>C] Ask Father Pevrel if he would like to hunt something with you. Shedding some blood in a more productive way could help him curb his inclinations, and bringing an offering to Sonfield might help your image enormously.
>1] Some small game should slake his blood-lust, and would be fast and easy.
>2] Go big or go home! (A roll will be required.)

Honestly, whatever we can get our hands to help Sonfield. To give is to serve, and Agriculture's forest domain is a bounty of many things. Not just meat either, we should also use this time to test out our Dahlia powers and manifest some fruits and vegetables, a nice big basket of them. We'll carry whatever we catch, grow, or forage to bolster our Flesh.


>B] See if there's a safe way that Father Wilhelm can check on Teddy. You know he's worried sick about his boy.
>E] It's so rare for you to get a second to breathe, you often don't know what to do with it. Not this time, though! (Write-in anything you'd like to say, plans you want to make, things you'd like to do, etc. You can also Make conversation while you walk, if you're careful!)

See if there is anyway to contact Teddy, then We can maybe get Father Wilhelm's mind off of his son by asking for his help in interpreting Storm's Tenets while we walk.
 
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>B] See if there's a safe way that Father Wilhelm can check on Teddy. You know he's worried sick about his boy.
>C] Ask Father Pevrel if he would like to hunt something with you. Shedding some blood in a more productive way could help him curb his inclinations, and bringing an offering to Sonfield might help your image enormously.
>2] Go big or go home! (A roll will be required.)

Try to feels with our magic Agric skills a meadow that deer would be likely to eat at.
 
>B] See if there's a safe way that Father Wilhelm can check on Teddy. You know he's worried sick about his boy.
>C] Ask Father Pevrel if he would like to hunt something with you. Shedding some blood in a more productive way could help him curb his inclinations, and bringing an offering to Sonfield might help your image enormously.
>1] Some small game should slake his blood-lust, and would be fast and easy.
 
I sat this chapter out because I know not nearly enough about demons to understand the right approach to take, or if there is a right approach in the first place.

Still, I am left with a few questions.
1) What was the rationale behind this decision?
Grab their hands and put the relic in it, use it so that ALL OF US tackle this demons nightmares.
It seems to have worked, but I have no idea why. Was it a lucky guess at the relic's properties? Something we've done before?
2) This prompt confounds me a bit:
>C] You're certain that you can destroy this demon's lair and get out alive, with survivors in tow. The question is, how many people can you save before you go kick Zephadar's lying ass?
>2] Show Zephadar the truth about his lair through your Relic.
First off, what did Zephadar lie to us about? Second, what were the implied consequences of showing him "the truth"? What truth did the choice speak of?
3) What happened to the people Father Pevrel killed? I thought our experiences in the lair were real to an extent, enough to leave a physical mark as evidenced by our shred clothes. Yet it is as if other things have never happened.

Oh, and also...
Everyone did ultimately return to the village, which should now enjoy many more years of prosperity and true peace.
Considering that the majority of the population have fled, and we only have people staying here for the sake of their lost kin, who have now been returned to them largely without being able to provide for themselves... a vision of prosperity seems a little rose-tinted. But let's not rain on someone else's parade.

>C] Ask Father Pevrel if he would like to hunt something with you. Shedding some blood in a more productive way could help him curb his inclinations, and bringing an offering to Sonfield might help your image enormously.
>2] Go big or go home! (A roll will be required.)

Let's pick on something our own size.
 
I sat this chapter out because I know not nearly enough about demons to understand the right approach to take, or if there is a right approach in the first place.
(I know this may sound crazy because of the overlap that quests have with games, but there is no "right" or "wrong" approach to take in Catalyst Quest. If things were that black and white, I wouldn't be having fun! The prompts that I present for you all are always for in-character, intelligent choices based on the situation you find yourself in. It is always a safe bet to take those options, as I don't believe in cluttering the quest with trap options just for the sake of confusing people or playing "against" my players. If a write-in is presented that's out of character or makes no sense, I speak up, and let you guys know that option won't be incorporated. That way, you should know that any write-ins that I incorporate are regarded as an intelligent, creative, in-character response to the situation at hand!

Still, I am left with a few questions.
I'm so glad that you're asking. Please don't be shy if there's questions in the midst of an encounter, too! I would always rather help aid participation and help people be more comfortable with the weirdness of the quest.

1) What was the rationale behind this decision?

It seems to have worked, but I have no idea why. Was it a lucky guess at the relic's properties? Something we've done before?
The following information is on your character sheet about your Relic (under Treasured Possessions > Divine Gifts > Your Relic):
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.
The voters opted to use the "alliance" property of the Relic, in which you guys take the Relic and place it in your hand + someone else's. This allies your strengths, carries an intense social bond, and carries some other social/emotional ramifications that you've already seen (such as Father Wilhelm being IMMEDIATELY more inclined to help out Zephadar, seemingly without other rhyme or reason).

ALL of these properties are poorly understood. You guys have refused many, many opportunities from Sister Cardew to experiment with its capabilities in an isolated environment, instead choosing to only do so in the field (and only when absolutely necessary). So far as that voter was concerned, they had no guarantee that this would work beyond faith in the established Relic's properties. (Get it? This will continue to crop up as I explain more.)

2) This prompt confounds me a bit:

First off, what did Zephadar lie to us about?
Him not harming anyone. Technically, this wasn't a complete falsehood, but Richard is both an unreliable narrator and has a seriously extreme view on lies and deceit.

Second, what were the implied consequences of showing him "the truth"? What truth did the choice speak of?
I realize that not providing a summary of the last time you guys encountered a demon's lair is probably frustrating. The basis for all voter decisions in this quest (due to the original setting, odd metaphysics, and trust that we've all built between voter and QM) is reliant on both past experiences, and what's presented through the prompts. In lieu of blind faith, that is. In this circumstance, your prior experience...

Well, my initial reply to this question was:
(The last time you guys escaped from a demon's lair by force... well. Rather than provide a sub-par summary, I'm just going to post a link to the chapters.

The event started in Arc 6: Atonement, Chapter 23: The Bearer of Truth. It continued until the end of Chapter 24: Limitless.

Feel free to pick it apart! Make of it what you will! The most I can really say at this time is that you guys have absolutely no idea what actually happened, and everyone involved (James and Harvey) summarily agreed to never even talk about it again... let alone wanted to make it happen again. Desperate times can call for desperate measures, though!)
To repeat: you guys really have no idea what happened, and opted to not discuss it. To make a long story VERY short, the demon's lair that you were in no longer could exist as the demon that occupied it no longer existed. Through a series of bizarre events, you experienced a detachment from reality, and escaped from the lair with your life.

This is obviously not doing the encounter justice, which is why I strongly avoid giving recaps of demon encounters. It is implied through these prompts that some other reality-devastating phenomenon might occur, but what that is beyond being a "VERY BAD IDEA" was not elaborated on, nor voted on. Sorry if that's unsatisfactory! That's the most I can really say about it at this time. You guys may encounter another opportunity for something of this nature in the future though, and can always actually opt to discuss it among yourselves if you wish to do so, of course.

3) What happened to the people Father Pevrel killed?
They're dead. Super dead. Dead-dead. Sunny-eyed, Mercy-pilled Richard mentally glossed over it, but Father Pevrel did actually kill over thirty people who could have escaped from Zephadar's lair otherwise. Your gloomy friend has been extra surly since then for very good reason. You're also welcome to try and broach the subject with him further!

I thought our experiences in the lair were real to an extent, enough to leave a physical mark as evidenced by our shred clothes. Yet it is as if other things have never happened.
Curious, isn't it?

Oh, and also...

Considering that the majority of the population have fled, and we only have people staying here for the sake of their lost kin, who have now been returned to them largely without being able to provide for themselves... a vision of prosperity seems a little rose-tinted. But let's not rain on someone else's parade.

Trampled sticks and muddied footprints lead out from Yellow Hallows for miles, from the brief exodus that you stopped in its tracks.

Everyone did ultimately return to the village...
Another blink-and-you-miss-it moment, but they did come back. Still a very rose-tinted outlook given how devastated the survivors were, but it's not quite that bad!

Thanks again so much for all of the thoughts and questions Nevill. If I missed anything or if anyone has any further questions, please let me know!)
 
They're dead. Super dead. Dead-dead. Sunny-eyed, Mercy-pilled Richard mentally glossed over it, but Father Pevrel did actually kill over thirty people who could have escaped from Zephadar's lair otherwise.
Ah. For a moment there I thought this was a part of the nightmare. We never really turned into a demon, because as far as we know the condition can not be reversed (yet?). We just experienced something similar enough to not notice the difference, made possible by the altered laws of reality in the lair. I had a brief hope that Pevrel's experience didn't stick either... but I suppose even if a fear isn't real the consequences of acting on it are very much so.
Well, no it makes perfect sense. Dread is as much about imaginary as it is about factual, if not more so. I was just confused by the turn of phrase, "everyone did ultimately return to the village", and thought everyone in the lair have lived - which you have now clarified is not so.

I mean, a significant part of the original inhabitants left decades ago?
Most people have left Yellow Hallows by now, save for the— hhsss— for the families who are praying they'll see their loved ones again.
They have new homes, and aren't coming back. We may have prevented yet another exodus, which would have finished the settlement off for good, but it'd be hard to recover to pre-demonic population levels... especially since the place may have a bit of a reputation now, given how people who went there didn't return.
 
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(Lovely stuff guys. The vote is locked here. Got all of those spectacular write-ins and ideas for foraging, hunting and gathering. We had a tie between C1 and C2, too! No matter what, you'll be bringing an offering to Sonfield, but I'm calling for a roll to see if you net any larger game and/or how substantial it is. Stand by for just a moment while I gather up those modifiers.)
 
Chapter 18: Sanity (Roll Required)
Roll 1d100.
Because you are blessed by all of the Gods, the best of 3 will be used.
The total modifier to the winning roll will be -25.

-100 SOUL ACHE (The demon of dread targeted your vulnerabilties, leaving a serious mark on you and your allies. You'll seek ways to reduce this negative impact on your health and performance in the days to come.)
-20 SPARE HANDS, HOUNDS, AND HAWKS (You're missing the hallmarks of hunting for your time and culture.)
+15 THE BEAST TAMER (Animals and their behaviors are near and dear to you. Hunting isn't your favorite past time, but you're damn good at it, too.)
+20 PRIEST OF AGRICULTURE (These forests are more than your home. You literally worship them!)
+20 SEER OF SOMERILDE (Foresight is Father Wilhelm's specialty. Should come in handy!)
+20 BLOOD LUST (The priest of Vengeance among you can absolutely compensate for a full hunting party.)
+20 LORD OF SHADOW (In addition to his enthusiasm for this venture, Father Pevrel has a few tricks up his sleeve.)
 
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Sequence 2 - Chapter 19: Hunters Gathering
Chapter 19: Hunters Gathering





Father Pevrel is off to the side of the fire, sharpening his sword.

"Father Wilhelm?" The priest in question lifts his reddened eyes from the campfire, in the direction of your soft speech. You scoot closer to him, and speak in a low voice. "Is there any way— is there— is there any way that you might be able to check on Teddy...?"

A tired, lonely stare goes to the tree line, well outside of your quiet clearing. It's like he's looking to Eadric from here.

"Any way at all?" You continue scooting closer, drawing a reluctant smile out from your mentor.

"I really shouldn't, Richard—"

"I know that you are worried sick about him." A side-hug is necessary. You're too comfortable and warm for Father Wilhelm to draw away. He returns the hug, but quickly pulls back to himself, adjusting his silly nightcap. "Father Wilhelm." Just a little sternness comes to your soft speech.

He stops fussing with his hat, and can't help but smile to himself. "I don't suppose... I am feeling a good deal better after getting some rest, but..."

Your grin couldn't be cheekier. "I'll help you get your mind off of things the moment you're done. A priestess of Storm left me her Church's tenets just the other day."

"Is that so?" His smile widens, while the man fishes for a cigar on his person.

You snatch a small piece of tinder from the side of the campfire. Extending it to the priest is the least you can do.

Amber embers catch on Father Wilhelm's brunette beard and stark blue eyes for just a moment. He makes a gesture for you to scoot back, which you do in an instant.

With his eyes still open, the invoker has his God come to him without speech or gesture. The cracks running along his pale features glisten and gleam. Blue in every shade dances where muscle and bone should rightfully be. It's as if the entirety of the priest is made up of the night, through a connection to the God of fantasy that you can't help but be transfixed by.

The dark of night eclipses Father Wilhelm's small figure once more. He slumps forward as the invocation of Dream ends, keeping his cigar neatly between his teeth while you rush to catch him.

Father Pevrel perks his head up from his sharpening. "The fuck are you two doing?"

Calm, steady, utterly relieved laughter falls from Father Wilhelm. "Nothing you need to worry yourself over." To you, he murmurs, "he's fine. He's just fine."

"I have something to bother you with in just a moment," you call out.

Setting his sword aside, the priest of shadow strides over to you both, and sits on the ground. A quick, judgmental stare passes over Father Wilhelm, then snaps back to you.

You're poked once in the chest, right over your heart. "Enabler."

Father Wilhelm crosses his arms, leans back, and puffs away at the rolled leaves between his teeth. Smoke drifts up into the humid forest's air. "Don't you dare bully him! It was entirely my idea." A nod is made to you. "Though I do appreciate the support." More relief sinks into the older man's features. "Teddy and Aldus have turned in early for the night. They must have already had quite the busy day." Leering towards Father Pevrel, the priest of Dream teases, "what a relief. If only we all were able to take it easier on ourselves."

Grumbling, from the lord of honor. "Calling invoking more often than not 'taking it easy?' Of all the ridiculous—"

Patting Father Wilhelm on the back, you help him to his feet. "I can't say how glad I am to hear that he's alright. That they both are. How are you feeling?"

Clearing his throat, he quickly lies, "fine. Fine."

There's visible tremor through both of your bodies from the sheer amount of pain and exhaustion you're in. You frown.

He frowns. "I'll be fine."

Father Pevrel gives you both a deprecating stare, then hops to his feet. "Forget it. See if I try to help you again with this. The fuck did you want, Anscham?"

"I'm going to gather an offering for Sonfield. It should help tremendously with any issues they'll have with my appearance, and I am certain that they will appreciate the gesture." You're the one leering, now. "Foraging may suit me just fine, Father Pevrel, but wouldn't you say some hunting is also in order?"

"Yes." If the man had eyes, there would be a glint in them. He instantly looks like a kid who's been promised a new present, and runs to the side of the clearing.

"Wait—!" You can't help but laugh. He's sweeping up several sticks, all long enough to be made into multi-tools or weapons.

"Time waits for no one, Anscham! Don't make me hate you for the first good idea you've ever had!"

Father Wilhelm shoos you along. "I'll keep an eye out on the fire, and him. Let me know when you're ready to take off."

A grand, sweeping gesture is made towards the forest all around with one arm. Father Wilhelm is wrapped into another hug with the other. He starts laughing at you, while you declare, "let's make quick work of this forest. Nothing short of all the devotion we possess will suffice!"

Running back to the fire with an armful of sticks, Father Pevrel busts out a knife, and rapidly starts to sharpen one into a spear. The technique he's employing could kill a man with lesser control over a blade, but he mows through the end of the makeshift weapon before you and Father Wilhelm even reach the end of the clearing. You try not to laugh any further at the man's enthusiasm, but can't help it as he shouts out to you.

"Don't stray too far from the camp, Anscham! I'll know if you do!"

"I'll keep him in line," Father Wilhelm calls back, winking at you. He immediately whispers, "how far do you think we can get before he panics?"




In a matter of minutes, you have your keen, green eyes to the ground. To the trees. To the bushes. To the leaves. A makeshift basket is weaved by Father Wilhelm as you walk and identify every last edible that you can.

"Chicory, wild fennel, meadowsweet... take a look at this, here." A massive collection of sprouting greenery has you grinning from ear-to-ear. "Burdock. See the veins of the leaves, here? They run to the edge of the leaf, just like with primrose and dock. If they were to run parallel to the main stem, we would be looking at foxglove. It is a terrible thing to confuse. Also known as digitalis—"

"How about this?" A bush bursting with dozens of black berries is gestured to.

The priest of Dream has the wits to keep his distance before it's identified, at least. Most of the color drains from your face. "Belladonna."

"Lovely name."

"Also known as deadly nightshade."

"Ah."

You gently lead him away from the bush, and start rambling while guiding the man towards safer growths. Love is all throughout your voice, your heart, and all the forest in your eyes. "Ten to twenty can kill a grown man. Five can kill a child. Salt water can help stall the reaction, but none of that would be necessary with this—! Here. Haws! What a beautiful gathering. Haws can strengthen the heart..."

Many more minutes are spent correcting your ally on which wild mushrooms, nuts, apples, berries, and herbs of every kind are safe to touch and consume. You gather a veritable cornucopia of goods before returning to the campfire, and to Father Pevrel's assorted implements of death.

Nets, snares, three spears, and a digging stick are all lying out.

Your eyes sparkle. The digging stick is picked up and carefully handed to you, by the very lord of honor. The item had to have been made with love. It's pointed at one end (just enough to break through roots and soil), heavily weighted on the other, smoothed out along the handle, and could service as a hammer or blunt weapon if necessary. There's dirt deep under your nails already, but...

"This should— at minimum— keep your knives in better condition. Don't thank me, Anscham."

"Thank you." The wood is sweet chestnut. You practically hug it.

The priest of blood sweeps up all three spears, and tosses one to you and Father Wilhelm. Any trace of angst has fallen from him. "Yeah. Well. Here."

Catching the lightweight weapon is effortless. He went for a hardy, aged wood. It must have been a pain in the ass to get the item to a decent point, but it looks completely effective. You can't help but wonder how much damage you can do with the weight you can put behind the weapon, and look on with concern as Father Wilhelm awkwardly handles the spear.

"You've never handled a spear," Father Pevrel groans, dragging a hand over his face.

"I'll keep an eye on the snares." The stick is gently, politely handed back, by one of the wealthiest and most privileged men in the nation.

"I can't believe this." The raven-haired priest of honor in too good of a mood to protest, and grins at you.

Your own smile falls. You realize you were so distracted by the plant life all around, you completely forgot to bring up the tenets of Storm with Father Wilhelm. This is a minor problem, but something you've been struggling with even when you weren't surrounded on all sides by Agriculture's works. The total distraction is probably nothing to worry about.

Probably.

We'll have weeks on the road. I'll make the time to ask him later.

"Have any idea of a good place to start looking?" A teasing look goes to the darkened sky. Father Pevrel sighs. "We don't have all day."

You have ambition, and come back down to earth. The thought of some exotic game flits across your mind. Turkey. Even a deer!

Taking a deep breath, you kneel down, and place a hand to the ground. "Please stand still. Both of you."





The green dahlia that Agriculture gifted to you has left a permanent impression, and you make the most of it. The Goddess of the earth is a part of you. Just as much as the blood running through your veins, the muscle that works to serve Her, and the bones supporting your connection to Her world.

Fingers deep into the soil, you reach out, and feel the heart of the forest. There's life all around. Tens of thousands of insects flit and flutter in the hot and humid air, disturbing leaves and puddles alike. The current of water running along your clearing is but one vein of many. The fresh water flows fast from the Morinburn river, carrying with it fish and flora alike. But more than the deer lapping at the current, the hares hopping towards the bait Father Wilhelm has already started to set out, or the heartbeat of your allies near at hand, you feel something heave.

"It's less than a mile out," you say, getting to your feet with a manic grin. "A wild boar. It's well over two hundred pounds."

Father Wilhelm pales. "Be careful."

Matching the fire in your eyes, Father Pevrel gets into a crouch, and gestures for you to lead the way. "Just point me in its direction. I'll be able to trail it."

The two of you head off, waving to Father Wilhelm. He sighs in a worried way, placing more of the bounty you've all gathered in a great number of traps that Father Pevrel created around the clearing.

The night sky vanishes from sight. In almost complete darkness, deep into the woods, your eyes rapidly adjust to the lack of light— easing your reliance on the sensation of the earth. Focusing so hard on the movements of such a large creature grants you a straight path towards the boar's course, as it's in the process of feeding.

"Good call, Anscham. They're usually active at night." Father Pevrel sneaks just in front of you, not only keeping a straight path towards the creature, but helping you to mind your footing in the woods.

"I've been meaning to ask you, Father Pevrel—"

Your genuine concern for the man's welfare is side-tracked from in an instant. Or maybe he didn't understand what you were getting at. A cheeky grin, and a tap near his absence of eyes catches your attention. "It's peculiar enough, but Vengeance has no need for animals. I've learned a few ways around it."

The reminder that your ally is partially blind is a little bit of a shock, but nothing you can't take in stride. "Like what?"

"Haven't I taught you anything?" He's just teasing, and grins all the harder. "Know thine enemy. I can't see the animal. Only what's around it. That means I can know its whereabouts from what I don't see— and that I need to be far more aware of what is around it than most. You said the boar was alone?"

You pause a moment, just to be certain. There's no other movement you can discern in the distance. "It would seem so."

"Hmmph. Matches what I can't see well enough." You grin to each other. "Lone males are going to be infinitely more aggressive than ones in a pack, or a female. I have a plan. You know these pigs can't climb trees?" Father Pevrel pauses, and laughs to himself harder than he should. "I should probably ask... can you?"

Dignifying the comment is beneath you, so you don't.

"Oh, don't get your robes in a twist. If you can't—"

"I can." You're going to climb a tree tonight if it kills you.

"Good." That sadistic smile redoubles. "We'll lure it out, get to a safe vantage point, and skewer the beast until it's too wounded to fight. Don't let it get too close— and if for some unholy reason you have to fight it, don't lay on the ground. These things have tusks that could even gut you, Anscham, but they rarely attack for more than a minute or so. Stay on your feet, and fight to the death."

You know most of this already, but you're polite, and let Father Pevrel finish before adding, "if we get any bites, I'll be able to treat us before the wound fouls."

"Good."

"How are you so certain you'll be able to pierce it from a tree, though? We'll need to get over the height of a grown man before we're safe, given the size of the boar."

Both of you drop your voices to a whisper, as you start to get closer. The slick squelching of wet leaves underfoot, the crackle of every branch you can't help but avoid, and the awareness of just how much weaker you are than the animal you're approaching has your hair standing on end. To say that you aren't at the top of your game would be the understatement of the age. Though the heat is partly to blame, you're sweating just from crouching and briskly walking for an extended period of time. In years past, you'd have been confident that you could simply run the creature to death, or had Ray bait it out. But in the absence of your hunting dog, and roughly two-hundred pounds heavier than you were last year, it feels like someone's sucker-punched you in your very soul several times over.

You have a terrible feeling about all of this.

"Father Pevrel."

"What?" He's got his spear at the ready.

Both of you come to a stop just over one hundred yards away from where you can tell the beast is.

You were capable of killing over fifty men and women at the same damn time with this priest, and grit your teeth.

"Dread is just as much what we imagine as what— as what we know."

You're muttering. Father Pevrel turns to you, looking a little annoyed that he couldn't hear what you had to say. "What?"

"I'll cover you. Let's move, and don't— and don't get separated. Even if one of us comes under attack, it will— it will buy us more time to strike."

Picking your way through the woods side-by-side, you come upon the behemoth in a trampled clearing. The wild boar has stopped feeding on an outcropping of blackberries, and slowly turns to face you both.




The creature might actually match your weight. It nearly matches your height. The monster's hair is wild, matted, and creates a deep brown painting of past conflicts. Multiple gashes are along its face and hide. This pig has obviously fought demons off in these woods in order to survive.

With a grunt, the boar tenses, and stares you and your ally straight down.

Father Pevrel slowly moves towards the nearest tree, and nods for you to do the same. "Climb."

Heart racing, you keep hold of your spear as best as you can, and go for the sturdiest nearby trunk that you can find. The odds of most branches bearing your weight is slim to none, but a gnarled old oak nearby seems like your best bet.

The boar heads straight for you, picking up into a trot.
Father Pevrel shouts at the beast, calling its attention away.
You jump towards the oak, find your footing instantly, and get a solid four feet off the ground in an matter of seconds.
Hands digging into splinters and a spider's web, you heave yourself up to the first series of branches you can safely test, and frantically look around in the dark.

Father Pevrel has a dagger between his teeth, his spear in his off-hand, and another knife in his dominant hand. The boar is circling around the base of his tree— grunting and rearing its head back— while your ally steadies himself, and lets loose the knife he's been holding. The single flick of his wrist spins the small weapon straight towards the boar's face— and wedges deeply into its snout.

A devastating cry rips through the forest. Streaks of blood spurt from the monster's maw, as it bucks, and desperately tries to dislodge the weapon from its face.

Before the creature can properly respond to further assault, Father Pevrel screams to you, "NOW!"

You're the lord of compassion. Maybe it's that you've gone too soft. Maybe it's the lack of proper lighting. Maybe it's the horrific pain in your soul. Maybe it's how sweaty your damn hands are in the heat and humidity, or the way that your heart gives out at the sight of something in so much pain.

Whatever it is, when you toss your spear, there's such a sharp pain within your soul itself, your hand misses the mark. Your weapon grazes just across the side of the beast. No impact. No serious injury. It only serves to piss the creature off even more— so that when Father Pevrel jumps down from the tree he's on to take the creature to the ground, he's confronted with a bucking and screaming monstrosity, instead of a grievously wounded one.

The man takes his own weapon, and fearlessly jams it dead-center between the boar's eyes. There's a sickening crack that rips across the clearing, along with Father Pevrel's shouting as he pierce's the beast's face over and over again.

You climb down as quickly as you're able, and move to get your own weapon as carefully as you can. It's just a few feet away from the boar, who's kicking back with enough force to kill a man.

Father Pevrel gives another, pained shout. As you turn to see the boar snap his spear in half between its razor-sharp, gnarled, blood-stained teeth—

A flash of white-hot pain streaks across your chest, as you're kicked right above your heart, and sent staggering back.

Your heart is in your throat, your breath is completely gone, and pleasure is all throughout the agony that builds into having the wind knocked clean out from you.

The lord of honor draws his sword in the same instant. "I'LL KILL YOU, YOU FUCKING—"

You can't breathe, but manage to keep your footing, wheezing, desperately trying to get the wind back in you. There's spots in your eyes, flowers in every wicked breath you try to take, and Father Pevrel is a smear of red on the periphery of your sight. He's darting in and out of the boar's reach, hazarding cuts over and around the creature's eyes. It's completely blinded the beast— putting them almost on equal ground— but this is incredibly dangerous.

Continuing to stagger backwards and out of the beast's range, you manage to find your breath. A huge gash is over your robes, and blood is running freely down your chest. The boar's hooves are cracked, filthy, and you're going to need to clean and treat the wound immediately.

Not that you want to.

More urgently, the spear that was fashioned for you is in hand, and your ally has taken several gashes to his arms. He's fighting hard to protect his face and eyes, and obviously trusts in your ability to heal him above all other things.

"Hey!" Desire and desperation rises into your voice. "HEY!"

The boar snarls in your direction, confused, and unable to focus on both attackers at once.

"THAT'S RIGHT!" You laugh to yourself, loving the motion and a wave of heat that courses through your chest and heart.

Your attacker bucks, and lands facing you directly. You know Father Pevrel can kill this thing in a matter of moments, if you can just buy him enough time.

"OVER HERE! WHY DON'T YOU COME PICK ON SOMEONE YOUR OWN SIZE?!"

>A] Use the SPEAR you were given to finish the job in tandem with your ally. It's going to be messy, but you're doing this for Father Pevrel, and know he'd appreciate the show. You can tolerate any injuries you take in the process.

>B] Rally the lord of honor to kill this creature himself. You'll distract the boar!
>1] Get out your THROWING KNIVES, and keep as much distance as you can while you lay into this beast.​
>2] Harvest is a weapon of Agriculture, but it will serve Vengeance nicely today. Get out your THRESHER, and lay waste to your enemy.​

>C] Fear nothing. WRESTLE this thing into submission, and trust that Father Pevrel will kill it before it kills you.

>D] Write-in.
 
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>C] Fear nothing. WRESTLE this thing into submission, and trust that Father Pevrel will kill it before it kills you.

My mindddd, my miinddd is telling mee nooooo but my body, my body is telling me yessss
 
>C] Fear nothing. WRESTLE this thing into submission, and trust that Father Pevrel will kill it before it kills you.

Prop the spear to the tree near you. Wedge it with your blessings of the Green Dahila so that it is ready to receive 200 pounds of thiccness as it rushes head on towards you.

Before impact, give praise to Flesh-bro as you duck under/sidestep its tusks and scoop! This turns its momentum from going through you to going up and over to impale on the spear with the hog's full body weight behind it.

A fitting end: to send this chonk to Suplex City!
 
The moment I read the boar's description, I thought Anscham is going to try and Suplex him.

Ah, I see. We made it our goal to recreate the life and adventures of Baron Munchausen. Now with demons.

The worst thing about it is that I can see him doing exactly that.
Anscham defeats an aging, half-blind monster of a boar by pretending to be a guide piglet.


Anscham fights off a wolf by sticking his hand so far into its maw it can no longer close it.


And, of course...
Anscham wrestles a bear to submission.


A bear, a boar, what's the difference?

>C] Fear nothing. WRESTLE this thing into submission, and trust that Father Pevrel will kill it before it kills you.
 
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(You absolute lunatics are going for it? Good. Great! Let's do this thing. The vote is locked! Writing now.)
 
Chapter 20: A Fitting End
Chapter 20: A Fitting End





From the first moment you saw this beast, you knew what had to be done.

A blood-thirsty scream rends the air. Your blinded attacker focuses on the sound of your voice, kicking back undergrowth and soil as it charges your way.

The spear in hand is thrust hard into the tree at your back, as deeply as you can get it. In the same motion, you wedge the humble stick in place.

Control over life and growth flows from you, from your hands, from your soul.

A cry escapes you. The intensity of the strain in you is so extreme, it brings even you to your knees. You buckle, dropping to the ground, and let out a second cry as the boar charges headlong into you.

"ANSCHAM!" Father Pevrel comes sprinting your way, sword above his head, screaming bloody murder at the attacker.

You duck out of the way not a second too late. Tusks barrel straight towards your face, but as you turn and roll away from the assault, only the side of your cheek is grazed. The motion is like someone dragging coarse sandpaper across your skin, thanks to how gnarled and filthy the boar's features are.

Letting out another yell, you lunge away just as Father Pevrel comes running in. He dives through the air, and with zero regard for self-preservation, lands on the beast's hide, driving his sword in as deeply as he can.

The boar screeches. All four feet of Father Pevrel's blade sinks deeply into its guts— and its owner is flung off into the air, from the sheer amount of force used to kick him away. Blood arcs in the air after him. The man's been bitten thoroughly on his arms, but you can't pay it any mind.

You're back on your feet, and rip your hand away from reflexively opening the wound on your face or chest any further.

Don't do it.

Heat and longing is on you. Your mind is in the right place, but your body

I'm better than this.

With zero fear, circling around the side of the boar, you chuck a series of rocks and small pieces of wood away from yours and your allies location. It takes the bait, charging headlong into the empty clearing.

I'm not. I'm really not.

You just can't say no to an opportunity for religious devotion.

"Flesh of my flesh."

Breathing hard, grinning indecently, heart racing, flexing your hands, you place yourself just a few feet in front of the untouched spear. Braced for how badly it's going to hurt this time around, you take a sharp breath in, and completely encase the spear within the tree at your back. The sensation is blinding, and beautiful, and you mutter all through it.

"What is achievement, but to gain through effort?"

Groaning, Father Pevrel spits out a wad of blood, and begins dragging himself to his feet. The boar locks onto every little sound he makes, but you scream, snapping its attention right your way.

"WHAT A BLESSED OPPORTUNITY!"

The behemoth turns your way, and charges full-speed. You dig your heels into the dirt, ensure that you have perfect form, and brace for impact.

"Let us satisfy both of my patrons."

Tusks, teeth, and a deafening cry from an enraged, wild animal closes in fast.

Just off to the side of the clearing, the priest of blood realizes your plan, and moves to charge as well. He can't keep stride with the boar, but it's no matter.

"FLESH OF MY FLESH—!"

Every ounce of strength you possess goes into ducking and grabbing onto the boar. It's impossible to begin to fit your arms around its body, but all you needed was a firm grip. Muscle screams. You might as well catch on fire from the raw amount of power required to lift the beast.

Taking ALL of its momentum, you pit it against the creature, and heave.

For one fell moment, you have over two hundred pounds of pig suspended in the air.

Father Pevrel's jaw drops.

You throw your own weight, the might of the beast, and all of your combined speed into impaling the boar clean through the spear.

There's so much momentum, you can't stop. A sickening crack rips through the forest clearing, and you feel the body beneath you shudder in agony. Popping and crackling noises rise from the boar's neck and skull, as bones break against the tree's trunk and the forest floor.

It violently writhes in place. You pull away as quickly as you can, and still get your arms and face shredded from tusks, teeth, and hooves.

Father Pevrel is by your side as quickly as he can. The boar was impaled upside-down on the spear, which allows him to conveniently slit the beast's throat.

Blood runs hot and red along the forest floor. A few labored breaths escape from your foe, before it expires.

Silence retakes the forest, save for the heavy breathing of two red-faced, all-too-excited priests.

You and Father Pevrel share an elated, slightly guilty, completely embarrassed look. He glances away, keeping a sincerely happy smile towards all of the blood on his weapon. "Thanks."

"It was my pleasure." You glance away, grinning as hard as you can, and try to stop shaking. "We're both in sorry shape. Give me— give me just a minute." It takes only a second to doff your enchanted robes, to get the blood completely off of them, and to instantly set about cleaning and dressing all of your injuries.

The fire in you doesn't die down for a good, long while after.



Eventually, you and Father Pevrel do cool off. Both of you look like mummies, before getting your shirts and robes back on. Little splotches of red and pink seep through the expertly dressed bandages you've wound over your injuries, with plenty of salves and pain-relieving material to keep you both on your feet. It will take some time before you heal, of course— and a little while longer than that before either of you are presentable.

The sadist is avoiding eye contact, but can't stop himself from staring every time he thinks you aren't looking. "That wasn't half bad."

"Same to you."

"What are we going to do with nearly three hundred pounds of pig, Anscham?" He's grinning at you like he's made a clever joke.

Resisting the urge to roll back your (repaired) sleeves, you utter several more prayers to Flesh, and set to making a sled to drag the beast on. "It should be far lighter, now that you've bled it out."

Chuckling to himself, the bastard helps arrange a system for dragging the boar that won't pull on any of your injuries too hard. The worst offender is still the kick you got to your chest, and the bites on Father Pevrel's arms. It's not cause for severe concern, but your face is a mess, and you both look like you've been through a meat grinder.

Just to be safe— before you arrive at the campsite with Father Wilhelm— you ensure all of the blood has been cleaned off of your robes, and that Father Pevrel's cloak conceals his deeply bandaged limbs from view.

The leader of the Church of Dream comes running to greet you. Off in the distance, you can see that he's already snagged several hares, and has arranged everything to leave at a moment's notice.

"What happened...?!"

You and Father Pevrel share a shit-eating grin, and wind up talking over each other. The story is told at least three times, with your hunting partner exaggerating your feat of strength each and every time with more zeal. You give complete credit to him and to the Gods, of course.

The rest of the evening creeps on, the camp is put up, and all of the foraged goods you acquired goes inside your endless satchel temporarily. All that has to be carried is the bag and the boar.

Between the three of you, dragging the beast is easy enough work. You alone practically have the strength of two men, but several hours later— as you arrive on the outskirts of Sonfield in the dead of night— you're sweating, dizzy from exhaustion, and the damn pain in your soul has barely let up. Your face is stinging like crazy, your stomach is aching from hunger, the burn in all of your limbs is insane, and you'd love to lay down for the next three days straight.

The worst part isn't that you suplexed a boar, really.

It's that no one— particularly you— are surprised by the fact that you did.
 
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Chapter 21: Sonfield
Chapter 21: Sonfield








This is more like what you'd expect from a place outside of Corcaea's holy cities. A few lights can be seen twinkling from quiet homes, and smoke still rises from hearths in all directions. You stop far from the rickety little wooden fences, the thatched roofs, the sheds picked clean of moss or weeds, and the barricades all around.

Despite the late hour, a pair of guards comes running from the edge of the shit-heap of a town. You can't even see where the man and woman came running from, thanks to how high the defenses are on the village's outskirts in places. At the sight of you and the spoils of the hunt, both guards almost drop to their knees in gratitude. Father Wilhelm sets about producing the harvest you gathered, and it's enough for them to immediately bring you into the village, and straight towards the leader of Sonfield.

Passing along narrow, dirt roads, you're greeted by no gardens. No flowering beds. The place is as brown and barren as it gets. It tugs harder on the pain in you. There's a strong urge to spend the next month of your life helping every last neglected inch of this place flourish, but your attention is brought away from the soil, and back towards mortal matters.

There's blood in the street. Black blood. Demon's blood. It looks like one was recently dragged down the entire main road. Tar and feathers lines the way, in flecks that most people wouldn't have the eye for. You catch it, thanks to how closely you're focused on the ground. There's footprints in all directions, as if a festival had just taken place, too.

If you didn't know any better, you'd say Sonfield can handle themselves.

At the top of a small hill— surrounded by more spiked barricades, and guarded fiercely by fifteen armed men and women— lies a far larger home. You and your company are strongly encouraged to bring your kill all the way up to the double front doors, where you're all announced by the first female guard who brought you in. She's aging, and her straw-like, light brown hair is cropped as closely as a man's. Her voice is nearly as deep as one, too.

"Pardon the intrusion, my lord! Guests, hailing from the furthest reaches of our lands!"

You hazard a peek inside. Thanks to your height, it's effortless to look over the shoulders of the guard's helmet, shield, and spear. There's a long hall, flanked on either side with heraldry from countless families you don't even recognize. Their colors are devoid of any blatant association with any God— the traditional browns and grays— and ample ties to the animal kingdom. Below the banners and pelts of old hunts lies a deep fire pit, recessed into the floor of the hall. There's nothing roasting on it. The only scent on the air is of blackened blood, and soot.

Hanging at the end of the hall is a tremendous bear's head. Below it is a bear of a man. Full of beard, barrel-chested, but dressed in a light gray tunic (given the weather). It leaves no doubt that every inch of him is solid muscle.

Every inch of the man tenses. He leans over in the great chair he's seated in. A wave of his hand is made, inviting his guard to continue.

The guard hesitates a moment, trying her damnedest to recall what order to announce you all in, your many titles, and is visibly sweating by the time she calls you forward.

"Protector of the southern woods, and defender of the city of shields! The beast tamer! The hands of the king! Leading researcher of the Catalyst— having returned from the ruins— bringing tidings of lighter news! Reaper of our foes! The harbinger of tonight's harvest: Father Richard Anscham, leader of the Church of Mercy!"

You're urged to step forward, and do so with all your allies in tow. "Pardon the impropriety."

The guard quickly rattles off, "traveling with him is the Justiciar of Corcaea! Having traveled from the furthest reaches of Mauseburg, Father Nicholas Pevrel, leader of the Church of Vengeance! He has graced these halls without the accompaniment of his very own children! We welcome the blade of the King, as we welcome this great evidence of his honor!"

With a heave, you and your allies drag the tremendous boar inside of the great hall. The lord at its end rises to his feet, and comes to stride over to you all before the guard can even finish.

She scrambles to run ahead of you all, sliding to a stop halfway between your company and Sonfield's elder. "And hailing from the highest reaches of the frozen city! The Seer of Somerilde, and leader of the Church of Dream: Father Atticus Wilhelm!" A gracious nod is made towards the man, all apology.

The priest of foresight gives her a pleasant smile, before directing his attention towards the man who's practically ran to greet you all.

Everyone comes to a stop right beside the raging hearth.

The guard continues yelling, so that everyone on the outskirts of the hall can hear. It sounds like every single person in the building has gotten up. There's at least a dozen maids and other residents of the home that can be seen coming around archways and wooden doors. "Fathers, this is Laurence Wood 'the Wake', Lord of Sonfield." A little under her breath, she finishes, "under protection of King Magnus the Merciful."

The lord immediately comes around to where you and your allies are standing, and insists on helping you unshoulder the boar. Only once his own people are seeing to the kill does he wipe off his hands, and extends one to you with a broad smile. A warm look goes to your allies, the bandages you and Father Pevrel are covered in, and the exhaustion soaking into you and Father Wilhelm. "Welcome to Sonfield. Your trip here must have been eventful."

You graciously take the man's hand, and shake it as firmly as you can (which is quite a lot). Both of you share a crushing grip for a few moments, before parting ways.

The heat of the fire is suffocating, given how warm it still is outside. You all shift a little uncomfortably in place.

The Wake might have gotten his name for his alertness, given the time of night. He seems as bright-eyed as you do at the crack of dawn. "Fathers, your Mercy, honor, and foresight is the stuff of legend." Father Pevrel gives the man a stern look, seemingly irritated by the prospect. Maybe he thinks he's being sarcastic. "Yet my expectations have already been exceeded! Thank you for your generosity."

"It is the least we could do," you say, looking to tight faces lit up under the hearth's light. Literally every guard is staring daggers. It doesn't escape your attention that you, and you alone are getting filthy looks from everyone in the hall (save for its lord). Everyone looks like they've been starving for months.

"But you are very welcome," Father Wilhelm adds.

"You are likely exhausted," Laurence says, waving a hand to several maids who have stopped to openly stare at you. They rush back to their duties, though they do look intensely grateful for the boar and massive gathering of growth that you've brought.

Father Wilhelm has been assembling the basket as you all have walked through the village, and hands off the overflowing basket of fruits, vegetables, fungi, and herbs as if it's nothing. "We've had far worse! Certainly nothing compared to what you all have been going through."

"We're here to help." Father Pevrel's voice is like rocks being raked over sandpaper, but he sounds sincere enough.

>A] Ask Laurence if he can spare a room or two for the night. You'll all talk in the morning, once you've had some rest.
>1] You want to get out of here as quickly as humanly possible. Make it clear that you aren't here to stay, and don't ask for anything beyond a place to safely lay your head down for the night.​
>2] Let your host be as hospitable as he's comfortable with. You really just need to get some sleep, especially with how injured and tired you all are.​

>B] Don't presume or impose anything. First ask what has been troubling Sonfield.
>1] Offer to help in any way that you can.​
>2] Hear the man out, first.​

>C] You want to leave a strong impression on these people, and really hate being judged so badly. There's something you'd like to propose right out the gate to help Sonfield. (Write-in.)

>D] No matter how late the hour is, you're a preacher, and want to talk about something else in particular. (Write-in anything else you might want to relay.)
 
It's late, and we dropped in unannounced. Let them get their bearings.

The topics we want to raise are more suited for a private conversation with the Lord of Sonfield than public discussion.

>A] Ask Laurence if he can spare a room or two for the night. You'll all talk in the morning, once you've had some rest.
>2] Let your host be as hospitable as he's comfortable with. You really just need to get some sleep, especially with how injured and tired you all are.
 
>B] Don't presume or impose anything. First ask what has been troubling Sonfield.
>2] Hear the man out, first.

Be kind, be humble. Make this stay short and sweet for everyone. No need to impose on them with demands or propositions. This man is a noble and a bit of propriety might go a long way, we made a good first impression already.
 
Father Pevrel's jaw drops.

You throw your own weight, the might of the beast, and all of your combined speed into impaling the boar clean through the spear.
Father Pevrel's face:


Damn! Such a strong showing of devotion for the God of Action, Flesh-bro! Surely, we shall see such faith rewarded by the toning of our body! Let all of Sonfield's doubts be washed as Richard unravels his bandages and robes in a miracle!

The transmutation of lard to sheer muscle! Immediately perform the ONE routine as a show of thanks.

But first:

>B] Don't presume or impose anything. First ask what has been troubling Sonfield.
>2] Hear the man out, first.
 
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