond reaches deeper than the abyss. Every last glowing band of divinity is as strong as your will.

A scowl is more appropriate, as the lair around you crumbles. "You will speak quickly, and plainly. Tell Us your name."

Peeling back the edges of its lips, a pair of pointed, lilac-tinted teeth are flashed at you. "Arkthros", it replies, without any hesitation.

The shark-like smile stretches a little further across his face. The demon of delay stops talking, immediately.

You jerk the demon's head face-down, closing the last inch of slack between its neck and the ground. The crunch of the glass upon its brow cracking from the sheer force of the impact makes your teeth hurt, so you grit them harder. "If you truly wish for Us to understand your intent—"

The monster cranes its head around, to look at you, with legitimate fear in its eyes. "I do."

He can't help himself. He has to wait. He'll stall until we die.

I might need to help him, if we're going to speak.

>WRITE-INS MAY HELP ENORMOUSLY WITH ILLUMINATING FURTHER INFORMATION.
>Demons cannot speak of the Gods directly. Questions involving Time or any other deity will likely only be answered in a very roundabout way.
>Your environment is literally dissolving. Fewer prompts and/or brevity may help in escaping these ruins in one piece.
>A] "What, precisely, must I understand?"
>B] "Why is your lair turning to dust?"
>C] "Are you the archdemon of these ruins?"
>D] "Why are there no other demons here?"
>E] "Just yesterday, you pursued me, and my companion. Why?"
>F] "How may I exit your domain freely?"
>G] Write-in.

Exhaustion ceases to run through your limbs, as the Goddess of healing mends every last inch of you. Struggling to not take a sharp breath in, for how intense your partner's hold is, you lower your tone, its divinity, Mercy's ire for this creature, and take a step forward. "what, precisely, must I understand?"

Tension contorts what little of the demon's face is visible. Every word is stressed, as though it's the most important thing that could ever be said. "They. May. NOT. Leave."

You have eight solid years of experience, with restraints, and torture in the dark. Stomach shifting at the sight of the demon's clear distress, you rapidly ask, "is there more, Arkthros?"

"Yes," he mutters, shifting again. Hands still clasped, you quickly part your fingers. The bonds upon his wrists, ankles, and neck immediately pull, twisting the monster's limbs just enough to halt any further motion.

Urgency and the cold sweat on you intensifies tenfold. There is practically nothing left of the house behind him. A gaping void of space and sand is swirling, gathering, and wearing down at the exit to his domain.

"Tell Us."

The rest of his speech is rapid fire. "Their leader, with flame upon his brow, and fire within: he swore to me, and upheld his word. The King, in His grace: He swore to me, and upheld His word. He alone had aided me, these many onethousandeighthundredandninetyeightyears."

Your vision swims, and your breath hitches, just slightly. It's as if a hand, and an arm, has wrapped up and around you, trying to keep you steady, and reassuring you that you are not alone with the most ancient creature you've ever heard of.

"No others may flee," Arkthros hisses. "The thousands I have imprisoned: they have NOT bled. I cannot risk their retreat, invoker. I will bring them no harm, if my will is honored. It is a simple request. One that you must understand."

You try to not reel, and breathe, "are you the archdemon of these ruins?"

Those teeth. More are visible, as the demon's grin grows. "Neither the last—"

There is a howl, on the periphery of your vision. You dig in your heels, and reach out, with both hands. There's something horribly wrong. With a heave, Arkthros flexes his right arm in, and snaps your bonds free from the floor. "Nor the first—"

You're already creating a new restraint, tethering the monster's limb. A gust of sand pushes and rolls his staff back from the empty space behind, right into his grasp.

"—nor the many who have come before—!"

The ruins behind you are disappearing, into nothingness. You likely have precious seconds left, to stand on any ground at all.

Arkthros is not wearing a cloak. He unfolds a pair of wings, comprised entirely of melted glass. They can articulate, as the liquid shifts into more grains of solid particles. It has no definitive form. The wings are a liquid, and a solid, and they rip the restraint off of his left hand.

"These are my ruins, and mine alone. There is no one left, to service themselves to my position. Yes, invoker. To answer your question: yes. I am an archdemon."

You move to replace the bond, heart racing faster than your company's retreat, as the demon tears the bonds off of his neck. Smoke is rising from the his hands, as what little skin and sinew is upon his form burns into the metal of your creation. He declares through excruciating pain, "you have intruded upon my home. You have infringed upon the King's prison, and the RESTRAINT of several hundred lost souls. You will not release this burden from me." He's referring to the twins. "You will not take this gift from us."

You can't help but gasp, from a surge of ecstasy overriding the intense pain lancing your chest. "Mercy—"

Brother Morris knew the location of your entire congregation. A demon of moths was controlled by the church of Mercy...

"They are mine. Do not oppose me, priest. These ruins remain empty by my design, alone."

The King is fully aware of the location of His children.

"This must be a falsehood."

"Do not insult me."

King Magnus may be allied with a demon of Time. There may be hundreds of traitors to the throne underneath His very city. Beyond any doubt, Starlight and Stardust are in extreme danger.

Arkthros lets loose a laugh. Not a scream, though his hands are blistering under the heat of his bonds. He laughs, and rips through the restraints upon him as if it were made purely of light. He looks exactly as he did before, when he first walked up the stairs.

You blink, and confirm that he is now several feet back, calmly walking up the stairs. They've re-materialized, and there are no burns upon his body. With a straight face, he implores you:

"Wait."

>A ROLL MAY BE REQUIRED FOR ALL OF THE FOLLOWING.
>A] Invoke Flesh, while keeping the invocation to Mercy, and run for your life. Pray that you can heal through anything this monster dishes out.
>B] Keep the invocation to Mercy, and attempt to call upon Dream.

>1] To restrain the demon, and put it to rest.

>2] To escape via Dream's vision, while protecting yourself as much as possible.

>C] Run straight at the demon, and force your Relic into its hands. Bend its insanity towards compassion, and good-will towards men.
>D] The Church of Mercy didn't raise a coward. Hold your ground. You're talking this demon down.

>1] You genuinely feel sorry for it. Show the monster some compassion, and try to understand why it's threatening only two people. Stop trying to keep it restrained.

>2] Make your best case for your own alliance with King Magnus, and that the twins are under your care. There must be another solution to this.

>E] Write-in.

>QM Rolled 466 (1d1000)

>BEND VIOLENCE TO COMPASSION
>CONTACT IS NECESSARY FOR THIS MISSION
>+20 MERCIFUL SPEED DEMON

>Roll 1d100. The total sum of three rolls from three separate posters will be used.
>The roll made in this post represents Arkthros' position. Only matching his roll ensures contact.
>The closer your total roll is to his, the more successful your attempt will be.
>If at any point you realize that your roll makes it impossible to match his position, you may CLEARLY SPECIFY that you wish to have Richard WAIT that many minutes.
>Sacrificing your roll, and your Time in this fashion, means another roll can be made.
>This may be done up to three times, but only once per ID.
>If the roll immediately makes it impossible to match Arkthros, only the first three rolls will be used.
(Please ask me if this is unclear in any way, or if anyone has any questions.)
(For extra clarity, 360 is the highest possible sum, so the first three rolls will be used for the next post.)

>Rolled 56, 12, 92 (3d100)

No weapon could be more powerful than your symbol. Ripping at the chain around your neck, you unfasten your Relic in a single motion, and sprint at full speed straight towards the archdemon. Mercy is in your heart, in your soul, and every ounce of intent you have: to bend this demon's insanity towards compassion.

"Time waits for no one!"

In the second it takes you to blink, before another breath parts from your lips, and the very moment after your first footstep falls towards the demon— he's moved back, at least another 200 feet. Sand swirls in an endless vacuum at his back, devoid of heat, light, or hope. All of the ruins are growing darker, and more vacant by the second. Your head swims, as the monster moves back further, laughing softly to itself. "I am no one."

The Church of Mercy did not raise a coward. The stars themselves resonate through your speech, in a blend of Goddesses, conviction, and a declaration that CANNOT be refuted: "HER WILL IS UNCHANGEABLE—!"

A torrent of sand— without wind, or air— blasts straight at you. "Is that what they have taught you, priest?"

You manifest a shield of solid light, with a sweep of your arm. There is no handle to hold. There's a tether from the scars upon your palms, outstretched, and twitching under the sheer force of the gust directed at you. Shifting into the flurry at the last second, you practically scream, "it is not priest—!"

The blow is so intense, you see the sun itself in your eyes. There's no hope of keeping your sprint, as pain explodes through your hands and arms. Skidding at least twenty feet through the sand thanks to your momentum, straight towards the abyss behind you, there is still hope in your heart.

The shield gets dropped, so quickly that no one could possibly react to the sheer insanity of it. Letting yourself get battered, as the hurricane of sand threatens to give your hold on the ruins, you raise a hand.

"It is Father, Arkthros."

A band of the sun, in a house without light, is pulled from a sky that cannot be seen. With all the force you can muster, you shape the colossal beam into a band of solid gold.

It's commanded to fall straight upon the demon's wings. The collision is deafening.

Arkthros has vanished.

Blinking, spinning around, you compulsively creating another shield. In the other, your knuckles are white, clutched around your Relic.

You stagger backwards. The demon is inches away, in the same spot on the ground that was occupied several moments ago. He leans in, his teeth right before your face, to lecherously drawl, "their leader."

"Yes." The restraint you created ripples, before melting straight into the floor. You do not need restraint. Not when have your voice, can lean in, and take the demon by the hand. "In service of the King."

He's gone in a flash. In a second, Arkthros returns to the horizon.

You call out, "just as you are!"

"Pray tell, Father: what makes you think that you are serving my King?"

Sand pelts towards you, in all directions. You have to swing up both hands. In one is a tower shield. The other slakes completely over with solid gold, shielding your Relic, and most of your arm. "The children of the Church of Mercy are under Our care—! There is no need for any of this!"

There's a sharp, grating sound, of glass in motion. The particles battering at the edges of your shield catch on anything exposed upon your body. It's like sandpaper. "You do not wish to bring harm to them," you breathe, inhaling the dust, and flushing at the sheer intensity of it grating against your skin and throat.

The struggle to keep yourself together worsens by the second. Mercy works over the injury, works over your skin, works over the pain—

"Yes."

There isn't a second to react. Arkthros closes the gap faster than you can scream, wings pointed straight at your body. They're huge shards of glass.

Jumping straight back, repressing the urge to scream only for fear of inhaling more dust, you teeter for a moment on the edge of the abyss. "Work with me—!"

The platform, leading out to the exit of the ruins, has completely worn away. A fall into blackness is imminent— and the sensation of an arm wraps around your tapered waist. You're held, for a moment, and kept from plummeting to your death.

"Mercy," you gasp, taking a step forward.

Looking up to the monster, as it steps just out of arm's reach, your ragged breath is a decree. "King Magnus has commanded that they be returned to the surface."

That smile. It leers, as the sorcerer before you makes a swift gesture with his staff, and flies straight back. A torrent of sand rises from all directions.

You take another step forward, to break back into a sprint. Shield up, you breathlessly demand, "you must understand—!"

The sprint never comes. The sandpaper assault flies straight at you, nearly pushing you again into the fall. Another pummel comes hard from the left, pitter-pattering against the gold surrounding your relic. The metal defense spreads further up your arm, in an attempt to guard you, just as your shield at the right is slammed so intensely the you fear your arm may break.

There's another tug on your robes, and it is not divine. It comes from a flurry of sand, rising up, from the bottom of the world.

"I understand completely," Arkthros grins.

The flurry solidifies into a singular blade of glass.

It slices the back of your ankles clean open.

The sound of every tendon splitting, and of your blood splattering onto stone, hangs in the air for an eternity. Shock doesn't allow the pain to register for a singular moment. The Relic in your hand will not permit the pain to register, for as long as you hold it. It is one, priceless moment. One in which you still have not collapsed forward, or indecently screamed. One moment, with which comes one decision.

>The following prompts are mutually exclusive. Write-ins may require a roll. Vocal opposition to any votes will be taken into full consideration. Discussion is strongly encouraged.
>A] Invoke Flesh, while maintaining your invocation to Mercy. Your first dual invocation to Flesh and Mercy may have instilled severe masochism in you— but that may actually be a benefit, against this monster.

>1] Stick to the plan, and attempt to get your Relic into the hands of an archdemon. (A ROLL WILL BE REQUIRED, with a massive positive modifier, and the same rules as the last roll, with additional options.)

>2] Run for your life. (A ROLL WILL BE REQUIRED, with a massive positive modifier, and a new parameter for success.)

>B] Invoke Agriculture. Turn this demon's sand against it. Weaponize each and every rock, stone, and pebble. You will reap its own harvest, and heal through the worst of the assault. You can take it.

>1] Righteously restrain it. If you have to hurt this demon to have a conversation, so be it.(A ROLL WILL BE REQUIRED, WITH A VARIETY OF NEW OPTIONS.)

>2] It has to die. Don't hold back. (A ROLL WILL BE REQUIRED, WITH AN OBSCENE POSITIVE MODIFIER. There will absolutely be social and political consequences.)

>C] Invoke Time.
>D] Write-in.

>QM Rolled 85 (1d1000)
>+20 THE GODS ARE MERCIFUL
>+20 FLESH OF MY FLESH
>+5 OFFENSE AND DEFENSE
>-45 EXQUISITE AGONY

>Roll 1d100. The first three rolls will be used. All 3 rolls will be counted.
>The dice roll in this post represents Arkthros' position.
>As you have elected to use an area-of-effect attack/defense, exceeding his roll will represent degrees of success. Falling below his roll may still have some effect.

>+45 MASOCHISM TANGO
For the low, low cost of public indecency— and some of your threadbare sanity— you can choose to convert the -45 to a +45 positive modifier.
(This modifier is available if EVEN ONE voter chooses to take it. Only vocal opposition will prevent it from being removed, once chosen.
It's worth stressing that this is not going to be pretty, if selected.)

>SWEAR THAT YOU'RE MINE
(The negative/positive modifier will decrease substantially, eventually to 0, for as long as you maintain your invocation to Mercy.
ELECTING TO CONTINUE TO INJURE YOURSELF WILL MAINTAIN THE POSITIVE MODIFIER AT +45, even through Mercy's healing.)

(For absolute clarity please bear in mind that the SUM TOTAL of all three rolls will be used.)

Alaric · Apr 24, 2021

Chapter 4: Feverishly
"There's no public here."

The following contains material that may be distressing to some readers.
Trigger Warnings: Self-harm, implicit sexual content (masochism).
Reader discretion is advised.

You let go of your Relic, drop your defenses, and it hits you. Sharp, and as hot as the blood trickling into your shoes. There's no scream. There's been worse pain. Just when you thought your pulse couldn't go any higher, your breath reaches a speed it rightfully shouldn't. You stay on your feet. There's still function, and motion. It's excruciating, so close your eyes, and moan.

Arkthros is stunned into hesitation. The sand around you calms, if only for a moment.

"M-Mercy—" Heat rises through every last muscle upon you. You clasp your hands together, your skin singing from the slightest friction. "Goddess of— ahhn— of— of bounty—!"

This isn't merely something exquisite. You lean into it. "My need is dire."

A voice in the back of your head acknowledges that this is utter insanity. You still have motion in your legs. Yes, the demon tried to rob you of the ability to run, but there are other ways to go about interrogation. It's made no attempt to kill you. There's no question that the archdemon is slowly backing away, without calling upon its own ability.

Arkthros has managed to choke out, "oh. How repulsive."

There's no need to kill him.

This is something to be embraced as your lover works through you, and sets to mending your newest scars just as quickly as they came. Under your breath— feverishly— you seize the singular moment of legitimate respite. It's a few syllables. You try closing your eyes, to close out the relief working through your lower body.

A haze of poor justification worms itself into the softening edges of your mind.

There's no public here.

"Ah— aahn—! AAaahhhhh—" you can barely breathe, let alone speak, and swallow hard. One word. Just a few syllables. "Aah, Aagriculture—!"

The Goddess does not hesitate further. The sheer force with which She's upon you sends you staggering back. In less than a second, the unmistakable sensation of Her presence works under your skin. Ecstasy weaves itself into a swing of your arm, as you don't waste another second, and motion to the rock beneath your feet. There is something so deeply satisfying— building in the recesses of your soul— that each motion is a battle to keep yourself from collapsing to the ground, or running a hand all along

"Father." Arkthros gets a hold of himself. Barely. What he's witnessing should be impossible, aside from the way you're handling it. "Two...?"

A scythe. A scythe comes to your hand. The weapon is blunted. You can barely see as sage breaks through the gold plating your vision. Trails of hyacinths form from the ground underfoot with each step you take.

The flowers usually represent forgiveness. Apology.

Fear and revulsion drenches the demon. "At once." He puts up a hand, rapidly constructing a wall before him. "Wait."

The blade is made of stone from the ruins of Ostedholm. You'd recognize the moss embedded in it anywhere. Its handle is wood from the orchards of your home. The vines extend from the base of the blade, all around its handle, blooming with yours and Mother Bethaea's flower.

"Father. There's no need." His barrier is the home you were in before. The demon has elected to put the wall directly between the two of you. "Take a moment. Think."

Not likely. "Nn— aaahn— "

Arkthros may have momentarily forgotten his own ability.

The tendrils of your weapon sinks straight into your skin. It's not painful, as you flood with the blessing of both Goddesses. The pain comes from the effects of a demon, and it's lessening by the second.

The scythe sings as you sweep it with both hands, and cut a path straight through the air. Every rock, stone, and pebble under the sorcerer's control changes direction mid-flight, and slices through the barrier. "Arkthros," you gasp, unable to stop yourself from grinning as you take a few steps forward. A path neatly forms underfoot, blossoming.

Pollen drifts into the air as you quicken your steps, and revel in the joy of your agony.

Concern is wrought across an ancient face. You're certain he has no idea what you're going to do, and isn't about to take any chances. The staff and its hourglass slams to the ground at Arkthros' feet, which has only barely reformed. With it, thousands of grains of sand— scarcely felt, through the sheer intensity of what's working through you— try and direct themselves straight your way.

In a flash, he's gone from sight, and out of the home.

Bringing your scythe up before you in a single motion, you don't even bother to bite on your lip to silence an out pour of noise. The sand clumps together in mid-air, shifting to soil, and blossoming into thousands of chartreuse flower petals. They're chrysanthemums. You know it's Agriculture's favorite flower, and want to show your appreciation.

"Blessed be Her harvest."

Your breath could not be heavier. You'll probably be heavier after the invocation, and it really doesn't matter. With a turn of your wrist, you hook onto a crop of your own creation. Each and every yellow-green petal becomes static. They are under Agriculture's domain. You reach out with your other hand. They are not petals. They're gilded weights under Mercy's control.

You turn your palm down. Every single weight drops upon your target, and melts into a liquid nightmare the second it lands. "Restraint, aah-Aarkthros," you gasp, turning around, to see the vacant domain covered in your mutual destruction.

The archdemon is buried, smoking, and desperately trying to not scream. He bares his teeth, and spits, "hypocrite!"

>A ROLL MAY BE REQUIRED FOR ALL OF THE FOLLOWING.
>A] You feel a little dirty. At least take hold of your Relic, to try and manage the pain. You'll wait only a moment, and are not letting your guard down for a second.
>B] Double down on keeping this demon at bay. Don't do a thing about your injury, and keep both hands out where he can see them. This might be a trap.
>C] Arkthros' purpose is to delay you.

>1] This is worth your Time. You have questions that need answering. (Write-in why you were so determined to restrain this demon, rather than run.)

>2] Try to ensure he is down, as securely as possible, and flee for your life.

>D] There's absolutely a saner way to go about this. (Write-in.)

Closing the gap between the two of you might as well take an eternity. Every stride is another gift. Though Mercy has nearly mended your severed tendons, there's lingering ecstasy reaching up, into, and throughout every last sense. Agriculture provides more than the relief from pain. There's something greater than a caress. The Goddess of plenty— and Her embrace— presses from within.

Your steps are wet underfoot, but you don't recoil at the squish of your leather soles. Not from walking upon your own blood, and not from the obscene gratification that comes from each necessary motion.

You gradually shift the demon's domain into a veritable garden, keeping a trembling hand outstretched. It rises with every hitch in your breath, with the heat upon Arkthros, and the light that radiates from his form.

Tensing further, as you keep the molten weight pressed upon his' writhing form, you do not struggle to keep him under your grasp.

You've probably been standing aside from Arkthros for several minutes, just to level your breath. The struggle is to regain enough stability to speak at all, and it's not getting any easier. In the throes of two Goddesses, insanity tilts off of your mortal eyes, through which you all look down upon your captive.

Through the haze of pollen, blinding radiance, and an unabating wave of pleasure, you relish the form at your feet. The archdemon must be capable of breaking free. His power is immense. Yet, through the scalding burns upon his skin— there is fear soaking into the sunken pits of his eyes.

He's planning something, and you aren't waiting to find out what. After all, why should you even acknowledge his accusations when you have so many of your own?

"Why are you holding anyone within your domain?"

Despite being pinned to the floor, Arkthros cranes his scalded neck up to sneer right at you. "Why should I give any answers to a profligate, who will unhinge themselves before I can begin to encourage it? Do you linger for the pleasure of my company, Father? Or perhaps, your station has tasked you so greatly, that the very idea of a fitting punishment—"

This really isn't anything you haven't heard before. With a sigh, you turn a fraction of the heat from within your own body outwards, and into the mounds of liquid gold. No further smoke rises from the archdemon. He's charring, and in too much pain to speak.

Letting every bit of madness leech into your voice that you would normally repress, you lean your head back, and murmur, "nnnh. Why— why shouldn't I kill you."

The archdemon literally spits at you, missing his mark by a wide margin. It's despite every indication that he would rather scream. The fear you recognized earlier is back on him in full force. The clipped response is obviously in regards to Mercy, and you get his meaning well enough. "You cannot. Will not."

He's more frightened of what I wish to do while he's still alive.

Tilting your head back, you take a knee just beside the archdemon. "We are Merciful, Arkthros." He laughs. "There is— ah— still no need for any of this. No harm needed to befall you. All I wish is to protect those within Our care. Now, speak— and speak plainly. What purpose do you serve, as the warden of these ruins?"

A violent jerk of his head— to try and wrest free from what is no doubt crushing weight upon his chest— precludes Arkthros' proud declaration. "That of the King, who truly upholds that which you profess to lead—"

Your gaze softens, if only slightly. The backs of your ankles are completely healed, and your mind is clearing more rapidly by the second. It's still not saying much, but you can at least ask without moaning, "this— this is a pact between King Magnus, 'the Merciful,' and yourself? The two of you, alone?"

"Yes. Those who came before—" He likely means the half-dozen Kings who must have reigned in his lifespan. "—were fools. They terrorized my domain, and the thousands of my kin that have occupied it. No mere prisoners. My demons. Those within my care. They had fought bitterly, to the very end. I am not the first archdemon of Calunoth. I do not intend to be the last—"

"Answer the question, Arkthros."

He's actually incapable of brevity. "You don't care in the slightest, about my history. You may be capable of subsisting on lasciviousness and sin alone, Father—"

You lean in, just enough to give him a warning glare. "Do you intend to find out the full extent of my proclivities?"

He draws back into himself, just slightly. The edges of his wings twitch from within their confinement. "No. I am compelled, Father. I stress that which you may understand. My charge here— on behalf of the King— permits me to seek that which I hold dear."

"Delay." Your insistence upon straight answers may be a worse torture than burning Arkthros alive. The demon writhes so violently, you take a broad step back, fully upright, and have to bend everything you have into keeping him at bay. "Why would the King want this—"

"He has enemies—" Arkthros spits, twisting hard against the hold. "—and is just as delusional as you are."

Does King Magnus think imprisoning anyone within these ruins is Mercy...?

"What do you get— from this deal with the King?"

"Do you see any other demons beneath the city?!" A freakishly familiar statement falls from the ancient creature's lips. It's one that you've heard from another decrepit monstrosity, though it was many months ago that you met Malimos. "They will not suffer us to live, Father. I cannot give you any reason to keep me alive that you would truly take heart in. You are blind."

>A ROLL MAY BE REQUIRED, FOR ALL OF THE FOLLOWING.
>A] Arkthros is just as trapped down here as anyone else. Take pity on him.

>1] Offer to extend your Relic's ability. Explain what it can do, and see if the archdemon would be willing to try and temper his own insanity.

>2] Swear that you don't want to bring him further harm, and take a step back. You'll go only on the defensive, if necessary.

>B] You have probably dug this whole WAY too deeply already. There may not be any pride in it, but keep Arkthros down for as long as possible, while you try to get away.
>C] You have a fraction of an idea of what this archdemon is capable of, but want to push your luck. Continue trying to interrogate him.

>1] Why Starlight and Stardust?

>2] Ask it plainly: If you continue to try and ensure the twins escape, will Arkthros legitimately try and kill you? Have you been in ANY real danger?

>3] What can you do, to ensure the retreat of everyone in your care?

>D] Write-in.

"You may be right," you murmur.

Arkthros jerks with his entire body— harder than before— in a desperate attempt to escape. It's not your invocation that halts his violent movement. He stops the very instant you stress, "I do not understand, but I— but I would like to."

The pits of blackness upon the archdemon's face bore into you, silently seething. He wants to talk. He wants to share.

"Why? Starlight and Stardust— the King's children. Why?"

"The King's mind is weak. He could not bring himself to kill either of them." You notice that there is dried blood— packed thick with sand— encrusted along the gums of Arkthros' teeth as he smiles broader than ever before at you. "It would have been terribly easy. They have lingered. They have waited for you."

He knows much more than he's letting on. All trace of ecstasy drops from your frame as you scowl, "I returned for them."

A long moment passes between the two of you. It's alright. This is worth your time.

"I still cannot understand why so much has been sacrificed— all on behalf of retaining two humans within your domain."

"King Magnus is afraid, Father Anscham. You should be, too."

He knows who you are, beyond any doubt. One of the archdemon's wings has been solidifying all this time. It skewers straight through the soft metal keeping him in place, piercing into the air with an ear-splitting shatter. The thrashing underneath your hold redoubles.

You take a step back, hand to your Relic. The fire upon it eclipses the sun itself. "I know you are afraid."

"You know nothing—!"

"I want to help. The Goddess of Mercy has gifted me with more than Her love. Allow me to extend my ability, Arkthros."

"There is nothing you could do for me. Nothing you could willingly give. You will run, and condemn us all, just as every one of your predecessors before you—!"

Another one of the demon's wings pierces straight through your hold. Rapidly, you melt it back down, to try and encase and solidify its prison with the same motion. The air itself between you waves from the very heat of your devotion. Your voice remains firm. "This may yet be a gift— from a King who has come before any of us. I know with absolute certainty that it is mine, through which I may cure more than my pain. It is a blessing, to relieve the pain of so many others."

A bark of a laugh is your reply. The archdemon takes in a sharp breath like he's been wounded. He has been wounded by your hand, and the cracks upon his burnt lips scowl, "what makes you think that this would hold any sway over me?"

This domain is worn beyond all reaches of Time, and likely only persists through Arkthros' will. You have been blind. Enthralled with divinity.

You look to something tangible. Hundreds of hyacinths wave around you in a nonexistent wind. The garden pushes out, into the furthest reaches of a nonexistent domain. There has been no sand for some time. The soil underfoot is purely of your own making.

You look to a single, flawless locket in hand. One that you earned through earning the trust of an archdemon.

Fearlessly taking a step closer, you put yourself right into the reach of a lethally serrated blade of glass. "I have granted my tenets to others before. Healing: to a priestess who could not take the hands of Mercy. Restraint: to a demon of knowledge, who had lost its meaning."

Stunned into stillness, he spits, "that is impossible."

"Light. Comfort. Healing. Restraint." You're both cringing, but you stress, "hope. We both know of our weakness. That which lurks within the hearts of humankind. I possess an item that may not bend the Catalyst, Arkthros— but it may bend our insanity. My Relic can turn our violence towards compassion."

"You're a poor fucking show of it," he grins, back to ripping himself further from your bonds.

"It may do more than permit men to wield the might of all the Gods." You erratically breathe, fighting with everything you have to keep yourself steady. Exerting further influence over every breach in Mercy's defenses is taking more out of you than you anticipated. You've only been with Mercy and Agriculture once like this before, and had ample aid in knowing your limits.

A plea, your obsession, and a unique brand of insanity falls from your own bloodied lips. "This is folly, Arkthros. Please. Help me understand."

With horror, it occurs to you that the compression and heat you've exerted over the demon's body is responsible for the extreme toughness it's exhibiting now. The glass upon its wings— in the dozens of tendrils extending outwards— are nowhere near as mobile. They've hardened into dozens of long and toughened knives. In unison, they slice up, and free Arkthros entirely from captivity.

The archdemon is so injured, he rises back to his feet through flight alone. Hanging back no more than five feet, the blackened and crusted skin upon his burnt limbs move to twist his neck. The crack releases a small cloud of dust.

The grains of sand twist into petals the moment you lay eyes upon them. "Permit us to help one another," you gasp.

Unable to maintain the form of his hold, you release the tension in your hands, and permit the golden prison to liquefy. The sheer might of your invocation has destroyed the sorcerer's staff, and only a charred outline of it remains upon the little stone left between you. The cracked glass upon Arkthros' brow leers at you. You realize he's only moved the minimal distance it would take to comfortably look down.

Disgust, curiosity, and desperation further discolors the archdemon's sneer. "Why should I trust you?"

>A] It wouldn't be the first time you've made a pact with a demon. Offer to do something for Arkthros, as a show of good-will, before exerting any other influence over him.

>1] Make a suggestion you're comfortable with. (Write-in.)

>2] Let him make a proposition.

>B] He shouldn't. Honesty is a tenet of Mercy, too. ...wait a minute.

>1] Offer to give your honesty to Arkthros. Maybe this is exactly what he needs, to speak and act with candor. (With a 100% success rate, this notoriously strips you of this tenet of Mercy, and may be an enormous ordeal to reclaim. This option will only be used if majority vote decides.)

>2] Propose that you stay awhile, and help Arkthros to talk about his history candidly, to start. He'll get to waste your Time, you'll get information, and you'll both be observing the King's and Goddess' will.

>C] Write-in.

Staring straight at an archdemon's absence of eyes, the burns upon his skin, the cracks upon his face, and every attempt he has made at avoiding injury, you reply, "you shouldn't."

Several long moments pass, while the void around you both impossibly expands. The garden you've created feels as if it's being tugged upon at the edges of reality. Every blossom on the edges of the abyss are continually wearing down. You try to focus on keeping stable, on staying grounded. After everything you've been through, you've at least learned something from it.

The invocation to Mercy has gold dripping from your hands. Dripping from your soul. The yellow-gold upon your gaze must be as intense as the mounting pressure of Agriculture working through you. Focusing on anything more than their gift is rapidly becoming impossible. The thought of leaving either of them at all is impossible. In fact—

"Permit me to keep you company. To stay for awhile. To hear of your history. To help you speak. To pass the Time." It's not manipulation. He's looking to you with doubt, in those pits for eyes. You are earnest to a fault, and don't draw away from the stare for a second. It's always been easier for you to keep eye contact with demon, anyways. "You are brimming with potential. The very prospect— of being able to speak with an archdemon— let alone one who is nearly two thousand millennia old—"

You take a breath, excited at the prospect beyond all measure. The hyacinths all around you have an incredibly potent scent. The floral notes and borderline sickly-sweetness is powerful. Nearly as intoxicating as the sheer volume of information standing before you. Someone to help. Someone to heal.

You can be honest. "I have endured the Catalyst, Arkthros."

He actually leans in, to stare at you even more intensely. The points of his teeth are visible, as the demon's mouth hangs open for just a moment.

Catching himself, drawing back, the archdemon lands back upon the soil to ask, "you are unlike any demon I have ever encountered. They would never permit one to lead."

He's referring to the Church of Mercy. You repress every urge to nervously laugh. Clarifications are necessary, given the reputation of your home. "I have remained human."

A snap, out of sheer disbelief. "What was the Catalyst?"

"Faith."

The crack in Arkthros' composure is almost another crack in his face. "What?"

Insanity drips off of your legacy. "Thirty. Three. Times."

The archdemon takes a step towards you. His strides are so long, the singular motion is enough to bring him right next to you. The behemoth towers even over your respectable height.

Looking down, around you— inspecting you like some kind of insect— Arkthros barks, "that is impossible."

"If you work with me— tolerate me— I would still like to help you. You don't have to trust me. Regaining your sanity, your self, your Time—"

Arkthros is clearly too fascinated to not ask, "How are you still alive?"

You smile. "The Gods are Merciful."

The archdemon is stunned into silence. He's scrutinizing you, squinting, as if he could discern your soul's properties from sight alone.

As a show of good will, you stay in arm's reach of the demon, and take a seat. A modicum of what your body must be going through registers, and you have to take a sharp breath in. It's dangerous beyond measure to persist with a dual invocation for this long. Not merely for the sake of your sanity, the molten gold that's coursing from your hands, the inability to stop exerting any influence over Arkthros' domain, or the pressure in your soul.

It's terribly difficult to feel anything, to want for anything, or to focus on anything. Through the intensity of it, the urge to shift and to let out your belt is still intense. Your waist is still tapered— the muscle upon you plain to see— but the remains of your tattered shirt are threatening to tear along the seam. There's bulk over you, and disguising the definition that Flesh has gifted you with. Your certain that the conventional effect will continue, if you keep pushing yourself with the Goddess of Bounty.

Despite being burnt beyond all measure, Arkthros finds a way to take a step back. He's almost too stunned to speak, and manages to seethe, "I have my duty. My charge. They have escaped, thanks to you."

The pressure feels phenomenal, from the depths of your soul, to the skin upon your muscle. You're tempted to lean back, and to simply enjoy Agriculture's presence. The degree of satiety eclipses your present company—

The archdemon— having sat next to you— is worth your undivided attention. "Do not disappoint me, Father."

He's waiting for you to speak, to lead, to make the first move.

Trying to not gasp, to moan, to assume some semblance of sanity, you take another deep breath. The demon is close enough to you that the scent of dust and blood intermingles with the pollen on the air.

Sister Cardew would likely be sneezing, were she here.

The priestess of Spirit would likely be worried, if she were here.

>A] Release the invocation to Agriculture, but persist with Mercy, for your protection.
>B] Release both invocations, knowing that the environment you've created is the only thing keeping you stable in a domain removed from Time itself.
>C] Keep up both invocations, despite the potential effects on your vessel.
>D] Write-in.

Alaric · Apr 24, 2021

Chapter 5: This Miserable Maze
"Your loved ones have lived on through you."

The threads of your sanity are worth tying back together. There's been so much support and counsel, from more than just your friends. You think of half a year spent in the care of a dear friend. You think of a woman that has sacrificed everything she has to protect your health, and to look after your mind.

Releasing the invocation to Agriculture— praying for protection from yourself— you could not be more relieved to have sat down. As the Goddess parts from your vessel, reality comes crashing back down. Suffocating fullness is on you, pressing against the pollen practically coating your robes. Moving to brush a single petal from your hair is momentarily unthinkable.

Working back through the void, through the absence of one divinity, is another. You stay with Mercy and Her hold, and try to stop reeling. You try to think of Her nestled in your arms. The softness of Her voice. The scent of lemon and honey on your lover's dandelion curls. It's not that you need to escape from reality. You simply can't stop thinking about Her. She's everything, and all that's in your soul, for what might as well be another age.

Fortunately, you're in the company of a demon that thrives on delay. Arkthros is positively riveted by your silence, as the green upon your gaze fades, and the garden at the edges of your natural platform decays. The soil under you is real. Hyper-attunement to every last inch of grit under your nails has you dig in your hands, to try and get just a little more grounded. The volume of gold pooling from your hands floods the indentations in the dirt. The radiance isn't muted, by the coating of rock and soil. You can't help but marvel at how beautiful it is.

Several minutes pass by, before the archdemon observes, "you are willing to do anything for your research."

Gritting your teeth is mandatory, to not gasp, "not necessarily."

"You would rather speak with me, than to look after your children?"

The reply is utterly removed from your usual, soft-spoken tone. There's no need for timidness, when you and the Mother of your church can speak of your love, and loyalty. "They are capable of taking care of themselves."

"That they are," Arkthros leers, his teeth coming dangerously close to your face. "But what of you, Father?"

You try to get a little more comfortable, and lean a bit further into Mercy's embrace. The Goddess is more than happy to insist, through your lips, in a blend of your tone and Her resonance. "He has nothing to fear."

There's no need for you to ask Mercy for Her protection. Your partner is fully aware of your need. You make a mental note, once again, to one day discern what Mercy's favorite flower is. Warmth washes over you, as you softly smile. "Our concern lies with you, Arkthros."

>The following options are not mutually exclusive. You have demonstrated the capacity to maintain an invocation with Mercy for upwards of two solid days at a time. All options selected, write-ins, and comments may be used.
>Any vocal opposition will be taken into full consideration, as always.
>Bear in mind that you are still ultimately human. Persisting in the domain of a demon of Time for an extended period may not be wise.
>If many prompts are selected, they may be broken down into more than one update, for the sake of pacing.
>A] "I wish to know about your demons. Who were they? Why did you care for them? Why did they fight?"
>B] "Tell me of your personal history, as a man. I'm interested in what led to your Catalyst, if you can remember it."
>C] "How did you become an archdemon?"
>D] "I would like to know more of your relationship with King Magnus."
>E] "How did Harvey Jay Algrith earn your trust, and come to an agreement with you?"
>F] "What do you know of Starlight and Stardust? Why should the King and I fear them?"
>G] Write-in.

Thanks to the Goddess of Agriculture, you cannot hunger for anything of the material world. You look out, through the haze of light and gold upon your pupils. Out, to the endless expanse of swirling dust in the distance. The hyacinths have almost all decayed, and the soil you rest upon is growing thinner by the second. You look up, to a demon nearly two millennia old. He's equally fascinated, but is seriously injured, and makes no further move to attack.

You're starved for answers. No longer are you content to exert the power granted to you. Yes, you're enamored, with the Goddess of compassion. But Mercy is more than your partner. She's always tempered you. You were raised in the church of sincerity, and a softer, warmer tone sinks into your words. "I wish to know about your demons. Who were they?"

"I'll show you," Arkthros grins, waving a hand to the lair behind him.

"Wait—!"

Getting to your feet as rapidly as you can is entirely insufficient. The entire world shifts, and you nearly fall over before you stand upright. Grains of sand blast from only one direction, enough so that you can immediately splay your hands, and stretch a shield of solid light before your entire body. On one knee, knitting your eyes shut, you ask, "why are you doing this—"

"Because I can," the demon laughs, as the hurricane comes abruptly to a stop. You manage to not fall over, but for how full you are, the urge to vomit is immense.

As your eyes adjust from the bitter gale of sand, they go wide, and your nausea redoubles. The ruins around you have been restored to their former hue, shape, and color. The abandoned home you fled from with Ofelia, just yesterday, surrounds you. Its hardwood floors, plastered with animal furs and blood. The exotic and excessive furniture, instruments, suits of armor, and heraldry from the floor to the ceiling. The spiral stair, and its many banisters. Visible decor, on all sides of the building, for the great expanse of lethally exposed space at its center. All five stories, that stretch up, to a monumental chandelier at its very peak. The walls are lined with doors, that you know lead out to the lair of a demon of Time. The entire mansion is occupied, and your pulse picks up faster than before.

There are demons celebrating, on each and every level. Confetti flies from a number of banisters, in strips of purple paper. Drink is flowing freely, from monsters that clearly share a common bond. Blood is flowing freely, from nightmares that cannot restrain their impulses. The pulse in your chest tells you that the screams, the scent of decay, the growing light from flame upon candles, and the calls for celebration are real.

Arkthros is standing beside you, looks down, and gives you a melancholy smile. "We were celebrating the day I had turned. My family, Father Anscham. They were my family. We were all that was left of our world. We were all that was left of each other. No one could have kept them all safe. No one would have suffered them all to live. It didn't matter if they were fighters, lovers, priests, or sinners. Men, women, children—"

An imp, no more than ten feet away, rips off the head of another. They're both no more than half your size, vaguely humanoid safe for the swords that replace their legs. Balanced precariously, the twist of a spine snapping clean off of its neck resonates in your ears. Blood sprays hot, straight onto the killer's face. Some of the mist flecks onto your robes, looking and feeling as real as anything you've ever know.

The demon laughs, frantically getting its hands and lips into the corpse's windpipe. You resist the urge to gag, being fully acquainted with eating coagulated blood. There are so many questions, that cannot come out as gently as you'd usually manage. "Why did you care for them?"

Arkthros rips a nearby banister off of its staircase, possibly venting his anger. No one is occupying the space, but seconds later, an entire chair flies directly where he was standing. While a scantily-clad succubus slinks past you both, carrying a collection of drinks, your host sweeps two of the wine glasses into his hand.

He knocks back both, though the liquid turns to sand before it reaches his charred tongue. With a grimace, Arkthros liquefies the glass, and retools it into a new hourglass. The objects are fused together, heat emanating off of his hands. The end product is a colossal staff, which is pointed straight at the top floor of the building. "They cared for me," he mutters. "Sacrificed themselves for me."

The colossal, double-doors on the fifth floor fly open. Hinges break, wood splinters, and the doors collapse to the floor. Before dust can rise, a hideous cry breaks out among every single demon in the building. They're up in arms. Halberds, pikes, spears, javelins— you reflexively duck, trying to not panic, for how many times you've had these projectiles thrown at you. Hands above your head, casting another tower shield about you, a thought crosses your mind.

They favor ranged weapons for their own protection.

Five men at the top flight collapse to the floor, having been shot and killed in the blink of an eye. Javelins stick out both ends of their skulls. A survivor staggers, with an colossal arrow in his chest. The guilty party is a demonic archer, upon the opposite rail. Its upper body is monstrous, equipped to handle a ten-foot-long bow within its muscular hands.

The weapon penetrated straight through the armor upon your ancestor's chest. A priest of Mercy, in his robes of gold, staggers ahead with a single hand outstretched. He's trying to save the lives of the common men behind him. Utter chaos ensues, as he attempts to invoke the very Goddess who is working through you now.

Something odd happens. Nothing happens.

Horror drenches the invoker, as the Goddess does not answer. Three more arrows streak into his torso, and he drops dead to the floor. Ten more common men barrel ahead behind him, and a battle of ridiculous proportions ignites.

You are almost speechless, and find the will to glance to the archdemon. His attention is completely taken off of you, looking up, to the fight. He's not smiling.

"Why did they fight," you murmur, keeping your eyes on their father.

Arkthros can't look at you. You're certain he's trying to disguise his grief, and righteous anger. "To delay the inevitable."

>A] (Continue with the line of questioning that was previously voted for. Try to save additional questions for later.)
>B] Extend your condolences to Arkthros, before moving on to his life as a mortal, and any questions about his Catalyst. You know how it feels to lose someone dear to you.
>C] What the FUCK was with that failed invocation?

>1] Plainly ask Arkthros if he knows anything about Mercy's absence, at any point in time.

>2] Pointedly ask about this one incident.

>3] Keep your thoughts to yourself. You'll bring this up to Mercy later.

>D] Write-in. (Write-ins may take a backseat if they add substantially more to the line of questioning, so we can pursue the prompts already selected.)

"Your loved ones have lived on through you, Arkthros."

The archdemon snaps his gaze straight at you, as if he's never seen you before.

You keep your gaze up, to the battle. It's senseless. Bodies are literally raining from the upper levels, from man and demon alike. A small army of servants to a King were clearly sent to these ruins, to indiscriminately slaughter anything— or anyone— that they found. Mortal's armor and prayer grants them little in the way of respite. They're cut down like animals, fighting bitterly over a cause that you intimately understand. To tolerate these creatures is to die.

You cannot suffer demons to live.

Every demon you lay eyes upon is clearly frightened for their life. Many of them flee into crevasses within the walls, through countless doors, and behind their master. They're all seeking shelter, and survival. Arkthros can't look away. He'd linger here for another millennia, if you let him.

One of your best friends is a demon. Your most beloved mentor was one, too. It's not just that the Goddess of Compassion is still working through you. Brow furrowed, you honestly murmur, "I'm sorry for your loss."

The towering figure beside you rips his gaze from your form, and dismisses the past entirely, with a violent gesture of his staff. "Don't be."

With his sneer, and a wordless incantation, the entire scene crumbles to dust.

You can't help but stare, as the walls come down around you both. The forms of every man and monster pick up in an unseen wind. The sand is carried off, into an endless horizon. The return to Arkthros' lair took no Time at all. You stare into the void. It would be impossible to discern a path out of his domain, in its current state. For a moment, you marvel at how you're even standing. A small space of light, solid and as real as your devotion, is underfoot. The gold pooling from your scars, along your wrists and hands, speckles the small platform underfoot.

Glancing up, you notice that there are no eyelids upon Arkthros' face. The grieving father is also staring into a void, boring his gaze into the memory of the scene.

The charred edges of his skin are reverting to an earlier state. It's not that he's healing. The demon's skin is reverting to exactly as he looked, before your fight. He can only look back.

He can only go back, to what was before. It's not that he's delaying anything—

"Can you tell me of your personal history, Arkthros? As a mortal?"

A bark of a laugh greets you in reply. "What makes you think I could begin to remember?"

There's no doubt in your mind that this demon remembers every second of his life with the same clarity as the glass upon his face. Through the calm and comfort that Mercy's presence should bring, you twitch in reply, "I am interested in what led to your Catalyst. If— if you can remember it."

"Very well."

The world grows cold. The sky grows dark.

Back indoors, your gaze falls immediately to an elderly man. He's clad in strange garb. The cut of his jacket is as angular as a flight of pale stairs. Cloth around his neck, fastened like a bow.

The peculiar decor upon his frame is nearly as bizarre as his surroundings. He is standing in a home, unlike any you've ever seen. The walls are stark white, plastered with obscenely high-quality paper. Not a speck of fiber is visible upon its smooth, unblemished surface. The floor is wooden, though it is also as smooth and reflective as the rest of Arkthros' domain. Light filters from petal-like fixtures upon the ceiling. There is glass upon the walls, blocking angular art from the ravages of Time. There is glass upon wooden cabinets, sheltering trinkets and valuables within. There is glass upon the edges of odd furniture, in hues of lilac.

There is a man. He's elderly, and alone. In one hand he holds a cane, clearly carved by hand from a beloved old tree. In the other he has a glass container, at the center of the room. It is full of ash. It's a custom you've only heard of from the Church of Flesh, and Storm. The former pays respect to the fire they kindle in their vessel. The latter worships the very flame that can consume them all, at a moment's notice.

An elderly man is kneeling, in an empty home, and cries to himself. There's no public here. There are images in glass, upon the transparent tables, and wooden cabinets. They show a family, and friends, beside a younger man.

The archdemon at your side is trying his best not to cry. His lips are tight, as he spits, "I never had enough."

Your heart threatens to snap in half. "Time was taken from you, wasn't it, Arkthros?"

He can't look at you. He looks to the images of grown children, and a man holding desperately onto the remains of someone you may never know.

Nearly two thousand years ago, an elderly man drops to his knees. He is beside himself. He is the absence of faith. The absence of hope. He draws in on himself, and a singular emotion, so intense that nothing is left of him.

The world goes black.

"You don't need to see this."

"I understand. It's never been delay, has it?"

"No."

"You're a demon of grief, aren't you?"

"King Magnus has given me all the—" There's a violent choke, as Arkthros has completely forgotten himself, and gasps for air against the very attempt at uttering Her name.

You're the Father of Compassion. "Time," you provide.

"...yes. All that I could ask for. My children, Father—" His voice cracks, harder than the split you caused across his face. "—it is as you said. They live on through me." That horrible, hideous anger is back on the archdemon in full force. "They will not be forgotten. Not if I must persist as the last forsaken abomination, in this miserable maze, until the end of all things."

>(The following are merely to tactfully shift the subject. The previously selected prompts will still be addressed.)
>A] Segue into your question about Ostedholm. Ask Arkthros if he ever met Beltoro, Malimos, or Idonea. At least make the archdemon aware that there are others out there, who wish to endure for nearly as long as he has.
>B] Now is as good a time as any to ask about the Catalyst.
>C] Specifically ask about how Arkthros became an archdemon. It is no small feat, and Arkthros clearly grieved just as intensely over his demons as he did his living children.

>D] You're stunned, but not speechless.

>1] Try to express a little more of your sympathy.

>2] Write-in.

Catalyst Quest: Books 1-7

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