The year is 606, and in your home— the country of Corcaea— the souls of mankind belong to demons.
Catalyst Quest is a dark fantasy epic that follows the adventures of a compassionate, self-sacrificing priest warped by divine power. In this original, apocalyptic setting, the Gods are real, and within every man, woman and child lurks a phenomenon that can transform men into monsters: the Catalyst. You assume the role of Father Richard Anscham, leader of the Church of Mercy, and it is your mission to cure mankind of this monstrous affliction. In this genre-spanning adventure, get ready to face horror, action, mystery, romance, and to conquer your personal demons.
Each book of Catalyst is self-contained with its own cast of characters, locations, and themes! The mystery, action, and recovery filled book, Panacea, is the most recent and is the recommended starting point for new readers.
In a perfect world, you would be three hundred miles across the country, back with your family, helping the clergy of your Church to become more accustomed to the demons and ex-demon in your home. But this is far from a perfect world. This is a world where the Gods are real, demons infest the land, humanity is at its end, and a terrible weakness resides in the hearts of all of mankind.
The year is 606, and in your home— the country of Corcaea— the souls of mankind belong to demons. A phenomenon known as the Catalyst can turn any man, woman, or child into a monster. A person's Catalyst can be anything: love, hope, grief, fear, generosity. You even sent a demon of cooking back home recently— and so far, she is one of your best chances at finding a cure.
You are Father Richard Anscham, leader of the Church of Mercy, and the foremost researcher of the Catalyst. Finding a cure for the Catalyst is your life's work, but right now, you're currently overlooking a beautiful, cloudy, pink-and-gray sunrise that's climbing over the farmland of Wearmoor.
The City of Vitality lives up to its name. The fields are flourishing, flowers are blooming, and it's almost pretty enough to make up for how shitty you feel.
Every inch of you aches. Though you may be (25 years) young, you made this journey on foot through the thickest woodlands in the nation, and your heavyset frame is feeling every step that took you here.
Father Richard Anscham, leader of the Church of Mercy.
(You!)
Having stayed up through the night to make it to Wearmoor by dawn, you let loose a tremendous yawn, and flinch hard as you're roughly tapped on the shoulder. It's more of a violent jab, really, but you don't retaliate.
Of the two men traveling with you, it's Father Nicholas Pevrel who has tried to get your attention. This is coming from one of your closest friends: a drunkard, a killer, a sadist, and the leader of the Church of Vengeance. The Lord of Retaliation is of average height for a man in Corcaea, though much shorter than you— about 5'5'' to your near-freakish 6'2''— so his sneer is directed up towards you as he taps you again.
Both of you are incredibly on edge, but the man doesn't even have eyes to narrow at you in impatience, as they were taken from him by the God of Vengeance on request. That particular story is one you've respected enough to not ask for all the details about. This priest is someone who's confided his worst secrets in you. It's often said that he's one of the only men alive with a worse reputation than your own, but you're not one to judge. On the contrary. It doesn't matter if his clothes are covered in dirt, flecks of paint, are torn and shredded from a month on the road, and he's drunkenly teetering. All of you probably smell just as badly of liquor, blood, and sweat— and your relationship has never been about appearances.
This man has sacrificed months of his life to fight by your side, lost several of his children protecting your home, and you've sworn to help him with everything you have. Every last horrific story he's shared has been hard-won. Every last drink you've shared under the stars has been another victory. No matter your differences, and no matter how badly he tries to act otherwise, you both care a great deal for each other.
Father Nicholas Pevrel, leader of the Church of Vengeance.
"Anscham." The sallow of Father Pevrel's skin is a lot healthier thanks to the last few weeks you've all spent under the sun, but is still stark and pale against his salt-and-pepper streaked hair. He looks almost as tired as you feel, and the gravel of his voice lets up only slightly when he speaks to your other companion (on a first name basis, no less). "Atticus. We're in plain sight up here, and the sun is coming up. Let's get off this hill. Back to the tree line."
By your side is your other traveling companion, Father Atticus Wilhelm, leader of the Church of Dream. As the Seer of Somerilde and Lord of Visions, he did not travel further than you and Father Pevrel combined just to make this venture a success. He's left his sons and city behind, and disgraced his reputation with his very own God just to keep you safe each night.
Last night was no exception, and this is not a man who easily misses sleep. He worships sleep. He wore his blue, embroidered pajamas and nightcap on a cross-country trip. The brunette adjusts his cigar between his white teeth, wrinkles his mustache, and looks like he's struggling not to fall asleep standing up.
Father Atticus Wilhelm, leader of the Church of Dream.
Barely managing to stifle another yawn, Father Wilhelm's mellow and warm voice is a little distorted. "Hmm…? Oh, right. Right you are!" One of his slender hands goes to the same spot Father Pevrel jabbed you at, to gently lead you into the woods. "Richard, it will be quite alright. We'll head out straight away."
His touch is reassuring, but the tension in you redoubles. The soft, kind confidence of your speech makes sure that your protests aren't heard by any of the farmers tending to their land in the distance. "We need to get moving. Please—"
No one acknowledges your pleas. Against your better judgement, you and your company march between the tree trunks and fallen boughs at your back. The dense foliage nearly exceeds the brightness of the green in your eyes. Rays of sunshine provide a little relief from the coolness of the early day, though it does nothing for the cold sweat on you.
"Neither of you were in such a rush during any one of the little detours we made." Father Pevrel narrows his lack of eyes at you, one socket twitching in irritation. "I'm not taking a single step into Wearmoor before we gather our thoughts on this matter and have a plan of action."
An exasperated sigh leaves you. "The Church of Agriculture is in league with the cult of Inertia. I've confirmed their association through the shipments of produce that arrived from— that arrived from Wearmoor's fields to my own city, in the hands of the same cultists who are responsible for the deaths of our children."
Father Wilhelm was not there with you or Father Pevrel during the last several months of bitter fighting for your holy city's safety, or the infestation of Inertia. But he knows of your affinity for plant life, your ability to gather unquestionable information from natural growth, and that you are the Lord of Honesty. The blue-eyed priest takes a long draw on his cigar. "The Church of Agriculture has been supporting Inertia, then. You're sure of it."
"Worse," Father Pevrel says. "We received the names of three clergy from within their ranks who tunneled beneath Anscham's citadel, threatening to destroy the Church of Mercy and jeopardizing the lives of hundreds within it."
"Who?" Father Wilhelm glances between you and Father Pevrel curiously.
You quickly rattle off, "Brother Gilford Woodfeller, Sister Ela Pottinger, and Brother Merek Boyce."
"I apprehended and executed Boyce, the traitor—" Your raven-haired ally grins viciously, showing his crooked, liquor-stained teeth. "I don't suppose you would care to know the details?" Father Wilhelm waves a hand to him dismissively. "Suit yourself. But the two others are still at large— and given Inertia's involvement with sparking demonic outbreaks, attempting to besmirch the good name of our theocracy, AND the loss of life that they're responsible for, I see no reason why this alone is not sufficient reason for an investigation."
You're gritting your teeth loudly enough to be heard, while looking constantly to the horizon. The issue of Inertia infesting your country's government, corrupting your people, worming into little villages and bringing down the greatest of your holy cities is not even the worst of the issue.
The reason why you're truly so on edge is that two of your most loyal friends— Clarence Chester "Chesty" Connelly and Mathers "Serpent" Ormond— offered to spy on the Church of Agriculture on your behalf. They were discovered last month through unknown circumstances, and the entire point of this venture's urgency was to rescue them. They may be heretics and criminals, but these are two of your children. You would die for these men, and you will NOT rest until you get ANSWERS.
Left: Clarence Chester "Chesty" Connelly. Right: Mathers "Serpent" Ormond. (Currently captured by the Church of Agriculture.)
"Chesty and Serpent do not deserve to wait for this—"
"We will find them, and we will rescue them, but we are NOT only here for them, Anscham." Father Pevrel fires a glance to Father Wilhelm (who is patiently smoking, keeping an eye on you all the while). A far more apologetic look goes to you. The priest of blood nervously fidgets with the hilt of his sword while he speaks. "This is the only Church in the nation to have had a vacancy for this long in an age. You both know how unusual it is. The Church of Agriculture's new 'council' has been thriving in the absence of Mother Bethaea."
"Absence—? She killed herself, and my boys are out there suffering, all because they wanted to help bring me CLOSURE—" Your voice cracks. The loss of your first mentor is still raw. It was nearly four years ago that Mother Bethaea died, but she showed you kindness. Respect. Dignity. The two of you cultivated an herb that could heal any poison, and she healed you.
"Richard." The scent of spice and smoke shifts towards you. Father Wilhelm assumes the mildest voice he can. "We've talked about this. Haven't we?"
Your volume decreases. One of your hands nervously teases the golden chain around your neck, which feels uncomfortably cold against the heat of your skin. "Yes."
"Chesty and Serpent wouldn't have offered to spy on the Church of Agriculture if they didn't know the risks. Right?"
"Yes, but—"
"And they have been through far worse, have they not? Between their misbehavior in the capital—" He's referring to the bloody civil war they took part in. Only your intervention with King Magnus saved them from execution. "—and all the rest—" Both men have incredibly sordid pasts. You have only confirmed Chesty's mercenary work, but he's hinted towards a lot worse— and you can't even imagine what led Serpent to looking the way he does. "—I think they're going to thank us for coming to help them at all. This was no small journey."
The three of you are wavering from exhaustion. The bags under your eyes are so deep, you can feel them. It's like someone's rubbed sand in your eyes, stuck knives in your joints, and put a fire under your feet. You carried elderly Father Wilhelm on your back through part of the night, even. It goes without saying that the last month of travel was no small journey, but...
"It doesn't matter." You're getting pissed, and clutch at the chain underhand tightly enough to hurt yourself. The thought of wringing the necks of anyone who's laid a hand on your boys is no small comfort.
As politely as he can, Father Wilhelm reaches over and gently pries your hand free. "I dare say it does." The priest stands a few steps away, peering through the trees to the farmland beyond. "It's at least an hour's walk through Wearmoor, if we head straight for the Church of Agriculture. I don't know if you recall, Richard, but when we visited your parents last year, I got quite the view of the City of Vitality! Spent a whole night out gallivanting with the locals. If we want to enter the Church discreetly, I could make it happen for us. We'd... well, we would still look a right mess when we arrive, but I could get us to the door without a lick of trouble."
Most clergy require a lifetime of devotion in order to be graced by the gifts of the Gods. Those who are of adequate faith can invoke their patron's ability, and in doing so, channel that God's might through their own body. Men such as yourselves can invoke their sole patron. You, and you alone are capable of invoking all of the Gods— and you have done so often enough of late to inflict pain on your soul itself. As a result, you are not one to judge, but the sanity of this proposal leaves a great deal to be desired.
Father Wilhelm is proposing invoking the God of Dream— the God of creativity, interpretation, and the night— to disguise your approach. Flippantly invoking is simply not an option for most people. It's meant to be done only in matters of life or death, and even then, only when there are no other options. You and the men in your company have the closest possible relationship with your patrons... but you and Father Wilhelm have something of a problem with the frequency in which you ask for divine intervention.
You remain silent, shoving your scarred, calloused, stinging hands in your pockets, and leave it to Father Pevrel to rant.
Father Pevrel keeps leaning to the side to look around you to the farmland beyond (as you're about twice the width of the average man, and he enjoys annoying you). Any trace of apology has fallen from him. He stops his wavering to snap, "we all have appearances to keep. If we're to make demands of this filth— these HERETICS and miserable excuses for clergy—" His respect towards the Goddess of Agriculture does not extend towards Her practitioners. "—it would behoove us to go in looking like more than wild animals." He narrows his lack of eyes at you. "You owe it to your boys to do this right. I say we find a creek somewhere to go make ourselves look remotely presentable, then find a way to sneak into the city. Showing up on their doorstep unannounced, unfazed by the trip here and out for blood should do more than scare them straight."
"A very fair observation." Father Wilhelm raises his eyebrows to the lord of fairness, who does not find the statement amusing.
Your knuckles pop from how hard you clench your fists. You're normally not such a vindictive man, but this is your children who are in danger. "There should be no illusion of what our intent is."
"We don't know if they've done anything," Father Pevrel spits.
You might punch him. "I beg your pardon—"
The look on Father Pevrel's face could kill. He drags a hand down his stubble in exasperation, and fires you a weary, equally impatient stare. "You deduced the association between goods from Wearmoor and the cult of Inertia, but that does NOT implicate every single person in this city. That DOES NOT give us a SINGLE indication of the involvement of EVERY SINGLE PERSON in this Church. I will squash out every last one of these cowards, liars, and thieves. We are here to free your boys. I will find out who is TRULY responsible for this corruption, but we will root it out at its source."
The Lord of Investigation scowls. "I will be personally investigating the death of Mother Bethaea, and corroborating my findings with any and ALL information that your boys have found on their own. Do not think for an instant that they were captured without finding something worth finding."
Father Wilhelm gives you both a cheery smile. "Right, then. Anything else?"
"Don't expect me to hold back if anything has happened to either one of them." You don't sound pissed. You sound heart-broken.
You were wrongfully blamed by many for Mother Bethaea's death, as you were her last pupil, and the two of you spent a great deal of time together. She's been heralded as a martyr across the nation, as most of the country thinks she sacrificed herself to end the centuries-long famine that plagued Corcaea before. Only a few souls know that because of Mother Bethaea's tutelage and your love of the land, you were the one that took Corcaea's curse onto yourself. It's been through unending love and devotion towards Agriculture that you found a way to destroy the curse once and for all— but no matter how much your body has healed, your heart has not been the same.
"I've lost enough to the Church— to the Church of Agriculture already."
>Welcome to Catalyst Quest!
>Our votes are a little different.
>EVERY vote matters. In many cases, I combine every vote that makes sense to do so. If that is not the case, I will explicitly say as much. This is one of those times!
>The following prompts are mutually exclusive. Majority vote will decide, barring write-ins that make sense to combine.
>I also track all votes manually. To vote, copy+paste the entire prompt you wish to select, or simply specify the letter you wish to vote for.
>This will make more sense during more complex votes later.
>A] Take up Father Wilhelm on his offer. You can't beat guaranteed stealth, and you would be the greatest hypocrite in the world to question his use of invocation. Looking like a disaster might even aid in intimidation!
>B] Father Pevrel raises several good points, and you trust his judgement in this matter completely. Go find a way to discreetly clean up, then sneak through Wearmoor and into the Church of Agriculture. The early hour is still working in your favor, both men in your company are experts at this sort of thing, you'd really like to respect the Gods, and you have ample experience with getting around in cities while disguised. (A ROLL WILL BE REQUIRED. Feel free to write-in any fun disguise ideas you have or ways you wish to bolster your strategy! Intelligent and/or creative ideas may net bonuses!)
>C] You're a diplomat. Insist that you head straight for the Church of Agriculture and ask Father Wilhelm to not invoke. You'll rely on your own skills to get there, even if looking and smelling like wild animals is going to make life a lot harder. It will save Time, you'll be respecting Dream, and your condition might help to intimidate the clergy you encounter. (A ROLL WILL BE REQUIRED. Feel free to write-in any fun disguise ideas you have or ways you wish to bolster your strategy! Intelligent and/or creative ideas may net bonuses!)
>D] The gloves are off. Get a weapon at the ready. You've intimidated demons before, and will Storm this Church. Chesty and Serpent are not waiting for another second longer than necessary, and NO ONE is standing in your way until you get to this council.
Be advised that in Catalyst Quest, decisions have consequences that could last months, years, or be permanent. Your votes matter. If it makes sense to combine votes or even discussion, I usually do.
We cover mature themes such as addiction, eating disorders, and abusive relationships frequently. Body horror is a regular part of life for a man who uses his body to channel all of the Gods.
Father Anscham is an unreliable narrator as a reflection of his experiences. You are strongly encouraged to question what you perceive!
Friends come and go, enemies will show you no Mercy, and the world will change whether or not you choose to affect it.
This is a quest about growth, compassion, and the choices you make.
Catalyst Quest is an epic-length saga, broken down into ten books (so far).
Each book is in a stand-alone thread. *You do NOT need to read from the beginning of book 1.*
Each book is fresh start, with new locations, stories, and supporting characters. The current intended starting point is the beginning of book 10: Death Defiant. Each book is then broken down into chapters, like any normal thread.
At the conclusion of each book, I create an illustrated timeline of important events. These can be found below for your reference.
LINKS
Community The Catalyst Quest Wiki, an encyclopedic reference of Catalyst Quest that anyone can edit!
Fan projects and discussion on Discord!
Major update notifications on Twitter!
Support
Follow me on Patreon for exclusive polls and early art access!
Or show your support by donating on Ko-Fi!
Quests are inherently a cooperative story telling medium. This is only possible thanks to the behavior of every participant. I reserve the right at any time to disregard, remove, or counter any posted content in this thread. This includes any votes, write-ins, discussion, or other posted material.
Civil and respectful behavior is all that I ask for! If you cannot adhere to the global rules, disrupt the thread, or for any other reasons I see fit, I reserve the right to revoke the rights to participate in Catalyst Quest from any poster at any time.
This is a passion project I am running for the joy of it. It's only thanks to the civil, polite, and downright admirable behavior of our older voters that we've come so far. Let's show them and our cooperative work the respect they deserve, and have some fun!
CONTENT WARNING
Please note: Not only will our story shift genres and locations often— it's through a troubled, anti-heroic and unreliable narrator that we most often put the 'dark' in 'dark fantasy.' Please be aware that Catalyst Quest addresses themes that may be distressing to some readers. Addiction, self harm, eating disorders, the effects of prolonged confinement, abusive relationships, and suicidal ideation are to name a few.
Reader discretion is advised.
MECHANICS
I typically use a 1d100, bo3 system for rolls. No hard success or failure states are used. Instead, I utilize ranges of percentiles, and factor in situational bonuses and/or maluses. Some of these can be found on your character sheet. Be advised that due to the wildly different challenges you will face, this is subject to change at any time. Write-ins can also make a substantial difference!
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, Reaper, 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.
Age: 25 Date of Birth: The 2nd of the Setting (or Blinding) Moon Height: 6'2'' Weight: 380lbs Hometown: Pontos Place of Residence: Eadric, Daybreak Citadel Identifying Features: Curly brown 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
Be it for the sake of disarming your enemies, protecting your friends, or achieving physical feats that other men can only dream of— you prefer to look at your self-sacrificing nature as a selfless and positive attribute.
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.
The world itself is a part of you.
"Mercy. Agriculture. I know you are with me. Guideme. 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.
"May this flower take root in the soil of my flesh. Flourish in the garden of our creation, and grow to be as beautiful as my Goddess."
The Goddess of Agriculture manifested a divine green dahlia, and gifted the flower to you. Tasting it gave you a sample of Her works. After consuming the item in full, you have received a slew of abilities that pertain to all of Agriculture's domains. The following table is nowhere near an exhaustive list, and you have been strongly encouraged to indulge in Agriculture's works whenever possible.
Positive
Ambivalent
Negative
More reliable perception.
Increase in weight, correlated mastery of growth.
Absence of restraint.
Increased virility.
Hair & eyes have reverted to a natural color and texture.
Exacerbated fixation on food and drink.
At-will resistance to poison.
Extreme sensitivity to life (and all its pleasures).
Compulsive gluttony.
Can accelerate growth.
Carries the scent of fresh herbs/flowers.
Detect life from a distance.
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."
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."
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.).
Atonement
"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."
Death made you a promise, and sealed it with a kiss.
+10 TO CHANGE IS TO GROW +20 ATONEMENT
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.
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.
Conquest
"Your life has been spent in the pursuit of demons, their meaning, and where to find love in a loveless world.
The God of Flesh wishes to reward your determination."
All actions taken that pursue your goals towards the greater good of humanity— and a cure for the Catalyst— will benefit from this bonus.
Disrespect towards Flesh, abuse of yourself, or return to behavior befitting of a demon can and will remove these gifts.
Integrity
"Your life has been spent in the pursuit of demons, their meaning, and where to find love in a loveless world.
The God of Vengeance also respects your interpretation of His will."
In recognition of your pursuit of justice, all actions taken that bring about greater fairness in the world will benefit from this bonus.
Disrespect towards Vengeance, abuse of yourself, or return to behavior befitting of a demon can and will remove these gifts.
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 had become debilitating. You currently have no soul ache, but have been wary of invocation at the risk of rekindling this malus.
Nerve Damage
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 similar events reduces this malus over time.
Sacrifice
Bonuses
Maluses
Immunity to pain.
Inappropriate at the best of times.
Can aid in intimidation.
Loss of control over actions.
Delay treatment of injury or exhaustion.
Exacerbated by urge to self-harm.
Major combative benefit.
Can run 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.).
Furor
Furor has been shaped with the gifts of Agriculture, is plated in Mercy's gold, and exists as a testament to Storm's might. This cane may only have a solid wood interior, but it possesses divine properties, enabling its soft, metal exterior to withstand current of lightning (without melting!) for extended periods of time.
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.
Recently, you converted the foundations of Daybreak Citadel into an underground Church of Agriculture. This is thanks to the root system of your entire gardens, which have been artificially grown into the bedrock of your home.
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.
Daybreak Citadel
Home.
In addition to securing the Church of Mercy, some key features are:
Apotheosis Keep: The most secure structure in the nation, along with The Solstice Keeps, Equinox Keep, and Perihelion Keep. One single priest of Flesh (Brother Garrick) was capable of holding off a siege at Apotheosis Keep's 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 usually reside. 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 Twilight 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: Repaired. 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."
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."
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.
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.
Your appearance is subject to dramatic change.
Left: Current appearance, thanks to a demonic curse to ruin your image, many invocations of Agriculture, consuming a divine green dahlia, and your personal lifestyle.
Right: Three months prior. (This is about as good as it's gotten.)
A very special thanks to @Florin, @cirno9zero, @Heliophage, @Zedalb, and @Rolen von Keng for their amazing contributions; to all of our readers and voters; to our Discord community; and to my partner for her incredible support.
>Roll 1d100.
>Because you are blessed by all of the Gods, the best of the first three rolls will be used.
>The total modifier for the winning roll will be +10.
-20 FAME (Even if you and your fellow church leaders didn't have distinctive appearances, you are three of the most recognizable men in the nation from your wealth, influence, and divine power.) -15 THE FATHER OF HONESTY (Subterfuge is not your strong point, despite how often you've needed to use it.) -10 WILD GROWTH (Though you've stayed clean and feel right at home in the deep woods, your allies are a hot mess. Even getting somewhere to discreetly clean up could be a challenge.) +15 ENCHANTED A clever disguise utilizing your enchanted robes will greatly aid in this venture! +20 THE LORD OF SHADOWS (If nothing else, you shouldn't need to worry about Father Pevrel getting to the Church undetected.) +20 PRIEST OF AGRICULTURE (There's no understating how at home you'll look in the city of growth. It should greatly assist your friends simply by association, too!)
"Let's get moving." With a heavy heart, you give an apologetic look to Father Wilhelm. "I completely trust Father Pevrel's judgement on this matter. I have a plan to get you into the city unseen. We should be— we should be just fine." You mutter to yourself as Father Pevrel resumes your demonic marching pace, straight through the thick of the woods. "This is fine."
The three of you locate an out-of-the-way bend in the Eventide River. It's no more than half an hour from your original position. The three of you get cleaned up as quickly as you can— but as you go to fetch your things from the side of the shore, you catch movement in the shrubs just around the bend.
Father Pevrel took a dagger with him into the river ("you can never be too careful"), and brandishes the blade instantly. "Shit."
You keep your position low— water up to your chin— and gesture to your allies to stay back. Father Wilhelm almost lets out a laugh. Two young boys and a small girl are all doing a terrible job of trying to hide in the woods. They're dressed like urchins, their faces are smeared with dirt, and they're looking at you as if you're the scariest things they've seen in all their lives. It's impossible to tell if they recognize you.
You fire a glance to Father Pevrel, and wordlessly indicate he needs to lower the knife. The priest reluctantly does, and the moment he's relaxed, you call out to the scamps, "good mor-!"
They take off running.
You let loose a series of wholesome curses and scramble to get to the shore. Every concession is made for modesty. It triples the amount of time it would take for you to simply charge after the rascals.
The moment you all are back on the bank— dripping wet and pissed— Father Wilhelm stops you from trying to go after them. "They'll be long gone, and we have more important concerns."
You're imagining yourself carrying Father Pevrel's coffin into the Church of Agriculture. Coping is the best thing you can do, while shrugging your shirt and trousers back on. "They may have not have— they may not have recognized us without any robes—"
"Maybe." Father Pevrel uselessly sheathes his dagger. The three of you grumble intensely. You leave your fellow church leaders to finish scrubbing the cleanest garments they have, and start scavenging in the surrounding woods for all the material you can find for a large wooden box.
It takes a matter of minutes. When you're done locating your materials, you neatly assemble the pieces, dig out some nails and a hammer from your endless satchel, and fashion the sturdiest box for honeycombs that you can manage. You're no expert in bee-keeping (despite how much Mercy teases you about being Her honeybee), but it looks convincing and is large enough for Father Wilhelm to easily crouch inside of.
The enchanted garments you usually wear are still safe and sound. They're currently in the fashion of a traveling cloak, plausibly tattered, and are still absolutely filthy from the night's hike. You place a hand to the Magical cloth.
"Protection for a bee-keeper. Cover my scars, my eyes, and my bulk, please. I need to be unrecognizable to any onlooker."
The long, dark, and tattered cloak spans the length of your body, and instantly constricts into a long-sleeved coat and pale linen trousers. The fabric is incredibly coarse, complete with a hood that covers your face. The pinks and grays of dawn are filtered through the weave of a basket over your entire face. It projects away from your features to keep any stingers at bay. The ensemble ends with a pair of tremendous, elbow-high gloves, which disappear under the full sleeves. Your long hands and thick wrists are almost disguised! There's still no escaping your height or weight, but the cut of the coat is as flattering as you could hope for. You probably look a few inches shorter and thirty pounds lighter.
You dead-pan, "buzz buzz."
Your voice is incredibly muffled. The woven mask even conceals your Church-going speech! You would smile if you weren't so stressed.
Father Wilhelm lets out a nervous laugh the instant he sees you and the box. "Points for creativity, Richard!"
"No names. Come on."
Your allies finish scrubbing down, drying off, and get situated for the trip into the city. Father Wilhelm looks like his old self again in a tasteful— albeit wrinkled— pair of sleeping pajamas, with his favorite blue smoking jacket only moderately stained from travel and fighting demons. Barring the deeper bags under his eyes and absence of a cigar, he shows no sign of complaint while climbing into the 'beehive' you've fashioned.
The man is incredibly light, compared to the boulders and trees you're used to throwing around in training back home. Reasonable fear is in the back of your mind that the sheer size of your biceps will destroy your sleeves if you flex too hard. You lean right next to the box while holding it, and mutter, "are you alright in there...?"
"As rain! Tap three times on the outside when we're close enough for me to get out, or if you need anything. I won't say another word."
The scowl on Father Pevrel's face could wilt every flower in Wearmoor's fields. He's taken the time to quickly shave and slick back his hair. Now that there's no blood caking his clothing, you can make out the black of his incredibly fine tunic and trousers (which is nowhere near as faded as you suspected). The cloak he's perpetually wearing has stopped reeking of death, and he seems to have even sobered up.
You hardly recognize him, and try not to stare as the borderline handsome priest simply tosses up the hood on his cloak for a disguise.
"This idea of yours is genius, Anscham."
"Th-thank you. I would have fashioned a hat for you, to cover your— to cover your features, but I trust that you know how to be discreet."
He pauses a moment— looking like he's going to thank you— and settles on letting up on his scowl. Seeing the priest looking so clean-cut and smiling is bizarre beyond measure.
"We're splitting up. You'll provide a welcome distraction in the streets while I sneak ahead. No one will intercept you along the way—"
"No senseless murder—"
"—and we'll reconvene on the front steps of the Church of Agriculture. Set down Atticus before any guards approach you. I'll come out from hiding if there's any trouble, and can take the heat off so you can make it to the building without any further delays. Understood?"
"Yes." You take a deep breath and adjust the weight in your arms as carefully as you can.
"Let's go."
The last time you were in the southern fields of Wearmoor, you had just escaped from one of the most traumatizing experiences of your life. You couldn't appreciate your surroundings at all. Now you're out from the tree-line, it's nearly a year later, you have come a very long way, and you can fully appreciate the beauty of the day. The gifts of your Goddesses. Mercy's light and Agriculture's land.
Pastel skies shroud the first light of morning. Strips of farmland wind across the hills like colored ribbons. Overgrown grass billows in a light and chilly wind, which you cannot feel through the dense bee-keeper's suit you're wearing. It's blocking out the smell of acres upon acres of wheat, wildflowers, and specialty crops. Past countless farms and their owners, who go about their business without paying you much mind.
At some point, Father Pevrel disappeared from view, and you try not to actively look around for him. You keep your focus on only occasionally tilting your head towards waving farmhands, children running about in spacious yards, and the occasional dog barking at your passing.
Before long, the peaks of the great holy city comes into view. You're entering through the southern gates. Wearmoor is squat and spacious— nothing like your high towers and walls back home. Here, defenses are made out of the land. Wild growth covers trellises with barbed plants. Massive barricades are constructed of fallen wood and sharpened into lethal points, doubling as weapon or rams in a pinch.
The walls of the city itself spans further than the eye can see. They wind around the perimeter of Wearmoor for miles, covered in ivy, and utterly disguising the doors beneath— save for the road leading right up to the main entrance.
The doors you're seeking are open. A steady stream of men and women going about their business filter along the dirt roads. You easily blend into the crowd of merchants, farmers, and common citizenry. Dozens of people litter the sides of the streets, talking and mingling among themselves. They're dressed in a practical fashion— simple working shirts, loose dresses, and aprons with many pockets— and their speech is simpler still. It feels like you pass by one hundred conversations regarding which crop is most favorable for the current climate and soil conditions, as you descend deeper still into the city.
You're surrounded on all sides by personal and public gardens. Plants spill out from every window. The poorest hovels have little to no space around them, on the cramped city streets. Their gardens sit atop the roof— it's likely a nightmare to keep free of snow in the season of Worship— and their humble stone walls snake with moss and ivy. More luxurious homes boast flowers and crop in small plots beside their stone buildings, or even massive tracts of land.
It's all built atop the ruins of fallen civilizations. Above the rubble, beside it, and around every wealthy home, neatly trimmed grass adds to the sea of green. You see exotic metals, glass, and gemstones littering the wealthiest of abodes. The City of Vitality is not just alive— it is truly thriving.
Just across from a stunning public pond, you're bumped into hard by a cut-purse.
Father Wilhelm erupts into a frenzy of buzzing noises, and starts shaking the basket in your arms frantically.
Without having to fake a thing, you scramble to keep hold on the box, and yell at the thief responsible. A series of sympathetic citizens come to your aid, accosting the shady-looking man. Only a single elderly woman asks if you're alright, before joining in on harassing the would-be thief.
While a fist-fight breaks out (it seems Wearmoor's citizens take each other's safety and welfare very seriously), you gently set down Father Wilhelm, confirm that the bag you're carrying under your coat is still unopened (it's untouched), and resume your course.
A colossal park is nearby, which houses a forest within the city. Sprawling farmland surrounds the collection of trees and shrubbery. Prayers to Mercy and Agriculture fall from your lips as you venture deeper still. You're well over halfway to the Church, nearest to the district that your parents inhabit. These massive expanses of land belong to only those of the highest status in the city: nobility, and those who are associated with the theocracy.
Little fences for privacy begin to cut off the view of many front doors down the main road. You're alarmed by the lack of internal walls, but realize that the labyrinthine nature of the city itself is a massive deterrent to demonic outbreaks. The people are not sectioned off from one another. They're all interconnected— and it just takes a little extra work to reach one another.
Over the tops of the trees, deep in Wearmoor's heart, and just a few more yards away from you lies the Church of Agriculture. Your arms ache nearly as much as your heart. You haven't looked on yours and Mother Bethaea's home in nearly four years, and it hasn't changed a day.
The building itself is only two stories tall, but has catacombs and cellars that run many more deeper. Grand, sweeping stone steps rises and falls in all directions. The basement doors, the main hall's stunning archways, and every last decaying tower is just as you remember it. These are not repurposed ruins, but new structures built into the wreckage. Song can be heard from within the home of fertility. Crumbling stone and moss is all around, and the air smells of growth.
The Church of Agriculture is a celebration of life, death, and everything in-between.
A monument to the domain of death stands before you. Leading up to the southern steps are the skulls of many old devotees to the Church. Each one is elevated on a stone platform, and etched onto the front of each surface are the names of your predecessors. There's a similar tribute on all eight corners of the Church's grounds, for all eight of Agriculture's aspects.
Mother Bethaea is buried in the fields to the north, so that she could be one with the Harvest, even after her passing.
You're standing still, trying to not clutch at your chest. It's a little hard to breathe thanks to the mask over your face, but you steady yourself and cross the last few steps up to the Church itself.
No guards come out to accost you. You pause a moment on the steps, standing before a massive, double-door. It's inscribed with stunning illustrations of skulls and flowering bodies.
Your chest is aching.
From the shadows of the archway beside you, Father Pevrel hisses, "this is perfect. Set down Atticus. Let's make an entrance."
The priest of shadow blends so well into the darkness, he's practically invisible. You manage to not jump out of your skin. As gently as you can, you set down Father Wilhelm, and tap three times on the top of the box.
The elderly man still waits a moment to move. He sounds incredibly sore. "How was I? All clear?"
"You were remarkable, and— and, no. Wait just a moment." You're fidgeting hard with one of your gloves. "They must still permit anyone in the city entry. It's been years since I last visited, but I remember this much. We'll need to locate their leadership once we're inside. They're most likely at the center of the building, if they're not— if they're not out working."
Father Pevrel comes just enough out from the shadows to fire you a look. It's the kind of look that says 'I know how much this means to you. Take the lead if you want to.'
>A] Change into the garb of the leader of the Church of Mercy and politely open the door. You're going to not make any assumptions or put anyone in danger unnecessarily. See if you'll be taken to the council presiding over the Church of Agriculture civilly and calmly. Father Pevrel raised some excellent points about not implicating every person here. You don't want to involve anyone you don't have to with all this mess.
>B] This is just as much your home as it is any of the clergy here, and you're going to make it clear that you're not fucking around. Change into the garb of a priest of the Church of Agriculture, open the damn door, and demand to be taken to whoever is in charge. You have a laundry list of reasons to be here, and you're starting with the safety and security of your boys.
>C] You're too upset to give a shit. Get back to wearing something befitting of the leader of the Church of Mercy, but let Father Pevrel and Father Wilhelm take the lead on this.
You're not going to break down. You're not going to break down.
A quick glance over your shoulder confirms that no one is paying you any mind.
Standing in front of Father Wilhelm so that he's partially blocked from the street, you place a steady hand to your enchanted robes. You're split every which way, and barely manage to breathe. "My old clothes— what I wore on my last visit to the Church of Agriculture. Make it in the color of my office, with— with green and black accents. A promise of what's to come." The tension in your voice softens. "Something that Agriculture would adore."
In a matter of seconds, the bee-keeper's hood and wicker mask twists into a long hood draped across your broad back. A high black collar is the only indication of your silk shirt, as it's shrouded beneath a set of impossibly fine holy vestments. The golden weave is enchanting, from the layers of cloaks and sleeves all the way down to the excessive fabric gathering at your feet. At every hem, about your neck, and in slimming patterns along your torso is intricate embroidery, all done up in ebony. If you weren't mistaken, you'd say that the pattern mimicked very small swords. Dark, stitched forests span along the length of the design, in a dizzying recreation of the wilderness you've come to know and love.
You can't help but turn slightly and admire your robes. They're fitted enough to resemble what you used to wear, but concessions have obviously been made to flatter your body type. You're not complaining. It's possibly the nicest thing you've ever worn, save for what you'd put on for a sermon.
Father Wilhelm is back on his feet. He elbows you gently. "They look much better on you than me, Richard."
You can't bring yourself to grin, but move to open the double doors. "Thank you."
"Hey." Father Pevrel moves out from the shadows.
Your friends flank you on either side. With a mighty heave, you push open the entrance to the Church of Agriculture.
Green assaults you from all directions. The interior of the building has changed since your last visit. The ceilings are repaired, though they're spotted with glass windows in many places to let even more daylight in. The wing stretches back further than the eye can see, in part because of the windowed door at the end of the hall. Between the countless ivy-coated pillars, full planters, ponds, and bushes is hardwood flooring. The entire structure must have been an expense beyond compare. The current leadership can't seem to help but flaunt their power and wealth.
Once you and your allies are safely inside, you quickly close the monstrously heavy doors. They slam shut with a THUD that grabs the attention of a nearby priestess, who's dutifully watering some of the bushes.
The tan and curvaceous brunette drops her watering can at the sight of you and instinctively takes several steps backwards. She nearly trips on her pale-green robes. "F-Fathers—"
You put a hand out to stop Father Pevrel from moving any closer towards the terrified thing. Before either of your companions can do any damage, you say, "good morning, Sister."
"G-good m-morning." She brushes some of her overgrown bangs out from her eyes, trying to gather her composure.
"We have business with your leadership. Who can speak with us here and now?"
It's like you've asked her to name every star in the sky. She has to think on the matter for several agonizing seconds, then finally looks towards a door to the west. It's covered in so much ivy, you could have easily missed it.
"Sister Jolland. Our benefactor of Generosity. She should be—" She's wincing, and obviously can't remember the location of whoever it is that you could talk to. "It might be easier for me to show you where she is." She's already hiked up the bottoms of her robes, righted the watering can, and is striding towards the western door. "Right this way."
You and your companions exchange quick glances with one another before following after her.
You're taken into a narrow corridor positively brimming with plant life. Doors line the corridor on every side. It's incredibly bright, thanks to the lighting coming from the ceiling. Your guide ducks into the fourth door on the left, but leaves it propped open.
The second you emerge into the next hallway, you're greeted by a descending staircase at the end of a vast indoor park. There's a fair number of clergy standing about, tending to the growth on the walls or lost in prayer— all full-figured, dressed in green, with ruddy complexions from hours spent drinking and working under the sun— who jump out of their skin at the sight of you and your companions.
Father Wilhelm raises a hand. His mild speech somehow fills the entire room. "Carry on with your business, please."
At least ten more heads must perk up at the opposite end of the chamber.
Your guide takes off at a blistering pace, heading straight for the stair. You all follow suit, drawing the stare of every other person in the chamber. At least three clergy must have taken off to let others know of your arrival.
By the time you're at the bottom of the stair, you can make out whispers throughout the entire ground floor.
You all continue winding through increasingly complex corridors and rooms, drawing no small amount of attention. The moment it looks like Father Pevrel is about to protest or demand an explanation for how long the walk is taking, the priestess who's been leading you stops at a grand, mahogany door.
Carvings of acts of charity adorn the entire piece. It would be heart-warming in any other situation.
Your guide raps twice on the exotic surface. "Kate! Katelyn, open up!"
A mellow, exceedingly friendly call can be heard from the other side. "Hmmm? Motte, is that you, dear? What's the matter?"
Shuffling of papers. Someone's coming.
Father Pevrel can't stand the pleasantries, and barks, "on behalf of King Magnus the Merciful, by order of Father Richard Anscham, leader of the Church of Mercy, I— Father Nicholas Pevrel, Justiciar of Corcaea— demand—!"
The door opens. A short and squat woman— no younger than 70 years of age— looks up to you and your allies. Her button nose is littered with freckles from a lifetime in the sun, and her wrinkles indicate many years of laughter. Her thin, white hair is done up in a messy bun, which is being held up by a string of green ribbon. It matches the emerald of her robes, and contrasts nicely with the gray in her small eyes.
Sister Jolland smiles at you all, nods to Motte, and pats her once or twice on the leg. "Thanks for the help. You should get back to the greenhouse."
The priestess nods, curtsies deeply to you and your fellow church leaders, then takes off at such a brisk stride that she's practically running.
The old woman before you is still smiling sweetly, leaves the door open, and heads back into her office. "Tea?"
"No." Father Pevrel's grimace darkens the hallway. He takes bold strides forward without a single glance back.
"No, thank you." A small nod from Father Wilhelm, as he takes a few steps into the room.
You know it's literally heresy to refuse, you have an innate resistance to poison (just in case), you absolutely love tea, and you could really use something to decompress with. "Please. Sister Jolland—"
"Katelyn's fine, Father. Kate, if you prefer. Is bluebell fine?"
You blink once or twice. The flower-covered office is sparsely decorated. At least eight plush armchairs are all arranged neatly in a circle around a large and low table. On it are ledgers in every size and shape. Piles of coin from Calunoth are stacked up in neat little rows, and a vast assortment of currency from past ages is organized near the end of the table atop a single green cloth. Beside the strange coinage is a teapot in the shape of a heart. There are no holes or windows in the ceiling here, but scented candles and oils create a heady perfume throughout the brightly lit space. Half a dozen teacups are scattered about— some stained badly from frequent use— and Katelyn is trying to find a clean one for you to use.
"Bluebell isn't native to Corcaea." You're in something of a daze, trying to remember if you'd wandered through this room before during your last visit.
"We introduced it quite recently!"
"You don't mean the vine...?" You can't help but stare as the old woman locates a cup ("aha!") and gestures happily for you all to have a seat. You take a seat and assume a firm, level, and respectful tone. "Sister Katelyn."
She laughs a little, but quickly quiets down. "You can call me whatever you like. What's the trouble?"
A deep blue tea is poured into your cup. It smells of exotic fruit— coconut, possibly— and lemon.
"We are here to seek justice for those hurt by the misuse of Agriculture's blessings." You take your teacup, and watch as the liquid changes from midnight to a fine shade of amethyst. You narrow your eyes. "Magic...?"
Sister Jolland looks a little offended. "Goodness, no. Bluebell vines, just as you suspected. They have a curious interaction with lemon." She takes a sip, and looks between you and your fellow priests. Father Wilhelm reluctantly sat down, and Father Pevrel looks like he could kill the priestess as any moment. "What's happened...?"
It looks like every gear in Father Pevrel's head is turning. You keep your eyes on the room, but sip at the damn tea. There's no poison.
It's fucking delicious. Woody, earthy, and full of citrus. The bluebell vine— also known as butterfly pea— symbolizes an attachment to the divine. It's known for stress relief and to increase productivity levels.
Appropriate for a woman who seems to be running the Church's finances.
This is way too distracting for your liking. You set down an empty cup and stare down Sister Jolland.
"Obstructing the work of the Church of Vengeance is more than treason, Sister. If you withhold any information from myself or my colleagues, you condemn your very soul. I will ask you once— and on behalf of Vengeance, the lord of judgement, and all that is good and holy— pray that I do not have to ask you again. Do you know the whereabouts of Clarence Chester 'Chesty' Connelly or Mathers 'Serpent' Ormond?"
A worried, vacant, and extremely apologetic stare glimmers back at you. It's the look of a mother who's seen another parent in pain, who doesn't have the faintest idea of how to help. "I don't—" Father Pevrel makes such an abhorrent face, the priestess nearly stops talking. "—but if you will permit me to, I would gladly gather everyone who might. I take it that this is a matter you don't want the whole Church talking about?"
You're not going to kill this woman on the spot, but you're going through a lot. You barely manage to keep a steady tone. "No. I will need to speak with the other members of your council, Sister. Now."
The tone of your voice, Father Pevrel's body language, and everything you'd said to this small and feeble woman has her scooting slightly back in her chair. "I will gladly tell you where they all are. I can't gather them at once. Brother Morgan and Sister Tait are conducting funeral services, seeing to the dead across town. They're on the outskirts of the city. I can give you directions. Brother Hillbrush—"
Your heart skips a beat. You were told by one of Brother Hillbrush's allies that he was in need of your aid over a month past. You knew that Bobert had a high position in the Church of Agriculture, but nothing like this.
"—Brother Townsend, and Brother Foster are all in the fields. They might be together— they often are. And Sisters Schafer and Isolda are out and about town, aiding in childbirth. They might have not moved since this morning, but I can give you the names and places of every mother they're expecting to see today."
"That's it?" Father Pevrel's scowl deepens. "Only eight?"
"Yes, just eight. We each do our best to represent an aspect of Agriculture's will. There are many more who we teach, and we all serve the Church as best as we can." A terribly sad look lingers on you.
Father Pevrel firmly grabs you by the arm, and spits towards Sister Jolland, "excuse us."
While you're practically dragged to the corner of the office, Father Wilhelm stays in place, keeping a firm eye on the priestess in question. He came along on the trip to ensure its success, but you had never considered exactly what he had in mind. Intimidation was not your first guess.
"She is not to leave the building under any circumstances." Father Pevrel's whispers have a lot less liquor on them than usual. He might be trying to cut back on drinking. Maybe he's just taking this job that seriously.
Coconut water and citrus makes your words far sweeter than they should be. "You can't expect to lock down the entire Church."
"Watch me." He fires a miserable glance to the priestess (she is sitting quietly and patiently), then back to you. "Bringing us out of the Church and into the city is a recipe for disaster. We'll be alerting every one of our enemies to your location. I say you interrogate these groups in the smallest numbers you can, as fast as you can— preferably individually— and see where they slip. Have Wilhelm escort anyone back to the Church of Agriculture who's willing to leave. Keep a close fucking eye on the ones who refuse to go. I trust you can handle that much, while I stay here."
"You are not seriously going to try and investigate the entire Church on your own—"
"Watch me." He narrows his eye sockets at you. "Or rather, don't. We don't need to be up each other's asses for this. Not unless you think anyone would be bold enough to try and kill you on the spot— and let's be frank— who in their right mind would try? These cowards have been working as hard as they can to protect themselves. They're not going to go fucking that all up now. Especially not now."
You speak with the moon and stars. A prophecy granted to you by Dream. You couldn't have completely understood it at the time, but you certainly do now.
"The base is hale, but the uppermost branches have rotted."
Everyone in the room stares at you. Sister Jolland looks terrified.
You all know what needs to be trimmed.
>Choose one prompt from AandB.
>C and D are optional.
>A] You need to figure out how to handle this situation, and you have two invaluable friends by your side. (1, 2, and 3 are mutually exclusive. Majority vote will decide.)
>1] You're all sticking together, no matter what. Drag Father Pevrel away from here kicking and screaming if necessary.
>2] Father Pevrel should stay in the Church of Agriculture to conduct his own investigation. You'll go with Father Wilhelm into the city, and the two of you will stick together.
>3] Father Pevrel should stay in the Church of Agriculture, and Father Wilhelm should split up from you in the city to cover the most ground possible. You'll go it alone.
>B] Looks like your cover is blown. Getting to these other council members as quickly as possible would behoove you. (You'll get more specific directions for whoever you decide to pursue. 1, 2, and 3 are mutually exclusive. Majority vote will decide.)
>1] Head for the farmers. Brother Hillbrush is with them, and you want to get in contact with your ally as soon as humanly possible.
>2] Go for the funerary workers. It will probably be a short affair to get them away from their work.
>3] Track down the midwives. It will take you the longest by far to pull them away from their work, and they're probably not even in the same place.
>C] You're not done with Sister Jolland. (Write-in anything else you want to ask, say, or do while you're here.)
>D] Write-in. (Any other strategy you wish to employ while in the city, things you want to do in the Church first, etc. Subject to QM approval.)
You gesture for Father Wilhelm to come over and join you and Father Pevrel in your huddle. Sister Jolland pours herself another cup of tea with shaking hands while the three of you whisper to one another.
"I see no reason why the three most powerful leaders of our nation need to stick together, at a time like this." You're given a shrug from Father Wilhelm and a modest, averted gaze from Father Pevrel. Before either man can protest, you insist, "Father Pevrel, you must conduct your investigation in the Church of Agriculture."
He actually smiles at you. "I will."
"Father Wilhelm and I will take to the streets and round up these other... benefactors." A hard look lingers on Father Wilhelm. "You are not to go after whichever one of these priests specializes in poison. I want both of you to refrain from imbibing anything, from touching any surfaces with your bare hands, or from entering any areas without fresh air if you can help it. There is no such thing as a universal treatment for poison. If you come to harm, find a way to contact me. Gods forbid, but if you come to harm from any poison, do NOT try to..." You run through about twenty different measures that your friends can take to reduce the impact of things like contact poison in the eyes or inhalation of poisonous fumes. They patiently and respectfully listen to the entire explanation.
"...Father Wilhelm, I'm counting on you to get to these priests and priestesses as quickly as possible. If you— if you truly get into trouble—"
"Don't worry yourself, Richard." With a smile that would put any hooligan to shame, he gives you a pat on your shoulder.
You breathe a sigh of relief. "I know you'll make a mess if things get dire."
"You can count on it!"
"We bought ourselves a good deal of Time in using disguises on the way here. Father Pevrel, in the worst case scenario—"
The Lord of Wrath breaks free from the huddle just enough to crack his knuckles, out-classing the mischief of Father Wilhelm's smile. "Yes?"
"If push comes to shove? You can hold this old bitch hostage." Both of your allies give you a shocked stare. "What? I told you both, I want there to be no illusions regarding our purpose here. If we need to make an exchange, so be it."
Father Pevrel slicks his hair back further. His hairline is in shockingly good shape for his age and stress levels. "I knew you had it in you. Go on, then."
"One more thing." You turn towards Sister Jolland, raising your voice back to a conversational level.
The aging priestess gently sets down her teacup. "Yes, Father Anscham?"
"You were described to me as the Benefactor of Generosity. What titles do your fellows bear?"
"There's quite a few of them, dear—"
"I have an excellent memory."
"Full names and titles, then! Right." Katelyn folds her hands on her lap, her gray eyes looking a little up and to the left while she tries to recall everything. "Brother Tathan Morgan is our Chief Administrator of Poison. You'll find him in the homes bordering the western market district, well, administering antidotes for a nasty illness that's plagued that area for the last few days. Sister Petronilla Tait should be with him. She's our Head Undertaker of the Dead, but she may have already left Tathan to help with funeral services. Check the western cemeteries if she's gone. We don't expect her to try to see to the whole city all at once, but she certainly does try."
Pausing just a moment to sip at her tea, Sister Jolland closes her small eyes. The stress of you and your allies standing around, staring her down with blood-lust written all over you can't be helping her memory.
"Brother Bobert Hillbrush is a bit peculiar— he doesn't care for titles, so his old position as a Cultivator of the Earth is what he prefers to go by. With any luck, he'll be with Brother Tybalt Townsend and Brother Everard Foster. Tybalt is our Premial of Bounty— it's a bit of a joke, as no one ever knows just what a 'Premial' is supposed to mean until he gets mad and explains it— and Brother Everard is our Master of the Harvest. He lives up to the title, as I'm sure you've noticed!"
No one laughs, or does so much as crack a smile.
"They're all thick as thieves," Katelyn quietly says. "I'm not certain which fields you'll find them in, but they shouldn't be far apart."
A long sigh leaves the priestess. "And of course we have Sister Renne Schafer. Just so you aren't too surprised, Fathers, everyone calls her the 'Mother of Fertility.'"
Addressing anyone other than a Church leader by 'Mother' or 'Father' as a title is sacrilege. You wince on instinct.
Father Pevrel, Justiciar of Corcaea, tightens his hold on the hilt of his sword. "Excuse me?"
"They don't mean anything by it. I just wanted to let you know. She doesn't encourage them, either."
The Lord of Prosecution keeps a hand on the hilt of his weapon. His knuckles are white. "We'll have a few words."
"And Ethel— or 'Sister Ethelreda Isolda'— it's a mouthful, isn't it?" Katelyn gives you a weary look. "Ethel is our Bringer of Life. I do hope she doesn't give you any trouble. Feisty, that one is."
You linger one second longer, committing every moniker and minor detail to your impeccable memory. "Thank you, Sister. Is there anything else I should know— I should know about any of these clergy members, or of anything in the city...?"
"The northern districts are holding a Harvest festival later this afternoon. If you don't hurry, you'll probably miss Tybalt. He'll be expected to help with the event."
"An apology will have to be issued for his absence. We won't be missing one another." You move for the door, giving an appreciative nod to Father Pevrel. He returns it with a vicious grin. Father Wilhelm goes to leave with you, while you ask, "is there a faster way to the fields from here?"
"Take the center-most hall or door in every chamber 'til you see the sky, Father. The fields should be in plain sight from there."
You and Father Wilhelm discreetly leave the room together. He agrees to go after the two midwives first— Ethel and Renne— and reassures you (at least twenty times) during the walk to the fields that he can handle whatever they can dish out. If for whatever reason you're held up, he'll only go after Sister Tait, the Undertaker. The Administrator of Poison is left up to you.
After passing through what feels like the hundredth room of green dining tables and gardens, after dodging dozens of clergy trying to ask you both questions or greet you, beyond ample tributes to your Goddess, and fully immersed in the feeling that this place does not feel like home without Mother Bethaea, you and your ally come to a halt.
The fields of the Church of Agriculture can be seen in the distance. Orchards in every shade are in full bloom. Fields of wheat wave in the morning breeze, which has warmed into a blustering gale. Ordinary men and women can be seen hard at work, intermingled with clergy who are just as dutifully tending to the land. Plenty of them are hidden behind trellises and plant life. It's going to be an ordeal finding Brother Hillbrush, but you're determined beyond all measure to make the most of your Time.
Father Wilhelm takes you into a firm hug, patting you on the back several times. He feels frailer than usual— likely because of how little sleep you're both running on, the venture here inside of a wooden box, and the sheer amount of work that's ahead of both of you.
"Take care of yourself, Richard." He hasn't pulled away from the hug. You know he's worried sick about you.
You hate to make promises that you can't keep. "Thank you. Please look— please look after yourself, too."
You move to part ways outside. Emerging from the Church of Agriculture and into the fresh air whips the excess fabric of your robes horizontally. The wind is intense, ruffling your hair and bringing water to your eyes almost instantly. You give a weary look to the gray clouds looming on the horizon.
"Mercy."
Father Wilhelm grabs at his nightcap, just barely keeping it from flying off his head. Keeping one hand to his hat, he gives you a wave and sets out for the city streets. "Blessed be the day, Richard!"
As luck would have it, the first group of citizens you approach do not hate you (given your shattered reputation across the country), nor do they seem to take issue with your physical appearance. On the contrary! It would seem that the sharp departure from your old appearance— primarily the sheer amount of weight you've put on in the last several months— does a great deal to put Wearmoor's citizens at ease. It's probably because you no longer look like a walking corpse. Furthermore, while the curse on you (from a demon of interpretation) may make you come across as a lecher and a glutton, in a city of fertility that worships lovemaking and excess, that seems to not be such a bad thing.
You're given swift directions towards Brother Hillbrush. He's in the same vicinity as Brother Townsend and Brother Foster, but they are working independently, and that is exactly what you were hoping for.
The fastest pace you can take without raising alarm is quite fast. Your long strides get you across a few acres of land, far from the prying eyes of the Church of Agriculture, and into a field of wheat. You're surrounded by strips of fallow, dozens of citizens hard at work with sickles, and far off in the distance is the barn you were pointed towards.
The humble wooden structure has been fortified with stone and spikes, to double as shelter for anyone out in the field during an outbreak. The scent of grain and manure is a little rough on your senses. You may have been ruins-diving many times, are a fighter, and grew up in the country, but you've gone soft in every conceivable way during the last few years. Nostalgia for the countryside undercuts your nausea from grief and old memories as you approach the barn.
A wooden floor is set up in an open area of the barn. Scattered on it are countless stalks of wheat, all which have already been stripped of their grain. A few women are scattered about, gathering up the fallen wheat in wide, shallow baskets. The culprits of the harvest are standing off to the side, wielding threshers. It's a handful of hulking men and one behemoth, talking enthusiastically among themselves.
The tallest of the men must have three inches on your substantial height, and looks to be almost as wide as you are. With a full beard strung up in green string, a coat made of animal furs, and a tunic that could easily dress two ordinary men, this must be none other than Brother Bobert Hillbrush. He's carrying some sort of hand-carved staff in an exotic wood that's radiating value. Bandages are along the tips of all of his dirt-caked fingers. In fact, just about every inch of the man has some sort of dirt on him. The knees of his coarse trousers and the patches on his elbows are caked in grass stains and earth. His neatly trimmed hair is a hard contrast to the fullness and length of his beard, which comes down to the middle of his chest, and is wider than the roundness of his face. It does nothing to hide the broadness of his nose, his ridiculously bushy eyebrows, or his squinty eyes. Even when he's frowning at you— trying to figure out just who on earth is approaching his workers— he almost seems to be smiling.
Your unmet ally excuses himself from the company he's keeping and strides right towards you. You realize his green tunic is actually a set of very shortly shorn robes. He's no doubt modified his holy vestments to not be an obstruction while he works.
The two of you meet halfway, out of earshot of the barn, but in plain sight of the workers here. You're looked up and down.
With a voice that could make the very earth quake, Brother Hillbrush says, "what's going on, big boy?"
>A] "Can we find a more discreet location to speak?" Make no illusions that you both are on the same page, in serious peril, and have a lot to go over. You trust that this priest won't lead you astray, and you will give him the full picture as soon as you can.
>B] "I'm here because of Jon." The man who gave you the information you have regarding Bobert— Jon Meadows, a former priest of the Church of Agriculture— was not the most reliable informant. See how Bobert reacts to this information before you do anything else.
>C] "With due respect sir, you're bigger than me." Politics is REALLY not your forte, but you're learning. You'll keep this as respectful as you can, will try to not be too stuffy, and won't lay all your cards on the table at once. Bobert may disclose some information first that will negate the need for you to tread so carefully, too.
>D] Write-in. (Feel free to add ways to bolster the prompts, or anything you want to suggest on your own.)
A little correction couldn't hurt. "Father Richard Anscham, leader of the Church of Mercy." You fire a quick glance over your shoulder, then back to Bobert's amused expression. "Can we find a more discreet location to speak in, big man?"
"Sure thing," he says, giving a simple wave to the farmhands at his back. There's no questions, no pomp, no ceremony. The council member simply sets off walking to the north-east without another word.
You have to practically jog to match the behemoth's pace, even though he seems to be casually strolling.
As you both proceed through the wheat fields and into the city beyond, Bobert glances down to you on occasion. He seems caught between extreme amusement and mild concern. "The place we're headed is mighty loud. You could shout from the rooftop and nobody would hear what's bein' said. It's safe. You shouldn't have to worry about a thing."
The two of you quickly leave the outer bounds of the Church of Agriculture, the fields and the fallow. You're alarmed to no end by the lack of walls between the public and the Church's grounds.
Before long, you emerge into a derelict portion of the city. "Keep as close as you like." Your companion gives you another concerned look. "Not that you can't handle yourself. I figure you'd rather not be recognized anywhere."
You put up your long, beautifully embroidered hood. Given your dramatic change in build since your last visit to Wearmoor, you could easily be mistaken as a priest of Agriculture (in a priest of Mercy's robes) before anyone would think of you as the leader of the Church of Restraint. Though, given your propensity for peculiar fashion, anyone with half a brain should be able to put two and two together if they get a look at your face. You wind up staying relatively close to Bobert, who is carrying no fewer than two hatchets on his waistband, several flagons and vials of mysterious liquids, and smells thoroughly like freshly tilled earth.
Winding through dusty alleyways, passing by dilapidated homes, evading the curious eyes of squatters and urchins, you ultimately cross no more than four people who really scrutinize your passing. Bobert keeps his head held high, and before long, you're out of the gloomier side of the city, just on the edge of proper civilization.
Warmer houses, roaring hearths, clothes hung out to dry, and another large public park stands on one side of a narrow street. It's nowhere near a main road. On the other side of the street is the slum you just passed through. Between these two areas lies a single, run-down inn. It's one story tall: a long house with a slightly flat roof. At its peak are gorgeous, dyed flags in various shades of green. At its base are many scarcely-lit windows, thanks to what must be low burning candles within. It's cozy, save for the screeching of amateur musicians coming from within the building. Their performance isn't terrible. Far from it. It's simply so loud, you can't hear your own thoughts.
Bobert continues striding towards the building, using his staff as a walking stick. He shouts over the din, "The Scheming Beaver!"
"The what?!"
"The place is called 'The Scheming Beaver'! Don't ask me why! Storytellers and music-players alike come from miles 'round to practice here! Mawd is too sweet to throw any one of 'em out, no matter the hour— come on, we'll talk more inside!"
Brother Hillbrush strides ahead of you, ducking slightly to enter the front door of the building. A small bell chimes from the top of the doorway, adding to the already insufferable noise level. You hurry behind the priest, only to be assaulted by an uproar of cheers and shouts when Bobert becomes visible to the crowd inside.
"Long time, no see!" A red-faced gentleman pries himself away from smooching the woman in his arms, swinging a full mug of beer towards Bobert's general direction. The patron is at one of the many low tables and chairs running along the length of the long-house, peppered with bowls of stew, mugs of strong-smelling beer, and citizens minding their own business. Most of them don't look up at the new source of commotion.
An overweight woman in three aprons and a light brown dress stops dusting off mugs to put her hands on her hips. Standing behind a counter deep in the inn, her crooked smile is just barely visible in the low lighting. "Bob, you old shit, where have you been?"
"It's only been two days, Mawd." Bobert has already gently nudged your shoulder, urging you to take a quick right. There's an assortment of empty, darkly lit tables, far enough from the door to draw zero attention to anyone not looking for you both. "Far too long! Get me something to drink, will you?"
"Another round—!" Several patrons at the center of the inn holler.
"Business this afternoon, can't stay long!" A wave of Bobert's bandaged hand elicits several groans. "I'll be back, don't you worry!"
You're roughly nudged towards the deepest, furthest table in the tavern. With any luck, not a soul noticed you enter, let alone your identity. You keep your hood up and your face down— towards the wall— while the innkeeper comes over with four overflowing mugs of ale.
A little coin changes hands. The priest says in a low voice, "thanks. Think the music'll keep up?"
"I'll make sure of it." You can practically hear Mawd wink. She's off in a huff, and within seconds the volume in the inn redoubles.
You really can't help yourself— it's been hours since you last ate or drank anything, and Father Pevrel has been holding you to a demonically strict diet— so you take up one of the mugs with a look of serious gratitude. "With respect to Time—"
He clinks his mug against yours, taking care not to spill anything onto the table. "And with respect to Agriculture."
The two of you go at the liquid bread for several breathless seconds. The drink was made with the wheat from the fields just beyond the way. Its quality is obscene. An unspoken contest has you both quaff your entire drink, then slam down an empty mug at the exact same time.
The priest of excess gives you a hard, respectful look, catching the way you're eyeing the last of the mugs to the side of the table while still breathless from the first. He leans a fair bit over the table— blocking both drinks from view— and is close enough to speak in a conversational tone. "Right, then. Time's a wastin'."
You remember how to breathe, then sigh deeply. "My city, Eadric—" He gives you a small nod of recognition. "—came under attack from members of the cult of Inertia. We fought bitterly. My entire city was up in flames during the worst of it, on what we're calling the 'Night of Embers.' The deaths..." You're getting side tracked. One hand nervously fiddles with a splinter on the table, while the other clutches at the robes over your knees. "The work of Inertia has caused untold loss of life. They had tunneled beneath the entirety of Eadric, with the help of three members of the Church of Agriculture."
Bobert's eyes narrow, but he doesn't interrupt.
"Brother Merek Boyce, Sister Ela Pottinger, and Brother Gilford Woodfeller are the accused. Brother Boyce is dead."
A flash of grief cuts across their Brother's features. "The Church of Vengeance...?"
"Father Pevrel came from Mauseburg to personally oversee Eadric's prosecution. He killed Brother Boyce the same night that he nearly brought about the fall of Daybreak Citadel. Over one hundred clergy from the Church of Vengeance had marched from the north to my city— yet despite their best efforts, they did not locate all three clergy of Agriculture. Sister Pottinger and Brother Woodfeller are still at large. They are wanted for— they are wanted for crimes against the theocracy, Brother Hillbrush. I am not here for them today, but Father Pevrel is."
Stress and weariness shows in every fine line on the man's features. "They haven't been home in months. Gil's family has been worried sick." There's an undercurrent of rage behind the way he's staring at his mug. The handle might not stand the strain of him gripping it so tightly. "We sent good men and women to search for him. This sounds exactly like what I've feared."
"Like what you feared...?"
"He's never far from trouble. I've been beginning to think the worst."
"I— I'm so sorry. Father Pevrel will be conducting an investigation within the Church of Agriculture, largely due to the findings I made while still in Eadric. He will get to the bottom of all of this— as will I. Inertia's actions have caused a famine throughout the nation. My people have been starving. Across the nation, our people have been starving—"
You give a bitter look to the ale flowing freely here, and move around Bobert's arm to drag your second mug over. "Inertia required wares just like any other fighting force, given their prolonged occupation of my city. We— Father Pevrel and I— located and confiscated the goods that they buried below Eadric. Many of their wares came from here. Straight from the fields of the Church."
Another quiet, weary look. "How would you know that?"
You look up from nursing your beer with a small smile. "Agriculture wills it."
Nothing else needs to be said.
Brother Hillbrush glances over his shoulder to the rest of the inn. No one is paying either of you any mind.
"What did you do, then? About the goods?"
"Once I deduced that Inertia was receiving goods from Wearmoor's fields, we set the trip here in motion. Nothing short of confronting your leadership would suffice. I intend to speak with your entire council today, Brother Hillbrush— but I was hoping that we could speak alone, first."
You set down a half-full mug. "Is there anything you would like to tell me?"
Another, slower look is made over the priest's hulking shoulder. When Brother Hillbrush looks back, all you can see is the fear in his eyes.
"I need your help."
You relax your hold on your mug. "That is exactly why I am here."
Bobert leans in closer. The scent of quality beer is thick in the air. "I was only recently put on the council— it's been less than a few months. But things have been like this for years. You remember how it was, don't you? Back when Phyllis— sorry, Mother Bethaea— was still with us?"
The few months you spent in the Church of Agriculture were under Mother Bethaea's dutiful, overly protective eye. She kept you extremely close, and strongly encouraged you to not mingle with the other clergy members in the building. Your self-esteem was so low at the time, you hadn't considered that it was for your protection.
"I can't— it's difficult to say."
"Well— that's a damn shame, you know that?"
"...yes."
"Don't take it too hard. I'm sure she wanted what was best for you."
You're not going to tear up in front of this man, and assume the straightest face you can. "Thank you."
"Right, well— things have always been tricky here at home. By which I mean there's some real sour grapes. Mother Bethaea tried pruning what she could, but, well—" He leans closer. "If I'm to be perfectly honest, Father—" The sudden use of your title puts a cold sweat on the nape of your neck. "I don't think there was any fair play in her death at all."
You stopped breathing at some point. "Please elaborate."
"If I'm to be honest, I've been working my way up and into the nastiest bits of it for most of my life. She deserved better. We all did. I don't have the full picture, but I think that what... whoever, whatever was responsible for her death— that they're not wrapped up in this Inertia business at all."
"What?"
"I'd never even heard of Inertia until just a few weeks back. They've been as underground as it gets. Killin' a Church leader— that isn't something you do every day. Not something that a group does when they're trying to stay as out of sight and mind as possible. I don't think it was this group who worships a lack of effort. I think something even stronger was what led to her death."
Bobert suddenly grabs at the mug on the edge of the table, takes a huge swig, and stares you down. "I'm goin' to drive you crazy changing the subject back to this, but we need to talk about Inertia first. If these rats think they can chew through the Church's coffers, they have another thing coming. And if they're involved with anyone at the top, I've got to know. When did you say you found these supplies?"
"...one month and fifteen days ago."
"And what condition were they in?"
"The oldest had traveled from across the sea, and were— and were many weeks old. The newest came straight from Wearmoor's fields as recently as— as recently as three weeks past. There was a great deal in-between."
"Sounds to me like they're taking resources from everywhere they could get at, Father. It sounds to me like they have other allies, too. They might be scraping the bottom of the barrel here, and working with some other places who would better help their cause elsewhere— if you catch my meaning."
He's implying that not only is the Church of Agriculture's lower ranking members to blame for the catastrophe with Inertia, but that the Church of Storm is involved with this affair. The organization dedicated to the worship of travel and turmoil. You know that the Church of Storm is involved beyond any doubt, but showing your entire hand to Bobert is not what you had in mind. Not until you know that he could be trusted.
"This might not be a problem with the very top of the Church of Agriculture, but even if it isn't, I'd like to help you." The priest narrows his beady eyes and holds an open hand out across the table. The symbol of the Church of Mercy. You're meant to join hands, in a gesture of faith and goodwill. "If you'd allow me. I can tell you've got a lot more on your mind, and I don't want to overstep myself, but this is all too important not to. "
>A] Take his hand. Give Brother Hillbrush the full picture, in return for any and all information he's willing to divulge. You'll work together as equal partners.
>B] Keep your hands to yourself. There's something here that's really off. You don't trust this man, and you have a damn good reason why. (Write-in why you distrust Bobert along with any actions you'd like to take from here.)
>C] Take his hand. Don't disclose any further information, but press Bobert for any more info he can share. You won't trust him fully and will mind yourself, but you'll work together.
For a moment, you really consider your options. Not the simplicity of accepting or refusing this man's offer, but the choices you have as a man of all the Gods.
This is a matter of honesty. Mercy is the Mother of your Church and the embodiment of Honesty itself. She would— in most circumstances— be your guide against deception and falsehoods. The fact that you are a representative of Her Church means that to lie to your face is sacrilege. If you so wish, you can execute or exile liars on a whim. This goes for the tenets of restraint, protection, healing, and compassion that you also are meant to embody as well.
But at the end of the day, you've never used Mercy to force the truth, let alone to detect lies. Mind-reading is a sin. Abuse of the Goddess of the Mind and the Goddess of Compassion.
For all the training you've received from friends and allies, very little of it has had to do with deception. The men who raised you and brought you into the Church were against you from the beginning. Theobald Stace and Adrian Morris were first and foremost your jailers and tormentors. Their goals were never aligned with making you a paragon of love. You came into your position on your own— and that is where you have stood ever since.
You have avoided becoming immersed in the political sphere as if it carried the plague. Only recently have you dipped into affairs in your own city, and it took Eadric being in flames to get there.
It's worth considering the very mechanism with which you invoke. You can't help but wonder what you've been doing wrong. Do you need to flex more while imploring Flesh for his aid? Is it your vocabulary that's wanting when you call upon Spirit? You've clasped your hands instinctively while speaking with Mercy for all of your life— has it been of any help, or does it remain a source of comfort for you alone?
These are questions for the Gods, for clergy, and for personal reflection. Whether or not Spirit (or even Vengeance) would be helpful in this situation could be a matter of debate, but you're not going to agonize over it. Not now. It's not worth your time or energy. Not when you have your boys to save.
You take Brother Hillbrush's calloused, dirt-caked hand in yours. The contrast between your scars and his bandages paints a picture of personal sacrifice. The tips of all of his fingers are missing, making his hold a little awkward.
This is a man who you can take at face value for now. You'll keep an eye on him, and sure as shit will be looking for any holes in his alibis.
The two of you keep a painfully firm grip for several seconds, while your new ally looks you in the eye. "I'm hopin' you'd tell me how you learned as much as you did through Agriculture, Father. Not somethin' you'd expect from the leader of the Church of Mercy."
His grip is crushing. You grin and blush through it. "Agriculture and I— we— I mean—"
You part hands, and immediately run your fingers through your hair in exasperation. The inn is way too hot, and the way that all that beer is sitting in you feels just right. "Agriculture loves me, and I love Her."
Bobert's jaw falls a little. He looks you up and down. To the gold you're wearing on your ring finger, the Relic around your neck, the aureate of your robes.
He settles on the green in your eyes. "Even though...?"
"It's— it's very complicated." You do not have the Time, energy, patience, or desire to divulge how you, Mercy, and Agriculture have developed a relationship together. The look Bobert is giving you really demands that you move on from the subject. "Agriculture blessed me with Her ability, to some extent. I was given a green dahlia. Thanks to consuming it, I can sense the properties of anything I eat or drink and have control over growth to an extreme degree. There's more, but I— I can use a portion of Her gifts without invoking."
Bobert slowly takes his second mug and drinks with a trembling hand. When he sets it down, he has to take several seconds to compose himself. Another look is fired over his shoulder to the rest of the inn (no one is paying either of you any mind), before he turns back to stare you down.
"That's some real shit, Father."
You try not to laugh too loudly. "It is."
"Good for you. I mean it."
"Thank you."
"This is easily grounds to take over the Church of Agriculture, you know."
"I..." The fact that he just came out and said it has you shaken for several long seconds.
"Are you alright?"
"I— I know. I penned some tenets—"
"No offense meant, but please show me them later." He looks shaken beyond belief. "I'd really like to hear more later."
"Alright."
"You'd best be taking good care of Her." He doesn't pause or give you a chance to say anything further about the matter. "We're not here to talk about this, but it's good to know." Bobert's shaking levels out. You can see the sheer amount of effort it's taking him to keep it together. "Anything else I should know?"
"I'm practically immune to poison, and can also detect poison by imbibing any substance I wish to identify."
"Tathan would have a fit." Bobert is staring at you with some serious respect, but looks completely beside himself otherwise. He drags a hand over his face, picks a stick out from his beard, and pockets it. A deep breath is taken, and he seems to be right as rain again. Maybe it was the reminder of something organic and normal. Maybe it was just a visual break from how intensely you're staring at him. "Right. Right, then. He shouldn't give you much trouble, I reckon." He shakes his head. "Unbelievable. I had heard rumors, you know— that you can invoke more than one God."
You modestly stay quiet, but nod your head to the affirmative.
"Glad to have you on my side, then." He chuckles a little, looking like he's seen a ghost. "Shame we met like this. Too much trouble to really enjoy the afternoon. I'd have liked to show you around Wearmoor, but that will have to wait. So, you used this ability of yours— do you call it anything?"
"Not really. It's all from the green dahlia, and— and transcending the earth and sun, and it's— it's complicated—"
"Don't worry about it. This ability of yours was what led you here?"
"Essentially."
A sudden, rousing cheer rises from the crowd across the tavern. You and Bobert huddle closer around the table.
"I usually work out in the country. The council might have pulled me here to keep me away from the work I've been doin' elsewhere." The brunette's frown shifts his beard just slightly. "From what I've gathered, Inertia hasn't been in Wearmoor at all."
"That's—" You are not going to say that anything is impossible, but this almost qualifies. "I'm certain that the goods they carried into Eadric are from these fields."
"With respect, someone outside the Church could have moved those goods from our fields." With a frown, Bobert runs a hand over his beard. "They were stolen."
"You're certain?"
"As the coming day! I've been far up everyone's ass at the top, and not a one of them is allied with Inertia. No way, no how. Not unless it's hidden deeper than the ruins themselves. If anyone is lifting goods from our fields, it's not with Agriculture's blessing— I can tell you that much." He gives you a knowing frown. "You didn't travel three hundred miles to report stolen apples, did you?"
"No." You quickly get behind the hood of your cloak, drawing the fabric between you and Mawd's line of sight. The innkeeper has come over to retrieve your empty glasses, and replaces them with new ones. Bobert gives her a quick excuse to not stay and eat, and she's off before long.
"You can relax," Bobert says, dragging two ornate steins over. They're decorated with various knights on horses, with their heraldry spanning even the handle and lid. "We'll get moving before anyone sees you."
You take a deep breath, one of the mugs, and a few mouthfuls of beer. Once again, nothing is poisoned. It's simply high quality ale, with a rich head and full body. You're nowhere near full, but the drink does wonders to calm your nerves.
"In addition to Father Pevrel's inquiry, the potential infestation of Inertia in the Church of Agriculture's ranks, and the need that I have to speak with your leadership..." You set your stein down, casting a quick look to the inn beyond. Drunken revelry, musicians working at their instruments, and no end of noise gives you enough reassurance to whisper, "I'm here to look into the matter of Mother Bethaea's death, and the capture of two of my boys."
Brother Hillbrush stares you down with a stony, completely straight face. "We'll talk about Phyllis— sorry, Mother—"
"It's fine."
"Thanks. We'll talk about her as soon as we can. Who's your boys?"
"Clarence Chester 'Chesty' Connelly and Mathers 'Serpent' Ormond. I was told by a prisoner in the Church of Mercy's dungeons that they were being held here, in the Church of Agriculture."
Serious concern furrows Bobert's brow. "Which coward is lying to your face?"
"Jon Meadows."
The look on Bobert's face could kill.
"Former priest of the Church of Agriculture. He—"
"I know." One, furious, deep breath. "We go way back."
You take a deep and ragged breath as well. "He was not well when he was captured. Mentally speaking, I mean. He told me that he and his other— he was in league with Inertia, Bobert. Him and several dozen other cultists were attempting to open a rip in the fabric of Time. I captured sixteen of the sorcerers responsible, and Jon was among them. He told me— he told me that my boys were here, and that they could use their names to disarm me, if necessary."
Your eyes fall to the table and all the little carvings in the wood. You're clutching your hands so tightly that they're starting to hurt.
"It worked."
The rage on Brother Hillbrush's features melts into concern. "You haven't been able to reach them?"
"No. No correspondence has come from them in months. Their capture was supposed to have began five weeks ago." Gritting your teeth in frustration, you choke out, "Jon said that you were in danger, and that you needed my help. I made sure to reach you as quickly as I could." You shake your head, and go for more beer. "What did you— what did you need my help with?"
Bobert blinks a few times, trying and failing to keep his composure. He runs a hand over his face again, getting a little dirt on his nose. "It's like I said. There's some rotten ones in the Church. I've been keeping a close eye on matters. Have all my life. But— I'm sorry, can we go back to Jon for a second? How is he? You said that he wasn't well—"
You quickly swallow. Malted barley lingers on your tongue while you speak. "Wasn't. He's now in a cloister within the Church of Mercy, and is in incredibly capable hands. He's being given Time to rest and recover, and won't— he won't be permitted to leave the Church's grounds until my return and appraisal of his condition." You glance up to Bobert's eyes. "He spoke highly of you."
Emotion swims across the table. He looks like he's about ready to get up and leave, but instead drags his own beer over and nods a few times. "Good to know."
There's a lot going unsaid here, but now is definitely not the time to pry. You grit your teeth harder. "If your business is not of immediate importance and doesn't concern Inertia or my boy's disappearance... I would still like to hear it."
"If you don't mind me saying, I think that it's all tied together. The thing is that the Church of Agriculture has kept their hands completely clean, Father. That's the trouble. It's middle-men who's to blame. Middle-men all the way down. They hire hands outside of the Church for all this dirty work. It would explain how those supplies got shifted, and maybe even who has your boys."
You barely resist the urge to get out of your seat. Angrily drinking the rest of your beer is at least a small comfort.
"Father, I offered to help you with this—" He shifts again, looking towards the door. "—and if it's been five weeks since your boys were reported missing? Months since they were last heard from? Let's get off of our asses and go find them."
You come up for air and breathlessly say, "wait— wait just a moment—"
He chuckles slightly at how flustered you are. "What's the matter?"
"You know this council better than presumably— presumably better than anyone in the Church of Agriculture. I still need to consult them all. Who would you advise we go after first?"
"Honestly— wait, is Father Pevrel staying in the Church...?"
"Yes, and Father Wilhelm—"
"What?" The look on his face is priceless.
"He's here to help. I have him going about the city to gather the other council members as we speak."
"Well I'll be damned." Bobert shakes his head. His beard seems incredibly well maintained and soft, as it sways slightly with the motion. "Then I'd say we'd best go after anyone who would give him the most trouble. If there's anything foul, best to get it over with. Right?"
"I suppose so."
"Is Father Wilhelm going to be going after Tathan?"
"Mercy, no. I explicitly instructed him to keep his distance."
"Good. Then I say we go after Pet or Ethel."
"Pet?"
"Petronilla." He says the name with a flowery tilt. It's downright comedic, and doesn't suit the gruffness of his voice in the slightest. "No need to rush after Tathan if Father Wilhelm isn't going after him— but if we can beat him to either of those girls, we might save him some trouble. What do you say?"
>A] A discreet location to speak in is a prize beyond measure, and there's still something incredibly important that you need to talk about. (These are not mutually exclusive. You may choose as many prompts as you like, but be aware that each subject will take Time to discuss.)
>1] Jon Meadows.
>2] Inertia.
>3] These middle-men.
>4] Bobert's role in the Church of Agriculture.
>5] Why Bobert is helping you.
>6] Your relationship with Agriculture. Bobert deserves to know, and you don't want him thinking ill of you.
>7] Write-in.
>B] Get off your ass and go find your boys! Head after... (All of the following are mutually exclusive. Choose only one, for now.)
>1] Sister Petronilla Tait, Head Undertaker of the Dead. You'll take Bobert's advice. Despite how intimidating her domain is, you'd like to meet her first.
>2] Sister Ethelreda Isolda, Bringer of Life. You'll take Bobert's advice. Whatever attitude this woman has will not deter you.
>3] Brother Tybalt Townsend, Premial of Bounty. He's nearby, friends with Bobert, and shouldn't be too much trouble.
>4] Brother Everard Foster, Master of the Harvest. He's nearby, friends with Bobert, and shouldn't be too much trouble.
>5] Brother Tathan Morgan, Chief Administrator of Poison. You're deeply concerned about this confrontation. Best to get it over with.
>6] Sister Renne Schafer, the Mother of Fertility. Father Pevrel might kill her, and you want to soften the blow of their meeting.
>C] Your ability from the green dahlia could use a name. (This is totally optional and does not need to be done at this time, but now is a good chance to! Feel free to write-in any suggestions.)
"Yes, going after Sister Tait first is fine, but please wait just a moment. Please. Two questions. We can likely discuss one while on the move."
Bobert raises his bushy eyebrows at you, but makes no further motion to leave.
"Thank you. First, I would— I would like to know about your role within the Church of Agriculture. When it was precisely that you came into your position, and— and where they have you going and not going. Surely this is something we can discuss in public?"
"Sure." Bobert shrugs, fires an innocuous look over his shoulder, then back to you. "What about the second question?"
"These middle-men." The gravity of your stare can't be understated. "There may be another player in all this that I am unaware of. You mentioned your own suspicions. It would help me greatly to be granted your perspective. Now, if we could head out—"
"Are you outta' your mind?" It looks like the man wants to hold you in place, but he's clearly too respectful (or fearful) of your position to touch you. Instead he huddles closer around his mug and whispers, "I haven't earned the trust of every last soul in the Church of Agriculture from running my mouth out on the streets. We'll stay put for this."
The two of you double and triple check that no prying eyes or ears are pointed your way before Brother Hillbrush speaks again.
"Half the time I go looking into one of these rumors, I don't find nobody at all. Names for people who don't exist, if you get my meaning."
Your scowl is hurting your face. "I do."
"Right. What's more, the rest just don't add up. When it's not people not existing, it's even worse kinds of wild goose chases. Trails that lead nowhere. There's fights in the street every so often— but when you try to work out just who was fighting over what, the whole lot will clam up as if their lives depended on it. By my best guesses, that's exactly the case. And I can't ever get close enough to Kate— Sister Jolland— to confirm it or not, but I'm willin' to bet that there's coin being moved to the wrong places, too. She might not have her hands tied up in all this, but maybe they are. Maybe everyone acting so shifty and secretive is outta' fear. Maybe things are even worse off than I thought. But I don't have any names to name. That's why I was hoping you'd be able to help. I'm too close to the whole mess to see the big picture. Or, shit, even the little details. It feels like I've been workin' blind with all this, Father, and I've been workin' for a very long time."
"Did Jon...?"
"We saw how close you were with Phyllis. Father Pevrel would be the better choice more often than not— 'specially for something like this, but— well, we figured you'd care more about home than most." Those small brown eyes stare at his drink. "Truth be told, I'm glad you're both here."
With a deep breath in, Bobert gets to his feet and slides the bench he was sitting on back into place. "Let's get moving. Keep behind me like before."
A quick exit is made out of The Scheming Beaver, with ample complaints and groans from the patrons throughout the rest of the inn. The ease in which Bobert makes a clean escape puts a little more light in your weary, dry, and itchy eyes.
Emerging back into the light of day heightens just how smokey and loud the inn was. You take a breath of fresh air and wait for your ears to stop ringing before saying anything further.
Pollen and the scent of fresh flowers practically puts sparks behind your eyes. It's enough incentive to keep up rapid strides alongside Brother Hillbrush.
Bobert seems to know the streets like the back of his hand. You're swiftly led through a convoluted and winding path, skirting around every public park and main road. As the two of you walk, the start of a throbbing headache subsides, your lungs clear, and the world seems a whole lot quieter.
It's still quite noisy, this Time of day. The bustle of merchants in stalls, babies crying, children playing, and men hard at work grants glimpses of the lives being led in all directions. You don't get to see many people as you walk— your companion also does his best to block you from view every time a vagrant or passerby draws near— but it's of little consequence. You're more interested in the vibrant greens of the city, the ancient buildings, and countless gardens.
The urge to summon Agriculture is rising by the second. She'd make quick work of this council, death priestesses or no. You can picture it now: a feast befitting of Agriculture, held in the Goddess' honor. All of Her clergy would be present. The two of you would deliver an impromptu sermon, bringing everyone back in line. There would be no need for any interrogation. No slaughter or mayhem. You'd revel in love, and food, and song.
It would be nice for Her to sit in Mother Bethaea's chair for the evening.
Bobert seems completely content to proceed in silence, but he clears his voice and gives you a warm smile. "Doing alright?"
"I—" You've been doing so much better these last couple months— it's been awhile since you got carried away daydreaming. It must have been twenty minutes that you had spaced out for. You're so deep into the city, you don't recognize the side street or houses you're passing by at all. Your voice is cracking from grief, stress, and fear, but you do sincerely feel much better than usual, and manage a smile. "As much as I can be, given the circumstances." Optimism clings to your speech, even though your smile falls. "I don't mean to be rude, but would you mind— would you mind telling me a bit about your position? I would like to— I would like to get to know you a bit better."
"Sure thing." The priest keeps his eyes fixed on the path ahead, his staff clacking and scuffing against little rocks in the dirt road. "Been a priest for— well, it must be goin' on thirty years, now." He lets out a belly laugh. "You look surprised! I grew up in the Church. Was brought in as a boy, formally speaking, that is. I'm only thirty-eight."
He gives you a curious look. That look. The 'are you older than me?' look.
An exasperated sigh leaves you. There's no way you look that old. "That is still a surprise. Though, I'm twenty-five—"
The face he makes is terrible. It's dismayed and worried and he's smiling. Everything someone should not look when you give your age.
You cut yourself off. Bobert can't help but grin at you. "Suppose I was right on the mark when we first met, big boy."
"About your job, big man?" You can't help but laugh. This is stupid.
Another chuckle leaves Bobert, before he gestures vaguely with his free hand towards the road ahead. "I've been working the land for as long as I can remember. It's taken me all over the place. I've been almost far 'nuff north to see the coast, and have touched the borders east and west. Don't need to head south too often, but once in a blue moon I'll be needed for some project or other by the mountains. I go where I'm needed, and the earth is everywhere."
Bobert lowers his voice, his demeanor becoming more sober with each passing word. "We all answer to each other on the council. It keeps us all on the straight and narrow. I mean no offense, but the big evil— pride— can make real monsters out of men. We might have extra authority over the rest of the Church of Agriculture, but only because we were put there by our families. Even then, we only stay so long as we're wanted. If we're not doing our job, we have no business leading anyone— and so while we're at the top, we're still answering to other people. Does that all make sense?"
"You mean to tell me that the council is elected by all of the Church's clergy, then can be removed at any time?"
"That's right."
"So you answer to all the other council members for the work you perform?"
"Yep."
"...how do you ever get anything done?"
Blinking once or twice, Brother Hillbrush looks to the sky (a beautiful flock of bluebirds is almost directly overhead), then back to you in absolute confusion. "What do you mean?"
"You need the approval of everyone else on this council before you take any action?"
"Well— yeah. It slows things down, sure—" You're getting hideous flashbacks to your work in the capital, where the Church of Agriculture was regarded as a laughingstock for how delayed their responses were to any crises. "—but when action is taken, it's safe and sane."
The implication that your work as a whole is unsafe and insane is not wrong. You bite your tongue.
"What's really important is to know that there isn't any work I've done that's been rejected by the council. I'm a problem solver. If there's a job to be done in the Church of Agriculture, I've probably had some hand in it. Cultivators don't just work to improve the land— we're constantly working to make each other better, too." Bobert gives you a broad smile. "But I do work a lot with the land. Figurin' out how to make bigger and better crops each Harvest, how to get all that crop off the fields without breaking any backs, and what the best ways are for us to use all of our hard work."
His smile persists, though the man's tone becomes a lot more serious. He's making a point to not look directly at you or to look conspicuous. "It's all about the people. The people I live and work for is probably why we met today, Father. Especially everyone I don't get the chance to keep an eye on. There's whole branches of the Church of Agriculture who I can't always help out. I'm just one man, after all. But I rarely deal with the traders— the people who buy and sell Agriculture, if you remember...?"
"It hasn't been too long since I studied here, Bobert. I remember. They interface the most with the public, don't they? The smaller farmers, the merchants, the— the markets."
"Good! Yes. Good. Then you shouldn't be surprised that I deal with just about all the rest. Farmers, herders, engineers. No poisoners or undertakers most days, though. Figure you'd have guessed that much!"
"Yes. Mercy—" On reflex, you almost take off running towards the sound of screaming.
The district up ahead is cordoned off by rope and banners running between many of the homes. Despite the nearby market and all the liveliness resonating from its many stalls, from within many of the buildings here can be heard screaming and crying. It's muffled and difficult to make out, but you safely assume that the cries are coming from sick children.
Bobert audibly swallows as you both come to a stop on the periphery of the neighborhood. "The sick bastard that came through here has already been taken care of, but the people he poisoned aren't. Tathan is giving antidotes to the whole district, just to be safe. They should be alright, but they'll still be feeling sick for awhile. Likely another few hours, even a day or two for some. Anyways— see the marks on the front doors?"
There's a streak of chalk on the front of almost every door on the street. It's in the shape of a snake raising its head. The resemblance to Inertia's symbol for their higher ranking members is close enough to make your hair stand on end.
"Looks like he was already here. Pet was supposed to be here bringing out the dead..." Bobert suddenly seems to remember something, and moves to duck down a nearby alleyway. "This way."
You make your way behind several small homes, keeping to the shadows. The morning breeze carries the pungent, sickly-sweet smell of rotting bodies along the air. Beyond the alley you're waiting in, there's a small, dirt road running through the center of the neighborhood. Bodies have been dragged out onto a massive cart in the center of it all.
Standing beside the deceased— keeping a respectful distance— is a rail-thin, raven-haired, pale-skinned woman who's lips are painted black. You can make out her rather large nose from here. Her forest-green, veiled hat is rather small, nestled in full curls that are slightly disheveled (from what you can only assume is from moving the dead). Elbow-length gloves and a thick, verdant apron accentuates her lack of curves, which not even her modest blouse and trousers disguise. The fact that she's dressed in the fashion of a man isn't so shocking, considering her profession— and is completely permissible by the Church— but the way that she's carrying herself might be cause for concern.
The priestess thinks no one is watching her— there's no one else on the road, save for the dead— and so she's smiling to herself. Those thin, black lips are almost from ear-to-ear. She looks like she's in her element, and is obviously lingering for far longer near the cart of bodies than necessary. It's likely that she's enjoying the smell or is entirely immune to it, given her proximity and lack of any serious facial coverings.
Bobert sighs and slips behind the building you two are using as cover. He's probably picked up on the fear on you. In a far quieter voice than what he should be capable of, the beast of a man whispers, "Pet's got a few screws loose, but she means well. Sweet as a pea, once you get to know her."
Two priests of Agriculture come out from one of the homes, carrying the dead body of one resident between them. Both men are built like houses, and are wearing similar attire to Sister Tait (save for her veil). The priests instead have longer, thicker, borderline opaque shrouds over their heads and faces.
"She's giving them orders," Bobert says, nodding towards the priestess' direction. She hasn't said a word. They must be communicating non-verbally. "It looks like they're getting ready to move."
You're an honest man, but not as naive as everyone might be inclined to believe. You're also scared shitless by this entire affair. No matter what, you're keeping Bobert and Petronilla in your sight at all times.
The risk of being led into a trap is incredibly real.
>A] You don't want to cause a scene in the streets, so you'll stop Sister Tait somewhere along the way to her destination. Catch her unawares. Maybe you can keep her on her toes with your unpredictable nature enough to get some information right away, and without causing any issues.
>B] Tail Sister Tait to her destination. Wait until you get to wherever she's heading before making yourself known. You'll treat this woman with respect for her station, will hopefully garner some information on your boys, and you might even learn a thing or two about Death from an expert in the process.
>C] Confront Sister Tait here. You don't want to risk being intercepted on the road. Use your authority to assert yourself, and make it clear that if she doesn't comply with returning to the Church, there will be severe consequences. An interrogation can wait until she's safely within the Church's walls.
>D] Treating Sister Tait the same way you handled Sister Jolland could bear serious fruit, but you're honestly terrified. Be ready to invoke if necessary. You'll approach Sister Tait in broad daylight, as openly and firmly as possible. Do so now, to not prolong this encounter any longer than necessary.
