Catalyst Quest: Books 1-7

Linked contents
Catalyst Quest: Books 1-7 Catalyst Quest: Light Sentence Catalyst Quest: Wild Growth Catalyst Quest: Death Defiant & Catalyst Quest: Panacea
Reader mode
Chapter 22: The Father of Knowledge
  • Threadmarks
    • Chapter 22: The Father of Knowledge
    "Pick my mind."​


    "Sister Cardew, what is taking so long—"

    One of Harriet's eyes tracks to the back of her head. The other snaps towards you. You want to retch, but she sounds delighted. "He's bloody. You wouldn't believe it. He's getting somewhere he can talk. Just a minute."

    Both of her eyes slowly slide back into a neutral position. The sweat on both of you catches on the scent of the lily petals scattered around the floor. This is the longest you've continuously seen someone in the throes of a God while not invoking yourself, and you can't help but feel more than a little uncomfortable. The young woman next to you is flitting in and out of existence— or, at least as you can try to perceive her. The steady stream of prayer falling from Sister Cardew's lips continues to escape your comprehension.

    She suddenly jerks back, then bends forward. Her hands clutch onto the sheets, and a gasp parts from her lips. You stagger backwards off the bed, and several feet back as something begins to crawl out from her skull. You try to stifle a shout.




    ​

    There's no blood. A figure made entirely of spun thread starts with a pair of unworked hands, wrists, and arms. They grab onto the side of your priestess' head, who lets out a low moan. It's not like any injury you've ever seen. Her body remains intact, but the impression that she's hardly there at all intensifies. Your eyes are swimming trying to discern exactly what's emerging, what she's producing, or if there's any danger to be had.

    There is. You take several further steps back, as the face, neck, and torso of Father Henry Sullivan extracts himself from Harriet's mind. The impression is impossible, and space stops making sense entirely as his resemblance— legs, white robes, and all— calmly steps into the room with you.

    Sister Cardew collapses in a heap on the floor, giggling softly to herself. A disgusted look passes between her, and her Father.

    Despite the nausea and nerves, you take a step forward. There's not a second to waste. He seems unfazed by your priestess, and you will not let her work go to waste. The voice that leaves you is as resolute as ever. "Sullivan. It's Richard. Are you safe?"

    The figure of thread doesn't open his lips to speak. He's standing calmly across from you, yet the voice you hear sticks to the interior of your skull. The man's domination of Spirit apparently can cross a nation, even if it's through the vehicle of one of his children. Maybe it's heightening his ability even further. All the pomp, pretension, and mildness of the man's speech is almost exactly as you remember it. It's still like a razor dragged across the back of your mind, in all the right ways. You take in a sharp breath, and clutch at your skull.

    "What do you think? Of course I'm not. Yet neither are our enemies. I have my hands full in Murgate, Richard. What do you want?"

    "War."

    "You've finally caught on?" He brushes off a few flecks of white mist from the edges of his threaded robes, as if it makes any sense, or matters at all. The sheer amount of intangible fabric on his form is drowning out most of the elderly man's shape or substance, but you can still discern a sneer across the vague resemblance to the priest's actual features. The deep-set anguish and insanity in his disgusting eyes. The borderline demonic lack of color, or form. His gazes passes around the room rapidly. "You all are capable enough. What do you expect me to do for you?"

    "I needed to warn you."

    A bark of a laugh. All of the insecurity and suicidal behavior he exhibited in Calunoth is nowhere to be found. "Oh? Please. Educate me." It's highly likely that the man is under too much stress at the moment to show you any respect.

    "The Church of Agriculture is unquestionably involved in Inertia's activity. The Church of Storm has some association with them, and Father Barthalomew's involvement is unknown. I know that your church has been compromised. Mother Aimar is preoccupied with battle outside of our borders. Father Wilhelm will not leave Somerilde, and my castle has been under siege. Father Friedrich will have been preoccupied with our efforts in Baranfen. Two wars is too much for the last of humanity. We all are in—"

    "Stop insulting my intelligence. Listen to me, boy. WHAT do you WANT?"

    You dart a panicked glance to Sister Cardew, who has possibly lost consciousness. "Is this—"

    "She knew the risks."

    Kneeling beside your priestess, you quickly check her pulse and breath. She's alive, and still conscious, but in the throes of something so intense she has completely slipped from any grip on the world around her. You dart your gaze back to the man standing calmly beside you.

    Sullivan passes a quick glance over you. "I'm certain you have, too, but don't let Father Friedrich see you like this." You grimace. He makes a motion like he's wiping blood off a dagger, though there's nothing you can see in his hands. "Are you somewhere safe?"

    "As much as I can be. We are retaking my city by force, and no one has truly breached the castle."

    "They tried to capture and torture me. I only arrived in Murgate two weeks past, and have had to stay on the move. Seven priests of Dream are fighting on my behalf outside the door. I do not possess access to my libraries, and your request for information regarding Aldreda—"

    "How do you know—"

    "SEVEN priests of DREAM, Richard. I cannot honor your requests for physical information. Pick my mind now, if you wish. I cannot spare more than a few seconds of Time. Last offer, Richard. One or two questions. Make it quick."

    Mercy.

    Information from the Father of Knowledge is priceless. You're going to choose your words carefully.

    >SELECT 1-2 PROMPTS.
    >CLEARLY specify which question you ask first.
    >There is no guarantee that the second question can be answered.
    >Briefer or simpler queries have a higher chance of being answered.

    >A] You want the last known location of your Flea Circus: Norward "Mick" Bauldry, and Randall "Randy" Holland. Their ability would be PRICELESS in your current situation, they've been missing for months, and you suspect Sullivan was involved with their initial disappearance.
    >B] The spy that wormed his way into your congregation (Victor "Mad Dog" Bonamy) was on the run back to Murgate. You need any critical information regarding this cannibalistic threat NOW. He wormed out of Beorward, he knows you went to Eadric, and there's no guarantee that he won't try and kill your family in their sleep.
    >C] Clarity is needed regarding the Church of Spirit's ability, effectiveness, and whoever is leading it right now. You know Sullivan will divulge whatever is most important.
    >D] You SWORE to Aldreda that you would get her help, and will NOT forget about the souls in YOUR care who are COUNTING ON YOU for help. Ask Father Sullivan for his counsel about his former patient.
    >E] You have to cut off this snake's head. See if he knows of any leaders or major bases for the cult's operations.
    >F] Write-in.

    >QM Rolled 76 (1d100)




    ​

    "Norward "Mick" Baludry, and Randall "Randy" Holland. I know you were involved in their disappearance. Their skills are beyond measure, and their aid has always been priceless. Sullivan, I need— I need my boys back. Do you know ANYTHING regarding their whereabouts? Even their last known location."

    The priest's shoulders slouch. His tone drops. There's still so much tension and stress running through his form, you can tell he's fighting to stay brief. The priest must have a thousand things he wants to say, too. "Magnus had turned a blind eye to most of the cult activity in the capital in hopes of running your men out, Richard."

    Guilt slams into you like a battering ram. "The cult's current strength is partly my fault, then."

    Apology sinks into Sullivan's tone. "Yes. It's also partly mine. Victor rooted out all of your boy's bases of operation, but they cleared out their forces before the attack fell. They must have only had a few hour's notice."

    Mick's abrupt departure from your company puts light in your eyes. He heard of your alliance with Sullivan, and immediately fled. This sounds at least fifty alarm bells, as this means the lord of information still had his rogue agent loose after he apologized to you. "You lost control of Victor that early on?"

    "I couldn't risk destroying your work in the capital with further distractions. I'm sorry, Richard."

    You grit your teeth. "Where's Mick, Sullivan?"

    "From the sound of things, he mobilized nothing short of a small army. There's talk of preaching in your name as far north as Anson. The rumors stop there. I suspect they were compensating for your lack of reach at the coast, with their men."

    "That is an odd distinction to make."

    "Obviously. Your boy's hand in my affairs has been too light to be seen by most. I do not need eyes or hands, Richard. I know what transpires in my city, and have reason to believe that Norward and Randall are actually here. They have a personal vendetta against Victor that is likely being settled with the blood of my children. You can imagine how insane things are."

    You could cry. They're likely alive, and are fighting the good fight. The men and women they rescued from the capital would be out of the King's immediate reach, AND are stalling your enemies at the coast. "You are truly the Father of Intelligence. Thank you."

    Reluctant muttering, all laced with guilt replies. "It's the least I can do."

    "I have one more question, and will make it quick: the numbers, location, and a TRUE idea of Inertia's spread would be invaluable. Please. Only with as much Time as you can afford."

    "That's at least three questions, you—" He sniffs, glances over his shoulder quickly at some unseen and unheard noise, then scowls at you. "Inertia's splinters have slivered into our entire nation. They will not be so easy to extract. There are opponents to the theocracy in every last village and hamlet. Many citizens live in terror every day of their lives, and are lucky to even hear of the Gods working among them. The work that the Church of Mercy performs—"

    "You are referring to the cross-country sermons that have been a hallmark MORRIS' SUPERVISION for his entire career." Horror, and nausea is on you hot and fast. He's been using you to spread support of a cult, for all of your career. "Oh. Mercy."

    "He's likely been working right behind every last effort of the theocracy, not just you. These seeds of calamity have been sown for most of his life. Many clergymen are like him, Richard. It's not uncommon for a pious man or woman to spend their entire life in unrelenting devotion without thanks or reward, only to watch as their families are taken by demon—"

    There's a monstrously loud BANG in the background. For it to have registered in Sullivan's mind, and Harriet's, and be projected to you from halfway across the country raises more questions than it answers. The priest's volume and speed redoubles. "A precise number or location is impossible to discern. Inertia's hallmark is the ABSENCE of motion. THAT is what you must look for. The influence you will find is from where there is NO activity, Richard. Our halted trade. Our stifled communications. Farmers who cannot tend to the field. Sailors who cannot reach their waters. An empty Church of Mercy—"

    "HOW would you know—"

    "SEVEN PRIESTS OF DREAM, RICHARD." The priest whips his head behind him, and gasps. "By the Goddess."

    "Sullivan—!"

    He whips his head back around. The impression of unbearably wide eyes bores into you. "Pray for me. I'll pray for your children. If I find them, I'll do everything I can to ensure their safety."

    The entire pile of thread pools to the floor.

    You're left in a quiet room. It's dark. No one is around to hear the series of expletives that fall from your lips, save for your priestess.

    Her piles of skirts and shawls stir. One, long, violent gasp drags in and out from Sister Cardew. As she breathes in, all of the thread on the floor ravels in on itself into a single thin strand. The remnant of Father Sullivan's invocation snakes back into the top of her skull. The length of it takes several second to completely vanish from sight. As she breathes out, all of the color and proximity to life seems to come back into her frame. Tears (watery, substantial wells of real material) are streaming down her face. She laughs quietly to herself, before snapping all the insanity in her eyes to you. They're flooded from one edge of the socket to the other with bands of silver, and streaks of pearlescent fluid. "That sick, miserable, wretched old bastard. Thank you, Richard. I hope no one cuts his tongue out before I get the chance."

    There is A LOT that obviously went unsaid between the church leader and his priestess. You take a deep breath in, and try to assess if the mother-to-be is alright. There's no physical damage you can see, but... "I don't want you to hurt yourself. Are you alright?"

    "Not in the slightest!" She's still crying horribly, but without any noise. It might be sheer dominion over her own emotion that's steadying her breath and expression. Between the disconnect from her emotions— and such an open display of them— the overall impression is downright inhuman. The steady palms of both her hands open to you. "But to suffer is to serve, Richard. Don't make me repeat what he said."

    She knew what she was getting into.

    "Father Barthalomew will be in the greatest need of information— or the best recipient for a real threat. You have no memories to share with one another. It will be the most taxing to even reach him, let alone to convey a message. I strongly recommend saving his correspondence for last, in the event that my sanity is compromised."

    "Your what—?!"

    "As I said, I will need to rest and recover after this endeavor. The effect should not be permanent. The human mind is simply subject to strain. From being graced by divinity. Father Friedrich would be a better candidate. With a sufficiently strong memory, I can bridge the gap between your minds without need for him to invoke. I may have to do so against his will. Given his open hostility. I advise that you play into it."

    "I beg your pardon—"

    "A violent memory may be easier to ease him into your communications, Richard. Please let me know of one you both share. I am still more than willing to help facilitate an attempt at reconciliation between you two. We can potentially aid two war efforts in doing so." She smiles, all through the tears. "Things like this are exactly why I want to help you. This is the opportunity of a lifetime."

    You're not wasting one second arguing about this. "Alright."
     
    Last edited:
  • Threadmarks
    • Chapter 23: Crimson Memories
  • Threadmarks
    • Chapter 23: Crimson Memories
    "Drip. Throb. Drip."


    The following contains material that may be distressing to some readers.
    Trigger Warnings: Self-harm, implicit sexual content (masochism), physical abuse/serious injury, verbal abuse, PTSD
    Reader discretion is advised.    ​


    The months you spent in Beorward were some of the worst of your life— and that's REALLY saying something. It wasn't all bad, though. You can surely think of something, even if however this is supposed to work is still nonsensical and confusing to an extreme.

    >A] Use your memory of when you first met him. His city was in peril, and he immediately asked for YOUR help. You both have relied on one another from the first SECONDS you've truly worked together. He shouldn't have forgotten.
    >B] Use your memory of fighting the demon of heat in Father Friedrich's courtyard. It was when you both ALLIED your strengths with Father Wilhelm, and might remind the lord of action to temper himself. It could also tap into the unbridled blood lust he had at the time.
    >C] Use your memory of your first sparring session together. It was a NON-LETHAL encounter, and Father Friedrich even spoke highly of your ability to his fellow clergy after you outran him. Given your current inability to do so, it could be in poor taste.
    >D] Use your memory of the night Father Friedrich implored you to invoke Mercy just for Her company. You were out of your mind at the Time, yet your mentor showed you unprecedented COMPASSION. It will be extremely unpleasant for both of you, but it might be exactly what he needs to remember.
    >E] Use your memory of being discovered in the depths of Father Friedrich's prisons, after a brutally abusive invocation to Dream. You have come SO FAR since then. By comparison, you look like an incredibly sane and well-adjusted young man. It's a very ugly reminder of what you're capable of, and might shut him away instantly. It might also help highlight your strengths— past, present, and future.
    >F] You spent over five months living in Father Friedrich's home, and have a lot to draw on. (Write-in.)

    There's tightness in your chest, and heat all in your face just thinking about it. "The night that Father Friedrich implored me to invoke Mercy, just for— just for Her company."

    Sister Cardew has heard about the entire affair before. She looks VERY worried. "Are you sure?"

    "Yes. I know I was out of my mind at the Time. I know it will be unpleasant for both of us. But it— this may be exactly what he needs to remember."

    Both of you sigh deeply, and are still sweating.

    "Alright, Richard." Harriet motions with her open palms towards you. You place your own hands over hers. "Please don't worry about hurting me. I am the medium through which you will experience the memory. It should be as real as you remember it, but I will not permit Father Friedrich to truly hurt either one of us. Close your eyes. If I thought he would, we would not be attempting this—"

    You close one eye, and squint with the other. "He can inflict harm on you through this?"

    "In a way. It will be worse for you, either way. And you know you made it through it. Now close your eyes. Breathe." You comply. "The mind is a curious, beautiful thing. I'll ease you both into it, to ensure he is not caught unawares. I have heard this before, but you start. It will help things."

    "It was right after— right after you and I had both come out from the rain. It was pelting down on the Church of Flesh so intensely, I thought it may have been hail. Storm— Storm had just begun the flooding—"

    "Try to stay focused."

    "I had just finished a formal prayer to all the Gods."

    "Good."

    "I brought Ray along with me to meet Father Friedrich. I was late to the training he offered to give me that evening, so it was no surprise that he was alone. Smoking. His office..."

    You catch a glance inside his office. The war room is spacious, rivaling the size of your solar. As the leader of the church of movement prefers to stay on his feet, the space normally is occupied only by one colossal table at its center. All of its maps and pins are cleared. Two chairs are temporarily set up next to the table— just as you had requested for a more cerebral meeting. Numerous lead-filled objects are still scattered about the floor, in various shapes and sizes for training.

    You recognize that the weight is a pittance, and marvel at just how weak you were less than a year ago. There's no trace of the personal items that had littered the room earlier in the day, from the soldiers who fell during the battle of Beorward. The grieving families, nobility, and spies are all gone. There are no suits of armor. No weapons. No priest. Not even Ray is beside you. The hallway behind you rapidly begins to darken.

    Hurrying inside the office, you cannot get comfortable. There's an intense impression of someone watching you, though you're utterly alone. A number of voices rapidly fill the edges of your mind. The room blurs. A splitting headache lances your skull from ear to ear.

    "Atticus and I have been more than happy to extend ourselves to get you back on your feet. We appreciate you, Richard. All the good work you've done. Saving my home. Your research. Staying out of our business. You've always been respectful. I know you're a righteous man, no matter what anyone says—"

    Exasperated, you mutter, "I am sick of hearing this—"

    "Hey. You hear the other words coming out of my mouth?"

    "Yes."

    "We appreciate you. I appreciate you."

    "I understand."

    "I'm going to kill him if you get all this help and go home to a church on fire."

    The anxiety written across your face must be plain as day.

    "Not literally. I'm not going to stand for all the slander. I can take care of myself, but do you want me to do something about Sullivan? For you. It's the least I can do. We'll get to the lesson—" He waves a hand-written sheet with the tenets of Flesh on them. "—but this is important. As important, if not more so. You'll have to get back to the world at some point, and I don't want it to get back at you."

    Father Galterius Friedrich, leader of the Church of Flesh, looks like he's aged five years since you last saw him. There's substantially more white in his full beard and mustache, and his widow's peak has drawn farther back. The creases around his eyes are deeper, though they still look like they're from smiling. Still, his grooming is beyond impeccable. The man's possibly put on more bulk, and gotten harder since you last saw him. A skin-tight, thin black shirt and tapered trousers emphasize every chiseled inch of him. The Father of Combat looks like he could still throw you around.

    He has placed nine different, progressively larger weights in his arms, and is making his way quickly back over to you. "Alright. There's a method to my madness, Richard. Ready?"

    "I—"

    The weights are all collectively dropped to the stone floor. You're surprised that the rock doesn't shatter, for the sound it makes. Your vision cuts out for a few seconds. Turning back, the priest of Flesh is right at your side. Two of the smallest weights are in his hands. "We're working your quirk out of you, even if it kills me."

    Dread creeps into you. This is going to hurt, isn't it?




    ​

    Time continues to make no sense whatsoever. Your brain scrambles to piece together slapdash memories and snippets of conversation. You're granted relief from the onslaught through only a few momentary glimpses of reality, despite every word leaving you and the priest at your side.

    "I know enough of restraint, Father Friedrich. There may be more overlap between our tenets than even a cursory glance warranted."
    "Not only Agriculture, Mercy, Time or any other God's gifts should be taken in moderation, Richard. The Gods themselves do, too. You don't believe me?"
    "Invocation is perfectly justifiable when lives are on the line."
    "How's that worked out for you?"
    "I beg your pardon—"
    "Let's see. Go on and get down. Copy me."

    Several hours of the workout slam through your body and mind in the next few seconds. Your wasted, tortured muscles from a lifetime of abuse. Refusing to back down. Testing your mentor at every turn, and refusing to communicate a single limit.

    Over.
    And over.
    And over again.

    Sweat on your brow. The pins and needles through your left arm is a familiar agony, after having the injured location worked well past its limits. Despite how much running you've done through your life, Father Friedrich worked a burn into even your core and legs. It feels like every muscle in your body is being broken down. A building nausea is on you. Memories of a full day of binging and drugs flits by. Waking up in the middle of the night to go drinking and fishing with Brother Trebbeck and Father Wilhelm. A long afternoon with exotic and imported goods. Dinner with Sister Cardew, at the nicest lounge in the city. Tea that could calm even your nerves.

    It's perfect.

    The agony is wrapping back around into something a lot better, and you really don't want to complain. Slick with sweat, breathing hard, you try to move your hair aside. There's heat and gold popping before your eyes through the slightest motion. Indecency comes out of every last unhinged syllable that escapes you, through the filter of a fractured mind. "Can we go harder?"

    Disgust and disappointment replies. "We're stopping here."

    Leaning into the pain and pleasure, you close your eyes. "You do not understand. This is exactly what I need. What I—" Every syllable is another wave. Another thrill. Your breath hitches with each one. You gasp through it, and fail to regain some semblance of communication. "Want— have— to have. To feel."

    The green in your wide eyes lifts up, imploring your mentor. You can't speak normally. His sneer is even more judgmental than you remember. "I want to help you, Richard, but I know someone sick when I see it."

    "You do not even know the half—" Relaxing your arms to try and move is a mistake. It redoubles the relief, and redoubles the pain.

    Pulling closer into yourself, it makes you tense all over again.
    Burying your face in your arms.
    A few long minutes likely pass as you fight to keep your composure.
    Quelling any sounds that want to rise.

    Dragging your head off of your arms, you stare straight at your fellow church leader. The priest's patience is befitting of a Father's. His lips are tight, but his fists are tighter. They're clearly fighting to not put you in your place. "Stop. I know enough of Mercy to stay my hand. I don't need to sit here and listen to this."

    Eyes on a clenched fist, your erratic breath is unable to keep up with your enthusiasm. With your pulse racing a mile a minute, you murmur, "then stand."

    "I swear, on all of the Gods, Richard—"
    "You have never felt Her, but you understand a fraction—"
    "Spoiled little shit." He takes a step forward. "You've never had someone stop you from running—"
    "—of Their blessing—!"
    "—your fucking mouth—"
    "—it was more than any mortal man could hope to comprehend, Father."
    "Did I fucking stutter?"
    "I could scarcely tell what was happening at the time."
    "You can't tell what the fuck is happening now—"
    "Daggers."
    "You're making a fucking—"
    "Blades."
    "—fool of yourself—"
    "Imps, in the halls of Her Church—"

    You're being lifted to your feet, by the front of your sweat-soaked shirt. He has to use both hands, but absolutely still possesses the strength to do more. Father Friedrich could not look more disgusted. His words and breath are level. "I don't want to hear it. I can't do anything for you if you won't even listen. You need my help. Our help. You're sick."

    You say with a smile, "I know. I do not regret anything. This outbreak was child's play—"
    "You shut your fucking mouth—"
    "I saved every life in my care, staved off a dozen imps without suffering— nnn— suffering— more than a few more scars, Father—!"

    His shoulders are shaking in frustration and anger. Every inch of him reads that he's going to hit you at any moment, but something is staying his hand. The hold on your shirt persists, as your mentor loudly sets you back to the floor.

    The motion is more than enough to elicit another wave of delirium. Memory. Ecstasy. "Glass. More than you've ever seen, stained in Her light. It was like rain. Daggers. I can run, Father, but I didn't need to. They healed all of them. It should have killed me. It was a gift. Do you understand?"

    Father Friedrich grabs you firmly by one shoulder, with a single hand. "It's sick. You don't know what you're saying. Shut the fuck up, Richard—"

    "I loved every second of it—"

    The leader of the Church of Flesh goes for the same spot on your jaw as before. The same spot Father Friedrich had punched and nearly fractured on THREE separate occasions within your first week meeting him. The same spot Father Pevrel fractured this morning.

    He strikes you clean across the face.

    The impact is deafening. The crack in your jawbone resonates in your skull, with a BANG.

    The ringing in your ears almost eclipses the flecks of blood and gold dance in your vision. You can't hear. You can't see. There's a second impact, as your exhausted limbs fail to cooperate. Your face slams on the floor, along with all the rest of you.

    Blood is dripping from your mouth. Hot. Copper. Crimson.

    Dragging yourself upright on instinct, there is a moment of respite. Your pulse is in your ears so hard and fast that nothing else exists save for the throb, and a steady drip.

    Drip.

    Throb.

    Drip.

    Throb.

    Drip.

    It doesn't last for long. A flood of heat is in the site of the injury, and is growing by the second. It eclipses any sane or rational thought. You lick at the blood pooling from your mouth. It's gratification. Bliss. "Mercy."

    Press a digit down into the wound. Maybe even more.

    Father Friedrich moves faster than you can even lift your arm. "Don't you dare!"

    He rushes forward to pin you back to the ground. Both of your wrists are grasped by his hands tightly enough that escape should be impossible.

    Would a dislocation, a tear, or a break be more efficient?

    The very thought destroys the last of your composure. You want to bite down on something to still every sound that you know is about to escape, but tensing your jaw sends another explosion of pain through you. Another blossom of ecstasy. "Aahhhhhnn—"

    "Richard."

    The moan is more motion. It's only making things worse. "Mercy—!"

    "Father Anscham!"

    "Flesh—!"

    "I am going to find a way to shut you the fuck up if you don't stop yourself, right now."

    >Write-in.

    A few moments pass in so much shock and dismay that you fall completely silent. This isn't who you want to be. The Gods Themselves see fit to bless you. You have overcome pain worse than this before through Them, and through your own will to serve.

    You pray, while swallowing the sticky copper that's gathered in your mouth. It's all in your teeth, and must look disgusting, but you can't care. It feels like you're going to drown— laying down with blood pooling right back down your throat— but you miserably talk through it. Coughing a few times helps, even if a few droplets of blood come up with it. "I will—" A pause. The pain is immediate from trying to speak, but there will be no indecency. You're going to get a hold of yourself.

    Your heart might as well be vibrating from how quickly it's beating, and everything hurts so badly you could die, but that's fine.

    Deep breath. You manage to not inhale or choke on all the blood. "...I will better myself. I can't— I will not keep slipping. I'm tired of Inertia, Father Friedrich."

    Light instantly comes to his eyes, but he remains silent.

    "Help me get back at the world. Let us act."

    The vice on both of your wrists does not budge. It doesn't rival the pain in your jaw, but it's still practically cutting off your circulation. The position you're both in is unbelievably uncomfortable, too. You're taller than Father Friedrich, significantly wider, and he's slightly sunk in on the softness of your legs and hips. He can't weigh more than 2/3rds of what you do, yet it still feels like a boulder is crushing your upper thighs.

    Can humans be this hard? Is he cut from solid marble?

    There's the threat of renewed violence on every exhausted inch of him. You've never heard someone sound so disappointed. "I'm stopping you, Richard, because I know it's going to kill you more to hold you back—" He grits his teeth, and scowls at you from head-to-toe. "—than to let you keep hurting yourself. You're sick. You're still sick."

    >A] Don't argue. Just try to listen to whatever he has to say.
    >B] Ouch. "You're still finding ways to hurt me. I don't want this."
    >C] "I'm sorry." Give the most heartfelt apology you can muster.
    >D] Write-in.
     
    Last edited:
  • Threadmarks
    • Chapter 24: The Lord of Protection
  • Threadmarks
    • Chapter 24: The Lord of Protection
    "The mind is a muscle, too. So is the heart."





    You need to hear this. He needs to vent. You have learned so much in the months you've been apart from Father Friedrich. Laying back, trying to not choke on the blood all in your throat, and listening is the least you can do.

    Just the fact that you don't immediately try to talk over him, make excuses, or go off on some tangent has the priest slowly loosen his grip on your wrists. His shoulders and arms are still shaking with frustration. "Richard. I can't know everything you've been through. I sure as shit don't want to— and you know why?"

    The wetness in your throat almost helps to politely choke out, "why?"

    He drops your wrist, and punches the ground at your side. There's a fracture in both of your minds through the memory, and the floor remains intact despite the force used against it. It only seems to make the priest more frustrated. "Because there's no pride or joy to be had in suffering. Why don't you get that? We're all fighting for our lives. My sons and daughters are not out risking their lives so that we can sit around on our asses— fat or not— and leave all the work to them! I worked you into the ground for months on end. This isn't about my feelings. I'm worried about you. We're soldiers, Richard. Soldiers. Not chieftains, or politicians, or lords, or kings."

    The Father of Strength loses his composure. His voice cracks. "We can't get soft. How could you do this to yourself? What happened to running? What happened to you? And this—" The grating sound of his teeth wearing at each other makes your jaw ache all the more. "—this fixation you have? Why? I've tried so hard to help you. I never expected you to repay me. But I could never—" He's furious. "I never could have imagined that you would just throw it all away."

    Shifting upright is not a mistake. It's annoying, the pain through your jaw is excruciating, and your stomach is entirely in the way (you will never forget the face Father Friedrich makes when he realizes your gut reaches your upper thighs while sitting), but it's worth it. Fighting down the heat through your face, you both shrug off of each other, and look one another in the eye.

    Your mentor is radiating disappointment as he sits beside you. He's waiting for an answer, and excuses, and arguments, and insanity.

    The ache in your chest rivals the pain in your soul. "I'm sorry."

    He almost draws back. It's a gut-punch that makes him sound just as hurt. "You should be."

    It's obvious that all the sternness of his tone is killing him, too. You sniff, and try to not choke or cough. "I've been fighting you every step of the way, when you have— when you have only been trying to help me. What I've put you through is unforgivable."

    A long silence hangs between the two of you.

    The furrow between your brows is so tense, it's giving you a headache. "I have disgraced Flesh. I should have treated myself better."

    Half of the tension in Father Friedrich's shoulders drops. You know him well enough by now to tell his lip is quivering, even through the beard. He doesn't interrupt.

    "You've been remarkably kind while dealing with something that nearly drove the Father of Reason mad."

    "Sullivan...?" You nod. Father Friedrich scowls. "Well. At least he's deserved it."

    This is miserable. The guilt on your shoulders feels heavier than anything that's physically on you. "You've demonstrated my tenets without fail. And how have I repaid your compassion? By making you miserable? You would have made a brilliant priest of Mercy, Father Friedrich. I can't think of any other man alive capable of exhibiting so much restraint."

    The priest of resilience could not be frowning harder. He's clearly deep in thought.

    You clutch at the robes over your knees. Each word hurts more than the pain in your face. "I'm sorry I've failed you. In any, and all forms."

    The frown across from you intensifies.

    It feels like you could cry, but nothing's coming. You and Father Friedrich disagree on a least one complaint at a fundamental level. He's still not saying anything. "I don't want to make excuses—"

    "Then don't."

    Mist swims in your eyes. There's one thing you shouldn't be sorry for. "I'm just fat, okay? I am okay with it—" His anger redoubles, as you intensify your tone firmly enough to stop his complaints in their tracks. "—enough to have TALKED TO Agriculture about it."

    His complaints shift into shock. "What?"

    "It's not as if I've lost any of the muscle underneath, either."

    Incredibly intense scrutiny passes over you. Father Friedrich's eyes narrow, as he's obviously reeling from both pieces of news. He might not believe you. "Don't be weird about this," he mutters. The priest wraps both of his hands around your upper arm, and feels around a little. You flex. His eyebrows raise. There's substantial bulk, and unquestionably a great deal of muscle under all the fat. "Hmph." He crosses his arms, and leans back. "You've managed to work with Him, then. At least once."

    "Yes." You soften your tone considerably. "I'm trying, Father. I'm going to keep trying to be better than I was. I'm sorry for everything I've put you through. You have every right to be upset, but— the fat, at least— I have it handled. Unlike these cultists."

    A hand runs over Father Friedrich's face. If you weren't mistaken, there was a tear or two that he expertly wiped away with the motion. He laughs miserably to himself. "Well, I'll be damned."

    "What...?"

    "I'm still going to have trouble keeping up with you. Aren't I?"

    You sniff, and battle to not break down on the spot. "Is that—"

    "I'm not the lord of judgement, Richard. I just want you to be healthy, and happy. How is your heart keeping up with this much dough?"

    "It— I—" There's way too much to explain. "She... Mercy is my partner, Father Friedrich. If the Goddess of Healing couldn't handle me—"

    More miserable laughter. "For fuck's sake. That's— that's fucked. That's fucked up."

    Your grimace could kill a man.

    "Oh, don't give me that shit. Glad you took my advice?"

    "More than I could ever say."

    A few of the priest's fingers pull slightly on his beard. He sighs. "I have half a mind to kick your ass. For all the good it would do! You'd only like it, if you could even feel it."

    "That was unnecessary."

    "So is your weight. You'd only get like this so fast from something that should have killed you ten times over."

    "Eleven, by my count."

    You both manage a smile.

    "Shut the fuck up, Richard."

    "I really am sorry, Father Friedrich." Your grin drops. "I wish we could have spoken so much sooner."

    "Yeah, well— we're probably killing your priestess, too—"

    Panic sets in. You need to make sure—

    "Hey. Calm down. I'm not killing you just yet." Grumbling. Something about how he's actually going to have to kill you when he gets his hands on you in the Flesh.

    "Pardon me, Father? Was that something about not knowing how to take three-hundred-and-ten pounds of devotion—"

    "That's it." He wraps you in a head lock.

    Hissing in immediately doesn't cut it, for how tender your jaw and face still are. "Mercy—!"

    The hold is kept, as the priest laughs to himself. "Alright. Make it quick! What do you got?"

    "AaaHH—! I take it you're not HONESTLY upset with me, then—?"

    He tightens his arm, laughing all the harder. "Bullshit. Of course I am. I'll hold your shit-talking against you, Richard, but not your work! What do I run my mouth at you for, boy? You think I took you under my roof just to have you watch yours burn down?"

    It's a miracle you can breathe. You'd be lying if you said you didn't love it, too. "No—!"

    "Damn straight."

    "—I could speak far more readily if you let me go—"

    He lets you go. "Maybe if you dropped some of that devotion it would be easier to do something about it! Haha."

    Damn him. "Very funny."

    More of the intense scrutiny. You can hear every sadistic gear turning in his head, with exercise routines that would surely kill you. "Yeah. Don't think I'm letting you get off that easily. You're lucky we've got half the country and two wars between us, boy. I'd burn this shit off of you. Especially if it killed you. But let's hear your report. No use with the efforts at our borders if there's trouble on the home front."

    Music to your ears. "I knew you would understand."

    "Don't think for a second I haven't been investigating. Have had my men putting out a curfew in the capital for months. Squashing this shit wherever it's cropped up hasn't been easy. That's the trouble, isn't it? The cowards. Hiding like rats. They're a worse sickness in our home than any rodent, either."

    "Yes. Precisely. I'm sorry if this is all something you already know, but I have— but I have confirmation that the Church of Agriculture is enabling the cult of Inertia. I have reason to believe that they are directly responsible for at least a portion of their current efforts. My men are looking into the current leadership in Wearmoor, and we'll be in correspondence. I intend to look into the matter personally, just as soon as I'm able. We've had our supply interrupted in Eadric— yet the Church of Storm has managed new imports and exports as recently as this last month. I'll be contacting Father Barthalomew next—"

    "Sorry to interrupt, but let me know how Bart's doing when you can. If you can. I know you can trust him, Richard."

    "I will. Thank you for the counsel."

    "Go on."

    "The Church of Storm is obviously involved. The entirety of the Church of Spirit is in extreme turmoil— though I also have a few of my boys stationed there, who are helping our cause. The matter is covert. I trust that you won't breathe word of any of this to anyone."

    "Don't be ridiculous. This stays between the two of us."

    Your grimace relents. "I trust they will have the matter handled to most of the north. It seems they've launched counter-measures against Inertia's preaching in the countryside, and a broad effort is being made to restore some faith in the theocracy. What troubles me most is that Mother Aimar has been embroiled in some conflict that's rendered her almost entirely unavailable."

    "Where?"

    "A desert. I have no idea what the location is, Father Friedrich. Even the Time seems elusive."

    Nervous laughter. "I'll look into it."

    "...thank you. Father Wilhelm has also been preoccupied. Someone, or something has rendered him almost entirely unable to reach out from the Church of Dream. Some affair to the south has been disabling our strongest leaders. Nothing is preventing Inertia's actual movements. The cult has infested my city. Father Pevrel is here in Eadric—"

    If Father Friedrich were to have had some tea, it would have been spit out by now. He splutters, "the FUCK dragged his unhappy ass out from Mauseburg?!" Extreme worry passes over you. "Oh, for the love of all the Gods, Richard. Are you okay—"

    "I will be. My city's elders summoned him. The political nightmare I am currently entrenched in encompasses most of the city. We've had to punish the assault on my castle and church with extreme prejudice. An example is being made of the worst of the attackers. Their motives are unclear, but it appears that Inertia's current goal is to intentionally start outbreaks."

    Father Friedrich gets to his feet. He's radiating so much anger, he might as well be on fire. "You've been doing our country a service by killing these wretches where they stand."

    He makes no offer to help you stand, but you get up without further event. The pain in your jaw still feels unbearably real, but you ignore the urge to rub at the spot. "I'm doing everything I can. I'll be seeing to my men in Wearmoor and Murgate, just as— just as soon as I'm able. We're going to exterminate every last one of these pests in my home, first."

    The war general at your side puts a hand to your shoulder. "Hey."

    You blink. "Yes?"

    "The western conflict isn't faring as well as it could be. We've been pulling resources for so long from home—" The hold on your shoulder tightens. "—I can't help but feel like I'm responsible for all this. I'm going to see to as much of it as I can. But I won't lie to you Richard— we're already stretched to the breaking point. I don't know how much help I can be at this very second. Losing our defensive capabilities, weakening my men, pulling out from the fight— it would redouble our problems here. I know it seems counter-intuitive, but having the war brought into our borders just can't happen. We all rely on the Church of Mercy for our home. You are the Lord of Protection, after all. Right?"

    Father Friedrich is asking you to shoulder the war at home. All of it.

    >A] Men like you have no use for pride. This is about the LOVE you have for your home, Gods, and family. Reassure your fellow church leader that you will get this situation under control. King Magnus also implored you to focus on your efforts in Eadric first, which you will do— but you are not resting until your enemies are snuffed out.
    >B] It's not your place to make the suggestion, it's not your position to offer counsel, but you ARE the leader of the Church of Mercy, and Father Friedrich DOES technically answer to your authority. (Write-in an order to give to your country's war general. He cannot refuse if you give him a formal command. Be advised that he will be VERY offended if you do so. Unanimous vote required.)
    >C] Your mentor has been as much of a father to you as the man who helped bring you into this world. You still want Father Friedrich to be a part of your life, even with all the distance between the two of you. Aside from the war effort...
    >1] Ask him if there's anything else you can do to try and make amends.​
    >2] You just want to stay in contact. Make it clear that you treasure your alliance, and don't want to ever take it for granted again.​
    >D] That letter to Ofelia probably won't happen any time soon. Ask the leader of the Church of Flesh if he can do you an enormous, entirely unjustifiable favor: to pass along a message to your friends after you part ways.
    >1] You just want to let Ofelia know that you'll be alright, and to wish her well. Implore the assassin to keep safe, and out of trouble.​
    >2] Urge Ofelia and Cyril to stay within Beorward at all costs. They have an adopted child, and you can't stand the thought of something happening to any of them.​
    >3] Your friends are unbearably strong. Ask Father Friedrich if (or how) their talents are being put to use.​
    >E] This might be the last chance you get to talk to Father Friedrich for a very long while. You really want to say something more, before you have to go. (Write-in.)

    "Right. King Magnus was clear that I'm needed most in Eadric— and I will not fail him. My efforts are here at home, Father Friedrich. I promise you, I will not rest until our enemies are snuffed out."

    The hold on your shoulder tightens a little further. So do his lips. A few nods. "Right." Deep breath. He couldn't be more relieved. "Right. I can tell. I know you've been working yourself half to death. Thank you, Richard."

    It doesn't feel right doing anything other than trying to apologize. "I just want to make amends. To keep us all safe. To do the right thing. You're the Father of Strategy. Could you lend me your wisdom?"

    A pause. "You've changed so much." His lips get a little tighter. "Keep up whatever it is you're doing."

    "I will."

    "This war won't be won in a day. We might not ever be able to root out all of this nonsense. Don't scatter your efforts. Inertia claims that they're faceless, but we both know the truth."

    "I need to go after their leadership."

    "It's certain that their ability to regroup so quickly is due to some sort of coordination. They wouldn't have weaseled their way so deeply into our affairs otherwise. I don't have the Time, the manpower, or the energy to root them out. I'm sorry, Richard. I know you have a few of my lads at your church, and I want you to make the best use of their strengths that you can. Strike decisively. Save your strength for where it counts. You've got a lot of good minds at your disposal, right?"

    Both of you awkwardly look around the room. You settle your gaze back on Father Friedrich, certain that this is probably killing Sister Cardew. "The best in the world. Absolutely."

    "Don't waste them. You have to manage your resources wisely. There's only so much we have to give. If I had to guess, they'll try and stall you in Eadric for as long as possible. It seems like this affair with Father Pevrel was meant to hold your attention. That means they're stirring up trouble elsewhere. The mind is a muscle too, right!"

    "Right."

    "And so is the heart. Don't you go losing yourself."

    "I promise I won't."

    "I know. Mercy wouldn't have anything less." Another look passes over you. "She seriously..."

    "We can hopefully discuss this when we have more Time at our disposal, Father Friedrich."

    "Right." He sniffs. The hand comes off of your shoulder. "Just want to be clear, Richard: don't kill yourself over this. We're counting on you. Treat your body as your most valuable asset. If you don't have your health, you don't have anything. You got me?"

    "Yes, sir." Your frown returns tenfold. "Thank you so much, for everything."

    "You're welcome. What's wrong?"

    "I know a great deal about the poison that Inertia has weaponized. One of my best friends— Ofelia Banks— she should be with Cyril. Are you putting either of them to...?"

    There's a hard shift in the memory. A cold sweat is on your mentor. "I don't want to—"

    The room is darkening by the second. A familiar voice picks up on the periphery of your mind. It's accompanied by the SLAM of a door being broken off its hinges.

    "FRED I SWEAR TO ALL THE FUCKIN' GODS IF THIS IS WHAT I THINK YOU'RE CALLIN' ME UP HERE FOR—?!"

    The shift is darker. Starker. The floor feels like it gives out from under you.

    "I didn't want to tell him, Richard, but I—"

    There's a massive, hard disconnect from the war room and your mentor. It's like you've physically lost a train of thought. There's something here that's stronger than even the encounter you had with Father Friedrich all those many months ago. "What could you have possibly..."

    Horror sinks into you. "You didn't."

    There's another SLAM.

    "WELL!?"

    >A] Father Friedrich needs to face his demons. You both want to understand where Brother Trebbeck is coming from. The hot-headed priest is just as much your ally as the leader of the Church of Flesh.
    >B] There's no way Father Friedrich would have pushed Cyril even farther than he already has without damn good reason. You trust your mentor, and would rather see things from his perspective.
     
    Last edited:
  • Threadmarks
    • Chapter 25: The Lord of Strategy
  • Threadmarks
    • Chapter 25: The Lord of Strategy
    "I know you all agree I'm the best man for the title."​


    "Father Friedrich." Your voice is calm. You've seen enough weird shit to last several hundred lifetimes, and know how to handle this. "Listen to me. You need to face your demons."

    "You don't understand—"

    "You do not understand. We want to understand where Cyril is coming from. I trust you. I trust him. Please think of Sister Cardew's well-being. Try not to make this any more challenging for her—"

    The light increases in the room.

    Everything is clear.

    Your mind feels completely unfettered.

    Free of the trappings of restraint, and compassion, and everything that makes you who you are.

    This is a man who has nothing left to lose.

    It's terrifying.




    ​

    Storming through the halls of the Church of Flesh took you all the way up the stupid fucking cobblestone roads. Your rain-soaked shoes squished the entire way, nearly tripping you ten times as you kicked every rock on your path. At least Ofelia was at home this time to look after your little dew drop. It's been ONE DAY since you returned home from TWO MONTHS out in the capital. The whole venture back was more fighting. More assassins. More death. You've hardly slept, not that you ever sleep well. The nightmares have been worse since leaving home, but it's NOTHING compared to what it feels like when you're awake. Being summoned by Father Friedrich in the early morning could only mean one thing.

    All the way through the miserable little shopping districts, up the Gods-forsaken drawbridge, past the miserable little forts ("Mornin', Cyril!" "NOT NOW, JEFF—"), through the packed main hall, and along all the miserable little corridors. Under high burning chandeliers. Past several dozen men and women all being armed and readied to be sent off. The Church of Flesh has been emptier and emptier in the last few years. It's only gotten worse in recent months. It's only going to keep getting worse.

    The fucking door to the entrance of Fred's pompous war-room. The entrance is banded with dented metal over the cracked wood. It puts a smile on your face, for all the times you've knocked it off its hinges. Instinctively, you go to roll back your sleeves. But you don't wear sleeves. Fuck sleeves.

    The heel of your slippery, sodden, unhappy boot slams into the front of the door.

    SLAM!

    It's deafening. The kick carries through your leg, and all up into the scowl smeared across half of your ugly mug. It stings, with a familiar numbness that reaches up into your slightly exposed teeth, and all the mottled skin (save for the missing ear, and busted eye). The scars from Calunoth won't heal. It's Fred's fault you were sent to babysit in the first place. Sure, you got your babe out of it. Sure, Richard got his work done, and actually got his shit together. Sure, you all saved hundreds of lives. Stopped those demons. Got out. Got home. But it's no excuse. There's no excuse for any of it.

    You sure as shit haven't skipped a leg day since Richard ran circles around you. Made a fool out of you. But it's a good thing. Every bit of air in your healthy, well-worked lungs is put to good use. "FRED I SWEAR TO ALL THE FUCKIN' GODS IF THIS IS WHAT I THINK YOU'RE CALLIN' ME UP HERE FOR—?!"

    The old man is standing behind the excessive table in his otherwise empty office. Good. More room for you to storm across the chamber and bark, "WELL?!"

    The edge of the desk breaks off, from how hard the priest clutched onto it. Father Friedrich looks at the chunk of wood in his hands, sighs, and gently sets it back on top of the surface. "Not gonna waste your Time. I'm not sorry for calling you here. Just sorry for what I have to say. We're losing, Cyril. We're losing more men by the day. I asked for you to come away from your girls this morning because if we don't win this, there's not going to be a home to come back to."

    You can only hope that the ice in your eyes will kill this man where he stands. "Don't you dare, Fred. Don't fuck with me."

    "I'm ordering you to Baranfen."

    You'll kill him. "No."

    "This is not negotiable."

    "No, Fred."

    "You gonna go rogue?"

    "Bet you'd like that, wouldn't you?!"

    "Don't make me—"

    "What a great idea! MAKE ME!"

    > (A roll will be required for both of the following.)
    >(Brother Trebbeck is an ordinary man, who came to the Church of Flesh as an outsider. He's worked hard for the skills he has, and still possesses incredible ability! We use the average of 3, rounded up to the nearest whole number with this particular character.
    >A] Invoke Flesh on the spot.
    >B] You want to beat him down with your own Flesh and blood.

    >Roll 1d100. Average of 3 will be used.
    >-15 INSOMNIAC (You never sleep well.)
    >-15 HARD WEEK ON THE ROAD (Death isn't good enough for those cultists.)
    >+25 COMBAT VETERAN (There's few men alive that have seen more shit than you.)
    >+15 VETERAN PRIEST OF FLESH (To fight is to serve!)
    >+10 FOLK HERO (The people love you.)
    >+5 CITIZEN OF BEORWARD (You know this castle well enough to have a few tricks up your sleeve.)

    >Rolled 60, 21, 67 (3d100)

    "Don't make me do this, Cyril." He slowly circles around the side of the table.

    All of the scar tissue across your knuckles stretches, as you pop each digit with one quick motion. Winding back a fist, you shout, "I'm not giving you a CHOICE!"

    Every ounce of force you possess pivots through the ball of your foot, your thighs, your core, and slams with every muscle in your arm straight across Father Friedrich's face.

    It's like hitting granite. The impact is a wet CRACK as three knuckles pop out of place. "WHAT THE FUCK?!"

    He doesn't even draw back, as you quickly retract your arm and shift your weight slightly. A smear of your blood is left in the punch's wake.

    You make a quick assessment of the priest from head to toe. He's not invoking. He doesn't look any different. He shouldn't be this hard. The burn feels like you've broken a finger, despite using perfect form. You spit, "FUCK you!"

    The priest doesn't make any sudden movements. Doesn't even wipe the blood off his face. He sure looks like something hurt him. "Last warning."

    "I swear to God Fred."

    "Poor choice of words!"

    He lunges straight for you. The leader of the Church of Flesh is seriously going to try pinning you down.

    (A ROLL WILL BE REQUIRED FOR ALL OF THE FOLLOWING.)
    >A] You're going to try and outclass his strength through rage alone, and NO ONE works out his arms like you do.
    >1] You will beat this man to death right here and now.​
    >2] You're not fucking around with this change in his body composition. Invoke Flesh. (This will remain an option for the rest of the encounter, but will not be presented as a prompt if ignored after this barring extreme circumstances.)​
    >B] Use your slender build against Father Friedrich's bulk, and evade his tackle. Lead him out from the nearly empty war room. Let's see him try to keep up.
    >1] To the main hall. Make a SCENE over him trying to drive your family apart.​
    >2] Through all the corridors and halls. There's a lot of flame, and a lot of weapons. You'll destroy his home before he pulls you away from yours.​

    >Roll 1d100. Average of 3 will be used.
    >-15 INSOMNIAC (You never sleep well.)
    >-15 HARD WEEK ON THE ROAD (Death isn't good enough for those cultists.)
    >-5 BLOODY KNUCKLES (Pffsh. Broken knuckles? It's only a Flesh wound.)
    >+25 COMBAT VETERAN (There's few men alive that have seen more shit than you.)
    >+15 VETERAN PRIEST OF FLESH (To fight is to serve!)
    >+10 FOLK HERO (The people love you.)
    >+5 CITIZEN OF BEORWARD (You know this castle well enough to have a few tricks up your sleeve.)

    >Rolled 27, 79, 30 (3d100)




    ​

    You let loose a scream, grab onto the side of the table, and flip the entire thing straight at him. A sear streaks through your blessed arms from the force of lifting it.

    Time slows as the item hurls through the air. You can register the moments before Father Friedrich's next footfall. One hundred pins clatter to the ground. Dozens of maps fly into the air.

    At least 100lbs of solid wood SLAM straight into your target. Fred lets out a shout, but doesn't even stagger to the side from the force of your blow. It's like fighting a moving wall.

    He'll only stay dazed for a second. The tenuous hold you have on the floor won't hold his strength back. But the door at your back is open. "EAT SHIT AND DIE, OLD MAN!"

    He doesn't have time to reply as you back up rapidly. You turn on a heel, and sprint out the door. "TRY AND CATCH THIS!"


    ​


    The booming shout from the office already at your back shakes the stone walls. "CYRIL!" The priest's rapid footsteps instantly register, as you both careen down the narrow, borderline empty corridors. "YOU'RE MAKING AN ASS OF YOURSELF! CYRIL!!"

    Every step underfoot matches five pounding beats of your heart. A red haze creeps up on the edges of your vision, but you can still easily see your target. The corner of a nearby archway is gripped onto at the side of the wall. You nearly crush the wood underhand from using it as leverage to swing around the corner.

    The sharp turn takes you down a rarely used passage. Father Friedrich's cries at your back redouble. "FUCK!"

    There's a scramble, and a near-crash that echoes behind you. He probably slipped on all the water you're tracking around. Your laughter carries over his hollering. "Cyril! CYRIL! GET BACK HERE!"

    The main hall rapidly approaches. You peel around the corner, but don't pay any attention to the STUPID banners. The churches of Flesh and Vengeance have made an open declaration of their alliance in Baranfen. Checkered black on red will soak in most of the blood of your enemies. The eye of Vengeance is lanced with a single needle. The three pillars of Flesh are unified in their one vision: Death.


    ​


    The countless spears, swords, shields, and fighting forces all around you are up in arms within seconds. They don't care who's chasing the most veteran clergyman in Beorward. Five brave souls are instantly at your back, halberds pointed towards the corridor you came from.

    You turn to the priests and priestesses behind you. Gods, are they strong. Your voice is hoarse from screaming, but hatred keeps all the heat in your voice as you growl. "He wants to take me away from my girls."

    Everyone looking at you slowly lowers their weapons. They heard Father Friedrich ripping down the corridor. "CYRIL! FOR THE LOVE OF— WOULD YOU GET BACK HERE AND NOT MAKE A SCENE?!"

    "FUCK YOU, OLD MAN!"

    Your spit is still hanging in the air as your brothers and sisters piece together the scene. Sister Katharine has six sons. The middle-aged lifter has lost four of her children this year, and is going off to the 'fen just the same.

    As Father Friedrich comes careening into the hall, he has enough red in his face to rival the uniforms on his men and women. You run for the highest nearby object you can find. Sister Katharine's black, bobbed hair shakes with the motion of her spear sweeping across the floor of the entryway. At the same time, you skip up onto a nearby stone column.

    Your leader trips right over the outstretched metal pole. The stumble and struggle to stay on his feet carries with all the momentum from his sprint here, taking him dozens of feet into the hall. He looks a damn fool, and is subject to ample teasing from the men and women near the back who have yet to figure out what's happening. You're more than happy to scream to everyone present, "FRED'S STOPPED GIVIN' A SHIT! THINKS I'M OUR LAST SHOT! CAN YOU BELIEVE IT?! HE WON'T TAKE ALL OF YOU OVER ONE LITTLE OLD ME! WHAT'S THE MATTER, FRED? THINK THEY'RE WEAK?!! IS THIS COWARDLY, BEAT-UP OLD BASTARD BETTER THAN EVERY LAST ONE OF THEM?!"

    The priest rights himself, and snaps his furious gaze to you. "FLESH FUCKING FORBID I TRY SAVING MORE LIVES, CYRIL! GODS FUCKING HELP ME IF I WANT TO GET YOU ALL BACK HOME, AND PUT A STOP TO ALL THIS!"

    Angry muttering and curses fills the hall. Several people start shouting.Someone accidentally overturns a lantern filled with hot oil. The sound of swords and shields being put up is immediately made evident. Sleeves are being rolled back. Spit on hands. You greedily eye a nearby lantern with hot coals in it. Chandeliers hanging overhead.

    "Boy." Father Friedrich quickly walks up to your vantage point, and stays just far enough away to be out of arm's reach. "Get down from there. You know I don't give a shit about treason. You're going to be called a damn coward by your men. You think you're going to have a leg to stand on if you lose all respect your last day here?!"

    "OH!" You holler to everyone present. "HE THINKS I'M A COWARD! BUT HAVEN'T WE ALL DONE OUR PART—?!"

    The declaration is just enough to distract the dismayed politician. You don't give a shit, and leap off of the pillar. Elbow first.

    The air soars past you for only an instant. Your shoddy tunic and cloak, leggings and boots are still slick from the rain. Droplets of water are suspended in the space above you. The length of your ponytail whips up as you both sharply collide, and the CRASH as you both make impact with each other is almost as loud as what comes after.

    Someone slams a chair against Father Friedrich's back. It happens at the exact same time as when you collide with his body.

    The world goes red. You're both knocked sideways with enough force to separate your initial blow. It throws you three more feet through the air. You go hard to the right. A nearby pile of equipment collides with your frame. Pain crashes into you from the suit of armor your body awkwardly wraps around on impact. Piles of helmets, bags of provisions, and a sheathed sword crashes down onto you.

    Pandemonium breaks loose. The main hall becomes a cacophony of fists and boots, metal on flesh, and shouts filled with anger. As you drag yourself out from the pile of supply, you see five people are piled on Fred. Four are there just to keep him pinned. He's screaming something stupid at all of them, despite someone having taken off their holy vestments to try and choke him out by his neck. A separate clergyman runs up, to attempt to land a blow on his chest or abdomen that might leave actual damage.

    You emerge fully from the mess of weapons and gear. The priest being pinned down screams, throws every single person that was on him off in a single motion, and drags himself to his feet. The priests all go scattering before they can be recognized. There's a little blood on the side of his lip.

    You grin. Your knuckles are barely scratched. Just a minor fracture. Only a Flesh wound. You smear the blood from it across your face. The scent of copper hits you hard, as you spit, "GET UP! GET MAD, YOU PIECE OF SHIT!"

    A circle of men and women form a ring of death around you both with their own bodies. It's a ring of devotion. The greatest form of worship. Plenty of men have ripped off their shirts. A few of the women have, too.

    "FIGHT!" "FIGHT!" "FIGHT!"
    "FIGHT!"
    "FIGHT!" "FIGHT!"
    "FIGHT!"

    "I don't want to hurt you, Cyril, but so help me." Fred grabs the thin strand of red from around his neck, and rips his holy symbol off. It's shoved in a pocket. "This is between you, and me." He screams to everyone present. "YOU GOT THAT?! HIM, AND ME!"

    A roar. They got it.

    You scream right back. "Flesh demands ACTION! AND WHO AM I—" A turn, and a wave to everyone to bring the circle tighter. "—TO DISPUTE THE WILL OF A GOD?!"

    The lord of combat bends his knees, and shifts his weight just slightly. The stance is for grappling. "Then come get some."

    You survived living in Beorward for all your life. Great ape demons have died to your bare hands. Even with the capital city embroiled in a civil war, you held your own with AND against Dick "Thunder" Asscock and his freakshow circus. You didn't just survive. A master assassin with an AMAZING rack and the best cooking in the whole damn world is your lover. Your darling little girl calls you a beast, even if she won't let on that she thinks that you're her hero. You murdered your own damn parents to get where you are today. You're a bastard, and a priest of Flesh who has EVERYTHING left to lose.

    "NO ONE is taking me away from MY FUCKING FAMILY—!"

    >A ROLL WILL BE REQUIRED FOR ALL THE FOLLOWING.
    >A] Grab the nearest halberd. Keep him at arm's length. All men bleed. You'll fucking kill him if you can.
    >B] Use your fists. It won't be the first or the last time you beat your knuckles raw. It'll be worth it, just to see the look on his face.
    >C] So he's too tough to crack? Fine. He still has joints. You'll wrestle, and take all the air from his lungs. No Mercy.
    >D] (Write-in.)

    >O FLESH
    >Roll 1d100. Average of 3 will be used.
    >-15 INSOMNIAC (You never sleep well.)
    >-15 HARD WEEK ON THE ROAD (Death isn't good enough for those cultists.)
    >-5 BLOODY KNUCKLES (Pffsh. Broken knuckles? It's only a Flesh wound.)
    >+25 COMBAT VETERAN (There's few men alive that have seen more shit than you.)
    >+15 VETERAN PRIEST OF FLESH (BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD)
    >+10 FISTS OF FURY (Punches are your favored weapon.)

    >Rolled 91, 67, 25 (3d100)




    ​

    He lunges. The distance between you closes in an instant. With a single step, you seize an explosive motion for a punch with your ENTIRE body. The momentum from the charge in your chiseled legs transfers straight through the rock-solid DEVOTION of your core. It's channeled through the delivery mechanism of your perfect arms, to match Fred's impact in the most devastating feint you've ever managed.

    The priest throws himself right where you should be. Right where the punch would have landed. One, perilous moment has him lose his footing. There's hardly any space between the two of you. You hawk up a wad of phlegm, let the sound register in his hearing, and spit straight into his good, unscarred eye.

    The crowd all around you both stops their screaming and shouting for a moment.

    He knows your game. Rather than howl, the fighter starts to bring his arms up to defend his face. He doesn't even make a move to wipe the liquid away.

    The idiot fell for it.

    He's shown his weak spots. There's a few organs he can't harden. Eyes. Brain. Heart. His hands are up high, as you circle back around him like a hunter who has cornered his prey.

    Form that would make a God proud controls your next series of at least two dozen jabs. It's like punching concrete, but you just need a single opening. The blows are kept much lighter than they normally would need to be-- but you're not trying to knock out this priest. A series of hooks follow so quickly, you don't give your target time to think. He's a master tactician, but he knows that you're fighting to kill.

    The opening comes with a single falter in the fists clenched above his face. It's not ideal. There's no doubt he's going to punch you, but this is exactly what you need to strike.

    Your lead foot comes down with all your weight on the front of his own stance. His arms completely falter. The step forward won't compromise your balance. Shifting your position twists and digs into the thin leather he has over feet that are DEFINITELY feeling the hit.

    You bend down with him only a few inches more, and swing an upper-cut smack into the bottom of his jaw. It sounds like a bat slamming against a boulder. The impact against his skin and bone is closer to slamming your fingers against volcanic rock than a bearded jaw. Every small bone in your fingers cracks and strains from the impact, and you don't stop.

    Time slows. Fred's beard wobbles against the sheer force of the blow. A spray of blood bursts from his lips. It's stark against the gray and white strands of sweat-slick hair around it. You don't let up until every last ounce of rage from the blow is pumped into the hit.

    Drawing your hand back quickly, you only have a second to react. Father Friedrich isn't dazed. He's PISSED. All the red in his eyes resents what he has to do. He knows you're right. The sheer amount of self-resentment and bitter regret across his features almost feels like this was worth it.

    The Father of Strategy also took the hit intentionally. This is bad. He can drop demons in a single swing, and is going to make a counter-attack.

    >(ALL PROMPTS will require a roll.)
    >A] Disengage. Break away from the fight ring, and use your environment to flee. Go to Ofelia and Elena.
    >1] So help you, you will seriously go rogue. Aim to flee.​
    >2] You just want a chance to see Ofelia try to kill this man where he stands.​
    >3] This is purely a guilt trip. You're going to rub it in Father Friedrich's face that you care more about your children and partner than he ever has for his own.​
    >B] Go toe-to-toe with Father Friedrich. It's only a question of how long it takes to outlast him. You're confident that you just need to wear him down.
    >1] Take the hit. You'll probably live, and it will give you time to fight even dirtier.​
    >2] Go on the defensive. Evade his hits at all costs.​
    >C] Write-in

    >GUILT TRIP
    >Roll 1d100. Average of 3 will be used.

    >-15 INSOMNIAC (You never sleep well.)
    >-15 HARD WEEK ON THE ROAD (You hate cultists almost as much as your church leader.)
    >-15 BLOODY KNUCKLES (It was worth it.)
    >+25 COMBAT VETERAN (You've seen enough.)
    >+15 VETERAN PRIEST OF FLESH (You don't skip leg day-- or ANY workout day, for that matter.)
    >+10 FOLK HERO (Your friends and neighbors will understand.)
    >+5 CITIZEN OF BEORWARD (Those miserable little districts are more familiar to you than the back of your bloody hands.)
    +15 DO IT FOR HER (You will be DAMNED if you don't get to see your girls.)
    >+5 CUTTING WORDS (The memory of what you're about to say is going to keep Fred awake at night.)

    >Rolled 13, 89, 67 (1d100)




    ​

    Disengage. Your mind and body screams it, but there's no dodging a blow from the leader of the Church of Flesh. The brick of his fist swings, and one step back almost keeps it from fully connecting.

    You want to breathe a sigh of relief, to turn and run— and the priest extends his reach at the last moment. The blow slams into your chest with enough force to knock the air from your lungs and your feet off the ground. Fifteen clergy at your back shout, rapidly leaping out of the way to try and evade you as you fly through the air.

    It feels like your ribcage crumples. The ground finally reconnects. So does a nearby pillar. The collision of your back and head on the solid stone cracks the rock in fifteen places, and a cloud of dust kicks up right into your battered lungs.

    Gravity decides to make itself known as you slide to the floor. But nothing is keeping you from your girls. Hands and knees on the floor are more leverage to kick off from the pillar behind you.

    Without even any air in your body, your panicked heart races just as fast as your legs. The world is left behind as you break into a full sprint out of the Church of Flesh. There's a hundred cries from your fellow clergy. You can hear them at your back as Father Friedrich screams for you to stop. They can be heard as you rip away from the main hall, out to the courtyard beyond. It's still pouring rain, but you'll hear them.

    You'll never forget it, for as long as you live. They're rooting for you.

    The blessed sound of a riot is at your back. Coals overturned. A massive pillar collapsing. Shouts for blood. Fights between clergy on either side of the debacle. It's going to slow the pursuit, and that's exactly what you need.

    Red is in your eyes, your heart, and your soul. The streets of Beorward streak by in a gray and red blur. You've never ran so fast in all your life. Your little girl and the love of your life are at home waiting for you. The slick cobblestone streets won't stop you, and neither will every last cry at your back.

    Fred screams for you, and chases you all the way out from the main hall. Beyond the barely-guarded forts ("CYRIL WHAT'S WRONG?!" "STALL 'IM, JEFF!"). Over the Gods-forsaken drawbridge. Through the miserable little shopping districts.

    All the way back home. You love your girls so much, you could die. They're standing out in the rain, dressed for long travel. They didn't know what might happen, but they were waiting for you. Bags packed. Ready to run.

    Elena might not be your blood, but she might as well be cut from your own Flesh. Having just turned ten years old, she's already seen enough of war. Her jet-black hair and steel-gray eyes are her father's, but she's looking up to you. She's seen you kill demons with your bare hands. She's seen you toss and turn late at night. She's seen you do your best to shelter her, to keep her secrets safe, and to work to keep you both fed all alone for all the time you've fought together. Your little girl is a fighter.

    Her eyes are dry as she runs out into the rain to meet you. "You came back."

    You put a hand to her damp hair. She hugs the side of your leg so tightly, you forget all about the pain in the rest of you. "Told you I would, didn't I?"

    Ofelia walks up alongside her. The enchanted, deep-blue cloak she killed her mother to get repels any rain that threatens to fall on her form. It's fastened with a real eagle's eye. The item of stealth and subterfuge is easily worth as much as half the armor in Beorward, but it can't shroud the impossible light in her eyes. She was blinded by Mercy, and is resilient enough to have stayed sane after being healed immediately after. You can't forgive Richard for it, even if she can.

    Your partner is far and away the kindest, most beautiful woman in the world. As she looks up to you— not caring for the material things at her back, only for your safety— Ofelia pulls back her hood. A smattering of dark freckles are nearly concealed by strands of her curly, sandy-blonde hair. The faint yellow glow casts a sickly hue across her skin, but it might as well be the light of the sun itself. With a sideways smile, she's even brighter. Three daggers are unsheathed from hidden straps in one, smooth motion. No hesitation. The master assassin's breath is level, her chest stilled, and the divine sight on her narrows at the road you ran off from. "Just say the word."

    "Not yet." You breathlessly put out a hand. There's no keeping the hate out from your voice. "Be a good girl, Elena, and stay with me. Alright? No one is caging this beast."

    A hard nod. Her lips are so tight, they could cut glass.

    Ofelia wiggles the fingers on her right hand. There's an almost-transparent strand of wire that catches on a bolt of lightning off in the distance. Trip wire. Her grin broadens. "You sure? Could cut his legs clean off! Nothin' to it—"

    "CYRIL!" Fred's breathless cries carry over a roll of thunder, even from all the way down the street. "CYRIL! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!"

    "Maybe in a minute," you murmur. Your eyes stay dead ahead. You're not compromising anyone's safety, and you're not giving him anything to work with. "TOOK YOU LONG ENOUGH! HOW MANY MORE CASUALTIES DO YOU THINK HAPPENED SINCE WE LEFT, FRED?!"

    A few neighbors peek their heads out from shuttered windows. There's no one else out on the street in this weather. Father Friedrich slows to a jog. Ofelia doesn't take his neck off just yet, and scowls. Her hand discreetly loosens the traps as he closes the last of the distance between you all.

    The priest huffs, red-faced, and devastated. "Cyril." He shakes his head. "Cyril, don't do this."

    "Don't do what, Fred? Don't fight for what I LOVE? Don't come HOME TO MY FAMILY?!"

    You give an apologetic look to Elena. She obliges, and puts her hands over her ears.

    You wrap an arm around your girl. Every word that you spit is more righteous and convicted than the last. It's a poison that you want to kill him where he stands. "You're a miserable fucking coward. You would send everyone to die but yourself. If shit is so fucked, why don't YOU go?! SAVE LIVES, FRED." You're screaming, and don't care. "THINK OF THEIR LIVES! OR ARE YOU SCARED OF ENDING UP LIKE THE REST OF US?!"

    The man standing across from you looks like he's going to break down on the spot. He shakes his head, and croaks, "what do you think I've been doing?"

    "You old fucking excuse of a leader. This is the church of Flesh. Not a fucking meat grinder! Father of action my ASS. At least Agriculture's fat asses plot the fields! How about you fight something other THAN YOUR OWN FUCKING PEOPLE."

    He draws back like you've slapped him.

    Ofelia lets out a small, "heh." You gently take Elena's hands off of her ears, and sweep your girl up into your arms. She glares hard at the church leader standing across from you as her mother nods. A gesture with her knife is made towards Father Friedrich, just as he reaches for a pocket. "Guy's not as stupid as he looks. Actually listened to ya'." She sniffs, and spits. "Ya' gonna stand there and stare, or are you gonna say somethin'?"

    The man standing across from you swallows loudly enough for you to hear it. He takes his holy symbol out from his pocket, and clasps it underhand while shaking with anger. You're positive it's purely with himself. "You're right. It's not my place to drive one more family apart. If my children want my company, they can follow me in the 'fen."

    You take a sharp breath in. Rage is all through your question. He hates repeating himself, and you want to twist the knife. "What was that, old man?"

    "You heard me, boy. You know they'll kill me. The information and connections I have would make me a walking target." His fist tightens further, as those awful red eyes bore into your icy blue. "But I've thought of nothing but it. Don't you think for one instant that I don't lie awake at night, wanting to go running out into the jungle. Don't you dare think I'm not sick of burying my babies. I'm going to sleep well tonight, Cyril. I'm going to go fight for my family. So are you going to step up?"

    There's a lot less air. "What?"

    "I only gave the order because I trust you to have fought in my stead. You're younger. Sharper. Maybe not stronger, but I know you've been pushing yourself even HARDER since you left for the capital. You've learned a lot. Seen things none of us should have. I don't give a shit if you're not from the church. The fact that you don't give a rat's ass about nobles or profit just makes you a better fit. So take over for me. Fill in my shoes while I'm gone, at least. It's yours if I don't come back."

    Father Friedrich keeps his holy symbol held tightly enough to draw blood. A few droplets fall to the cobblestone streets, and gets swept up in the current of the rain. "I'm sorry. You don't need to hear apologies, either. You need action. I think it's high time I get back to practicing what I preach."

    He takes a step back, and looks apologetically between Ofelia and Elena. "I've trampled all over your faith, your home, and all the respect your family deserves. I've let you all down." The gaze and fire of a soldier bores straight into you. "You don't have to say a word. I'm not going to stop you if you want to walk away. But the church is yours, if you want it. I'd have made you acting leader of our operations out in Baranfen, if you accepted it anyways. You're my best man by a long-shot, Cyril. I've always trusted your judgement, so it's your call."

    He shakes his head again. "This shit's gonna haunt me 'til the day I die. If you go, I just want you to know that. You're the one that's saved their lives. You're the one who deserves their respect."

    >A] You're DONE. Hand over your holy symbol and robes. Denounce your order, and formally resign from your position as a Brother of the Church of Flesh.
    >1] You'll stay in Beorward as a citizen, and trust that someone else will take over in your stead.​
    >2] Even heretics are safe in the Church of Mercy, and you know its current leader would NEVER hesitate to help you. You'll take your family to Eadric. It will be safer, calmer, and you'll finally be free from Father Friedrich's influence.​
    >B] You'll ACCEPT the offer to lead the Church of Flesh in Father Friedrich's stead. While he goes to fight in Baranfen, you'll rule Beorward, handle Corcaea's war strategy, deal with allocating forces to the rest of the nation, answer to the King for Fred's sudden departure, and everything else the job entails. Assuming this much responsibility at a moment's notice is a recipe for disaster— but if even Richard could manage his appointment as a church leader with even less guidance, you're positive you can handle this.
    >1] You're not promising that you'll permanently take the position, though, and will still only answer to "Brother."​
    >2] Fuck Fred and the horse he rode in on. "Father Trebbeck" has a pretty nice ring to it. You'll gladly assume the title, and have a LOT of changes you'll be making in his absence.​
    >C] There is truly no man alive that can WIN like you do when you're with Flesh. This old man is going off to die, and you know that his capture could compromise the safety of the entire nation. You've stopped outbreaks single-handedly, and turn the tide of every battle you've ever been in. You hate it, you hate him, and you love your family, but you are going to go fight the good fight. Let this guilt weight on Fred's miserable shoulders for the rest of his life.
    >1] But you will demand one more week to get your affairs in order, and to properly say good-bye. Every second until then is going to count.​
    >2] You won't waste any more Time than you have to, and will leave tonight. Needless to say, you are going to do EVERYTHING humanly possible to get back home safely, and as quickly as you possibly can.​
    >D] Write-in.



    ​


    Every inch of you wants to spit Fred in his other eye. "I want you to feel really bad about living, you old fuck. I don't want you to die. Do you think I was just blowing hot air? Can you even IMAGINE how bad I want to put an end to all this? To fight?" Elena looks up at you with substantial fear in her beautiful eyes. You murmur, "don't worry, dew drop."

    Ofelia is infinitely too sweet to talk over you, but bumps you slightly with her hip. Her broad, pained smile beams up at you. It's easily the most wonderful expression in the world.

    You take heart, and swallow your pride. "I could come to the table with strategy and perspective from outside the clergy. In my eyes, that makes me a good fit for the job."

    Father Friedrich nearly loses his composure on the spot. Something between a gasp and a sigh of relief escapes him. He starts choking up.

    You talk right over him. "I'm only doing this 'cause I know you all agree I'm the best man for the title. I'm still a Brother, though. You're the leader of this madhouse, Fred. I'm not taking this all on forever. Not when I know you're coming back."

    Both of his fists are shaking. So are his shoulders. The priest bites down through all the pain in his voice, grits his teeth, and steels his tone. "I'll do everything I can to stop letting you down. It's official, then. I'm appointing you as the acting leader of the Church of Flesh— Brother Trebbeck."
     
    Last edited:
  • Threadmarks
    • Chapter 26: The Fen
  • Threadmarks
    • Chapter 26: The Fen
    "I want there to be a home to come back to."​


    The walls, floor, ceiling, and overstuffed office chairs from Father Friedrich's war room slams back into your vision. Though you're standing once more in the fragments of the same memory from your training session with him, everything seems substantially darker than before.

    This memory that's plagued you for months is barely a blip on the back of his mind. The thought of surrendering his life's work, going off to Baranfen to die, and losing all of Brother Trebbeck's respect has been tearing the priest to pieces.

    You're Father Richard Anscham, leader of the church of compassion. Though you have enough turmoil waiting at home to drive any man to madness, YOU have never truly wanted to die. There's hope and love in your heart. You care for every last soul worth saving. It's a blessing that you've gone soft.

    Your miserable colleague wipes the tears from his eyes, and wordlessly accepts a hug. You're all the more reassuring for those in your care, and can tell by the way Father Friedrich squeezes you that he couldn't be more relieved for someone to hold onto.

    He keeps his head held high, but you can feel silent sobs wracking at him.

    There's a lot you wanted to say. This is definitely killing Sister Cardew, and you are NOT going to waste a second. "Where are you right now?"

    Business is immediately in his tone. It's bitter, cold, and brutally strong. "On a hard march across the Doorway. Should be another two weeks before we're even close to the border."

    "You stopped writing. I thought—"

    "I didn't want to worry you. I've been stupid, and petty. You don't need all this shit on your shoulders. Cyril was right. He's been right about everything. I can't believe it's taken me this long to listen." He laughs bitterly. "That fucking comment he made, about the fucking fields? He might as well have stabbed me."

    The priest pulls back, and looks you over from the almost-scruffy gold atop your head, to the blood still sticking under the soles of your shoes. "I've had no place to criticize you. Age is catching up to me, Richard. I know you've been working relentlessly before you even came into your station. Been out there fighting, and what do I do? I keep falling into old habits. It's no fuckin' excuse. It's like I said: I just want you to be healthy. I can't imagine you driving yourself into an early grave. You must not even be able to fight without Them. Don't you get it? I won't be able to reach anyone. I'm tackling this war against humanity. But everyone here at home? We're all counting on you."

    Something seizes him. Tears well in the eyes of what's supposed to be the strongest man in the nation.

    You know kindness is strength, and take him right back into a hug. "You are not—" Your grimace intensifies. "I was going to ask how you were holding up."

    Between nervous laughter, and a sniff, he struggles to keep his voice level. The hug is returned in full. The man's grip is crushing.

    The memory of hours of pain slams back into you. It's as tangible as the ache in your jaw, and you have to wonder if it's been fractured in reality as well. Nothing makes sense. You both stay standing through it, as your countryman chokes out, "I want there to be a home to come back to. The fact that I haven't been there to help you more is the real disgrace. I wish we had more Time, Richard. I wish so many things could have gone differently."

    The lord of combat draws back, and stares you down with red in his eyes. "But I'm not sorry for this. I'm going to put an end to all of this madness. Even if it kills me."

    >A] Now is not the most appropriate occasion to ask Father Friedrich for exercise advice, but you're reminding the man of some normalcy and humanity. Ask him for a routine anyways. You don't care how sadistic his methods are, or if you can't uphold it right now. Swear to run it by your priests of Flesh when things calm down. You'll do your best to honor it.
    >B] You were going to ask about how the war is going. This is PRETTY telling, but you still want more information. See if Father Friedrich will divulge his strategy for when he gets across the border. You have your reasons for wanting to know. (Feel free to write your reasoning in.)
    >C] That was a LOT to take in. You're also utterly insatiable, and really, REALLY need to know more.
    >1] Ask about the formal appointment of Brother Trebbeck to his temporary station, and how this will actually affect things.​
    >2] Seriously ask Father Friedrich how he's doing. He must be feeling like the loneliest man in the world right now.​
    >D] You're definitely killing Sister Cardew. It hurts, it's awful, and it's one of the hardest choices you can make— but you're going to look out for your priestess and cut this short.
    >1] You got to reconcile your differences with your mentor— and you're not sure if you ever can live with the cost. Give a heartfelt goodbye to Father Friedrich. Pray that you'll see each other again one day.​
    >2] You have a lot to think about. Part ways here, before you say something you might regret.​
    >E] Write-in.




    ​

    You frantically look around, and can't help but wonder if this is literally killing Sister Cardew. You shove down the panic, shove down the urge to run, and hold your mentor all the more tightly. "I'm the Father of Protection. That includes protecting you, too. I wasn't joking when I said I wanted to ask how you've been."

    Father Friedrich breaks down completely. "Better, Richard. Better. I'm so glad I got to see you." He shakes his head, crying all over your shoulder. "You've come so far. I know we're in good hands."

    You pat his back a little. "I will see to the other churches, but it's no use if the front line collapses. I know we're losing. Time is so precious. Do you have any idea of even— of even how much longer we have? In the worst case scenario— what are the odds of them coming into the country?"

    A ragged sigh leaves him. The tears evaporate as quickly as they came, and he straightens upright. The war strategist wipes his face with the back of his hand. He gestures towards the large table at the center of the room. In the memory, it was bare. It still is now. This is ridiculous, and you both are in a memory, but it feels real enough that the both of you have been completely taken by it. "You see this? I never wanted to worry you. I've been thinking that if I tell you a thing, you're going to leave everything you have behind all over again. But that's not fair to you. You're a grown man, and can make your own damn choices. You should know."

    The father of strategy explains, "Magnus has every right to be scared shitless. His efforts at diplomacy to the east have kept the largest enemy forces at bay for a century, but it hasn't been enough. It's no coincidence that we've held Corcaea longer than any other territory. You know how rough the waters are to the north. The Gods themselves aren't enough to deal with some of that shit, so we don't have much there to worry about from our enemies. And the natural defenses we possess to the south are held by a thread, thanks to Atticus and Mother Aimar's efforts. The mountains aren't nearly enough, though. There's a few shallower expanses of land to the west. Higher elevation, and all the demons there holds most of the line. Pevrel's been working with his men all his career to try and weaponize most of it. I've been keeping the rest at bay. Baranfen has been our last push, before closing us off from the world altogether."

    Both of you sigh deeply. "Cyril compared Baranfen to a death pit," you note.

    "It is. The sick fucks know how to tame demons, Richard. Some war chief went and figured it out. He knows us. Knows what we can do."

    You are not going to have a heart attack, but are visibly sweating. Your voice is that of a dead man's. "Oh. I see."

    "Magnus told me about your little adventure. The bits of it I need to know. Looks like most of his family heads the worst of the assault on the front lines. Guy's got a vendetta. Losing just as much of his children as we are, but they breed like rabbits. There's just too many of them. Plenty of elves that have completely ignored the King's treaties, too. Who the fuck's gonna hold 'em to peace out there? They're armed with magic. Their alliances are stronger than ours, and they don't need invocation. Not when they have numbers, territory, and all the rest of the world on our side. They think we're the rats, Richard. Not humans. Not people. The shit I've seen—"

    Realization slams into you harder than your recurring pain did moments ago. "You've been out there before."

    "I didn't get my position sitting on my ass. Of course I've been out there. Here at home, too. I've only told you one or two stories. You haven't heard the half of the shit I've..." He sighs all the harder. "It's not important. They're coming for us. I'm going to lay low at first, and get my eyes on the ground. No telling what intel's been compromised. If I can take stock of the situation without getting killed out the gate, then we'll push past Baranfen. I'm heading for Cyno, and taking this chief out."

    "Orgoth held his own against Flesh, Father. Toe-to-toe. It would be a death sentence. You—" You can't breathe. "You can't die. Not before— there's still so much to—"

    Both of the priest's hands go to your shoulders. "If I can't find him, I'll pull us all out. I'm not coming home empty-handed. We'll retreat from the 'fen, and close off the borders. I'll get the whole damn clergy of Agriculture and Storm on my side. We'll make a wall that even you couldn't break down. I've talked before with Sullivan about all this, and he thinks I can manage it. We'll demoralize them so badly, they'll HAVE to reconsider. This isn't a battle we can fight forever, Richard. These freaks don't have the fear of the Gods in them. They fear us, and every day we fight them it only makes their conviction more justified."

    He raps you lightly on the side of your right arm. "The front line won't collapse. We're going to buy you as much Time as you can get here at home. We have our communications out there, too. I don't know how the fuck Harriet's managing all this. You take good care of her." The priest awkwardly says to the walls and ceiling, "you hear that?! Don't let him run you into the ground, either!"

    Both of you meet eyes, clasp hands, and pull each other into one more firm hug. "Don't die on me, either," you mutter, patting him hard on the back.

    "I don't plan on it. You've gotten strong as shit, too. I knew you wouldn't lie to me."

    "Never."

    "Give these sick fucks what's comin' to 'em, Richard."

    "I will. It's the Gods who are Merciful, Father."

    You stop patting his back. There's a moment of silence. He doesn't want to let go.

    You're not going to cry. "I'll miss you."

    Father Friedrich sniffs. "Yeah. Well. Look after Cyril for me. Guide him, if you can. You know how it's like when you first come into all this shit."

    "I'll do everything I'm able."

    He grits his teeth, and chokes out, "you know what? Fuck it. I'll miss you too. And say goodbye to Atticus for me, if you get the chance."

    You're going to cry. "Don't say that."

    "Promise me."

    There's no shame in a few tears. "I swear. I'm not going to let you down again." You wipe the side of your eyes with your shoulder, and look your mentor over.

    His eyes are dry. He couldn't look more proud. "You haven't let me down yet."
     
    Last edited:
  • Threadmarks
    • Chapter 27: Whiplash
  • Threadmarks
    • Chapter 27: Whiplash
    "There wasn't even a chance to breathe."​


    Reality rips itself back into your view. The pain in your jaw is instantly gone and replaced with the familiar exhaustion that's been on you all week. The same ache in your soul. The same heat on your body, the weight on your frame, and the panic on you. It feels like it's later in the evening, but since it's still pitch-black you can't really tell. The absence of Time keeping has you almost as panicked as the sight of your counselor laughing hysterically to herself through tears and vomit. Your sobs catch in your throat.

    Sister Cardew is on hands and knees, vomiting profusely onto the floor of her pitch-black bedroom. The sticky, pearly-white substance she's heaving up lifts dozens of the petals on the floor up into the liquid.

    You stagger off from the bed, and kneel at her side. Your hideous gold handkerchief is produced, and kept in hand for the priestess once she stops getting sick.

    It only takes a few seconds. She nearly collapses forward into the mess, but you effortlessly catch her. "Sister Cardew." Your voice isn't hoarse from screaming or crying. It's level, from a few hours of rest and a recent alliance. "Sister Cardew. It's alright." She's too weak to even lift her arms or head. The woman's eyes are still open, but persists in the throes of a Goddess. The same fluid she's been expelling is smeared across her vision. The likeness is absolutely revolting. The sickly-sweet scent of lilies is hot in the air. There's no heat coming from the bile pooled around you both, which you confirm while wiping your poor clergywoman's face clean. "It's okay. Speak to me. Tell me what you see."

    She's not responding.

    You resist the urge to shake her, or scream. You're a priest of Spirit, and know how to handle something like this. A reminder. "To know is to serve, Sister."

    A sudden, sharp, and ragged breath draws wetly into her lungs. It's like she'd forgotten how to breathe.

    "Sister Cardew. HARRIET! Answer me."

    A few shallow pants escape from the small woman. She looks through you, with those awful eyes. Her voice is distant, and so enamored with something unseen that you scarcely recognize her tone at all. "Sight beyond sight, Father. Beyond the veil."

    >A] Demand that Sister Cardew release her invocation. There is no justifying this.
    >B] Every one of your allies is willing to overextend themselves JUST as much as you are. Ask Harriet what she needs. She swore to you that she knew the risks of this effort, and you MUST communicate with Father Wilhelm and Father Barthalomew.
    >1] You'll respect her judgement in this matter, and are willing to deal with her potentially being out of commission for awhile after this.​
    >2] You're curious beyond all measure if her connection to Spirit has further illuminated some information. Guide her through it.​
    >C] Ask Harriet what the least taxing method of communication is that she can manage for your other church leaders. It might jeopardize the integrity of your efforts AND warn your enemies that you're coming, but you trust both Father Wilhelm and Father Barthalomew enough to risk anything at this point.
    >D] Write-in.

    For the love of all the Gods. You just can't catch a break. Wiping a few more tears from the side of your face doesn't help. Your heart is still aching from just parting ways from Father Friedrich, and there wasn't even a chance to breathe. "Harriet. Harriet, listen to me. Can you hear me? Are you—" You take a ragged breath in, with the nearly-sour scent all in the air and on the floor. The huge breakfast you had threatens to make itself known, but you choke down the nausea, and steel your nerves.

    The woman in your arms keeps stopping her breath. The edges of her lips are blue, and her skin is paler than death.

    You lightly shake her, and keep a hand to her back. The other gently keeps her head upright. "HARRIET. BREATHE with me. Can you hear me? Are you still with me?!"

    One more deep, wet breath drags into your clergywoman. She smiles as if the motion is a religious experience. Her head lolls backwards, and the slender scholar whispers to no one in particular. "What is distance? Why claim dominion over the land between? We are neither the wind, nor the air. There is more." Her smile broadens, and the priestess stares straight through you. "Signals. All of it. Neither energy. Nor heat. It is the same as how you and I are speaking at this very instant. It is instant, and distant. Time has no dominion over Spirit's message. It is different in every fundamental way. I know, Richard. I know it can be done. We can reach them. We can reach anyone."

    Seeing anyone push themselves the way that you do is a nightmare. The thought of how others perceive you for going to these lengths on a daily basis is one thing, but her safety is another. Self-revulsion is going to kill you, if Harriet doesn't lose her mind first.

    You want to know more. You are dying to push this, and keep your hold on Sister Cardew all the closer. Restraint hasn't escaped you completely. "We'll contact Father Bartholomew, and then you're releasing the invocation. That's an order, Sister. We'll get you some rest as soon as we can, however— however we can. I won't risk all of your work by trying any mundane communication. It's as you said— there is no other reasonable option."

    She's not breathing again. You shake her harder. "Sister." One inhale. It's deep enough to settle your nerves. "Father Wilhelm is the very lord of vision, and he'll— and he'll have seen all this coming. He'll understand why I can't reply. He'll get my thank you note. Just tell me what— please explain to me what you need."

    "Memories are a crutch, Richard. I understand why. We are not utilizing the memory. Not necessarily. We are utilizing its meaning. Her strength is derived from knowledge. Wisdom. Abstraction. Though you and Father Bennett do not share any memories together, you both have mutual understandings. We can harness this connection. That will be our bridge. This is what can close the gap between our nation's leaders. Tell me not just of a memory, Richard. Tell me what you both know."

    There are stars in her pearl-coated eyes. "You are the Father of Truth. Grace us with verity. The immaterial must be known."

    You can do this. "We will not permit anyone to linger in the dark. I believe in you."

    "This has never been attempted, Richard. Spirit will not permit me to die, but I may lose myself." The hard, clinical tone of your friend as you know her creeps back into Harriet's speech. "Take me back to the material, whenever we're done. Remind me of my baby, and Walter, and all of the things we've seen if you must. I will not fail. Now close your eyes. Try your best not to hold me. I trust you won't accidentally hurt me. Be forewarned that this may be excruciating for us all."

    "Do what you must."

    The hold you keep on one another couldn't be tighter, just before letting go.

    The priestess places a hand to your cheek. "Lean down."

    You cautiously do. On the floor, in the dark, surrounded by flowers and illness, Sister Cardew places her forehead to yours. She's clammy. For good measure, you keep your hands on your Relic.

    Your priestess clutches onto the hem of her robes.

    You know just the thing that should work.

    >A] The day you killed Brother Murdac.
    >B] Your first invocation to Storm. He showed himself to you, all while saving you life many times over.
    >C] Your second invocation to Storm, and the sermon you gave to an army of demons.
    >D] The demon of Storm you fought in Calunoth. You lived through being struck by lightning several times in the battle.
    >E] Your most beloved memory of being caught in the tempest. (Feel free to write in, otherwise your QM will provide a memory.)
    >F] Having grown up next to a river, with a love of fishing, swimming, boating, fording, the rain, the wind, and the flame, you have always been a devotee to the God of Turmoil. (Write-in.)
     
    Last edited:
  • Threadmarks
    • Chapter 28: Vortex of Agony
  • Threadmarks
    • Chapter 28: Vortex of Agony
    "Tempest incarnate."​


    "My first invocation of Storm."

    Sister Cardew takes a deep, level breath. Her gaze crosses over the sweat on your brow, and the tremor all through your body. "You're not hesitating. Yet a part of you longs for lesser turmoil."

    Piety and terror replies. "Yes. But I'm certain, more than than— more than words could ever say. You know I love Him as much as any other. If this doesn't— if this doesn't work, nothing will."

    The pressure of your brows pressing up against one another begin to spike rapidly into an excruciating headache. Sister Cardew winces, and murmurs, "you'll be alright. Focus. Don't back down. Not even once. Don't forget that you are not alone. Find him. Do what you need to do. Get out. I'm going to take us there, Richard. Guide me."

    The same fear that was on you then is sinking into you now. "We were in a cave, miles below ground. Deeper than Malimos' lair. Deeper than the heights of the waterway. There were endless networks of grates, pipes, and rock. I had attempted to follow Orgoth in a desperate bid for companionship, and— and comfort. He trapped the corridor. I wandered right into it. He set the entire passage behind us to collapse, but he didn't cause the flooding. The destruction of the demon's lair alerted its master: Mondost."

    Your side sears with pain. The barbed javelin that stabbed you earlier that week was slick with poison, and the wound was intentionally neglected. Gallons upon gallons of filthy, blood-slick, and viscera-filled water careens into the passage that you're moving through now. Flecks of gore and the dead catch in your nose, and tease at the injury on your side. The infection will be extreme. But it's a straight shot out, through this passage. A steep ascent is at your back. Your breath catches in your throat.

    The gray and pink foam rushing to meet you cannot be outran. Gallons are pouring down rapidly. What was up to your ankles is now knee-high. The entire corridor ahead is half a mile long. No one could survive this. There are no outlets.

    It's a death trap. There was time to say goodbye, but you did not long for death.

    You pray.




    ​

    The passage underfoot trembles. Thousands of leeches cling to the rock. They're barely visible in the dark. Tufts of them break off into the water, and are swept away like the filth washing past you. The blood of a centipede. The blood of a war chief. The blood from your injury.

    Bracing against the side of a jagged outcropping of rock, you clutch onto your side. You can't breathe.

    "Storm..."

    Water flows around you, on you, and out from your lips. It's in your lungs. It's in your soul.

    Everything goes black.




    You're held in the embrace of an endless ocean.

    Gathering clouds obstruct the sun. They possess their own shapes and colors, and all defy comprehension.

    Lightning caresses the sky.

    Heat arcs through you. Water flows freely through your eyes and mouth. Your vessel has been endlessly fractured, but you have been filled with solid gold. The sun. The world.


    The light of everything in-between gazes upwards into the clouds, as you look upon a God. An impossibly beautiful figure touches the height of the tempest. He is neither shadow, nor substance. Your mind scrambles to assign a form, or function.

    Storm has favored you. You are gifted with a shape to gaze upon.


    ​


    The moment stretches out into hours, and days, and something beyond Time Herself. He will not permit you to suffer the pain of the ages.

    Reverence spurs you to praise Him. Though your prayers cannot be heard against the whip and crack of a rising hurricane, your worship is heard. Thunder answers. The sky stirs into a frenzy. Rain falls in sheets. The very ocean rises to greet you. The world and the sun vanish.

    Lightning falls in an arc from the sky. It blocks out all that ever was, and ever will be.

    For the briefest of moments, all the earth might as well have died. You're swept into a vortex of agony.

    You convulse.

    Not like this.

    There's heat behind your eyes. Your body might as well be on fire. There's no controlling your breath, and a lethal inhalation floods your lungs with water. All that registers in your vision are orange bolts that lick around your fingertips. It exacerbates the shock in your skull. Wave after wave of it crashes into you. It's worse than before.

    There's nothing but coral.

    Flame.

    Lightning.

    There is lightning arcing from your fingertips. It's behind your eyes, and all through your mind. Hundreds of flickering leeches are all gathered around you. The world might as well have been submerged. You're deep underwater, as the entirety of the passage has flooded.


    ​


    You should have drowned two solid days ago. What little skin is visible on you is horribly water-logged, and moving is agony. A tremor is through your aching limbs, and the searing pain in your skull. The shaking won't subside. You had been starving yourself to death, not had even a drop of water in days, walked for over a week on end with scarcely any rest, and your mind might as well be fit to burst.

    Dense clouds of the aquatic worms are all drifting towards you. Each and every time they get within a few feet of you, another arc of electricity zaps through the water, and keeps them at bay. It's scarcely enough heat to kill anything. He doesn't want to tax you. He doesn't want you to suffer.

    The Gods are Merciful.

    Storm saw fit to grant you a degree of natural protection. The flooded corridor is disorienting to an extreme, but you can see with the light and flame all throughout your skull that there is an outlet further beyond. It will lead into the lair of the most powerful sorcerer you've ever faced. It's nigh impossible to truly see anything, given the density of the leeches. You're reminded that Storm has never needed you to speak. Not in order to invoke Him. Never in order to use His ability.

    This is only a memory, but you remember how it felt with even more clarity than you possessed in those few, fatal moments. Your hands clasp in prayer.

    You breathe water.

    A gale presents itself between your palms.

    Bracing yourself hard against the closest wall, you lean into the flow. It makes no sense to propel this much water out with wind alone. So, splaying your hands and fingers apart, you demonstrate absolute control over every force of nature.

    It's excessive. It's obscene. It nearly blackens your vision, and takes you away from the world once again— but you'll be damned if it isn't effective.

    The entire corridor drains out, as you cautiously move with the tide.
    The parasites within the passage are all electrified in an instant.
    A current of wind sweeps up through all the water.

    The entire passage is cleared in a matter of seconds, and you emerge from a single, simple opening.

    The sheer amount of water you've redirected has flooded the entire floor of a colossal chamber. A crimson light reflects off the water underfoot, which is up to your ankles now. Countless stone pillars reach out from the pool, into an arched ceiling. It has to be one hundred feet high. There's no seeing its furthest ends, save for dead ahead. Several doors are far off in the distance, at one high wall. It's terribly dark, and the strange lighting makes it almost impossible to see countless pools of jet-black liquid suspended in the water. They're in all directions.

    You throw up your hands before your face on instinct. Fireballs burst from the flammable substance floating across the room. Heat flares on all sides. Smoke gathers, and tendrils of light rise high from every last puddle.


    ​


    It's an inferno of impossibility. Sweat is on you faster than the disgusting liquid soaking you to the bone. It makes your gilded black robes cling, and a hideous thought occurs to you. Your physicality— your build, age, and all of your appearance— are entirely unchanged by Sister Cardew's work. There's no bandages around your torso. The pain is completely in your mind. Father Barthalomew's health has been failing for at least several months, if not years. He could be helpless. He might not.

    You frantically look around the room for your fellow church leader. Between the flame, and the strange lighting, it's impossible to know where he might be with a cursory glance.

    At the other end of the chamber, you can't miss the silhouette of a gargantuan monster. The shadow cast high over the flame is of the shaved heads of at least ten men. The breadth of its meaty body is more akin to a horse. The figures all share the same torso, but their arms are not at their shoulders. They should have no means of movement, yet from where legs should descend are four, muscular arms.

    Every one of Mondost's footfalls quakes the chamber you stand in, as he slowly approaches. Handfalls? It's disgusting. You can't linger on it. You may only have the extent of this fight to find your fellow priest. To hope to communicate with him.

    This demon also might seize any moment of weakness or hesitation, and kill you both instantly.

    An older man shouts with a voice full of salt and insanity. There IS someone on the opposite side of the chamber. It's like a burn in the back of your mind, and the crushing pressure of an entire ocean crashing down on your tortured body.

    He is wildfire. The deluge. A squall. Tempest incarnate.

    The leader of the Church of Storm causes thousands of bolts of lightning to suddenly and violently discharge. They course through the water in the entirety of the chamber, and should fry anything living instantly.

    >A] Redirect the lightning that comes towards you back at Mondost. Hold your ground. There's no way you're giving the demon even a second to breathe, and know your fellow priest will see you attack.
    >B] Part the water in your path, and make straight for Father Barthalomew. You can't risk ruining this opportunity. Stay on the defensive as much as you can, and leave the battle to him.
    >C] This demon terrifies you more than any other. This feels as real as anything you've ever experienced, and you do not want you, Father Barthalomew, or Sister Cardew to die. Take no chances. Dig deep. Endure the attack from Father Barthalomew, and coat the demon in the same flaming, electrified water.
    >D] Write-in.

    You are the lord of defense. You grimace, and splay your fingers. Water bends to your will. At the same instant that Father Barthalomew's attack courses through the shallow lake towards you, the motion of your hands carves a clear path straight through the pool ahead. Dry ground ensures your safety. One thousand names of long-dead citizens of Ostedholm are inscribed beneath your feet. Not a single spark of energy reaches your frame, save for the God within.

    Hands outstretched, you proceed calmly towards the demon ahead. A figure is seated in the water just a little further beyond. Between you and Mondost's approaching shadow is a relatively small, elderly man. He can't be more than 5'5'', and half your weight at most. Though his upper body is incredibly toned, the priest's legs have nothing to them at all. It's skin and bone, as if he hasn't used them in half his life. His long beard and sun-bleached hair is practically standing on end. There's no stress on the man. He simply has the coral in his eyes closed, with one hand extended towards the demon beyond. Father Barthalomew may be infirm, but he is the conduit through which the power before you is being channeled. His vessel is not broken. It is cracked to better service the God of Turmoil.

    The first surge of electricity didn't paralyze Mondost. The demon is smoking, and proceeds towards you both without any fear. You dig your heels in, and brace yourself.

    Every single one of the demon's mouths opens.
    Flame bursts from its lips.
    The heat around you all redoubles.
    A blast of fire surges straight towards you and your ally.
    The tension through your arms and hands sweeps a wave of electrified water between you, Father Barthalomew, and the monster ahead.
    At the same moment, the priest beside you closes his hand.
    The entire wave is taken from your hands.
    The wave you produced suddenly boils from the heat on it. Your fellow church leader is gathering an offering for Storm.
    The monstrous sorcerer standing before you continues to screech. He cannot hope to fight fire with fire.
    Every hair on your body stands on end, in anticipation of devastation.
    Something you've never seen before takes the breath from all the water in your lungs: A discharge of electricity emerges from the demon, in every direction.

    The air fills with static and death. A sweep of your hands shoves aside the current underfoot. It deflects the energy further, and is picked up into Father Barthalomew's building maelstrom. Your eyes go wide in horror.

    He's absorbed Mondost's attack into a building cloud of smoke, electricity, flame, and oil. It violently spikes towards the ceiling in a liquid tornado.

    Mondost rears his arms up, and charges straight towards you both.

    The nightmarish pillar's holy conductor swings a fist down.

    The pillar follows his motion. The divine hammer slams towards your foe.

    The man sitting before you has so much confidence in his work that he has yet to even move.

    With a shout, you rush ahead, and brings your arms before you. The momentum and force of your motion takes the water on either side of you up, and out in waves. You slam your hands together, and push the flood forward towards your target. It is an elemental shield that sweeps across the breadth of the corridor.
    The colossal, heated pillar meets its target.
    A blast of raw energy from the sorcerer ahead collides with your defense. You feel it in your bones.


    ​


    A rush of Magic and sin clashes against the memory of divinity, in something your mind never should have registered. The world slightly cuts out. There's a black spot in the back of your mind, and a vague scream registers.

    It's your own voice, from an attack you have yet to unleash. It mirrors the smoking turmoil that Father Barthalomew unleashed on your foe.

    Your vision spins.

    "The Gods are Merciful."

    You collapse to the floor. The behemoth of a demon ahead crashes down into the water. You know fights between masters can't last more than a few moments before a lethal blow is struck, and you can't help but hope the priest beside you enjoyed the venture.

    Waves erupt from the force of Mondost's deafening crumple and your mirrored fall. Waves lap at your inert body. The scent of burning skin and electricity is hot on the air. Smoke is rising in thick plumes from the creature's body. Despite the size of the chamber, it's slowly becoming clouded by the demon's death.

    You feel like a husk, but will drown if you can't move. It's excruciating to turn, and your limbs feel like lead, but you manage to get on one side. The struggle to keep your eyes open is still well worth the effort.

    "Father Anscham, is it? Are you alright?"

    Your fellow church leader wheels over. The wrinkles under his stern and long features, the sun and age spots on his skin, and his completely relaxed demeanor is completely disarming.

    "It's as I said, Father." Level breath. You're not going to make a scene, and manage to quietly hiss in only once. A grimace is much more befitting of the memory. "The Gods are Merciful."

    Father Barthalomew serves the most temperamental of the Gods, but has always been nothing but respectful, and level-headed. "Damn straight. Not a bad job back there at all, for, well, whatever this is. It's nice to finally meet you. Father Bennett. I'm sure you knew. Friends call me Bart."
    ​
    With a heavy groan, you roll onto your back. You don't mean to stare, but hazard a quick look for confirmation. The priest is crippled from the waist down. He's sitting in a chair with wheels. It's fashioned out of some exotic metals and woods, and must be worth as much as half of your treasury. It's not affected in the slightest by the man channeling lightning through his own skin moments before. He calmly slicks back the static from his hair. There's still lightning through his eyes, as he releases his invocation like it was nothing. Dead men have more life in their tone than your reply does. "A pleasure. Apologies for the circumstances, Father Barth—"

    "Father Barthalomew's fine. I know you're trying to be respectful. This is a whole lot of trouble just for a message, so let's not waste any Time. What's happened?"


    ​


    >Feel free to write in how you would like to address the leader of the Church of Storm, e.g. Bart, Father Bennett, etc. (He seems to be very laid-back, and obviously doesn't have a serious preference.)
    >A] Drag yourself to your feet, shake him firmly by the hand, and give the full picture. The pain will be worth looking more presentable.
    >B] Immediately ask if he's okay. Stay down, while you're at it. You have no use for pride, and he must completely understand how much this originally took out of you.
    >C] Try to not come across as too anxious, but ask if he's received any of your correspondence already. You've communicated twice now with the leader of the Church of Storm without a significant reply.
    >D] Tactfully ask the priest if he's aware of the activity his church has been responsible for.
    >E] You need to know the situation in Rimilde. Ask for a report as civilly as you can.
    >F] Write-in.

    You can't even think about moving. Looking to the vaulted ceiling, and the drifting smoke, you choke out, "my letters. Have you received any of my correspondence already?"

    "Not a word, Father. Been out at sea."

    You try not to choke on all the water in your lungs, and dart your gaze towards the priest. He's completely at ease, as you splutter, "you're in the strait right now?"

    A shrug. "Whole lot farther out than that. Haven't seen land in weeks."

    "Then you—" This explains so much. "It can wait. My writing was primarily thanking you for your respect and guidance."

    "Not a problem." His brows furrow. "So. Who's fuckin' up my church, Father?"

    This is a catastrophe. He's completely cut off from the situation. "Your clergy is responsible in some capacity for supplying the cult of Inertia. Last Worship devastated the crop, flooded the countryside, and will cause scarcity in what should be a plentiful Harvest. Imports and exports are being brought in by your men. There's wares from islands as far off as the Cabochan archipelago, at least. I'm unfamiliar with the area, and could be off in some way. But there is no question that the materials were not home-grown."

    "Well, fuck me." The sailor leans back a little. "Good to know." He passes a glance over you. "Thought you were a bean pole. Sound and look more like a priest of Agriculture than one of Mercy, you know that?"

    "I know." You sigh. "I need to know the situation in Rimilde, Father. All of my other correspondence— I do not mean to overstep myself, but— but they were all requests for additional aid, counsel, and predictions. Anything— virtually any news, from the weather, to what you last witnessed at home— anything could aid in our home defense enormously."

    "Yeah. This shit is all off. It's what I get for heading out, and trying to see to things myself." He laughs lightly. "I'll kill them all where they stand."

    A cold sweat is on you. He's completely unfazed by any of this.

    "Was meant to be a rough Worship. They must have seized the opportunity, and made the rains and floods even worse. Doesn't take much to encourage the lot. I can think of a few off the top of my head that would do something like this. It's a damn shame. Guessing a few of you cleaned up the trash before I got the chance. Don't answer that."

    The cold sweat on you is heightened by the water you're laying in. The priest pauses, and thoroughly scrutinizes your face. "You might as well have just come out of the 'fen. The fuck have they been doing to you?"

    There's no question that the Goddess of Practicality has helped with your own pragmatism. "It's a long story."

    Another light laugh, as he shakes his head. "For fuck's sake. That bad, huh?"

    You're not going to have the Time to answer that completely, but he should know. "I need details, Father. Your church is supplying a cult. They've infested my home. Our country is in danger. I understand that your work often takes you away from your own city, but this— this is unbearably important."

    "Well." He sniffs again. "I'll keep this quick, then. You should appreciate it more than most."

    You give him a curious glance, but don't interrupt.

    "Weather was meant to be wet all Worship long. If they've increased it to the point of flooding the inland, travel is going to be compromised throughout the country. You lot are wedged between both rivers. This is going to make three big problems. Problem one: land's fucked."

    He's being borderline flippant. Everything hurts. You're struggling to stay alert, and your home is in danger. Grumbling would be understandable, but you settle for a severe scowl instead.

    The priest of Storm laughs. "Told you!"

    "I fail to see the humor."

    "You're right, that this is no joke. With travel compromised, the Church of Storm is going to be given an excuse to head out from our walls. Every last trouble-maker under me is probably out there running loose. I keep a good hold on my clergy, but this is something caused by a much deeper problem. Even a little instability is going to put the common man on edge. The lack of food, massive presence of clergy around the country, and the livelihoods ruined will have my church of calamity even more riled up."

    It's hard not to think of how elated Sister Miramond was with the state of affairs. How eager Brother Murdac was to kill hundreds. The water lapping against you is soothing, but your voice is filled with conflict. "People are dying, Father. We have to get a handle on this."

    "Yep. I'm not done. You've got problem two: bugs. Humidity from the hotter season, lots of people out working, and all that wetness is going to get the bugs out. People are going to get sick. You're going to have your hands full at the Church of Mercy."

    A miserable, nervous laugh escapes from you. "You have no idea."

    "Then you know problem three: health. People are going to be hungry, tired, and getting sick left and right. This is a bad setup for the colder seasons, Father. This cult is playing the long game, right?"

    "Absolutely."

    "They're probably trying to wear out everyone's stores. Starving the people out come Worship will get people desperate enough to listen to anything. They might be trying to destroy our people's faith. By the sound of things, it's going their way."

    You try not to interrupt.

    "Rimilde's fine. We're as self-sufficient as can be, and don't have to worry about any of the frost. Might be why my people aren't as bothered by the whole matter, either. They're not going to go running for help when they know they might be the only ones to survive. The more selfish ones must be seeking a profit, or aren't exactly happy with me, either. The whole state of affairs is shit, so listen up: weather not the Storm. I'm not trying to be cute. You need to act quickly. You're all about the green, is that it?"

    It's an odd question, but you quietly nod. "That is— that is one way to put it."

    "So you gotta get these weeds by their roots. Root out these fuckers. I swear to you, this is not going to be pretty if we can't do something by Worship. The snow is— well. It's like I said when I wrote you! Storm's pissed. Real pissed. Has been, will be, doesn't matter much to you. I'm getting it under control. But I've already wasted enough of your Time."

    He looks around. "What is all this, anyways?"

    "The memory of my first invocation to Storm. This was within the ruins of the fallen city of Ostedholm, and deep below the forests to the west of Eadric. One of my priestesses— Sister Harriet Cardew— is likely killing herself to make this possible. I apologize if it harms you in any way, but— but this was critical. I feared you were the most in the dark of any of us. It appears that my suspicions were correct."

    The elderly man sniffs a little, and rubs at his nose from the smoke. "Yeah, well. I'd rather be slower on the uptake and not trust Sullivan as far as I could throw him, than to invite a bunch of spies and liars under my roof. Heard some of the things he's been spreading about you. Doing another Father wrong like that? He should be ashamed of himself."

    Just how slowly does word travel to Rimilde? How bad could things be up north?

    "He is. It's taken care of, Father. Truly. Thank you for the concern."

    "No problem. You need me to—"

    "No. We reconciled our differences several weeks ago. I pray that the efforts of my men and women to put a stop to all of the slander reaches your city sooner, rather than later."

    "I'm really taking too much of your Time. Sounds like your place is on fire."

    "It was."

    "Mercy."

    "No, our—" Your morning sermon with Mercy must be rapidly approaching. You genuinely don't have Time for pleasantries. "Our work has only just begun."

    >A] Thank Father Bartholomew for his caution regarding the weather, his church, the potential health disaster in your country, the counsel regarding Inertia, and for the news of his absence. This has been priceless intelligence, even if it's vaguer than you'd like. You'll see him in person one day, and pray it will be sooner rather than later.
    >B] Make sure your colleague's health is alright. You can't exactly heal him from here, but maybe you can help in some capacity. Counsel, at the bare minimum.
    >C] This conversation was already substantially longer and more fruitful than you could have hoped for, yet it feels like you're starved for information. Ask Father Barthalomew something specific before you part ways. (Write-in.)

    "Father Pevrel seems to not trust the clergywoman of Storm in his company. I have enough problems as it is, without enemies or spies in the halls of my home. In the care of my allies. Can Sister Miramond be trusted?"

    Concern flits across his brow for only a moment. "You and Pevrel?"

    "Yes." You repress every urge to shift, and fight with every fiber of your being to focus on the present moment. "My concern lies with your priestess."

    "You mean Julian. Are you kidding me? Our old snowfall's a barb in my side, sure. She won't take any shit from anyone, if that's what you mean. But Sister Miramond is a good lass." His eyes narrow, with a smirk. "I can't imagine she's letting him walk all over her work. He must be miserable answering to a woman on the road. There's a few words for men like Pevrel, Father Anscham."

    You think of things like 'chauvinist' and 'sadist' and 'deviant' and several other tangents all related to blades. The world slips a little further away, with black on the edges of your sight. The sheer amount of pain and exhaustion on you is not conducive for extended discussion. It feels like the world is going to give way any moment.

    It's hard-fought, but you do everything you can to focus. Shifting slightly upright redoubles the pain, but it help keep you awake. The motion also gets you an impressed glance from Father Barthalomew. "A hard-working, respectful young gentleman wouldn't have to worry about her giving you a hard time. I can't imagine you having any trouble with her. She's no spy, and is about as faithful as they come. And I'm talking about to me, personally. Not just Storm! But it's no wonder he's having issues. Being pig-headed and brutish won't earn the fear, or respect of any of MY clergy."

    A long sigh of relief escapes from you. He must be fighting to not put down Father Pevrel further. "Thank you. She's certainly made an effort to treat him with respect, if it's any consolation."

    "Yep." His eyes narrow further. "I'm not worried about her. The sick fuck's trying to do his thing with you, isn't he?"

    You cough. "I beg— I beg your pardon—?"

    "Don't mean this the wrong way, Father, but you'd be a walking target for him. I'm just trying to look out for you. Fred would want to run you into the ground— did you kick his ass for me?"

    The ache in your chest just won't stop. "He's been beaten thoroughly, Father."

    "Ha. Excellent. Serves the old bastard right. But Nick's always had more than a few leaks in his hull. The lad's eyes are gone, but most of his soul's just as black. I respect his work, don't get me wrong. But if he's all the way in Eadric— and if things are as bad as they sound? You need to look after yourself." He passes another glance over your face, and huffs. "Can't go losing the Father of Healing while rot-eye gets his rocks off."

    >A] Let your jaw hang open for a minute, and ask Father Barthalomew to clarify. He's obviously struggling to not say even more about Father Pevrel. Encourage him to do so, as the lord of truth. This does deeply concern your future work, no matter what cost it's taking on you and Sister Cardew now.
    >B] Deeply and sincerely thank your fellow church leader for everything. You are hanging by a thread, and need to think of Sister Cardew's well-being too. Part ways, having done much more than just accomplishing your mission.
    >C] There is never enough Time for anything, and for all your answers you still have 1000 questions. (Write-in. There's no guarantee you'll remain connected or conscious for long enough to engage in any other subject at length, and it might hurt to try, but you're willing to risk it.)

    It feels like you're dying. You knit your eyes shut, and speak with difficulty. "We'll meet again. Thank you so much. Thank you. I can't tell you how much your support and counsel means to me."

    Worry comes into your fellow priest's tone. "Think you're going to make it?"

    Nodding is safe enough, even if it gets more water down the back of your robes. "By a thread. I have to learn how to pace myself." He snorts. You are quick to tease, "don't you answer that."

    The slight shake of Father Bartholomew's laughter is audible from the wet noise of his shirt shifting. "Alright. It was nice meeting you, Father Anscham."

    "Likewise."

    "I trust you'll have all this handled, and don't you worry about a thing. For every bit of slander Sullivan put out there, there's five more stories about all the good you've done. I'm not about to forget that."

    More nodding. "I'll be seeing you again as soon as I'm able. Send me your tenets, if you can."

    "Hmm? Oh. Oh! Right. Sure. Why not? Soon as I'm back at the mainland. Can't promise you a Time, but I'll see to it. Take care of yourself, if you can. 'The Gods are Merciful', was it?"

    "Yes—"
     
    Last edited:
  • Threadmarks
    • Chapter 29: Attrition
  • Threadmarks
    • Chapter 29: Attrition
    "This is a sacrifice I am more than willing to make."​


    A scream rips your vision, mind, memory, and the world away in a pain so sudden and blinding, you and Sister Cardew fall backwards away from each other and slam onto the wooden floor. A violent, quick turn allows you to vomit away from the white-hot pain, as you fight back a sob or a scream. Spots blink out of your eyes, and the pain only feels like it ramps up harder. The blend of pleasure all through it is almost equal in intensity. You want to cry from it, and aren't sure if it's from joy or some of the worst pain you've ever experienced.

    The door slams open, and Klepto's voice scarcely registers from the hall. He's at the edge of your thoughts.

    Relieved, hysterical laughter falls from you when you realize that the sensation is not going to last forever. It's dying down.

    Ray bounds into the room and pants right beside you. His quiet presence is absolutely there to make sure you're alright, before he sees to anyone else.

    There's no use trying to see for several long seconds. You pull your boy into a hug. There might as well be an ice pick lodged into the front of your skull, right where your heads contacted.

    All you can think of is if Harriet is alright. Fighting to stop retching comes easily enough, but it's at least a full minute before you can hope to see. The back of your hand wipes the sweat off your face. Looking around, your eyes fall on the pile of inert skirts and shawls adorning your priestess.

    Sister Cardew has not moved. She's not moving at all.

    You quietly ask Ray to move, stagger over to your friend on hands and knees, and take her in your arms. Her head is slack. Her eyes are open, and unblinking. James looks horrified, but is sharp enough to not say anything.

    You keep her neck and head supported, quietly command Ray to keep back, and ask your boy to guard the door. He instantly complies, while James kneels down beside you. Feeling for Harriet's breath and a pulse, you confirm that she's still breathing. Relief hits you harder than the pain did seconds ago. Your flash of agony has almost completely subsided, but there's no point in taking any chances. You use a tone so soft, it couldn't possibly set anyone's nerves on end. "Sister Cardew."

    Harriet's gaze snaps to you with such intensity, you jump. "Richard!"

    You gasp in relief. "By all the Gods—"

    Her invocation is fading. She's so weak, she can't voluntarily stay in contact with Spirit for a moment longer. Yet all of the whites in Harriet's eyes are visible. The sweet, chestnut-brown that used to adorn her irises is completely obscured by what looks like liquefied pearls. It's only white that's visible, as she winces in obvious distress. "We did it."

    You pull her into a hug, and practically smother your most loyal clergy woman. She returns the hug instantly, though she can hardly lift her arms. One exhausted breath escapes you, and you help keep her up. "You did it. Thank you. I don't know if I can ever repay you.

    Her voice is so muffled, you can't hear the reply. "Dhhntt brgh rdcrrcrrrrhhs."

    Sheepishly pulling back, you give her some room to breathe.

    She's too weak to even sit upright on her own, and sinks deeply against your arms. Smiling. "Don't be ridiculous. I'm still repaying you." A tilted, bleary smile looks around the whole room. "Where are my glasses?"

    She seems so much more level than you were expecting, every one of your nerves is on end. You quickly nod to James, and then to the bed. The minstrel hops to get the item.

    Harriet leans in towards you, and grins ear-to-ear.

    You sigh. There it is. You remain patient, and ask, "yes?"

    "I saw their minds, Richard." She giggles. Sister Cardew giggles, and it's possibly one of the most disturbing noises you've ever heard. James straightens upright, as if he's heard one of his instruments out of tune.

    The young woman drops her tittering as quickly as she started, and stoically continues. "All of them. You're all crazy. Crazy, crazy, crazy. It comes with the job, doesn't it? But you're not bad people. No. Not a one. You all are doing what you think is best. Even Sullivan thinks he's doing the right thing. That's the trouble. Your minds are pushed past the breaking point. We have a collection of lunatics running our nation. In a period of two wars." Despite her weakness, Harriet clutches onto the front of your robes with one hand. "It's the Gods. The Gods drive us mad. I must know why."

    A lovely, polite, pained, and utterly insane smile beams up at you. Harriet's eyes are unfocused, as she obviously is reflecting on what must have been the touch of a Goddess. "Will Cyril lose his faculties, too? Oh. But Richard. I understand. I know. It's a struggle. You can't possibly think straight. You feel. You don't have just one God vying for your mind. You have many, and They all want what's best for you. But that is your trouble. Your blessing, and your curse. They all are at odds with the other. Your fellow church leaders have it easy. By comparison. They have lived their lives doing only what they were told! But you? You are learning how to balance the Gods Themselves. No man alive should criticize your struggle. You. Are. Tempering. The very. Gods."

    There's stars in her eyes. Harriet looks towards the wall straight past you. There's a solid wall, but she's seeing the night sky. "This is the greatest gift I could have ever asked for. My sacrifices have been a blessing. I do not serve the Goddess of knowledge through seclusion. I am not confined by narrow-sighted study. This is the pursuit of the unknown. A venture that will take us into territory never before witnessed by mankind. James knows it."

    The minstrel snips, "obviously. The fuck you think I stick around for? Sure isn't for the security."

    You stare in disbelief as both of your friends give the other equally insane smiles.

    Harriet breaks the look after a moment. Her smile falters, and she assumes a more typical, neutral expression. Her hand stays clutched on your robes, as if she's afraid of what might happen if she lets go. "I have to think of my baby, Richard. It will kill me to do more. This is not something you can heal. Cyril is strong, and much more competent than anyone gives him credit for. I'll rest, even when I know you can't. Dream will have to understand. I'll pray for you."

    You carry her back onto the bed, and quietly ask Klepto to get her something to wear that isn't covered in lilies and vomit. He keeps her glasses in hand, and starts quietly cursing while digging through an armoir across the room. The room is a disaster once again, and none of you care.

    Kneeling beside the high mattress, you whisper to your priestess, "thank you."

    "Richard."

    "Yes?"

    "Fred's an asshole."

    You squeeze Harriet's hand slightly. She's too good for this world. "Thank you so much, again. Is there anything you need?"

    "Keep Ray here. I feel much safer when he's around." You nod, to which she sighs, and lays back. James walks over with her glasses at least, which she seems intent on wearing even to sleep. "I don't want to ask you to make me any promises. We're all too hard on you. But please try to rest at some point. Do whatever you can to make it happen. You're fighting more often than not, and this will be a war of attrition. It will not be something we can talk our way out of in a single day."

    "Yes. Of course."

    "And Richard?"

    "Yes…?"

    "I don't think you're hurting anyone by allying with Pevrel. On the contrary. I think he needs your help just as much as any demon. The last thing we need is another leader conspiring against us. So long as you aren't compromising your health or safety, I think there may be great merit in exploring the ways you both can help one another. Please don't lose him."

    >A] Give Sister Cardew the biggest hug you can manage. Make her some tea, or something. Try to ensure she's completely looked after before you do anything else. She's too good for this world, and you can't imagine ever finding a way to repay her for this kindness. Your research team will have a LOT to discuss when you're afforded more time (like usual).
    >B] Your priestess has effectively demonstrated that she has equal or greater control over Spirit than Beltoro, and you're utterly terrified for her sanity. Finding Walter and informing him of this venture needs to be moved WAY up on your priority list.
    >1] Respectfully ask James to go get the father of Harriet's child from wherever he is in the city, right now.​
    >2] You'll personally locate Walter the minute you're able. Adwin still will come first, but you'll figure out where to go from there.​
    >C] Try not to panic. You have lost track of the Time for the first Time in 14 years, and will get a look at the sky as soon as possible.

    "James." You might be panicking. "What Time is it?"

    "Evening?"

    >D] Panic. You have to go find Adwin as quickly as humanly possible.
    >E] Do not panic.
    >1] You can and will kill yourself if you forget that you're still human. Get the sick out of your throat, responsibly ration out something for dinner, and take just a few minutes to breathe. Let James catch you up on things in the meantime.​
    >2] Try to (discreetly) take stock of just how bad you are off physically.​
    >3] Take James aside, and have him try to get an honest take with you on how bad off you are physically, mentally, and emotionally.​
    >F] Write-in.




    ​

    One more slight squeeze of Harriet's hands before you part from her side. Terror for the poor woman's sanity is drenching you. "I'm getting hold of Walter the minute I'm able. Adwin needs to be seen to first, but—" It feels like you're losing your mind all over again. The young woman you're looking at is possibly the most powerful priestess of Spirit to have ever lived. "You have demonstrated equal, or greater control over Spirit than Beltoro. I would be lying if I didn't say that I was terrified for you, Sister Cardew."

    "Oh. I know."

    You meet her grin with a smile so nervous, your heart skips several beats. "Right, then." A shaking hand goes for your flask. You mutter to everyone present, "I am perfectly aware that we are in a period of scarcity, and turmoil—"

    James croaks, "you're a gift. Can that thing make wine?"

    They all haven't been eating from thoughtlessness, or neglect. They're rationing.

    You mutter to the item, "strong wine," and hand it off to your minstrel. The scent of fermented grapes and relief fills the air. The sandy-blonde knocks your flask back without even inspecting it. "I would like a debriefing. Now."

    A few hard breaths leave him. He wipes his face. "You're probably going to like this."

    You take the flask back, and wash out the sickness and lilies with a beautiful red. It's mild enough to make you forget about the nausea, dry, colored like intense violets, and tastes young. The drink would pair well with the preserved goods present, and you gesture for the middle-aged man to help assist you in rationing something reasonable. It will help you gauge the situation even as you both eat.

    The two of you pick a devastatingly small selection of goods. It looks like a quarter of what you actually need. While you work at the meal, sketch everything present, and take notes on the origin of the supply, James speaks. Handling so many tasks simultaneously has stars in your eyes. Time would be delighted.

    Your friend still sounds like a dead man. "Harvey's gone to go bust Electrum out. They should be done by now."

    Sharply inhaling on a wedge of cheese threatens to kill you on the spot. You cough, "EXCUSE ME—?!"

    Sister Cardew stirs slightly in bed. She's already fallen asleep, and is too exhausted to comment. Ray whines at you from the hallway.

    The man across from you doesn't even blink. "He really doesn't like anyone fucking with us, Richard. Especially locking any of us up anywhere. Can you blame him, after everything the three of us saw this week? Shit, after anything we've all been through?"

    Clearing your throat several times, and more wine gets you over the worst of the panic. "Yes. Of course—"

    "Don't panic on me. We're all really trying."

    "I know. I— I won't. Please spare no detail, James."

    A melodious, yet concise report follows. "The Willoughby Sisters have nothing to hide. The prudes have nothing to fear from Father Pevrel, and made it look like they were saving their own skin. They're beautiful bitches, really. They're really out in the city working to curtail the worst of the violence from Pevrel's men. I'm sure they could be fighting, but the spoil-sports are doing what you all do best: healing, and making sure that the innocent have adequate shelter."

    A hard sigh, though he doesn't miss a beat. "Brother Fergant has a suspiciously long history that Pevrel's men have been kept busy with. Lord Uptight's game was to root out any—" Air quotes are made with his fingers. "—Corruption—" His hands go back to getting a cup for more wine. "—that he could punish. I think it's that Fergant is trying to distract and tie up his inquisitors. Would love to root around in his dirty laundry."

    "That's disgusting."

    "Not as much as the shit Edge Lord got up to. They took Electrum, and were trying to hold her. Oh, the poor, poor bastards. Picture it with me, Richard: Spangle, when she found out that someone tried touching her squeeze."

    You pour out a full cup of red from the endless container in hand, and raise it in a toast with your homicidal ally. "How many casualties?"

    "Oh." He laughs. "I didn't count when I hit the street. But the whole place was up in flames. Corpses on sticks. Looks like Claymore and Spangle had a coordinated plan with Walter before they even took her. She took the chance to send a message to both sides. Won't make her any friends, but Walter saw the whole thing coming. They just had to get her out. I imagine that the five of them are split up, and are working on striking outside of the city while you see to things here. We're probably going to do your reputation more harm than good for awhile, but you'll thank us later."

    Both of you shake your heads. You're going to go gray at this rate. "I need to thank you now."

    James laughs hard. "You're just trying to picture how fucked your enemies are, aren't you?"

    "Eight Gods is not enough to help them, James— and our friends are heathens. I'm certain there will be no Mercy, no matter— no matter how much I implore you all to think of Her."

    "Tell me about it. They'll be fine. Walter should be keeping an eye on Claymore's stuff, and helping to keep up appearances while shit is still literally in flames. You'll find him at the smithy. Pevrel's men are all over the city, too. There was way more than I originally counted."

    "Ninety-eight. He brought 100 men from Mauseburg, not including himself— and I imagine he did not count Sister Miramond in the number, either."

    "Yeah. Well. Not gonna lie to you. Shit's changing by the second. I wasn't trying to be a dick— heh."

    "Not funny."

    "Hilarious, right. Anyways. You need intel, and I'm happy to give it, but a play-by-play isn't going to do you any favors. You probably need to get out there and start cleaning house. Let us all worry about the little pieces. Even a priestess of Storm is small potatoes compared to the whole picture. Seems like these cultists have been planning this move for a long time. Pevrel's scared 'em stiff, but his methods... ah, how do I put this?" A swirl of his wine. "It's poor dinner conversation."

    You narrow your eyes. "That is uncharacteristically tactful of you."

    "You were just puking your guts out. I'm a thief, not a sadist. You want the rest of that report, or...?"

    "Please."

    "We've put out as much word and as many requests for aid as we can, but it's not going to be enough. Not in the first few days, and maybe not even in the first few weeks. You know how long we've got before this all comes to a head everywhere...?"

    "No later than the first snow. Worship, at the latest. Father Barthalomew cautioned me that there will be no helping us if we cannot remedy this situation by then."

    "That's barely over five months out. We'd better pick up the pace, then." His shark-like stare slowly fades with each subsequent word. "So. Yeah. No good way to put it. There's going to be a second famine."

    Something worse than nausea sinks into the pit of your stomach. It's worse than terror. It's worse than three years of a curse. It's worse than eight years of starvation. It's the memory of a childhood in constant need. You're too upset to reply.

    "Supply's been cut off from Eadric, and they're already months deep into the stores. Order in the city seems to have been kept almost purely out of respect for you, Richard, and—" He winces. "You want me to be honest. There's no good way to put it."

    A level breath escapes you. "Say what you need to."

    A gesture is made to the provisions stacked at the back wall of Harriet's and Walter's bedroom. "This is it, for the entire keep."

    Dread washes over you in waves. "This couldn't keep our priests of Flesh on their feet through the end of the month— and there's over twenty of you—"

    "And another one-hundred mouths from Mauseburg. I trusted Harriet's judgement more than anyone here to use a lighter hand with the supply. Everyone respects her way too much to fight with her over it for now, but there's a reason we've had the tightest security here on this floor. Why even your dog is being kept under watch. Everyone's going to be upset with you. Everyone." The wiry minstrel sighs, and gives you an apologetic frown. "...even if you're going to go hungrier than any of us."

    A stare, at your flask. "That thing is endless?"

    Both of you stare at the innocuous, wooden item. Were it not for the gold cap and base, it would be indistinguishable from any ordinary container. "It would appear so."

    A shake of the minstrel's head. His muted curls are damp. He must have only just come out from the rain. "The Nyes boarded up the Church of Mercy. I'd bet another twenty years of my fucking life that they figured out what a threat your precious little artist is right out the gate. No one's come in. No one's come out. No noise from elsewhere in the keep, either. Calm before the Storm, Father. I bet you anything that they're gathering their strength, and waiting to wear ours out."

    Sighing deeply comes with a medley of the perfectly conjured grapes, though the flavor brings far less reassurance than usual. "You're still dodging the subject."

    "Fine. You need to decide what to do about needing to eat enough for two men. Unless you can get your little pet to take off what the Gods packed onto you, too? It's going to be miserable. You're going to be miserable, but we need you on your feet. I say you use that—" He gestures with his cup of wine towards your flask. "—and try to make up for what we all can't afford to spare. Can't live off of dandelions. Bullshit. You're not a bee." You ignore the urge to buzz. "Way I saw you in the ruins? You could run on fucking air for weeks if it came down to it. Isn't that right?"

    "No. I was a walking dead man. My judgement was grossly impaired, James. I could scarcely tell what was happening, and was— I was too weak to make use of so much as a mace, or shield. There can be no understating how dire my condition was. I never should have lived."

    The minstrel's tone, and his expression all eases. "I don't want you barely able to stand again, either. The way you work is almost enough to put the fear of the Gods in me, Father."

    "You don't mean that."

    "Nah. But it's damn good to see you trying to take care of yourself. I'm not suggesting that you starve— not that I think that's entirely possible— but just that you keep your wits running. You won't be any use to us if your judgement gets cloudier than Pevrel's." James runs a hand through his hair, and sets down his cup. "Didn't forget about him either. Don't worry. There's no word of him on the street, but I guessed he's doing something fucked for you."

    "We cleared a hideout of over fifty cultists just this morning." Your voice drops to a growl. "And I am not about to lose it."

    Light sparks in his eyes. "Didn't think you had it in you."

    "I'm full of surprises."

    Even more respect beams at you, with a shark-like smile. "Sounds like fun— but if it's all the same to you, I'm staying on the move."

    "You're welcome to join us whenever you wish."

    The two of you exchange directions to the hideout. James assures you he won't need a code to get entry, if necessary.

    "So. Hate to harp on it, Richard—"

    "Please do not lie to me."

    "Fine! See what I get for trying to be polite?! No, don't— don't give me that shit. Don't you pout at me. I need someone to blame this on, for when shit really flies. Give me some clear instruction. This is your city. The stores are running low, and we need to make sure your castle doesn't fall in a day. I need to make sure you don't fall by tomorrow, either. This cult's about inactivity. Starving us out is only going to promote that. Inertia WANTS you to do less."

    "This is sickeningly appropriate."

    "Have to respect their psychotic dedication to the whole gimmick. It's effective. Brutally effective. It might be weeks before we get supplies from the capital, and Pevrel's going to tax our resources even harder. And no matter how hard these Vengeance kiss-asses think they are, they can't scavenge AND keep an army fighting. So, give me those hard calls, Richard."

    He sounds disproportionately excited. You pass a hard look over your friend. "Give me a minute. And we're keeping Ray out of this. Don't you dare even joke about him."

    "Don't insult me. I figured. He'll be fine."

    (SELECT ONE OPTION FROM A.)
    (IN ADDITION, select ONE option from B.)
    (LASTLY, feel free to WRITE-IN any further course of action with option C.)

    >A] Your enemies seek to destroy the people's faith in you. A second famine is a pretty good way to try. (1-2 is from highest priority, to lowest priority for the quantity AND quality of rations. Those near the bottom of the list can and WILL go hungry for those higher on the list. If supplies are damaged or run out, those near the bottom of the list WILL starve first.)
    >1] Regardless of divine ability: Active, adult men; pregnant women; active men; teenage males; children; all other men (disabled, scholars, etc); women; the elderly; the sick and dying.​
    >2] Based on effectiveness in this war: Male clergy who can invoke; male clergy who cannot invoke; female clergy who can invoke; female clergy who cannot invoke (healers, combatants); pregnant women; active teenage combatants; children; all other men; all other women; the elderly; the sick and dying.​
    >3] Even if ethics will not win a war, you are a bleeding heart. Despair could also cause demonic outbreaks. Factor in your humanitarian concerns. (Write-in as CLEARLY as possible.)​
    >B] Famines are the worst nightmare of any priest of Agriculture, but you in particular have SERIOUS justification for ANY behavior in this situation. (Due to your height, weight, and activity level, your nutritional requirements surpass that of two active men. Anything less will result in your desired weight loss, but will proportionately HARM your strength training, energy levels, health, etc. Obviously this is not a lifelong plan, but a temporary measure until the situation improves. I'll provide a little more meta info in the post after this.)
    >1] This entire city is depending on your ability to fight. A liquid diet will not do. You're willing to deal with the endless amount of bullshit that will rain on you to be capable of putting an end to this conflict as effectively and quickly as possible. You are up there with every other top-priority man in your service, are not compromising your strength, and will consequently have to eat more than almost anyone else in Eadric.​
    >2] You'll take James' advice to try and supplement rations with your flask, to not tax your limited resources more than any other active man in your employ. Every effort will be made to uphold your combative ability, activity level, and invocations without going on a crash-diet. You're willing to accept reduced performance.​
    >3] The thought of your choices causing anyone else to go hungry is unfathomable. (WRITE-IN how low on the priority list you're willing to place yourself.)​
    >C] Desperate times call for desperate measures. (Write-in. Please be advised that any efforts made for the supply of the city can and will take away from the limited time available to get to Adwin, find Walter, secure the hideout, etc.)

    >Meta QM Note Regarding Calculations:

    (Just as a little optional info, I've been discreetly running the numbers throughout the quest on your guys activity level, diet plans, exercise routines, body composition, health effects, and a bunch of other things none of you ever need to worry about. I think it helps with verisimilitude, and comes in handy for stuff like this! All of this isn't necessary to vote, but just for context regarding the situation at hand:

    You are currently a little over 310lbs at 6'2''. With your extreme activity level, even a man at 200lbs (at your same height) would require 3.7k+ calories a day to maintain his weight. This is a VERY conservative estimate.

    To maintain YOUR current weight, you could safely eat ~5.5k calories a day. Again, this is a VERY conservative estimate. Anything less guarantees the weight loss you want. Be advised that a drop greater than 500-1000 calories will cause severe compromises in your energy, health, effectiveness, and so on. Obviously, in a time of scarcity, the extreme nutritional needs you have will be observable by the people around you. It's further exacerbated by our fantasy elements.

    Please feel free to ask questions regarding how invocation affects your nutritional requirements, if you would like an even more meta explanation of how badly you've been taxing yourself. The previous prompt to assess your current physical condition would have provided a more thorough breakdown of this, but I can answer any questions based on what you guys already know. You can also opt to try and deduce things of this nature in-quest, as well.

    "I told Mercy Herself that we would be making a few changes to how our church is ran. This matter will concern every last one of my citizens, James. Divine ability will not be taken into any consideration."

    A seriously impressed look passes over you. "Well, shit. Alright. Go on, then."

    Some nearby parchment is gathered. You draft a formal address to all of the men and women responsible for provisions under your care. Literacy is hard-won in Corcaea, but almost everyone in your employ should be able to utilize it if their authority is challenged. "Here. We are placing the greatest priority on all active, adult men. Clergy, fighters, and farmers alike. Any pregnant women take the next greatest priority." Both of you cast a worried look to Sister Cardew, before you continue. "We will not lose our future to present concerns."

    Nodding a few times, James takes the letter. He gives it a once-over as you elaborate. "Teenage males will feel this the hardest, and we need them on their feet. If you could spread awareness of any measures to our youngest citizens of how to cope with this catastrophe, James, it could do wonders for morale. Longer times at meals—"

    A quick interruption. He knows. "Yeah." Klepto's face has tightened into a pained grimace. "Sure. I'll handle it. Most of us will remember, but the reminder couldn't hurt."

    "Thank you. Next, we will place the needs of our children above all others. Following them, the other men of my city— scholars, the disabled, and any other individuals who's needs are not as great— will still have higher requirements than our women. The fairer sex will have to get by on less, but they will suffer far less greatly for it."

    The tightness in your chest won't stop. There might be something in your eye. You keep your gaze fixed on the parchment in James' hands, and choke out, "the elderly will have to go with the second-to-least. Our sick, and the dying will be the last priority. May Mercy forgive me."

    James puts a hand to your shoulder. "I want you to remember that you've nearly killed yourself for the sick, the dying, and the infirm. This is going to save more lives than it takes. You're making the right call."

    He's such a better man than anyone gives him credit for.

    The waver in your vision clears, as you sniff. "Yes, well, I—" A hard sigh escapes you. You tighten your grip around the flask in hand, and nod to James. "Your counsel is exceptional, James. I would be a fool to ignore it. I will— I will do everything in my power to not tax our limited resources any further than— further than they already are. The reduction in my performance is— this is a sacrifice I am more than willing to make. Please understand that I have to place myself with just as much consideration as any other soldier— and I am not about to go starving myself— but I will not compromise my ability. I am doing everything in my power to fight just as much as anyone else."

    Relief has visibly sunk into your friend. "You're going harder than any of us."

    You top off your minstrel's cup of wine, before muttering to Yech's relentlessly helpful gift. "Supplement limited rations in a Time of war. Something that will keep me on my feet— through combat, and all of my work with the Gods Themselves."

    A savory, herbal, honey-brown mixture floods the container. You eye it suspiciously. The aroma of maple syrup floods through the entire blend, but it's not going to be sweet. Fenugreek is unmistakably all through the drink. You smirk at the flask. The herb can assist with reducing appetite in large enough quantities.

    Without further hesitation, you drink (almost) to your heart's content. It's not going to be a complete replacement for actual food, but there's obviously enough nutrition in the mix to help you get by. More than the paltry rations alone would have, at any rate. It feels impossible to actually become full— particularly without anything to chew on. You can take immediate comfort in crushing hunger pains, at the very least. Doing so without taking anything from anyone else is a better kind of satiety, too.

    Both you and James sigh at one another as you cap the item, and put it away on your person. He mutters, "guess you're heading off to see the freak, then?"

    He completely understands where you're coming from. It seems that the minstrel has set aside his death threats against the ex-demon who robbed him of his youth, but you still have your concerns.

    The ache in your chest just won't stop. You can't help but think of how Yech's company would be priceless, especially in a disaster like this. It feels like all of your allies are growing farther away by the minute, when you need all the help you can get. Pulling Klepto into a hug comes with a mildly irritated sound, but he immediately returns the gesture.

    You murmur, "thank you again. I may have lost count of how many favors I owe you, by now."

    "How about you consider us even?" He laughs, and pulls back from the hold. A show is made of fluffing his sleeves back up.

    "You—" He's grinning at you so smugly, you could die. You stammer, "you intentionally lost our bet, so you— so you could pull something like this—?"

    "Nah, I was piss-drunk. Everyone has an off-day. But it doesn't hurt to call on a few favors, right?"

    You both smirk at each other. Pain is all through both of your expressions. "Right."

    It's going to be a long while before there will be any normalcy. You both try to hold onto the moment, but before long, Klepto glances over to Sister Cardew. "I'll look after her. You both couldn't have been longer than half an hour—"

    You might choke. She said it would feel like longer than the endeavor actually took, but this is insane. "You're joking."

    "For once, no. Time's a wastin', right?"

    >A] There's something else you really want to say to James before you go. (Write-in.)
    >B] Make your way straight to Adwin, as quickly as you're able. Stop for no one.
    >C] Proceed through the castle to the Church of Mercy. If you're stopped along the way, you'll give anyone who needs your attention the Time they deserve.
    >D] On the way to Adwin, take a slightly longer route through your gardens. You'll avoid scrutiny, get some fresh air, and be able to better discern the Time. It's not that you're avoiding your clergy and company! You seriously just want a minute to yourself.
    >E] Write-in.




    ​

    Parting ways from James comes with considerably more light all through your eyes. He leaves the door cracked for your dog as you quietly exit. The hall is quiet. The entire castle might as well have emptied.

    Your boy whines up at you with puppy-dog eyes. You give Ray a big hug, a kiss on the nose, several ear scratches, and promise him that you'll keep everyone safe. He whoofs with determination, licks your face repeatedly, and follows you all the way to the end of the hall despite your orders to stay.

    The sound of Ray's trot back down the hall carries in the back of your mind, as you exit the second-safest location in your castle. The path you take to get to the Church of Mercy is as straight as can be. It shouldn't take long to reach the building, but you keep an ear out for any possible activity all along the way. You note the blood smeared along multiple stone walls. Overturned candles, and melted yellow wax splattered across the floor. Rain and leaves have been tracked across the floor in countless places. Mud is mixed in with most of it. There's no more dust in your home, at least.

    After passing below stained glass for no more than another ten minutes, movement is obvious in the corridors beyond. You have yet to pick up a weapon or shield. Politely calling out is fine. "Who goes there?"

    It's one of the members of your caravan. You don't know the tender's name, but the middle-aged man couldn't look happier to see you. His graying mustache and beard are stiff with dried sweat. His tunic is streaked with blood, but he looks unharmed. No one calls themselves a citizen of Calunoth OR Eadric without knowing how to use a blade. To have lived in both of the most volatile locations in the country carries bragging rights, yet a humble, gruff acknowledgement of your station is all that replies. "Father Anscham. This way."

    No protests. There will be Time for pleasantries later. You both detour to the main gate of the keep. It's a few corridors away, below moonlight and colored windows. There's fifteen men and women collapsed in different states of exhaustion against the walls. Some have gathered blankets and pillows from elsewhere in the castle, and are attempting to sleep in the middle of the stone floor. The massive, wooden, metal-banded entry way is barred and boarded with boulders, bricks, and even pieces of the pews from the Church of Mercy. You can't imagine even a demon tearing through the defense. It's clear that your priests of Flesh held the line.

    Brother Garrick is nowhere to be found, but Brother Osmund is at high alert beside the entry way. The muscular priest raises his shaved head to you in recognition. There's heavyset bags under his eyes. They're a persistent shade of red, despite his invocation to Flesh having ended. The scarring along his arms and hands has settled into mottled, angry, red streaks. The man has yet to find a shirt that isn't torn to shreds, and might have yet to even sit down since you found him in the prisons. He strides over, and assures you that Brother Garrick simply found a quiet nook to rest in for the night. He nearly killed himself holding off the first wave of the siege— but by all the Gods, he managed.

    Granting rest to those who fought hardest is critical. Everyone who is awake quietly bombards you with questions:

    Where have you been?
    How was the hearing?
    Is Father Pevrel being ran out of the city?
    Will he kill any of us?
    Is Sister Cardew safe?
    What about the city?
    What about your other caravan members?
    Will you use Agriculture to supply the castle? What about Eadric? The country? Just what are you capable of in a crisis like this?
    How will the rations be allocated?
    What took you so long?
    Have there been any outbreaks?
    Why is no one allowed in the Church of Mercy?
    Is it even safe to rest?
    Are you okay?

    You're more than happy to take a moment to gather your composure, and to see to your people. Every last one of them deserves your Time and attention.

    Your ex-demon son is in the best hands you could hope for. Your intelligence agents are some of the most competent people alive. The fighting forces in your care kill demons with their bare hands. The allies you've made reach further than even the most distant borders of your land. Neither memory, pain, famine, nor war will stop your devotion. This war will push humanity to their limits— but you will make sure that no one breaks. There's a sermon to be had tomorrow morning alongside the Goddess of Defense.

    The lord of sunlight knows better than anyone that the night is always darkest before the dawn.

    >Take this time to WRITE-IN any information you wish to disseminate to your people. If you'd like to answer their questions directly, or delegate duties, that is entirely up to you!
    >There are fifteen men and women with mundane ability at your disposal within your castle's keep. This is not including Brother Garrick, Sister Cardew, James, Ray, or the fighting forces in your dungeons (who are currently indisposed).
    >Bear in mind that these people are all utterly exhausted, but will answer to your authority without question.
    >Though another quest update will not be made by your QM in this thread, feel free to ask as many questions as you wish.
    >This is your war to win.
     
    Last edited:
  • Threadmarks
    • Chapter 30: Wisdom in Restraint (Reader discretion advised.)
  • Threadmarks
    • Chapter 30: Wisdom in Restraint
    "Mercy is as much about as how we treat our allies, family, and friends— as about how we treat our enemies."

    The following contains material that may be distressing to some readers.
    Trigger Warnings: Torture and gore.
    Reader discretion is advised.




    ​

    Rain is coming down in sheets. The high, stone ceiling of your castle is battered by the onslaught of Storm. It's the only sound you register as you walk through empty halls, with only low-burning yellow candles for company. All fifteen men and women still guarding the keep's main entrance were reassured excessively that you have things handled. That progress is being made. That THEIR efforts have been instrumental in the defense of your home. They took heart, and are gathering their strength for the trials ahead. They'll hit the streets together after they've had enough rest to get back on their feet. They'll be armed by your most combative priest of Flesh.

    Now is the time to strike. The cult of Inertia thrives on inactivity, and you will not rest until you turn the tide of this battle.

    You can only pray that you still have time.

    There has been no sign or word of your youngest priest of Mercy in nearly a day. Brother Thomas Durville swore to you that he would keep out of reach from any capture, and would aid your cause remotely. You pray for him as you proceed down further corridors, beneath countless mosaics of colored glass.

    You think of the destitute, the innocent, and of all the power you possess. An endless flask has its uses, and you will MAKE the opportunities you need for experimentation. The demonic gifts in your care could put an end to hunger in your city.

    You think to the demons in your care. The dungeons deep below the stone you walk upon. It's thrilling. Two fallen souls show enormous promise for salvation.

    One is here on the surface, though in a different form. The doors to the Church of Mercy are boarded, as you were warned. You start scouting for an entrance that will be more accessible, or discreet than the center aisle.

    At the start of last week, you never would have imagined that a fallen figure of Dream, Spirit, and Time could be saved. The venture into the demon of interpretation's lair took 20 years off one of your best friend's life. It didn't do any favors for your own looks. Yet you took the remarkably less heroic image as a blessing. The demon granted you an opportunity for self-acceptance, and you did the same for him in turn. Thanks to your encouragement, the demon of Interpretation embraced his Catalyst.

    The entire ordeal still has you, and everyone else involved too traumatized to speak of it. Both priests of Flesh that were entrusted with guarding Adwin are the most congenial men you've ever had the pleasure of meeting. Your workout partners, guards, and loyal clergymen cannot be heard as you approach an innocuous side door. You have to wonder what they think of him. The embodiment of Interpretation looks uncannily like he could be yours and Mercy's son.

    It's been a long day. Your vision swims slightly as you go to rap on the wooden, metal-banded entryway. There's some noise within the building that's faintly echoing, but it's difficult to make out. It wouldn't be out of the realm of possibility for you to be hallucinating at this point. Sleep has gone on the back-burner. You've invoked Agriculture twice this morning and afternoon. The prison break you stopped, and saving your knight's life felt as if it would make your very soul burst. The pain has yet to completely subside. Clutching at the robes over your heart does nothing to ease the pressure. It's about as nagging as the ache in your joints, from more physical activity than any man at your weight should be capable of enduring in a single day.

    It feels as if your city itself is bleeding out. Anxiety is all through you. The sensitive, artistic, new nature of being you call a mentor has sought protection in the very church of defense. Interpretation is over one thousand years old, and his artistic skill is without compare. Your patronage of this master is ensuring that Adwin Sebastian Anscham has free reign to paint your main choir in the likeness of his Catalyst.

    You knock harder. There's no reply, save for the small, incessant sound. It must be real. From the long hallway you're standing in, with an ear pressed against the cold wood, you try to focus— and to not fall asleep standing up. The organic surface is enormously reassuring. The man that's weakly crying within your church is not. It's a voice you don't recognize. No one is talking. There's no movement you can hear from within the building.

    Adwin is capable of assuming potentially any form. You've seen him grow wings, shape himself like a human, and become completely immaterial at-will. The prospect of him being capable of changing his voice isn't far-fetched.

    The impossible has never stopped you before. Nothing is going to stop you now.

    >A] Bang on the door, and shout at anyone within to open up.
    >B] Take the door off its damn hinges. If it's barricaded, Gods help anyone that tries to get in your way.
    >C] Kick the door down.
    >D] You're not taking ANY chances. (Write-in.)

    For all your love of ripping doors off their hinges, weaponizing them, and blowing them to pieces, this is yours and Mercy's church. Violently banging on the wooden door with the side of your fist might as well be a roll of thunder. The echo can be heard from the high ceiling within, as you bellow, "FATHER ANSCHAM! LEADER OF THE CHURCH OF MERCY! OPEN UP!"

    The surface underhand quietly vanishes.

    The amount of force you were using to pound with has you nearly stumble forward. So much recent combat has done wonders for adjusting to your weight, and improving your center of balance. Quickly righting yourself, you do not hesitate to pick your way forward. Barricades were mounted around the side entryway. The lumber and gilded statues are shoved aside.

    It was only yesterday that you last entered your church. Your breath catches in your throat, as you hurry inside. As you exit the side wing, and look out over the main aisle, the source of the sobbing is immediately clear.

    Beneath the countless panes of stained glass, below the high vaulted ceilings, apart from the gold-inlaid stone, scattered across the pews, and bleeding out all over the floor is what must have been a man. Adwin has taken a man, and interpreted his form into some better reflection of his nature.

    The man's body is almost entirely in strings. It's like a morbid series of festive banners. Broad, foot-wide swathes of flattened muscle protrude with splinters of bone. He's strung up, and spread all the way from the peak of the church, down to its polished floor. It is a meaty, impossible mesh, that's been separating your ex-demon from anyone who might approach him. There are wooden splinters embedded in all of the man's flesh. He's bleeding out, but has impossibly been kept alive. The victim's face is suspended somewhere in the middle of the nightmarish web of his own body. His face is twisted into incomprehensible agony. A low voice croaks out from it.

    "Kill me."

    The man sounds completely out of his mind. His sobbing resumes the instant he's finished speaking, and is much more intense than before. It's unclear if he can feel what's been done to him, but he must still have some awareness to have addressed you directly.

    The embodiment of interpretation is calmly standing on the opposite side of his morbid display. The pale shrouds and white veils that mask his own image are flecked with blood. His fingertips are coated in crimson. He has been painting with viscera, yet calmly calls out to you as if nothing is wrong. "Please mind the door behind you, Father."

    The sound of the door re-materializing is a crunchy static at the back of your mind. It intermingles with the sound of a normal, quiet click— and puts a slight pain at the back of your mind.

    Long shadows flicker from the candlelight all around. Storm must still be over Eadric, given how little moonlight is filtering in through the windows above. You make out Brother Eustace and Tancred Nye are silently staring at you from just a few yards away. The hulking brothers are kneeling behind two pews. They've been praying. They're both white as a sheet. Their holy vestments are tattered in places, and dried sweat is on their beards, but they look completely unharmed otherwise. Both of their eyes lift as they realize that it's you who's entered, but they are clearly too frightened to say a word.

    Adwin softly calls out to you, "Brother Eustace and Brother Tancred have provided exceptional assistance in keeping this holiest structure free from harm. The least I could do is return the favor."

    His last words echo in the broad, otherwise empty church.

    "Favor."
    "Favor."
    "Favor."

    These are the halls of clemency, and forgiveness. You're the very father of compassion. The ache in your soul feels as if it redoubles, but you can manage one word. "Mercy."

    >A] Ask Adwin if he's able to restore this man to his original form.
    >1] You know he can't— but you're so horrified, you still need to try and ask.​
    >2] You need to try and keep it together while you approach this tortured figure. See if there's anything you can do for him.​
    >B] Firmly tell Adwin to stop, and to put this man out of his misery.
    >1] You're furious. There is no excuse for this sort of behavior, ESPECIALLY given where you are.​
    >2] This is a nightmare. You can't believe that he would do something like this.​
    >C] Seize the opportunity, and see if you can get any information out of this prisoner.
    >1] You hold no sympathy for these cultists in your heart.​
    >2] You don't want this man's suffering to be for nothing.​
    >D] Write-in.

    This is a damned nightmare. Getting any information out of this tormented man would come at the expense of everything you hold dear. You're the leader of the church of empathy, not punishment. Even if you could interrogate him, it likely wouldn't even render reliable information.

    It's almost too difficult to keep your gaze on the figure. You shake your head at the young man standing behind him. "Adwin, I expect better from you. Mercy would expect better from you. Do not extend his suffering for a moment longer. Put this man out of his misery. Now."

    All the apology and pain in your eyes meets the poor soul in front of you. How his Catalyst hasn't been triggered escapes you. "I'm so sorry."

    His sobs cease. The man's skull is wetly and rapidly crunched in on itself. It's brutally excessive. A spray of blood spurts out from the impact of his skull folding in on itself repeatedly. You wipe the spray off from your face. Adwin has killed him instantly. He didn't have to raise a finger.

    The embodiment of interpretation curiously looks at the arc of blood across your hands, and you're confident he's assessing the artistic merit of the crimson streaks. Neither priest here with you dares to make a sound. They've obviously been terrified of suffering a fate worse than death at this creature's hands.

    You fearlessly stride forward as every last banner of gore collapses from the ceiling. It's a rain of death. One of the long tendrils droops harmlessly onto your shoulder. It's lighter than air, as you pick it off your black, gilded robes. The Flesh is still warm to the touch. You swallow a wave of nausea.

    This man felt everything that his body was put through. There's no air in the room.

    You meet Adwin's gaze. He smiles at you, and politely waits for you to address him first.

    The voice you assume is so soft, not another soul alive could hear it. No anger. Anguish murmurs, "I know old habits die hard, Adwin, but—" The blood in your palm is slick, as you clench your hands into fists. "You have robbed me of an opportunity for interrogation, traumatized my men, and—" Every passing second has you wanting to do more. "—you are making this even harder on me. I can't believe that you would do something like this. How could you?"

    "What do you mean?" He tilts his head slightly. The utter absence of humanity has your blood running cold. "He threatened our lives. The least I could do is decorate the man for his efforts."

    You put a hand to your brow, and sigh. "Damn it all." Adwin is like a son to you, but the thought of any additional turmoil in your already chaotic life is almost more than you can stand. The odor of rot and liquid pain feels like it's never getting out of your nose. It's intermingled with the stench of paint, and light smoke from the candles all around.

    The night is wearing on. You have a LOT to do, and Time is of the essence. The plan was to have Adwin assist you with cartography today. You need to map out the tunnels that have been dug beneath your city. The skill you have depicting depth, perception, and layered environments is amateur, at best.

    This new kind of being could not be in a more delicate mental state, and having him entrenched in even more blood, potential combat, and underground excavation could be devastating. So much as suggesting that he be kept under watch is out of the question. He fears imprisonment more than anything. It's clear that he's capable of defying the Gods' own will. You freed this ex-demon. The extent of his power escapes you, yet this creature is under your protection. He is ultimately your responsibility.

    "Damn it all."

    >A] Don't even mention what you came here for. You need to have a firm talk with Adwin about his behavior, and ensure that something like this never happens again. Pray that he can be left here in the church until you finish your business in the city. You WILL find a way to be back here by sunrise.
    >1] Find someone to relieve the Nye brothers the second you're done talking to Adwin. They've seen enough.​
    >2] Go make sure that your priests of Flesh are okay before making any further calls.​
    >B] This isn't something you can discuss right now, but you'll have ample opportunity for conversation while you're working on those tunnels. Tell Adwin that he's accompanying you through the city. He's not leaving your sight. He can interpret it however he likes. This is not negotiable.
    >C] The two of you have demonstrated nothing but mutual respect and support for one another. Ask Adwin if he can help you with plotting out the sprawling network of passages under Eadric. You want to know exactly what his limitations are.
    >1] While he explains, you're working together to clean up this mess. You'll give Adwin's victim a proper burial. Three funerals in a week is going to rip your heart to shreds, but you can take it.​
    >2] You're honestly too upset to do more than stand here and listen. Try to keep it together.​
    >D] Write-in.




    ​

    "Help me gather him up, Adwin." Grief is drenching you. The sheer amount of exhaustion on your body does not lend itself well to more activity, but the impossible strands of this corpse are easy enough to move. The artist beside you removes one of the longest shawls from his shoulders, and stretches it out on the floor. There's no hesitation, and he sets about picking up the banners of meat with his bare hands.

    You call out to both of your priests of Flesh. "I'll be right there." A firm stare to Adwin. "Do not do anything further to this body. We are gathering him for a proper burial. Do you understand me?"

    "Yes, Father." He mellowly sets about gathering the rest of the body, while you go make sure that the Nye brothers are alright.

    Kneeling beside them only seems appropriate. They were looking to the altar. Both men were no doubt imploring the Goddess of Protection for Her blessing.

    Your voice wavers, in the softest tone you can manage. It's almost inaudible. "I'm sorry you had to witness this. Trauma is a poor way to repay all of your kindness." A closer look over for injury doesn't reveal any physical damage. "Are you alright?"

    The younger brother takes a sharp breath in. Tancred casts an almost imperceptible glance over his shoulder. He's quiet at the best of times, but his whisper now is just as scarce as your own tone. "Can it hear us?"

    Virtually no one who's met Adwin has yet to treat him like a human. There's not much that can be done about this, given the circumstances. You nod, but add, "this is the home of Mercy, and he will do well to know what that means. I'll speak to him." Your emphasis on his assumed gender doesn't make either of your priests look any more confident. "I can't express my gratitude enough to both of you for handling yourselves so well. Your fear— your fear should be for our enemies. Not for your own lives. Neither of you are in any danger. Mercy, I am so sorry."

    Staggering to his feet, Eustace offers his brother a wavering hand to rise with him. Both of them having a cold sweat on their brow. The elder brother firmly says to you, "with all due respect, Father, our legs could use some stretching."

    The tightness of your grimace must be only outclassed by the strain on the faces in front of you. "Of course. Please. Use your best discretion as to where to patrol. Brother Osmund survived the siege, and is indisposed, but Brother Garrick will be leading a company of our caravan through— through the city's streets."

    Some life returns to Brother Eustace's voice, even if he still has no color in his face. "A patrol is in order throughout the keep, then. A serendipitous turn of events. Come along, Tancred. The day may yet come when Father Anscham fights at our side."

    For good measure, you quietly inform them both, "Sister Cardew will be staying in the keep. When she's rested and recovered from her work this afternoon, I— I strongly encourage you both to seek any counsel you need." Heavily sighing does nothing to relieve the pressure on your chest. "Please look after yourselves."

    Both men gulp, as they look to the expansive aisle they need to cross in order to access any one of the barred exits. You call out to Adwin, "the halls of our home are to remain open to all of my children, Adwin. Remove these obstructions at once."

    With a slow wave of one guts-and-paint-caked hand, the blonde motions to every single door lining the wings and entrance to the Church of Mercy. The pews slide back into place. The wooden barricades reassemble themselves instantly. The statues move to their original locations, and every single door swings wide open.

    Several candles go out from the fresh air that floods into the chamber. You walk with both of your priests along with the scent of smoke, off towards the same hallway you entered from. The priests are both shaken, but there's more confidence in them with every step they take away from the center aisle.

    As they head down the passage, both men wave over their shoulders, and give you a parting glance. Tancred quietly calls out. "Thank you, Father Anscham."

    "The Gods are Merciful, Brothers."

    With his back turned once more, Eustace mutters something about a prayer being answered.

    You whip your gaze back to Adwin, stride over to him, and try not to break down on the spot. "Come with me. We're finding a place for a proper burial. I need an answer along the way."

    The two of you proceed out from the main choir. The entirety of the cultist's corpse is roughly the same mass as an adult male body once it's tied up into a bundle. It looks like Adwin can carry it effortlessly, and you are altogether too tired to not accept the physical assistance.

    The gardens are your target destination, but it will take a minute to get there. Winding out from empty stone corridors and into the night, you mutter to the being at your side. "I have done everything in my power to respect your boundaries, but I still have no idea what they may be. Can I count on your continued support, Adwin?"

    Blood is dripping onto the walkway as you both proceed. The splat, splat behind you is given a stern look by the ex-demon, who might be more irritated by its appearance than its macabre source. "Apologies for the mess, Father. But of course. What is it that you need?"

    "Inertia has burrowed beneath my city. There are tunnels extending from a hideout on the perimeter of Eadric. It is over eight districts away, even taking a clear shot. I must secure this location. It is remote, guarded by multiple priests of Vengeance, carries ample supplies, is strategically placed— I— I could go on. Mapping these tunnels could turn my enemy's strength against them. My own cartography is lacking, and I know that your skill is without compare. I need your help, but only if you would be willing to go underground again so soon. Even getting there will be dangerous, given the current state of affairs."

    You've done more grotesque and abhorrent things in recent years than even what you just saw, but your time spent in confinement was potentially hundreds of years less than Adwin's. "I know what it's like to try and readjust. I won't risk pushing you. Tell me what you need."

    He's immediately on edge. "You are not taking kindly to my attempts at assisting with the defense of your home. I don't believe I understand the issue. We may have different ideas of how to manage threats against our lives, Father Anscham. Could you please explain to me how we will survive a war, if you are unwilling to raise a hand against your foes? I mean no disrespect, and can see how greatly this is upsetting you— but I was under the impression that I was defending your home from a crazed attacker."

    The two of you proceed through myriad shortcuts, hidden passageways, and halls on the perimeter of your castle. It takes you out to the edge of your gardens. High grass, recently watered shrubs, and stunning bursts of luminescent flowers are all around. High trees carry pollen into the night sky. You take in a deep breath, despite all the rain. It's beautiful, and puts enough strength through you to find an adequate plot of dirt. You head to a nearby supply shed, and get two shovels. One gets tossed to Adwin. "Help me dig."

    It's back-breaking effort, but all of the recent rain at least has the soil far softer than it would be otherwise. Through the exertion and sweat on your brow, you try to keep your voice level. "You must try to—"

    The words catch in your throat. You're going to lose your composure if you try speaking at length, and quietly dig.

    Not only is this the third funeral you'll be presiding over in a week— this is the thirtieth preventable death on your hands in the same span of time.

    Leaving a small ledge in the hole was a magnificent idea to help climb out. Further dread creeps into you, with the realization that you do not possess enough strength to have pulled your own body weight out otherwise.

    Both you and Adwin manage to lower the cultist's remains, and begin shoveling in the renewed downpour of rain. It's all down the back of your shirt, gets in the mud on your filthy shoes, and washes the worst of the gore off from your artist's hands. It feels fitting to speak on behalf of the deceased while he's laid to rest. The physical motion of burying him helps to cope with the memories and tears resurfacing.

    Kindness is your strength, and this is just another opportunity to learn. To grow. To teach. To serve. This is not about preaching. You are going to give this man a proper funeral, remind your ward of human mortality, and help your own grief all at the same damn Time. "You need to understand."

    You cry with as much devastation as you did this morning, and feel all the better for it. "We are gathered here today thanks to our common bonds. As this fallen soul returns to the Goddess, so too shall we return to the foundation of our faith. The halls of honesty cast their shadow over us. Our most fundamental truths have NOT been upheld on this day. For though this blasphemer sought a violent end, he asked for Mercy in his final moments. This man deserved a peaceful death. Not torment."

    The sobs that wrack your shoulders are intense enough that you have to stop shoveling. "Not like this."

    A few long moments are spent with your head hung, looking to the last of a human's destroyed body. Adwin calmly finishes filling the grave.

    You eventually regain your composure. Enough to actually preach, at least, as you and Adwin stand out in the rain. "Compassion is the creed of the Church of Mercy. This can never happen again, Adwin. Mercy is as much about as how we treat our allies, family, and friends— as about how we treat our enemies." The tension in your chest just won't let up. "This is unacceptable. You've tortured a man in the heart of my home, just days after I had to bury twenty-eight of my clergy."

    Looking at the neutral expression across from you puts so much mist in your eyes, you have to close them. Turning away just enough to try and wipe the distress away, you choke out, "after trying to save a demon of agony. After having endured unholy torture myself. I started the day confessing about how thoroughly being flayed and abused has broken me. I can't get any catharsis like this. I will be back here by sunrise, to tell any and every citizen who sees fit to hear me that the Gods are Merciful. Everything that I have is thanks to Them. I need you to understand."

    There's confusion staring back at you. Adwin continues to remain respectful, and quiet.

    You take serious heart in giving him a crash course on the tenets of Mercy. "I am known as the Father of Compassion, but empathy is not normally touted as a hallmark of Mercy's tenets. I do not expect my clergy to feel for their enemies. Restraint is typically what defines Her. Temperance. To withhold our anger. It is not weakness, Adwin. Protection is our creed. Be it by providing shelter, or shielding the weak, we are to never turn a blind eye towards ANYONE in need of aid. Healing enables us to make pure the blood spilled by our hands."

    The grit and blood under your nails is so deeply embedded, not even the heavy downpour is washing it away. "There are many ways to heal. Some wounds go deeper than the skin. It is our duty— in the halls of Her home, and in my city— to speak and act truthfully. Lies, deceit, and manipulation have no place here. We serve through integrity."

    A long moment passes. Rolls of thunder nearly make your heart leap out from your chest, but you keep your ground as Adwin finally finds the words he's been looking for. "Your clergy must uphold your interpretation of these concepts. There are many more ways that they can be construed. Please correct me if I am mistaken, Father, but does Sister Superior Tirel not enable Sister Corbon to set your enemies ablaze? Even while they still draw breath? And are Father Pevrel and his clergy not making even more grotesque displays all around your city, even as we speak? I should apologize for my actions. It is no excuse for upsetting you in such a way, but I was unaware that this behavior was not condoned."

    >A] This is not something you have the Time or the energy to explain at length. Accept Adwin's apology, and ask that you get moving. Promise that you'll explain at greater length when you can, but that you just need some distance from the subject right now.
    >1] You're emotionally exhausted, and just need a breather.​
    >2] You don't have an answer for him, and need a chance to think it over.​
    >B] You are also guilty of setting men on fire, making grotesque displays out of human bodies, and plenty of other unspeakable horrors.
    >1] But that doesn't mean that you like it, or that you don't try every other course of action first. Try to explain to Adwin that context matters a great deal.​
    >2] This is only making you feel worse. Admit that you are far from perfect, and have no place to judge Adwin or your friends. You want to just put a stop to all this violence.​
    >C] The moral quandary of how you approach your enemies is a complex matter. The way that you handle the people working with you is just as difficult. (Be advised that not everyone is as kind, compassionate, and Merciful as you. That said, you have a LOT of influence, and might be able to make plenty of changes to affairs. WRITE-IN any thoughts you have on the medieval treatment of your enemies in the year 606.)







    ​

    It feels like the sky is crying right along with you. "You're right. All of my tenets can be taken in many ways. Father Pevrel even intentionally keeps his vague, to better facilitate a broader interpretation of them."

    The seafoam in his eyes lights up. Your grimace could darken every candle in the city. "Adwin, the respect— or lack thereof— that my allies hold for my own oaths are not what separate their actions from what you've done. You had the ability all along to incapacitate your enemy, or to grant this man a swift death, but you chose to make him suffer. Most people do not possess that ability you hold, and that is a gift in and of itself. Do you know why?"

    The rebuke has put significantly more thoughtfulness, and softness to the boy's tone. "Why?"

    "No one is perfect— but we all are granted the ability to try. The ways that we overcome our weaknesses is an art it and of itself. It's not even just that: Innovation made because of our limitations is art given human form."

    Rain pitter-patters onto a fresh grave. Both of you share a moment of silence.

    "I'm sorry, Father."

    You fight through a sob, and wipe all the rain off your face. The memory of over fifty lost souls just this morning cracks the strength of your tone. "No matter how liberally my allies interpret my creed— no matter what anyone may think of me— make no mistake. My child, there is more to be learned from restraint, than in excess."

    A roll of thunder sounds much closer ahead.

    "You don't believe me."

    "I do. I'm thinking. You said that we are all worthy of your love?"

    "I meant every word. Did I not bring you back from the brink?"

    "You did. You also said that we all deserve a chance at redemption."

    "Yes."

    An apologetic gaze bores into you. "You also said that you regret nothing."

    You're going to break down all over again, and keep your fists clenched all the tighter. "A few things, Adwin. But not you. Come here."

    He doesn't hesitate to hug you in the rain. You grit your teeth all through it. "In every situation— and for every person— some tenets may take on more importance than others. Believe me when I say that I have forgiven, and been forgiven for greater transgressions. I have no place to criticize you. I know I sound like a hypocrite. I'm just as guilty of torture and senseless violence, Adwin. But that— it is no excuse. I hate it."

    "Me?"

    "No. No. Never. I hate the struggle. Showing Mercy to the undeserving is one of the most challenging things I could ever ask for. Context matters. Of course there— of course there is a place for self-defense. But you know that I always aim to attempt EVERY other course of action first. It's as I said: my enemies can say whatever they wish about me, and my proclivities. It does not change the fact that I have always been the Father of Restraint."

    The hold on you tightens. "I know. I still can't believe that you wouldn't raise a hand against me. You didn't ever entertain the idea of even attempting to fight me."

    "We both know there was never any need. You should do better, Adwin, because you CAN BE so much better."

    He's struggling hard with something, and makes a small noise against your shoulder. "All I've done is waste your Time, and make things harder for you."

    "Don't you dare lie to me."

    "I know I'm going to keep disappointing you, Father. If men are coming into your home to try and kill anyone even resembling your family, there are bigger conflicts at play here than anything I should have a hand in. You said that there is wisdom in restraint." He's sickened. "I still don't understand. Humans do everything in their power to send a message. My Catalyst was caused from my inability to do more with the tools I was given."

    You try not to make any noise. He pulls back. It's hard to tell in the Storm if he's crying, or furious. "You know that I turned because I failed to express myself? My vision?"

    "No. I had no idea."

    This young man is likely more volatile than you even first expected. He sneers. "I want to help you. There may be wisdom in granting me your best interpretation. I'm here thanks to you. We agreed that I could stand to learn more from the works of others. Guide my eye, and I will lend you my hands."

    This is wrong on many fundamental levels. "I can't tell you how to live your life."

    "You can give your child a few clear boundaries before he makes a fool of himself, or jeopardizes everything that you've worked for. I devastated your clergymen and have stolen precious moments of your Time after encountering just one of your enemies. I would like to help you with your venture across the city, but if I can't trust myself to not destroy everything, it's going to be impossible."

    This REALLY doesn't sit right with you. "We need to be on equal ground, Adwin."

    "Which is exactly why I am asking you to help me. I wouldn't trust any other man alive to truly have my best interests at heart, AND to give me an honest answer."

    Grumbling. You're uncomfortable. There's never enough damn clarity. "Is there anything that you— are there truly any limitations that you have?"

    "Don't let me be locked away again. It's all I ask for, Father. Being able to put my skills to good use will only remain possible if no one takes my canvas away from me." He thinks on it for one more moment. "Something consistent would help. What year is it, again?"

    He was a demon of Time. You patiently remind Adwin, "six-oh-six."

    "It still makes no sense. You're more civilized than most men from my Time, and we were far more advanced."

    It makes no sense, but you're not going to dwell on it. He has a point. Torture and execution is a daily part of life for much of Corcaea. You're asking a lot of him, and he's going to be tested at every turn.

    An ex-demon needs a moral compass. Yours may be as muddied and circumstantial as it gets, but you can't imagine anyone else even trying to facilitate a conversation like this with Adwin.

    Your boy needs to know what it means to be a decent man, and you are not about to let him down.

    >A] The issue you have is with violence for its own sake. If Adwin has to fight for his life, he needs to strike decisively. You're making a detour to the armory, and getting him something for offense AND defense. This IS a war, but you won't stand for anything like this ever happening again.
    >1] Pick up Piety, your mace, your shield, and your satchel along the way. Even if you can't fight nowhere near as effectively right now, and even if they don't get used, and even if it's a massive pain in the ass to carry even more weight around, you want to make a point.​
    >2] You're not a liar, and try not to be a hypocrite. Be clear that you are relying on the Gods for Their support because THAT is the best option afforded to you during this crisis.​
    >B] The sheer amount of power Adwin possesses might outclass your own. There must be a way he can reduce the amount of violence he exerts WITHOUT causing untold nightmares for others.
    >1] Ask your boy to stay his hand— even in the face of aggression. He never should have been left unprotected at the Church of Mercy. He'll be in your company for now, and you'll see about a better solution for his protection in the future.​
    >2] Implore him to stretch the limits of his imagination. A demon of Dream, Spirit, and Time can do worse things than even the body horror you just witnessed. You'll be watching him like a hawk, but can intervene if he tries something completely insane. It may be worth seeing what he's capable of in a non-lethal capacity.​
    >C] This is a daunting decision that will shape the way Adwin looks at you, the world you inhabit, and human morality as a whole. You're willing to rise to the challenge. (Write-in.)

    "Walk with me, Adwin."

    "Yes, Father."
     
    Last edited:
  • Threadmarks
    • Chapter 31: Through Adversity (Reader discretion advised.)
  • Threadmarks
    • Chapter 31: Through Adversity
    "I'll gladly conquer my fears for who I love."

    The following contains material that may be distressing to some readers.
    Trigger Warnings: PTSD (psychological and physiological torture, prolonged confinement).
    Reader discretion is advised.    ​


    You both put up the shovels, and head back inside. It's far warmer indoors, and though you're instantly uncomfortable with the damp fabric on you, you make no attempt to remove any of the blood, dirt, or misery.

    The straightest and most discreet path is chosen to return to the Church of Mercy. The wet slap of your's and Adwin's shoes carries down long hallways. Clearing your throat barely carries over the noise. The strength, and conviction all through your speech is more readily heard. "Men are often misled into thinking that to be a gentleman is one and the same with being pleasant, polite, or— or, well, letting others take advantage of you. This is far from the truth. Being a gentleman means much more than saying 'please' and 'thank you,' or yielding to the whims of others. That is a shallow, and unfortunate representation of how a man should conduct himself."

    Even Father Pevrel recognized you by your posture. If nothing else, you have a reputation throughout the nation for keeping your head held high. "Being a gentleman means carrying yourself with confidence, and showing respect towards all people."

    Adwin remains incredibly quiet. He's thinking intensely on everything you're saying, and before long, the two of you arrive at in front of your old room. It's adjacent to the Church of Mercy's main choir. The spartan, small space has no lock on the door.

    Clouds of dust pick up into the air as you step inside. The longsword Father Friedrich gifted you with is still propped up against the far wall. 'Piety' has taken bolts of lightning on your behalf, and smited enough demons while you've been with the Gods to warrant its name. You take up the sheathed, long-hilted blade. It does your height and bulk justice. The weapon feels remarkably lighter than it used to, and is a fine supplement for the enchanted mace and shield beside it.

    The inconvenient realization that the old harness for your mace will no longer fit is fine. Carrying it suits you, for now. You're headed for the armory after this, anyways. The shield is strapped to your back, and Piety's holster is too. Its scabbard feels right. So does the endless bag that Yech conjured for you. The black, inconspicuous bag does have a few ornate gold buckles, but it's tasteful, and you don't mind slinging it on.

    It dawns on you that Yech may have prioritized creating weapons you could wield over weapons that would bear the greatest effectiveness in combat. There are still merits to both items. The flanges on the small, one-handed weapon have yet to dull. The shield can take in the impact of seemingly ANY attack. You let the handle of your mace fall once or twice into an open palm, and marvel at its weightlessness. The shield in your possession is equally, devastatingly light. All the while you seriously need to keep elaborating. "When faced with hostility, a gentleman does his utmost to defuse the situation without violence. Only when violence is inevitable will a gentleman strike hard, and decisively— so as to not prolong the predicament."

    Adwin is confused, but you are going to keep clarifying until he gets it. "I have invoked Agriculture on three separate occasions since this morning, and Mercy as well. It was better— and worse— than my Catalyst. She would not kill me, Adwin, but it may literally tear me apart to call upon Them again in the near future."

    The ex-demon puts a hand to his mouth. He's too horrified to reply.

    The heft of your mace falls against your palm once more. "We'll go with old-fashioned methods. Come on. There's something we have that I am certain you will want to see for yourself."

    En route to the armory, you engage in some extended prefacing. "All of my work— I have always prayed that it would ultimately be for the betterment of mankind. It's not always easy, Adwin."

    The young man dares a slight smile. "It seems as if it never is."

    Your grimace is unrelenting. "Yes. Well. I'm known as the Father of Healing for good reason. It's not just in observance of my own resilience, Adwin. Our country is broken, and packed to the brim with lost souls. I will not insult you by pretending like you haven't suffered more than any of us. You should understand more than anyone that at times, all we can do is put a stop to this madness. To end our enemy's lives before they willingly become demons."

    Coming to a halt before a broad set of banded, wooden, hefty double doors, you pause. "Your canvas is not merely the walls of our home, or the form you assume. Sometimes we can do more. A gentleman seeks to understand the full picture. Do not settle for the mistakes of the past. Let's paint a better vision for tomorrow."

    The last few words trail off, as you open the armory's double doors. "Sometimes the world itself must be changed..."

    "Well said. This is unfortunate. Someone's been stealing your things, Father."

    It's cleaned out. All of it. The broad, stone, sheltered expanse is completely empty. All the armor's gone. All the valuables. All the weapons, save for two objects at the center of the room. They're placed upon the floor. Both are mundane. There's no note. It's abundantly clear that people have been walking around the singular dagger, and the flail set on the ground because of what's on them.

    You'd recognize the filthy objects anywhere on earth. A gasp of horror and panic rises to the back of your throat. Terror has you take a step backwards, away from eight years in the dark. Eight years with the company of only one jailer. Eight years under the knife. That same knife, there on the floor.

    Swathes of skin from your arms being carved away sears into the front of your retinas as you stagger backwards and try to not scream. It's an onslaught of violence in the forefront of your mind. A blinding headache accompanies the red-hot flash of boiling oil being drenched over burns on your arm, and that very same flail ripping the tortured tissue clean off the bone.

    Eight years of the strips of blood-caked leather sitting there on the floor. It's the memory of begging for relief from your thirst and starvation. The reward for speaking out of turn. The rot is so thick on it, you can smell the pain from a few yards away. The urge to run is extreme.

    There's a sound on the periphery of your vision that spikes your adrenaline so hard and fast, you can scarcely register what's happening


    >The following prompts may aid in avoiding a catastrophic breakdown (or worse), due to the following maluses:
    >-80 TRIGGER (Nearly a decade of torture hard-wired you to expect a world of pain from these items.)
    >-50 SOUL STRAIN (You've done something seriously right in the last hour, but some wounds will take more than Time to heal.)
    >-15 SLEEP DEPRIVATION (Getting two hours of sleep did help. You're still in a bad state to see this.)
    >In addition, you will have the following bonuses:
    >+20 REALITY CHECK (Your venture to your cell earlier this week was traumatic, but was still enormously reassuring. You know you're not in those dungeons anymore.)
    >+20 FAITH OF A GODDESS (Between your recent actions with Adwin, the prisoner in your care, and everything else you have done, Mercy wants to comfort and support you more than anything.)

    >DO NOT ROLL AT THIS TIME.
    >(Altogether) that will be a -105 modifier before any additional modifiers are applied.
    >The following prompts each represent a modifier. The modifiers voted for be utilized only once the roll is called.
    >You can select multiple prompts. They are not mutually exclusive. ALL VOTES will be counted unless vocally opposed.
    >Discussion is strongly encouraged, and write-ins may help substantially.
    >This vote will remain open for at least the next six hours.

    >A] You don't fear the pain of your former captor's touch. On the contrary. [+30 MASOCHISM TANGO (Your extreme eagerness to take on pain has temporarily increased this bonus.)]
    >B] Do everything in your power to stay in the moment. Keep it together. [+20 GREEN DAHLIA (This is just another opportunity to stay grounded.)]
    >C] There's no shame in empathizing with your personal demons. Breaking down doesn't have to break you completely. [+15 FATHER OF COMPASSION (Kindness is your strength.)]
    >D] Dream granted you a vision of forgiveness and second chances just this morning. It was only made possible through owning up to your failings. (UNANIMOUS VOTE REQUIRED.) [+30 ATONEMENT (You were brought to the Church of Mercy for a good reason. This is a good opportunity to practice what you preach, and acknowledge that second chances are worth giving.)]
    >E] You can have someone else put the weapons away for safe-keeping, or have them disposed of. [+10 WALK AWAY. (Get as much distance from these reminders of your captivity as you possibly can. Adwin shouldn't see this, either.)]
    >F] Write-in. (Subject to QM approval. Any modifiers that are determined based on write-ins will be applied AFTER the roll is called.)

    >Roll 1d100. Best of 3 will be used.
    >INVALIDATE THE PAIN

    >-80 TRIGGER (Nearly a decade of torture hard-wired you to expect a world of pain from these items.)
    >-50 SOUL STRAIN (You've done something seriously right in the last hour, but some wounds will take more than Time to heal.)
    >-15 SLEEP DEPRIVATION (Getting two hours of sleep did help. You're still in a bad state to see this.)
    >+20 REALITY CHECK (Your venture to your cell earlier this week was traumatic, but was still enormously reassuring. You know you're not in those dungeons anymore.)
    >+20 FAITH OF A GODDESS (Between your recent actions with Adwin, the prisoner in your care, and everything else you have done, Mercy wants to comfort and support you more than anything.)
    >+30 MASOCHISM TANGO (Your extreme eagerness to take on pain has temporarily increased this bonus.)
    >+20 GREEN DAHLIA (This is just another opportunity to stay grounded.)
    >+15 FATHER OF COMPASSION (You're strong enough to realize when you are hurt.)
    >+30 ATONEMENT (This is a chance for liberty.)
    >+5 PRIEST OF AGRICULTURE (Opting in for every single thing presented to you short of walking away is doing serious service to the Goddess of Indulgence.)
    >+10 EMBRACE THE PAIN (Literally weaponizing your trauma should feel DAMN good.)
    >+15 LEADER OF THE CHURCH OF MERCY (ANYTHING short of embracing this situation would be insulting to your station.)

    >Rolled 94 (1d100)

    The sheer amount of strength you possess is more than enough to realize when you're hurt. That the sob rising from the back of your throat is not weakness.

    It's more than enough to hold your ground, and to part your hands from the hilt of your sword. You are not taking your eyes off of those weapons for an instant. The amount of torture and agony you've endured eclipses anything that these simple items could do to you.

    There's nothing that can be done to you by a mundane weapon that you wouldn't embrace. It's a different kind of mantra that keeps you grounded. All the anticipation wraps itself up into relief, and as you close your eyes, your breath levels.

    Embrace the pain.
    Embrace the pain.
    Embrace the pain.
    Invalidate the pain.

    Not a soul attacks you. No one is torturing you. The noise was Adwin, who repeats himself. The boy is keeping a foot or so away, but he's moved to your side to better gaze into the empty armory. He's got his gaze fixed straight at you now. "Father Anscham?"

    Breaking down doesn't have to break you completely. Not by a long shot. "My enemies continue to bless me with opportunity. Adwin, do you know what these are?"

    His eyes light up. "A particularly well-used set of weapons, Father. Their condition indicates that they were not used as their maker may have originally intended. The knife may be best served for carving bone, whereas the flail may be a repurposed tool of Agriculture. It's quite odd." The joy at having an opportunity to share his thoughts on the matter fades as quickly as it came. "Yet these items have caused you extreme distress."

    "You are absolutely right. Caused. Come here."




    ​

    You're conquering this fear. Sweat, terror, and enthusiasm closes the distance between you, and Stace's old torture devices. The dagger's handle is plated with tarnished gold. A little adorns the base of the blade for decoration, rather than reinforcement. It looks as sharp as you remember it being, and the item's odd shape does lend itself well to carving out meat away from bone.


    ​


    It's much more precise than its partner. The flail should have been meant for loosening grain off its stalks. Stace fastened a number of barbed, metal pieces to the entire item. A weighted spike rests at its end. It would potentially be riskier to use in combat than to go bare-handed. It can break bone with ease, and would likely tear through a shield.



    ​

    As a priest of Agriculture, you can't help but marvel at the durability and practicality of both objects. They're a mockery of both of your foremost patrons.

    Mercy has always stressed that your propensity for pain is a gift. Agriculture taught you that poison is not inherently evil. There is no evil to be had from these items.

    You stash your mace inside of Yech's bag. It feels as if every scar on your hands is darker. They're wanting for the source of their old injuries. You take a deep breath.

    "Through adversity, we only grow stronger."

    Both the dagger and the flail are picked up with your bare hands. They're entirely mundane. No curse is laid upon them. The old chunks of skin and muscle sticking to both weapons are looked over with renewed curiosity. There's no mistaking that these are the same objects, that it's impossible to even swallow, or that there is resilience through every word that leaves you. "These are just tools. They were once wielded by a madman, who sought to take me further away from the Gods. His efforts were misguided, and have amounted to more than he could have ever imagined. I've weaponized my trauma before. I will gladly do so again."

    The nausea clinging to you is almost as intense as the way your hands are shaking, but you don't care. "Every last attempt they've made to wear me down has only strengthened my resolve. Do not think me a fool, Adwin. I recognize that the men responsible for this turmoil deserve anything and everything Father Pevrel could imagine."

    The two of you share a long, hard stare. Your boy knows what you're going to say, and doesn't dare interrupt.

    The knot that's formed in your gut isn't going away any Time soon. You could get used to the constant discomfort. It's nothing compared to eight years in confinement, or anything else that was done to you. The anguish is a pleasant reminder of the past. This is one more challenge to overcome, and you know you can take it.

    "My enemies seek to break me, by tearing apart everything that I hold dear. Their original justification to do so could be seen as sound. Much of my hometown still mistakes me for a demon. I have had a great many failings, Adwin. And I have many regrets."

    The weight in your hands is clasped so tightly, you can feel the crunch of dried blood between your fingers and palms. "This will not be one of them. Stace and Morris may not deserve Mercy, but I will grant it to them regardless. Do not think me naive. These men think that they can try to destroy our nation, kill my family, and torture me until the day that I die? They are mistaken."

    The dried, cracked blood underhand couldn't feel sweeter. "Forgiveness is not just about stripping Stace and Morris of the last power that they have over me— though it is a significant, and important advantage. Kindness is not weakness. It is our greatest strength. It's high Time that these weapons were used on Mercy's behalf, rather than against Her."

    It's remarkably easy to forget that Adwin is several ages old. The ex-demon murmurs to you, "I wouldn't have expected anything less, Father."

    "They've granted me a chance for liberty, Adwin." The ache in your heart feels so much lighter, you could laugh. You offer your ward a broad smile. "I'll gladly conquer my fears for who I love. So let this be a lesson to us both. Forgiveness is our greatest weapon."

    For several moments, the young man at your side couldn't look more pensive.

    Ultimately, Adwin clenches his fists, and looks to you with determination. "Thank you your wisdom, and all of your kindness, Father. I would like to defer to your judgement in one more matter."

    "Of course."

    "I believe I understand. You have a city to save, and a country in need. We've taken up so much of your Time. Allow me to best grant you my services. I'll do everything I'm able to assist with mapping these tunnels beneath Eadric— once we reach them. I'm not used to fighting admirably, but, well." His grimace tightens. "This has all been rather inspiring. I'd like to try."

    >CHOOSE ONE PROMPT FROM A.
    >IN ADDITION, choose one prompt from B.
    >LASTLY (if you wish), choose one prompt from C.
    >Majority vote will decide for all three.

    >A] Your boy is not coming away from this lesson empty-handed.
    >1] Entrust your mace and shield to Adwin. The enchanted defense of an archdemon should compensate for his lack of close-quarters combat experience.​
    >2] Ask Adwin if he would like to use any of the other weapons on your person, or has any ideas for a supplement. He creates and manipulates object effortlessly, after all. You trust that he'll make the best call.​
    >3] As the defender of the city of shields, all of Eadric is at your disposal. You can think of something. (Write-in.)​
    >B] A knife and a flail is NOTHING.
    >1] So you'll stick to using Piety in a fight. You'll keep these weapons on your person as backup, though.​
    >2] There is poetic justice in mastering a tool of Agriculture as a weapon of Mercy. You'll see just how much damage this flail can do, and will favor it for now.​
    >3] Getting up-close and personal with your enemies is beyond fitting, for the Father of Love. That dagger is about to spill a lot more blood, by prioritizing its usage.​
    >4] Your mace and shield hasn't gotten nearly enough love. You want to put them to the best use possible, and will safely stow away everything else. (This option cannot be selected with A1.)​
    >5] Fists alone won't cut it in the battles to come, but you have a better idea. (Write-in.)​
    >C] Weapons with this much history deserve a name.
    >1] These are the tools of a gentleman. Your dagger is a means of "Forgiveness." The flail is your vehicle for "Discipline."​
    >2] These weapons honor the two Goddesses you hold most dear. Mercy's surgical knife embodies your strength, and "Atonement." Agriculture's thresher of "Harvest" will suit you nicely in the seasons ahead.​
    >3] Write-in.​
    ​



    ​

    "We will honor my patrons— starting with these weapons. Items with this much history deserve a name, Adwin."

    He appreciates it more than he can express. The new being straightens upright, and respectfully listens.

    You adjust your grip on the the dagger in hand. "This surgical knife embodies Mercy's will. The strength I have been granted. An instrument for agony, an embodiment of my actions, and all of the healing made possible because of it. 'Atonement.'"

    It sounds lovely. Much more tension leaves your shoulders as you slide the weapon against the back of your belt. The flail is gripped with both hands. "A thresher. My enemies have sown the seeds of discord. This weapon will do well to loosen the stranglehold on our nation in the seasons ahead. Agriculture has truly blessed me with Her 'Harvest'."

    It sounds right. Resolution, care, and all the confidence you possess ensures that the weapon is safely stashed away in your satchel. It takes some maneuvering, but as you secure the weapon, you can't help but muse aloud. "Adwin, you have manipulated mundane objects with seemingly no effort at all. My armory has been ransacked, but you— you do not truly require my assistance to arm yourself. Do you?"

    He gives you a slight smile. The artist's hands outstretch. From thin air, he fabricates a swirl of paint, ice, and flecks of sand. It's terrifying, and beautiful, and coalesces into a nightmare. It's a dagger unlike any you've ever seen. The material it's fabricated out of reminds you of ice, a darkened sky, and layered rock. Eight notches are in its thick blade, as flecks of frost part into the air. Each recess in the dagger's length is sharpened into points. Each one could no doubt could catch any blade that strikes it. The guard on its hilt further gives off an impression that the item is designed for parrying an attack. A metal loop banded with a shade of the deepest night is swimming with fragments of string. Solid stone at its base glints with moonlight, and stars.

    Adwin creates two more similar weapons in rapid succession. They each have a different flare. One is embedded with frost, and has a mesh of gold on the hilt. The other is so sharp, your heart-rate picks up just looking at the way it catches on the light. Three, beautiful words leave a master's lips. "Blessed sword breakers."




    ​
    With your mace and shield in hand, you look to Adwin with amazement. Your own enchanted gifts from a demon have been given nowhere enough appreciation. It's certain that all three of his newfound weapons must be perfectly weighted, and possess unearthly properties. They're swimming with promise. So is the look in his eyes. Though the blonde's face remains veiled, he quickly sets about tying off most of the loose fabric on him so that he has unhindered mobility. The smile falls. "Art is a weapon. Creativity shall be my ammunition. Your faith is my shield, but no blade will withstand the scrutiny of my trained eye. Thank you for challenging my preconceived notions, Father. May we shatter your enemy's resolve just as quickly."

    There's more moonlight in Adwin's eyes than there are in the weapons he wields. "I will require parchment."

    You carry enough on your person to arm a small library. "It will be supplied. You may wish to keep your hands free."

    The two of you exit the armory, and leave the door open on your way out. The absence of locks in your home is yet another gift. "The halls of our home are to remain open, Adwin. The gates of my city may not share the same luxury. Come along. We have a war to win."
     
    Last edited:
  • Threadmarks
    • Chapter 32: The Night is Darkest (Reader discretion advised.)
  • Threadmarks
    • Chapter 32: The Night is Darkest
    "As the Father of the Day, you won't shy away from this turmoil."

    The following contains material that may be distressing to some readers.
    Trigger Warning: Gore.
    Reader discretion is advised.    ​


    >Roll 1d100. Best of 3 will be used.
    >+15 DEFENDER OF THE CITY OF SHIELDS (Your past actions in guarding Eadric may have helped enormously in fending off disaster.)
    >+10 WHITE SMOKE (Three districts were saved thanks to your fast action.)
    >+10 FAITH OF A GODDESS (The Goddess of Protection wants to ensure that you travel safely.)
    >+10 CHURCH OF WRATH (Father Pevrel's men have been hard at work.)
    >+10 BLASPHEMOUS CONGREGATION (Your most loyal followers do not fuck around.)
    >-15 INERTIA (A cult of complacency has infested your home.)
    >-25 WHAT WAS THAT SOUND? (About two hours ago, you heard a deafening rumble in the upper floors of the Church of Mercy.)
    >-20 THE SOULS OF MANKIND... (There's weakness in the hearts of humankind. Situations like this are a recipe for disaster.)

    >Rolled 82 (1d100)

    The best minds in your care are out of commission, or are halfway across the city. Communication can only do so much. You're hitting the streets, and sizing up the situation for yourself. There are eight districts between you, and the hideout that was cleared this morning. Father Pevrel should still be at the cleared building, guarding any surviving elders from the hearing this afternoon.

    Your soul may be fit to burst, and exhaustion is still drenching you, but by all the Gods: NOTHING is going to keep you down today. Hidden corridors, narrow hallways, and one last secret passageway leads you away from the castle, out of the high walls, and to an exit away from scrutiny. Emerging into the pouring rain, you're soaked once again from head-to-toe.





    ​



    The sky is as black as the parade of death that's marched across your city. Sprawling gardens lining low, rocky buildings cast a little relief from the unrelenting defense. Eadric's homes are designed for protection. The recessed buildings that compose this residential district are adjacent to the castle's walls, and outside of your moat. Most of the streets and retaining walls are smeared in soot and blood. There is a new perimeter around your home, too.

    The Church of Vengeance saw fit to line the winding streets around the castle with bodies on pikes. Sickness catches in your throat, as your breath hitches, and you try not to stagger back in the dark of night. Cultists— still fully dressed, and wearing tell-tale wooden masks— are strung through from ass-to-mouth on spiked poles in a neat little line. There must be thirty of them, though the trail curves around the moat, and disappears from your view down the street. Some of the heathens are still alive. They're twitching, and some are making low sounds of agony. Many of them have had their hands or legs weighed down, to ensure that even the most psychotically devoted of them would not come free from their slow demise.

    "Mercy..."

    Your stomach turns at the sight of bowels intentionally strewn around one particularly poor victim. The hand keeping your weapon steady instinctively goes to your lips, to try and stifle a horrified gasp. Adwin's eyes narrow as he scrutinizes the color and function of gray smoke still rising in the distance. There's clearly no emotional concern for the men and women poised all about, but he looks to you with a softer gaze. "Father, it appears that your allies and enemies have yet to honor your tenets. We can't tolerate this. The fact that none of these men or women have turned is nothing short of a miracle."

    Humidity is causing the rain to come up in plumes of smoke along the road as you lead Adwin away from the castle. The breadth of your shield feels significantly smaller than it used to, as you keep ahead of him with your mace at the ready. "Not a miracle. They are out of their minds. The Church of Vengeance saw fit to punish only the zealots that they knew would survive the ordeal." You swallow hard. "They know their enemy."

    It's eerily quiet, beside a few whimpers from the tortured bodies down the street. James described the situation outside the castle as the calm before the Storm.

    The beat of your heart picks up with a roll of thunder off in the distance. Mud pools in the cobblestone underfoot. A flash of lightning catches on your vision. The seizure that was in your memory less than two hours past does not carry into the present. Though you long for the tempest, no tremor comes to your frame. All of your focus hones in on the present moment. It is a conduit for your own devotion.

    There's plenty that can be done along the way to your hideout. The night is young, and so are you.

    The Church of Mercy is at the heart of Eadric. The discreet exit you took brought you out of the moat's perimeter, and into the nearest residential district. Father Pevrel's men have created such a disturbance in your enemy's composure, there's no fighting to be had in any immediate direction. Inertia has taken their most visible efforts outside the area. Carving a straight path to the hideout would be most advantageous. Seizing this moment of respite and discretion would be wise.

    There's a few other options at your disposal. Adwin possesses the ability to take on any form. The enchanted robes you wear are capable of assuming any disguise you wish. The two of you could discreetly attempt to pass through the city unharmed, and to make quick work of this venture. There's honor and glory to be had in accomplishing your goals, staying on track, and saving your strength for when it's needed most.

    Serious merit can be found in utilizing your authority, too. Especially in a time of crisis. As the leader of the Church of Mercy, your allies will answer to you without question. Delegating the safety and security of your home has already done wonders for the situation at hand. The pyromaniac in your service has been distracting and culling the violence around town for over a day straight, now. White smoke is still drifting from the three districts you saw to today, and you know more will follow. Trusting in your men and women to keep the situation under control has been more than adequate to stave off complete disaster.

    There was also a sound that shook the earth itself less than two hours past. Scouring the skyline for any source, you notice through the fog of night that something is wrong.

    "Do you see that, Adwin?" There has been a black spot in your eye no matter where you look. It's four districts away, near the eastern outskirts.

    "There's nothing to be seen, Father. But yes. It's unmistakable. There is a darkness there that even your light may not reach."

    The river Morinburn runs through all of your city, and it looks like one major offshoot is being utilized by the priests of Vengeance in your home. The prospect of a threat great enough to require divine quarantine has your blood running hot. The grip on your mace's hilt tightens. The reminder of your alliances is a small comfort. It's a matter of hours before you intend to give a public address in Mercy's company— and you're sick of not living up to your title. As the Father of the Day, you won't shy away from this turmoil.

    It doesn't change the severity of your grimace, or the gravel in your voice. "The night is darkest before Her dawn."

    >Most of the following are not mutually exclusive.
    >Your city is enormous, the situation you're facing is growing more complicated by the minute, and the fog of war can be confusing at the best of times.
    >Please feel free to ask any questions you have regarding the situation at hand.
    >A] Put these tortured cultists out of their misery. You're taking an extra minute anywhere and everywhere you're needed to stop this senseless suffering in its tracks.
    >B] Attempt to cross town in disguise. Ask Adwin to modify his shroud accordingly. You can't afford to waste one more second.
    >1] The garb of a priest of Vengeance is tasteless, but it wouldn't raise any eyebrows.​
    >2] You've been mistaken for a nobleman with increasing frequency. The authority and power you command would lend well towards traveling as one.​
    >3] No one is mistaking you for anything other than a priest of Agriculture. Not only would you not be taken for a threat— it should deflect any scrutiny about your real identity entirely.​
    >C] A straight shot across three districts (even while invoking Agriculture) took you over two hours. Seeing to your city's needs could take all night. You are willing to make the Time.
    >1] Starting with this district. You're micro-managing, and don't care how long it takes.​
    >2] Try to get to the next district, and assess the situation once you're further away from the castle.​
    >3] You'll be touch-and-go. Call out to anyone who seems available. Walking and talking is kind of your thing, and you have serious faith in your citizens.​
    >D] What the fuck is happening across town
    >1] Make a bee-line for the dark shroud that's near the eastern outskirts of Eadric. Stay on high alert.​
    >2] Try to gather some information as you head for the hideout. You trust that the situation will be kept under control, but want to stay informed.​
    >E] Write-in.




    ​

    "This situation across town." Your steps pick up as you leave behind turmoil and sin. "I trust that it will be kept under control, Adwin." A mad glint comes to your eye. "Perhaps you can take a look."

    The artist keeps his head held high. "My view is obscured by something deeper than night, Father."

    The two of you come to a stop in the middle of the road.

    "We both know that Mercy's light can pierce any darkness." The nerves all through your smile lift into something outright insane. "I've seen you fly before. This city cannot cage us. What say you spread your wings, my little bird."

    A tilt of the ex-demon's head matches all the insanity through you, with a twitch. There's a flutter. It's not physical. The impression is of a mirror cracking in the back of your mind. A rope fraying into one thousand threads. You take a quick step backwards, as the embodiment of interpretation melts into the shawls and shroud all around his frame.

    The entirety of Adwin's humanoid form completely folds in on itself. He bursts outwards into hundreds of fireflies. Deep marigold cast a faint light from the countless insects.

    He takes wing, and soars off beyond the farthest walls of your city in blasphemous pieces. Your jaw falls open as you watch the cloud of light pass beyond the wall.



    ​



    There's no doubt that if this being was not under your instruction that nothing could restrain him. It's exhilarating, terrifying, and keeps you rooted to the spot.

    The sparks of illumination gradually fade from view. Sheets of rain obscure him in the distance. Lightning mirrors the brightness of the day that your ward has completely disgraced, embraced, and made into something altogether new.

    Before long, every last one of the flickering insects returns. They merge into a humanoid form over a dozen feet above the ground. It coalesces into a being of light, and chaos.

    The beautiful nightmare descends, thanks to carapaces for wings. A face emerges from the mesh of bugs, and looks down at you with horror across vaguely humanoid features. One by one, the fireflies smash into the color of Flesh. They're reshaped into Adwin's preferred form. Skin, muscle, bone, and the resemblance of yours and Mercy's son retains a faint glow for several moments. His face is pale, as the young man touches back down to earth.

    The shrouds of light fabric, blue thread, and his sword breakers are on him once more. A shaking hand gestures towards the darkness on the horizon. The artist's soft, trembling voice utters only two words: "A collective."

    More panic is swallowed down. "Grant me your vision in full."

    "Forty priests of Vengeance have assembled. They— along with a priestess of Storm, and the sailor in your command—"

    "Irefist?"

    "The very same. They are all utilizing the river to contain a many-faced creature. It glows with a neon-green light, and is writhing in agony."

    The cultists that escaped this morning. You can practically smell the Green Bough on them from here.

    Adwin continues, "the mass is composed of at least fifty lost souls. They are a behemoth, Father. The shroud these priests of Vengeance have cast over your fair city obscures the demon from the people's sight. I imagine that your fighting forces are attempting to quell any panic. Chaos would certainly arise from its presence becoming known. A network of water, wind, and blood is being utilized to stop the demon's continued growth. Natural barriers and rope are being employed as well. Yet, the demon's behavior appeared to defy all logic."

    Rapid strides take you closer to the first checkpoint between you, and the hideout. It's going to be heavily armed. There's no telling if your traitorous guards are present, or if Father Pevrel's men are manning the station. "Please be more specific."

    "I am no expert on this matter, but I believe that the demon was responding to the actions against it in..." This was a former demon of Spirit. He's utterly lacking in knowledge, wisdom, memory, or comprehension of the truth. Logic is not his forte. Adwin puts a finger towards his lips, and murmurs, "if I may be so bold: it's as if it was making an incorrect interpretation."

    A demon of misconception.

    >A] Make a bee-line for the dark shroud that's near the eastern outskirts of Eadric. Stay on high alert, and attempt to cross town in disguise. Ask Adwin to modify his shroud accordingly. You can't afford to waste one more second.
    >1] The garb of a priest of Vengeance is tasteless, but it wouldn't raise any eyebrows.​
    >2] You've been mistaken for a nobleman with increasing frequency. The authority and power you command would lend well towards traveling as one.​
    >3] No one is mistaking you for anything other than a priest of Agriculture. Not only would you not be taken for a threat— it should deflect any scrutiny about your real identity entirely.​
    >B] Don't get distracted. Trust in your men, in Father Barthalomew's priestess, and in your saltiest sailor. A straight shot across three districts (even while invoking Agriculture) took you over two hours. Seeing to your city's needs could take all night...
    >1] And you're willing to address any OTHER situations that arise. Travel openly, and try to get a scope of the picture at hand. You'll keep your weapon and shield up, and see to the needs of your city. You are scared that you'll die if you call upon the Gods again, and don't trust yourself to exhibit any restraint if you go after that monster.​
    >2] This is something that has to be touch-and-go. Stay on the move, don't get distracted, and delegate as much as you're able along the way. This is for your health, your ward's safety, and the good of the city.​
    >C] Write-in.





    "If this demon escapes its confines, we will have— we will have infinitely worse things to worry about than any cultists beneath my city. I understand how tasteless this will seem, Adwin, but I— I must get to this demon as quickly as possible. If you wish to accompany me, please do everything you can to modify your shroud accordingly."

    He gives you a curious glance, as you place a hand to your heart. It can't hurt to keep things simple. "The garb of a priest of Vengeance."

    The bloody, muddied, grave-dirt covered, gilded black robes on you shift hard into the deepest shade of night. It soaks in any and all sun around you. The cut sharpens into angles and edges. It compliments your bulk, disguises any curve, and the absence of a silhouette is instantly more flattering than anything you've worn in weeks. It does wonders for emphasizing your height, and just how intimidating your presence can be. The length of your hood is thrown over the scars on your exhausted face. It drops a complete shadow over all the gold in your hair. Placing your Relic beneath the collar of the garment completes the disguise. The blood-caked dagger at your back, the spikes on your melee weapon, and the disgusting residue of gore upon your shoes only heightens the impression.

    Keeping your jet-black shield up, you look every bit the part of a hulking, murderous, battle-scarred zealot. Adwin draws back. You speak to him in the gentlest tone you can manage. "I don't want you to feel as if you're slipping. The parallels to my own captors—" You sigh deeply. "I am not my tormentors. I am not some sadistic jailer." You draw back the hood from your brow. All the green in your eyes softens further, as you try to implore the most delicate creature you've ever met to endure more horror. "They claimed to be my fathers, and never once lived up to the name. I pray that I can do far better than they ever did."

    Fear slakes him, like the bonds of one thousand unwanted years in the dark. "I can never thank you enough for my freedom, Father. But I do not believe that I can do this."

    Closing your eyes does nothing to hide from how badly he's hurting. You slowly return your pained gaze to the darkened horizon, and set off walking towards the checkpoint. "I understand. I'm sorry you've had to see any of this, especially— especially so soon after returning to the world. I can't tell you how much I treasure your aid, Adwin. While we walk, could you please lend me your interpretation?"

    "Regarding the demon?"

    "Yes. You're easily the most creative soul I've ever met. There's no doubt in my mind that you have plenty of ideas."

    Adwin's shifted every swathe of fabric on him into jet-black mourning attire. The airy, elegant garments are a stark contrast to the fifteen blasphemous, armored guards posted at the gate. They all bristle at the sight of you.

    The strength and bitterness of a preacher who's buried thirty bodies in a week, and killed at least fifty more since just this morning commands. "We're seeing to the dying and the damned. Step aside."

    No question of your authority. It's all sideways glances to the wall, uncomfortable shifting, and nervous stares made at your clearly demonic weaponry.

    The company you keep has every nerve around you on end. The young man at your side radiates oddness. Murmurs are at your back, along with shifting weaponry, and no small measure of fear.

    The checkpoint is passed through without event, and you emerge into even more chaos.

    High walls segment each area you pass through, like with every other city in Corcaea— but Eadric specializes in defense. It was almost impossible to make out the scene in the next area over, thanks to each divided region. The distance between each wall is smaller here, than in any other holy city. The tighter and denser defense aids in keeping in outbreaks. It may be a nuisance when distant travel is desired, but the added insurance is invaluable in times of crisis.

    The streets are empty. Everyone is in hiding, or is out fighting elsewhere. You're positive that you'll have ample opportunity to reach the location of the demon. The trouble is, Adwin has completely shut down.

    The clergy of punishment in your city put heads on stakes in the front yards of countless citizenry. The death toll must be in the hundreds, if this situation spread through most of your home. Blood has been smeared over the doorways of many houses you walk by, in the shape of an eye. It's a warning to those who gaze upon it. To betray the theocracy is to scorn the Gods Themselves. It's an invitation for retribution. The gaze of Vengeance casts over all of Mercy's city.

    It's vile. You're wearing their colors— or lack thereof— and can't help but feel like you're crawling in your skin. Blackened ash wafts through the air from a meeting hall down the road that was burnt to the ground. Smoldering piles of imps are gathered around its base.

    Less than two hours ago, you were reliving the memory of fighting fire with fire. You mutter to Adwin as you both rapidly stride past the destruction, "you said you wished to help me. To fight. To put an end to this madness, and to grant you the opportunity to truly live. Let me help you, so that we— so that we can heal the world that we live in."

    Less than a week ago, the creature at your side was in unfathomable agony. He might be having second thoughts, as you pass by another checkpoint. It's armed to the teeth, and you have to bark at seven armed men to respect the God of Retribution if they care to live another day. It's ugly. As you and your artist emerge into a desolate mercantile ward, tattered yellow banners greet you. They're still draped in places over wares left in a hurry. Evidence of citizens who fled for their very lives, with no regard for the material.

    The unhinged artist beside you is visibly shaken. He still finds the resolution to grit out, "I imagine that the demon you wish to face could be countered through a number of ways."

    "Stop if you're overwhelmed, Adwin. I don't want to push you."

    He swallows hard enough for you to hear it. "We are already past that point. I don't have it in me to look at them again. Please don't ask me to."

    "If you need to, say the word—"

    "I do not care to beg for Mercy, Father. I wish to walk freely."

    Both of you are walking freely, no matter how dire the circumstances are. In a low voice, you swear, "we'll honor both of our Catalysts, Adwin. I'll find a way to set this right. Interpretation can be construed as another form of misconception, after all."

    He looks like he could cry. "Misconception, is it?"

    "I strongly suspect as much."

    "Then it will seek to distort everything that it is presented with. Your allies must have deduced a way to contain it. Likely by overwhelming the creature's senses through violence and brutality. Perhaps its complacency and calm is the direct result of their efforts?"

    You can't help but think back to your alliance with Father Pevrel. "I faced a collective demon just this morning. Its behavior followed almost precisely what you're describing. Please, go on."

    "If it responds to violence with inaction—" Adwin's knuckles are white, from how hard he's clutching onto his daggers. The next wall is rapidly approaching. Both of your gazes rise to the heights above the towers and ramparts. It's like a wall of solid darkness. "—then you must deduce your end goal for this creature. I believe that manipulating its behavior can be made possible through the opposite of your true intentions."

    The rain battering against your frame might as well be slime slinking down your back. The thought is repulsive. It flies in the face of your most treasured oaths and bonds. "You are proposing that I manipulate this demon with bold-faced lies, deceit, and untruths."

    "Yes." The young man looks and sounds ashamed of himself. "I'm sorry."

    "Please don't—" Another two years must be falling off your life from stress alone. "Please do not apologize. Thank you for the counsel, Adwin. Is there any way—"

    "I'll accompany you up to the retaining wall, Father, but I can't get any closer. I'm so sorry." He sounds devastated, but there's resolve all through his tone. "You are nothing like the men who imprisoned you, but I cannot— I will not raise a hand against these lost souls. They are suffering. They are confused. They are dying a little more inside with every passing moment. I—" There's tremor all through the young man's frame. "I don't want to see it. You can call me a coward if you like. But I have had enough of darkness and sin. I can face mortal foes. Please— do not make me ask you for Mercy again. Your Goddess' name should be heralded. Not called upon for an end to torture, or anguish."

    There should be additional forces at the gate, but you need to make up your mind. The way you've interacted with demons all your life has been on a case-by-case basis. There's no telling what you may be getting yourself into, but you have an example to set.

    Oaths to uphold.

    A Goddess to serve.

    >What's your end goal with this demon?
    >A] There are no illusions about the goals of your enemies. Inertia seeks to destroy the nation, sully your people's faith in the Gods, and to corrupt the souls of mankind. There can be no Mercy here. You're nowhere near as naive as most people would believe. Hesitation here could mean the loss of countless lives. You seek to grant this demon a swift DEATH, and nothing more.
    >B] A collective of demons is easily the most terrifying enemy you can face. The extent of its power may escape your mundane ability, and without Adwin's support, you don't know if you can handle it. This is a golden opportunity to trust in your allies. FAITH is your Catalyst. You'll let others be your guide, and pray that you all can take down this monstrosity together.
    >C] This is a demon of misconception. It thrives on falsehoods. It doesn't sit right with the Father of Honesty to manipulate anyone. You will do everything in your power to UNDERSTAND it.
    >D] Write-in.

    "Stay here. Keep safe, and out of sight." You unclasp the chain from around your neck, and stash your mace.

    Respect stares back at you. "I will."
     
    Last edited:
  • Threadmarks
    • Chapter 33: Misconception
  • Threadmarks
    • Chapter 33: Misconception
    "The only option we have left."




    ​

    Turning your back on Interpretation, you march for the final gate between you, and disaster. There's no fewer than thirty civilians posted inside. They all recognize you instantly. The badgering, questions, and concern for your appearance are all shoved aside. Threats are made to literally shove aside anyone who doesn't open the damn gate.

    The metal-banded gate rises on a theater of insanity.

    Exiting the checkpoints towered defense, you walk out into the eye of the Storm. Extending one hundred feet into the sky is an orb of darkness. The raven-feather shroud captures deep, angry, unnatural clouds at its peak. At the ground level, on the rooftops of countless homes, and in every advantageous position they could harness, forty priests of Vengeance are all simultaneously invoking their God. They're mostly lining the streets on both sides of the river Morinburn. The water is running red with the blood of your countrymen. Every last one of the priests is drenched in more crimson, shadow, and sin. More worrying than their physical appearance are the spikes of black agony that are dipping and darting out of your vision. The raw anger behind every last one of their motions cannot be seen. Their wrath is felt.

    Normally, a stunning display of lights, little houses, and a scenic district would carve through the heart of your city. Instead— in the otherwise pitch-black chamber— two devotees to the tempest (even if they won't openly admit it) are waging battle against a nightmare. Sister Miramond's white hair and tangerine robes are whipping about in an impossible wind. The slender wisp of a woman has her arms and hands extended in prayer, as she wraps an impossible, blustering gale around the body of a gargantuan monster. The sheer force of the raw power emanating from her figure has sparks of orange electricity dancing off into the air. The stream of her connection to Storm lifts up, off into the sky— and you realize that the smoke gathered at the peak of this unholy cage is smoke that's risen from the body of a priestess.

    She's being braced hard by Carlisle "Irefist" Ballard. The ex-sailor is standing beside her, bellowing orders, and gesturing to the machinations of what must be their mutual work. Hundreds of feet of black, dripping, divine rope has been manifested by the clergy present. It's knotted, weighed down, and tethered together into the largest net you've ever seen. Each link in the mesh is at least five feet across.

    These men and women have fought to exhibit restraint in your city.

    No fear is in your heart as you stride towards the creature tethered at the center of it all. Nestled deeply in the current of bloody foam and cold-running water is a demon of misconception. Its frame easily spans one hundred feet from end-to-end. It is an amalgamation of dismembered limbs, crushed faces, broken bones, and bulging eyes. No humanity can be seen. No motion is in its gargantuan being. You're reminded of a worm, as the mass borders on shapelessness.

    A terrifying thought occurs to you, as an expert on demons: This is not a demon of any God.

    Rather than stop you in your tracks, the revelation has you boldly walk out into the open. The air dries, and static lifts all the light in your eyes skywards. Though the demon is nestled into the river, it reaches up past the ground level, and an additional twenty feet into the air. Lightning breaks overhead in a crackle that sets every hair on your body on end. Your breath catches in your throat as you pass under the monster's shadow.

    Panicked cries erupt from several priests of Vengeance that have spotted you. Irefist spotted you faster than anyone. You both exchange a simple glance. All it conveys is that you both will do what you need to do.

    As a bridge between divinity and sin, you speak to a demon with all the sincerity you possess. It doesn't matter if any living soul hears it, or if you're stopped dead in your tracks. The whip of the wind cannot drown out the voice of Corcaea's most accomplished preacher. "Your form has no function. You have sought salvation in blasphemy. I do not bring you atonement. Gaze upon a priest of punishment."

    The maw of thirty mouths all simultaneously open, and scream with enthusiasm.

    Every single soul within the black canopy recoils. All the green in your eyes must be visible, as you hold your ground, and fight to not collapse in amazement. Your verve redoubles. The golden locket you've kept clasped tightly underhand is clicked open.

    "You cannot HOPE to understand!"

    Several steps are taken forward to greet the slowly extending demon. The height of it is elongating, pushing, and creeping along the riverbank. It's more like a maggot, writhing with its confines in an attempt to reach out.

    Every last soul present is fighting with their very souls to keep it down. You're not wasting a second, and open the small mirror in the open palm of your hands. "What is it that you all have missed in life?"

    A cacophony of voices bellows from the beast in a deafening roar. Your shield is dropped, and both hands go to your ears as you try to not scream or go deaf on the spot. It's the loudest thing you've ever heard. It's in your skull. It's in your mind. It's in your heart. It's in your soul.

    The pain in your soul is so sharp, so instant, and so violently intense that you double over and collapse to your knees.

    The demon screams in many voices:
    "JUSTICE!"
    "LOVE!"
    "HONOR!"
    "COURAGE!"
    "FREEDOM!"
    "FAMILY!"
    "PRIDE!"
    "LOYALTY!"
    "BEAUTY!"
    "MEANING!"

    Every inch of your bones aches, as the pain in you spikes to a crescendo. There's no opportunity to let your mind register pain, or pleasure, or anything in-between.

    The roar redoubles, and trembles the very ground you kneel upon. The demon is a single voice. A single power.

    "Focus. Unity. Zeal. Veneration for that which we are. That which we always will be. The only truth. The only answer. The end of all things. Think of us not as so naive. We can assume any shape that we wish. We are faceless. Our faith is placed in the only option we have left. Having lived for all of our lives under your dominion, can you not blame us for HATING that which DEPRIVED us of our MOST fundamental truths?! All that you cherish and love! The things that make humanity worth fighting for! THESE THINGS ARE NOT AFFORDED TO ALL PEOPLE. WE HAVE MADE OUR OWN MEANING where there is NONE. The ABSENCE of meaning is a cause worth fighting for. The reality afforded to ALL of us. Inertia."

    You understand. The ringing in your ears, the pain in your soul, and the clarity of the mirror in hand could not be more obvious. There's nothing that these cultists wish to hide. They know that the Gods are as real as you, or I. The trouble is that every single one of them is a person who's felt as if the Gods failed them. There's at least fifty dead souls right before you, seeking to lash out, and kill every last person around them where you stand. Or kneel, in your case. You have your truth. So do they.

    Some reflections are fairer than others.

    Not everyone will take as kindly to their innermost reflection as the brave men and women who fight alongside you.

    A pulse of energy emits from the figure. In the same instant, Sister Miramond screams to the skies, and swings her arms down in one fell motion that will surely seek to destroy this creature where it stands. Every single clergyman in the vicinity shouts, dives for cover, or moves to charge ahead. Some of them might be trying to save you.

    There's probably no Time to pray.

    >A] Reach for your shield, brace yourself, and try to tank the hit. (AN OBSCENELY HIGH ROLL WILL BE REQUIRED.)
    >B] Today is a bad day to die. You're willing to take a risk with your very soul. Invoke Mercy for Her protection. (A HIGH ROLL WILL BE REQUIRED.)
    >C] Now that you're armed with a greater understanding of this demon and its situation, there's likely something more you can do with the incredible amount of power, resources, alliances, and utility afforded to you. (Write-in. A ROLL MAY BE REQUIRED.)

    >Roll 1d100. Best of 3 will be used.
    >-55 SOUL STRAIN (This is going to hurt.)
    >-17 SLEEP DEPRIVATION (This malus will slowly worsen until you rest.)
    >-10 RIDE THE LIGHTNING (Past invocations to Storm have increased your physical sensitivity to electricity and seizure.)
    >-15 PSYCHIC SCREAM (The close proximity of this demon— in combination with its odd communication— has inflicted serious, deep-seeded injury.)
    >+20 FAITH OF A GODDESS (You have been VERY Merciful.)
    >+20 GREEN DAHLIA (Every attempt at granting this demon salvation carried the blessing of Agriculture.)
    >+10 STRENGTH IN NUMBERS (You're far from alone in this situation.)
    >+15 COMBAT VETERAN (The fog of war is yet another tool in your arsenal.)
    >+15 FATHER OF GOLD (Playing to your strengths could save countless lives.)
    >+15 LEADER OF THE CHURCH OF MERCY (ANYTHING short of embracing this situation would be insulting to your station.)

    >Rolled 85 (1d100)




    ​

    The chaos that unfolds is so intense, Time might as well have slowed to a stop. As the demon of misconception before you releases a shockwave of raw energy, you realize the nature of its attack. The raw devastation you heard in its voice moments before was weaponized blasphemy. The pain that lanced your soul itself was an auditory, demonic reminder of the absence of the Gods. This demon is attempting to attack you on a fundamental level.

    They're misguided. Faith is the nearest, and dearest thing to your heart that you can possibly conceive.

    Bless me once more.

    Protection is your creed. You'd rather die than to stand by and lose one more soul.

    The pressure and push on your soul itself surfaces with a scream all your own. Desperately invoking Mercy eclipses the worst that this demon could throw at you.

    The desire to grant this creature salvation gets you through the white-hot solar flare in the back of your mind. The love through your innermost being. An embrace deeper than the skin. A hope greater than what any mortal man should be capable of possessing.

    All you want to do is to live to your next sermon. To take a Goddess' hands between your own, and express even a fraction of your care. To share with these fallen brothers and sisters that they HAVE found meaning in their search for an answer. To grant mankind their answer.

    Your fellow priests have attempted to rapidly construct as a defense around you. Gates of black, volcanic glass spikes in all directions. From little rocky home, to every fallen bridge above your river, they intertwine their efforts with your own tangible radiance. It's the sheer strength of your devotion that causes beams of sunlight to burst from the cracks in the cobblestone streets, and to form in a weave of materials shields.

    Vengeance and Mercy are each other's foremost complement. Offense and defense alike slams a massive barrier up between you, your allies, this behemoth, and all the energy it unleashes.

    Sister Miramond's hands fall at the same instant as your trembling hands rise. The pain on you is worse than death. It's better. It's a field of lightning rods that instantly materialize from streaks of solid gold. The Father of the Day cannot temper his light. The defense holds, and your reach towards the very skies redirect the closest arcs that fall from Storm's vortex of destruction.

    No one is dying on your watch.

    Every cloud that has gathered above becomes a lead weight, in the sudden absence of wind. The moisture and gathering energy within the maelstrom above sounds in a clap of thunder. Ten thousand veins of electricity fall from the skies, and collide in an earth-shattering roar with the monster before you. Every last figure on the field of battle is at risk of taking in the same blow.




    ​
    Thousands of arcs of electricity blanket the ground. The gold you've manifested focuses the worst of the attack into each central point. As the wave of the demon's energetic blast surges forward, it intermingles with Sister Miramond's lighting. The rods burst. Liquid metal explodes in showers of harmless light and glimmer the instant that the defense has served its purpose. You can't hope to stagger to your feet, given the force of the destruction raining on you and your allies. With the pulse the demon's emanated, you and every other priest barely holds their ground. It's the impression of an even greater collective. The devastating push against your barriers cracks the glass, splinters the gold, and forces further strain onto your soul itself.

    The demon of misconception becomes still, while a priestess of Storm keeps attacking. A sweeping gesture from the gale around her body wraps every last bolt of lightning into a solid band of rope. She tightens it into a garrote around every visible neck. It becomes barbs of jagged energy that stabs into one hundred protruding eyes. Ripples of energy begin pulsing from the demon before you. There's only an instant to react.

    Both of your hands come to fists. A blinding tower shield fifteen feet tall flares forth with your conviction, just as three priests of Vengeance teleport behind you. They're all absurdly grizzled, and much older than most clergy you're used to seeing. Blood whips off from the eldest's sleeves and beard with a violent, sudden, and catastrophic motion towards the foe ahead.

    As the monstrosity hurls itself forward, hundreds of glass spikes project from the very shield you've constructed. All the clergymen at your side are leaning hard on the defense, and weaponizing it.

    They cry to their God for the same atonement that this creature is seeking.

    They understand.

    Rather than be crushed instantly by the weight of this massive creature, you're able to take the shield before you, and dissipate it in an instant. The spikes remain, and slam into the beast's smoking, charring body. The might of Sister Miramond's attack is cooking its Flesh alive. A hot blend of black smoke intermingles with the blood in your throat, from the sheer amount of force behind each one of your motions. You stagger to your feet, as Mercy guides a network of molten protection around every last one of the collapsed, dying, or fallen priests in the distance. Many have succumbed to their own exhaustion. It's killing you, too.

    You cry out to a monster with all the love you possess. This is not the work of the Goddess of empathy. It's your own voice. The leader of the Church of Sincerity. "I'm so sorry. You've been pursuing your own justice! The longing for everything you've lost has YET to be rewarded! Take our parting regret. I can't apologize enough for everything. Your words are not LOST at the edge of oblivion! YOUR MESSAGE HAS BEEN HEARD!"

    A scream loosens from the priestess of Storm on the horizon. She swings her hands together into a traditional form of prayer. Exhaustion drops her to her knees. The common man at her back can't even be seen beyond the gale whipping about her frame. A bright voice cries out in agony, and ecstasy. The tension in Sister Miramond's frame is visible from a distance, and mimics the intensity of a glowing light now wrapping around the demon of misconception.

    This feels like a betrayal. You're the Father of Honesty, and scream to every single man on the field of battle. "GET DOWN! GET DOWN!"

    Every figure falls prostrate before the Gods Themselves.

    The palms of your hands pool with heat and divinity, as you drop down, and reach out to every last soul that can still be saved. A quarter of the men here have fallen. Those who stand a shot at survival are already shrouding themselves in darkness. There's ample space in all your land in-between. In an instant, you snake the streets with further networks of conductive gold. It might be enough to direct the anger of turmoil Himself away.


    ​


    The demon is electrified. Its bones flicker against the silhouette of muscle in yellow and black.

    It's an affront to Mercy in every form, and rips at your heart. It's hard to tell if the extent you're pushing yourself to, the unneeded deaths of your people, or the blinding light before you is greater cause for sorrow. The tenuous grip you're keeping on the situation at hand is robbing you of your senses. You're certain that the demon didn't make a sound throughout the onslaught waged against it, but a low gasp echoes now from the mouths closest to you.

    A sob falls from your lips, as you kneel in a field of liquid gold, smoking tissue, and the scent of lightning. The rain is relentless. One of the priests at your back collapses from exhaustion. The men all around are slowly raising their gaze in horror, and disbelief.

    It's still alive.

    >A] "THAT'S ENOUGH!" You don't care if it's risking the lives of everyone present. You'll keep pushing yourself, to try and get more answers. You know you can rest eventually. It will be worth it.
    >B] "WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR?! MERCY!" Extending this creature's suffering for one more instant flies in the face of everything you believe in. It's miserable, but you're already far beyond mortal limits. This thing has to die.
    >C] Stay silent, and focus everything you have on keeping your allies safe and protected. You're not resting until everyone here is safe, healed, and the dead are accounted for.
    >D] Write-in.




    ​

    The crackle of lightning around the demon before you is nearly as sharp as the tear in your voice. "WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR?! MERCY!"

    Horror sinks into you. Sister Miramond is doing all she can. Her bright voice is a scream, as she tries to redouble her efforts, and doesn't have any more to give. The monstrosity under her is inert, but it just won't die.

    There are other battles to fight this day. You simply can't risk keeping this demon alive. Your friends and allies are at their breaking point, and you will NOT let their efforts go to waste.

    Wavering, you shift your stance. The priests of Vengeance at your back do the same. They hang on every last bitter syllable that leaves your lips. "This demon deserves Mercy— in a more tangible form. Cover me."

    Nods. The eldest looks like he wants to say something, but there's no time for a reply. The men at your side seize the moment, and take hold of an unseen force. You gasp.

    The exact same pulse of energy that the demon emitted moments before is rapidly re-materializing. It's not originating from the monster. It's on the borders of the district. The priests of reciprocation beside you have manifested your attacker's blow. The shock wave is sent straight back towards its source, and you match it with your own path of destruction.

    The blood under your nails digs into your skin, slick with the pouring rain. The network of defense you've spread between every priest before you drops. The men about you shout, and redouble their efforts. Spikes of shadow and blood are hurled towards the demon from all directions. They are untouched by the attack of their allies, which passes through them as if they were made of shadow.

    There's few creatures alive that can stand before the power you possess. With outstretched palms, you swirl the collective force that was guarding forty-three people, and turn it into a singular spike of solid gold.

    The ground underfoot cracks and blisters with heat. You thrust both palms towards the gargantuan creature before you. The lightning on it is dull in comparison to your liquid metal and sunlight. The gargantuan weapon flares forward towards the monster before you, and impales the center mass of the demon. It screams. The world itself might as well crack in half from the devastation in its tone.

    You murmur one more apology. Not even the Gods can understand how badly you wished to have helped this being.

    Every open finger comes together into a fist, focusing the attack. The spike that's impaled through the demon's body draws into the being's interior. Every inch of its smashed bone, stretched muscle, and twisted faces begin to glow from within.

    The priestess of Storm on the horizon drops herself to the ground. The chains of lightning on the behemoth pull in so tightly, it cuts through the creature's broken Flesh. Blood showers into the air from the lacerations. Before the droplets can fall, the latent heat within your own source of destruction is released.

    You collapse to the ground, and try not to cry from the ecstasy, or agony. Your eyes stay skyward, to the colossal figure before you. A sunspot appears on the demon's body. Another. Every one of its mouths open in a simultaneous scream, as a sun of your making detonates.

    The demon erupts.

    There is no viscera. No blood. In a shower of light, the demon's collective being evaporates. A wave of heat bursts forth from the motion, that should cook every one of you alive.

    The priestess in the distance releases the bonds around her quarry. The lightning and clouds she'd manifested minutes before pick up in a maelstrom of wind. An air-stream cuts across the battlefield faster than you can scream, and separates every last living soul from the full might of your ability. The heat of the sun never reaches you all.

    It can be felt within, as you draw in on yourself, and struggle to even breathe. There's a pain so deep in the center of your being, you lose sight and sound for several long moments.

    As you open your eyes, the monstrosity is completely gone. Sparks of yellow-gold luminescence gently descend from the absence of its figure. Showers of light skitter along the floor. A blackened scorch mark persists in the riverbed.

    There's no fewer than ten priests that have ran to your side.

    They're all thanking you.
     
    Last edited:
  • Threadmarks
    • Chapter 34: Smoke and Sunlight
  • Threadmarks
    • Chapter 34: Smoke and Sunlight
    "Our black parade."​


    It takes over an hour to see to every mortal injury on the field of battle. It's a haze of euphoria, agony, and divinity. Bloody faces. Grateful faces. One hundred words of gratitude. Burns, lacerations, hearing damage, and exhaustion. Every singular soul you save is shaken, and they don't mind in the slightest that you're scarcely able to stand.

    What matters is that they live. It's certain that you stop any further loss of life. Weakness and injury is utterly eliminated from every last man standing. But this is the fifth time in a single day that you've invoked the Gods, and you're feeling it. There's an agony in you that goes deeper than the skin.

    You are capable of invoking 8 Gods, command an entire city, have authority second only to the King, can requisition any priest or priestess in the nation, are the wealthiest man in Corcaea, have the skills of a scholar, are the leading researcher of the Catalyst, AND as the defender of the city of shields it is UNDERSTANDABLE that the sheer amount of power that you wield is overwhelming at the best of times. You have a track record of outright forgetting every resource that's at your disposal— and resolve to never let something like this happen again.

    Father Pevrel has lost nine more of his children. There was nothing that could be done for six of them, who fell before you even got here.

    Over half of the men and women you healed immediately went to scout through the district to ensure that no civilians are still present. Ten have lingered to keep an eye on you, to await orders you may wish to give (they are VERY grateful), and have questions regarding your behavior and assistance with the demon of misconception. You're an expert— and the leader of this city— after all.

    The remainder of the priests of Vengeance already took off to the gate, to see to the rest of the city.

    Sister Miramond and Irefist have been keeping off to the side of the district, and have yet to approach anyone. They both look unharmed, and are obviously intentionally avoiding anyone.

    There's no injury on you. Releasing the invocation to Mercy comes with no additional pain in your body. She's clearly exerting every bit of power She has when you both are together to aid in your exhaustion, injury, pain, and strength. The ache in your chest just won't relent. You're not sure if it's the way you're damaging your very soul— or the grief over fifty lives lost that you'll never get the chance to truly save.

    >A] Go to Sister Miramond and Irefist.
    >1] You want to gather information on what they've done before giving any orders.​
    >2] You need a better pair of eyes so badly right now, you want to have Irefist's assistance. He won't say no.​
    >3] You want both of their assistance, and have needed to speak with Sister Miramond since the instant you met. Now's as good a Time as any.​
    >B] These priests of Vengeance were willing to die on yours and your city's behalf. They want answers.
    >1] Just talk to a few of them. Remain respectful. You just want to remind them that there's some humanity here.​
    >2] Make a small service here for the fallen. You can't guarantee that you'll be available in the future, and are too emotionally distraught to make a formal address.​
    >3] Offer to hold a funerary service tomorrow, for any brothers or sisters they've lost. You'll make the Time.​
    >4] Broach the subject of your collective efforts, answer any questions posed to you respectfully, and inform everyone present that they're welcome to come to your sermon in the morning. They'll be the center of its subject, after all.​
    >C] You're really upset.
    >1] Everyone is going to think you're insane, but make a small memorial site for the demon. It was comprised of over fifty human souls. If anyone asks, answer honestly that you are just as devastated over the loss of a demon as the loss of the humans it once was.​
    >2] Take a minute to rest, and to grieve. You are going to kill yourself at this rate. Try to reflect on how to avoid something like this from ever happening again.​
    >D] Write-in. (Bearing in mind that there are over thirty capable combatants here, many of who's lives you saved, who are all willing to follow you.

    These priests of Vengeance were willing to die on yours and your city's behalf. They want answers. You take a moment to thank them all sincerely for their efforts, and offer condolences for every life lost. A funerary service should be held, and these holy men warrant more than a field burial. Tomorrow afternoon will be occupied by a memorial service in honor of every brother and sister that's fallen to your enemies. It will be a reminder of the theocracy's sacrifices, and of your enemy's atrocities. It also serves as a fine segue to invite everyone present to yours and Mercy's sermon. They're going to be the center of its subject, and deserve to be welcomed to the event.

    There's a lot of questions. You respectfully see to all of them.
    Yes, you have actually been absent from Eadric for nearly a year.
    No, you have not been cursed.
    Yes, the locket you wear is a holy gift.
    No, they may not use it.
    Yes, you are going to live after exhibiting power that outclasses Father Pevrel's by leaps and bounds.
    No, they do not have to use any restraint with their questioning.
    No, that is not an affront to Mercy.
    They want to know how you've weaponized Mercy. You politely inform them that death is a cure all its own.
    The condition you're in is cause for extreme alarm. It's a magnificent opportunity to remind your allies that the Gods are Merciful, and that you will rest the moment your work is done.
    The plans you have for the rest of the city are their primary concern. You stress the faith that you have in your clergy, in Father Pevrel, and in the judgement of the priests gathered before you.

    The questions taper off with a great deal of respect, and some pensive planning for how to seize order over the rest of Eadric. You excuse yourself to go to Irefist and Sister Miramond.

    Walking doesn't bring any physical exhaustion, but the pain in you is intense enough that you wince from any sudden motions.

    Both sailors bristle at your approach, to which you call out, "please save your complaints and attitude for another Time. I am completely fucked."

    Their mouths fall open.

    You manage to wipe the sweat from your brow, cross over the blood and gore streaked street, and sit alongside them on the cobblestone. No complaints. You sigh, and try to stop clutching at the robes and shirt on your chest. The internal discomfort you're experiencing is unrelenting, and shifting does nothing to alleviate it. At the very least, the weight, residual scent of smoke, and sunlight on the air is comforting.

    Sister Miramond is still smoking. She stops staring, but gives a questioning glance to the man at her side. Irefist has no burns on him to speak of. You're an expert on divinity, and instantly recognize that he was protected from the priestess's invocation. The common man undoubtedly was responsible for keeping the situation under control AND directing the might of Storm in a controlled fashion. This woman answered to his combat expertise.

    Likely having screamed his own voice hoarse, Irefist rasps at you, "no kidding. That was some shit. You didn't look half bad out there, though. New robes?"

    Laughing sounds more like gargling rocks. "Thank you. No. I needed—" You clear your own throat. "—need all the help I can get." A glance to the priestess beside you.

    The priestess' hair is standing on end beyond the point of comedy. The impression is of someone who should have died from electrocution several times over. She's still shaking slightly, and rasps, "what are you looking at?"

    You use the softest tone you possess. "My trust was well placed. I can't thank you enough for your efforts."

    "Then don't," she croaks.

    You and your sailor both give her a look. He starts to interject, and stops as you smirk, "I did, sort of— well. You know. Save your skin."

    The priestess mocks outrage. Frogs have less of a rumble in their tone. Coming from a middle-aged woman, it has you and Carl struggling to not make a face at her. "Oh. Excuse me, mister sunshine. Now that you're done saving the day, you mind letting me know what you intend to do with the rest of the night?"

    "Our black parade—" You love the drama. Your allies roll their eyes, to which you frown. "—they deserve the spotlight just as much as any of us. They have been killing themselves to defend my city. I was not joking. I'm in dire straits, and need all the assistance I can get. Your strengths are unparalleled, and I have cultists to root out." Their expressions lift into something between exhaustion, eagerness, and curiosity. You lean over, and explain, "regardless of how badly I would like for you to be transferred to my retinue, Sister Miramond—" She doesn't look opposed to the idea, and your grimace lifts. "—I have tunnels beneath my city that need clearing and mapping now. Will you both accompany me, at least— at least until I get to them?"

    The woman beside you gives your congregation member a questioning glance. "Does he ever quit?"

    A hard laugh. Irefist spits. "I'm sure this was just a warm-up. How far away is this place?"

    You sigh with relief. "I'm halfway there. Four districts."

    "We'll take a retinue." The woman at your side gets to her feet with a groan, smoothing back her long and wild hair. No hand is extended to you or to Irefist to get up. The aging priestess looks down to you. "Sister Julian Miramond." She smirks. The woman has enough light in her voice to do the church of the sun proud. "Nice place you've got here, Father Anscham, but it could use a lady's touch. Your river is running red! Rats in the streets. Bats in the attic!" She turns and heads for the small gathering of priests of Vengeance that were standing by for you without wasting another second. "You're lucky I'm a sucker for conflict!"

    Irefist narrows his eyes at you as you get back to your feet. "Came here alone, with all this shit going down?"

    "No. Not alone."

    >The following are mutually exclusive.
    >Majority vote will decide.
    >A] You're willing to take the risk of a larger accompaniment.
    >1] Let Sister Miramond requisition as many priests of Vengeance she sees fit for your excursion to the hideout. You don't know how many of Father Pevrel's men you can trust, but these priests were ready to die for you. No one else should be necessary. (High risk of attracting attention. Highest bonus to a fight if there is one.)​
    >2] There's a ton of civilians at the gate, and these priests have done enough for you. Ask if any able-bodied soul is willing to accompany you across town. Delegate their forces wherever needed along the way so you don't lead anyone straight to the hideout. (Moderate risk of attracting attention. Low bonus to a fight if one occurs. Will aid the city's efforts in some capacity, directly proportionate to how many forces you're willing to pull away.)​
    >3] Invite virtually anyone who will accompany you to come across town. It's overkill, but you don't want to take any chances. Delegate as much along the way as you're able, to ensure no one is led straight to the hideout. (Guarantee of attracting attention. Guarantee of aiding the city's efforts. May escalate any conflict you encounter. High bonus to combat. Will aid the city's efforts in some capacity, with no guarantee of how many people will be pulled away.)​
    >C] The company of Sister Miramond, Irefist, and Adwin should be more than sufficient if there's a fight. Your artist is far from exhausted, and you trust he can take any threat that comes after you. You need to rest badly, and this might be the closest you can afford to a proper break for the rest of the night. (Lowest chance of attracting attention, moderate bonus to a fight if you're accosted. May extend how long it takes you to get to the hideout.)
    >D] You're not physically compromised. You will not invoke under any circumstances, but sure can take a hit for your allies if necessary. Take only Sister Miramond, Irefist, and Adwin. You'll fight on their behalf as much as you're able, knowing Adwin has your back. (Moderate chance of attracting attention, bonuses to the fight will be dependent on your substantial skill (and maluses). Fastest option, though it may wear you out even further. A sufficiently high roll will not exacerbate your condition. Majority vote required.)
    >E] Write-in. (A roll will be required.)

    >Roll 1d100. Best of 3 will be used.
    >+5 NEVER SURRENDER (Your resilience is inspiring.)
    >+15 CITY OF SHIELDS (You know how to utilize Eadric's strengths.)
    >+15 WHITE SMOKE (Taking out that demon continued to improve the city's situation!)
    >+10 FAITH OF A GODDESS (Mercy could not want to support this endeavor more.)
    >+10 BLASPHEMOUS CONGREGATION (They've been working around the clock, but are still supporting your efforts.)
    >+15 SEA SALT (The sailors with you are exhausted, but are still very capable combatants.)
    >+15 SWORD BREAKER (What Adwin doesn't have in fighting experience is made up for by creativity and raw power.)
    >+10 DELEGATE (The church of Vengeance is on your side.)
    >-20 INERTIA (Your enemies are everywhere.)
    >-20 THE SOULS OF MANKIND... (Your race is in a precarious position.)
    >-15 FAME (You're the most recognizable, and the most wanted man in the city.)
    >-15 COMBAT FATIGUE (Irefist and Sister Miramond are hot out of a serious battle.)
    >-10 SLEEP DEPRIVATION (The night is wearing thin, and Irefist has barely been sleeping either.)

    >Rolled 45 (1d100)

    Every remaining priest of Vengeance is assembled. The men of retribution look to you with all the black in their eyes, and grins on their grieving faces.

    It feels good to be home.

    "An unrivaled opportunity has been granted to us! These insects think they can burrow into the veins of my city, and nest in the heart of my home. My children, please: show them our gratitude. Let no heathen go unpunished. For as my hands remain open, so too must your eyes! FIND THEM!"

    A roar of enthusiasm greets you. They're off running in a pack. The strike team will root out every hideout your clergy discovered this week, and see what's been handled. A report will be brought to your own cleared building before the night is out.

    You couldn't be more proud, and go with light in your heart to the main gate.
     
    Last edited:
  • Threadmarks
    • Chapter 35: Two by Four
  • Threadmarks
    • Chapter 35: Two by Four
    "The sound of screams are at your back."





    Adwin was patiently waiting outside, unbothered by the pouring rain. All of you don't mind the downpour in the least. It's relief from the heat, and a fine means of staying alert. You and Irefist have hardly slept, but both of you are wide-eyed as your fire team heads for the next district over.

    You all pass into the riverside quarter. It's desolate. You strongly suspect that it was evacuated, given the abandonment of wares and goods on the street even in a time of scarcity. Tattered flags with your city's symbol are vandalized. This no doubt was where the demon of misconception spawned. Fortunately, walking and talking is what you do best. It's with your shield held high— mace in hand for insurance— that you make a few introductions. The pomp and formality has you feeling even more at home. You are going to keep spirits high, even if it kills you and your friends.

    "Adwin, this is Sister Julian Miramond. She's a highly respected, veteran priestess of the Church of Storm, and hails from Father Barthalomew's trusted company— all the way north from Rimilde."

    A few fine lines around her eyes surface, as she can't help but hide a smile.

    Your ward makes a slight nod to her as he walks, with knives in hand. He idly spins one, clearly enjoying testing their balance.

    To the young man, you simply state, "Sister Miramond, Adwin Sebastian Anscham."

    Both of the sailors almost trip. Their steps falter as you continue striding ahead as if this is nothing. "The name is a formal acknowledgement of Adwin's welcome into my family. His esteemed company, loyalty, and skill as an artist is only outclassed by his creativity and combative ability. I cannot stress how valuable his company has been. I hope that you will address him with the same respect you would give my very own kin."

    Irefist looks at you like you're insane, while Sister Miramond is thoroughly amused. She nods her head to the blonde, and smirks, "a pleasure, Mr. Anscham."

    Irefist looks like he's going to die laughing, but shoves down his comments while the blonde levelly replies. "With due respect, ma'am, 'Adwin' is fine."

    You jerk a thumb away from Adwin, and towards Irefist. "Our most irate sailor needs no introduction," you note.

    "Of course," the artist frowns. "Sister Superior Tirel had a great deal to say about you. Irefist, was it?" He doesn't wait for a reply. "Is it true that you have killed demons with your bare hands?"

    There's instantly a cold sweat on you, as Adwin continues to slowly spin his weapons. Walking up behind him is fine. Keeping an eye on him is fine. This is fine.

    Irefist sniffs in hard, and hawks up bloody phlegm into the last of the district's offshoots from the Morinburn River. "If it's all the same to you kid, I'd rather not get into it."

    This is fine.

    The four of you pass through an utterly unguarded checkpoint. Everyone's hair is on end— particularly Sister Miramond's. Your congregation has been hard at work. Someone dismembered enough charred bodies to spell out one word in the center of this wealthy district's town square.

    "Run," Adwin calmly reads aloud. A questioning glance falls to you, as everyone picks up their steps. Screams can be heard over the wall from the next part of town over. "Do you think the author was aware that a cult of Inertia would…"

    Irefist laughs "Definitely." Your congregation member gestures to a burnt, decapitated corpse. It's still standing. "Claymore could manage this with a man still standing. Sure wouldn't care to warn them, though."

    "It was Spangle." You know the pyromaniac is a genius. She's insane, yes, but a genius.

    "How can you be sure?" Julian seems torn between amusement and disgust.

    "The way she—" This is stupid. She wouldn't have mobilized cooking for the sake of burning men alive. Right?

    "Out with it."

    Mumbling, you keep your eyes to the piles of death. "Those burn marks are unmistakable. I would recognize her barbecue anywhere."

    You all remain impressed and fairly pensive as the sound of screams intensifies. Everyone looks to you. You sigh. Keeping your shield high— staying at the center of the group— you look to Adwin. "I have your back. Alright?"

    A quick nod. The young man rips off a number of scarves that were fastened around his shoulders, and drapes them over an arm. It's odd, but you don't question it while he politely directs his attention towards your other company. "You are welcome to stay behind me, if you wish."

    "Not on your life, kid." Irefist makes a point of loudly popping every knuckle, cracking his neck, and picking up a large plank of wood from the street. It's about two by four feet, littered with nails, and is so excessive that you have to fight not to get distracted with any fleeting fancies over what could be done with it.

    Softly muttering, "Mercy," gets you through the best of it.

    The gate is manned. A mercantile district is on the other side, embroiled in conflict. Irefist happily kicks in a side door to the checkpoint. Inside the stone walled defense are five men with spears and shields. Civilians. They take one look at the hulking sailor, your obviously unhinged priestess of Storm, the malicious weapons in your oddball son's hands, and you.

    They lower their weapons, look the other way, and you all pass into the mercantile ward unscathed.

    An arrow immediately whizzes overhead. You keep your shield up, while Julian shoves you to the back of your procession. "Keep your head down!"

    The four of you dart to the far wall. It's a longer path, and the night is wearing thin, but it gives you all at least one side of safety. Several buildings are darted behind. The screaming in the center of a chaotic marketplace is cause for alarm. You can't make out any civilians in the thick of the fight. Three priestesses of Vengeance are back-to-back, and are taking on a number of rowdy looters. A few of the vagrants are sporting strips of brown cloth in pockets or around their face.

    The priestess in your midst excuses herself for a moment, while you all continue your path forward. The hiss of her whisper hangs in the air for a moment behind her, after taking off running. "Should give you all a good distraction!"

    You keep your gaze high, to every window the ranged assault could have come from. Julian's high-pitched shriek sings from a nearby home, at the roof. You're certain she has the violence covered, while you and your men proceed through several narrow streets.

    Rain has the pavement slick, and muddy runoff threatens your footing. The shouting in the market square is way too obnoxious to not be a ploy.

    Coming around a corner, four of your old guards charge out from the shadows. One is armed with a spear and shield. The other three have longswords from your armory. The gilded handles catch on a flash of lightning.

    Irefist swings the massive plank of wood in his hands towards the shielded guard with a scream. The fine chainmail and pauldron your sailor is wearing takes the lead, as he barrels forward, laughing like a madman. They collide, slamming forward, and your guard begins beating the former man in your employ to death.

    Adwin dips into a low position, and throws the sodden scarves he's been carrying straight towards the other three guard's faces. Before the fabric touches them, he turns into a frantic swing from one of the attacker's swords. Their blades hook together. The man lets out a confused and panicked cry. With a hard twist of his dagger, Adwin snaps the sword before him in two.

    One half of a weapon clatters to the ground, is swept away by the artist's foot. His upper body is preoccupied with an odd twist, that sweeps his weapon up, and cuts the guard's right hand clean off at the wrist. Before a scream leaves the victim's throat, your boy slits his neck.

    You resist the urge to gasp, to run forward, to pray, or to do anything more than calmly keep to the shadows. This is likely the closest thing to rest you'll be getting all night, and your men have it handled.

    While Adwin parries two swordsmen facing him with a small measure of curiosity, Irefist finishes beating the other guard to death with the giant plank of wood he's been carrying around. The bloody lumber is hurled through the air towards the rest of the fighters. It crashes into both guards that are plaguing your boy, and you can't help but wonder how your congregation member would have taken to the worst demons you've faced.

    If this is how you all operate on an off day, you can't help but wonder how things could have gone differently in Ostedholm.

    The reverie is snapped away as six more men come running from the direction you were headed. You urgently snap to your allies, "this way," and duck down into the narrow side street.

    The sound of screams are at your back, as Adwin slits the throat of both other men he was facing. He might have been drawing out fighting them just to measure their behavior. It's possibly a problem, but you don't have the chance to address it right at this moment.

    Irefist and Adwin flank you. You're the most recognizable and wanted man in the city, and you all are on high alert for everyone who's targeting you.

    Sure enough, the archers make themselves known in the distance. The breadth of your shield flies up, as both your allies dive behind you. The assault, the barrage against your defense, the ache in your arms, and the memory of old daggers lasts for only a moment.

    The sound of kindling flame picks up on the edge of your hearing. It's accompanied by shrill laughter. Screams. Cries for Mercy.

    Sister Miramond comes running moments later from a rooftop, and casually jumps down like she didn't just set flame to your city.

    "Please stop setting my city on fire," you mutter.

    The cultists pursuing you all can't be permitted to follow you back to the hideout.

    "We have more important things than rocks and gardens to worry about, Father," the priestess snips in reply.

    Adwin stops walking, and tilts his head slightly. "Not necessarily."

    A suicidal cultist peeks around the edge of the alleyway. A single flick of your boy's wrist snaps one of his knives into their neck. So much force was used, the weapon continues in a straight line through the victim's neck. Their head rolls out into the alleyway.

    You all stop walking. The men that come around the corner stop walking.

    Your boy runs straight at them with a straight face, and enough brutality to put a demon to shame.
    It takes less than a minute for every mask to be cast off of horrified faces.
    Weapons to be shattered.
    For five new corpses to collapse to the floor.

    Adwin calmly returns to your side, as you all pick up the pace, and head for the end of the district. He mildly informs you, "violence was inevitable, Father. I struck as decisively as I was able."

    Irefist coughs. "Pretty fuckin' able."

    "Fights like a demon," Julian mutters. Her gaze lingers on the blood-soaked blonde for a moment. "You're injured."

    Your heart rate spikes, and your gaze snaps to Adwin fast enough to give a lesser man whiplash. He's scratched in many places. The blood is mostly his. You swallow a wave of panic. It would be enough to stop most men in their tracks, yet he looks completely unfazed. Nothing looks lethal, but he should be totally compromised. You're already digging for gauze and bandages. "Are you alright?"

    A detached look stares at you. "Of course."

    He copes with pain by disassociation.

    You choke down a wave of nausea, and get behind him. There's no one at your back. You're keeping it that way. Both hands go to dressing every visible wound as you walk. No poison. Thank the Gods.

    Irefist and Sister Miramond dart ahead, looking bothered, but they don't waste any time in checking the next wall for enemy forces.

    You keep a sharp eye out, all while taking the moment to cover more of Adwin's injury.

    Julian's whisper is remarkably loud. It makes you nearly jump out of your skin, but immediately sets your nerves at ease. "All clear."

    The rest of the wrappings are put away. Just about every inch of Adwin's skin is covered. "There wasn't any time for a poultice or balm," you mutter.

    "I'll be alright."

    Crossing over to the checkpoint, you both stop just outside the gate. The snowy-haired priestess comes around the corner. "Father Pevrel's men are at the post. They've been ordered not to move under pain of worse than death, apparently. Says there's been executions all through the evening. Several civilians in the building he's posted at. Difficult to discern the number. Irefist is seeing to it." Her eyes narrow. "Your hearing, I presume?"

    You dart a glance over your shoulder. Lingering in this quarter is bad news. "Yes. We— I offered to grant confession this evening to anyone seeking to repent."

    Irefist comes from around the corner. "Twenty," he huffs. "Looks like he's got a small guard of edge brothers with him, and the rest are tied up. What the fuck is going on? I thought this place was cleared out?"

    >A] You do not have the time or the patience to deal with Father Pevrel right now. Send Sister Miramond ahead to get him to mask his prisoners. You'll pass through the hideout unseen and unheard, and will get to the tunnels as quickly as you can. You won't enable another opportunity for your enemies to waste your time.
    >B] Mercy. He's torturing and killing the prisoners. You'll go and confront Father Pevrel, but only to put him in his place. These men and women are to remain unharmed until your work is done.
    >C] You are the Father of Honesty. Stick to your word, do your job, and hear out the repentant.
    >D] By all the Gods, you just need to rest. Go find a safe place to crash for a little while. You'll assess the situation when you wake up. You need this badly, and will get more recovery without any distractions.
    >E] Kill two birds with one stone. You'll take it easy, and have some tea with the Father of Wrath. Gather some information, get your break, and see where to go from there. It's not sleep, but would be the next best thing.
    >F] Write-in.
     
    Last edited:
  • Threadmarks
    • Chapter 36: Forgive Me, Father - Part 1
  • Threadmarks
    • Chapter 36: Forgive Me, Father - Part 1
    "You don't want to hear that I'm merely a man, too."​


    Crossing into the hideout's district comes with the accompaniment of five priests of Vengeance. A patrol also passes by in the streets. You get the impression that Father Pevrel requisitioned additional men to ensure your safe arrival, and to guarantee that the location you cleared this morning wasn't compromised.

    At the edge of the district— overlooking the rainy countryside— is your hideout. Its dilapidated, crumbling stone looks more horrific in the evening than it even did at dawn. The second floor has a priest of Vengeance poised at its only window, with a bow and arrow drawn. The low staircase leading up to its sealed door is in disuse. You try not to laugh to yourself upon realizing that the entire top floor of the building is still completely sealed off. Your invocation to Agriculture was so potent, no one has likely been able to breach the building. It might be the most secure location in the entire city thanks to your efforts.

    To everyone's confusion, you divert their movement away from the street, and head for the exit you and Father Pevrel took earlier in the day. The hideout's new primary entrance is recessed into a slope at the rear of the building. The entire structure is on top of a hollowed out series of tunnels. They extend from a singular hallway in the basement, including the passage you are about to descend into. You find the entry-point in a trap door at ground-level, dozens of yards away from the structure. The clergy of Vengeance on patrol makes no effort to follow you inside, as you all step down into complete darkness.

    Adwin makes a terrified noise almost instantly. You call out to him, "there are torches a few feet down the passage. The supplies have been cleared away. You can walk just ahead of me."

    He rapidly proceeds ahead of you. It dawns on you that the ex-demon chose the church of light Herself as his new home, and it's likely no coincidence. You'll want to bring ample light sources for your exploration later.

    For now, the underground location seems desolate. Just to be safe, you call out in a low tone. "Father Anscham, leader of the Church of Mercy. I'm entering with three others in my company. We're armed. Please stay your hands."

    Two clergymen grumble down the corridor. You recognize their low tones as that of the men you heard earlier this morning, in Father Pevrel's care. Their creed is to not stay their hands. This is horse-shit. Who cares if the tunnel has an echo. Father Anscham probably could do with hearing something like this.

    "Father Anscham," one of the priests croons, as you come around the corner with your shield high. He then growls, "Father Pevrel has been expecting you. He's upstairs."

    A vicious smile, from both men. The damn staircase is exceptionally rickety. And weak. And not built to support over 310lbs of devotion.

    "Watch your step," the other priest smiles.




    ​
    You sigh, and send everyone else up ahead of you. There's no further questions or harassment. You all make it to the top floor— no stairs broken— and emerge into the scent of death.

    Filth and rot is so hot on the air, Irefist and Sister Miramond instantly put a sleeve to their noses and mouths. You and Adwin simply cast a patient glance to each other. It's worth cautioning the bandaged youth, "try not to touch anything."

    The unlocked stairwell lets out into the room you slaughtered the first demon of misconception in. It's a small space, and lit up only near the ground level. Once an ordinary bedroom, the windowless area is now adorned with broken furniture. Thousands of wooden splinters litter every surface. An inch-deep coating of green bough coats the floor. The yellow-green herb smells just like honey, and it's luminescence is purely the color of gold. As you all wade through the new variety of yours and Mother Bethaea's plant, its new properties manifest. Sticky tufts of bright pollen waft into the air. The poison is excruciating when bare skin makes contact.

    "Stop walking," you murmur. Everyone complies. The clouds settle.

    There's still corpses draped over the broken furniture in the nearly-black space. At its center is a monstrous, five-foot wide cube. The item is dripping with pine tar. You know that within its layered stone recesses are the remains of a demon. It's supported by new columns on the floor, and around its sides that stretch down from the ceiling. The overall impression is of wooden pillars encasing a single organic block. The smell of fresh pine intermingles with all of the gore, and almost provides relief from the unrelenting decay. You take out your flask, and murmur to it. "Water."

    The item complies. You pour out the endless container directly in front of you. It dampens the pollen, and prevents any more from picking up, or threatening your companions. "Come on."

    A single-file line is formed behind you. You call out once more, "Father Pevrel! It's Father Anscham. There are three others in my company. We're armed. Please stay—"

    Gravel replies from a room you have yet to enter. "Heard you running your mouth already, Anscham. Get your fat ass in here."

    Adwin and Irefist bristle like cats. Julian mutters, "boy, isn't he one to talk?"

    You sigh, and nod your head towards the direction of the debasement. "Come on."

    What should have once been a respectable hearth and kitchen area has been converted into the den of an executioner. You resist the urge to draw back upon entering, and press on into what little space is not adorned with corpses. Wooden planks underfoot creak, and a pool of blood is tracked through. Tied up adjacent to a central (lit) fire-pit, sweating and crammed together are fifteen men and women. Only seven are still alert and are (obviously) alive. They're all trying to look to you. Three of them immediately begin pleading. "Mercy, Father." "Mercy." "Mercy!"

    Nausea sticks to you worse than the heat and stench of decay. You hand off your flask to Sister Miramond. "Get them something to drink."

    Storming over to Father Pevrel is appropriate. The priest's stubble somehow looks worse than it did this morning. His long, black, graying hair is slicked back from exertion and blood. He has a sideways grin on his gaunt face, along with ample heat. You know the twisted bastard has been enjoying the day more than anyone. He's leaning slightly against an overturned table, with a cold poker in his hands. The sadist delights in waving the item towards you nonetheless. A sing-song, teasing tone does not pair well with his guttural voice, or the threat of violence in every gesture. "Ah-ah-aaah Anscham!"

    You try not to look too excited with the sharp end of a stick pointing towards you. He keeps it around the level of your gut, and makes a few jabbing motions as you sneer, "there were at least ninety men and women at that hearing. I asked you to facilitate repentance. What is the meaning of this? And— and would you please put that down."

    The poker is tossed casually aside. One of the women tied down screams as it clatters to the floor, and starts crying hysterically despite the item being several feet away. You've been in similar states of distress before, whip your head around towards your ward, and do not need your fellow ex-prisoner in here for more than an instant longer than necessary. "Adwin, please wait in the basement. I will be down the minute my work here is finished. Please. I apologize in advance for however long this may take."

    A quiet, "yes, Father," accompanies the most uncomfortable departure you've ever seen someone make.

    The instant Adwin is out of sight (and what you hope is hearing range), you snap back to Father Pevrel. "Get them off of there. I'm doing everything in my ability to help you do your job. Don't start interfering with mine."

    He couldn't look more pleased. The priest's sword is still dripping with crimson. He simply taps the item on the floor once. Every single person present stiffens upright in a moment of inhuman terror. The lord of retribution clears his throat. "Ahem. Would anyone like for me to loosen their bonds?"

    Panicked murmurings of "no, Father," and "please stay away," and "don't touch me, Gods," and "MERCY, FATHER ANSCHAM," immediately ensue.

    Irefist snatches the flask of water from Sister Miramond, and turns it upside down over red-hot coals. Steam floods the chamber. It only takes a minute to put out the kitchen's roaring blaze.

    The grimace you have could cut glass. You keep your gaze fixed on the awful pits where Father Pevrel's eyes should be. The sick fuck is smiling. He stops tapping his sword, and asks you in a syrupy-sweet tone, "would you like a room?"

    The priestess of Storm in your company groans. "I'm waiting downstairs with Adwin."

    Irefist crosses the room, and thrusts the flask to your chest. You take hold of it instantly, and he Storms off without saying another word.

    The door is slammed so hard behind him, three more people tied down scream.

    There was a priest of Vengeance in the corner that you hadn't realized was even there. It's the last one of Father Pevrel's retinue from earlier this morning. He's practically melded with the shadows. His church leader beckons the man over. As he passes by, Father Pevrel murmurs, "the one that's kept it together. Keep an ear out at the door. Mow him down if he tries to run."

    The silent priest cracks his neck, and kneels beside one of the elderly men tied to the hearth. You balk. It's the veteran with hearing damage that heckled you this morning.

    Your fellow deviant leans towards you and dead-pans, "kept the room next-door nice and tidy for you, Anscham. Put up a divider and everything. Thought you'd want to look this one in the face before sending him off. I'll see to the rest." A disgusted look passes over you from head-to-toe. "I know how much you like to get uncomfortable, but do me a favor, and try not to go running off. You wouldn't believe— no, knowing you, you'd like to believe how much trouble it was to keep them in line."

    It's a little too hot in the room. You clear your throat, and do not dwell on the fire iron, or the red-hot coals, or the look that is lingering on your own gaze. You remind your colleague (loudly enough for everyone present to hear), "I trust that you will honor your own tenets, Father Pevrel, and leave my children unharmed for the remainder of the evening. They should have nothing to fear if they are sincerely repentant."

    All of his crooked teeth flash at you. "That remains to be seen."

    He's disgusting. You scowl at him. He mocks scowling at you, and waves his sword some more at you for good measure.

    This is below both of your stations. You head off to the room next-door.

    It's shockingly tidy, comfortably warm, and is devoid of all death. You close the entrance to the normal room behind you gently, and leave it unlocked. The wooden floor is dusted and wiped free of blood. The bed is made with fresh sheets. A roaring fireplace is tended to, with no ash to speak of. The scent of freshly cut lumber and the crackle of flame lends itself well to the bright light throughout the small space. A few humble pieces of furniture have been set aside at the edges of the walls, though a large chest is at the foot of the bed, and two chairs are in the center of the floor on a clean rug. Parchment, ink, and a few candles are obviously set out for you on an end-table nearest one of the chairs. So is yellow sealing wax, stamps, and envelopes. A jar of wine and glasses are on a nearby nightstand. A little divider is in the center of the room. A few pillows were provided by the other chair, so those who are confessing could kneel or sit.

    Father Pevrel likes interior decorating.


    ​


    You sigh. The chair he picked out for you looks devastatingly comfortable.

    It is. You sink into it. The high back does wonders for your spine.

    Muttering to your flask, "tea. You know the one," fills the container with the scent of dandelion root and vanilla. You're getting something in the way of rest today, no matter how unorthodox it's going to appear.






    Sipping at the hot, foamy, slightly-maple-flavored beverage loosens the last of the tension in your shoulders.

    The way you're seated has it so you can't see anyone who comes in the room, but there's no other entrances. You wait a few minutes with the steady pounding rain on the walls for company. The exterior windows and doors were all sealed shut with solid stone this morning.

    There's three knocks on the door in rapid succession.

    The last of the decay in the air feels like it's evaporated with the herbal remedy in hand. You leave the container uncapped, letting the thin trail of steam rising from it move against the softer tone of your voice. "Come in."

    The priest of Vengeance from the hall shoves the elderly veteran you saw before into the room. The prisoner is hardly scared stiff. The silhouette of his bent back is clear as day, thanks to the torchlight behind you. Father Pevrel absolutely knew what he was doing when he arranged the space. You can't make out any small features, but everything from the way the man straightens out his shirt, huffs, and even how he trembles from head-to-toe is plain to see.

    The traitor stays standing, even after the door is firmly shut. "Can you hear me, Father?"

    He's quick to address me by my title now.

    "Yes. You know full well that Mercy is always listening."

    He speaks far more loudly than necessary, thanks to his hearing damage. "Father! Father, I've sinned. But I don't want to ask you to forgive me."

    This is unusual.

    You keep things equally informal. "Go right ahead."

    "I've lived a long and storied life! I know your type. Nicholas', too!" It's so weird hearing Father Pevrel's given name, it takes you a moment to register it. You remain silent, and respectful, as the old man goes on. "Perverts! The both of ya'!"

    You try not to spit out your tea. You are a professional. Straightening upright, you take the quietest deep breath you can manage. It all smells vaguely like dandelion and ghee. You can do this. You can let Mercy's child vent.

    "Can't say I'm much better. Have had my fill. Came here from Beorward. Spent most of my youth gallivanting at the old Rub and Grub Pub. The gold I spent there, Father. The things I've seen! The things I've done!"

    He gets into the saucy details. You're beet-red by the end of it.

    "...but that's all besides the point. I came here to the city of restraint in my old age. Thought that it would save me! Felt like I was throwing my life away, would you believe that? Women. Thought they'd be the death of me. Turns out that at the end of the day, I couldn't stand the red city in the slightest. But things have been so much worse. My family's mostly dead and buried. Lost my hearin'. Lost half my face. Lost my wife. Nearly lost my damn mind when I heard some fucked up kid took over for old Elias."

    The old man's stopped shouting. "I hate you. You've tread on holy ground, and sullied the good name of our church. The country thinks we're a laughing-stock. EADRIC! The city of SHIELDS! We fight harder than anyone. I nearly sold my own damn soul to get you out. Rented out my empty home to a bunch of traitors and thieves. Wouldn't tell none of your crazy, blasphemous, ruins-crawling, killer traitors to the crown for friends where any of your enemies went off to. Wouldn't tell Nicholas shit, either. Fuck him, and the black horse he rode in on. Fuck the both of you. You can go on fuckin' each other, for all I care. Don't think we all didn't hear the way you two were going at it. It's disgusting. You're disgusting, and I don't regret a damn thing."

    >The following are mutually exclusive. Majority vote will decide.
    >A] You are a professional, and have heard far worse than any of this before from man and demon alike. Stay civil, and play this by the book. If this man doesn't want forgiveness, he won't get any. You can move on.
    >B] As the leader of the Church of Mercy, the Father of Compassion, the lord of kindness, and a good man who loves his family and home more than life itself, you can still offer this man a chance at redemption. Seriously double-down on your station, and prove him wrong. Try to provide this lost soul with a chance at salvation.
    >C] By all the Gods does this man have a lot of information. You can put emotion aside for this. It's abuse of your power to the highest degree, and a mortal sin, but you can justify this to yourself as unseating your enemies. Take advantage of your position, and spin the extraction of valuable information from him as part of the confession.
    >D] There is no illusion that this man wants you dead. You'll discreetly draw out as much info from him as you're able. If he's unwilling to repent, you'll turn him over to the Father of Retribution when you're done. It's an old practice, but is still completely founded in tradition. This old man might appreciate you upholding your ancestor's methods of repentance.
    >E] There are MANY ways you can phrase this. (Write-in.)




    ​

    As the lord of kindness, you reply in a soft tone. There's no anger. No judgement. "From what I hear, the Rub and Grub Pub doesn't quite compare to the Battered Maid, or the Pit, sir. I certainly can't imagine the women matching their… performance, from either establishment. But the capital's worst is far from appropriate conversation on my part."

    The old man pauses.

    You continue to gently reply, "you don't want to hear that I'm merely a man, too. I know I'm a far cry from the best leader that I can be. You don't want a confession. Not truly. You want to hear me tell you that you're right. Listen to me: You're right. I've been called many things, and not all of them are incorrect."

    Straightening his spine, your elder huffs. "Well. Hmph."

    He's so shocked, he doesn't know how to retort. You slowly sip at your tea, and give him a minute to mull things over. The earthy, slightly bitter, and vanilla-soaked brew has your nerves completely at ease. Your citizen is still visibly trembling from whatever Father Pevrel put him through.

    The long pause is ultimately broken with your sincere apology. "I'm sorry for the mistakes I've made, and for running from my problems. As you can see, I am doing everything in my ability to confront them now."

    You're making him hideously uncomfortable. There's a little shifting. It's clear that your citizen is physically damaged from the events of the afternoon, and that you've dealt him an even worse blow by living up to your titles. "I would like to make you a formal offer to attend my sermon tomorrow. It will be held in the Church of Mercy. As the Goddesses' hands remain open for my children to hold, so too will the hall of our home. I'm facilitating a message from our Goddess, and your presence would be welcome. Please don't feel obligated to even reply. If it's alright with you, I would like to elaborate on a number of points you've made, while we still have a moment to speak. You deserve to know who has truly sullied our home, and all of Mercy's good name."

    He remains standing. There's enough bitterness in this man's voice to outclass dandelion root. You're legitimately making him question his life choices. The reply is spit. "Out with it, then."

    He's spent his life in fear of demons, has battled with his own inclinations, has lost members of his family, and destroyed himself to try and protect his home. The fact that he's willing to listen to you at all is a blessing in and of itself. This man may hate you, but you CAN feel for him. "Even if it kills me, I'm going to get better at this. Please excuse me for being so forward. You're going to be upset— but I've buried thirty lost souls this week. Every second I spend on mind games or petty politics is an insult to their memory. I have so much demon's blood on my hands, I don't know if I'll ever get it all out from my nails. I want to state the obvious, despite all of these factors: You have been consorting with enemies to our nation. Our true enemies."

    He shifts, and you immediately stop talking. There's no need to interrupt if he wants to divulge information.

    Both of you wait with the crackle of fire, and pounding rain for company.

    Picking at the congealed blood, poison ivy, pollen, and grave dirt under your nails, you murmur, "our enemies have created collectives of demons voluntarily. I have put down enough of them to account for at least one hundred lost lives in a single day. This death toll does not include the lives of my clergy, or any of my children that I have yet to account for. I'm known as the Father of Compassion, no matter how little justice I've done the name. Yet my hands have been OPEN to anyone and everyone who seeks shelter. This is not merely out of respect to my station. I love my friends, my allies, my home, and my family more than life itself. Most of my recent absence was in direct service to King Magnus. Our King pardoned the killers and traitors that are in my home because of their efforts to save the lives of our countrymen. They all have easily killed more demons than the number of women you've bedded."

    A noise is made in disbelief.

    You firmly repeat, "easily. This is all an insult to your intelligence, though. You are sharp, and brutally strong. You are a citizen of the city of shields, after all. I have my faith in the Gods, and in my Father. I don't need to ask if you've lost your faith. But have you?"

    A spit of, "of course not," briefly interjects the last of your explanation.

    "You know that you are bringing killers and traitors to your hearth, do you not?"

    "'course I do."

    He's shutting up fast, and knows that speaking out of turn is going to do his cause more harm than good. You levelly finish, "you know just as well as I that Elias appointed me in his final moments, despite it taking me years to fully understand why. But I have always had faith in him. More than my love. I have faith in my citizens. In my allies."

    The aging man sniffs. "Whole lot of talk, Father. Took you years to understand why? How many of us do you think understands it at all? He was cracked. I'd like to hear your excuse. Out with it, then."

    >A] Produce Father Edmund's suicide note. Keep it in hand, and ask this elderly citizen if he knows how to read. You'll show your mentor's last words to this lost soul, and if he still doesn't wish to repent, you'll carry on with your business. If hard evidence and the word of the former leader of the Church of Mercy isn't enough for this man, he can take heart with your work alongside a Goddess tomorrow.
    >B] Explain that your own struggles and sin have helped you to empathize more than likely any other man alive. Elaborate on how you want to support the struggle of your citizens, and all of mankind. This is a common man who cares about saving his own skin, and you'll gladly express some normalcy and compassion towards that cause.
    >C] State that Father Edmund trusted you with the care and keeping of the Church of Mercy precisely because of your imprisonment there. It's more than your own merit, but also your history in your home, your deep attachment to the clergy, and all of your faith. It's probably too much information, but when has that stopped you before?
    >D] Write-in.

    "It's like I said. You're right. There's wisdom in your experiences— and you know how tired we all are. How badly we want to stop burying our children. I've practically been bathing in blood every week. You've seen plenty of action, too. We are all cracked— and I am NO exception. THAT is why Father Edmund appointed me. He knew full well that I'm a deviant, and that I— and that I have had my share of sin. He knew that my enemies would seek to fracture us all, with or without my experiences. Your concern, his judgement, and my position has nothing to do with just the Gods, or demons."

    You could not sound more apologetic. "I just can't stand to see people fall apart. We're all people. We're all only human. It's no excuse for my behavior. I just want to give you an explanation, and— and some of our explanations are stranger than others. I have my faith in the Gods, but I'm an addict."

    The old man sniffs. "Hmph."

    He can respect it. You hate it, and wince, and mutter. "I have a problem. I'm sorry I've disappointed you, and for all of the shame I've brought to our home. I can't repay your loyalty to our city, no matter— no matter what form of support you've chosen to pursue. Be it supporting killers and heathens, or trying to protect our home through any means necessary. You think of me as a pervert. As the successor to a madman."

    You grit your teeth. "How badly do you think a suicidal and overworked politician would want this all to end? Can you blame him for having a break in his composure? For recognizing that our home, and all of our people's suffering should END? How badly do you think I want the very same thing?"

    The hardest stare you've ever felt comes from the other side of a screen.

    Several minutes pass in silence.

    You murmur, "I'm altogether too tired to be angry. This is a tragedy. A human tragedy."

    The old man lets himself out of the room. He mumbles at the door, almost too quietly for you to hear.

    "I'll see you tomorrow."

    The door clicks shut.
     
    Last edited:
  • Threadmarks
    • Chapter 36: Forgive Me, Father - Part 2
  • Threadmarks
    • Chapter 36: Forgive Me, Father - Part 2
    "There is very little you could say to me that I have not heard before."​


    Not even a minute later, the priest of Vengeance in Father Pevrel's care has taken another individual, loosened their bonds, and shoved them in the room with you. The door slams shut.

    The person who's entered is a woman. She's likely in her late 40's. The skirts obscuring the width of her hips are wet with gore. A corpse was likely laying on her at some point during the day, given the smell. Her breath is rapid, her hair is loose from her messy bun, and she has her hands in fists. The chair on the other side of the screen is grabbed, and she drags it several feet back to sit farther away from you.

    She collapses into the seat, puts her face to her hands, and starts to cry. An angry snap fires off at you. "I hope you're HAPPY."

    The voice is familiar. This was one of the women who was berating you for your weight at the hearing. She had little else to say, and was remarkably quick to keep to herself once you accused everyone present of obstructing Father Pevrel's judgement.

    Disrespect doesn't mean she should be neglected, or made to suffer. You ask, "are you injured?"

    "Of course I'm injured! You miserable pig, who do you think you left us with?"

    Every person in the other room is likely in some degree of pain. You fidget with your Relic, but before you can make any proposition to heal or grant the woman relief from her pain, she starts ranting.

    "They were right to lock you away. Anything would be better than this." She sneers, and puts on a sarcastic, nasally whine. "Forgive me Father, for I have siiiinned. You want to hear about how I've used the money given to me this last year to get my sons to a safer home? How about the supplies we stole after the crop went to shit?! Would you forgive me for sheltering my countrymen in a time of war from demons, when our DEFENDER was nowhere to be found? I'll go on and on about my greed! It's understandable, isn't it?! It's far from a sin when the LORD OF RESTRAINT has NONE to speak of!"

    She starts going on a tirade about your weight. It's not something you particularly care to listen to.

    >A] But you will anyways, and try to address this woman's concerns as best as you can.
    >1] Plainly state that you don't care what debasement she has to say, you just want to heal her injuries.​
    >2] Give her some space. She's probably not going to be receptive to you getting near to her in any capacity.​
    >B] For fucks sake there is so much information here. Press it, and her. You're certain this woman has no respect for you, and likely won't want to speak properly at all. She can be civil, and go along with your proposals, or leave.
    >C] You have enough self-confidence to destroy the composure of a demon of interpretation. Manipulate the conversation and match every one of her jabs with your own. She's going to hate you for it, but it should glean more information.
    >D] Write-in.

    She needs distance from you. Generosity is one of your tenets, and you'll gladly give it to her. She needs space to rant, and to get all this off her chest. You see a golden opportunity to get a little more comfortable, to work at some tea, and to wait for this woman to fall silent.

    You take a deep breath, with blood and floral notes all through the air. This is legitimately the most rest you've had in weeks. Everything is fine.




    ​

    The woman sitting beside you is shaking with anger. She faces the screen between the two of you, and spits, "the other lecher who set this place up had the right idea. Putting something between us so I don't have to see your chins, or your podgy face. Been thinking on what you said at the hearing. That you were willing to sacrifice your image to protect our home. Do you have any idea how fucking stupid that sounds? My boys have been breaking their backs trying to help rebuild the walls outside our city. I'd be shocked if you could lift more than the lard you're already carrying. Think you could have put that gut to use rebuilding the walls around our farms? Or does a pig feel out of place outside the capital? How about the roads? What about the flooding, or our stores here in the city that are wearing thin? Have you gone and gorged yourself on the last of our wares, too? Did you stop to think for one second that you have an entire fucking city at your disposal?!"

    She leans back, crosses her arms, and sneers hard enough that you see it through just her silhouette. "I get it. You like it. You aren't content to be the head of our city, to represent us all, or even to have a standing army at your disposal. All the rumors are spot-on, aren't they? You're a glutton through-and-through, and you're just going to sit there, and TAKE EVERYTHING that I can DISH OUT, aren't you?"

    This is as much of a confession for you as it is for these lost souls. You also have enough self-confidence to destroy the composure of a demon, and can handle yourself. She's going to hate you for it, and that's alright. "With all due respect, ma'am, I am attempting to facilitate a confession in Mercy's name. If this matter is weighing on your shoulders more than any other sin, please. Go right ahead. There is very little you could say to me that I have not heard before."

    Something overtakes her. Something sinister. Her shaking stops, and the citizen of your fair city simply smiles. "You were a walking skeleton when you left Eadric, Father Anscham. I can't imagine that your skin looks the same. Has She taken kindly to stretch marks? Starving you would be a Mercy at this point, wouldn't it be? But you can't serve her. Not like you used to. I wager that you can't even find normal armor. Will you take our most valuable resources, our smith's priceless Time, and have them fashion a cage for your gut to spill out of? And what of weapons? Do your sausage fingers simply drop anything you wish to wield?"

    If the woman had fangs, she'd be bearing them. Venom drips from every word. "You took your Time getting here. Has fattening yourself up done no miracles for your mobility? I'd wager simply crossing town has become a chore. Imagine— the lord of light being the heaviest man in the city! And what of your—" There's so much hate in the word, it scarcely sounds human. "—beloved ruins? Did they roll you out? How much do you think you would need to ration to meet your needs for a single day's expedition, Father? Well?"

    The fireplace and pouring rain is a welcome reminder of sanity. You sigh, and cast a glance to the flame. "Inertia preaches stasis. My enemies are waging war on humanity's motivation, and are fighting my ceaseless attempts at restoring order. They have our stolen crops during a potential famine. My enemies are destroying the stability of our nation. Are you aware that they are creating these floods, are the ones intentionally starting outbreaks, and are destroying the countryside? These traitors and cultists you call countrymen—" You laugh a little to yourself. "—Mercy. I've protected my citizens from the very same demons you have allowed to fester in our home."

    She must be hiding a lot, to not acknowledge a single point. "You're in leagues with a sadist, and I wouldn't be surprised if he's making things worse."

    Your smile falls. "What did you expect?"

    There's actually a moment where she shuts up. A firm, "I—" nearly interjects.

    The flask is capped, and stashed, as you calmly inquire, "my own city's elders have invited a fellow church leader in. Are you telling me that I should have turned him away? That the lord of protection should have gone out of his way to not uphold his image?"

    Rapid-fire excuses. She's not even thinking. "You were quick to close the doors to every other room in your castle."

    "I'm sure you will understand the importance of keeping my sons and daughters safe. There are worse monstrosities lurking in the shadows than both demons I've killed today. Both of them were collectives of Inertia. Both died in the name of protecting our home, through invoking Agriculture and Mercy. It would have been significantly easier if traitors to our King and country were not tying up the church leader that has been called to our city."

    "I didn't call for anything."

    "Save for what you have today?"

    "I can say whatever I please."

    "Say what you will about my career, or my weight, but I don't need to remind you that this is the city of truth. You are hardly in a better position to criticize. Nothing has stopped you from speaking your mind freely thus far—" Pinching the bridge of your nose, you mutter, "ah. I see."

    "What."

    "You've remembered restraint— thanks to our discussion."

    She's so outraged, all pretense of decency falls. "Fuck you. Dick."

    This is beneath both of you. "Do you wish to spent the moments your children may be fighting for their lives debasing me, and berating the choices I've made? Or would you care to stop, and think on the choices you have made?"

    "I've thought plenty about what I've done." You've heard demons that sound less vicious. "It wasn't enough."

    "If I'm not mistaken, ma'am, I would say you are the one with an unhealthy appetite for destruction—"

    She abruptly stands up. The almost-imperceptible hiss she makes is every indication that there's some burn or wound on her back. You'd recognize it anywhere, as she snaps, "I don't have to sit here and listen to this."

    The day got off on the right foot after all. Your heart feels significantly lighter. This is no nightmare. No memory. It's a chance for a better future. For not repeating the same mistakes. You let her walk away, but politely call out, "the REPENTANT have nothing to fear, ma'am! The GODS are Merciful!"

    An enemy picks up her skirts, huffs, and heads for the door. She doesn't believe you. The heathen has no faith to speak of. She leaves, and before the door can even close, there's the sound of a struggle.

    The priest of Vengeance shoulder-checks her hard from outside the door. At the same Time, he grunts, and drags some poor figure inside the room.

    You get to your feet, and cross over the other side of the screen. "What's the meaning of this—"

    The door slams shut, and he's already gone. You bring a hand to your mouth, and muffle, "Mercy. Sir—"
     
    Last edited:
  • Threadmarks
    • Chapter 36: Forgive Me, Father - Part 3
  • Threadmarks
    • Chapter 36: Forgive Me, Father - Part 3
    "I want to lessen your pain in any way that I can."​


    There's an aging scholar curled in on himself. It was the same man who screamed when you first entered the chamber earlier. With his mustache slick with sweat, and his clothing torn in several places, you almost didn't recognize him. There's third-degree burns on his forearms and hands. Bits of white are visible in exposed muscle. Lacerations from rope is on his wrists, neck, and ankles. His eyes are unbearably wide. You'd recognize the look anywhere. His chestnut-colored pupils are pin-pricks, and are razor-focused on your shield and mace you've set aside in the corner of the room. You recognize his (previously mellow) voice. It's the same man who's been writing to Walter since you got back to Eadric. The same man who originally challenged your identity, without ever having the decency to address you himself. The same man who screamed for help in the room beside you just a few minutes ago.

    He clutches at the hem of your robes in desperation, while rasping one word. "Mercy."

    You kneel down beside him as slowly as you can, and keep the palms of your hands out. No weapons. No pain. The softness of your voice is a blessing. It only aids in keeping the victim's nerves at ease. "Of course. Please stay calm. I'm not going to hurt you."

    Father Pevrel obviously didn't care what condition anyone reached you in, or if they lived or died. The man continues to clutch at his knees, and breaks down sobbing hysterically. You know what it's like. He might need Time. The wounds on him are significant, but he won't want to be approached. Even making any sudden movements is going to set his nerves on fire.

    Some repetition will help. It might annoy your colleagues and friends to no end how circular your speech is, but the reminder throughout the sentence is going to get through the fog of pain he's in at some point. You're willing to make the effort, and keep your tone as gentle as a leaf on the wind. "Mercy is always with us. Mercy is with you, my child, and has heard your cry. No one is going to hurt you. Is there anything else you need? This was intended to be a confession. Nothing more. Is there anything else I can do for you?"

    He's nearly crying too hard to speak. Through a trail of snot and tears, the scholar sniffs, "please don't let them kill me."

    >A] Ask who. Don't push him any more than decency permits.
    >B] Don't push him at all. Reassure this man that he shouldn't have to fear for his life. He's begged for Mercy, and protection. Both are granted.
    >C] As delicately as you can, try to encourage this man to let you heal his injuries. Pain is likely making it impossible for him to focus.
    >1] Don't say a word. This is just as much a part of your job as anything else, and you'll be content to have eased even one more person's pain today.​
    >2] Simply remind the man that he's welcome to speak his mind, if he wishes.​
    >D] Write-in.




    ​

    No sudden movements. The softest tone you can manage. "Who?"

    A weak gesture is made towards the room next door. The man swallows hard. His reply is clipped. It has to be a struggle to keep it together for long enough to speak at all. "Priests. People. The cult. Nowhere's safe."

    You're already assessing the extent of the damage, and mentally tracking what herbs will make for the most effective treatment for the burns. "I want to lessen your pain in any way that I can. You're safe, here. I would like nothing more than to offer you my aid. Can you permit me to look after your injuries, while you tell me about who you are concerned with?"

    An abrupt nod. The abrasions on his neck were made from heat, and he stops the motion as soon as he can. It has to hurt to speak.

    You delicately unclasp your Relic. "I trust that you will not take off running. The injuries on your upper body are severe. Promise me that you will stay put."

    "I promise."

    "This will grant immediate relief from your pain."

    A desperate nod follows.

    You pry one of his hands off of his knees as gently and quickly as you can, while sliding the item into an outstretched palm. The man's redoubled agony catches in his throat, as you clasp his fingers around the item. "Stay still."

    Disbelief stares at you. He stammers, but can't find any words to say.

    You fish for your flask, and murmur to it, "tea. Start with the base of the blend from Beorward." Several instructions are made for balancing the quantities of various herbs so that your citizen's faculties aren't completely compromised. The container complies, to the best of your scrutiny. You assert, "it will keep the pain at bay through the night, and into the next day. It will take several minutes to take effect, but will ease your nerves. It's not poison." You take a brief sip as a demonstration.


    ​


    As a masochist, you can't help but love it. The bitter, exotic brew is as strong as you remember. It's practically a sludge of seeds. You mull a few out of your teeth, and extend the item to your stunned patient. The murmur you have remains as unassuming as possible, while you warn, "it's medicinal. I can provide something afterwards for the taste, if you wish. Don't have more than a mouthful to start, and stay put."

    The scholar works at the drink without question. The taste is intense enough that he's more than satisfied with a single swig. Fighting not to retch, the mild-mannered man makes no complaints.

    You pause in gathering supplies for poultices to get him a more mundane drink. "Water." It's irritating that he's having to use the site of the injury to hold the flask, but there's no better way to handle it with the tools at your disposal. You need both your hands for the work you're about to perform, and he almost can't make those burns any worse. "Have as much as you can stomach."

    The two of you make no further noise for several minutes, while you pick through the satchel Yech gifted you. It effortlessly held all of your supplies. You're the Father of Honesty, and politely explain, "I'm going to clean the site of the injury. It will heal over Time, if this is performed correctly. I'm gathering bandages, tools, and salves designed to retain moisture. I'll give you as much as I can for the road, and will teach you how to change the dressings. Please take as much water in now as you're able, and in the following days with a little salt."

    A mumble of, "yes, Father," through the flask. He's complying, and is still shocked beyond all reason by your Relic. "This is a holy gift."

    "Yes. I will do my best to write any instructions you need down for you, before you go. For you to have felt any pain— that injury is several hours old, is it not?" He nods in confirmation. You breathe a little more easily. "I need you to understand that the old Flesh is causing you further harm. If it's left alone, you will suffer enormously. I don't meant to alarm you, but you need to be aware of the risks: if it's left untreated, you will die."

    The tea has yet to set in, and he's got a clear enough mind to ask the obvious. "You're going to cut me up, aren't you?"

    Sighing hard, you reply, "no. No. If you would like for me to see to the injury now, I need to safely remove these deadened areas. It will not cause you any pain now, but may look like cause for alarm. You will want to keep your eyes off of the process. I'm asking you for permission to remove what's already rotted, while you have complete relief from your pain. Even an invocation from Mercy would still have you register sensation from an injury this severe. Waiting to seek treatment could cost you your life. I would like to offer you the protection you're seeking. Doing this may save the use of both your hands and arms. This is all to help you. Is this alright?" You're talking a lot. He's extremely pensive, but even through the trauma still looks sharp. You can't make any assumptions. "Do you understand? Please feel free to speak your mind. I would appreciate it if you can tell me what you think I am asking."

    He gets back to the flask, and thinks for several moments. "You want permission to take out what's been burnt off of me. It's going to look awful, but it won't do any more damage. There shouldn't be any pain now. There will be a lot later. Is that right?"

    "Yes. I'll give you everything that I can to help with it."

    Not even a skeptic would refuse advice from the Father of Healing. "Alright."

    Relief sinks into you. "Keep drinking." He does, and shifts a little. You murmur, "I'm sorry if you're uncomfortable. I cannot stress enough how important it is that you get as much fluid as you can. Which arm do you use predominantly?"

    "My right."

    "I'll work as quickly as I'm able. Let me see that for a moment." You take the flask, and mutter a number of ingredients to it to keep the man from getting water-sickness. A fair amount of salt shouldn't be too terrible with elderflower, lemon, and rosemary. Again, you make a show of sipping at it first.


    ​


    It's beautiful, and refreshing, and almost makes up for starting surgery on the floor in the dead of night. It's cleaner than most places you're willing to work with, and you'll have way more stability than the bed, at least. All the green in your eyes is even brighter as you hand the flask off, and go to get your tools. "You should look at what I'm using, to avoid becoming too alarmed if you catch a glance at them during the work. I strongly encourage you to not watch the procedure, but it is ultimately your call to make."

    A number of wickedly sharp, and sparkling clean metal tools are taken from your belongings. You try to not linger over any of them, and continue explaining as you show them to your patient. "I may need to use multiple items to clear away all of the debris. We will dress the entire area, which I'll need you to keep warm, and damp, despite how uncomfortable it will be. Please understand that the area will heal, but only if it is correctly treated. I am only removing what is already dead."

    The tea is kicking in. An impressed look passes over your tools, rather than one of terror. The edge in the man's voice is replaced with distance. "I thought I'd lose my arms, Father. Most of you lot will just chop the whole limb off, and pray for the best. You think this will work?"

    The memory of boiling oil poured over your own tortured skin sears in the back of your mind, right along with the dozens of attempts at working the area over. Invocations. Applying new methods on the hundreds of people who have come to your church over the years on the heels of demonic outbreaks. Years of training. Years of experimentation. Years of work. It's more than anyone in the year 606 should ever rightfully possess.


    ​


    Your grimace is a lot milder than it used to be. You have more strength than any man in any year should possess. "I know it will. Try not to make any rapid movements, but warn me if you need to. Try to stay relaxed. You can keep your gaze on the ceiling, or a decoration. Close your eyes, if you like, but take care not to drift off. I want to still grant you the opportunity to speak, if you care to."

    His breath has dramatically slowed. The scholar closes his eyes, and turns his head towards the ceiling. "Better safe than sorry."

    Several minutes pass by in silence. He's still badly shaken, and you don't push matters. You clean the entirety of the limb as quickly as you're able. It's the steadiest your hands have been in nearly a year. Level breath, and no sweat on your brow accompanies the work. Pieces of his shirt, and flecks of soot are stuck fast throughout his forearm. Chunks of hardened, black tissue are all mixed in with it. A collection of fine gravel is the worst offender, and is stuck throughout the base of his right palm. You've performed surgery on your own face before, but this is hardly child's play. All of your focus stays on the task at hand, even as your charge starts to speak.

    "I want to thank you."

    You're the Father of Healing, and are just doing your job. It's a tragedy that you can't do more. It's work like this that occupied almost all of your Time in Eadric in years past. You'd gladly run yourself into the ground to do more, and bitterly have to stress where you are. What this is all about. Why you have any power or ability at all. "This is the city of Mercy."

    There is a LOT more clarity through the man's tone. He's as relaxed as you could hope for, and this is likely the most relief he'll get for weeks to come. "And I helped things get this bad."

    A vein gets dangerously close to the edge of your knife. You quickly remind him, "try to not tense up."

    The two of you spend an agonizingly long moment in silence, while the man forces himself to relax. His breathing slows.

    "Thank you."

    "Listen." A shallow breath. It's a repressed sigh. "We've all been wasting your Time. Everyone knows there's no seizing Eadric's castle when it's occupied by its Father. The city itself is impenetrable. Anyone who tries to take you in a fight is a dead man. Your enemies know that the only way they're getting to you is through wearing you out until you don't have anything left to give."

    The phrase 'your enemies' puts a lot more light in your eyes. He's not referring to himself. He knows who's behind this. "The best laid plans often go to waste."

    A horrified, stifled catch in the man's breath stops a bitter laugh from leaving his lips. "Yes. Well. You are absolutely correct. You can imagine that I did not expect Father Pevrel, his men, or any of our allies to spare no human expense in slowing you down."

    "This is not the city of wisdom," you grumble.

    Did my people seriously not expect the lord of retribution to bring all this pain back down on them?

    The seeds are absolutely taking effect. The man's judgement is becoming more compromised by the second. Though it's far from optimal, you encourage him to lay back before proceeding. He gladly complies, while you take the flask from his hands and move your Relic to his other fingers. Working as quickly as you're able compromises your ability to make much conversation, but you can't risk this being cut short. Literally needing to cut out a large swathe of the man's left arm has you finally start sweating, but he's completely at ease. Eyes closed. No pain.

    "This is going to kill me, isn't it?"

    You grit your teeth. "The extent of the damage is severe. By all rights, a priest or priestess of Mercy should see to you for the next several weeks. We could keep the dressings changed, and help to manage your pain. It's less a matter of the skin, and more of after care." You bitterly mention, "recovering from an injury this extreme normally requires increased nutrition, and ample rest."

    Lesser men would kill themselves many times over before enduring a fraction of the pain you have. Recovering from burns this severe without any professional care is a death sentence. If the loss of fluid doesn't take him, he's going to struggle through poor nutrition, and an extended recovery Time. You'll reduce as much risk of infection as you can, but changing the dressings that are needed will be an agony no man should have to endure alone. This scholar will likely take his own life before he powers through the pain of it. Even if he does, any additional stress, strain, filth, or injury will undo all of your work.

    The damn ache in you isn't going away any Time soon. You can't help but realize that it was entirely absent during the entirety of your work here. There's probably a correlation between rest of the soul, and easing the ache in it. Doing more now still carries a very real fear of your soul bursting. This is only one man that Father Pevrel got his hands on. There were nearly 100 at that hearing, and an entire city that still needs to be seen to.

    >A] You'll send this man off with enough pain relief to kill him. Explain how to ration it. If he can't handle the pain (it will be agony by tomorrow), it's on him how he proceeds from there. This situation is tragic, but you have to recognize the limits your enemies have imposed on you.
    >B] Inform him that you do not have the hands to spare in the Church of Mercy right now for obvious reasons, but that he is welcome to come to the castle for your clergy's care. You'll inform them all of his exceptional need as soon as humanly possible. No one is to change any safety or supply measures you have in place, but the offer should be given to hope that this is not all for nothing.
    >C] Send this scholar to the Church of Mercy with a signed and sealed note endorsing his care. You all are placing the sick and injured at the LOWEST priority for supplies, but he'll stand a better shot of survival in the castle than anywhere else.
    >D] Do as much as humanly possible with your own two hands. Afterwards, you'll invoke Mercy. It's going to be excruciating, and you know that the more you do, the harder it's going to tax you. It's not logical, and it will hurt your own work to save many more lives, but this is the city of emotion. You're the Father of Compassion. Anyone could understand. (Majority vote required.)
    >1] Do the BARE MINIMUM to guarantee his survival, and release the invocation afterwards.​
    >2] Guarantee that he has no pain in the weeks to come.​
    >3] Completely heal him.​
    >E] Write-in.




    ​

    Peace and quiet falls on a man in the twilight of his life. Relentless sheets of rain blend into a steady stream of faint noise against the hideout's solid stone walls. The fireplace at your back pops and crackles, lending enough heat and light to see your work clearly. The debridement of the man's left hand and arm was far more involved than the right. It's brutal work, but you are the most competent healer in the nation. Your skill is possibly unrivaled by all the world. There's nothing left to chance. A long pit will be left behind in his limb, by the Time you're done picking and scraping the last of the fire-iron's work out.

    That is, it will be if he lives beyond the next few weeks. All the while, you think to yourself: Why?

    Wiping the blood off from the last of your tools, you make no indication of your work being finished. The scholar has been drifting off to sleep through the procedure, thanks to what must be hours of exhausting pain. The deep wounds that are taxing all of his body's capacity for healing aren't helping matters either.

    He'll need an exorbitant amount of rest in the days ahead, and you have to get to the worst of it. You are a healer in the year 606, with a bag full of wildlife, and a heart full of gold. The best you can do is grind the best items at your disposal, and supplement the mixture with your flask. Praying as you work at the small wooden container doesn't make the work of using a pestle and mortar any less tedious.


    ​


    The small, black dish's cracks are filled with gold. The old, beloved item is downright soothing underhand, while you create enough salves and bandages for this man's hands and forearms. It gives you Time to think. To reflect. To preemptively grieve.

    In the softest tone you possess, you wake the living-dead man up. "Sir."

    If Father Pevrel had it his way, you're positive this man would already be dead. It's possible that the lord of justice only saw fit to leave your most convicted enemies alive. Men and women who stood a chance at redemption. Those who would honor your creed. He reflexively draws in on himself at the noise.

    There is only one way you are honoring your tenets in this situation. The voice of the grave leaves you. "I am asking you for Mercy, sir."

    That wakes him up. Disbelief blinks at you. "What?"

    "I'm going to dress your wounds for you, and you do not need to pay close attention to the work. Please listen to me carefully. I know the tea has compromised most of your faculties, and I am just— I am just sorry I couldn't do more. I can't leave you like this without offering my help. You understand the position that I am in better than most."

    One of the guiltiest looks you've ever seen passes over the man's narrow and mild features. "We've ruined your life, and destroyed your home."

    You take in a sharp breath, and resist the urge to scream, or cry, or break down on the spot.

    A level breath leaves you. You close your eyes, and stop the work with the bandages for just a moment. "The pain that will be on you by tomorrow is already more than any of you deserve. You are not the only burn victim. The homes that Inertia has set ablaze, and that— and that my children have had to destroy must have taken many more."

    You open your eyes, and resume dressing raw tissue. The man is sweating from the sight of his own mottled and debrided Flesh. He must have a weak stomach. The tissue is a glistening, mottled pink, and as clean as could possibly be. Yellow-white bone is visible in one spot on his left arm. There's a good deal of blood. You dry off your hands on a spare rag from the crimson for a moment, and murmur, "innocent men, women, and children are dying in my streets. It's folly. I cannot reconcile the actions you have taken against my city. It's killing me."

    Every motion you make to dress the scholar's hands has to be controlled. You steady your own fingers through sheer force of will. "This is not Mercy. Thanks to loss of my family and the empty halls of my home, I have seven clergy of Mercy at my disposal. Only seven, for the defense and livelihood of my entire city. My knight nearly died from exhaustion just a few hours past. I will not trade my family's health, their sanity, or their trust for anything. Not for your life, and not for the countless innocent souls who will need our aid in the days to come."

    The pain in your chest is miserable. It's hard to tell if the pressure is from how badly you want to help, or from what you know needs to be done. "The limits I have pushed myself to are inhumane. I have been neglecting my foremost tenets, the will of Mercy, and disregarded the sanctity of my position. I'm ignoring my own self-defense. My own self-love. Kindness is my creed, sir— and you need to understand that everything that I have done has been in the name of the greater good. I am the Father of Emotion. I am the Lord of Empathy. I am the leader of the church of compassion, and CANNOT abide by ANYONE in my care suffering in the same way that I have."

    You finish bandaging his hands and arms. It took less than a few minutes.
    You look him dead in the eye.
    He flinches a little from the sheer intensity of it.
    You don't care.

    "Help will come from the capital, but it will not arrive for weeks. You will likely never live to see the city of shields recover from the misery that you, and all of you heathens have inflicted on my home. Believe me when I say that I will not stand by and let either of our efforts amount to nothing. I am giving you a choice, sir, and whether or not you wish to even dignify my offer with a response lies in your hands."

    A faltering breath leaves him. He's terrified, but manages, "yes, Father."

    "The seeds in the brew I gave to you can ease your pain. The burns you endured will cause agony untold with or without motion. Listen to me, and listen to me closely: your efforts and enablement of the cult of Inertia has left my city in a false famine. This sin should be unforgivable. This punishment is of your design. Our sick and injured are the lowest in priority for rations. You, sir, will go hungry in the days ahead. If this cult's efforts make the situation any more dire, you will be the first to starve. The rate of your healing is going to be slow, and these bandages will ultimately need to be changed."

    He's firmly wrapped up in damp gauze up to his elbows. The man's hands must have intentionally been chosen. It's going to make things so much worse.

    "There is no remedy in this world that will ease the pain you'll suffer. If you are to attempt this endeavor alone, I will not let you leave this building without enough pain relief to kill you."

    The gaze you're holding is harder than granite. The crackling fireplace at your side loosens a strip of wood, and sparks puff into the air. "Do you understand me?"

    The scholar has yet to interrupt. He's terrified, and swallows hard, while nodding in understanding.

    You glance towards the pitcher of wine. "I'm going to equip you with enough tea to ration it out. A number of supplemental herbs for your bandages will help provide cooling, moisture, and further relief from the pain. What you do with these all of these materials when we part ways is at your discretion."

    Several minutes are spent elaborating on what amount of the black seed is necessary for pain relief, what quantity will cause serious damage, and what threshold will assuredly kill him.

    The man is outright shaking by the end of it. "Thank you again, Father."

    You soften your tone. "You are not a child of Mercy. You are a traitor to the crown, an usurper of my home, and have brought this pain upon yourself. You will not be remembered as a martyr, if you seek a violent or public end. We are at war, and you have pitted demons against the last of our race. The extent of this sin— to say that it eclipses petty politics is the understatement of this age. This is all about so much more than the public's opinion of my station, or any single one of our lives."

    The last trace of any edge leaves your voice. "This is about the people. Those who are out in the streets— fighting on our behalf— while I sit here and run my mouth. This is about my children, who are putting their lives on the line, and already have their plates more than full. We will stop at nothing to protect the ones we love."

    The man sitting beside you instinctively draws in on himself, as you run a bloody hand through your hair, and try to keep it together. There's tears in your eyes. "I can't stand the thought of you leaving here, and dying. You're a learned man. The skills you possess placed you at the head of your family. You are the father of your own castle— and you are welcome to come to mine."

    He can't believe it. He starts tearing up, too, and shakes his head. "There's a limit to compassion, Father."

    "Hear me out. I cannot promise anything in the way of responsible care, or that you might live through the rest of tomorrow night. I cannot stress enough how much pain you will be in, sir. I cannot relinquish one additional supply or safety measure. You would be expected to enter the Church of Mercy on your own merit, and to deal with the security of my men and women who have survived a siege. They're likely going to still be fighting for many days to come."

    You feel sick. The weariness on you is hanging from every word. "Think of how thinly stretched we are, without relief. Our lives are under constant threat. Imagine what it will be like for them to hear that I have betrayed their trust. Imagine what a laughingstock I will continue to be. Think of how trivial my judgement and wit will appear to my allies. They'll call me the softest man to have ever lived— to have welcomed an enemy into my home, and to mend his burns before my city's. To have upheld the tenets of my station."

    You grimace, and choke down a sob, shaking your head. "Think of the leader of the Church of Mercy actually doing his damn job for a change."

    The conflict is killing you. The struggle to speak is unrelenting, and it still feels like there's a thousand things you can say. You hate it enough to mutter, "you all have been denied your freedom of choice. It is the greatest sin Mercy or I can conceive of. It's no wonder that you all crave meaning. Your collective strengths embolden you. Your unity justifies the very aimlessness of your existence. Aiming to dismantle the theocracy is not some twisted attempt at destroying the last of humanity. You all have just been desperate for answers."

    The patient is outright horrified. The face he's making is of someone who's seriously entertaining killing himself.

    You can't bear to look at him, and cast your gaze to the floor. Your rain-slick robes, the lime-green pollen, the flecks of poison ivy, splatters of demon's filth, men's blood, and the disarray of your jet-black robes is only emphasized by the bulge of your gut. It's nearly a constant reminder on the periphery of your vision of just how much you've sacrificed, and gained. It's been ten days since you last had a full night's sleep in an actual bed, your schedule is in the trash, your best workout plans are laid to waste, your diet is a disaster, your soul itself is likely breaking, and all you can think of is one thing. "Why?"

    It's as if the man beside you forgot how to speak. Through the miasma that's in his mind, furrowing his brow, he stammers, "wh-why what?"

    "Why did you help them?"

    He starts to move to fuss with his mustache— some nervous habit— and realizes his hands are going to be compromised for the rest of his life. A miserable trail of an explanation drifts out from him. "I felt like it was the only way we would get any answers. You've been gone for nearly a year, Father Anscham. The city was infested by strangers to Eadric within weeks of your departure. We all felt the change, even if not everyone paid attention to the matter. It was clear that the Church of Mercy had been abandoned. The Goddess had stopped answering our prayers. The few souls that remained behind for your return could not support the absence of your strength, or skill, or care. Fewer and fewer people looked to the home of light. Those who went there often did not return. The city of empathy turned in on itself, or turned a blind eye. I am no different."

    His inhibitions are completely gone, in a wave of self-hatred. "I've always been a skeptic, Father. The work you have done here has only raised more questions for me. What difference can there be between your work, and sorcery? Why should the Gods only grant some of us Their ability? What makes you more deserving of healing than any of us?" The hand holding your Relic is looked at, and despair flits across your patient's features. "I can't imagine what you must have sacrificed to get something like this. I don't believe I ever want to."

    It dawns on you that this man is perfectly sane. He was seeking a confession after all, and continues, "I'm a coward. I didn't want to die then. Not when the Church of Agriculture showed up to the city, or the guard was changed over."

    "Pardon me?"

    "I only spotted one or two, and they must have been gone as quickly as they came. Or hid. Who knows? It didn't make a difference when the Church of Mercy vacated completely, and no one seemed to want to touch the castle. Not when I was reach out to, to be a point of contact for your men, and to falsify as many documents as I could to keep you all as confused and distracted as possible. Not even this afternoon, when Father Pevrel tracked down the families of everyone at the hearing."

    You shove away the urge to barge out the door and confront your fellow church leader. The man at your side grasps onto your sleeve with a bandaged hand. Blood surfaces to the top of the gauze the instant he does so. He's looking to the spot with terror, shaking, and trying not to cry. "But not now." A lost soul looks up to you with no hope in his eyes. "I would like to leave a few things to you."

    Another sob escapes you, as you try to keep it together. "Please."

    "It's better if you don't know my name, but I'll leave you with directions to my home. I'll see to organizing my research tonight. None of my family is left." The drugs through the lost soul's system lends to a detached gaze, as he stares right past you. "I'm no child of Mercy. Don't remember me as one."

    Both of you spend several more priceless minutes drafting a map. The district the man resides in, the location of his home, and a few recommendations for how to navigate without alerting the neighbors are given.

    Enough tea to kill the scholar is packaged along with plenty of dressings for his injury, the materials needed to spare his skin if he so chooses, and directions for how to get to the Church of Mercy's main gate safely in the current situation. You find a way to fasten it with a number of bandages, to reduce the amount of contact he'll need to make with his hands on the items.

    He intends to die, but you know better than anyone that men can have a change of heart.
     
    Last edited:
  • Threadmarks
    • Chapter 36: Forgive Me, Father - Part 4
  • Threadmarks
    • Chapter 36: Forgive Me, Father - Part 4
    "Greed has been your undoing."​


    The scholar is led to the door. Your Relic exchanges hands. The instant the small locket parts from his palm, his knees buckle. You offer the man a hand at his back to help keep him steady. The fog in his mind will get him through the night, even with the weakness and exhaustion on him. There's more work to be done, and you take a rapid step backwards.

    A merchant is shoved into the room by the damn priest of Vengeance. It's the pompous man adorned all in silks, with greasy hair, who mistook you for a native of Wearmoor. Your parents do reside there now, and you are a farmer's son, but he's far from the mark.

    As you stash the map on your person (and badly want to take a moment to clean off your robes), you're at least relieved that the medical supplies you used are totally put away. The wiry, arrogant, fairly tall, and saccharine man drops to his knees before you. He's shaking, and is obviously in severe distress. His wounds are a simple slash across his brow, from a single blade. Likely the only warning he needed to keep in line. "Mercy, Father Anscham. Mercy."

    This is a tasteless affair, after everything you've just heard. There isn't a minute to breathe. You run a hand through your hair again, and say with some exasperation, "all who call for Mercy are heard. You wish to heal?"

    "Yes." He's looking up to you with bloodshot eyes. The night's getting late.

    You don't have Time for this. The amount of composure you possess has had you labeled as a demon of faith many times before. You can take the high ground, and get this over with. "Be it not my place to judge the first blood spilled. We will never turn a blind eye to the weary, the sick, or the injured. Pure are my hands. Pure is Her blessing. Pure is made blood spilled, when held by Mercy."

    The man kneeling on the screen beside you wrings his hands together, and is practically prostrate on the floor. "Thank you, Father. You are Merciful. Thank you."

    >A] Encourage this sinner to speak about his falsehoods. He was quick to play into the game about your mistaken identity. It would behoove you to find out why.
    >B] As a merchant, this merchant no doubt has ample information on the wares that have been reallocated. His greed has been his undoing. He needs to repent.
    >C] Chastise this traitor for playing at servitude, and tell him to get off his knees. This is disgusting, and you don't want to play at any more games.
    >D] Write-in.

    An exasperated glance passes between the closed door, and the man groveling at your feet. This is disgusting. "You know full well that I'm well-acquainted with Mercy, but let us both pay respect to Agriculture. I can heal you, my child— but you will have to grow a spine yourself."

    A murmur is made to the floor. "Father, what good would it do if I'm to be cut down the moment I leave your presence?"

    "Don't be ridiculous. Get on your feet. Now. You're insulting every man and woman who's paid for our respite with their lives." You make a point of dragging the chairs in the room towards each other. Sitting down in one with a huff, you gesture towards the other. "Get over here. You need to repent."

    The fool drags himself upright, and slouches into the empty, opposing chair. It's probably not as comfortable as yours. "Where do I begin…?"

    "Correct me if I am mistaken." You raise your eyebrows. He makes a face of mock offense, like he wouldn't dare. "Trade and commerce in my city has ground to a halt. Your business would have been damaged, were it not for the reallocation of our supplies." Folding your hands over your stomach (it's easily more comfortable than any pillow to rest on), you suggest, "greed has been your undoing. It is as fine a place to start as any."

    At least the traitor has no use for pride. He immediately trips over his own speech, as if he can't speak quickly enough. "They offered me more than gold, Father. I was offered protection, for all the years ahead. I had to accept. Dead men make for poor business, you see."

    "That depends on your trade."

    "Not mine. So far as I could tell, it WAS the Church of Mercy making the orders. Walking the streets. Changing the guard. How was I to know that you weren't dead and gone? How was I to predict the floods, when our contact with Rimilde was all but cut off? How was I to be aware that our stores and provisions would be hoarded and hidden?"

    "You saved nothing for yourself?"

    "Well." He slouches further. "Of course I've set aside what I could. I do have a spine, Father. I also know when my neck is on the line."

    "Go on."

    "I would gladly look after my wives—" He's a devotee to Flesh. "—here in the city of gold. Especially through an impending conflict. Conflict is in our very nature, is it not?" You don't dignify him with a reply. "But the opportunity your gilded city presents is priceless. I explained the supply routes and distribution of goods coming and going from Eadric to this 'Inertia.' I never could have imagined that you would actually return. To be frank, I was under the impression that this would be a short affair, and things would return to normalcy soon enough." The idiot straightens upright, and gives you a determined stare. "Now that you're here, I could not be more confident that this mess will be resolved in short order."

    "Our supply has dwindled to the point of scarcity and famine. This cult's forces still must be fed. You mentioned that these trade routes were explained to them, but our roads are in shambles."

    "Ah. Yes. Well. The Church of Agriculture has been through Eadric occasionally. They seem to have been developing some alternatives. I'm not certain of the details, but they promised me that the materials I provided would be kept well and away from our enemies."

    You're confident that these tunnels must snake under the entire city. It must have taken months, or was performed by some specialist. A level breath carries with it the scent of burn salves, elderberry, and dandelion. You are not going to smite this man where he sits. You are a devotee to the Goddess of life, and the Goddess of clemency. This is fine. "I'm guessing that this affair with the Church of Agriculture has put Wearmoor on your mind. Despite the calamity raging in the streets, you were quick to join in on the play at my mistaken identity." He's tensed up as if he's been struck by lightning. You lower your tone. "Choosing to meet me with betrayal of my foremost tenet does not need to be an unforgivable action. We are here for contrition. The Father of Truth would like to hear the real matter of these falsehoods."

    Resolution sinks into the man's features. He speaks with complete sincerity. "I'll honor your title, then. I wasn't lying, Father. I've never seen you in my life. Never been to the Church of Mercy. Go out of my way to avoid preaching. No offense. I love Her city, but you've done no kindness for our trade. Things haven't been much worse, save for until you left. Headed south so fast, I've done everything I can to keep it all together. I'd hoped someone else would step up to the position, if I'm to be completely honest. Your age lends no favors to experience— and if I've heard correctly, you were raised in a backwater fishing hole."

    Your grimace is starting to hurt. "Uh-huh. It's a fair description of the village, if nothing else."

    "If you have no counsel available, and are only hearing of any of this from me on a happy chance, I still shudder to think of what will await our other traders and craftsmen in the days to come. This is no traditional war. There is no profit to be had in a battle of attrition." A look passes over you, lingering mostly on your belly. "I spoke out of turn, given my own social standing. But everyone had to have been thinking it. Even talking to you face-to-face, I'd have mistaken you for a beat-up priest of Agriculture if I didn't know who you are." He winces. "I'd heard a few rumors. The scars are a lot worse up close. But you're no madman."

    You've never fought so hard in your life to keep a straight face.

    "I can see it in your eyes that you don't want to do me any ill-will, Father. I'd like to help you, if you would do the same for me."

    "I am offering you healing, and forgiveness."

    "And I'm offering you more than a confession."

    This man actually has the audacity to offer to trade with you, even after everything that he's done.

    >A] You've heard enough. Send him out of here. You'll have Father Pevrel raid his home and requisition the cache of supplies he's hoarding the moment your fellow church leader can spare his men. It's common practice for the theocracy to seize goods even in peace time, so you are not overstepping any boundaries by doing so.
    >B] Well. You did tell him to grow a spine. Hear out the man's offer.
    >C] Not so fast. You may be notoriously inexperienced with bargaining and bartering, but that doesn't mean you aren't capable of defying expectations. Make a suggestion of your own. (Write-in.)

    "Speak freely."

    A great deal of the trader's tension and terror falls. He glances to the closed door, back to you, and whispers. "I can name names for you, Father Anscham, but would appreciate it if you changed a few of your priorities. I ask on behalf of all who depend on your strengths. Our roads are flooded, and are beset by demons most foul. It will surely be weeks before you receive help from the capital, but these repairs will not be addressed by holy men for so much longer. The church of Storm will be scattered across the country, dealing with the worst of the flooding. The church of Agriculture is to blame for this famine. They will not answer your call. Allow me to ease your ally's desire for Vengeance. There are members of Wearmoor's own who I can name. They are your enemies. I can describe to you their faces, and what I believe they have done. These allies of the fields will do me no harm, but only if I hold my tongue. I stand to lose a great deal in turning them over to you. I am under threat of imminent death from all sides, and so I ask on behalf of your countrymen: clear and repair the roads to the north, as far as you can. There is a priestess of Storm in our city. You claim that you can invoke Agriculture. This should not tax either of you, if your skill is as—" He searches for the word, and vaguely gestures towards you. "—substantial as I suspect."

    The merchant narrows his eyes, and asserts, "this is something that your people will desire— with or without my encouragement. It will dramatically improve your public image, expedite the arrival of additional forces, grant those who seek safe refuge the ability to escape, and will open up the surrounding farmlands for communication and aid. This is to say nothing of helping you to cull potential enemy forces lying in wait outside city walls, and that you and your strongest allies may do so without the loss of further life. You will save many lives— and many livelihoods. Your profit will be great, and you will be armed with the identities of those responsible for much of this destruction beneath your city. This is the least I can do, for the Lord of Gold himself."

    A reminder is in order. "The rule of Mercy will benefit our craftsmen and traders more than Her absence. Your proposition is only possible thanks to my return, and from all of my company's efforts. Our laborers cannot profit from attrition, and famine. Denying me this information could delay or halt the aid of countless others."

    "Delaying this work will end the lives of countless others. I am using what I have at my disposal as an incentive, Father Anscham— because I am certain you are too young and overwhelmed to make the best calls in this situation. There is a standing army of violent, bloody zealots at your disposal. The clergy of Vengeance here are willing to die to fight on your behalf."

    Not everyone who called for Father Pevrel was blind. This man might be smarter than he first appeared.

    The merchant continues scrutinizing you, and you realize he's not fixed on your waist. He's looking at the blood on your hands and robes. "There should be no need for you to kill two demons in a day with your own hands. You are grossly mismanaging your strengths, and need counsel. Sane counsel, and not from runaway priestesses, lunatics from the ruins, or manipulative old men. I offer my own experiences and observations freely. I am telling you with as much sincerity as I possess: Only you can make this happen, Father."

    He holds out a hand. The symbol of Mercy takes many forms. This particular gesture is purely used for sanctified trade.

    >A] Accept the offer.
    >1] You'll see to these tunnels, your sermon with Mercy, and get to the roads tomorrow afternoon. No exceptions.​
    >2] You can't promise a day or time. Stress it, and make sure he knows you'll still honor the deal as soon as you can. There's a high risk he'll back out. (Write-ins may help enormously.)​
    >B] Don't accept the offer.
    >1] Demand the names. You won't use force, but Father Pevrel sure would love to.​
    >2] You won't take the information, and WILL see to the roads in your own time. That is, when you aren't afraid of dying or worse from the effort. Explain to this man why you can't honor this deal right now, and let him go.​
    >C] Write-in.




    ​

    A part of you has a disproportionate love of roads. It's an odd fixation that you don't get to tap into nearly often enough. There's a smile across your face. You sigh, from the prospect of extended connection to a Goddess. You'd be lying if you said you hadn't entertained the prospect of revitalizing your entire country's infrastructure before. The prospect of reshaping miles upon miles of soil, hillside, and rock is downright tantalizing.

    The fondness you hold for your country is about more than desire (though the embodiment of the earth does things for you no one else can claim). It's the memory of running along stunning hilltop ridges. The history and labor that goes into the cobblestones of your home's greatest districts. A reminder of civilization. Travel under the sun. Ridgeways that emphasize every natural curve of the land, along beautiful farmland, your rivers, and your cities.

    Your roads are what brings humanity together. This citizen of your city could not drive a harder bargain, and he doesn't even know how much investment you already have in the venture. A firm handshake seals the deal. "I'll make it happen. Thank you for your insight. I do welcome it."

    The merchant doesn't pull away, even though the stiff blood across your palms can easily be felt. "You're very welcome. Let's go over the details."

    Parting the handshake, you only do so to place the fingertips on both hands together. No matter how urgent AND appealing this prospect is, you can't indulge in this venture if you die. Gently pointing to the man before you with a reverent tone, you stress the obvious. "I will be attending to the matter of this building and its tunnels throughout the rest of the night."

    Anxiety is on the man before you. He looks like he wants to protest, realizes how inappropriate it would be, and keeps his lips shut all in the course of a single second.

    "My sermon with Mercy will come at dawn. Sister Miramond and I will get some proper rest, and then we will commit to this matter with ALL our might. The Time of our work cannot be precisely guaranteed. Her will is unchangeable, Sir— and so is mine. No exceptions. It will be done."

    Relief washes over the man before you in waves. He wipes some sweat off his brow, and looks to the glass of wine on the table beside you for only an instant. You sweep it up, and extend the item to your business partner without any pretense of social superiority. On the contrary. You murmur a brief prayer to Agriculture on his behalf as he takes the item from you.

    Even more sincerity is in his tone. "Thank you, Father." He drinks quickly, and sets the glass on the floor beside him. Both the man's hands are nervously clasped together. Anxiety is running all through him. "These men and women will kill me if they find out that I was the one who implicated them. I offer this information to you on behalf of every last citizen of the city of protection."

    "I will do everything in my power to keep any harm from befalling you, sir."

    "Chapman."

    It's an absurdly old and respected family line in Eadric. The traitor isn't giving his name away lightly. "The Chapmans have been trading for generations," you remark.

    He instantly appreciates the recognition.

    You push it. "May I ask who has honored my station with fair counsel, and renewed loyalty...?"

    "Crispin, though— if you'll forgive me, Father— only my wives refer to me by that name."

    "Thank you, Mr. Chapman."

    "Three individuals revealed their identities and work within Eadric to me during your absence, Father Anscham. Only three. They were certainly accompanied by others, who's ability and identities escape me. But those who saw fit to reveal their faces and business are clear in my mind's eye."

    These people were convicted— or confident— enough to risk their safety to get this man's help.

    "They are from three separate family lines."

    This corruption is widespread.

    "I spoke to them all separately, and only on one occasion. The first was Brother Merek Boyce." The expansive woods north of Wearmoor are protected by his family— including the outer defenses, and all the ruins in-between. "Brooding fellow. Was concerned with several specific buildings, who resided in them, and their surrounding areas."

    "Do you recall which buildings?"

    He lists them. They're all currently infested with cultists. You resist the urge to swear.

    The merchant is all business, and continues the explanation despite your obvious concern. "Had black hair, green eyes, tanned skin, and was unusually thin. One mole on his right cheek stood out. His holy symbol was unconventional, as well. A shovel. Carried it right along with the scent of grave dirt."

    A devotee to death, and its overlap with the earth.

    "The second arrived the next day. Brother Gilford Woodfeller." Specialists from his family tree— well, specialize in their family's trees. The line of foresters branches off to include the Carpenters, Coopers, Sawyers, and Wheelers. Most of their finest are in the capital. Several are in your own caravan. "Affable enough lad. Seemed around your age. Brown hair, brown eyes, tan. Carried an axe openly. No discernible features, apart from looking like he could move boulders. Probably was while he was in the city. This priest I encountered wasn't anywhere near your size, but his company made me question my immediate safety. Again, I mean no offense Father, but I only pinned you as a son of the City of Vitality due to your probable strength."

    You make a non-committal nod of impatience. "Mhm."

    Crispin is sharp enough to not linger on the matter. "He was content to receive information on the families here in Eadric who are involved in our trade. He proposed that I offer my services directly to his associates, which I happily declined. The boy was kind, but didn't have much in the way of subtlety, you see."

    "He tipped you off to the reality of the situation."

    "Immediately, yes."

    "You ultimately accepted."

    "They made me an offer I could not refuse, Father.

    "Which was?"

    "My life."

    A deep breath reminds you of maple and blackseed. It's as bittersweet as the evening— but still weaker than your conviction. "They're overconfident."

    "To be fair, Father, no one seemed to openly oppose them."

    "How quickly the tide turns."

    "Not as quickly as I would have liked. The last was Sister Ela Pottinger."

    You blink. This is downright disarming. Pottingers are usually in service to the church throughout the country as maids. Servants. She wouldn't have been brought up as a clergywoman, though she may have been in close proximity to them for all her life. "A cook?"

    "I pinned her for a smith. Certainly carried herself like one. The girl— she seemed younger than you by only a few years, I imagine. You are twenty-something...?"

    "Twenty-five."

    A smirk of satisfaction. "I was right on the money. She couldn't have been older than twenty-one. Another non-traditional holy symbol—"

    An intense urge to clarify overtakes you. You literally carried the traditional symbol of the Church of Mercy against your heart up until this last year. The item is still with the rest of your possessions, and you don't intend to ever part with it. "It is more uncommon for someone to carry the standard symbol of the church, than not, Mr. Chapman."

    "Ah. Well. All the more reason to clarify, then. She had a long sword."

    "That is highly unusual. This was a priestess of Agriculture?"

    "Unmistakably. Green eyes, brown hair, looked like she'd seen the sun every day of her life. Certainly had the height and assets—" An embarrassed glance towards the wall. "—excuse me, Father. The blessings that I would have expected from a priestess of fertility."

    Mercy.

    "But I digress. The woman wore a leather apron over her green robes, and seemed particularly concerned with the city's Smith."

    "How long ago did you say this transpired?"

    There's a very long pause. Chapman seems to value holding up his end of the bargain. Not everyone is as devoted to Time as you are, but the man clearly wants to give you as much information as he can. "Why, it must have been halfway through the last Setting Moon."

    When you rejected King Magnus' summons to go to Calunoth, had your title stripped, and were to remain in the Church of Flesh for an indefinite period of Time. "Ah, I— I see."

    "They certainly seemed in a hurry. Sister Pottinger requisitioned as much metal as she could afford, from every citizen in the city that would spare their supply. The woman was unbelievably well-funded. I heard talk of copper, silver, basin obsidian, arcstone, and plenty more priceless materials. She had to have traveled with a great deal of company in order to bring it all here, but I never once spotted such a gathering coming in or out of the city. At least not until your arrival, or Father Pevrel's."

    She's likely capable of manipulating metals. Wonderful.

    "Is there anything else you can tell me about them?"

    "No, Father, but often what is not disclosed to us carries just as much value as what we are told. I do not mean to insult your intelligence—"

    "The hour is late, and I am battling exhaustion in my soul itself. Go right ahead."

    "Well. These servants of Agriculture made no attempts at befriending me, despite my wealth and status. That is to say: they were not concerned with political alliances at the Time. It leads me to believe that their aggression was only provoked by your return."

    This all has been a tragedy. You do your best to remain alert, and to listen.

    "Likewise, they asked few questions, and left immediately. They wanted to complete their work and get out. They likely did not wish to be openly identified with Inertia's activities. The Church of Agriculture as an institution would certainly not wish to be implicated. Yet these priests and priestess trusted me enough to show their faces, which showed enormous confidence in their methods— and less confidence in your ability to reach them."

    Chapman softly concludes, "it is possible that your enemies never expected you to return— let alone to be capable of gathering information from your citizenry. I will stress this one more Time, Father Anscham: I trust that you will have this matter resolved quickly, and decisively. I am placing my life and livelihood in your hands, as all of your people have done. We will continue to do so. I look forward to hearing of your continued success."

    >A] Thank Crispin for his work. You'll pray for his success. Ask him to see himself out. You have at least one more person to hear out before the night is through.
    >B] You legitimately could use saner, wiser, and more honest counsel in your life. Ask if you'd be overstepping your boundaries to visit Chapman's establishment at some point for future civic advice. Having as many ears to the ground right now as possible could not be more important.
    >C] You'd like to understand why your people fail to treat you normally. Getting to know them better is a good place to start. This man has his fair share of flaws, and clearly is a kiss-ass, but you want to offer to facilitate a more formal method of counsel at a later point in Time. Whatever he's comfortable with for the circumstances of a meeting is fine by you— even if that means nothing at all.
    >D] Write-in.

    "And I will gladly pray for yours as well. Thank you again for your service to our city, and for granting me such sound counsel." So much as seeing Crispin again could put his life at risk. You remain seated, and glance towards the door. "Blessed be the day, Mr. Chapman. May you prosper for many more."

    "Blessed be the light, Father Anscham."

    He leaves without event, and you're afforded a few minutes in silence. There's at least one more soul to hear out before the night is through. The fire is crackling, along with the steady stream of rain against the building. You place a hand to your robes and mutter, "presentable. Please."

    All evidence of battle disappears without a trace. The black fabric is clean, slightly warmer, and as flattering as before. You're still in dire need of a new wardrobe, some soap, and a good night's sleep— but it's all going to have to wait.
     
    Last edited:
  • Threadmarks
    • Chapter 36: Forgive Me, Father - Part 5
  • Threadmarks
    • Chapter 36: Forgive Me, Father - Part 5
    "My lady, your frank speech is welcome in the city of honesty."





    The door swings open. The priest of Vengeance that's been acting as Father Pevrel's muscle all night shoves a noblewoman into the room with you, and swings the door shut the instant she's inside.

    Nobility should not be this far from the capital. She's certainly in league with Inertia, or has some further agenda. The fair-haired, fair-skinned, golden-eyed descendant of King Magnus has her lips tight, as she staggers to right herself. She's easily one of the most beautiful women you've ever laid eyes on (despite the corpse rot on her many skirts, the exhaustion through her slender shoulders, and the arrogance running all through her).

    The blonde straightens upright the instant she's able, and keeps her dainty head held high. Pomp and glamour makes a sweeping curtsy, without taking her eyes off of you for an instant. "Lady Laravald, of House Courteney."

    >A] Remain seated. You're sick of games, sick of pride, and sick of traitors. "Have you come to confess?"
    >B] You're well-bred enough to stand up and make a formal introduction. It's unbelievably disrespectful to not return this gesture, and could sabotage any and all attempts at civil discourse with this woman.
    >1] Just your name and titles are fine.​
    >2] The whole rigmarole would suit your image and station much better, given present company.​
    >C] Write-in.

    No matter how much you hate the idea of pomp and ceremony, there's no denying your good breeding. This is a lady, you are a gentleman, and the least you can do is stand up and return her courtesy.

    She extends a hand, which you lightly clasp in your own and bow your head towards. Her own deferent gaze locks with the green in your own. You keep your tone soft. You have no use for pride. "Your attempts at civility are a pleasure, Lady Laravald. As the hands of the King, defender of the city of shields, lord of compassion, our foremost researcher of the Catalyst, and with due respect paid towards all of the Gods, the least I can do is return the gesture. Father Richard Anscham. Leader of the Church of Mercy."

    You're a little embarrassed. It's excessive. You've made no mention of restraint, but neither of you particularly care. A further, slight bow and curtsy is made respectively. You adjust the seats so they have more distance, and are facing just enough away from one another to remove any pretense of intimacy. Lady Laravald takes a seat, and you follow suit. She fans herself slightly with one hand. "Need I not stress that my silence this afternoon was ill-advised, Father. I have come to confess. Will you grant me this—" An excessive sigh. All drama. "—golden opportunity?"

    Deep breath. You will not get annoyed. She warrants just as much of an opportunity to speak as anyone, no matter how much pretension surrounds it. The nobility in Corcaea is purely comprised of blood-relatives to the King. They hold no sway over your church, its tenets, or the way you conduct your business. They possess a dramatically higher social status, plenty of wealth, and pull with countless other families. That's it. The interactions you've had with the highest class in the country has always gone smoothly. You won't go dancing about honoring all of her lands, political associations, or her family's achievements.

    Your gentle speech, clear respect, and willingness to entertain their nonsense got you to Ostedholm without a hitch. You'll see where it can get you now. "The repentant will not go unheard. Please, speak freely."

    "I've helped to fund this cult, Father. You may not remember my presence, when I saw to your departure from the Church of Mercy those many moons ago. The audiences you held were fleeting, but we were onto your game well enough. I went along with your ploy. Your suicidal fantasy. Let it be known that I expected no return on the investment of my Time from you. Your enemies are plentiful, and removing you from the picture alleviated many complications. I confess that I have longed to be rid of your unpredictable nature, and the power you possess. In my weakness, I consorted with this sinful lot. This 'Inertia.' Their undertakings have been modest, yet steady, and rapidly led to control over your city in your masochistic absence."

    She's candid, alright. You try not to laugh. Grimacing suits you just fine. "My lady, your frank speech is welcome in the city of honesty. Please. Continue."

    "You will forgive me, Father."

    "You have sinned."

    "Excessively, I'm afraid. The absence of nobility here in Eadric has enabled my influence. You will find that those loyal to me will not be so easily swayed. Our efforts to expand on Inertia's numbers was successful." Long lashes halfway cover golden eyes. She flits her gaze over the blood on your hands, and all that's slicked through your hair. "You have already culled much of my blasphemy."

    "Are you aware that your influence has led to untold loss of life?"

    A significant amount of the drama falls from her. "Acutely. This is a disaster of our own making. The viscous lunatics you have brought with you out from the ruins cannot be fought, let alone captured. Any attempts made to pacify or bargain with them have been met with incommensurate retaliation. We had hoped that calling upon the very Father of Retribution may ease the matter. He can pit any foe against themselves. The last thing I expected was for you to be capable of earning his respect— let alone his allegiance."

    It's uncertain if Father Pevrel holds any respect for you at all, but you're sure he's your ally. "You seem to have been sorely mistaken."

    The noblewoman takes a deep breath. Her hands are folded delicately on her lap, but she turns both of her palms up. "While I have been profiting off of the decay of your home, these heretics have betrayed me. There was to be immobility. I expected restraint. I came to Eadric longing for complacency and ignorance, from the very city of emotion. The last thing on my mind was chaos from bands of more suicidal, demon-loving madmen."

    An icy stare bores into you. It's detached. "You are not the man who left this city." A chill runs up your spine from the odd scrutiny. "The accusations placed against you and your identity have a kernel of truth to them. I saw a disturbed, beaten, and confused failure of a leader leave his family behind to give up and die without ever seizing the opportunity given to him."

    She leans forward just enough to make you uncomfortable. "Despite all this, your accomplishments have terrified your enemies. I am no exception. I see a man who has accepted his flaws in full: up to, and including the disaster that has been your career. Every one of your titles has been hard-won. The magnitude of your ability cannot be overstated. I reside under the defense of your city, because I know full well that you would die before letting it fall. I have openly betrayed your trust, but confess to the lord of compassion with the hope in my heart that you will listen to me, and want to understand."

    The frost in her yellow gaze lingers on your hair. "You are running yourself ragged, yet cannot help but lend your skill as a healer to any who need it. My words carry no falsehoods, Father Anscham, because I respect your integrity. I have had none, but wish to honor the man who hopes to save our very souls. Who wields the power of our Gods. Who was granted a station that many men would kill to possess. This gift was given to you through a death in your arms. I've heard plenty of stories, and we wanted to take no chances. The Church of Mercy is empty by design."

    A horrible suspicion sinks into you. "Did you have anything to do with my clergy—"

    "I have kept my hands clean, and did not touch any of them. But I do confess that I have done everything in my power to aid in the effort to make your return nigh impossible. You may wish to kill me, and I'm certain that Father Pevrel does. He knows of the information I hold, and of the influence I possess. He left me alive— as with all of the other lost souls you have seen this evening— so that we may help one another."

    Lady Laravald clasps her hands together. Not a scratch on her. Father Pevrel wouldn't dare touch her, if he didn't intend to kill her. "I am a sinner. I was beaten and battered as a child. You must know precisely what it is like to have manners instilled in you. The languages I have learned, the skills I possess, and the strength that I have harnessed has been adequate to hold my own in the most volatile city in our nation. My husbands have all been worse than the last. Their sin has no place here, Father, but I exacted my own form of Mercy. I have killed plenty of my enemies, and am fully aware that hundreds of lives have been lost by my actions. No matter if it has been poison, hired hands, or manipulation of some other force. It has all been folly. I will die a lonely, bitter, and hateful old woman if I cannot recognize the error of my ways— and your actions today have shown me the truth."

    Her eyes are dry, her features are hard, and the paint on her lips has faded. The lady beside you has no break in her composure. An emotionless, borderline inhuman tone trails out of her. "I might as well have never lived at all."

    Panic seizes you. The weakness in the hearts of humankind is your specialty, and you can recognize someone on the verge of turning from their Catalyst faster than any other man alive.

    >A] Take this enemy to your nation, saboteur of your life, and threat to your home by her hands and implore her to not give up hope. You CANNOT have her turn. Do whatever you need to do to keep her from faltering. (Feel free to write-in anything you like to supplement this endeavor.)
    >B] Let her turn. Call Father Pevrel and his priest into the room before she's changed over, and have them make quick work of her. This woman is not fit to live.
    >C] Insist that she's right, and that it's precisely the reason why she should be forgiven. You'll offer this woman clemency.
    >1] By forgiving her entirely. If she still turns, there's nothing more you can do. (Write-ins as to why her sin is forgivable may help enormously.)​
    >2] Leave this matter to Father Pevrel's judgement. You are too emotionally involved in this matter to do your job properly, but still can uphold your tenets while taking action.​
    >D] Write-in.




    ​

    "Lady Laravald!" It is strength that has you seize this enemy by her hands. "Join me."

    She blinks hard at you. The same, distant tone trails out from her. "What...?"

    "We are all sinners. There is no illusion here. I left for the ruins to die. Yet my journey showed me that atonement is best achieved through action." The hold you keep on her tightens. "Stay with me, my lady."

    "I'm a monster. You're just playing into my hand. This is all just a ploy to get away from this all without any consequence. You're gullible. Naive. Easily manipulated. I'm just as bad as any of—"

    "Do you honestly think I would waste one second of my Time on someone who I didn't want to invest in?"

    She takes a sharp breath in.

    You don't budge— especially when her hot and sweaty hands are trembling. "I am sick of war, and death, and demons. I was trying to not laugh through your confession, my lady. You would not believe the things that I have seen, and heard. You are suffering, and to suffer is to live. You are no demon. Allow me to gain another ally. Another friend."

    A high, false laugh leaves her. "Father. Please. You're being cruel."

    "You know I would never lie to you. This is no ploy. You have no need for airs here. Own your shortcomings. Adversity is what makes us grow. Mistakes are the foundation of what we learn. You have a tremendous amount of skill, and knowledge. Do not let it go to waste."

    The woman's protests fall silent. It's food for thought.

    You are drowning in mismanaged shelter, ability, and people. "I cannot hope to see to every citizen of my city in all my life. The Church of Mercy is always open to those who need it. I'm challenging you, and all of your strength. Your resources. Your cunning. You are contrite, but not broken. Do not lose hope. No sin confessed is unforgivable. I forgive you."

    It looks like she's going to cry. "You can't."

    The verve in your voice redoubles. She needs to hear it— and by all the Gods, does it feel good to say it. "I forgive you. Fully, and completely. I ask not for naivety, or weakness. You've sought to kill my family, ruin my life, unseat my authority, and destroy my city. Thanks to your intelligence, and all of your foresight, you have looked to the hands of Mercy to heal. Permit me to invest my Time. Permit me to invest in your efforts. There is so much that we can, and will do. I never wish to inflict harm upon anyone. I ask for something far greater. Something that cannot be given."

    The hands you're holding tighten almost imperceptibly against you. She's afraid to ask, but finds the courage to breathe, "what is it?"

    You pull her into a hug. "Self-acceptance of our flaws, and willingness to learn from them."

    The noblewoman straightens upright like you've put a shock to her spine. A wretched and disjointed sound escapes from her. You realize she's crying, but is fighting with everything she has to suppress the effort. "What have I done?"

    "You've made a step in the right direction." You will not torture her, and quickly pull back.

    She completely breaks down, and sobs, "you're asking me for forgiveness for anything?"

    "It was completely out of line," you say. You brush off some of the flecks of blood imparted onto your chest for good measure. It feels fantastic. You're aware that you're being weird. The comfort and gratification you get from being held outclasses any hesitation. You don't need to let onto anything else. Fishing for your miserably gaudy handkerchief gives her even more space. A stern stare completes the ruse of normalcy. "Here." The bright yellow cloth is tacky enough to be comedic. "Please excuse the impropriety."

    The gold threaded item you've extended is declined with a wave of her hand. Lady Laravald produces one of her own tissues from a pocket on her bodice, and properly sobs into it. She pretends to snip through it, and must feel better for her own ploy at appearances. "Well, I never. We'll simply have to ensure that this confession never leaves this room."

    Tears, and beet-red eyes discolor her otherwise beautiful smirk. "It would be dreadful if Inertia found out that they had a spy in their midst."

    >A] Mercy, that is more than you bargained for. You can't trust this woman as far as you can throw her, and want your allegiances to be clear. Firmly clarify that any partnerships you have need to be made with full transparency. (Write-in how you intend to do this.)
    >B] This woman is no doubt entrenched in a lifetime of political turmoil. You don't know the first thing about navigating Corcaea's rocky social waters. Plainly ask Lady Laravald how she thinks you can best use her talents without compromising either of your safety or security. It's going to reveal that you're clueless, but you would rather be honest and resourceful than to feign knowledge and be obstructive.
    >C] Despite being a farmer's son that was raised in a backwater fishing hole, spending 8 years of your life confined to the floor of a cell, being misguided and overwhelmed for the majority of your career, and spending the last year embroiled in more trauma and violence than ANY many should withstand, you are STILL the LEADER of the Church of Mercy and WILL live up to your titles. (Write-in the first major decision of your political career. Feel free to be as detailed or vague as you like.)

    You have to be honest. "Your life is just as important as any other in my care. I would rather see you escorted back to Calunoth once the roads are cleared, than to be killed by cultists— but if you wish to help, I will not hesitate to take your offer. I can only pray that you do not wish to take any unneeded risks."

    Both of you know how ill-prepared you were to come into your title. The handkerchief is stashed, as the noblewoman almost immediately gathers her composure. It's unsettling. "You won't like this." She's fully aware that you're a sucker for bad news. A sad smile crosses over her fair features. "But we both know that it would threaten both of our lives for me to tell you much in the way of anything. You are the Father of Honesty. Let me do the lying for you. I can assure you that I will not compromise your work, aim to unseat and destabilize our enemies, and will survive at all costs. You would be alerted when I find information that merits your clemency, Father."

    Deeply sighing, you try to remind yourself of the merits of your tenets. "I would rather remain honest, and make proper use of my resources than to feign at any knowledge of the turmoil you're engulfed in. That said, I— I do sincerely wish to know how to best use your talents."

    The noblewoman makes no motion to move. She stares you down. "By trusting me to do the right thing."

    >A] Trust her, and let her go.
    >B] You can't trust this woman. (Write-in why you're immediately going back on your word.)

    There's light in your heart, and faith in your soul. Simply nodding at her is enough to earn the woman's respect. "I trust you. Go. The Gods are Merciful."

    She gives you a tight frown, gathers her skirts, and moves to leave. "Everything I have ever heard about you does a disservice to your kindness. Kings show less benevolence and grace in all their rule than you have in one, single day." The noblewoman pauses before the door, and gives a small curtsy. "Thank you, Father. You are Merciful."

    It's not proper for the lady to see herself out, but neither of you care.

    A minute or two passes with only the pounding rain outside for company. The night is wearing thin, and you still have much work to do. The fireplace is tended to for a moment, as you think to the priestess of Storm in your company. Her, Adwin, and James have been kept waiting for an excessive amount of Time.

    You've also accomplished more through this series of confessions than you have in weeks of residing in the city. Getting out, and seeing to your people has always paid dividends. Making the Time to spare for these endeavors is the problem. As you told Lady Laravald, there's enough citizens in Eadric that an audience with all of them would occupy the rest of your life.
     
    Last edited:
  • Threadmarks
    • Chapter 36: Forgive Me, Father - Part 6
  • Threadmarks
    • Chapter 36: Forgive Me, Father - Part 6
    "In the name of common decency."​


    The priest of Vengeance who's been bullying these traitors all night opens the door, and walks in unaccompanied. He leaves the entryway open, offering you a glimpse to the kitchen beyond. The coals Irefist doused much still be burning hot, as a faint red glow is cast on the walls and ceiling. There's the sound of people stirring from sleep, and hushed whispers to keep their voices down. Fear is all through their speech. The surly culprit of their distress by your side says, "two more, if you care to see them. A farmer's wife, who's taken her sweet Time coming to. Another is still rousing, who I'd like to cut down where he lays. Would you like me to bring the woman before you now, Father? Executing them would compensate for this gross abuse of your limited Time."

    "Is anyone else still...?"

    "No."

    Dammit all.

    >A] Losing one more life today is unthinkable. The information, allies, and peace of mind you've been given here is priceless. You'll see to the farmer's wife, and the other individual, then go straight to the tunnels after that. Father Pevrel will want to speak to you briefly as well.
    >B] You've kept Adwin waiting underground in torchlight for half the night, and feel like a monster. Despite all of the good that you're doing, and the lives on the line, you simply can't spare any more Time. Head out, and get with the Lord of Punishment to figure out his hand in all this.
    >1] Plainly order the priest of Vengeance to stay his hand. He must obey your order, no matter how much it will offend him.​
    >2] Immediately demand that Father Pevrel call his priest off from harming anyone else here.​
    >3] This priest of judgement has a damn good reason for striking your enemies. Don't stop him from doing anything.​
    >C] Write-in.

    You might as well finish this properly. "Let's see to them."

    Everyone in Father Pevrel's company came here after a hard march on the road, and got straight to combat. The priest immediately turns to leave. He's slaked with sweat, is wavering where he stands, and has likely not set down his sword since you first saw him this morning. You catch him with your voice. "Wait."





    Curiosity outweighs the man's annoyance. He pauses at the door, and turns to you.

    You can set aside your feelings on the church of Vengeance in the name of common (Agricultural) decency. A quick glance is made to the wine at the table behind you, while you gesture to the servant of wrath. "Spirits have no place in a war, and especially not to support the enormous help I've received from you all. Can I get you something to keep you on your feet?" A waggle of your flask. A twinge of irritation flits across his features. "The peace of mind I've been given here is priceless. The least I can do is offer some healing in return."

    The man before you gruffly replies, "thanks, but no thanks." He's not necessarily bothered by your offer. The man has appearances to keep in front of the leader of his church. Given how he looks around the door several times, and how every inch of him is screaming that he'd like to take you up on the offer, it's very likely that Father Pevrel mistreats his men as much as he does his allies outside the church.

    Not everyone recognizes accepting help as a strength, but this is not the place or the Time to address how someone else commands their men. You promptly put the gold-capped container away. "The farmer's wife, then."

    A few moments later, a ruddy-faced woman is led by her arm into the room. You drop your grimace at the priest of Vengeance using a lighter hand, and gesture to the chair beside you. "Good evening, ma'am. I'm certain that you can excuse our unconventional arrangements."

    The man who escorted her in is shrugged off, and he leaves promptly.

    There's dirt smeared across her many skirts. Two aprons are stuffed full with various bags for trade, and clink slightly as the farmer's wife collapses in the chair beside you. Her straw-like hair is free from knots or buns. There's agony all across her plain features. The woman doesn't look to have any serious injury, though she is cut in several places. Abrasions on her forearms, hands, and the dirt around her knees indicates she fell or was pushed over at least a few times. The exhaustion rimming her black eyes reminds you a good deal of your own mother. There's deep-set lines from tension at the edges of her lips, and betrays her actual age. She can't be older than you are, yet looks like she's easily born a dozen children.

    The woman's done an enormous service to the nation, and with a look that appears as tired as you feel. "You goin' to 'ave me cut to ribbons like the rest of 'em?"

    "No. This is an opportunity for repentance."

    "Don't need to make no confession, Father. I'm a Gods-fearin' woman. Came 'ere today to see what all the fuss was about. Pa's gone and looked after things on the farm for the day, and I'd ought to have been back hours ago by now." Her eyes narrow. "They said you were a beanpole. What a load of crock. No father I've ever 'eard of goes on without puttin' on some weight, or some gray. This all makes enough sense. The killin's sure don't. Sure don't explain everyone who's not comin' 'ome tonight, Father."

    "You heard everything that was said at the hearing?"

    "Sure as the sun in the sky. It's not up right now, so you'll beg my pardon fer askin' you to repeat it."

    "Do you recall my request for any and every person present at that hearing to come forth, and admit to their falsehoods?"

    "Come on now." Her shoulders droop a little further. "You said it your own self that you'd walked up to a trap. You got away sure enough. But not one of us was tripping it first. Not anyone who meant to get outta there alive." A hard sigh. She's staring you in the eyes. "I've enough sense to keep my mouth shut when need be. You've got bigger problems than knowin' when I 'ave or 'aven't stayed my hand. Them eyes ain't natural." A weary look passes over you. "This all ain't natural. Not most of it. Would bet on it. Yer 'bout to keel over any minute."

    The ache in your soul has substantially lessened. Rather than being acute, excruciating pain on an existential level, it is now comparable to ordinary agony. Along with the sleep exhaustion, an irrational desire to go eat something, and the ache in most of your joints, you try not to laugh. "It's plain as day, isn't it?"

    "Plainer."

    "Well. No, ma'am. Not necessarily. I will rest when my work is done, but not a moment sooner."

    A thumb is jerked towards the kitchen. "Go get yerself a stiff drink. Rot-eye—" She means Father Pevrel. You try not to smile. "—seems to keep you on your toes. Weird shit, Father, but I'm in no place to judge."

    "Now, wait just a—"

    "Don't matter none. Can't take every old thing you hear to heart. Good way to die, when our city's burnin'. The streets aren't safe. Twelve of my boys (lucky guess?) won't do a damn thing for any of us when the wolves come howlin'."

    Both of her freckled, scraped, and filthy arms are crossed. "Didn't much like you takin' leave. Whole lot of us. You hear things, Father. Load of nonsense that might be worth carin' about. But you've put down demons today faster than these damn masks can make 'em. Got a whole army at your back! And I've 'eard how you work 'fore. Stuff of nightmares, it is. I know yer here to protect us."

    "I—"

    "Listen here. These rats aren't takin' our city. How stupid can you get? Go do somethin' to loosen yerself up. I'm willin' to bet you're too eager to get some action to even think about takin' a minute alone. Goin' to go gray just as fast as you've lost yer figure. Yer no use to us if you can't even stand."

    The mother clutches onto the back of the chair, and stands with a groan. "Back's killin' me from sittin' all day. Glad you Mercy types are always movin'. Keeps you sharp. I won't waste more of yer Time, Father. Just wanted to say my peice."

    "Wait." Everyone is usually far too polite to cut off your flowery, circular, and excessive speech. It's been awhile since you spoke to someone who wouldn't let you get a word in edgewise. You'll try to keep this brief, given how eager she is to leave. "You mean to tell me that you had no involvement—"

    "'course I did. Sure didn't lift a finger to help things in either way. Thought I was makin' the right call. We're all people, right? Shouldn't be fightin'. But not doin' a damn thing about the problem is just another way of helpin' it happen. Got roughed up nowhere near enough fer it. If these priests really think they're bein' fair, they'd have kept us all alive, and set fire to our homes." She pauses. "Come to think of it, they did to a few. I'd like to get back 'ome, if it's all the same to you. Sure as shit would bet you've got better ways to spend your Time than with me."

    You've wanted to help the common man for all your life, but reaching the foundation of your nation does not come easily. This woman is distressed enough to ignore the fuss and propriety of your station, and doesn't have the manners to apologize. This woman might not realize she's confessed, but she's already sought some way to make amends. It's alright if she doesn't have the wits or wisdom to understand the gravity of the situation. Every soul under your protection is worth saving, and you are going to continue striving to do better.

    >A] There's no need to take any of her advice. Not with how much you have on your agenda. But you can at least give her some sincere thanks, and ensure that this woman can return home safely before the end of the night.
    >1] She will probably need a guard, and you can scope out the situation outside the city's defenses by giving her a small measure of protection. The streets cannot possibly be safe for a young woman alone.​
    >2] Regardless of this woman's social standing, you cannot possibly afford to part with even one good man just for her defense. She's aware that her sloth is part of the problem, and seeks to amend it. This will be a form of penance in and of itself.​
    >B] A stiff drink is EXACTLY what you need, and Father Pevrel will REALLY appreciate one, too. You'll share something potent with him once you're done with the next (and apparently last) confession.
    >C] Stop her in her tracks, and demand answers. (Write-in anything you want to insist on discussing with this worried mother, who is urging you to let her get home to her children.)

    A moment is taken to halt the young woman's leave. Writing up a requisition for just one man feels ridiculous, but she needs some form of protection to get home safely. It's the least you can do. Along with the order to get her home securely, you instruct whichever individual Father Pevrel will spare to also patrol the surrounding area. You'll be brought a report before the night is out.
     
    Last edited:
  • Threadmarks
    • Chapter 36: Forgive Me, Father - Part 7 (Reader discretion advised.)
  • Threadmarks
    • Chapter 36: Forgive Me, Father - Part 7
    "I'm not asking for the Gods."

    The following contains material that may be distressing to some readers.
    Trigger Warnings: Mentions of pedophilia (verbally and implicitly. No interactions with minors are depicted or described explicitly.).
    Reader discretion is advised.






    As the priest of Vengeance returns to the room with one final elderly soul in tow, you entrust the guard with the note, and murmur to get Father Pevrel on the job. Hard liquor is promised the minute you're done. The scruffy servant of retribution is all smirks and reassurance that it should get him in your good graces. The man gladly goes off to go get your request for protection seen to.

    The last person brought before you this evening immediately walked to the rear of the room. He's putting as much distance between you two as possible. The man must have been sitting out of sight at the hearing, as you don't recognize him. It's an elderly man in phenomenal shape for his age, save for his clouded eyes. He must be completely blind, yet carries no walking cane. By the fine make of the cloth on him, and his relative lack of injury, you suspect that his family is comprised of mild-mannered craftsmen. Yet fists are at his side. He doesn't want a fight. This man is telegraphing self-defense. He expects you to strike him.

    There's no introduction. Just a miserable question. Long, wavering syllables accent his speech. "Father? Father Anscham, is it?"

    You remain standing at the door. The softness of your own tone usually does wonders for deescalating antagonism, too. "Yes."

    "You're childless. Don't have a woman to your name either, if I hear right."

    "You have heard incorrectly."

    "Not just in meaning."

    "Not just in meaning," you repeat. "I present you with an opportunity for confession. This is just as much a chance to voice your grievances with my failings, as it is— as it is to seek your own salvation."

    He's being incredibly odd. You patiently wait several minutes.

    A whisper leaves him. "Then forgive me, Father." The man clutches at the side of the stone above the roaring fireplace. His knuckles are white. "The things I have— it isn't because our city's been overrun. I've been a bastard. Through and through. I've been blind all my life. Feeling's all I know. What I hear is my window into the world. Don't forgive me for making the most of it. But I've probably sired fifty brats in your city. Most of 'em were kids themselves."

    There's a lot less air in the room. That doesn't sound right, and can't be right. "Could you please clarify?"

    "We're dying out, Father. I don't think I've got any of it left in me. Humanity. But I just keep going. I can't help it."

    The rain outside must have quieted down, as the two of you stand in silence.

    He speaks quickly, like he's afraid he'll never be able to speak again. "You're not the Father of Judgement. I'm telling you all this, and I don't expect Mercy. I sure haven't been given any all my life. Your Gods took the world away from me. I've taken plenty more than the world from kids who couldn't do a damn thing about it. You don't need to know the half of it. But it doesn't change that I'm worse than some demon."

    A cloudy, gray stare lingers on something unseen. "I don't understand it. You can feel divinity, and I can't see my hands in front of my face. You can live in a castle, and we've got vagrants sleeping on the streets. The Father of Gold is running a nation that can't even put armor and arms on our men. You want to preach about salvation? What about these people who will listen?"

    You have to interject, "you mean Inertia?"

    "Inertia. The occupation we've had from people who've tried to get me help. Help—" The desperation in his voice isn't much different from your own worst cries for aid. "—where I'd be killed by anyone else. They took me in, and got me away from my family. They're not going to be hurting on my behalf anymore. They don't have to hear a damn thing, or do a damn thing. I'm not a burden. They're happy to have a pair of hands that can't see what they're up to. All I want is for it to stop. They gave me a chance to try."

    Fear is all through a rapist's frame. He can't look to you, but pleads. "You might call Inertia a cult, but they've kept me sane. They're helping me keep to myself. I've done more than try. I haven't touched a soul in months. Months. I don't know why I'm like this. There's never been any Gods here. Not for me." He's shaking like a man who knows he's about to die, pries his hand off of the fireplace, and pauses.

    The confessor gets on his knees. He's not quite sure where you are in the room, and says to the floor, "I don't want to hurt anyone. I know I don't deserve forgiveness. I know I don't. But this isn't an appeal to the Gods. This is your city. Your people. Go on and preach, or cut me down. I'm ready to die. I have been for a long time. Call me whatever you want, if it helps. It can't be worse than anything I've thought about myself. But I've had a second chance. I had to see for myself, Father. I've risked my life on it. I had hoped that the man who calls himself the lord of compassion could tell me what I can't tell myself."

    "I'm not asking for help, Father. I've already been given it. I'm not asking for the Gods. I'm asking you."

    A Godless man stares to the floor. "Mercy."

    >A] What's said in a confession is meant to never leave your confidence, but you're turning this man over to Father Pevrel. It's nowhere near significant retribution for the pain he's caused. You're granting Mercy to this child rapist by putting him down.
    >B] Ask how Inertia has helped this compulsive molester manage his impulses.
    >1] You're sickened beyond belief by your enemies. You have no intention of forgiving this man. You'll use him to know what you're up against, and have him cut down the minute you're done here.​
    >2] The prospect of Inertia having any positive merits is baffling. You're too shocked to do more than try to gather more information, and will withhold your judgement for now.​
    >C] You truly believe that people are not their past. This man has clearly struggled with this all his life, and stopped the minute he was granted actual help.
    >1] The trouble is, you can't turn him back over to your enemies. (Write-in how you reconcile this.)​
    >2] Forgive him, but caution him to not cross your path again. You're willing to have him go crawling back to your foes, with the promise that he'll uphold his word to not harm another living soul.​
    >D] What's said in a confession is meant to NEVER leave your confidence. With influence, wealth, and the might of the Gods Themselves, you should have no need to rely on anyone else to do your job. How you handle the worst of humanity is ultimately your call. (Write-in.)

    You'll be damned if one more innocent soul is harmed by this man. The sad fact of the matter is that you can't watch him every moment of the day. You currently can't watch him at all. Forgiving him outright is also out of the question.

    "There is a sickness in you. This illness is as deep as your very Spirit. I cannot permit you to walk freely with any risk of relapse. I understand better than most what it feels like to struggle with temptation. Please do not misinterpret my words. I will not kill you under any circumstances. There is something greater that can be done for your actions than— than even forgiveness." The very least you can do is explain.

    Silently wracked with devastation, there's a single strand of hope that lifts his gaze from the ground.

    "I speak of Redemption. Your life is not at risk. I would never wish to take this second chance away from you. This is the city of Mercy, and so I ask you to honor Her gifts of clemency and grace. The guilt weighing on your conscience is clear as day. Tell me what Inertia has done for you— so that I may better elaborate on my offer of atonement."

    "That's all?"

    "We will proceed from there. I would like the full picture, first. My own thoughts on rehabilitation could benefit from more information— blasphemous, or otherwise."

    A good deal of the man's anxiety falls off just thinking about it. "They've granted me an alternative to temptation, Father. Support. Something else to have faith in. When there's so little opportunity— it makes it so much easier to bear. You must understand that simply being able to talk to other people like me is a gift. They understand. I don't have to hide. There's accountability, without any strain. When I've slipped, or just need some reassurance. Peace, and quiet, and distance. The only responsibility that they've put on me is to not do anything."

    He sounds so grateful. He's struggling not to cry. "You can't understand how much it means to me."

    Putting this man to work and dropping him in a massively stimulating environment (like a castle in the midst of a city at war) is likely the worst thing that could be done for his mental well-being. Inertia has granted him with a tremendous change in lifestyle, along with safe shelter, and a community of fellow sinners who will listen to him with open hearts. This is not something you can provide right now. There's no guarantee that any of your own men or women would tolerate this man in your home. It's certain that if he's left to his own devices, he's going to suffer and struggle with this matter. It's also clear as day that he has some issue within his mind. Not even blindness has stopped him. Further attempts to cripple his libido or strength will likely only intensify his personal suffering.

    You have a few ideas.

    >A] Present him with an offer of religious seclusion and repentance. The cloister in the Church of Mercy is currently unoccupied, so he would have no immediate distractions (barring assassins breaking into the castle). Items for physical restraint and atonement are aplenty in your home. You can also provide him with natural remedies that will stifle his impulses, and lower his libido. It will compromise his health and faculties in the long-term, but may be a welcome mental break.
    >1] You'll task whoever is available for the castle's security to monitor him. It will be additional work for your insanely overtaxed staff, but you don't trust him to not try and escape.​
    >2] Develop a system of accountability. (Write-in how you'd like to keep track of this sex offender in the year 606 with your current resources. Please feel free to ask if you need a recap on what's available to you.)​
    >B] There's pain you can inflict on a man that will be felt in his very soul. Castration is still more than this man deserves. You'll perform surgery for the second time this evening, and do everything in your power to make this clean. He's probably going to try to run, or might try to kill himself instead, but you're willing to torture this man in order to send a message. (Presented only due to several prior votes. This action is unarguably violent, and will destroy this man's quality of life if it does not kill him. As the leader of the Church of Mercy, you can only pursue an action that brings pain and removes the health of another soul if all your heart is in it. Unanimous vote required, or majority vote with STRONG justification.)
    >C] Write-in.

    You run a hand through your hair, look to the ceiling, and mutter a few expletives under your breath. He's admitted to relapsing. He represents a threat to your home. There are plenty more people like him who have been helping each other to be better, and you're in the process of waging war on their support network. The collapse of Inertia could do horrible things for more than their own stability.

    "I'm burdening you with the same responsibility," you sigh.

    The singular thread of hope that's lifted this man's gaze takes him off his knees to stand, and to look towards the sound of your voice with gratitude coating him.

    "Violence is not the answer. You've demonstrated that there are more than enough resources at our disposal to help you, and— and anyone else suffering from the same affliction. I want to help you. It makes no sense for me to intervene now. I— I regret to admit that I simply cannot grant you a better support network at the moment. Not when I am at war, and not when I am opposing the very same organization that's successfully helped you." You stride across the room, and stop an arm's reach away from the sinner. "Promise me that if this support network falls apart, that you will come to the Church of Mercy first thing."

    He's choking up. "I swear to you, Father."

    "You are making an oath to me. Right here, right now. You are to never touch another soul again. Swear to me. Make this oath on all that you hold dear."

    A moment passes as he reflects on what you're asking. Resolution stills his trembling. "I swear to you on the merits of staying my hands: I would rather die than inflict myself on another soul again. I swear to you on the city of restraint, on the virtue of chastity, on the charity that has been extended to me in months, on each and every soul who has seen fit to endure my company— and on the lord of compassion's unrivaled grace. I will do no harm. I swear to you."

    There's no guarantee that he, or any of his friends will even survive to see the end of this conflict. You mutter, "take leave of this place. I will pray that if we meet again, it will be under fairer circumstances, and that I will be far better equipped to aid your Spirit. You've granted me knowledge I could not have possessed otherwise, and may have helped to heal countless more of your ilk."

    He moves to leave without question. Guilt and gratitude twists his features. "Thank you."

    "You are very welcome. May the Gods have Mercy on your soul."
     
    Last edited:
  • Threadmarks
    • Chapter 37: Colder Than Eventide
  • Threadmarks
    • Chapter 37: Colder Than Eventide
    "Maybe I ought to trust your tastes a little more, if nothing else."​


    You take all your things from the clean room, and both of you depart together. The cooking area is almost empty. There's stains gathered around the fire pit (from what was no doubt from eight recent corpses). The tables are clear of all goods, the coals are burning low, and Father Pevrel is sitting eagerly on a stool at the center of the scene. Long shadows sink into his gaunt face. It's as if he's made of shadow, and is loving every second of it. The drunkard fires you a lecherous sneer. The sinkholes of his eyes make the expression even more grotesque. He leans over the large wooden table, and ridiculously pats the stool on the other side. "Promises, promises, Anscham. Sure kept me waiting."

    "I should commend you for staying your hand."

    "Shut the fuck up, and get over here. Glutton. I should have expected you to offer to drink straight after confession."

    "Pardon the attempt at humanity, after—"

    "Will you get that out of here?"

    The priest of Vengeance that's been aiding you all evening takes the blind man by his arm, and gently leads him away towards the basement. Everyone downstairs will have to wait. You sincerely need a stiff drink just as badly as Father Pevrel does.

    Taking a seat at the table, you're instantly uncomfortable. He's intentionally picked small bar stools. To say that you outclass the humble piece of furniture would be an understatement. Standing will be better for your health anyways. "You didn't have to accept the offer, you know."

    "Yeah, right. When you're carrying around some demon's liquor? I'm not about to miss an opportunity at inspecting an artifact of sin." His smile broadens. "Try me."

    >A] Challenge him to match you. You have an immunity to poison, and should be able to drink him under the table while you both talk. His shit-talking calls for nothing less.
    >B] The sheer amount of Mercy you've demonstrated tonight has you feeling particularly protective, and wanting for some healing. Conjure whatever he requests, and then make yourself a drink so strong that even you can feel it. Don't let Father Pevrel have any, knowing the risks to his health that would be involved.
    >C] Respectfully request if the lord of equivalence would like to match something particularly strong with you. You are empathetic enough to respect even the tenets of opposing churches.
    >D] Write-in. (Feel free to add anything specific you want to bring up to Father Pevrel, any specific drinks you want to make, or anything else you think of.)

    "I'll drink you under the table— when Time permits us relief from our enemies." You wiggle your flask at him. "I would prefer to stay sharp, and to not drink at the moment. Would you care to match something modest, Father Pevrel?"

    The smile falls. "I'm impressed you would even consider abstinence."

    "If I must," you mutter.

    "Sure. Let's see your definition of restriction."

    You swore to get him something stiff to drink. What will put hair on his chest won't even register to you. To Yech's flask, you quietly request, "grain liquor. Wheat, preferably. Infuse it with milk thistle, and elderflower. I want this colder than the Eventide. Neat. I trust we can manage without ice."

    "The fuck is all that for?"

    "Aside from the flavor?" You find two glasses nearby, and pour out a completely clear drink. A quick prayer to Agriculture accompanies the motion. One of the purest, cleanest drinks you've ever seen comes out thin. It's almost like water, smells like explosive liquid mixed with herbs, and is so cold that frost smokes off the glasses the instant the liquid touches them. The coals behind you both cast a stunning red light into and off of both cups. "Elderflower for yellowing skin, sharpness of the mind, fighting off infection, swelling, bleeding, sore eyes—"

    "Fuck you."

    "—I have scarcely slept in ten days. The milk thistle carries a host of benefits. You'll be delighted to bother me for knowing it is excellent for aiding in weight loss—"

    He snorts. "When you're right, you're right!"

    You smirk. "—and in aiding your body's ability to combat liquor's long-term effects. Try it."


    ​


    No half-measures. The priest raises his glass to you in a silent toast. You both knock back the stunning concoction at the same moment. He looks impressed, and speaks with a level tone despite the burn he must be feeling. "Nearly as bitter as you are."

    You take a sip. The man's got a tolerance for liquor that could kill lesser men, but has no tongue for herbs. Your smirk intensifies. "It's slightly sweet. You must be unused to these sorts of remedies."

    "Don't need flowers to do my job, Anscham. So. How'd everything go?"

    "Your priest was remarkably helpful."

    "He's a good lad." The priest pauses, and puts back the entire glass in one more swig.

    You dart your eyes to your glass, and raise your eyebrows.

    He raises his eyebrows.

    You slide your drink over to the alcoholic, and sigh as he kicks back the rest of it.

    "Nearly as good as this shit. Maybe I ought to trust your tastes a little more, if nothing else."

    "I trust you didn't slaughter any of the souls I've spared?"

    "Not even I'm that fucked. No. The fuck is wrong with you?"

    "I can't be sure with you."

    "Gods. I can't promise your little farmer girl is getting home safe, but she's with my men. The rest are on their own. See the present I left for you outside the castle?"

    Bodies on pikes flash in a red, sticky mess of blood and innards at the front of your mind. "Yes. That is precisely the sort of thing I'm talking about."

    "They all tried to openly cut down both of our families, and would have done worse if they could. They tried sending us a crude, violent message. I was happy to do the same, and there's going to be more where that came from. These fuckers are like rats. Hard to get em out, when they've got access to the whole damn city and what's under it. Saw you brought some friends along for the ride. Was that your boy?"

    "We discussed this."

    "Look. I'm just saying—"

    You try not to seethe. "My city is on fire. My men are literally dying from exhaustion. I have work to do. Do you have anything else to report?"

    To your delight, he actually gives you a report. "Plenty of fires have been put out while you were busy. The men you sent out from the castle saw to plenty of it." He stares wistfully at the empty glass. You pour the hypocrite another shot. His faith in humanity is instantly restored. "We have the situation handled. Heard about the work you did across town with that demon, too." A look passes over you. "Impressive that you're still standing. Word's going around that you're having a sermon with Mercy come morning. The night's wearing thin, and you seem to be allergic to using any of my men. Not that I don't appreciate it..."

    Father Pevrel knocks back the shot, and wipes his face with the side of his sleeve. Blood streaks across the side of his beard and some of his lips. He makes show of licking it, just to try to get a rise from you. "Probably nothing quite like that corpse earlier, eh?"

    "Why are you so eager to find out? Are you actually trying to cheer me up—"

    "You're disgusting. Look. I seriously want to commend you for abstaining from ordering more than one of my priests around. You're an idiot for not doing more, but you're braver than anyone gives you any credit for. I can respect someone who'll kill themselves to protect 40 of my kids."

    You both share one more drink together. No bullying from either side for lingering over the glass.

    "I couldn't protect all of them."

    "It's a miracle we haven't lost more. Got some damn fine men on either side. You have a plan for how you're handling security for this sermon? I can't promise we'll have things squared away well enough to give you a proper guard come morning. I mean, I can go. But I'd rather keep your miserable, indulgent company until then to make sure you get home in one piece."

    The twisted bastard does care. You try not to let on a smile, as he plays at being intimidating. "Now that we've taken out the trash, I can't think of anywhere my skills would be more valuable." The priest taps the skin beside one of his missing eyes. "The dark is home for me. Can't say I'm not itching to root out this scum myself." A sugary sweet tone is distorted by the man's rasping voice. "I promise I'll stay on my best behavior."

    You wince. "Adwin will already be incredibly off-put by the venture."

    "Any good reason you brought your boy out into this mess, anyways?"

    "He needed to have an eye kept on him." Cringing this hard might injure something. "I didn't mean—"

    "Oh, I think you did."

    "I did not mean Vengeance's—"

    "Oh. I really think you did." He pulls at the skin below his eye sockets, which only exaggerates the expanse of darkness in them.

    There the impression of blood and retribution at the back of your mind. "Your behavior is abhorrent."

    "Plenty of other people who would say otherwise, when they aren't on my list for sin that I hadn't even thought possible. Anscham."

    "You are making a terrible case for yourself."

    "I'm not trying to make a case at all. Don't we have a little more respect for each other's work than for me to need to convince you? I'm only reminding you of the shit you and I are capable of putting down because I know you're too tired to think straight." The empty glass is swirled. He drags a finger along its interior, and sucks on it. A sharkish grin is fired at you. "Don't read into that."

    You sigh, and resist an incredibly strong urge to lick at your own glass. "Have you seen to the affairs of the rest of your men?" Biting slightly at the edge of your lip doesn't do much good for the nagging impulse.

    "Don't insult me. Of course I have. They don't need to be babysat, Anscham. This operation will run with, or without me. I'm telling you that you need my help, and this is going to be the most critical step we take in the whole damn venture. I'm only asking what you prefer out of respect for your request about the boy this morning. I'm not going to disrespect your home, or how you want to treat your kid. Just remember that we're striking this quickly because of how effective it will be at culling these traitors. The two of us will cut down anything and anyone that would get in our way faster than any other men alive. If you don't want me here, that's your call. It's also your loss, and will be that much harder you have to work. Don't go thinking that a priestess of Storm can fight in an enclosed space without threatening all your lives, or that a sailor can hold a candle to what I'm capable of."

    >A] Father Pevrel can go guard the Church of Mercy until dawn. He doesn't need to know anything about Adwin, and you don't need to be trapped with the smell of liquor and death for the next several hours. Thank him for all of his assistance, entrust him with the security for your sermon, and leave it at that.
    >B] Sister Cardew DID encourage you to not spurn your alliance with this man. You and her both are in agreement that he needs your help. You're positive that he's worse off than you are, and could benefit from your aid.
    >1] If for no other reason, you'll take him on your excursion beneath the city to try to get to know him better. Someone with a fondness for his family, interior decorating, and herb-infused hard liquor can't be all that bad.​
    >2] He's a sickeningly capable combatant, investigator, and apparently has sight that will beat out Irefist's. You want his skills.​
    >C] There's a lot of questions these confessions raised. While you have Father Pevrel's undivided attention and some privacy, you can discreetly inquire about your own city without compromising your oaths.
    >1] Express to Father Pevrel that you are worried about the outskirts of your city, and would like any other information he has on the countryside. See if he thinks your plan to work on the roads tomorrow is a suicide mission or not, too.​
    >2] The Father of Investigation must have some ideas how you can help with your image, and with taking Inertia down a peg. Ask him for any particularly nefarious activity, high-profile targets, or anything else that could help with morale on both sides.​
    >D] Write-in. (Now's the time to ask any questions you may have, or to express anything you want to keep between you and Father Pevrel. You'll have ample opportunity to speak with him if you take him below ground, otherwise this conversation will end in the next post.)




    ​

    "Before we go anywhere, I— I would like to avoid repeating the same mistakes."

    "Well, well." The drunkard smirks, and slides his glass over.

    You oblige the request, and are met with a satisfied look. "You are the father of investigation. I want your wits, your sight, and your combative capability on my side."

    A fake play at smugness is directed towards you.

    "I know that I've been squandering your skills as well as everyone else's. I hate keeping them waiting—" You cast a glance to the room next door. "—but this is a rare opportunity for some discreet discussion. The fact that you trust me enough to disclose any information at all— even in regards to my own city— especially in regards to my own city—"

    "You're worse off than I am. Spit it out."

    He is the one who's worse off, here.

    "You mentioned that it's unlikely the wife I sent home this evening will even make it to her family alive, even with— even with your men's company. What's our current situation regarding the city's outskirts?"

    The shotglass is sipped at. You politely wait for him to finish mulling over what to say. "I extracted the locations of the homes and families of every last rotten soul at that hearing. They thought they could sabotage your livelihood, ruin your life, and destroy your home. The complacent are just as much at fault as those who have actively worked to harm the theocracy. Their sin has been rewarded."

    "You killed her family."

    He grins. "And burned the farm to the ground."

    "You're a monster."

    "Listen, demon." He stands up. You brace for a rant, and patiently wait. "I didn't harm a hair on that girl's head. She could have sought refuge at the Church of Mercy if her allegiances hadn't led to it being sieged, its doors being shut, and its Father being overworked half-to-death. She would normally have ample protection against disaster, but her church is fucking empty thanks to her inaction. The citizens of your city who OPENLY choose to ally themselves with a blasphemous cult of demon-loving BASTARDS would do well to remember WHY their country is still standing!"

    "Her children did nothing—"

    "What a fucking load of shit. You mean the teenage boys who were armed, some of whom we did not find, and all of which are openly supporting Inertia?!"

    You both glare at each other.

    The preacher sits back down. "Besides, there's plenty of neighboring farms. If they see fit to take in traitors, that's their prerogative." A shrug. "Who am I to say if they'll openly support an ally of Inertia during this crisis, when my men are sweeping the area for more hideouts? Who's to say we won't find them all come morning?"

    The glares fade after a few minutes of silence.

    You pour yourself another shot, and linger over the burning frost. The sear in your throat is far more reassuring than the guilt or worry drenching you. "I'm exhausted. My skills as a priest of Mercy will go towards supporting your strengths tonight." There's significant relief from the ache and pain that been plaguing you. Enough still remains to have you clutch at the fabric over your chest. "I'm killing myself over this, and I have to stop." Wide eyes implore the man sitting across from you, "the moment my sermon finishes, I'm getting some rest. I can't invoke. Not unless someone is on death's door. Please don't make this any harder for me than it already is."

    Disgruntled— and completely dissatisfied— Father Pevrel sneers, "I can't promise that I won't need your help."

    "You don't understand. After I get some rest tomorrow, I will be clearing the northern trade route."

    "Oh."

    Both of you take a moment in silence, working away at the liquor. Father Pevrel interjects the silence. "I'll get a few men to keep an eye out. You're taking Sister Miramond?"

    "Yes. If I'm able."

    "I fucking hate to say it, but my boys won't be able to keep up with either of you. I might tag along. We'll see how things play out. You'll want someone to stay on guard, though. There won't be much cover unless you make some, and you're going to conserve all the strength you can." He shakes his head, and finishes his glass. "The scope of it should kill you. That's work that one hundred priests of Agriculture should be handling. Or a few years of normal paving. You know how far north you'll try to go?"

    "No, but I— I can't stray too far from the city."

    "Try not to worry about it. We'll just need to see how the situation develops until then." The priest moves towards the basement door. "Gimme a second. Find a better chair or something, for fuck's sake."

    You find a better chair than the barstool. Getting off your feet for even another minute is spectacular. Father Pevrel dips downstairs, and arrives back in what feels like a single second. It's possible that you started to drift off to sleep while sitting upright.

    "Anscham. Hey." The gruff tone directed at you is back across the table.

    "Did you—" A yawn distorts the question. "—send out your men?"

    "They'll try to clear the north as well as they're able. The matter's addressed. Given the rest of the night and most of tomorrow, they should be plenty of help."

    "Thank you so much."

    Another glance to your flask. "What else you got?"

    Both of you smirk, while you mutter to the item, "don't kill him, but surprise me." You pour out some jet-black, licorice-smelling foulness for the priest while muttering, "your judgement has exceeded my expectations."

    He sniffs the shotglass, and makes a face like you've just killed a puppy on his behalf (in a good way). "Don't get too cozy."

    The priest is all smiles as you tease, "that's terribly difficult. With your lovely taste in decor...?"

    "Remind me to replace every chair in the castle with something worse than those stools. If you're done dwelling on sitting around and stuffing your face, glutton, I'm trying to entertain your questions."

    He's unquestionably easier to tease than even you are. "You know I'm just as much a glutton for information—"

    "Oh, shove it."

    "...and I appreciate you aiding my devotion towards Spirit this evening. My own access to information has been severely compromised. Everything that I've heard has indicated that Sullivan's prior attempts at destroying my image were a complete success. A great deal of the people don't have any confidence in my integrity or piety. While my past actions here at home have kept the public from turning on me completely, their perception of Inertia could stand to be taken down a peg— to say the least. I'd like to boost our people's morale, as well." You lean a little towards the table. "Any high-profile targets? Find any activity this afternoon that even you would label as nefarious?"

    The priest smirks. "You caught on quick."

    He must have hand-selected the collection of people for you to see this evening. You remain silent, and give him a curious glance.

    "You were in the capital for a month?"

    "To the day." You might have picked your day of departure just for how satisfying the timing was. "Yes."

    "So you're well aware that this cult's allied with damn near everyone."

    "I recognized sponsorship from the theocracy, and a few less-than-savory locales. That was it."

    "Well." He sniffs, and finishes the rest of the black sludge before him. "Don't know how much you're sugar-coating it, Anscham. Maybe you didn't pick up on it. Whatever. They're scum. You think I'm bad? At least I don't go selling women. No weird sex shit, you hear me?"

    "Sure." Your smirk could kill a man. You mouth, 'lord of punishment.'

    "Shut the fuck up. They'll take in people who move bodies around like they're meat. Don't seem to mind associating with people who touch any kids, either."

    All humor falls from you. "Do you have any specifics?"

    "Do rats have names?"

    "...are any of these organizations the pets of someone else?"

    Now he's the one smirking. "Finally got it. Yes. That dame I sent your way isn't one of them, by the way. The noble. But there's a few I've pinned here in your city. Brother 'Nibley' is sheltering the worst of the kid-fiddling scum. If it were me, I'd be cutting off their hands and—"

    "That's enough, Father."

    He makes a motion like scissors cutting. You cringe harder. The sadist snaps, "don't fucking mind the Father of Punishment wanting to do his job. Brother Nibley. Church of Spirit. Sheltering the crazies and sickos. Not just the ones touching children, either. They're all types like your congregation from the ruins. Survivors. People who came back without all their knives sharpened. You heard it from me first, Anscham."

    "My congregation is compromised of decent souls."

    "Keep telling yourself that. Just know that I can't find him. Priests of the immaterial have a fucking habit of doing that. It's bullshit."

    "I'm familiar with both names."

    The lunatic's mood turns on its heel. He leans over the table. "Tell me everything you know."

    "A minstrel at The Lost Soul— adjacent to Calunoth's red district— had been hired to disseminate slander against my name months past. I don't know who he was, but you should be able to locate him easily enough. He was well-paid, and openly wore colors for the Church of Spirit and Mercy. He named Brother Nibley, and Brother Dalton. I knew Dalton's family personally." You sigh deeply. "I'm not certain if they're still alive. Brother Dalton and his boys were of my former clergy."

    Father Pevrel's attitude completely deflates. He eases back into his seat. "Good to know. Brother Dalton has been implicated with helping restrain a number of demons, as well as aiding in the transit of a few groups of these sex-sellers. He's twisting your Goddess' creed. That shit's not restraint."

    "No," you grit. "It's not."

    "We'll get to the bottom of it, but I won't lie to you: we don't have any other leads yet. Been here for less than a day, and it's been hard enough just to keep the situation under control. I'll keep you posted."

    Deep breath. "I'd also like your thoughts—"

    "For fuck's sake, you are insatiable."

    "—I would appreciate your thoughts on these tunnels, what I had in mind, and how to turn them to our advantage."

    A look of complete disbelief washes over the priest across from you. "You want to plan? Actually plan? Not drop into the heart of the enemy base while excessively—"

    You talk right over his rambling. "The heart of these entrenched outposts should have been completely unearthed by my clergy two days past. Systematically tearing them apart— district by district— may be viable. I'm asking for your advice. I trust your counsel, even though I know you are itching to get your hands bloody once again."

    He makes a stupid gesture with his hands like claws. "Got me."

    The two of you try not to roll your eyes.

    He mouths, 'lord of feeling' at you with a scowl, before continuing. "My men scouted as far as they dared. These tunnels only resemble normal ruins right at the surface. Each one here rapidly drops down into a vertical, or nearly vertical shaft. Each one connects to deeper tunnels below, but I won't risk my men's Time or lives to explore them when we are much better suited to the task." A smirk passes over you. "Hope you're ready for some climbing." You quietly gulp. He doesn't wait for an answer. "Systematically rooting out each district would be wise. Not all of these passages will completely connect, even though they'll all branch out from the same entry point."

    The priest drags a finger along his glass, and uses the deep liquor to trace a series of lines on the table in front of you. They mimic the tunnels in an anthill. "A thorough extermination is in order. Really glad you asked. Thought I'd have to take all the initiative myself. Look here. They do this shit in Baranfen all the Time. It's damn effective. They dig down, and branch out. The main entry points are spaced far apart, to help keep the tunnels in-between from crumbling. Side caches can be used for supplies, resting areas, or even for armaments. Everything else is dug strategically to aid in their travel. They'll let out in locations they know will grant an advantage. We'll want to avoid sticking our heads out unless it's absolutely necessary. There's good news, though."

    "Then why do you look so miserable?"

    "I hate admitting when your ruins-hopping—" Father Pevrel closes his eyes in frustration, and takes a level breath. The sight of his eyelids is grotesque, but you patiently wait as he regains some semblance of composure. "The woman in your company who's been burning down half the city has freed up three of these hideouts." You try not to imagine the smell of human skin and hair burning. "My men have cleared out two more. The demon you faced this afternoon was composed of all the residents of another. You and I cleared this place this morning. Your clergy found eight total. That leaves just one base that has yet to be wiped out."

    "Cleared."

    "Exterminated."

    You grumble, "which one?"

    "It's on the opposite side of town. I don't think we should go for it. In the amount of Time it could take us to reach it above-ground, we could cull a quarter of this underground network."

    "...only a quarter?"

    "Don't underestimate how hairy this could get. You want to take point? You're basically a wall, and that shield of yours is demonic, right?"

    "Yes, but—"

    "Don't sell yourself short, Anscham. I just think Sister Miramond would be better at the rear, and that you won't want me responsible for your boy's safety."

    He has a point. You're smearing him into paste if anything happens to Adwin thanks to his efforts. "Irefist is also a strong contender for defense."

    "Your fat ass is also wider than any of us, and there's no way we're all walking side-by-side. If we have to descend any stairs, you'd also be sheltering us better than anyone. Don't fucking lie to me and tell me you don't want to take a few more hits, either."

    You're no liar. You have your preferences.

    >A] You'll take the lead, knowing the risks. Father Pevrel can stay at your back to spot. (Your company will benefit tremendously from having the father of defense at point. You can set the pace, but you will be taking the brunt of anything directed at your company.)
    >B] Have Father Pevrel on point. (The leader of the church of punishment is a blender of death. He's faster than any of you, and easily has the best sight, but carries almost nothing in the way of personal protection. He is likely to come under injury or harm, and it may demoralize Irefist, Adwin, and Sister Miramond.)
    >1] You'll lend him your shield.​
    >2] Scavenge for some armor and demand that he wears it. (Write-ins may help. A roll will be required.)​
    >C] Have Irefist front-and-center. (He is equipped with upper body armor and a helmet. With less strength than you, worse sight than Father Pevrel, no experience leading, and a grudge against the priest in your company, he is the least qualified man for this job. However, he possesses better sight than most men, has ample combat experience, and is very resourceful. He will still be unable to protect you from some attacks, and will not offer the same defense in any vertical shafts that you or Father Pevrel could.)
    >D] Adwin and Sister Miramond are very poor candidates for the lead, but there's some other strategy you want to propose out the gate. (Write-in.)
    >E] You covered a LOT of ground during this conversation, and there was something else you wanted to address before you go. (Write-in.)

    >Roll 1d100. Best of 3 will be used.
    >+5 EYES OF VENGEANCE ON THE PRIZE
    >-5 YOUR ALLY HAD NO MERCY (A lot of the good armor here was destroyed during your fight this morning.)
    >-10 DEMON OF MISCONCEPTION (Almost everyone downstairs was absorbed into the demon of misconception, which is now crushed inside a box covered in pine tar.)

    >Rolled 54 (1d100)


    It isn't grave robbing if they aren't buried yet. You get up, and to Father Pevrel's extreme dismay, Time is taken to scout around for armor. There's abuse about only digging for him because you can't find any that will fit you. You criticize the man's piety, and remind him that the lord of defense doesn't need to fear mundane weaponry. The severe arguing continues over why it's fine for him to use your shield (which you eventually convince him to take). The two of you easily spend a half an hour rooting around corpses without finding a single piece of equipment with any integrity.

    The priest's efforts are completely recruited by the Time you step into the bloody pit of death you fought the demon of misconception in. It's devoid of almost any item of use, save for what's on one poor soul slumped over in the corner. The cultist had to have hid behind the furniture for cover. Running and hiding wouldn't have done much good. He's caked head-to-toe in sores and blisters, having died of an allergic reaction to the new strain of green bough you developed.

    "Nice." Father Pevrel nudges the corpse with the side of his shoe. "Think you could do that intentionally next Time?"

    The thought of what Flesh and Agriculture could be capable of together flits across your mind. "Possibly." You dust off the poison pollen, wipe it down thoroughly of blood and any remaining irritants, and equip your fellow church leader with a serviceable helm. It's only copper, but will do better than nothing. The set of chain on the corpse was damaged beyond all repair. Father Pevrel pulls at the side of his robes, and shows you that he's wearing a jet-black gambeson beneath. "I'll be fine. Come on, will you? You're worse with clothing than I am with furniture, for fuck's sake. Let's go."
     
    Last edited:
  • Threadmarks
    • Chapter 38: Bouldering
  • Threadmarks
    • Chapter 38: Bouldering
    "Another blessing in disguise."​


    At long last, you descend down the rickety, creaking steps to the basement. It's the dead of night. The corridor ahead is dry, and clean. Only one priest of Vengeance is still at his post. Adwin has a lantern directly beside him as he rests against a stack of crates, and has obviously been staring straight at the light all evening. Irefist and Sister Miramond are slumped against each other's backs by his feet. They're sleeping while sitting upright.

    Father Pevrel starts for one instant to clear his throat. You slap the back of his helmet hard enough to knock him forward a foot, and fire him a glare while softly calling out. "I'm sorry for keeping you all waiting. Is everyone alright?"

    "Fine," Irefist grumbles. He doesn't even stretch before hopping to his feet. The man has a long length of rope tied at his side. "Did some rooting around down here for supplies. We're all ready to go."

    Prying himself away from the light, Adwin sweeps the lantern beside him into one hand, and keeps the other free. A curious glance is cast towards Father Pevrel, who is dazed, but manages to straighten upright.

    You quickly rattle off enough titles and introduction to cull the sadist's thoughts at further argument. "Father Nicholas Pevrel, leader of the Church of Vengeance. Lord of Righteousness, Justiciar of Corcaea, and an ally to our cause. I've entrusted him with the safety of our home. I take it he can make good use of one of my most prized possessions—" You nod towards your shield, which he has firmly in hand. "—and that he may use his familiarity with the dark to aid our navigation." Irefist bristles, likely to mention that you're the lord of light. You frown. "I will not be invoking unless it is a matter of life, or death. Father Pevrel has no such qualms, and will take the heat for all of us if necessary. Please do not disrespect his judgement while we venture forth, or at any other point this evening. I am supporting your strengths tonight, so that we all can live to fight another day. Am I clear?"

    Grumbling. "Clear."

    The sailor looks to the passages around you all. Every door is another tunnel, apparently. Father Pevrel fires Sister Miramond a stare in particular. The wild-haired woman gets up, and jerks her head to a door to the right. "This passage carries more wind flow than the rest."

    "We're starting with the one that has the least." Sadism is dripping off of his tone for only an instant. Something shockingly professional leaves him, as the church leader gestures to you. "Father Anscham would like for us to systematically clear these tunnels. I can go ahead to any smaller chambers and spare you all the effort. I only ask that you cover me, and intervene only if necessary. If they suspect that there's one-fifth the actual number of forces raining on them than the strength we truly possess—" The tone comes back. He's really trying, but can't help himself. "—then we can crush any reinforcements sent at us with ease."

    Adwin quietly offers, "Father Pevrel? Thank you for making our acquaintance, and for helping Father Anscham's city. These zealots are aware that you are the man responsible for killing many of their number. What reason would they possess to not come at you with everything they have?"

    "Boy's got a point," Irefist laughs. Julian smirks at him.

    The softest tone you can manage doesn't even carry down the corridor, as you and Father Pevrel head towards the door Sister Miramond indicated. "There is no guarantee that Inertia will or will not strike as brutally as they can, Adwin. But we would guarantee that they know— that they know our company's strength by going after them all at once. They certainly could perceive Father Pevrel as the greatest threat in Eadric, but they also do not know my precise location. Inertia may wish to conserve their strength elsewhere. Do you understand me?"

    "Yes, Father."

    "It would behoove us to capitalize on any element of surprise we possess." You nod towards the priest to open the door first. "Go right ahead."

    He seems to trust Sister Miramond at least enough to open the handle without checking for traps. You all are greeted by a winding wooden corridor. It's lined with planks from floor to ceiling only a few yards in, then quickly becomes rock-solid dirt and stone. The corridor ends abruptly less than a five-minute walk down a slight decline.

    Everyone finds a means of securing their weapons or defenses so that at least one hand is free. The descent at the end of the corridor is vertical, pitch-black, and dizzying. Father Pevrel turns away from the opening so his voice won't echo, and whispers, "it curves into a downward slope thirty feet deep." You marvel that he can see at all. The man gestures towards Adwin's lantern, as he's the only person to carry one already lit. "You can keep the light if you dim it and keep to the center, to reduce its cast. Otherwise it needs to go."

    Adwin hisses, "we might not have the luxury of relighting it. If the enemy has adjusted to the dark, they'll be alerted to our presence, but this should temporarily stun or even blind them."

    The priestess of Storm in your company sneers, "I'll make any fire we need, if it comes down to it. This is ridiculous."

    You're the only person present that has any idea of how severe Adwin's past confinement was. The fact that he's tolerated being underground for this long at all is a testament to his fortitude, but the last thing you want to do is push him any further.

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

    >A] Thank Sister Miramond for being so accommodating, and ask Adwin to please respect Father Pevrel's request. Stress to everyone that if it is a matter of life or death, you can invoke to produce a light source. No visibility in a combat situation would only benefit Father Pevrel. This will also make climbing more perilous, but you trust everyone here is used to navigating in the dark enough to make up for it.
    >B] Respectfully tell Father Pevrel that you want to have visibility without reliance on anything more than the resources at your disposal. You'd rather risk giving away your position and numbers than to have anyone walk blindly, or to be crippled by fear from the start. Adwin has every right to determine how much or how little visibility he has in this venture. Hopefully his strengths will compensate for it.
    >C] Write-in.

    >Roll 1d100. Best of 3 will be used.
    >+20 GREEN DAHLIA (Your familiarity with the earth should greatly aid in a descent below ground.)
    >+10 PRIEST OF FLESH (You have the upper body strength and activity level to warrant this kind of exertion, and to feel great doing it!)
    >+5 EYES OF VENGEANCE (Father Pevrel will identify and spot threats as soon as they arise, and you know he's not afraid to communicate them.)
    >-31 PRIEST OF AGRICULTURE (The size disparity between you and your companions is a safety threat— to say nothing of how quickly it could tire you out.)
    >-10 NOTORIOUSLY BAD AT CLIMBING (You'll ask for pointers.)
    >-8 SLEEP DEPRIVATION (10 days on little sleep adds up, but getting off your feet for awhile helped. This modifier will continue to slowly rise until you rest.)

    >Rolled 70 (1d100)

    This is entirely unnecessary. You mutter, "how amusing would it be if our enemies risked casualties just to spurn Her light?" To Adwin in particular, you insist, "I trust your judgement. I would never want to do you wrong." A motion is made towards Father Pevrel to climb down. "I trust you all will do as your judgement dictates. Plus, they may interpret our light as that of their own ranks."

    A seriously appreciative glance from Adwin puts a smile on both of your faces for just a moment. The lord of Vengeance in your company is scowling hard enough to kill a lesser man, and descends without further complaint. He's seriously trying his best to behave. You'll have to find some way to make it up to him later.

    The nearly vertical pit gets a light cast on it by Adwin. You gulp once more. Climbing is far from your biggest weakness, but you have a reputation for being terrible at it. The shaft has been dug out of the surrounding rock and dirt. Perilously shallow ridges are carved into the sides of the wall every few feet into makeshift steps. You're taller than most men, and wager only half your shoe will fit on each one.

    Father Pevrel is already about ten feet down, and moving fast. You hiss down to him, "I'm terrible at climbing. Any advice?"

    The rasp in reply sugar-coats as much as it can. "Don't rush it, then. I'm going to keep watch at the bottom. Bad idea for me to be climbing below you." There's no denying he'd be badly hurt if anyone slipped, let alone if you fell on him. "Test everything. And if you can't handle it, stop and tell me. We can't get tied down with equipment. Don't take the risk of falling."

    You wait until he's out of sight to start climbing down the chilled rock and gravel. Getting your hands on something organic feels almost as good as the burn does. The next several minutes are a blur of particularly pleasant discomfort. As you suspected, the steps are too shallow to fit more than half of your foot on in the best of places. At the very least, your height grants you leverage to pick and choose whatever ledges you wish. Extreme care is taken to test every possible foothold with every measure necessary. Anything that doesn't seem equipped to handle your weight is immediately disregarded. The venture is exacerbated by your stomach sticking out far enough to press against the stone no matter how you approach the next step. There's further comfort in knowing you can mend your robes in an instant if something catches on the wall, but it does complicate things.

    Granted, you're out of breath, sweating, and feel completely exhausted— but the attempt is a success, and far better than past failures. Irefist, Sister Miramond, and Adwin can barely be heard finishing their own climb down. The descent was definitely thirty feet deep, and they should take just a minute. The fact that everyone seems to have suspected you couldn't handle this much is cause for concern.

    Father Pevrel is standing ten feet out from the landing, right at the end of another descent. He makes no comment as you drop your hands to your knees, to catch your breath before seemingly making the same effort again. He fires a look over his shoulder at you, sighs, and walks your way. A hand is put on your shoulder, which you instinctively twitch at.

    The sadist whispers to you so quietly that no one else could possibly hear, "next drop is on a slant. Just as long, but should be easier. This ought to be fun."

    >Options A, B, and C are mutually exclusive.
    >Majority vote will decide.

    >A] This is a terrible idea. You're already ragged, and have an absurdly important public event to make in just a few hours. Trust that your company can deal with this. You are not in Ostedholm, this is not the ruins, and you CAN back out of this venture before you get in too deep. (Adwin will come with you by default. A1 - A4 are not mutually exclusive.)
    >1] Ask Father Pevrel if he can handle this operation alone. It can't wait. You'll figure out something with the sermon's security if he gets too tied up to make it.​
    >2] See if Irefist will accompany you back to the Church of Mercy. You can use all the fighting forces you have at your disposal.​
    >3] You don't trust that the situation at home will be calm. Stay here. You'll crash for a few hours, and wake up with enough Time to get to the Church of Mercy before dawn.​
    >4] Ask Sister Miramond to accompany you, to ensure that you don't get separated before the roadwork gets done.​
    >B] This is a terrible idea, and yes, it IS going to be fun. You'll plug on ahead for the rest of the evening, and will love every second of it. (+20 MASOCHISM TANGO bonus will be applied after the roll is called, and will not be eligible for removal at-will. Your behavior may escalate or get out of hand until you rest and get pain relief. This cannot be used in combination with your Relic's pain relieving properties. A unanimous vote will bump the bonus up to +30. A roll will be required.)
    >C] This is a terrible idea, and you're going to deal with it. Keep your Relic in hand, even if it compromises some fine motor control. You'll be fine. (No bonuses will be given, and no maluses will accrue due to pain or injury. You'll still experience exhaustion. The Relic can be dropped at any time in order to engage with your pain-based bonuses. A roll will be required.)
    >D] Write-in. (A roll may be required.)

    >Roll 1d100. Best of 3 will be used.
    >+20 GREEN DAHLIA (Your familiarity with the earth should greatly aid in a descent below ground.)
    >+10 PRIEST OF FLESH (You have the upper body strength and activity level to warrant this kind of exertion, and to feel great doing it!)
    >+5 EYES OF VENGEANCE (Father Pevrel will identify and spot threats as soon as they arise, and you know he's not afraid to communicate them.)
    >+5 LIQUID ENERGY (You know how to compensate for no sleep better than most men.)
    >-31 PRIEST OF AGRICULTURE (The size disparity between you and your companions is a safety threat— to say nothing of how quickly it could tire you out.)
    >-5 NOT COMPLETELY BAD AT CLIMBING (That wasn't so bad.)
    >-10 SLEEP DEPRIVATION (10 days on little sleep adds up, but getting off your feet for awhile helped. This modifier will continue to slowly rise until you rest.)

    >Rolled 89 (1d100)




    ​

    "No."

    An irritated, but curious look passes over you. Father Pevrel draws back.

    You're all smiles, while heading over to the next ledge. "This is another blessing in disguise."

    The priest at your side doesn't give you a hard time (for once) as you conjure "liquid energy." A brew darker than the descent ahead is steaming hot. The intensity of its flavor puts a shock to your spine. It's one remedy you aren't used to. You're certain that a cupful's worth is going to be enough to compensate for at least some of your weariness.

    Father Pevrel's shakes his head at you once again, as you finish drinking. He makes a derogatory gesture while the rest of your company arrives in the level hallway, that's reminiscent of a rolling boulder. You're not going to bother explaining that what you've had shouldn't be fattening, but there is a nagging concern that this is the only thing in the way of exercise you'll get in a while. The loftiness of your occupation lends itself well to countless hours standing or sitting around.

    You won't waste this opportunity to give your foremost temple some proper devotion. There's simply no way you're backing out. Your Relic is unclasped, and fastened securely around your off-hand while Father Pevrel sets back off, and disappears into shadow once more. Everyone waits several moments. Sound travels well underground, so it's only prudent to keep to yourselves. The lack of conversation heightens everyone's awareness of the complete silence everywhere else in the tunnels. You cast one grateful glance back to your company, exchange a resolute glance with Irefist, and get back to climbing.

    Without any indication of natural pain, you probably use more caution than necessary. The absence of the usual physical distraction aids in your concentration enormously. No sear is in your limbs from tearing muscle, or overworked joints. The heat feels phenomenal. Keeping your breath steady and your motions controlled is second nature. And while your bulk partially obstructs your view below, it also lends a further point of contact to the wall. It's still a brutal workout to move twice the body-weight of an average man. By the time you reach the base of the slope, the intensity of your beating heart and the sweat on your brow gives you pause.

    The lantern light from Adwin up above scarcely reaches you and Father Pevrel, who has his cleaned sword drawn. Before you both lies a singular tunnel that you estimate to be fifty feet or so long. It's been reinforced along the walls and ceiling with bolts of solid metal. Between each bolt are planks of wood. Only the floor is rock-hard dirt and stone. The makeshift support would normally take months of planning and countless man hours to construct, but you're certain that this was divine work. The sheer amount of labor, and the quality of the construction was no doubt the work of one of the priests or priestess of Agriculture you heard of. It's hard not to admire their capability, or execution. The smallest amount of material was used to maximum effect, and the light shade of green in all the exotic metal is simply stunning. You resist the urge to take any out to inspect it. It's certain that the supports are all that's keeping this horizontal passage from collapsing under the weight of the world above.


    ​


    The priest up ahead puts a finger to his lips. He makes a series of gestures that indicates the passage continues on for a short ways, before dropping off slightly into a room. The room appears to be spacious, and branches out into several directions. He wants to wait for everyone to be together before proceeding.

    It dawns on you that this man is solely responsible for covert operations in Corcaea's wars, and likely has led plenty of expeditions like this before. The sharp change in his demeanor to something infinitely more responsible is jarring, but you welcome the chance to breathe. As quietly as you're able, you create a medicinal tonic in place of the bitter drink you had before. You'll be damned if you aren't doing Father Friedrich proud. It's unconventional, but you've observed the byproducts of dairy to have just as much nutritional merit as what's curdled or strained. It can reduce inflammation, is highly filling, and most importantly should help with muscle growth. A moderate quantity of it is more than enough to almost completely kill your appetite, and has you feeling better than even the other brew did.

    Though your fellow former prisoner may be scared witless by a dark and foreboding expedition, this is your element. Irefist, Sister Miramond, and Adwin arrive at your back moments later. You relay the same gestures that Father Pevrel gave you in less Time, and gesture to the priest ahead that they're ready.

    You all cautiously proceed forward. Someone immediately calls out. "Oi!"

    An irritated twitch passes through Father Pevrel's shoulders.

    Adwin calls out in the exact same voice as the farmer's wife who you spoke to earlier today. "Oi what! Do you 'ave any idea 'ow much of an ass it is jus' gettin' down here?! Who's there?!"

    Everyone stares at the young man. Irefist's jaw hangs open. The imitator grins straight at Father Pevrel, and spins a dagger into one hand.

    "Hold onto your fuckin' skirts. We weren't s'pposed to 'ear from anyone this way all night." Footsteps are rapidly approaching.

    Sister Miramond breathes, "shit." She's at the rear, and absolutely cannot blast a cone of wind or flame over everyone's heads in this small passage. Adwin tosses her a dagger. She gives him a relieved, worried smile.

    It sounds like at least five heavily armored men are moving up ahead. Father Pevrel's face drops, as he holds up seven fingers towards you all. The gestures promptly stops as he raises your shield, and braces himself with his sword drawn to charge.

    >A ROLL WILL BE REQUIRED FOR ALL OF THE FOLLOWING.
    >A] Hang back. You've got no defense to speak of, and trust your company to handle this. Be on standby in case there's any injury. You have a small armory's worth of mundane throwing daggers in your bag, and will pick off anyone you can. (Lowest risk to your safety. A high roll will be required to inflict damage)
    >B] Chaos is your ally. Wait until Father Pevrel's made his charge, then get into the fray.
    >1] Piety is broad enough to provide a measure of defense. (Moderate risk to your safety. A moderate roll will be required.)​
    >2] Harvest is downright terrifying to behold, and should do nicely to confuse and brutalize your enemies. (High risk to your safety. A low roll will be required.)​
    >C] The luxury of communicating a plan is not afforded to you at the moment. You can risk the enemy knowing what you intend to do by saying something, or take some creative initiative on your own. (Write-in. A roll will still be required.)

    >Roll 1d100. Best of 3 will be used.
    >-20 THE SOULS OF MANKIND... (The weakness in the hearts of your fellow man is your life's work, and a major concern in any battle against them.)
    >-15 WIDE OPEN (You're the most wanted man in the city and are the broadest target in this small corridor.)
    >-12 SLEEP DEPRIVATION (Your exhaustion will continue to slowly worsen-- along with this malus-- until you get some rest.)
    >+10 FAITH OF A GODDESS (To live is to serve.)
    >+10 FATHER OF PROTECTION (This is your element.)
    >+10 PRIEST OF FLESH (You LOVE the burn.)
    >+15 COMBAT VETERAN (Between training under Father Friedrich and your lifetime of experience fighting demons, this should be downright fun.)
    >+10 WEAPON OF MASS DESTRUCTION (A longsword with your strength and weight behind it is terrifying to behold.)
    >+5 LIQUID ENERGY (Taking care of yourself feels great!)
    >+5 OIL SLICK (Dream would be proud of your creativity.)
     
    Last edited:
  • Threadmarks
    • Chapter 39: Oil Slick
  • Threadmarks
    • Chapter 39: Oil Slick
    "For the God of Action."




    ​

    >Rolled 61 (1d100)

    The Father of protection is no coward. Piety is withdrawn from the gift of a demon. You unsheath it, and ready yourself to charge. The longsword's hilt lives up to the weapon's name. It accommodates both of your broad hands with ease, and the heft of the blade eclipses even its substantial length. The edges of the well-maintained weapon are still singed black from being struck multiple times by lightning. You intend to make a greater statement of faith than even the blows this blessed blade has already dealt.

    Your fellow church leader plunges into the shadow ahead, with his sword at the ready. His steps are silent. There's no delay. Screams, and a sick wet sound of someone being gutted rises in the air. You won't wait for more, and charge ahead with all your allies in tow.

    The ground underfoot is as reassuring as the towering layers of rock and earth above. It takes you back to find memories of fighting in the dark. Enveloped in Agriculture's element, your heart goes out to all the blessings you've been given. The Goddess of fertility has done more than lend you strength.

    You have faith in yourself. The light at your back collides with the low lanterns illuminating the passage beyond. Six armored men are struggling to get through the narrow tunnel to reach Father Pevrel, who has your shield raised high. All of the enemy figures have their faces covered with rusty helms. It won't save them. Their assortment of spears and swords also count for little in a passage that's barely four feet wide. The lord of wrath has slumped his newest victim-- the corpse of a fully armored cultist-- over your defense. He's hiding without shame, and using his sword to carefully poke at everyone ahead.

    A grateful look is quickly exchanged between the two of you, as you close the distance, and cleave into the front of the fray. Your long reach and longer weapon is a beautiful arc of weight and devastation. One of the cultists screams, and his cry is cut short as your weapon swings straight across his neck, cutting him down instantly. The sheer might of the blow is a roll of thunder through your bones. The momentum of your attack continues, and brings the corpse down to the floor.

    You have to shout to Father Pevrel for additional cover, to grant you a moment to pry your weapon free from the corpse. Unsticking Piety from the foot-deep blow is another song in your heart for the God of Action.

    While you have a moment of cover, you crouch down directly behind the priest. He's even stronger than he looks, and is holding at bay every other man in the corridor from crushing through his barrier. You brace against his back to help keep him standing, as four of the cultists try shoving him over at once.

    Digging your heels and heft into the dirt is a religious experience. Adwin, Irefist, and Sister Miramond fire a series of daggers at the cultists furthest to the back of the passage, striking true into every nook and cranny in their armor. Daggers fly in all directions, while you mutter to your flask for the oiliest substance it can manifest. A thick, congealed, soupy consistency floods the container. You sweep it across the floor behind the men trying to push over Father Pevrel, and they all simultaneously struggle to maintain their footing.

    It's enough to grant the priest an advantage to push back, and to stumble the entire group nearly off balance. Sister Miramond laughs like a mad thing. Adwin lets out a shout as she takes his lantern, and tosses a some of the hot burning oil onto the liquid you've produced. You stagger back, and pull Father Pevrel by his robes just in the nick of Time. It ignites in an instant.

    The men before you all go up in flames. The metal they're wearing is a death trap. Those at the rear try retreating. They're all screaming. One does slip from view, even while ignited. Father Pevrel mutters "shit," and rips himself away from your grasp.

    The madman lunges into the flame, sword drawn, and frantically tries to cut down as many figures as he can.

    The frantic attempts within the flaming corridor meets you all at the same Time. Four remaining men who are all going up in fire and smoke desperately try to cut you all down, and to simultaneously put out the blaze on their lower bodies.

    You take Piety's hilt, and swing the blunt end to concuss one man in a single blow. He staggers backwards and collapses on the spot from the head trauma, straight into the blaze. In the same motion, you swing your weapon high, and bring the full might of it down onto the shoulder of another fighter. The mail beneath is crushed into his skin, and does nothing to stop the devastation of the blow. You cleave down through the metal, deep into muscle, and carve his harm right off the bone. The limb flops to the floor, and clamors from the armor adorning it. He screams incoherently for an instant, before Father Pevrel stabs the cultist's neck and puts him out of his misery.

    The sheer force of your company's mutual devastation made incredibly quick work of the group. Father Pevrel staggers backwards singed, but not burned. He goes to scream some debasement at Sister Miramond, but thinks better of it. She has a number of lacerations on her from thrown weapons, as does Irefist, and Adwin's already bandaged form. The young man calmly, vacantly, and quietly asks Irefist, "please give me a hand with this."

    The ex-demon immediately thought to use the corpses to suffocate the flames. He's clearly not disturbed. There's a light in the young man's eyes as he and the sailor in your midst squash the blaze.

    The odor of cooking meat, scorched oil, burning hair, blood, and filth is so thick on the air you can hardly breathe. Smoke is thickly gathered at the top of the tunnel, which conveniently will rise out from the direction you came.

    It looks like the Father of retribution is going to have a heart attack. He's positively coated in blood, and hisses to you all, "every last sinner in these tunnels will have heard those screams. We need to move--" A weary gaze falls on you. "--and quickly."

    The hot oil is carefully stepped around. Adwin still seems to have a great deal of light at his disposal, and looks downright elated after witnessing so much violence.

    There's five armored corpses laying about. They were all people. There's going to be a lot more like them.

    >A] Stop for a moment and search the cultists. (Clearly specify if you're looking for something specific, E.g. upper body armor, ranged weapons, information on Inertia, supplies, etc. The more specific the search, the harder it may be to find that item.)
    >1] Make a cursory search. (Smallest amount of time. A high roll will be required.)​
    >2] Make a decent attempt at a search. (Moderate amount of time. A moderate roll will be required.)​
    >3] This is worth the time. Commit to a thorough search. (A substantial amount of time will be taken. No roll will be required, but there is still no guarantee that what you are searching for will be found.)​
    >B] Press on into the room ahead. Time's a wasting.
    >1] Chastise Sister Miramond. There's no excuse for that sort of behavior, no matter how effective it is.​
    >2] Commend Irefist, Adwin, and Sister Miramond for their aim.​
    >3] Seriously give Father Pevrel some credit for handling the situation.​
    >C] Demand that your allies stop for a moment while you examine and see to their injuries. Father Pevrel is covered in too much blood and is too stubborn to tell his damage with a cursory look.
    >D] Write-in.

    You quickly put a sleeve to your face, and crouch down to avoid the worst of the smoke. "Come on. We're wasting Time."

    As everyone mimics your motions, and creeps past the fire, you whisper to Julian as firmly as you're able. "Please try to keep things silent. We can smoke out the cultists, but smoke is equally dangerous to all of us in these enclosed spaces. I will not invoke to heal your lungs, no matter-- no matter how effective your tactics are." She starts to protest. You snap, "there's no excuse for this sort of behavior."

    Father Pevrel laughs quietly to himself. Irefist groans at him. Apart from that, the rest of your company is pensive.

    The damn tunnel is ridiculously long. At least the view is pleasant, between the long shadows of your company and the stunning verdant rock up above. You rest Piety flat on your shoulder, and mutter as loudly as you dare. "I'm giving you such a hard Time, Sister, because I saw first-hand how phenomenal your aim was." To everyone present you mutter, "all of you." To the back of Father Pevrel's sweat-slick hair you quietly insist, "thank you for handling the situation so expertly."

    He's in a weird mood between elated anticipation, temporarily sated bloodlust, and irritation.The pretense of professional respect falls for a moment, but his grumbling is as good-natured as you could hope for. "Keep your voice down, softie. You weren't half bad either. Take it easy on the pep talk, though. You're going to get us killed just trying to keep morale up."

    "You're right," you immediately agree.

    The priest laughs to himself. "Did you seriously just agree with me?"

    "Shhhh," you tease.

    You all reach the room at the end of the corridor. Lantern light casts short shadows into the tightly packed space. It's about twenty feet wide in all directions, and the ceiling can't be more than six and a half feet high. The bolts of metal and wooden reinforcements here make the space downright claustrophobic, as their protrusions make it so you have to duck in-between them if you want to stand fully upright. Scattered around on the floor are abruptly abandoned sleeping bags, a crate-turned-table covered with playing cards, stacks of priceless supplies (the scent of ripening fruit hits you like a Dream), and a cache of ill-gotten weapons.

    One, long, slightly ascending tunnel stretches out dead ahead. Another narrow corridor is to the left that veers sharply up. One corridor is to the right, which climbs gradually up. The sound of the escaped man is off in the distance, somewhere to the left. He's screaming about you and Father Pevrel, for help, and for someone to save him. Irefist and Father Pevrel simultaneously spit, "fuck."

    The sailor gives him a hateful look, and continues, "he would have gone to the closest place with more men. Easy enough to hear. They're going to come for us. Listen."

    Father Pevrel grits his teeth loudly enough that you can hear it. Julian looks pleased as punch. The beat of your heart is in your ears, matching the pulse you can feel against the golden locket in the palm of your hand. Footfalls echo in the distance.

    There's less Time to spare than you even suspected. To Adwin you quickly whisper, "if you see anything unusual or useful, don't wait. Grab it if it looks safe enough to do so, or try to remember it."

    The young man instantly runs over to the scattered playing cards, and sweeps them all up with his bloody hands. "Apologies if I compromise any information Father. Given the circumstances..."

    You wave a reassuring hand at him. At the same Time, Julian points to the long corridor dead-ahead. "This one should let out somewhere, or connect to a passage that does." She jerks a thumb to the right. "This one must go much deeper. Possibly to another district." She points to the left. "Whatever's there, it's closest."

    The sailor among you looks around the room. "Bad spot to get trapped in, unless we can close it off."

    Father Pevrel smirks at you. "Fine. Seeing as how capable you all are, let's see how well you take to me deferring to *your* judgement." He did warn you he would be having fun. "Father Anscham?"

    The madman wants to test your idea of his tenets under pressure. At least it's a vote of confidence.

    >A ROLL WILL BE REQUIRED FOR ALL OF THE FOLLOWING.
    >A] Fire back at the lord of judgement that now is really not the time, and you would like for him to make the best call so you all live to see the dawn.
    >B] Adwin's creativity has you so proud, you're willing to risk everyone's safety on it. Ask your boy for his plan on how to handle this situation.
    >C] Talking is going to get everyone killed. Don't scorn your leadership, especially when it's given to you.
    >1] Send Father Pevrel alone into the left tunnel, with Julian and Irefist as backup in the dark. They can get the jump on anyone incoming, while you and Adwin make sure they're aware if more forces are coming in from other directions. You'll keep an eye out, and Adwin can thoroughly search this room in the meantime.​
    >2] Go as a group to the right. The escaping cultist may have gone for more reinforcements below ground, and no doubt will use the tunnels to his advantage. Your collective strengths should put up one hell of a chase.​
    >3] Go dead ahead. If that cultist is making a break for the surface, there's no telling what nightmares he might bring back. You can't risk it.​
    >D] Write-in.

    You need to preface this. The urgency in your tone is only outclassed by the pride in your body language. "This is not scorning leadership," you insist to Father Pevrel. "I am delegating creativity to the best mind for the job, and will save us all Time. This situation could compromise our entire mission. You know I can't be brief."

    Everyone present snickers, or tries not to.

    You look to the master painter in your company. "Your creativity is second-to-none. I want you to help me keep control over this affair."

    The two of you grin ear-to-ear, despite everyone else's dismay. Curiosity and eagerness is all through your tone as you finish, "Adwin, I can't afford you more Time. What's the plan?"

    The young man instantly looks to Sister Miramond. He's calm and collected, as always. "I trust you can handle going it alone, Sister." He gestures towards the passage dead-ahead. "If a substantial number of forces are coming, please warn us. Otherwise, bait them out into the corridor we came from. Please do not hesitate to use the full extent of your ability, so long as you remain quiet. Please do not place us in danger, or make the passage untraversable."

    No complaints from the priestess of Storm. She takes off running to use the full might of her ability.

    "Irefist," Adwin remarks, "I know you will not trust Father Pevrel to handle this situation. Please accompany him to track down and slaughter those who will be coming in from the leftmost passageway. Again, if you become overwhelmed, please lead them back to this room and the tunnel we—"

    Both men are already sprinting down the passage Adwin indicated. Your boy gives you a broad smile. "Please break that crate."

    You promptly walk over to the only makeshift furniture in the room, and drop-kick it. The item breaks into over a dozen spiked and splintered stakes. The boy is a genius. You immediately set down Piety, sweep the spikes up, and fish around in your satchel for the shovels you've been carrying for a week. "Where are we digging?"

    "Start with the rightmost passage. I'll need you to be on the opposite side, Father, and to go in just far enough to be able to quickly return. Please do not hold the line. There are a number of shields with the supplies here. Take one, and make a retreat the moment anyone comes into view. Bait them into this pit, and any others we can make. Retreat to the corridor we entered from, if there are many of them. Do not risk your life for this venture. I will take care of the rest."

    An insidious, yet sincerely happy look crosses over the ex-demon. "Thank you for placing your faith in me. I won't let you down."
     
    Last edited:
  • Threadmarks
    • Chapter 40: Choke-Point
  • Threadmarks
    • Chapter 40: Choke-Point
    "The sound of a bow being loosened..."​


    >Roll 2d100.
    -The first 1d100 you roll will indicate how quickly you help Adwin trap the corridors in this room.
    -The second 1d100 will indicate how well you adhere to his plan.
    -The best of 3 will be used for each set.

    >LAIR OF AN EX-DEMON
    -This represents the first 1d100 that will be used.
    -If this roll meets or exceeds 100 after the bonuses are applied, a special condition will be triggered.
    >+20 GREEN DAHLIA (Adwin knows how to play to your strengths.)
    >+10 PRIEST OF AGRICULTURE (Seriously.)
    >+10 FARM BOY (He may not know your history, but he gets it.)
    >+10 ARTISTIC VISION (Your masterful mentor is pretty good at this.)
    >+5 TOOLS FOR THE JOB (Sister Cardew's foresight is literally Godlike.)
    >+5 LIQUID ENERGY (Taking care of yourself feels great!)
    >-14 SLEEP DEPRIVATION (Your exhaustion will continue to slowly worsen— along with this malus— until you get some rest.)

    >THE PLAN
    -This represents the second 1d100 that will be used.
    >-20 THE SOULS OF MANKIND... (The weakness in the hearts of your fellow is a major concern in any battle against them.)
    >-31 PRIEST OF AGRICULTURE (Beating a retreat AND compensating for your size is not going to make this easy.)
    >-14 SLEEP DEPRIVATION (Your exhaustion will continue to slowly worsen-- along with this malus-- until you get some rest.)
    >+10 FAITH OF A GODDESS (To defend is to serve.)
    >+15 DEFENDER OF THE CITY OF SHIELDS (A shield? In your hands?)
    >+10 PRIEST OF FLESH (You're getting that workout.)
    >+15 COMBAT VETERAN (You'll notice projectiles faster than most people.)
    >+5 LIQUID ENERGY (Taking care of yourself feels great!)

    >Rolled 36, 75 (2d100)




    ​

    "I could not be prouder." Mist is in your eyes, while you hand Adwin a shovel. He's also fighting to not choke up. The two of you head for the rightmost corridor's entrance. "Come on."

    Where the floor isn't made of stone, it's made of rock-hard dirt. It's brutal work. You use your flask to manifest water to try and soften the surface. It does little good, given how pressed you are for Time. The stakes are turned nearly horizontal, and you simply embed them into the floor and side walls as a massive tripping hazard. It's managed with the pickaxes from your excessive backlog of gear. Your boy's eye is so keen, he's able to guide your hand to to strike exactly where you'll be the most effective.

    "The first several individuals to run through them will lose a leg, at least," he politely explains. "I'm afraid this is the most I can risk us doing together, Father. I will handle the rest."

    You leave your shovels and picks with the visionary. The spare lantern from your satchel (Mercy, you really need to thank Sister Cardew properly at some point) is outfitted with a single candle, and quickly lit with Adwin's own lantern. You affix it to your bag to keep the heat away from your robes. Piety is swept back into your hands, and you grab the largest shield from the spare equipment stacked off to the side.

    The best option is wooden, round, easily four feet across in every direction, and banded together with iron. It's heavy, you love it, and a break is made for the rightmost passage. Adwin's gentle tone carries after you. "Stay safe."

    You dare to look back, and confidently smile. "You know I will. The Gods are Merciful."

    The same hand that's clutching at your new shield also has your Relic digging into its palm. There's no pain. Your senses are hyper-focused on the corridor ahead. The faint light you cast extends only ten feet out at the most. It's so narrow, you have to turn the shield sideways in a few places to keep it from scraping. There's at least comfort in knowing there's a choke point here.

    Pitch-blackness looms ahead for at least two minutes of walking. You mind every step, and look as cautiously as you can for any traps. Piety is used to feel ahead, and you keep your shield held high. The corridor gradually curves to one side. You instantly realize it's to not hurt the vision of anyone walking this way.

    Despite how dim your light source is, an incoming lantern is borderline blinding by comparison. Every inch of you tenses. The rate of your pulse could put a galloping horse to shame. Facing the light, you begin backing up with Piety poised, and your shield at the ready.

    Twang.

    The sound of a bow being loosened doesn't even give you the opportunity to see your attacker. The breadth of your sword comes behind your shield, and the smallest silhouette possible is attempted as you kneel down, to try and—

    Fwip.

    Biting through a muffled shout to Mercy and all the other Gods out of pure frustration, you continue backing up. The first shot went for your legs. There's an arrow lodged somewhere in your left calf. The object is a dull pressure, not pain, but you know every step is going to be causing damage.

    Twang twang twang

    Panic hits you red-hot. Every urge to run is on you, but the enemy is coming fast. Their own light is about to meet yours. You can't risk compromising a single inch of coverage, but dropping down would destroy every nerve in your injured leg.

    You hold your ground, and pray for the best.

    Fwip fwip thunk.

    Two arrows from the volley soar straight past where your head would be, had you not ducked slightly down. The last hits hard into your shield, as you brace yourself with your good leg. There's no indication of any more arrows being loosened, thanks to the wall of cultists up ahead. Both of your light sources meet. Brown robes, and wooden masks. Plenty are wearing makeshift armor. They're running straight towards you, from no more than forty feet out. Terrified voices holler to what must be more men at their backs. Every last soul is obviously terrified to be trapped in a tight corridor with you, but they charge nonetheless.

    "HE'S HERE!"
    "WE'VE GOT HIM!"
    "LOOKS LIKE HE'S ALONE!"
    "COVER US!"

    There's only one way you're buying enough Time to get out of this alive. Several steps are quickly taken forward, as you use the shield in hand as a makeshift battering ram. The ground underfoot is your anchor. The force of the motion you push off with from your legs is all through your core, and every ounce of strength you possess explosively shoves the poor soul on the other side.

    A sick crack that's closer to an explosion than a break. Someone's definitely lost use of their arms, and judging by the way their scream was cut short, they were impaled on their own weapon.

    With a cry to Flesh, you keep shoving. The corpse of the man you're using to extend the assault slumps hard against the man behind him. The cultist next in line to be cut down completely loses his composure. He frantically tries to push the dead body off of him. He starts screaming. You lunge with your weapon, dip under the gap below his mask, and cut straight into his neck. A spray of blood mists into the air. Spurts of crimson revenge arc against your shield.

    The two dead men will temporarily obstruct the passage. Both of their weight is pushed hard into the line of attackers beyond. Before anyone can recover from the intensity of the counter-attack, you beat a retreat.

    Whoever's been firing arrows has to stop, thanks to the congestion in the hall. It's still prudent to keep your shield high. Whoever is at the front of the pack is crouching down, while cultists behind the figure launch a barrage of throwing knives. Six stick straight into your shield, shaking your stability, and causing the pressure in your calf to intensify. Five more weapons clatter to the ground after striking against your defense. They were thrown with insufficient skill to do more harm, let alone to make up for your own ability.

    Numb arms, growing fear for bleeding to death, and the intense reminder of what awaits behind you hazards a glance backwards. You take care to not trip or get caught on the spikes you and Adwin arranged at the last instant.

    For a moment, your boy is nowhere to be seen in the room. The fact that Sister Miramond, Irefist, and Father Pevrel are nowhere to be seen has you bordering on panic, but you take some comfort in catching a number of elaborate setups of string at the peak of each corridor. Adwin has done something malicious, and you know it will be enough. As you turn to go to the corridor you all planned on retreating to, you notice that there's now a painting on the wall that wasn't previously there. It's really more of a blanket that's been roughly colored like the rock and stone around it.

    Adwin's feet are peeking out at the floor. His shoes could be mistaken for rocks.

    You would laugh if the situation wasn't more dire. A break is made for the tunnel that you all entered from. You only go in far enough that your candlelight cannot be seen. Collapsing against the side of one wall, breathing hard and still standing, you try to use the second of respite to assess the damage.

    Wax is splattered all over the interior of your hooded lantern. The low flame is still enough for you to see the deep red that's gushing from the wound on your leg. You normally don't blanch at taking a hit, but this is bad. Even if you can't feel the injury, you have to find a way to stop the bleeding. Cutting off your trousers around the wound to assess its severity is a luxury you may not be afforded right now. There could be more attackers coming any second. Staying on your feet is a must. Removing the object is out of the question right now, thanks to a noise that makes your blood run cold.

    There's a disgusting, inhuman gnashing sound up ahead. The screams that intermingle with the wet noise puts static and watercolor on the edges of your vision. There's cries for Mercy. The world feels like it cuts out for a few seconds, in a haze of neon and pink.

    The sounds stop as soon as they started.

    Adwin makes no indication of heading down the passage. You're alone, in the dark, and are bleeding out onto the floor.

    There's a cold sweat on you. The inside of your shoe is getting sticky from the amount of blood you've lost, and keep losing. Applying pressure with your bare hands shouldn't be necessary, given how quickly you can treat combat injuries.

    Still, moving around an impaled object is never a good idea. You've been fighting with one in you. Putting your full weight on a wound like this is almost worse. Not elevating it right now is even worse, still.

    You're one of the greatest healers alive, and can tell at a glance (even through your pant leg) that nothing is hemorrhaging. There's at least several minutes at your disposal to dress it properly, or to take more dramatic action— but you need to act quickly. There is likely permanent nerve damage occurring. There's the matter of your image, your mobility, and your love of action to consider.

    There's also the concern that— at this rate— you won't leave these corridors alive.

    >All of the following are mutually exclusive. Majority vote will decide.

    >A] You're taking the sane, safe, and most traditional approach. This weapon is staying in. You'll treat it to the best of your ability (which is world-class) given the circumstances, and will stop to heal it properly the instant this all dies down. Anything otherwise would be borderline suicidal, or would be going against everything you've told your allies. (Due to your skill, you are guaranteed to stabilize the arrow. A roll will be called for purely to determine how long it takes before someone reaches you, and in what numbers.)
    >B] Extract the arrow, but invoke Mercy first. If the arrow is keeping you from bleeding out, or worsens the flow, you'll be on death's door within minutes. You can't take that risk, and don't want to deal with permanent damage either. (You know how badly this is going to hurt your very soul. However, Mercy will stop just about any physical damage in its tracks, and will rapidly heal you. You're certain you'll also be afforded protection. Please also be aware that opting to not invoke Mercy in this situation may qualify under the Goddess' view as intentionally, severely harming yourself.)
    >C] Cauterizing this injury can only come once the arrow is out. Knowing the risks of incurring damage that the Gods Themselves may be unable to heal, you'll take your chances of being stuck with a limp— or far worse.
    >1] Keep your Relic in hand, and carefully extract the arrow. Use your eyes and all of your ability to assess the damage. You'll go from there. (AN EXCEPTIONALLY HIGH ROLL WILL BE REQUIRED. You have many bonuses. Be advised that depending on your luck, things may go from bad to worse.)​
    >2] Let go of your Relic. You'll know for sure if there was any poison. You also might be tempted to rip out the arrow. You could even keep your composure. It's anyone's guess, and also a matter of how far you're willing to push yourself. (A SEPARATE SERIES OF PROMPTS WILL BE PROVIDED. AN OBSCENELY HIGH ROLL MAY BE REQUIRED. Be advised that you have many bonuses, but will also have several possible substantial maluses.)​
    >D] Write-in. (Be advised that you're not sure if you can invoke Flesh, and leaving this injury unattended is not an option. You can and will die from bleeding out if it is not immediately addressed, and every step you take is making matters worse.)

    >Roll 1d100. Best of 3 will be used.
     
    Last edited:
  • Threadmarks
    • Reader mode
    You must login or register to reply here.
    Back
    Top