>A] Stay put and plan an ambush for your enemies. You're going to kill them to the last, then explore this place at your leisure. They may be enraged, and it may be reckless, but there's no conceivable way these imps will be able to take you and your allies— especially not with their numbers thinned— and especially not with how worked up you and Father Wilhelm are.
>D] Write-in. (Additional strategy may net additional rewards or trigger special conditions!)
Settle down and prepare to ambush the ambushers! Find a clearing to prepare (heck, if nothing suitable is found, even this encampent will do with the many crates to conceal line of sight.) Have Pevrel and Wilhem hide themselves on opposite corners with preperations to corner as much of the foe into a chokepoint. Scout out the encampent in the meantime, if there's pertinent items of note, take them. All the while, keeping a close eye on the enemy group via Dahila. If there's any indication of them coming back, position yourselves to ambush.
Once confirmed by the Dahila that all of the demons have returned to their camp, slay them all. If one of them shows competent enough to speak, secure and interrogate.
>A] Stay put and plan an ambush for your enemies. You're going to kill them to the last, then explore this place at your leisure. They may be enraged, and it may be reckless, but there's no conceivable way these imps will be able to take you and your allies— especially not with their numbers thinned— and especially not with how worked up you and Father Wilhelm are.
Stay NOT your hand, coward. He would leave these demons to make new tents from whatever poor soul happens by? Would the lord of darkness be scared of some fucking twigs? We won alright, but we need to CONQUER.
Have Willhelm stay at the back end and pretend to be bait, fake an opening so they can funnel into a closed space and after that Pevrel and Richard can just blender them. Projectiles are useless in melee and the large span of the winged creatures is only going to cramp them in even more.
This is also a lot of wooden things we are up against, see if there is a campfire or any source of heat nearby to heat up Furor to the point where it can set them aflame for some sweet sweet poetic Storm worship. After we are done with them makes sure to make a pyre in honor of Storm out of their bodies.
We are killing all of these thorny boys without invoking even if its the last thing we do. If we can't heat up Furor just pull out our trusty mace and start cracking some branches.
>A] Stay put and plan an ambush for your enemies. You're going to kill them to the last, then explore this place at your leisure. They may be enraged, and it may be reckless, but there's no conceivable way these imps will be able to take you and your allies— especially not with their numbers thinned— and especially not with how worked up you and Father Wilhelm are.
Breathing hard, sweat and speed having slicked back your hair, you relish the adrenaline coursing through you, stride up to Father Pevrel, and shove him as hard as you can.
"Coward!"
He staggers backwards a good five feet, nearly falling over from the force of your shove. The priest is too appalled, pissed, and shocked to say anything for a split second— so you seize the opportunity, and keep walking towards him.
"Whatever happened to 'stay NOT your hand?' You would leave these demons to make new tents from whatever poor soul happens by?" You catch up to Father Pevrel and shove him again, sending him staggering back into a nearby set of stone ruins. "Would the lord of darkness be scared of some fucking twigs?!"
The sound of demons screeching in the forests is rapidly catching up to you and your allies.
The priest before you looks pissed enough to kill you on the spot. He flicks his sword to the side, splattering blood along the rocky steps at your feet while leaning against the wall for support. You may have actually hurt him from your shoving.
"Well?! We know this battle is already won— but we need to do more than escape our enemies!"
His gaze whips towards you with twice as much ferocity. Teeth are bared, gnashing with each word like he could rip your throat out with another misstep. "Fine. It's high fucking time you started acting like a priest of Vengeance, isn't it?"
You give the man a hand to get back to his feet. Father Pevrel takes your hand without question, getting back into a fighting stance by your side.
"We need to conquer." You tighten your hold on Furor and your shield, and start scanning the area.
A quick nod, from the lord of retribution. Something must have gotten into him, to be acting so peculiarly. Maybe it's having just met the Goddess of Mercy mere minutes ago.
Looking wildly around (you notice Father Wilhelm has been doing the same thing this entire time), you ask, "where's the best choke-point in this encampment?"
You're suddenly grabbed by the arm. "This way."
The elderly priest moves like a man half his age, pulling you along as he runs to a narrow space between a series of leather tents. The small cul-de-sac of death has no outlet, a small fire still roaring, and it gives you a beautiful idea.
The eggy scent of tempera, sweat and demon's blood is stuck to the back of your nose and throat, but you swallow it down, and grin menacingly to your cane. "Father Wilhelm. Can you fake an opening at the rear of this enclosure?" He nods to you instantly. "Wait at the rear, and lure them in. Father Pevrel and I can take them on in this space, one or two at a time. Their wings will count for nothing here."
The hideous screech on the air is growing closer by the second. You can make out sticks and brambles scratching along stone, branches crashing down, and leaves rustling against paint. Reaching out with the green dahlia, you confirm that every living figure in a mile radius is headed directly for your location.
"I'm going to kill these thorns in my side without invoking if it's the last thing I do." One hand is placed on your robes. "Wool gloves. Cover them in the most durable, fire-resistant leather you can muster. Quickly."
The length of your cloak suddenly shortens by three feet. A rush of fabric courses along your arms and wrists, down onto your hands, and surrounds them with the thickest, finest pair of smithing gloves you've ever seen.
As soon as the process is finished, you move to the little fire at the end of the enclosure, and plunge Furor's pointed end directly into the flame. Gold flares with red embers and sparks.
The heat hasn't even spread to the handle, by the time that the first demon comes hurtling around the corner.
Father Wilhelm hollers from the back of the row, "OI! OVER HERE! COME GET SOME, YOU PRICKLY BASTARDS!"
Wings easily span across the entire opening of tents and abandoned crates, forcing a twiggy monster to slow before it descends. It buys the lord of blood exactly enough time to strike.
Father Pevrel leaps out from the shadows, slices the demon to ribbons, and lands in a roll at the feet of the wreckage. He's back into hiding in a split second— and you quickly follow suit, weaving behind a pile of crates just across from him.
Two by two, demons begin to pour into the narrow enclosure.
Any thought of a secretive strike is lost to the heat in hand.
You burst out from the dark, screaming to the God of Fire, and swing molten fury into the bodies of four imps.
Their thin bodies spark like kindling, sending them up in flames.
All the strength you can muster goes into each step forward.
You can hardly see from the waves of heat pouring off of your foes, but the sight is well worth the struggle.
You bash the closest two demons into the kin at their back, triggering a horrific chain reaction.
The conga line of demons at their back swiftly ignite, with no way to put out the inferno.
Father Pevrel is right at your side, using your shield for cover as he strikes at the closest enemy with everything he has. The two of you push the encroaching waves of flaming monsters all the way to the front of the corridor, and watch as Father Wilhelm musters a shroud of darkness to snuff out any sparks that threaten the surrounding area. Paint wafts up against the tents made of skin and abandoned corpses, drenching the entire scene in shades of blue.
Slowly but surely, the tide of monsters is thinned. The heat from Furor is long gone.
You scream to Father Pevrel to buy you a precious second, keep behind your shield, and get out your mace. The closest demons to you are hardly three feet tall, are made entirely of wood, and actually back up at the sight of you pulling out the flanged, sharpened, utterly demonic weapon.
The unnaturally light item feels like a paperweight in your hand. You laugh, swing your shield wide with perfect form, and knock the closest two demons clean off their feet. As they fly through the air, Father Pevrel cuts them down— and you rush through the opening, straight at the enemy.
Two of the winged demons try to fly backwards as you put all your weight into a singular swing.
Your mace slices through the air with audible force, whistling in a streak of splinters and blood.
The hit connects with the side of one demon's pseudo-face, travels clean through the demon's head, and decapitates it from the jaw-up.
The crack and snap of bones and wood bites at your ears, but you grin, and keep going.
Landing your weapon into the side of the demon adjacent, you carve halfway into its trunk-like body. The monstrosity flails in nightmarish agony for a moment, coming at you with everything it has. You can make out Father Pevrel's sword on the periphery of your vision, carving away every demon that tries to take advantage of your moment of vulnerability. Shield held high— you just barely protect your face, taking several gashes to your side— you keep laughing, and keep your mace in the demon's body.
With a shout and a tremendous heave that sends flame through your core and every limb, you wrench the demon off the ground while it's still affixed to your mace.
It screams in terror, flailing wildly as it tries to rip itself free.
You shift your weight, whip your weapon around, and fling the demon at its allies with enough force to kill.
Your rag doll of an enemy soars through the air for only an instant, and collides with four monsters lined up in a row, knocking them all to the ground. Father Pevrel swarms over them like a barbed-wire vulture, turning them into chunks of raw material before they have a chance to recover.
Both of you continue the push. There must be fewer than ten imps left, and they're turning to flee.
At your back, the entire encampment becomes shrouded in night.
A chill washes over the flame surging through your body.
Every demon that's turned to run suddenly slows, comes to a crawl, and drops to the ground in forced slumber.
No one could possibly know how much joy comes from your continued assault. You charge ahead of Father Pevrel, and crack the branches of every demon's head that you can reach.
Raw, black and green tissue drips from your mace and shield. The viscera smells like tar, acid, and rotten blood. It sticks to your eyes, as you fight back the urge to laugh, and finish stomping out the rest of the flaming corpses with your allies help.
Several moments pass by as you all breathe hard, wipe the sweat and blood from your faces, and grin to one another under the light of day.
Several more minutes pass as you all try to catch your breath, look wildly around for more enemies, and realize that there are none.
You've killed every last demon in the encampment, and it looks like no forces are coming for backup.
The lord of retribution waits no more than one minute after it's safe to shove you as hard as he can, sending you staggering backwards. You nearly fall over one of the demonic corpses. The bodies are piled three or four high at the front of where you held your position, so it's easy enough to lean on a few of the dead for support, and to get back to your feet.
Your smile is unwavering. "The fuck are you so happy about," Father Pevrel says.
"A few splinters from you shoving me, just now~" He groans, almost loudly enough to be heard over your laughter. "...and the fact that we can now explore this encampment at our leisure."
Without missing a beat— and wanting to keep moving after so much exertion— you resist the urge to collapse, and start briskly pacing. Your face is still bleeding profusely from the cuts you were peppered with earlier, but you simply wipe the worst of it out from your eyes, and focus on what matters.
Placing a gloved hand to your robes, you quickly murmur, "thank you for the gloves. But I need something light, and appropriate for evening travel. Please."
The length of your traveling cloak returns to normal, and is colored like the dead of night. The gloves vanish, showing that your hands are just as bloodied. No burns, however!
Your grin falters, as you address your friends. They're both covered in splinters and demon's blood. It doesn't hurt to ask, "are you both alright?"
"Fine, fine." Having ended his invocation, the lord of nightmares is now curiously eyeing a few of the mutilated demons who he had put to sleep. He swipes a filthy finger along the paint adorning one of their bodies, and rubs the substance between his fingers curiously. You watch with some amusement as he fishes a tiny vial out from his sleeping jacket, and starts gathering the mixture of blood and paint off from one of them.
"Are you...?" You're too amazed to finish your sentence.
"If I'm going to commemorate this victory in the future, I thought that using a part of the battle in a painting would only be appropriate." Father Wilhelm beams at you, and places the full, midnight-blue vial back inside of his robes as if this were all completely normal.
"Yeah." Father Pevrel's sword has absorbed the blood that was slaking it, leaving it looking as good as new. He sheathes the sparkling-clean basinglass by his side, and grumbles at you. "I knew you could run— if your life depended on it. That wasn't half bad." The grimace he was making shifts into a smirk. "Hmph. Not bad at all."
"Thank you." You're still trying to catch your breath, but manage to keep smiling. There's a hot burn in your joints. Hotter than the pain in your soul, the sting from the countless cuts on your hands and face, and the fire in the rest of your body from such an extended battle. It's likely that you hurt yourself from running at length— at your weight, you really shouldn't be doing so at all— but you take the pain in stride.
"Now let's make this quick, too. Turn out any tents we come across. There might be more in hiding."
"We're not splitting up," you say.
Your fellow church leaders glance to you in surprise, but gladly and quietly cooperate.
The heat in your face is probably masked by just how much blood you're coated in. A brief, blushing prayer is made to Storm, Flesh, and Vengeance in respect of Their will, before you really turn your attention to the task at hand.
The three of you pick your way around the mountain of the dead. Still out of breath— and trying to keep on the move— you focus on pacing around as much of the encampment as you can.
The first thing you notice as the afternoon approaches is the sheer volume of pests in the area. It's worse than the reek of the deceased. Flies, maggots, mosquitoes, and gnats of every kind create clouds in places. There's still water in countless rivulets, nooks and crannies around the encampment. Every deep footprint left in the mud, every trench made from bodies dragged over the ground, and all of the pits dug in this area exacerbate the issue. It's a terrible reminder of the conditions that are going to plague much of the countryside, or have already for the last several months.
Father Barthalomew— the very leader of the Church of Storm— warned you before about the trouble that bugs would cause in Corcaea this year, and possibly into the next. It comes as no surprise that the state of the deceased is as severe as they are. Every corpse that's still intact is infested— and emaciated. Distended and swollen bellies make a poor contrast against malnourished limbs, tightly drawn faces, and hideously discolored complexions. Your own stomach turns a few times at the reminders of home. You usually try as hard as you can to not think about the famines you've endured, so it's possible to shut out the sight, even with evidence of spoiled crops and flooded farmland staring you directly in the face.
Worse than the starving peasants are the piles of soldiers. Stacks of their repossessed weapons and armor resulted from the items being pulled off of many of the bodies, but many more still are upon their owners. Common men and women— and plenty of children— are dressed in ramshackle helmets, broken mail, and small shields. Swords passed down through generations. Spears made from poorly lashed rocks onto unbalanced sticks. These are the fighting forces left to your countryside. Normal people, pulled away from their homes by the theocracy— many of which who were caught and died before ever reaching the border.
Father Friedrich should have reached Baranfen twelve days ago.
I can't imagine what we'll do if he fails. If he pulls us out from the fight.
I know he'll return.
I can only pray that his mission is a successful one.
The heat in you is fading fast. Your steps slow as you pass by the bodies of widows huddled together, having tried and failed to protect groups of dead children. Most of them are peppered with splinters, or have had their bodies ripped to shreds, leaving their features unrecognizable in death.
Father Pevrel flinches, hard. One of the pits of corpses on the furthest reaches of the encampment suddenly stirs.
The lord of honor sprints over to the pile, and drives his sword into the body that was moving.
"There was someone still alive in there—?!" You have a bloodied hand to your lips, and force yourself to not get sick as you rush over to the priest's side.
He actually wipes his sword off on the side of his pant-leg, and scowls down into the pit of the dead. "It was the young boy. That one there, with the blonde hair— I suppose it's leaves, now— and horns. He was already done turning. Might have been too weak to get out from the pit, even as an imp."
The aforementioned pit is dug no less than eight feet deep. You can't even hope to count how many of the dead are within it.
Taking a miserable step backwards, you can't help but look desperately around at the crates of food that are barred away from anyone who might have come through this area.
It makes no sense. All of these demons are of Agriculture.
Ah. Demons of hunger.
The tents made of human skin are erected without any consideration for shelter or durability. The leather that they're made of is peppered with holes, purely standing as a testament to gore and decay.
It must have been a labor beyond measure to even make them— which were likely done by human hands, before being executed.
Of course.
They'd have been spurred on by demons of despair.
Countless bodies of innocent civilians takes you back to so many other villages you've been sent to for sermons.
These people were caught by demons who can't help but fixate on the only thing left to them.
Their Catalyst.
But why...?
As you try contemplating why this encampment was capable of capturing so many humans, something else stirs. One of the bodies lying on the ground, propped up just beside one of the tents, seems to be convulsing. It's a young woman. She's no more than seventeen, and looks to be pregnant. Her face is drawn thin, her brown hair the texture of straw. It's fallen out in places from malnourishment.
It looks like she would have been in agony from even a single motion in life—
You move to rush towards her, and she moves again. It's an erratic kick in her abdomen— not unlike a baby pressing against her skin— but it's extreme enough that you can see it from a distance.
She's not alive.
She's turning into a demon.
You slow your steps and look frantically around, forcing yourself to focus now on the bodies littering the area. You weren't scrutinizing any of them closely enough to look for signs of life, but now?
There's a high chance that more like her are in this area, too.
Father Wilhelm finally catches up to you, and looks on in horror at the body you and Father Pevrel are both tensing towards. His lips are tight, and he looks to you and Father Pevrel with the obvious question left unspoken.
The next few words that leave Father Pevrel are so pained, you almost don't recognize the sound of his voice.
"Anscham, she's not going to be able to talk until she turns. I can kill her now, and put her out of her misery. We should check every last body in this encampment, and do the same for them." The priest of honor relaxes the hold on his sword for a second. He looks seriously disturbed, and on the brink of tears. "You showed Vengeance your respect. I'd like to do the same towards Mercy. Just this once."
>A] Let Father Pevrel systematically kill anyone left in this area. This is about far more than not wanting to invoke today. You're going to respect the wishes and judgement of your elder in this situation, knowing that he's likely had to deal with this many times before. In addition, you and Father Wilhelm will search the rest of the huts in the meantime, and will do your best to discern the meaning of whatever happened here.
>B] Invoke Spirit, and try to communicate with this woman before she loses herself completely. There's no telling what it will do to your own mind, but that's a risk you're willing to take.
>C] You don't know of any way to stop someone from turning to the Catalyst, once the process has started— but you know you can stall it. Invoke Mercy, and grant this woman enough restraint to talk. She won't be sane— and it will hurt you both tremendously— but you're desperate for answers.
>D] You already have many pieces to this puzzle. (Write-in any ideas you have about the nature of this encampment, demons, the Catalyst, or ideas for anything else you wish to do.)
(Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, I am delighted to announce that Catalyst Quest has officially hit the 2 million word mark. We actually exceeded it a little while ago, but I didn't want to call it until I was certain and the SV word counter matched it.
It has been an incredible journey with you all over the last two years and I want to thank everyone who's helped to make everything possible! Our readers, my patrons, our Discord, all of the supportive friends who have been there for me when I've been stubbornly writing instead of playing video games, and to my partner who firmly told me I need to go write another 2 million words this evening!
Special, special thanks to our voters. You guys are truly what keeps this crazy show going. I couldn't have done it without you!
I don't have any big art projects handy to celebrate, but I'd like to share some of my favorite fanart with you all instead! When I have a little more time this week, I'll upload all of these to the fanart apocrypha threadmark.)
>A] Let Father Pevrel systematically kill anyone left in this area. This is about far more than not wanting to invoke today. You're going to respect the wishes and judgement of your elder in this situation, knowing that he's likely had to deal with this many times before. In addition, you and Father Wilhelm will search the rest of the huts in the meantime, and will do your best to discern the meaning of whatever happened here.
I am strongly opposing any vote that would prolong the suffering of these people. Just let them rest, ask Pevrel to do it as quickly and painlessly as possible. Offer some anatomy advice on how to do it best if needed.
>A] Let Father Pevrel systematically kill anyone left in this area. This is about far more than not wanting to invoke today. You're going to respect the wishes and judgement of your elder in this situation, knowing that he's likely had to deal with this many times before. In addition, you and Father Wilhelm will search the rest of the huts in the meantime, and will do your best to discern the meaning of whatever happened here.
>D] You already have many pieces to this puzzle. (Write-in any ideas you have about the nature of this encampment, demons, the Catalyst, or ideas for anything else you wish to do.)
Another involuntary subject for the CATALYST! Opportunity abounds once more!
One distressed breath rises and falls from your lover's lips. She puts a hand to the back of your head, and gently runs Her fingers along your hair. The other keeps you in a firm embrace. She speaks as levelly as the earth itself. "Felicia never came to me, Richard. She wanted to, in the end, but her Catalyst did not permit her to return to humanity. What we saw was a dead thing. There was no humanity left in her— mind, body, or soul."
The hold She's keeping on you tightens further, while a sob wracks your body.
"When you all die, it is not your body or mind that returns to me. The body is a vessel for Our works. The mind is the domain of Spirit. Your soul is what connects you all to me in death— and there was nothing that Felicia could return to me. She had lost what makes her human, Richard."
A little more life comes into Agriculture's voice, while She keeps you pressed deeply against Her. "But I don't think that this may be the case for everyone. Some of you are stronger than others. This was a little girl, wasn't it? Someone who had just turned?"
A pair of lipless gums bares themselves at you. It's almost in a smile.
You try not to choke on your speech. "It is fair to give one back."
The same screech you heard earlier this morning rips out from the girl's lips, despite her making no further facial expressions. It's a void of humanity unlike anything you've ever seen before— which rapidly expands into a solid black mass. It's only four or so feet across at first, and eclipses Felicia's body utterly.
So essentially you can do all the steps of the Felicia approach except you have to satisfy the catalyst before it overtakes the person in question and kills them utterly.
But what if….
You know now that the Catalyst is a thing inherently magical and repels the touch of Invocation.
However, it is inherent in all of mankind- so technically this is not spellcraft in anyway.
You could theoretically with your own catalyst, loop back the turning demon in reverse through the use of your relic, granted I will be assuming Catalysts grow with the human shell given the differing forms: Children into lesser imps, sentient demons from adults.
Imagine the demonisation being a collapsing black hole and Anscham initiating his own catalyst as a supernovae, now imagine the forces of the two phenomena overlap.
What I'm hoping for is to overwhelm the subject's catalyst with the force of our own, anchored to faith as it is and through the Gods- and then have that transmitted via relic into the girl. This will inevitably force the transformation in reverse. Once it is at its peak, subdue it further via Flesh Invocation for further stabilisation and to fit the conquering aspect with what we're doing.
This will undoubtedly initiate your own catalyst and probably invoke as an anchor to loop through for good measure.
It's madness. But damn, if this works we should get a step up in the catalyst insight research, not to mention reversing demons!
You know, might as well have the rest of the fathers search for those who are the most likely still alive to make it and have them be pulled as well!
Maybe in the future, we need to satify a demon's catalyst to a manageable degree before attempting again?
Wait… But this will drain us utterly till the next month isn't it? And the aftercare alone if this does succeed- Then we get a bunch of sickly people following us that will impact our schedule further! Damn.
So
Triage the most likely persons still alive and able to survive once you've done normal first aid and emergency care. The rest of the people who are far too gone will be screened to see which of them all will have the highest likelihood of surviving Felicia Approach 2 Catalyst Tugaloo. The rest will have to go to vote A.
>A] Let Father Pevrel systematically kill anyone left in this area. This is about far more than not wanting to invoke today. You're going to respect the wishes and judgement of your elder in this situation, knowing that he's likely had to deal with this many times before. In addition, you and Father Wilhelm will search the rest of the huts in the meantime, and will do your best to discern the meaning of whatever happened here.
I appreciate that Pevrel wants to put them out of their suffering in the name of Mercy. Let him do his thing, just make sure it's quick and painless.
(Alright guys. Due to conflicting votes and vocal opposition, going to be disregarding the write-in and going for majority vote A. Still noting all your guys stellar comments and write-ins!
"Quickly and painlessly." You sound just as hurt as the priest of execution, if not more. "I appreciate the gesture, in the name of Mercy. Please let them rest. End their suffering."
Father Pevrel's voice cracks. "In the name of Mercy."
A few firm steps are taken by the lord of blood, straight towards the soon-to-be demon. He stabs her straight through the neck. Blood sprays and arcs across the ruins at her back, before Father Pevrel jerks his sword to the side, and severs the demon's head completely.
You watch in horror as the priest quickly carries through the motion, and stabs the woman through her belly. Rancid, putrid acid seeps out from the opening, forcing your ally to throw his arms up to protect his face, and to back up as quickly as he can.
Acid continues to seep out onto the surrounding area, while the body slumps to the floor. The soil and rock underneath bubbles and sizzles. You've never smelled anything so foul in all your life, and back up just to reduce the odds of you vomiting.
Before her convulsing stops, Father Pevrel has turned his back, and is off to do the same thing to an untold number of other victims.
You're having a hard time breathing. Thoughts rapidly flicker through your mind about how you could try to reverse this process. To bring back the dead. To halt the Catalyst in its tracks. You're mulling over the logistics of satisfying demon's needs, the nuance of a lifetime of research, what it would be like to have a pack of sick and dying men and women following you to Wearmoor— anything to take your mind off of what's happened.
Father Wilhelm is intently eyeing Father Pevrel. The lord of honor has produced a flask and is drinking heavily between Mercy killings.
The leader of the Church of Dream quickly snaps his attention back to you. The hand that he places to your shoulder completely snaps you out of your own thoughts, while your friend smiles at you with all the pain you've come to expect.
"Let's get to work, shall we?"
"Yes." You blink a little emotion out of your eyes, wiping at the them with the back of bloodied and cut hand.
You both set out towards the rest of the encampment, starting with the piles of demons you killed. They are all imps. You previously thought that only children could turn into them, and have tried to push that fact as far out of your mind as humanly possible, but that simply can't be the case. Not with the vast age range you've seen from the dead around here.
The rank and power of a demon is tied to authority and the relationship that demons have to one another. The hierarchy is less of a military structure, and more of a familial organization. It only extends towards demons within immediate reach of one another...
You know that the minor demons in service to Archdemon Idonea— Aurelius, Freya, Philomene, Delara and Esme— were all child-like. It is entirely possible that they were children in life as well, but due to their closeness to an archdemon, the power they possessed, and their authority within Ostedholm, you placed them in a higher position than any imp.
What's more, you witnessed ample people during the Battle of Beorward turn into demons during the fight. Not every man and woman in the massive crowd of commoners became an imp, but there were a few.
More alarming than this is the state that most of the tents are in. Despite their morbid, human, leather exterior, the tents you wander past are all cozy on the interior. There are no concessions made for human needs, but there are still assortments of mundane goods placed to make each location more inviting. It instantly reminds you of Yech's lair. It's nothing that someone of intelligence could have designed— no woven baskets, no potted plants, no massive thrones made to house a demon lord— but there are bouquets of picked flowers in every single abode. Hoards of pine cones and acorns, stacked and arranged in beautiful patterns. Divots dug out of the earth for rest and relaxation.
Your chest is beginning to hurt.
Imps have nothing in the way of intelligence, but they're still attempting to make a place for themselves?
What is this?
You turn to Father Wilhelm, who has refused to part from your side. The wet sound of Father Pevrel diving onto one of the pits of bodies almost stops you from speaking, so your question is choked out while you battle to keep yourself under control.
"This makes no sense. These demons shouldn't be capable of making shelter, let alone bringing anything in the way of comfort into it. Are they— are they attempting to soothe themselves?"
Snatching his cigar out with one hand, Father Wilhelm drags a free palm over his mustache and beard, trying to think of a good way to respond. It looks like the priest is exasperated, baffled, and really wants to try and support what you're doing.
Blue eyes linger on one of the occupied huts. A dead, starved man is curled up on the floor in agony.
"None of these people were in chains." A hard sigh leaves the lord of rest. It sounds like he's having a hard time of breathing, too, but he gives you a weary smile. "I think it's more likely that these places were built by captives. Ones who were coerced into coming here, or were prevented from ever leaving. There is no conceivable way anyone would have joined this... tribe of their own volition. But I believe that these people could have been controlled to help the demons here, in some capacity." He pauses, replacing his cigar. "Why do you think that might be?"
"They must be cognizant of their condition, in some way..."
I've known for so long that demons are the ones who are trapped in the ruins, but— no.
You take a step back— away from the tent— and seriously have to fight not to cry on the spot.
"Mercy. They're aware of how they are. They're hurting. They all are."
You look with wide, horrified eyes to your mentor. "They're suffering on some level, and— and used these people to try and improve their conditions, even in the smallest of ways." A miserable look goes to the tents made of human skin. "Shelter." You think to the singular fire you found, pitiful as it was. "Warmth." Your attention goes to the crates of untouched, spoiling supplies across the way. "Food. "
Striding over to one of the containers, you swipe a crowbar out from your satchel, and unfasten the top of the crate. Everything inside is untouched by demonic or human hands. Much of it is rotten, and the rest has been eaten partially by insects and animals.
They still don't have human needs.
Your expert eye identifies that most of the goods are over two weeks old. None of it is fit for human consumption. "This would have been tormenting the people here for weeks. We know that demons feed on what their Catalyst is. With so many demons of hunger here, they— they needed to draw on the hunger of others, to stand a chance at surviving. But that— this does not explain why so many banded together... or why these were so weak to begin with."
You normally mow through demons like paper, but the sheer volume you were attacked by should have rightfully killed (or at least seriously maimed) you and your friends. It's not that you emerged without a scratch, either.
Something was off about the way that these imps operated. They were organized, but...
It only takes a second of you thinking on it to declare, "something is weakening them. Demons can still be aware of a threat to their person, and often band together to strengthen themselves through a collective bond— but that alone wouldn't be enough to handle an internal threat."
You spin around to Father Wilhelm, excited enough by the prospect of furthering your research to forget your grief momentarily.
He looks devastated. Your eagerness melts back down into melancholy as you realize what you're saying.
"These imps went out of their way to gather people, in order to strengthen themselves against some unseen foe. They were gathering strength, and succeeded in some respects. Enough to intelligently torment these people, keeping them alive well past when they should have been— and they encouraged their victims to turn, as well. Bolstering their numbers."
You sound like a dead man, looking over the abundance of supplies: weapons, shields, even armor.
"How could imps have become so organized, let alone this prepared? Who were they going to fight?"
With a slight, apologetic smile, Father Wilhelm whispers, "let's do some more searching. Perhaps we'll find out."
You set out together to dig through every last crate and tent in the area. The occasional, distant sound of Father Pevrel battling with a singular imp isn't enough cause for alarm for you or Father Wilhelm to stop what you're doing.
One of your spare crowbars is given to your slender companion, who works at half your pace, but is still an invaluable help.
Rifling through stacks of armor and swords reveals heraldry from all of the surrounding area, but no families of note. No symbolism of any organizations, save for a few items from members of the Church of Mercy. You strongly suspect that the old, rusted, and mostly unusable sets of mail and yellow-painted shields are simply to indicate loyalty towards your Church, and try not to panic at the thought of one of your children being taken by this madness. It's incredibly unlikely.
A single crate is located with relatively fresh supplies. You ignore the worried look from Father Wilhelm when you swipe up a peach to eat from the bunch, but give the priest a brief explanation of your abilities (thanks to transcending the very earth, the green dahlia, and your affinity for Agriculture).
"...essentially, I will identify its origin, and potentially even more of its properties."
He gets it, and doesn't give you any more of a hard time.
Trying the piece of fruit reveals absolutely nothing more than that it comes from a slightly distant, personal garden. It was raised with love. You try not to cry, knowing that whoever was responsible for the piece is dead and unburied just a few feet away.
An accompanying apple hails from an even more remote orchard. The overripe item wasn't preserved correctly due to the foul weather. It goes down bitterly.
It's the same story with about fifteen other varieties of produce in the crate. You try to keep track of how much you're eating.
Confident that you won't get sick, you eventually eye a sack of potatoes near the bottom of the goods. With a grimace, you extract and bite into a raw spud. Eyes closed, you might have once been able to pretend that it was a bland apple— but given your attunement to all things that grow, there's absolutely no mistaking it for what it is, now.
You're hit with the familiar. Wearmoor's fields. The soil of your second home. Earth that's tilled and tended to unlike any other.
"This is from the Church of Agriculture. Weeks of— weeks of travel must have taken these crops here."
Given their quality, they've been resting in cool and dry conditions— as they should be— for quite some time now.
There's a small impression of a neighboring village that possessed the goods, but this raises some horrible questions. Questions that go down even more bitterly than raw fucking potato.
You blanch. "I thought that they stopped the shipment of all goods across Corcaea."
Father Wilhelm simply blinks. "What did you see— er, taste, exactly?"
"Most of this is locally grown— meaning that the famine did not completely wipe out the supply of the peoples surrounding Eadric. It's good news, regarding the resilience and longevity of my people, but— but this—" You pick up the entire sack of potatoes, and stare it down as if it could give you more answers.
It does not.
Sighing, you shove the entire sack inside of your satchel for later use. They're high quality, and you aren't letting something so substantial go to waste.
"Collecting evidence?" Father Wilhelm can't help but smirk at you.
"Gathering supper— and potentially more information. I'll get to it later." Your scowl is growing by the second. "Let's keep searching."
The entire rest of the camp is turned over. The afternoon sun is high in the sky by the time that your luck wins out.
Deep within one of the pits of bodies, Father Pevrel suddenly hollers out. You and Father Wilhelm come half-running, half-limping (your joints are killing you), only to find the priest perched atop a pile of the dead like a morbid throne.
Sitting cross-legged at the peak of a death pit, positively covered in blood, Father Pevrel spins a wooden mask around one hand. It's featureless, in a simple shade of light brown, and sets every nerve in your body on fire.
You stride up to the edge of the corpse pile, and hold out an arm to help the lord of investigation safely get out. The priest moves with an equal amount of exhaustion as what you're experiencing, accepts the help (his hand is slick from black, acrid viscera), and gets back on solid ground.
Despite your close proximity, the mask is thrown to you, aggravating more of the splinters in your hands when you catch it.
Looking over the item reveals a small emblem on the interior. At first glance, it looks like the number '8' turned sideways, intersected by the letter 'S'. You squint, holding the object closer to your face— and realize that the tiny, bloody etching is actually a snake that has looped around its own tail. You've seen a similar symbol once before— as a tattoo on a heretical man in Calunoth, where the snake was consuming its tail— but this is a variant. This beast's head is raised— no longer concerned with devouring itself— now looking out towards some unseen horizon.
The urge to throw the mask to the ground in hot rage is so intense, you hand it off to Father Wilhelm. Certain that the item is held for safe-keeping and further inspection, you scowl hard enough to make your face hurt.
"Inertia."
No one says a word for a long moment. A few crows circle overhead. Crickets can be heard from the furthest bushes, having come out of hiding now that the day is wearing thin.
Seething, a little more horror sinks into you. "Why were these demons fighting or torturing a member of Inertia...?"
Father Pevrel takes a sharp breath in, and a slow breath out as he looks to the sunset. "I don't know, Anscham. I've been scouring this encampment while you two were searching, and there is nothing else."
"Have you seen this symbol before?" You point hard at the back of the mask.
"I have." A stiff, forced, expression takes over the man's features. His gaze doesn't budge from the sky. "The sun is coming down fast. We can talk about it more once we move." He turns to you sharply. "I've taken care of the dead. Don't thank me."
You assume a completely straight face, and nod.
"I know of somewhere near here where we can rest for the night, if we get moving. And if it's all the same to the both of you, I'd like to get out of here. Now." The priest is disturbed enough to set off without waiting for anyone's reply, muttering to you as he passes you by. "You should say something for them while we go." More clearly, to both you and Father Pevrel, the lord of honor walks with his head held high. "It's a far walk, but will take us away from this demon-infested pit, and we'll be able to wash up when we get there. Now come on."
>A] A safe place to rest for the night sounds divine. You've been dying for the opportunity to unwind, and you REALLY need it tonight. (Choose ONE of the following. Majority vote will decide.)
>1] Practice with your bow and arrows.
>2] Work on your ability with the green dahlia (while moving, talking, etc.).
>3] Make a formal prayer to all of the Gods.
>4] For the sake of your mental and physical health, take your time with supper, journal, and go to bed early. Everything else can wait for another day.
>5] You're working yourself into an early grave, but you'd like to exercise a little more before resting tonight.
>6] Write-in. (A simple, non-strenuous activity. Subject to QM approval.)
>B] You do have a way with words. Say something respectful for the deceased, while you go. (Write-in anything nice you'd like to say. General sentiments are welcome, too. Your QM will make it tasteful, regardless.)
>C] You have about one hundred questions regarding Inertia. No matter what, you're going to pool all of your resources with your allies on the cult's affairs. There are just a few specific things you need to make sure you cover. (Write-in anything specific you want to ask or talk about regarding Inertia.)
>D] Today was one hell of a day. After summoning Mercy, a huge fight, and all of this investigation, there's something else you'd like to go over with your friends. (Write-in anything else you'd like to talk about.)
>A] A safe place to rest for the night sounds divine. You've been dying for the opportunity to unwind, and you REALLY need it tonight. (Choose ONE of the following. Majority vote will decide.)
>1] Practice with your bow and arrows.
I think this fits with the theme of reducing our reliance on invocation. We should be proficient with every mortal task we can be.
>A] A safe place to rest for the night sounds divine. You've been dying for the opportunity to unwind, and you REALLY need it tonight. (Choose ONE of the following. Majority vote will decide.)
>1] Practice with your bow and arrows.
>B] You do have a way with words. Say something respectful for the deceased, while you go. (Write-in anything nice you'd like to say. General sentiments are welcome, too. Your QM will make it tasteful, regardless.)
"You live on in us. Rest easy, for there will be justice."
>D] Today was one hell of a day. After summoning Mercy, a huge fight, and all of this investigation, there's something else you'd like to go over with your friends. (Write-in anything else you'd like to talk about.)
Pevrel was super shaken about everything, he usually does not react like that to carnage. Ask if he is ok.
>A] A safe place to rest for the night sounds divine. You've been dying for the opportunity to unwind, and you REALLY need it tonight. (Choose ONE of the following. Majority vote will decide.)
>4] For the sake of your mental and physical health, take your time with supper, journal, and go to bed early. Everything else can wait for another day.
Recharge those batteries!
>B] You do have a way with words. Say something respectful for the deceased, while you go. (Write-in anything nice you'd like to say. General sentiments are welcome, too. Your QM will make it tasteful, regardless.)
"You live on in us. Rest easy, for there will be justice."
Yea, keep it short and sweet.
>D] Today was one hell of a day. After summoning Mercy, a huge fight, and all of this investigation, there's something else you'd like to go over with your friends. (Write-in anything else you'd like to talk about.)
Check up on the group's feelings, this much death and the situation we've just been is pretty hard on everyone. Find time to talk about it- especially Father Pevrel's.
>C] You have about one hundred questions regarding Inertia. No matter what, you're going to pool all of your resources with your allies on the cult's affairs. There are just a few specific things you need to make sure you cover. (Write-in anything specific you want to ask or talk about regarding Inertia.)
You squint, holding the object closer to your face— and realize that the tiny, bloody etching is actually a snake that has looped around its own tail. You've seen a similar symbol once before— as a tattoo on a heretical man in Calunoth, where the snake was consuming its tail— but this is a variant. This beast's head is raised— no longer concerned with devouring itself— now looking out towards some unseen horizon.
Getting a very late start tonight. Busy day! Lots of research to do! The vote is locked now, with A1 winning the majority. Still noting all these fantastic write-ins. Writing now!)
Worried, you trail after Father Pevrel. Father Wilhelm isn't far behind while you clasp your hands together, murmuring the softest, shortest, and sweetest prayer you can muster.
"You live on in us. Rest easy, for there will be justice."
It's with a heavy heart that you trudge away from the demon encampment. The warm, fading sun is hanging low in the sky. Fireflies bob and dance around the ruins, faintly illuminating the forest beyond. All of your lanterns come out, as Father Pevrel frequently turns around to reassure you and Father Wilhelm that the way ahead should be clear.
You remind yourself repeatedly that the man can see demons from much farther away than you, so you keep close on his heels. The ache in you is incessant, and the searing pain in your joints is a nonstop reminder of how much easier you should be taking things— but the pain only redoubles your resolve.
As the three of you walk silently into the night, your gaze flickers up to the moon and stars. Shadows deepen by the second, while the tops of the trees become stark against a vision that would stun the Gods.
Father Wilhelm whispers, "lower your lantern light."
More stars than you've seen in all your life slowly come into view. All of you slow your walk, and keep your eyes to the horizon.
The fireflies are all behind you, but you can see the sky more clearly than ever before. An expanse of light rises from the depths of your country's heart, all the way up towards the heavens. Gorgeous shades of amethyst, umber, and midnight paint a cosmic masterpiece.
"The Astral Grove," Father Pevrel says, picking his way through the jet-black woods. You can't help but notice that the bark all around is glimmering in the low light. "I've passed through here only once before, but the trees are unmistakable. So is what's up ahead." He smiles, thinking you can't see it. "Keep your eyes open."
You can't help but grin in return. "I will."
No demons, wild animals, or other terrors in the dark interrupt the painful hike. No one comments on your limping. Several hours of marching later, Father Pevrel demands that you all detour to the closest outlet of the Morinburn to wash up.
It's like music to your ears. You take an excruciating amount of time to pick the splinters out of everyone's hands and face, the blood is finally scrubbed off from everyone's clothes, and you emerge from the river looking like new men.
Damp and delighted, the hike resumes for a short while. It feels like less than twenty minutes go by before your guide beckons for you to come closer.
"Father Wilhelm. Anscham." The priest of darkness deftly moves through a thick outcropping of bushes and fallen tree limbs. You assist the man with clearing more of a path for Father Wilhelm, and in a matter of moments, you find yourself nestled between a ring of trees, flowers, and overgrown grass.
At the center of the circle is something so peculiar, you don't really know what to make of it.
"Is that a... pond?" You stare in amazement at a steaming, small pool of water. Thanks to the water supply, there's a colossal amount of greenery in the immediate area. The air smells of steam and life. "...it can't possibly be poison."
"They're called 'hot springs', Anscham."
The heat emanating from it can be felt from a short distance away. You curiously take a few steps closer. There's nothing on the surface of the clear water, which perfectly reflects the night sky.
Father Pevrel has stripped down in the short amount of time it's taken you to survey the area, sets his sword within arm's reach of the hot spring, and fearlessly drops into the body of water. The priest is fairly short— no more than 5'6''— so you're surprised to see him standing with water only to his chest-level. You and Father Wilhelm linger on the shore, trying to not be prudish.
You fidget with the bottom of your shirt.
It's looser than it was this morning.
You couldn't be more delighted, and actually move to start undressing.
The lord of honor sighs at Father Wilhelm. "Our clothes are going to muck up the water. Don't be women about it. Come on." He grumbles, "the water's fine."
Your friends are polite enough to keep their eyes averted until you're in the hot spring. Not wanting to draw the process out, you almost jump straight in. The water rises an inch or two by the time you're totally submerged.
It's scalding, deeply pleasant, and eases every aching joint in your body. Instantly sinking against one of the walls of the hot spring, you go down just before your nose is under water, and grin to the genius who brought you all the way here.
"Father Pevrel."
"What."
"This is fantastic."
Father Wilhelm kept his hat on, but still has the audacity to flick some water at the silly expression you're making. "Oh? So, what does the lord of healing make of all this, then?"
As a priest of Storm, Agriculture, and Mercy, you can assess the area instantly. "Thanks to its heat, this water seems to hold far more medicinal solids than an ordinary pond would be capable of. I won't taste the water— there is no telling what else has been in here— but judging by the smell, and how good this feels?" You stretch a little, making no attempt to hide how much you're enjoying yourself. "This is a healing spring."
The brunette raises his eyebrows and shifts slightly, creating a little wave towards you. "You don't say."
"It would not surprise me if a priest or priestess once blessed this location." You get back to chest-level in the water, permitting some of your worst scars to see the moon and starlight. Father Wilhelm winces at the sight of some of the more mottled and raised stab wounds along your shoulders and back, but don't want to assume that it's your looks that are bothering him. On the contrary. You lean towards your friends, just a little. "We have had a tremendous amount to heal from."
A small nod, from Father Wilhelm. He looks to you with some serious appreciation. "We have. You pushed yourself particularly hard today, Richard. Are you alright?"
He had to have noticed you limping all the way here. You blame the way you're blushing on the heat of the hot spring. "I could do with taking it easier tonight. How are you...?"
Half-groaning, half-laughing, the older man leans on the earthen wall at his back. "This really is a blessing. But I suspect that I will be just fine, given a good night's rest." He nods to Father Pevrel. "We're lucky to have you with us."
The moody priest looks particularly pensive. He's avoiding eye (socket) contact, and really doesn't respond.
You move over by his side. "Are you okay?"
Still staring hard at the water, Father Pevrel speaks in such a low, hurt tone that the rocks and silt of his voice is scarcely intelligible. You block out everything else, just to make sure you don't miss a word of it.
"I've lost several children this month. It's something that I can live with. They were born to good mothers, and lived honorably. They died honorably, fighting for a cause that was right. It would disgrace their sacrifices for me to shut down." His gaze lifts just for a moment, to say to Father Wilhelm, "or to abandon our cause. It doesn't matter how I feel. I could never Dream of it."
The two share an appreciative look for just a moment, before the priest focuses again on the water. His cut hands are clenched tightly into fists, resting on his legs as he trembles. "I can justify robbing our enemies of their work, their homes, and their very lives. You asked me before, Anscham, how I determine right from wrong?"
He stares at you, hard. The look is unflinching, and every line in the middle-aged man's face looks like it's been cut into his skin by shadow. "I don't. Vengeance is my arbiter. I mete out punishment based on the teachings of God. I have spent my entire life studying His will. If you ever come to the Church of Vengeance, I would like to show you some of our study. It's far too much to cover while we're on the road."
Spitting to the water— unable to look at you any longer— Father Pevrel seems to be on the verge of shouting. "But the guidance that I've been given— the work of all the men and women who have come before me— and all of my own experience does not help with this." He still keeps his voice at that horrible, low tone, which cracks occasionally from just how upset he is. "Demons cannot be reasoned with. They do not bargain. They do not beg. They are SLAVES to their Catalysts. And no matter how much you may sympathize with them, Anscham, they are NOT like us. I can never exact the same punishment on a demon that I could for a mortal man. They robbed me of delivering justice today. We granted those vile, imbecilic, miserable excuses for imps a swift death. Many of them died instantly— yet their victims were kept alive for weeks if not months on end. Starving. Despairing. Their prolonged deaths amounted to nothing more than to sustain MONSTERS— who were there for what?"
He's crying silently, in that horrible way that shows absolutely no emotion on his face. It's just a few tears streaming down, but he still can't bring himself to look at you. "I can tell myself every day and night that I am pursuing the will of Vengeance, but when I have to slaughter children, men who's lives were taken from them in their prime— pregnant women, and people who are too weak and in too much agony to even move— when I am reduced to nothing more than a butcher against my principles, against—" He's gritting his teeth, and fighting to get a hold of himself. "Inertia can be held responsible for what happened to the dozens of people I had to kill today. But there is only so much you can do to one man. To many men."
The priest finally looks back at you, uselessly wipes at his face with his wet hands, and settles for miserably gesturing at your back and shoulders. "You know better than most, what I'm speaking of."
"I do."
A hard breath leaves him, as he manages to pull it together. "It's why I have made no attempt to give you anything in the way of conventional punishment for your crimes." He's saying all of this in front of Father Wilhelm like it's common knowledge. You don't take the time to mull over if this may be because of how bad your reputation is, or if they've talked in private. It doesn't matter right now. "There are some things in this world that are too terrible for us—" He's suddenly taken heart, and actually levels his voice. "—to decide upon. I know that Vengeance will balance the scales for us all, in the end."
A cold sweat hits you, even through the warmth of the hot spring. "What do you mean?"
His verve redoubles. Father Pevrel sits up straighter, sniffles once or twice, then speaks as normally as he can. "Father Wilhelm is entitled to his beliefs." The priest of Dream quietly nods again. "I am entitled to my own— and I am certain beyond any doubt that those with a moral debt in this world are brought to Vengeance in the next. I am not the gatekeeper. I am His guardian. The first line of defense. It is only when I have failed that He should mete out His judgement."
There's a lot of conflict brewing in the lord of execution. He's back to staring at the water.
You look to where he's been staring. It's a jet-black reflection. Not of the moon and stars, but of one of the nearby trees. It's creating a spot of complete darkness in the otherwise beautiful display— but you take a moment, and scrutinize the shape further.
He's not looking at what's hidden or distorted.
He wants to understand what lies beneath.
You're granted a glimpse of the water below. The outline of the forest is shifting just slightly from everyone's movement in the hot spring, with ripples that simultaneously distort and swirl patterns from the stars. The surrounding water is too busy from the night sky to make out any of the little details— but as you look to that spot in the dark, you realize that Father Pevrel has been trying to look at the light.
You take him into a hug with one arm. Soaking wet, covered in cuts, scars out there for the world to see, and not embarrassed in the least. He doesn't pull away, and actually holds onto your arm for a moment, just for a little extra comfort.
"It's blasphemy to compare ourselves to the Gods, isn't it?"
You don't linger, and part from the hold slowly, making sure that he's okay with it. There's no resistance. He's still blushing, though, and avoids looking at you and Father Wilhelm as if his life depended on it.
"Don't lecture me on my own patron, Anscham."
"If you ever wish to talk to me about yours, please— please let me know." You smile a little. "Do you feel any better?"
Father Pevrel couldn't sound grouchier. "You're lucky I respect your church enough to not lie to your face. Yes, Anscham. I feel better."
You beam, and sink back into the water as low as you can without getting your mouth wet. "Good."
He mumbles something.
"Hmm?" Father Wilhelm fell asleep in a matter of seconds, once everyone stopped talking. He lifts his nightcap off from his face, and curiously looks to the lord of darkness.
"...I said 'thanks.'" You're glared at. "Don't make me say it again."
You practically melt into the hot spring, and murmur, "no promises."
Several minutes crawl by as you all enjoy each other's company, and a few moments of peace and quiet. The crickets and cicadas within the forest create a symphony of the night. Their melody blends in with the soft lapping of water, until you're almost lulled asleep.
You force yourself awake. A quick stretch is made through your arms, back, and core. A little wave of pleasure travels up your spine from just how damn good it feels. "Mmmmnn~!"
Father Pevrel looks disgusted.
An amused glance from Father Wilhelm goes to you and how much more relaxed you are— for only a split second.
"So about Inertia," you start.
"Can't it wait," Father Pevrel grumbles.
"I've waited nearly three weeks." You pout. "Far longer than that, if we're to count all of the time that we've known one another—"
He gets a little snippy. "Do you ever stop thinking about work?"
He's played himself. Your pout shifts to a smirk. "Do you?"
"...fair."
Father Wilhelm can't help but laugh at the two of you. "What was it that you wanted to discuss, Richard?"
"I want us to pool our knowledge. Anything and everything that we can gather." You focus in on Father Pevrel's extremely dour expression. "Starting with that symbol we saw, back in the encampment. On the mask you found— it seemed as if— it seemed as if you were familiar with it. Is it from a splinter faction of Inertia?"
His scowl could shatter an entire hall of mirrors. "It's used to denote their leaders."
"What—"
"Before you asked, I searched that entire Gods-forsaken pit. Everyone was too rotten to identify any specific features, and members of Inertia remove all identifying markers on themselves by nature of their creed. At least, the higher-ups do. Lower-ranking members often openly identify themselves by scarring themselves with ink. They use another symbol: a serpent devouring its tail, in the fashion of the number eight. It's intended to make the viewer think that they're mocking the Gods, as it shows the endless nature that the Eight provide. Life. Fertility. Death. Rebirth. Many cultists will adorn the vacant space between each part of the Eight with inks or other patterns, missing the point of the symbol, and more obviously indicating their relationship to Inertia."
Father Wilhelm perks up. He's found a way to light a cigar with damp hands, even while in the hot spring, and looks to be seriously enjoying himself. "I've seen a few bastards with those. What a pity! For all of that ink to go to waste— you would think that some of their more artistic members would do something more with their lives."
"Hmph." The father of retribution growls, "you would think."
You think back to the hoodlums and rapscallions outside of the worst dive bar in the country. The bouncers at The Pit were covered in ink. You can't shake the memory of it. Though there's a few motives you can personally contemplate for stabbing oneself with a needle repeatedly (you're going to blame the continued flush on your features on the water), you probably should still ask.
"Why would they mar their bodies like that...?"
Father Pevrel seems to appreciate the honest question, or at least is disgusted enough to not comment on the face you're making. "The scarring indicates Inertia's laughable premise of permanence. They attempt to represent the cessation of momentum. As they're meant to be eternally at rest, that is where the symbol's true meaning lies. Endless stagnation."
He leans further back against the edge of the hot spring, finally mimicking the relaxed way you and Father Wilhelm have been reclining. "The endless nature of the serpent only applies to the lower branches of their cult. Their leadership has greater ambition— not that their insane creed is anything one could call ambition at all. The raised serpent has stopped consuming itself. It no longer feeds on its own image, and no longer is fixated on the Gods. It looks above the Eight. They're seeking something even greater. A distant goal— something so lofty that the self-righteous fucks don't even have the balls to depict it." He spits off to the side of the hot spring, landing a wad of phlegm in a nearby patch of tall grass. "I wish I had more information on the precise nature of what that is, but my men have had no luck in locating any living members who might be able to speak on the matter."
Neither you nor Father Wilhelm ask why his men have a hard time getting men who can speak. You're thinking of the victims of the Church of Vengeance that you found outside your castle's doors, stabbed ass-through-mouth by pikes coated in oil or excrement—
With a frown, Father Wilhelm interjects, "it must be a miracle to find them at all. Every last one of the pests that came to Somerilde— spreading their Magic, trying to imitate my Church— they didn't know a damn thing. Not beyond their immediate duty."
You look to the lord of slumber, who is still ridiculously relaxed. He raises an eyebrow at you. "Is there something you wanted to know, Richard?"
"These were sorcerers." You state the fact with a little nausea, and a lot of excitement.
"Some of them were. Unquestionably!"
"Did you learn anything of their methods?"
He shifts a little, suddenly looking far more uncomfortable. "More than I'd care to admit. They were using some sort of 'deprivation' spell to lull my people into a false slumber." A far more somber attitude takes hold of Father Wilhelm. "It was nothing that couldn't be countered by the full might of the Church of Dream. But it raised a few questions for us. I came to the conclusion that they were using this 'deprivation' not to rob my people of their ability to stay awake— but to deprive them of their connection to Dream Himself. They would sleep without any benefit. Their bodies were suffering, their minds were out of our reach— and their very souls were wasting away. It took every last priest and priestess at my disposal to get to the bottom of the matter, and to find a way to restore my people to health."
Taking a long draw on his cigar, the father of rest leans back, and smiles to you broadly. "As it would turn out, weak Magic can't withstand the presence of sufficiently powerful faith. Inertia's lower ranking members— these sorcerers— they may have had some idea of how ineffective their work would be, in the end. I found neither hide nor hair of the cowards, save for one or two fools who may have been left behind just to stall us further." One more draw on the cigar. He blows a smoke ring, and shoots a smaller puff straight through the center. "They released no information regarding their superiors, and claimed to know nothing. I am inclined to believe that they were speaking the truth— and mark myself lucky to have learned as much as I did."
You and your fellow priests take a long minute to mull over all of this. Thanks to the hot spring, it feels like twenty-five years of tension has fallen off your shoulders— but you still tense a little as you ask, "is there anything else?"
Father Pevrel makes a small sound. "Tch." His scowl hasn't lifted much. "Aside from their psychotic dedication to keeping their identities obscured, their apparent presence throughout the nation, the corruption that they're responsible for in much of the theocracy, and the fiasco you and I sorted out in Eadric? Not much more. There is a cult in Mauseburg that keeps cropping up. It appears to be unrelated to Inertia on the surface, but some of my boys aren't entirely convinced. The heretics there disgrace Flesh and Vengeance. It's some kind of fornication and blood cult that's gained traction among the perverts up north." He's eyeing you very closely. "Don't get any ideas."
You leer. "Who am I to back down from a challenge, in the name of research~?"
He splashes you. "You sicken me."
The two of you engage in a brutal splash fight for a few seconds, before Father Wilhelm shouts, laughs, backs up, and gets away as much as he can without leaving the water. "Mind the cigar!"
Everyone winds down. Reluctantly.
There's no stopping yourself from dwelling on the subject. "There must be something more to all this."
Another, smaller splash from Father Pevrel is geared right towards your face. "Go cool off. We've been in here for too long."
The three of you reluctantly extract yourself from the hot spring.
The night air is brisk, and you shiver slightly from the harsh contrast as you get dried off and dressed. The fresh change of clothes feels like a Dream. You gladly excuse yourself for a moment, while your allies start setting up camp nearby.
You get out your bow and arrow. The worn, wooden, lovingly crafted item rests nicely in the palm of your hand, despite all of the small cuts from splinters and leaves.
Still, every inch of you hurts. From standing on your sore knees, to drawing back the bow with stinging, slashed limbs. Your gut is killing you from barely eating today, which is only exacerbated by all the running you did this morning. The ache in your soul has at least lifted a little— but it's damn near impossible to concentrate on your form.
For another hour before bed, you dutifully practice with the makeshift weapon. You really get about half the time of real practice in, between battling with yourself for decency and trying to make up for the weapon's less-than-optimal craftsmanship. Still, by the end of it, you're consistently driving each arrow deep into your target. It's a testament to your strength and quick learning. The last few shots are so precise, you end up landing each arrow in the same hole as the last— creating such a deep shot with the last hit, you almost snap the arrow in half from extracting it out of the tree.
Limping back to camp, you're greeted by a roaring fire, the sound of Father Wilhelm faintly snoring, and Father Pevrel seated on his bedroll with some boiled potatoes and meat nearby.
The two of you share a quiet meal before bed. It's better than anything you could have asked for.
Just as you're about to turn in for the night— Father Pevrel has once again insisted on keeping first watch— he calls out in a whisper.
"Hey. Anscham."
You lift your head from a well-worn pillow, drawing your blanket closer, fighting off sleep as hard as you can. "What?"
"...sleep well."
You go to sleep with a smile, despite everything.
"...thank you."
>Roll 7d100.
>The rolls of the first three rollers will be used.
>This means each person rolling will roll 7d100, for a total of 21d100.
>Because you are blessed by all the Gods, the best of 3 will be used for each set.
>E.g. If the first person rolls 99, 80, 70, 60, 50, 40, 98; the second person rolls 1, 100, 2, 3, 4, 90, 5; and the third person rolls 10, 20, 80, 85, 89, 30, 40; then the winning rolls will be 99, 100, 80, 85, 89, 90, 98.
>Please let me know if this is confusing or if you have any questions before rolling.
Porcelain faces visit you in the dark. The master of each mask has been waiting an age for a new audience. You and your fellows oblige, knowing the danger that lies in wait. Foolhardy steps descend unto them.
The curtains part on a ruined building, shrouded in darkness. Your shadow flees from the sight. It tears you to pieces— this door of the night.
You're falling. Falling into everlasting curiosity. You drown in it, and emerge from a pool of your own design. Gasping at the beauty of it, all around is a liquid mirror. Within it lies a reflection. You are strong beyond all reckoning, and cannot help but admire the picture— until the image shifts.
Your curiosity descends, crashing into a basin alit with roaring thunder and foam. A great beast stirs.
Beyond it lies a door, and greater power still. Monumental scales made of ebony and intricate stone encompasses of all your vision. The great figures by your side recognize the sculpture for what it is, and beckon for you to come closer.
They wish for you to restore balance.
Teetering on a precipice, your mind splits in two.
Robes of amethyst rush towards the sands. Bravery is his creed. Selflessness is his bond.
Robes of white linger; his curiosity ever-growing. A cold-yet-familiar voice resonates in your mind's eye:
"The pursuit of knowledge is a reward in and of itself."
Thumbing at the edge of parchment and memories, you turn the page. The paper and ink of your life slips from your tenuous grasp. Pastel monstrosities scurry about, picking up the pages. You have lost something incredibly dear. If only you had kept your secrets closer.
Books and translucent wings go up in a rush of flame. You look through the inferno— robbed of your respite— and are helpless to stop your skin from blistering. Batting away at the flame does nothing to stop the burn. You take a bottle, and capture the sensation until nothing but opportunity is left.
A pearlescent building rises from the ash and soot, as cool as the newfound salve on your wounds. Coated in the earth, you take trepidant steps towards it. Your burns have yet to heal.
The door handle is cool to the touch. There is nothing within that will harm you— if you are still capable of crossing over the threshold.
At the end of a white hallway lies a single hourglass. It ran out long ago. Now, porcelain, beasts, scales, parchment, transparency and pearls all swirls within. They have taken all your Time.
You pocket the timepiece, and look to the horizon with a heavy heart. A single serpent lies in wait. He has suffocated on wild growth.
There is no sign of any other.
You miss him.
You wake up blue-eyed and panicked. Judging by the height of the morning sun, it's just past dawn, and will be a cloudy day. There's no Time to think about if you overslept. Scrambling to find your satchel, you manage to locate the bag just a few inches away from your sleeping arrangements, get your journal and your best blue ink, and scratch down the vision from Dream as quickly as you can. Not a single detail is omitted. It isn't until you're completely done and the azure has faded from your eyes that you realize both Father Wilhelm and Father Pevrel are awake.
The leader of the Church of Dream is politely sitting off to the side of a small campfire, smoking, dressed in the same pajamas and nightcap as you saw him in last night. He's grinning broadly, and looking at you with extreme approval. Conversely, Father Pevrel is pacing about in his usual tattered traveling garb, looking like he hasn't slept a wink.
The lord of darkness scratches at his stubble, and doesn't interrupt while Father Wilhelm launches himself beside you. The brunette sits right on top of your sleeping roll— narrowly missing your legs— and starts gushing.
"Richard. You were visited by Dream! What a joy! What did you see?"
You show him the transcription of the vision, which he looks over with extreme amusement. Your journal is gently handed back to you.
"This is remarkable. Good omens, all around! We'll need to tread carefully, of course— but this is spectacular. Simply amazing!" He's patting you on your back excessively. "How do you feel?"
There's only one God on your mind. Out of curiosity, you check the scar on your chest that Dream left from your first healthy invocation of Him. It's as deep as ever, the same modest length— no more than a few inches— and is still swimming with paint in divine hues of blue. There's no pain in the spot, however. And aside from the ache in your soul and joints, the solid night's sleep did wonders for you.
In disbelief— blinking the rest of the blue out of your sight— you murmur, "I— I actually feel fine. Just— just sore, still. Thank you—"
He's setting about gathering your things. "I know what you're going to say— but I want you to interpret this yourself. It would ruin all the fun if I were to lend a hand!"
Your anxiety over what this could mean for the journey ahead is totally ignored. No amount of pouting or complaining over breakfast can dissuade the Church leader.
Having been left wanting for more from both breakfast and Father Wilhelm, you nervously get ready for the day (bathing so often while on the road is a serious treat), squeeze in some core exercises (it burns like a demon, which only encourages you to do a few more reps), help put up camp (your satchel is getting a lot of mileage on the trip), make a few quick prayers to all the Gods (with special thanks to Dream), and the three of you set off for the road.
The black, glimmering trees surrounding The Astral Grove are absolutely stunning under the full light of day, creating the impression of walking amidst starlight even in the early morning. The air is far cooler than what you've experienced in days past. Feeling leagues better than you did last night, you take the extra time to feel out the woods ahead. There's no movement for several miles in the direction you're heading, save for small woodland animals and the wind. It's nothing to fear.
You try a change of subject to see if Father Wilhelm might change his attitude, too. "The fairy ring we passed by before... are there any others that you know of?" You call over to Father Pevrel, who's once again marching just a little further ahead. "You, too?"
"I've encountered one or two others," Father Pevrel replies. "My men reported one in the woods north-west of Mauseburg, closer to the Calumus Coast. We marked the location. I send men to it for punishment, occasionally." You can't mask your horror. "Don't give me that look, Anscham. It's always under supervision when we do so, which has garnered some useful results. Often, simply looking at a ring is enough for a man to become ensnared by its Magic. Other times, it appears to be harmless— even under intense scrutiny. Almost anything that we've thrown into them, though— save for people— vanishes to the naked eye."
The blind priest turns around enough so you can see him tap at the side of one empty eye socket. "I know better. The pests inhabit those rings."
"Pests?"
"Fairies. Pray that you never run into one."
Leaving Father Wilhelm just barely behind (he chuckles at your enthusiasm), you half-limp, half-jog up to Father Pevrel. "I've only heard children's stories about them. What are they like?"
"Terrifying. The little creatures have thin wings, and most often take on the shape of beautiful human women." He shudders.
You elbow him. "Terrifying."
"Shut up, Anscham. Do you want to hear this, or not?"
"I do." You're aware on some level that your attempt at an innocent smile comes off more as an indecent leer.
"Ugh. Anyways. They're prone to mischief— if you could call it such a thing. The bored, ageless scum—"
"Ageless...?"
"So far as we know. They think that toying with human lives is good fun. I'd kill them all where they stand, but they're quick. Hard to pin down, and harder still to actually put in the dirt." He shudders again. "I can't think of anything as Magical."
"They're not demons?" You're still skeptical.
"It's easy enough to confuse some demons for fae. If we run across any, I'll be the first to let you know."
You sigh, looking to the growing clouds overhead. The tufts of gray are just visible through the dense treetops, myriad bird's nests, and sweeping spider webs. "Two rings, in all of Corcaea?" The longing in your voice is unmistakable. You're practically desperate to hear of more.
Father Wilhelm calls out from behind you, catching up with some difficulty. "The world is a great place, Richard. Fear not! I've seen visions of such things before, in far-flung countries." His voice takes on a darker resonance and pitch with each word. "Lands that glow green, and battlements that line the shore."
Making sure your jaw isn't open, you nod. Your imagination is running wild. "Thank you for letting me know. We will— I will have to return to this, at some point..."
The rest of the afternoon passes by uneventfully. Small talk is made with Father Wilhelm about your misadventures in Eadric, particularly before Father Pevrel's arrival. Both priests are worried beyond all belief (even if Father Pevrel won't admit to it) by the sheer volume of issues you've had come across your desk in the last several months, but you happily reassure them that things are mostly resolved at home, and that you're doing better than ever. (Truly!)
After a brief break for lunch, you once again are nowhere near satisfied. Father Pevrel's sadism extends to control of your diet, which you want to thank him for, but are battling too many hunger pains to say so sincerely.
The sun is just beginning to dwindle. Lamenting that you may never feel full again, you all set off.
Most of the greenery in the area makes way for stunning rose bushes, adorned with black thorns. The flowers are in nearly every shade, creating a stunning array as you head deeper still into Corcaea's wilderness.
Reaching out once more to the woods— this time you're attempting it while walking— illuminates that there is a great deal of movement underground. The motions are coming from a variety of different creatures, in every size and weight you can perceive. Some are larger than bears, and others are as tiny and light as a toy doll. It's overwhelming to an extreme, forcing you to stop the march.
Relaying this information to your allies stirs both their interest in a peculiar way. They're not just disturbed— they're fascinated, and want to immediately confirm your suspicions. Father Pevrel changes the course just slightly, and within the hour, you're gazing at an incredibly nostalgic sight.
An entrance to the ruins. From a distance, the steep, stone staircase would have been easy enough to miss. It's positively coated in green moss, and descends straight into the earth. The passage it ends in is barely big enough for one man to squeeze into. It looks sturdy— no rock is crumbling— and dives far into the gentle incline of the woodlands beyond.
No sounds of life can be heard from within. The movement is coming from deep within the entryway. It must be half a mile out before even the slightest movement registers to your senses.
The darkness of the tunnel is so thick, you can't see more than a foot or two inside, from your vantage point at the top of the steps. You try leaning a bit and squint, but it's to no avail. A light source would be an invaluable commodity within the utter blackness.
"This is an extreme threat to anyone that passes by. And although we may be deep into the woods, there are villages just a few days out from here. I think we should do a cursory examination, and kill whatever we find. If there aren't any sudden changes in course, this tunnel would take us in the direction that we're heading, anyways—" Father Pevrel is scowling like someone's insulted his mother. "—and if I'm going to be honest, I could do with getting my hands dirty on the right kind of filth." Both of his built arms are crossed. "This has nothing to do with my personal feelings, though. I know that we can't afford to get distracted."
The priest turns his attention fully to you. "Anscham. There's my thoughts on the matter. Your boy's lives are still on the line— but to be frank, I don't think that the Church of Agriculture would kill hostages that they could use against you. Still, if you want to ignore a den of sin this expansive to save some Time, I won't complain. Their welfare and safety is what our urgency truly stems from."
Father Wilhelm looks horribly curious. Both men are clearly on the fence about this. "What did you say you felt again, Richard?"
"A— a massive collection of some sort of moving creatures. Most were not humanoid in any way— though their shapes must vary wildly. I strongly suspect that this— that this is the domain of a powerful demon. One with enough authority to control many others."
>All of the following are mutually exclusive. Majority vote will decide.
>In addition to the vote, please feel free to provide any Dream interpretations that you wish to share!
>A] Enter the ruins. You'll make this venture as quick as humanly possible.
>1] Father Pevrel can take point. He can see in the dark to some extent, and is easily the most capable combatant in your group without invoking.
>2] You'll take point, shield up. You'd like to see anything try to take you down.
>3] Write-in. (Any additional strategy or details you'd like to provide, such as how you're going to handle light/vision, sound level/communication, etc.)
>B] Ignore the call to adventure, and stick to the road.
>1] You have your boys to save, and can't afford to get distracted. Make up for some lost time today, and keep up the pace.
>2] There's still a LOT you have on your mind. (Write-in anything else you'd like to talk about.)
>A] Enter the ruins. You'll make this venture as quick as humanly possible.
>2] You'll take point, shield up. You'd like to see anything try to take you down.
Pevrel might be the Lord of darkness but WE are the conqueror of the ruins. I fucking missed a good dive into insanity. Tunnel is also going where we are headed? Say less.
>A] Enter the ruins. You'll make this venture as quick as humanly possible.
>2] You'll take point, shield up. You'd like to see anything try to take you down.
With our luck, we might just bust out into Wearmoor's central district in an epic showdown between some demon-inertia plot later down the line.
Porcelain faces visit you in the dark. The master of each mask has been waiting an age for a new audience. You and your fellows oblige, knowing the danger that lies in wait. Foolhardy steps descend unto them.
The ruins and the archdemons in them watching our progress. No doubt through Richard's no.1 fan, Malimos. Will we fail this cycle? Or will we see it break into a new uncharted age of humanity? Stay tuned for the next chapter in Anscham's Strange Yet Amusing Adventures!
Is this pertaining to our thirst for forbidden magic knowledge? Or is this our state of being as a workaholic that our fear wasting our time at rest will cost us more in opportunities lost all while persuing the great goals of swole Anscham and preventing the extinction of mankind among other things?
You're falling. Falling into everlasting curiosity. You drown in it, and emerge from a pool of your own design. Gasping at the beauty of it, all around is a liquid mirror. Within it lies a reflection. You are strong beyond all reckoning, and cannot help but admire the picture— until the image shifts.
The current progress we are going through draws us ever closer to Storm's domain? Yet with the basin- isn't that the Church of Vengeance's spot for getting their obsidian blades?
So, something pertaining to Mauseburg and Rimilde demands our attention. Something there that needs the services of Anscham the Beast Tamer!
Beyond it lies a door, and greater power still. Monumental scales made of ebony and intricate stone encompasses of all your vision. The great figures by your side recognize the sculpture for what it is, and beckon for you to come closer.
Makes sense if this were the God of Fairness.
It also makes sense that the damages caused by the corruption within Churches of Storm and Agriculture needs to be kept in check once more
Teetering on a precipice, your mind splits in two.
Robes of amethyst rush towards the sands. Bravery is his creed. Selflessness is his bond.
Robes of white linger; his curiosity ever-growing. A cold-yet-familiar voice resonates in your mind's eye:
"The pursuit of knowledge is a reward in and of itself."
Guardian Anscham and Deeplore Anscham respectively, with Spirit Waifu praising us for our effort! The next time we find magic documents, we should've just asked Her for help to reduce that much brain blasting.
Or better yet, get more capable traveling partners to study the Gods, Catalyst, and Magic.
Thumbing at the edge of parchment and memories, you turn the page. The paper and ink of your life slips from your tenuous grasp. Pastel monstrosities scurry about, picking up the pages. You have lost something incredibly dear. If only you had kept your secrets closer.
Hmm this is strange.. Something close to us has died due to a leak on information? Maybe either Chesty or Father Sullivan, better confirm this later on once we get there. Best to enact back up plans for that possibility at some point anyway.
Or maybe something metaphysical about Anscham has been lost in the many scenarios he 'should've died yet not' has been exposed to.
Books and translucent wings go up in a rush of flame. You look through the inferno— robbed of your respite— and are helpless to stop your skin from blistering. Batting away at the flame does nothing to stop the burn. You take a bottle, and capture the sensation until nothing but opportunity is left.
A pearlescent building rises from the ash and soot, as cool as the newfound salve on your wounds. Coated in the earth, you take trepidant steps towards it. Your burns have yet to heal.
Of course, after giving the masses salvation through religious Suplexes and expanding our Soul and Mind beyond that of mortal ken, it is only right that we might have to squeeze our way through the doorway. 90% Of effort was given in building Richard to become a gigachonk after all.
At the end of a white hallway lies a single hourglass. It ran out long ago. Now, porcelain, beasts, scales, parchment, transparency and pearls all swirls within. They have taken all your Time.
Immortal Anscham!? After understanding metaphysics of the universe, and finding the cure to the catalyst, surely this is the evolution of Magic Anscham!?
Might be pertaining to Serpent being the only one left while we were off in an extended training montage before picking him up. (because title drop hehehe)
>A] Enter the ruins. You'll make this venture as quick as humanly possible.
>2] You'll take point, shield up. You'd like to see anything try to take you down.
*