Catalyst Quest: Death Defiant & Catalyst Quest: Panacea

[Alaric]

Chapter 9: The Reaper


The following contains material that may be distressing to some readers.

Spoiler: Trigger Warnings (hidden to reduce spoiling content within)

Implicit death, gore.

Reader discretion is advised.

Spoiler: Music

Death is inescapable. Your train of thought is about more than your dying children or your own mortality, though.

Every last bloated, peeling, graying corpse here is a lasting reminder of the last body you lingered with. The chambermaid who you found dead in your Solar, at the height of Daybreak Citadel. You can remember the emerald, the viridian, and the fern. An invocation of Agriculture so intense that it could have broken your mind.

You let the Goddess of Excess work through you without constraints.

"It couldn't hurt to try more."

You pleased the Goddess of Death, and She granted you Her blessing in turn. Agriculture gave you complete resistance to the toxin that claimed your chambermaid's life. You licked it off from Father Pevrel's white gloves. Every property of that poison was identified— and using your ally's knowledge, your former experiences, and your connection to the Goddess, you came to several startling conclusions.

The poison that ravaged Calunoth three months ago was only a test. Adrian Morris had remotely spread the poison, but it was imperfect. Lethal and devastating, yes, but too slow for widespread distribution. He had to use a demon as a vehicle for it, and even then, the entire operation was halted with a small amount of investigation on your part.

A new poison was the one that killed your chambermaid. It was a variant of the strain seen in Calunoth, but this one is infinitely more potent. A contact poison that can be administered through any surface, save for liquids. It is in particles so fine and so sharp that to breathe them causes instantaneous death. Any exposure via inhalation or contact causes caustic burns.

In your chambermaid's case, she was forced to ingest this material. It caused her heart to stop. Intervention from even a priest of Mercy couldn't have saved her. Only treatment for the poison via a priest of Agriculture would have been sufficient.

You strongly suspected that this poison was being spread by the Church of Agriculture, and that the Church of Storm flooded the countryside to protect themselves against its spread, but your investigation was cut short. At the time, you were so smitten by the experience, you could scarcely think straight.

Besides, your city was in danger, and Father Pevrel had infinitely more pressing concerns than the death of a single woman. He did promise to look into the matter. It may be what he's doing at this very moment.

Right now, you're looking to the dead bodies in that Gods-forsaken, blood-slick cart with clearer eyes and a grounded mind. The corpses don't look to be affected by the same toxin that took your chambermaid's life. They have no sickness on their lips, and no burns. Whatever took these people's lives did so internally and far more discreetly.

Sister Tait has removed one of her gloves. A thick, black miasma pools in one hand and unfurls onto the dirt in thick droplets.

Your heart stops, but not from an invocation. You're simply trying to not have a panic attack. This isn't Magic, but woman isn't invoking, and she's exhibiting some sort of divine ability.

Sister Tait has walked up to the cart and placed a hand to one of the bodies. She's still smiling, while the scent of death on the air intensifies.

Your fear of poison being spread throughout the nation will have to wait. Emerging from the shadows, you quickly stride straight towards the priestess of death, pulling down your hood and letting every last scar on your exhausted face see the light of day.

The timidity and softness of your tone makes way for the voice of a preacher. "Sister Petronilla Tait!"

Your declaration echoes down the road. The priestess in question doesn't jump. She swiftly pulls the glove back over her hand, then lifts her gaze towards you. A rictus grin stretches the black painted on her lips.

You urge Bobert to stride alongside you rather than have him at your back. He complies, though quietly lets you take the lead.

Your steps falter just slightly. As you approach and Sister Tait lifts her eyes, you can see that her scleras are covered with a thin black sheet. In place of her pupils and irises are two small faces that look exactly like they belong to a human corpse. It's no spell or curse. You're almost transfixed by the sight of the minute, clouded over eyes that are open on each face. She effectively has four eyes to see out from, and they all snap to you.

"Father Richard Anscham!" Her voice is infinitely cheerier than it should be, given the circumstances. She's mocking your use of her full name in a sing-song way.

"Now's not the time, Pet." Bobert doesn't sound too bothered or exasperated. It's like he's talking to a younger sister— likely because he effectively is. Petronilla looks to be about his age, at the oldest.

The priestess has the wits to not say anything further. She makes a slight bow rather than a curtsy when you get within a few yards distance of her, keeping those hideous eyes on you all the while.

You fire a glance to both hulking men who are here to assist Petronilla. Their faces are totally obscured so their facial expressions are lost to you, but they both make slight bows in deference.

"Good morning, Father Anscham." The one to the right is gruff. He sounds exhausted.
"'morning, Father Anscham." The man to his left is a little more chipper, but not by much. They must be doing all of the legwork here.

Snapping your attention back to Sister Tait, you say in the calmest voice you can muster (given the circumstances), "Sister Tait, as the Hands of the King, the Father of Defense, and as the leader of the Church of Mercy, I am here to inform you that you are expected in the Church of Agriculture at once. You— along with your fellow council members— will be excused from all activities you would have otherwise conducted this afternoon and evening, or until you are excused from my presence."

She takes a long, deep breath in, and closes her eyes. The way that her eyelids lay over the face in each socket almost makes you gag. The smell on the air adds to the combination, though now that you're so close to the source, it's becoming sweeter.

You're once again reminded of that terrible experience with your chambermaid. Swallowing does nothing to help with how you're feeling.

You can sympathize. A large part of you wants to inspect every last body on this cart. It's not grotesque, when you really look at the dead. The marbling of skin reminds you of some of the loveliest rock you've ever seen. Where skin isn't taut and pushed up against by gases and liquids, there's evidence of what came before. The sloughing of skin and de-gloving of hands paints a picture of their deaths, their movement since, and could surely lead you to figuring out just what took these people's lives. It's fascinating and beautiful in the loveliest and most terrible of ways.

You'd like to give them all a respectful burial. The urge to close the closest open pair of eyes is extreme. It's even harder to not say a few words about the dead. To ask a hundred questions about the situation here in this district. To share every last experience you've had that's been similar. Fixation on the macabre is something that's always been difficult for you— truly been difficult— and the pull just isn't letting up.

Your voice comes out warm, and soft, and sweeter than even the rot on the air. "It is— it is incredibly regrettable that we meet under these circumstances. If you need to give any instructions to the men here with you so that they may resume your work— so that they may resume your work here in the field on your behalf, please do so now."

Pet bows her head towards you just slightly. "Thank you, Father. This won't take more than a minute."

She practically skips around the side of the cart towards the two masked men. Her flurry of hand gestures and rapid instructions towards them leaves you feeling breathless. You hear the word "preparation" at least three times in Petronilla's hushed whispers, before she turns back to you.

The two men pick up the front of the massive cart, wrench it off from the ground, and begin wheeling it down the street. The slight disturbance of the pile of bodies sends another rush of putrid gas towards you all.

Bobert brings a sleeve up to his face, trying and failing not to gag.

You and Sister Tait stand in the middle of the road, staring longingly towards the cart for a long minute after it's been pulled away.

They're gone. You're not sure where or for how long, but you can only hope that they'll be taken good care of.

If not for the sake of their families, then for the sake of their eternal rest.

Slowly, you and Sister Tait turn back towards each other. She looks just as wistful. "Your composure is something else, Father. Priests of Mercy usually see the dead on the field of battle— not long after."

All the warmth has left your voice. It's a rasp. "Priests of Agriculture do."

The two of you share a long, loaded look with one another. She's as still as a corpse.

A fly lands on the side of Petronilla's veil. She doesn't flinch. "How curious! So the rumors are true, then? You can invoke multiple Gods?"

"Word might not have reached the north, but I've picked up a few new nicknames since my last visit, Sister."

She raises her thinly tweezed eyebrows. Those black lips quirk up in a smirk.

You take several more steps forward and close the distance between the two of you. Standing an arm's distance away, you positively tower over her slender figure.

The height of the morning sun casts down at your back, covering Sister Tait in shadow. She looks up at you with slight surprise.

You keep Bobert on your peripheral vision— he's patiently standing by— and flicker the painfully green look in your eye straight at Pet.

"I have not killed well over two hundred men, ended a massacre, carved a path through demon infested woodland for three hundred miles of bloodshed, and allied with the Lord of Investigation to arrive in your city and stand around in the sun. I'm widely regarded as a man of all of the Gods, and our Time is more valuable than this."

She casts a look to the sun at your back, then back to you. "Let's get walking, then. I've got a question for you though, Father."

"What?"

"What were those other nicknames?"

"...the most recent was 'Reaper,' Sister Tait."

The black paint on Sister Tait's lips accentuates them twitching in delight. She almost starts smiling again. "Oh? And why might that be?"

"I eviscerated over seventy cultists in a single night with nothing but a thresher and an invocation of Agriculture."

A small breath leaves Petronilla. "Mercy."

"We can talk more about what little Mercy there was there later— if you please."

The two of you start walking in the direction of the Church. Bobert takes the lead, striding well ahead of you both to keep any prying eyes from watching your procession. He leans towards Sister Tait, and says in a low voice, "Pet."

"Bobert, you didn't need to bring him all the way out here." She fires him a sincere, sweet little smile. There's no sarcasm or attitude. She genuinely seems to be bothered that you were put through any trouble.

You toss your hood back up. "I have had my fair share of burials and handling— and handling of the dead, too."

"You don't say?" Sister Tait has a slightly odd gait. It's bouncy. She doesn't seem to have any injury. It may be something mental.

You hesitate to say anything further. It's not exactly tasteful to dive into your history with the deceased, especially not with someone you've just met, and DEFINITELY not when you still have five other clergy to round up. Petronilla seems incredibly receptive to discussing this subject, however. It could behoove you to offer some information.

Who knows what you could extract in turn?

>A] Risk being overheard casually discussing your experiences with the dead... on the streets of Wearmoor... while in the company of their council member... the day of your arrival. It could be a VERY bad look for the both of you, but that's a risk you're willing to take. This may be your only chance to speak candidly with Petronilla, with the most privacy you could hope for.

>B] Change the subject to Sister Tait's work with the deceased and her role in the Church of Agriculture. There's no guarantee that she will be receptive to it, but you can certainly try! This might take some pressure off of you, but still runs the risk of being overheard speaking inappropriately by the public. Not to mention that you're walking further away from the other council members with every step.

>C] You can't risk being seen walking through the city in such a large group, and you have Father Wilhelm to think about. Risk Sister Tait not going back to the Church of Agriculture, and repeat your order for her to await your return there. You'll figure out what to do with Pet later. For now, you'll go after Tathan Morgan, the Chief Administrator of Poison, and will do so post-haste.

>D] Ask Bobert if he can escort Sister Tait to the Church of Agriculture while you go find Tathan Morgan. You're nervous about not having Bobert and Pet accounted for, but you only have so much time, and this should cover the most ground the fastest.

>E] Write-in.

 

[Alaric]

Chapter 10: The Diseased and the Damned​

Let her wonder.

You telegraph as much trust as you possibly can towards Bobert. "Please escort Sister Tait back to the Church of Agriculture." She's crestfallen. You try to mask how pleased you are, but you're the Father of Truth, so there's still some cheekiness in your tone. "I'll be in this district with Brother Morgan, if you can make the Time to reconvene with me."

Let's have a little one-on-one with this poison fellow.

Brother Hillbrush instantly gets it. The priest moves alongside his Sister, flashing a quick smile to you over his shoulder before he speaks to her. "There's somethin' you ought to know about who's waiting back home..."

It seems that your fellow Church leader's reputations precede them as well. You call out, "thank you, Bobert! The Gods are Merciful!"

"No problem!" A slight wave over his shoulder. He's already got his back to you, and within moments, is down the alleyway and out of sight.

You're alone in the city of poison, and need to meet with a man who allegedly has mastery over its domain.

All you do is walk through the neighborhood, following the homes that have no chalk marks written on their door yet. The dirt streets are narrow, with houses practically piled on top of one another. Ample greenery provides some relief from the stench of rot and sickness in the air, which is also a welcome visual distraction from streaks of blood in the road. They were no doubt left from the dead being dragged away.

Before long, you find yourself standing on an occupied street. At the end of the road are no fewer than ten clergymen and women, all wearing incredibly thick gloves, long sleeves, robes down to their feet, and long masks. You know that the interior of each facial covering is packed with herbs designed to stave off illness. Whatever has contaminated this neighborhood seems to be quite potent. From your extensive experience with the diseased and the damned, you know that such protective measures are rarely as useful as intended, but the simple act of covering their faces and skin should help keep sickness at bay.

For the sake of not causing a scene, you call out from many yards away, "keep going about your business!"

Every bird-like head snaps towards you at once. There's visible confusion. One or two of the clergy instantly recognizes you, and they nearly drop the small vials of liquid antidote that they're holding. Another priest— his curiosity raised by the noise— comes out from one of the houses to see your approach. Several more start talking among themselves in low and hurried voices.

You stride up to the crowd, stopping a fair distance away from a priest who doesn't have his hands full of curatives and elixirs. He's a bit apart from the rest, and straightens upright as soon as you approach.

"Father Richard Anscham, leader of the Church of Mercy." You feel a little silly introducing yourself so many times in one day, but it is nice to say your title more often than usual. "I have business with Brother Tathan Morgan. Do you know where I can find him?"

His voice is so nasally, he might have his nose plugged with something. "What luck! You're talking to him."

The meek looking man quickly looks over his shoulder, waves to the clergy to go back to work, then glances back to you. A brief and awkward minute is taken for Tathan to remove his mask without spilling its contents. He's as pale as a sheet, middle-aged, and balding. Wisps of brown hair are atop his head and in a small mustache that doesn't suit his narrow features or watery grey eyes at all. If you had to guess, he probably weighs a third of what you do, and he stands a full foot shorter. Still, his facial expression and physical demeanor looks incredibly warm and sincere. He pulls off a glove to reveal an uncalloused, well manicured hand, which is held out in the symbol of your church.

"Brother Tathan Morgan, Chief Administrator of Poison on behalf of the City of Medicine, and presiding on the Church of Agriculture's council— but you don't need to hear all of that."

You take his hand immediately. Even if this man's fingers were slick with contact poison, you wouldn't have anything to fear. The two of you share a brief and mild handshake.

"It's nice to see you again, Father Anscham."

"You'll have to forgive me, Brother Morgan. It's been— it's been quite awhile—"

"Nothing to forgive. I wouldn't recognize myself with this thing on." He grins, shaking the mask slightly once you part. One of Tathan's back teeth is capped with metal. "But what's this business about? Do we need any discretion?"

"Please."

"One of the nearby houses is empty." His grin falls. A small nod is made down the street in the direction you came from.

Both of you set to walking— you taking far smaller strides than you're used to for the sake of politeness, and Brother Morgan glancing up to you occasionally. His brow is furrowed with aggravation and grief. "The entire family passed away. This stuff is fast-acting, and word didn't travel nearly fast enough."

"Will the rest of the district be alright...?"

"Of course. The worst cases have already been seen to. Everything from here is preventative, so my presence isn't required. This should be no trouble at all, Father." He comes to a stop. "Here we are..."

It's a single-story dwelling made entirely of wood, save for the stone ruins that the building is perched atop of. The foundation is slightly uneven, leading to the roof having an asymmetrical slant. The curtains are drawn shut. Brother Morgan fishes out a key from the side of his deep green robes, opens the door, and keeps it held open for you.

You give a small nod to the priest for his manners, then step inside the building. The smoky scent of recently extinguished candles has gathered in the living area. Adjacent to the entry-way is a series of small beds, who's sheets have all been stripped and removed. A little blood is speckled on the floor in places, trailing back towards the rear of the building and what you can only assume is a washing area. Shoes are gathered beside you. Two pairs are for children. The kitchen is also in conjunction to the space you're standing in, though dirty dishes are piled high. You can make out bits of stale food adding to the musty smell in the air. It's so pungent, you can almost taste it.

Your stomach decides that now is the perfect time to make itself known with a low, loud, and borderline painful growl. It's nearly midday, and the beer you had at The Scheming Beaver did not make up for your activity level or lack of any real sustenance since making camp yesterday afternoon.

Tathan is the picture of politeness. He stays standing, but gestures towards one of the nearby chairs for your sake. "I can only imagine what the trip here must have been like. Did you just get into the city?"

"At dawn." You gladly drop into the sturdiest looking armchair. It's stuffed and is a little dusty, but feels like a Dream. The ache in your feet and knees lets up exquisitely. "This is a matter of extreme urgency, Brother Morgan. Your presence is required in the Church of Agriculture today, along with every other member of your council."

He gives you a slight nod, then sits down a little across from you, just to your right. It gives you both some visual relief from staring directly at one another, while keeping a respectful distance.

"Not a problem. I can have my clergy attend to the rest of this district without me." He pauses a moment, looking you over. It must be written all over you how exhausted you are. "I hope this building is discreet enough for your liking."

"This is excellent, Brother Morgan. Thank you."

"What did you and I need to discuss?"

>You've made a lot of assumptions about this man before ever meeting him.
>Now that you've got Brother Morgan right where you want him...
>Write-in.

 

[Alaric]

Chapter 11: Some Sinister Plot​

It's difficult, but you take a moment just to breathe. Your boys may be in peril, and the pressure on you is severe, but you're certain that you can get more information from this man here than in a cluster-fuck meeting with 14 people in it.

Most importantly, it's more likely that any lies this man divulges will come out in private.

"Before I get into— before we discuss your work here, or any concerns of my own, could you please inform me of your role here in the Church of Agriculture? It— if I'm to be frank, Brother Morgan, I'm having trouble even remembering when we last met." You may have been through enough trauma to render any other man alive a gibbering wreck, but your memory has always been sharp. There's no way that you would forget anyone entirely.

"My apologies, Father. I had seen you often in Mother Bethaea's company during your last visit. I did not have the privilege of meeting you then, but I remembered you clearly." Tathan gives you a tired, apologetic smile. "I shouldn't have expected you to remember me."

The priest hardly pauses, though the smile on his face falls into a professional and detached demeanor. "As for your question: My duty to the Church of Agriculture begins and ends with poison, in any form. I am to cultivate new strains that serve our city's purposes, be it for recreational or medicinal use."

You have to interrupt. "I beg your pardon?"

"We have a legal drug trade here in Wearmoor, Father. I oversee all operations, ensure that the quality of our goods is up to my standards, and that safe practices are upheld by our citizenry. Sedatives, stimulants, liquor, tobacco, and all the rest are freely traded and sold in the Stoneroot District. ...though the public often refers to it as the 'Richweed' District, for obvious reasons. I keep a close eye on them."

You keep the straightest face humanly possible. Picking at the armchair you're on doesn't really help. "I— I see."

The afternoon sun leaks through the closed curtains on the far wall. Lines of sunlight dance across the living room floor. Tathan has to put a hand above his brow to block a ray, and shifts slightly away from the light.

"The medicinal use of these goods is of my utmost concern, Father. We do not have the privilege of healing, as you might in Eadric, or anywhere else that the Hands of the King may go. Our few clergy of Mercy were deprived of their gifts for many months this last year, and the populace's trust has largely fallen to me."

You don't need to comment on how you're solely responsible for Mercy depriving Her healing from countless souls in the last year. It's something that you'll get to. Something for you and your partner to work on. Not something for business conversation.

"Curing what plagues them is my life's work. Be it accidental, natural, or from some sinister plot of another— this is what you see me and my clergy doing here today. We go where we are needed, and spend the remainder of our time scouring the woods for new findings. New strains. More potent remedies, and new poisons to use against our enemies."

"This poison that you encountered today— could you please elaborate on its properties?"

"Certainly."

The lack of hesitation, the man's genuine demeanor, and the fact that someone is speaking to you normally for once has you breathe a sigh of relief.

Brother Morgan's straight and clinical demeanor lifts into a lighter, brighter smile as you shift in your chair. "I can imagine that it would aid in your own healing, as well."

"Absolutely. Do you have a sample that I could examine, while you explain...?"

He fishes around in his robes, and extracts a small vial. It's no more than two inches long, is as thin as a pen, and is filled with a sinister, black fluid. You recognize it as bile instantly, and are terribly reminded of what you've produced while invoking Vengeance.

Tathan hands the vial to you carefully. "Mind the cap."

A beautiful, threaded glass cap is on the top of the flask, rather than a cork. It's no doubt to keep any of the substance from leaking out.

"It's beautiful. Thank you."

He gives you an odd look, but his smile broadens. "Your appreciation for the craft is welcome, Father. You may not be able to recognize this poison's properties at a glance, but this is not its original state. This is a sample from what one of our people produced after being exposed to the toxin."

The man's tone takes on an odd tilt. He sounds terrible fond of what he's speaking of. "Once it has been ingested, it travels swiftly through the blood, and stops up the heart and lungs. The afflicted begin to cough, vomit, or excrete the poison. That is to say, any liquid or other substance that leaves their body carries the poison. It is capable of spreading through a kiss, making love, or exposure to that—" He points to the vial. "—sickness they've produced."

"Your clergy are covered from head-to-toe. I understand the caution they must be taking to avoid ingesting the poison, but is there— is there any risk to those who breathe around the afflicted...?"

"Not to my knowledge. It's a simple precaution— particularly while moving the dead. So much as a droplet can cause a cascading reaction throughout the body. It spread throughout this market district in a matter of days. Symptoms mimic a normal complaint of the stomach, so it was not brought to my attention until the casualties began to rise."

Morgan's mild, calm, and pleasant demeanor has shifted into a terrible scowl. "We caught the one responsible for this disaster, and he has been seen to, but I fear that the damage has already been done. We lost well over three dozen souls in this last week, and there's no telling who else may be affected."

You turn over the small glass container between your thumb and index finger, holding it up to the light. It sounds like it has a few similarities to a poison you've been exposed to before, but there's really only one way to find out.

"I'm calling this substance 'the black death,' given that it turns all blood and bile into this..." Brother Morgan's grimace deepens, while he gesture vaguely to the room you're sitting in. "...nastiness."

>A] This poison is terribly familiar.

>1] Drink some of the bile to identify its properties instantly. The intimidation factor of doing so will suit this discussion nicely.​

>2] You'll look into this on your own later. You don't want Tathan to know that you're immune to poison just yet.​

>B] The drug trade in Wearmoor is new. This must be something Tathan has orchestrated. You're...

>1] Deeply concerned and highly alarmed. You suspect foul play here as well. Press Tathan for more information.​

>2] Respectfully curious. This sounds revolutionary, and could assist your own work as well in Eadric. Get a few more details before proposing that you look into the matter yourself.​

>C] The matter of your boys is of the utmost concern. Show your hand and ask Tathan if he has any information on Chesty and Serpent's whereabouts.

>D] There is a poisons master who you are keen on confronting later. See if Tathan has any information on Omerus the sorcerer.

>E] Write-in.

 

[Alaric]

Chapter 12: Poison

Spoiler: Music

"I wonder..." You can't help but uncap the poison in hand. To consume it would do more than show your love and devotion towards Agriculture— it would put Tathan in his place faster than anything else in this world.

Horror is painted across Tathan's features. You linger a moment with the look on his face, maintaining eye contact while you take a whiff of the flask.

It's sour, stale, and hot. You can practically feel it stick to the back of your throat and nose, but persist with it for several more moments in silence. It's terribly familiar.

On the way to Wearmoor, you were nearly poisoned. The toxin was going to be administered through an alcoholic drink.

Scent alone isn't enough to identify such a substance, but you have your suspicions. This could very well be the same poison. It's something you'll have to identify later, though.

Recapping the vial gives Tathan a moment to breathe. You hand the small item back with a trembling hand. "I hope I didn't alarm you too— too severely—"

He coughs. "I admit I'm taken aback, Father."

"Excuse me for— excuse me for just a moment." You take out the small flask you always keep over your heart, uncap it, and take a long pull of whatever it was that the enchanted item last conjured.

At the moment, it's a spiked fruit juice that Father Pevrel requested on your rest yesterday afternoon. Cherry, lemon, and hard liquor kills most of your urge to tear into the poison you were given.

You come up breathlessly, recap the flask, and stash it back on your person. There's no need to impress this man. You can flex all you want once know who is actually against you.

I'll have as much of it as I please later... once I need to know where it came from.

"I've encountered quite a few poisons during my travels, and back at— and back at home, Brother Morgan."

"I see." His calm and level attitude has been completely restored.

"During my stay in Calunoth, a contact poison was distributed through many of its markets. The Church of Agriculture was called on to investigate..." You raise your eyebrows just slightly. Tathan blinks, looking more uncomfortable by the second. "Luckily, I was able to locate the demon responsible for its spread. The strain was especially potent when burned. Inhalation of its fumes blackened the lungs..."

You cast another look to the vial that the priest is now pocketing. Those watery, gray eyes narrow in disgust. "This sounds remarkably similar to what I'm dealing with now."

"Remarkably. Is this the first you've heard of it?"

A quick shake of his head. "Our Merciful King requested assistance with the matter many months ago." You know for a fact that the poison outbreak in Calunoth started only four months ago. "The council... how do I put this? They delayed my venture to the capital. By the Time that we had all come to an agreement, I was informed that the matter was already being addressed by another priest of Agriculture."

He gives you a long, hard look. To your bulk, to the dirt under your nails, and to all the green in your eyes. "It was you, wasn't it?"

The weeks you spent in Calunoth were some of the longest of your life. It was during that Time that you truly connected with the Goddess of Growth.

It dawns on you that there's no council member for the tenet of Growth, but there's really no Time to ask about this right now.

You stop staring off into the distance. "How long ago did you say you were contacted by King Magnus?"

"It must have been... why, back in 'Pin."

The month of the Mending Pin is at the start of the year. You were still imprisoned recovering in the Church of Flesh at that time, from your excursion into the ruins.

This doesn't add up. "It took you over a month to respond to a call from our King?"

Brother Morgan couldn't look more irritated. "Not by my design, Father. We had to ensure that all was accounted for here in the city, before I took any leave of absence. My role on our council is critical to Wearmoor's success."

"This business you have with drugs— medicine— whatever you wish to call it—"

"Drugs is fine, Father. It is what it is."

"Your drug trade sounds revolutionary. It could very well assist with my work in Eadric, if I can gain a better understanding of how you utilize substances for the public's betterment. Could you educate me a bit further on— a bit further on how you do it?"

The priest adjusts his position in his chair. The seat looks nowhere near as comfortable as yours, and despite Tathan's small size, it squeaks with his movement.

"As I said previously, we create the product, then control its distribution. My clergy are responsible for scouring, growing, and improving on what material flows into the Stoneroot District. I personally inspect every new substance— be it the latest crop, a substance created via invocation, or something found in the wilds. Nothing is to be sold in Wearmoor without inspection by the Church of Agriculture. There are no laws against the public growing substances for their personal use, of course— and we aren't the Church of Vengeance. If we find someone sharing what they've grown with friends and family, that's typically their own business. But there are to be no large-scale productions without my blessing."

"I see. And what, precisely, does that entail...?" You make a point of leaning a little closer towards Brother Morgan, fingers tented.

"Nothing beyond personal use. Common sense applies to this, of course. And, with permission by the Church of Agriculture, our citizens can run their business out of the Stoneroot District if and ONLY if they are willing to be subject to regular inspection. They can sell our wares, or have their own inspected by the Church."

Brother Morgan narrows his eyes. "I am all too aware of the risks that such ventures carry. Our goal is to make our city thrive. Allowing our residents to participate in this venture not only gives them an opportunity for financial success and stability— they also take a tremendous amount of work off of my clergy's shoulders. I'm certain that Eadric also has those outside of the Church who help with business matters."

"Yes. When my— when my city was afflicted with poison— during my last stay at home— we were practically forced to recruit the assistance of the public. My priestesses couldn't have hoped to keep up with the— with the demand that it caused." You pause, noticing the slight twitch in Tathan's right eye. "I could use your opinion on the poison that I found, during that time."

So you're misleading him into thinking it was the entire district, and not an isolated case. Sure, it was a single chambermaid's corpse left in your washroom as a warning from your enemies— but what Tathan doesn't know in this case won't hurt him.

"Please." He's still the picture of politeness.

"This one was of a caustic variety. Incredibly potent. It could be inhaled, ingested, or taken in by skin contact."

"That shouldn't—"

"—be possible? This was— this was no ordinary poison, Brother Morgan. Tiny rods— crystals, almost— made up its basest components. Simply touching the skin caused horrific burns. Ingestion made the victims foam at the mouth, and promoted vomiting to rid the body of its toxin. Doing so forces the poison back up through the throat, of course—" You're saying all of this calmly and levelly, but Brother Morgan looks a little disturbed. You gladly continue. "—and inhalation caused almost instant death, as it corroded the lungs. But the real issue came from it being ingested. Once in the blood, this poison would reach the heart, causing a death that not even one of my clergy could save the victim from."

"Mercy." You realize that the man isn't disturbed. He's excited.

"You haven't heard of this, then...?"

He takes out a light green handkerchief and mops a light sweat off from his brow. "No. But I would dearly like to study such a thing." The priest fires a look over his shoulder, towards the door. It's still closed. "Father, if I can be frank with you—"

"Always. If you please."

He laughs a little, but quickly pipes down and assumes a somber expression. "I have to wonder how you came about such intimate knowledge of such a thing."

"I may be inclined to let you know— but there is something that's been troubling me, Brother Morgan."

"Hmm?"

"The individual who was responsible for poisoning this district. Who were they?"

"That's the worst part of it, Father." Tathan shakes his head, disturbing the few wisps of hair atop his head. "He refused to divulge his identity, even under torture and threat of death. All we could find on him was a single marking, etched into his skin with black ink. A snake. It was curled into a knot— like the number eight, lying on its side."

There's no mistaking that whoever this man was, he was a member of the cult of Inertia. The same organization responsible for almost destroying your city. Who have tried doggedly to kill you and your family. Who you strongly suspected had allegiance with the Church of Agriculture.

"Why— why would he have attacked this district...? These are— these are innocent people—"

Tathan looks legitimately upset. Like a father who's children are sick, when he can't do anything more than pray they'll recover. "I know. It's dreadful. He didn't give us a reason, Father. It was as if he didn't want to do anything at all, save for march to his death." His scowl deepens. "It was granted to him swiftly enough. Too swiftly, if you don't mind me saying."

Leaning closer, the poisons master whispers, "I'd like nothing more than to find out who was behind this mess. I have a few of my men with their ears to the ground. You would be amazed how much the people talk among themselves. I wouldn't suppose you would be interested in this matter, too? I would be happy to connect you with one of my informants, Father."

You give the priest a sly smile. "If you're wanting for more information on my own experience with poisons..."

"Oh, no. Nothing of the sort. We can discuss that anytime, but your Time is precious, and I would hate to take up more of it than necessary. But, Father, you must understand: the confidentiality of my friends and colleagues is of the utmost importance to me. I would hate for anyone else to hear of the leader of the Church of Honesty listening in on others, let alone getting involved with lucrative matters of poisons and pleasures."

"You're making this offer out of the kindness of your heart, then?"

His laugh is so nasally, it almost sounds like he's wheezing. "Don't be absurd. You're a priest of Vengeance, too. Aren't you? I want to know that my city is safe, that my people are secure, and that whoever is really behind this attack won't be coming back again." He gives you a severe look. "The safety of our nation is truly the concern of the Father of Defense, and for a man of all of the Gods. I would have felt obligated to share this information with you, even if you hadn't asked— but given how many other priorities you must have, Father, I am terribly grateful to have had this opportunity to speak to you about it so swiftly."

>A] Accept the offer. You'll at least get the contact information for Brother Morgan's informant. No need to commit to anything right away. You have plenty of other business to see to, after all— but this is an incredible opportunity, and you're not about to pass it up.

>B] Deny the offer. (Write-in any reasons you have for doing so.)

>C] Accept the offer wholeheartedly. You'll promise to get to the bottom of whoever poisoned this district, and you'll keep Tathan in the loop, too. He deserves Vengeance, and you need every bit of info you can get on Inertia. Your initial assumptions about this matter may have been off-base. What better way to get to the bottom of it than to properly start an investigation?

>D] You are starting to trust Brother Morgan enough to divulge some further information.

>1] Simply tell him about your affinity for poison. Don't hide any of it. You'll probably come across as a braggart, but that's alright.​

>2] Try the vial. A demonstration will do a lot more for your credibility.​

>E] There's still a lot you'd like to talk about with this man. (Write-in any other subjects you want to discuss.)

 

[Alaric]

Chapter 13: The Source​

Score.

"I would gladly meet this informant of yours, Brother Morgan."

The priest looks over his shoulder, then leans towards you. "He is an incredibly difficult man to meet, Father Anscham. A trifle for someone of your position, I'm sure— but I will arrange for a secure location."

This isn't exactly what you had in mind. "There isn't— there isn't a secure location that I could simply find him at...?"

"It would behoove us for you to not see him at his residence, if you wish to keep his involvement with these matters discreet." Tathan smiles politely. "I will arrange a secure location on a rotating schedule. You will be able to find him in the Hickett slums on Sundays, at the crossroads marked by pink daisies..."

He goes through fourteen different locations, all which will be rotated on a dizzying schedule (to avoid anyone tracking the informant's movement). You commit it all to your fantastic memory, thanking all the Gods that you don't have to ask to write this down.

"You're certain you have it?" Tathan is stunned beyond belief that you don't need further instruction. "I can repeat—"

"No— no. That shouldn't be necessary."

"Very well. His name— and I must ask that you not repeat any of this to anyone, once again—"

"I wouldn't Dream of it."

"Simon Radley will be who you meet with. He's known as the 'Source' by most of our customers, but 'Simon' is fine. Do not address him as Mr. Radley, as that is his father, and he will take great offense."

"Thank you for letting me know."

"Of course. And Father— when you see him, tell him that 'the Fey' sent you."

You give the man an amused, curious glance. "The Fey?"

"Morgan 'the Fey.' I create wonders for our people— not quite unlike Magic." A short and stressed laugh interjects his speech. "Not that I'd ever put my hands in any of that filth. But the nickname amuses everyone well enough. It's not something that the clergy know me by— but it should signal to Simon that you're someone I can trust."

This might be a bigger deal than you first suspected. You slightly bow your head. "I won't forget it."

"Good." Brother Morgan's smile is back in full. "Was there anything else you required?"

"One last thing. This tragedy was wrought by just one suicidal coward. I'm— I'm certain that you would have already thought to do so— but for my sake, I was wondering what's currently selling well on your markets. What isn't selling well would be just as prudent. I can imagine that anyone with sinister enough motives would target your vulnerabilities."

"If it will bring you greater peace of mind, Father, I cannot refuse your request." Tathan can't refuse any request you make of him, given your position, but it's cute of him to play at doing this out of respect for your emotions. He might actually care. "Rest assured, I monitor the movement of our wares with the utmost caution. I've always had a mind and— if you'll pardon the expression— the mouth for business. I have a great many friends in the city, and many of them I would trust with my life."

He folds his hands, staring you down severely. "I still watch all of them like a hawk. Mirage has been our best seller for the last season. It is a mushroom that induces waking fantasies— used most commonly by individuals with chronic pain or mental disturbances. It grows well in Grace—" The second earliest season of the year has an abundance of rain. It would do well for any mushroom. "—but now that the weather is growing colder, and our supply dwindles, we'll be making new accommodations."

There's a blend of enthusiasm and something darker in the priest's voice. It reminds you distinctly of how you feel when thinking about the Goddess of Poison.

"Onyx: a fine, black powder that lowers agitation. Consequently, it reduces sexual urges. A boon for some! You would be surprised how many seek it. And Moonstone— on the street it goes by hunch, lune, loony, and all the rest— we ship them off in pale white tablets. They're made with herbs that only grow in the woods to the far west of Wearmoor. Moonstone induces sleep, promotes intuition, and— this may alarm you, Father— but it is capable of inducing dreams."

You go as pale as the drug itself. "I beg your pardon?"

"You heard me correctly."

"This— this is heresy—"

"We have had the plant and product examined thoroughly by the Church of Dream. It is not only condoned. We send shipments to the south regularly." The peddler grins at you. "It's a best-seller, and often our most popular during Worship, when most of us are stuck inside with the snow. You want to know of another that's taking Wearmoor by Storm, though."

Tathan swipes up a twig from the floor and runs a hand along it like it's made of solid gold. "Sliver. Smash. Splinter. It goes by many names. A thin stick that must be chewed on to obtain its desired effect: short-lived euphoria." He drops the stick to his side, straightens upright, and stares you down like his life depends on it. "Tightly regulated. We keep records of every purchase for any substance, but special accords are made for sliver. Its method of production is a tightly kept secret by the Church of Agriculture, Father. Even if you were to ask me directly for its source, I could not disclose it without permission from every member of the council."

"I understand completely."

"I had hoped you would." That terribly stern expression has yet to falter. "Sliver's demand is rising. It's highly unusual, and I've been tracking our distribution like nothing else. As a precaution, I've halted all shipments to the capital, and have incentivized our top buyers to invest in other interests, for the Time being. This is one matter that I do not have to seek permission for— and rest assured, Father: when it comes to matters of our Goddess, I act decisively."

The priest's smile warms right back up. He dismissively says, "Celerity is likely our least profitable ware. Also known as dart, buzz, and haste; it used to be quite popular in Beorward, particularly among clergy of Flesh. A red, bubbly liquid that tastes like blood. If you can get over the taste, it increases energy and performance— but it has a brutally hard comedown. Not reliable for fighting, and far too unpleasant for recreational use for most."

Brother Morgan brings his voice down to a murmur. "I cannot possibly hope to supervise every single shipment of every last item that comes in and out of Wearmoor. If you have concerns regarding my products, Father Anscham, please bring them up with Simon. He'll know who to... talk to."

You're still not certain what role these council members play in all this, but you'll get to the bottom of the matter. For the moment, though, you're going to focus on gathering more information, and saving as much Time as you possibly can.

"Brother Morgan?"

"Yes?"

"If we were to head straight for the Church of Agriculture, would we pass by the locations of Sister Schafer or Sister Isolda?"

"I'm afraid not, Father. They're on the other side of town today, helping with childbirth."

"Then if you don't mind, I'll be escorting you back to the Church." You get up with the most repressed groan you can muster. It's hitting you hard that you haven't slept in two days, and the room slightly tilts. Sweet relief from the stress on your joints makes way for a new flare of aches and pains.

The priest by your side takes a cautious step to the side, out of his chair, and gets well out of your way. It's not lost on you that you'd probably injure the small man if you fell near him.

He patiently waits for you to get some semblance of stability back. Blinking spots of gold and green out from your eyes, you sigh deeply, and head for the door.

Tathan rushes to get the door for you. "After you."

 

[Alaric]

Chapter 14: A Wreck in Motion

Spoiler: Music

​

It took another hour to get back to the fields. You've spent the entire morning and one hour of the afternoon gathering people for this meeting, but at least you have something to show for it.

Brother Morgan has gladly helped you navigate through the seediest neighborhoods of Wearmoor to arrive at your destination untouched and unseen. Leaves, perfectly cultivated flowers, and flourishing farmland are spread out as far as the eye can see. It took some searching, but you managed to get directions to the correct tract of land.

Off in the distance are two beasts of men. They stand well over the fields, permitting you to see the pair well before they can recognize you. You give them a wave, take off your hood, and quickly close the distance.

The man to your left has an incredibly long beard, a straw hat, overalls with a large patch on one knee, and mint-green robes shorn like a t-shirt under it all. His bright blue gaze is barely perceptible through the shade, his bushy brown eyebrows, and the way he's narrowed his eyes at you.

The priest rubs at his nose, crosses his arms, and doesn't say a word. He doesn't return your wave, either.

The man to your right is all smiles. He looks incredibly young— at least a few years younger than you are. Nearly as heavy, dressed almost as modestly, and waving excitedly, his sage holy vestments wave a little in the breeze. They cover all of his tanned skin, save for a freckled face, shortly cropped hair, and the scythe in well-worn hands.

You're glad that you're outside, as the tone of his voice is so loud and jolly, you'd fear for your hearing otherwise. "Father Anscham! Long Time, no see! Ha-ha!" He sets his scythe down, quickly wipes some of the dirt off from his hands, and hikes up his robes to meet you half-way. Hand outstretched. He means business. "Brother Tybalt Townsend! I don't think we've ever actually met before—!"

You fire a quick look to Tathan. The short priest gives you a quick shrug and whispers, "he's always like this."

Meeting Tybalt awkwardly in the midst of the field— up to your chest in flowers— you can't help but smile as you take his hand. His expression is infectious, and you feel remarkable being surrounded by so much growth. It's like all the day's exhaustion has fallen from you.

"A pleasure to meet you. I don't think you need me to list off any— off any titles. The Premial of Bounty, was it?"

He's stunned. "No one remembers that." He quickly shouts over his shoulder to the other man, "Ev! You hear that?!"

"Eh?!" The crotchety older man— who must be Brother Everard Foster, Master of the Harvest— stays in place, arm crossed. His accent is nonexistent. He must be from an old family of the Church.

"Oh. Tathan! Good afternoon!" Tybalt leans a bit down to the poisons master, who mumbles a polite greeting in reply. You're quickly motioned to follow the Premial, who sets off towards his fellow Brother. "I said 'DID YOU HEAR THAT?!'"

"Hear what?!" Everard is clearly fucking with Tybalt. His smirk is barely concealed behind that long and bushy beard.

You arrive before Everard, then fire a quick look back towards the Church of Agriculture. It's gloomy out, and the overcast is robbing you of some welcome heat and sunlight, but you can still clearly see the tallest towers of the Church.

Everard has somehow gotten a piece of hay to chew on since you turned around. The burly priest is a little shorter than you, so he has to look up to show off his shit-eating grin. "Watching the birds, big boy?"

Brother Morgan is mortified, but seems like he doesn't want to overstep himself by commenting.

You're roughly pat on the back by Brother Townsend. It almost knocks the wind out from you. "Ha-ha!"

Tathan looks between you, Tybalt, and Everard as if there's a wreck in motion that he can't turn away from.

>A] You've had enough disrespect for one day, and it's abundantly clear that this is already too large of a group to have anything in the way of a discreet conversation. Don't dignify Everard's comments or Tybalt touching you with a response, beyond ordering them to the Church of Agriculture.

>B] Brother Townsend is responsible for all of the Church's bounty, and by extension, works with the distribution of those goods to all the nation.

>1] But what the fuck is a 'premial' and what do they do?​

>2] Tybalt's age is alarming, to say the least. It gives you both some serious common ground, too. Ask him how he got his position.​

>3] Tathan raised some excellent points about how the public is prone to talking. See what the rumor mill has to offer, from a man who's closest to the people.​

>C] You get the feeling that Brother Foster isn't the talkative type.

>1] Take the high ground, and treat the man with some respect and decency. You want to know about his work just as much as anyone else.​

>2] There must be some way you can get to know him better. (Write-in.)​

>D] Write-in.

 

[Alaric]

Chapter 15: What They Believe In​

The Master of the Harvest doesn't seem like the talkative type, but getting to know what everyone in the Church of Agriculture does couldn't be more important to you. Judging by his build, he's also likely a devotee to Flesh (in one way or another).

Your gaze lingers for a moment on the tools scattered around the ground. In the small clearing that Brother Foster is standing in are a few old tree stumps, two large flagons of what smells like incredibly potent beer, a colossal scythe, and Brother Townsend's sickle. This field had to have been slashed and burned at some point.

​

Both farmers are nowhere near any crop that would benefit from any of the tools here. You flash a curious look back to the priests.

Everard keeps his arms crossed, and elbows Tybalt for him to speak first.

"Curious, isn't it?" The premial's booming voice carries far over the beautiful crop you're swimming in. "Lost a bet last week! Have to work all day with the oldest tools we've got. I'm a man of my word, though— and I doubt that old Ev would let me live it down if I didn't go along with it!"

"Can't trust a young little shit such as yerself as far as I can throw ye." Everard rolls up his sleeves, takes one look at the chunky priest, and laughs. "Wanna bet on how far that'd be?"

Tybalt laughs uproariously. You can't help but roll up your sleeves, too. "I would hate to keep you from your work. Why don't we actually get something done?"

The laughter dies off. All three men are staring at the scar tissue lacing your forearms. Where you haven't been cut or stabbed, there's evidence of old burns. The mottled tissue is incredibly pale from almost never seeing the sun, and every scar is more prominent than it should be thanks to the curse of a demon, making your limbs look borderline inhuman. It's obvious that you've been tortured, have been through one too many fights, and that you might have inflicted some injuries on yourself at some point, too.

You clear your throat, have no problem with your scars, and nod a little towards the tools on the ground. "I don't think I'll be needing anything. Let's get to work."

Spoiler: Music

An approving, altogether surprised raise of Everard's eyebrows puts a smile on your face. "Well, shit. Can't say no to that." He leers towards Tathan. "And I don't suppose you'll be getting your pretty little hands dirty?"

The poisons master genuinely looks like he's never worked the fields a day in his life. He chuckles to himself. "I wouldn't count on it."

The work that Everard and Tybalt were attending to today is briefly explained to you, before the three of you split up, then set out to back-breaking labor. You're mercifully given a spade and some gloves. Tybalt has his scythe in hand, and Everard is equipped with a proper scythe.

The sight of the hulking, aging man with such a formidable tool is downright terrifying. You're happily reminded of the scythe that Agriculture has gifted you with on multiple occasions. There's no doubt in your mind that you're just as intimidating with your own weapon— likely more so in the midst of an invocation— but reminiscing is not why you're out here today.

With Everard pleased as punch by your attention to the land, you call out to Tybalt just a little down the way. "Brother Townsend!"

"What?!" There's really no need to shout, even if you can't see one another. Both of you are crouching, buried completely beneath the leaves.

"I would be lying if I said I knew what a premial is!"

A hearty laugh carries over the field. "I'm glad you asked! It means 'rewarding!' Or if you prefer, serving to reward! And as I often tell my clergy, 'to reward is to serve!'"

You nod a little to yourself. The sensation of dirt underhand, roots between your fingers, and the scent of earth all around borders on a religious experience. You may be sweating under the sun, and your back is already aching, but you couldn't feel more at home. It's with a broad smile that you call out, "you've achieved so much at such a young age!"

"You're one to talk, Father! Hold on, this is silly—!"

The priest ducks under the field and comes over to you, stopping within a reasonable speaking range. He's laughing, holding a finger up to his lips despite making no effort to control his volume. "There's no way Ev is going to see me, even if he hears me! You shouldn't have to shout. Thank you, by the way."

You keep up your work while you speak, tossing a few more leafy crops into a nearby basket. "You're very welcome. How do you feel about your position, if you don't mind me asking? I know— I know how it feels to have so much responsibility. To feel like it— it isn't deserved."

There's a long pause. Tybalt gives you a concerned look.

"The responsibility is a lot to handle, at times. But I'm happy where I am, Father, and I think a lot of other people are happy to see me here, too. That's what really matters. If everyone thinks I'm doing a fine job, and we're actually making improvements in other people's lives? I'd say it's deserved!"

"How did you come by the position, anyways...?"

"Funny story, that. You see, all of the council members were elected by the Church of Agriculture— excluding me. A public rally came together— I don't want to say a mob, necessarily, but they were very enthusiastic— and they demanded that I be put on the council!" He's grinning from ear-to-ear, but his voice is breaking up a little. "I didn't ask a soul— not that the clergy believes me. But no lie, Father— there was a few hundred of them. Not just friends and neighbors, but people that I've helped from all over. They said they'd just keep coming back every day that I wasn't elected. So, here I am." A heartfelt, disbelieving laugh leaves him. "They call me the man of the people, if you'd believe it."

"I would." Your basket is full, so you excuse yourself a minute, carefully offload your work in a dedicated pile beside Everard's harvest (it's twice as tall as yours, given that he has a scythe, but you're making amazing progress for work by hand), then beckon Tybalt to join you a little further down the way.

"It's been years," you murmur. The field of life that you're kneeling in almost eclipses the love in your eyes. A little pang of longing goes out to all the Time you spent away from Wearmoor, but quickly comes back to the dirt underfoot. The aroma of freshly cut greenery. To the man by your side who seems completely understanding, puts his hands in his pockets, and gives you a patient smile.

"You missed it? Here, I mean?"

"It feels like coming home." Bright green eyes and a genuine grin flickers to the priest of Bounty. "What's everyone talking about, nowadays?"

"Let's see... we've got a festival in the northern districts today, that I'm going to be presiding over!" You're going to save the bad news for just a few more minutes. Brother Townsend continues, blissfully unaware that he'll be stuck in the Church all afternoon. "We'll be holding a contest for the largest crop grown in the city. There should be games, and wine... you should try to stop by, if you have the chance!"

You are suddenly very busy with a particularly stubborn plant, and simply give a nod.

"Right. We've also got a small movement of volunteers who are helping with the most recent shit from the Church of Flesh. They've been trying to take ancestral arms and armor from Wearmoor's citizens! It's an outrage!"

"Is this for the war effort...?"

A single, disgusted nod. "They'd take our silverware and farming tools if we didn't tell them it was blasphemy to try. Being low on resources is no excuse. Maybe if they'd allocate even a fraction of their men towards guarding our mines, we wouldn't have these fu— excuse me, Father."

"It's fine."

"These problems." Tybalt looks a little bashfully over his shoulder, then back to you. "There's also a few small resistances against 'mandatory acquisition of materials' from the Church of Agriculture. They're all from villages outside of Wearmoor's bounds, but these things get people talking. One farmer thinks he's entitled to keep all of his wares for himself—" He gives you a cheeky grin. "—and suddenly everyone sees the merits of standing up for what they believe in."

"You've just reminded me of something."

"Oh?" Tybalt gets a little more comfortable, shifting to a squat rather than crouching.

"I'm— I'm going somewhere with this—"

"Alright!"

"I think that— for better, or for worse— anything and everyone can change. It's what I love most about Growth, Brother Townsend. No one is stuck in their circumstances."

An incredibly sincere smile shines at you. "That is a noble thought, Father."

"I was wondering what it is that you enjoy most about Bounty?"

"Goodness!" He doesn't even have to think about it— or has thought quite a lot about this before. "Not the expression! I mean it: goodness. Doing good. Being good. And not just for the feeling of doing the right thing, but really helping someone! There's too much evil in this world. We all need to care for each other. Making sure that everyone is looked after feels like the least I can do, and, well, the most important thing any of us can hope for."

"I understand completely."

"Glad to hear it!"

A scythe sticks out over the top of the field, waving menacingly towards you and Tybalt. "Ladies, quit yer yammerin' and get back to work!"

You stand straight up, with two armfuls full of crop. "Excuse me—?"

Everard marches straight towards you, Tathan in tow. "I don't believe it."

You proudly stay put, brandishing your work as if it were a shield. "I've been breaking my back, and you want to accuse me of slacking? Blasphemy, Brother Foster."

"Excuse me." Tathan seems to have had enough of this for a lifetime. He casts a look around, then goes hiking off to find Brother Townsend.

"Blasphemy—" Everard's frown flips into a grin. The man plants his scythe in the dirt, comes up beside you, then pats you firmly on one shoulder. His grip is so strong, you have to fight to keep everything from spilling. He's looking intensely at your work, and seems to actually approve. "Well I'll be. Not bad."

You try not to look too smug, and keep your eyes averted from Tybalt's location. He's keeping to his squat and laboriously weaving through the crops, trying to get to a further location before standing up. "I was wondering something, Brother Foster."

"Eh?"

"Your work as Master of the Harvest. I don't know exactly what your council's work entails, let alone your own."

"Eh. Oh. I—" He scratches his beard. "I s'pose I look after the fields."

"...all of the fields?"

"Yep."

You cast a dizzying look towards the acres upon acres of farmland in all directions.

"Parks, too."

There must be a park for every home in Wearmoor.

"Cemetery grounds, if Pet needs any help with 'em."

You have yet to see one during your current visit, but you know that the City of Death has many.

"Mercy, Brother Foster—"

"Nah, don't need none of that." He pats his scythe. "This is all ye need. That, and workers who do better than TYBALT—!"

The priest in question pops his head up from several dozen yards away. "What?!"

Everard quickly looks around the ground nearest to you, then back to his friend. "You no-good layabout, when did you—"

An armful of crop is held up. Brother Townsend can't hide his smirk. "Do what?"

Grumbling to himself, Brother Foster moves to go back to his spot. You gesture for him to stay put, working while you talk. It puts him in fair enough spirits to join you.

"If it isn't too personal—"

"I don't give a shit, Father."

"Very— very well. Then what is it that you enjoy so much about Harvest?"

"It's honest work."

You wait a minute for him to elaborate further.

Everard happily chews at the straw in his mouth, not saying another word. You try not to laugh.

"Do you work with the movement and storage of food in the city...?"

"Nah. I'm only one man. That's all Ty's work. He's a real nutter about it, too."

"I— I see."

>A and B are mutually exclusive.
>Write-ins may be combined if it makes sense to do so.

>A] Brother Foster seems like a simple man. Possibly too simple for any use. Send him off to the Church of Agriculture with Tathan. You'll try to wring some more information out from Brother Townsend.

>1] Press the angle of his association with the people.​

>2] Hone in on his work with the supply throughout the city.​

>3] Write-in.​

>B] There might be more to Brother Foster than what what meets the eye, and you already have ample reason to be interested in his work. Try to get him alone. See what you can get him to divulge...

>1] By plainly asking him about any suspicious goings-on in the city.​

>2] By asking him up-front about your boys.​

>3] Write-in.​

 

[Alaric]

Chapter 16: Unbelievable

Spoiler: Music

As respectfully as you can, you request for Brother Morgan to accompany Brother Foster back to the Church of Agriculture. While Brother Foster is a simple man— and you suspect that there is more to him than meets the eye— you'll see what valuable information he'll impart (wittingly or no) later. This upsets your plans to carry more crop back to the Church than your hulking competition, but there are more important things.

Like wringing more information out of Brother Townsend. The unpleasant business of informing him that he won't be going to the festival today is over quickly, but you ask for him to stay put. The two of you resume a milder pace of work, back-to-back. It allows you to mask the concern on your face, but worry leaks into your tone.

"This problem with our mines troubles me greatly, Brother Townsend."

The young man seems caught between wearily laughing, and a far graver tone of speech. "You should talk to Bobert about it. He's—"

"I'm interested in your thoughts."

The crunch and rustle of leaves and roots is all that can be heard for a long minute.

The holy vestments you're wearing are terrible for labor. A cold breeze picks up through the field, providing blissful relief from the heat on you.

"Brother Townsend—" You start, but the priest quickly cuts you off.

"Most of our men who should be working the mines have been pulled away to fight somewhere or another. Guards on the border. Fighting in the field! Shit, even in Eadric, last I heard—" You know that the guards who recently were brought into Eadric were all allied with Inertia. "—just about anywhere other than where they're actually needed. There's women and the elderly doing the work of three men. They come home dead, Father."

"How has Bobert not—?"

"Put a stop to it? He's tried. These are orders coming from the King. 'Arm the forces in Baranfen! Accept Father Friedrich's request for more men! Give all that you can spare!' If they aren't coming from the mines, they're coming from the fields— and Bob would rather us have a little less copper than for people to go hungry. He's been taking the heat for a long time. I don't know how he does it."

This all but confirms your suspicions. "It sounds to me like animosity is high between Beorward and Wearmoor."

"Just between us? Mercy, no! This is something that's driving the whole country against the Church of Flesh. I'd say Fred— sorry, Father Friedrich—"

"It's fine."

"—well, that he's got nearly..."

He was about to comment on how terrible your reputation is. Yours, and Father Friedrich's.

You pause in your work, look over your shoulder and say, "there's something you should know."

The priest nervously continues harvesting. "Yeah?"

"It is not for nothing that these supplies are being taken."

He makes a short, curt sound. "Tch. Right—"

"If the front collapses, no amount of grain is going to save Wearmoor—"

Tybalt turns around, obviously struggling to keep a level tone. "What use is fighting if our home withers and rots in the process? There are other ways to solve a problem than to throw all of our men at it! These are people that are going off and dying, Father! Not monsters! Not meat! And that's what this war's been: it's a meat-grinder."

You give him a long, warning, and miserable stare. "I'm not talking just about the war. We have an enemy here at home, Tybalt. Our people are starving across the entire nation— save for here. Right here, in Wearmoor."

His brow furrows. "What...?"

"I'm certain that you know of the scarcity of supply we've struggled with in decades past. We were only children during the worst of it—"

"You're talking about the famine." He looks in disbelief to the crop you're swimming in. To you. "Another one?" He laughs a little.

You sigh in frustration. "How I look or how this singular city fares is no indication of the entire country's woes. My own city nearly fell to ashes over this. People are starving— dying—"

It looks like he doesn't believe you. You, the Lord of Truth. "How?"

"A nefarious cult. They go by the name of 'Inertia.' They've destroyed much of the countryside, and countless farms along with it." You stare hard at the man's soft features. "Have you heard of them?"

"On the street, in whispers. A few people have tried to warn me about them— they say that they're an enemy of the theocracy, and to watch myself. And I have. But it's been whispers, Father Anscham. Nothing like what you're talking about—"

You throw the crop in hand to the ground, rip off your gloves, throw them to the dirt too, and turn around. "Agriculture granted me a glimpse of what's out there." You point to the west. Towards Baranfen. "Do you know what I saw?"

Tybalt has sobered up substantially, and looks to you with a questioning look in his eye. The mere mention of his Goddess got him to completely quiet himself.

"I saw visions— visions of bodies strewn across distant battlefields. Their blistering and peeling skin is still in my minds eye, Brother. Many were abandoned where they lay, festering with maggots while enemy forces still came charging. Fungi would be picked clean from their bodies in desperation by men and women who had NO SUPPLY on the FIELD OF BATTLE—!"

You take a deep breath, lower your voice, and stare to the paling man before you with all the gravity you possess. "Those that weren't picked clean by our people were picked at by wild animals. Demons. The only respite they would find in death would come once they had retreated into the soil. And that is all that these people— OUR people— have to look forward to. Death. There is no new life that they will find. This fact is inescapable. It is in the very roots of our soil."

"I think we're on the same page, Father."

"They are fighting so that WE can go on living— and the least we can do is make sure that they are looked after."

Your jab hit hard. Tybalt remains completely silent, looking more ashamed of himself by the second.

You soften your tone and expression further. "I had hoped that the idea of a famine would come as even a little bit of a shock to you."

He's contemplating something deeply. "It did."

"Then why did you act like everything I've said to you is a joke or a lie?"

"It's hard to believe."

While you've been reliving visions of the dead on the other side of the continent, Brother Townsend hasn't stopped looking to the fields all around. He keeps a firm grip on his sickle and laughs to himself. "It's unbelievable." A far firmer stare goes up to you. "But I want to trust you, Father. I'll speak to the council about this famine at once. That is why you've come here, isn't it?"

You can't help but tense. "Your work with the goods throughout the city—"

"Has nothing to do with this! You can check my books personally. Everything that goes in or out of Wearmoor is accounted for." He looks legitimately disturbed. "The last thing I would ever want is to bring another famine on our home."

"And those people who told you about Inertia...?"

"Had my best interests at heart! Housewives! Old men— kids! People who wouldn't have a thing to do with some cult."

>All of the following are mutually exclusive. Majority vote will decide.

>A] Let Brother Townsend bring the matter of the famine up before the council. He clearly wants to help you, and you are far too nervous about ruining your relationship here to speak any further alone.

>B] You didn't come here to talk about a famine. You're here for your boys. Confront Brother Townsend about the disappearance of Chesty and Serpent. Use everything at your disposal to attack any objections he makes. He must know something.

>C] This man might be the most well-connected member of the council. If he claims to not know about Inertia, maybe he knows of something else of use. Try a different angle. Don't give away the matter of Chesty and Serpent, but simply ask him to help you. (Feel free to specify with what.)

>D] Write-in.

 

[Alaric]

Chapter 17: Just a Name

Spoiler: Music

"Brother Townsend, I didn't travel three hundred miles to talk to you all about the famine. It may be the talk of the rest of the nation, but there is a far greater matter on my mind."

"What is it?"

Your voice is the ghost of a whisper. "My boys."

Tybalt's face wilts with concern. "Your boys?"

You raise your tone, taking a firm step towards the priest. "Clarence Chester 'Chesty' Connelly and Mathers 'Serpent' Ormond." There's no recognition on the priest's face. You try not to sound too devastated. In fact, you sound positively pissed. "They were allegedly being held in your dungeons, here in the Church of Agriculture. Sister Jolland has informed me that this is not the case. It has been well over a month since they went missing, Brother Townsend. Do you know of their whereabouts?"

"I—"

"I want you to think very carefully, Brother Townsend. You are easily the most well-connected man in this city. I would like you to think about this and every other matter we've discussed today."

You take another step forward. "Such as how every citizen who was appointed to my guard in the last several months turned out to be a member of the cult of Inertia."

"There's no conceivable way that every last person who was sent away would be an agent of some cult. These are good people, Father—"

"Like the good people who are withholding, poisoning, and misappropriating your goods across the nation? Causing a famine when there is no need for one? Just like your distributors, and anyone else that may be intercepted by the enemy—"

"Father Anscham, I don't—"

"You don't believe it? Do you believe me when I say that Father Pevrel is in the Church of Agriculture as we speak, conducting an investigation on every last member of your Church?"

"I—" The priest puts a hand to his clean-shaven face, and drags a hand slightly down one cheek in exasperation. "Father Pevrel." It looks like he wants to swear. "Fuck me. Sorry, Father—"

"It's fine." Your grimace is so severe, it hurts. "I understand."

"But— he hasn't hurt anyone, has he—?"

"He should be given no reason to, if your statements are valid. I would be inclined to look into the matter further, if there's anyone who I should know about. There is no need for any violence, Brother Townsend. Particularly not if I know where my boys are. Safe. And unharmed."

"Listen—"

"I'm listening."

Tybalt looks around the entire field, takes a deep breath, and settles a grave look on you. "I don't want anyone getting hurt. But this whole thing with Inertia— I seriously have no idea who you're talking about."

"You just told me that you had people inform you of their existence."

He blanches. "No one in particular, I mean."

"You mentioned housewives, elderly men, and children—" The children who spotted you on the outskirts of town flashes through your memory. "You have informants throughout the city, don't you, Brother Townsend?"

"Of course, but—"

"You expected my arrival, and separated yourself from Bobert to buy yourself time—"

He puts up both of his hands in a defensive position. "Father Anscham, you have to understand—"

"For what, Tybalt? What is it that you're so afraid of me finding out?"

It looks like he wants to run, or invoke, or drop to his knees in exhaustion. "You don't understand."

You lower your tone. "I would very much like to."

"I'm just trying to do what's best for my people. Our people."

"I— I'm the leader of the Church of Mercy, Tybalt. Not the Lord of Punishment. Not the Father of Judgement. You can confess."

The breeze picks up, blowing pollen between the two of you. Brother Townsend looks to the cloud of nature desperately, as if it could give him a way out from this conversation. You know he wants to run, but there's nowhere for him to go. He'd be leaving behind his life's work to turn heel now— and to fight you is surely to die.

"If I tell you this, they'll kill me. Or will try to, rather."

"I am the Lord of Protection. I'll see to it that you come to no harm. Who's 'they?'"

"I've heard a name. It's gotten to me through some circles— no one has ever spelled out who they are, but I've pieced enough together on my own." Brother Townsend leans towards you, close enough to whisper.

"The Freesia Society."

You give him a questioning look. His proximity is insanely stressful, given the sickle still in his hand, your lack of mundane defense, and how tense you both are. Still, you hold your ground. "The Freesia Society?"

"It's just a name. I don't know anything for certain about them, Father, but if there's any funny business going on in Wearmoor, that's who I'd look into. From what I understand, they're as underground as it gets. Maybe literally."

There's a vast network of underground tunnels, buildings, and farms in Wearmoor. You haven't ever been to them personally, but Mother Bethaea told you about them during your last visit. You narrow your eyes.

"I mean it, Father. I've had a few people come to me, asking for protection from something I've never heard of or seen. They might as well be a ghost—"

"A ghost that you're afraid of being killed by."

"Yes, well—"

"My boys will not be saved by ghosts—"

Both hands still raised, Brother Townsend takes a few steps back, and tries to give you a smile. "I get it. But this is the best I can do. If you think that someone kidnapped your boys, and they blamed it on us? The Church of Agriculture has very few enemies, Father Anscham. But from what I hear, this organization hates the theocracy more than anyone else. They're supposed to stand against it— something about 'freedom for all,' or 'liberation from tyranny,' or something—" He's actually cowering from the face you're making at him. "Like I said, I don't know anything for sure! We've never caught any member of this society! I've just heard rumors!"

He lowers his hands, pale as a sheet, and visibly sweating. "Please don't tell anyone that I've told you this. Please. For all I know, this could actually be something that's threatened my people's lives. I haven't shared this with anyone on the council, either. It's bad enough that I've withheld something from them— but you've asked me to confess, and, well— I just don't want anyone getting hurt." He actually looks terrified. "The people who trusted me with this name? They had all recently lost loved ones. They trusted me to not go running my mouth, and to get them answers. If only for their sake, please— please don't go telling everyone you know about this. If you go looking for them, please keep it as discreet as you can. The council can't know. They'll mobilize as many people as possible. And if it's real? What if we have something happen here like what happened in Calunoth?"

The civil war that raged in Calunoth for several months this last year left so many casualties, King Magnus didn't want to disclose the full numbers to you. It's a valid fear. Wearmoor is prospering, and with how slow the council seems to be at making anything in the way of certain decision, word leaking out of some secret society could actually get people killed.

"I will pray that you find your boys. Maybe we can help, too, without getting any other names involved. Just, please— promise me that if you go looking for any more information, you won't let this conversation come back to the Church of Agriculture." Brother Townsend tosses his sickle to the dirt, and clasps his hands together before you. "Please. I'm begging you. Mercy."

>A] This man is literally begging for your Mercy, and you really aren't supposed to refuse. It's actually a sin for you to. You'll look into the Freesia Society, alright— but promise that word of this won't bite the Church of Agriculture (or any of the people who disclosed this organization's name) in the ass. The last thing you want is more bloodshed, too. And besides— you already have several connections here in Wearmoor to get you started.

>B] You'll get that protection for Brother Townsend, at least— and will do your best to convince Father Pevrel to not go involving everyone in the Church with this affair— but you can't promise to keep your mouth shut. You're the Lord of Truth, and have to share this information with Father Pevrel at bare minimum. There's no telling what sort of investigation he'll want to conduct, too— and you'll get faster results without any secrets.

>C] Write-in.

 

[Alaric]

Chapter 18: Recompense​

It's a sin. You've sworn every oath that a priest of Mercy possibly can against it. But as the Lord of Truth and the Father of Compassion, you just can't take news like this lying down.

I can't keep this to myself.

"I swear to you, I will get you all of the protection that you require—"

A massive sigh of relief leaves Brother Townsend. He stops clasping his hands to shake yours. "Thank you, Father. Thank you."

"You must understand that I will need to get some allies involved if we wish to solve this issue."

He drops your hands. It feels like you're never going to forget the absolute devastation on his face. "What...?"

"This investigation will be solved swiftly. We will get far faster results this way—"

"We?" His devastation is quickly shifting to anger.

"Father Pevrel and I."

Tybalt's fists are clenched. There's something miserable in his eyes, as he backs up in horror. "You're kidding."

You sound as apologetic and reassuring as possible. "If the Church isn't involved, you should not have anything to worry about—"

"Tell me you're joking." It looks like he could kill you.

"I would never lie to you, Tybalt. Please do not ask me to lie to my allies. Particularly not— particularly not ones who will resolve this matter with far more efficiency than I."

"He's a killer and a madman, Father." Brother Townsend's fists are shaking. He points to the Church of Agriculture on the horizon, and starts shouting. "He's conducted investigations in our city before, and dragged people away kicking and SCREAMING over things that I wouldn't blink twice at! You brought a— a SADIST into my home, and you want to tell him that I know about something like this?!"

"Brother Townsend—"

"Listen to yourself! I try confiding something in the leader of the Church of Mercy, and you instantly turn around and say you'll go telling the FATHER OF PUNISHMENT?! HE'S A TORTURER! A MURDERER!"

Wiping a fleck of spit off his lip, Tybalt stares down at his hands for a brutal moment.

He wouldn't dare.

He closes his hands in prayer. "Goddess of recompense."

"Tybalt, we can talk about this—"

Green is in his eyes as he looks up to you.

"I did say that I would pray for you, Father."

He seriously thinks this is worth invoking over?

The priest of Agriculture takes a hesitant step forward. Every inch of him is screaming that he doesn't want to be here, that he doesn't want to do this, and that he wishes he could take back everything that he's said.

He suddenly tenses. Spreading his hands apart— the green of his robes catching on the afternoon sunlight— Brother Townsend calls out to the earth Herself.

"GODDESS OF REWARD, GIVE ME—"

>A ROLL WILL BE REQUIRED FOR ALL OF THE FOLLOWING.
>BE ADVISED THAT YOU CURRENTLY HAVE SEVERAL NEGATIVE MODIFIERS.
>Some of your maluses may be negated through strategy.
>Please feel free to ask about your abilities if you have any questions.

>A] Don't invoke. Tackle Tybalt and try to pin the man down. See if you can talk some sense into him. You'll take whatever he can dish out. (A VERY HIGH ROLL will be required. This reflects that the risk of coming to bodily harm is high.)

>B] You're no fool. No matter how kindly Tybalt has acted towards you, he could easily kill you. You're taking a risk, as you've never fought a priest of Agriculture before, but invoke Mercy to try and restrain him. (A MODERATE ROLL will be required. Be advised that this will impact your soul and could result in bodily harm.)

>C] The idea of someone using the Goddess of Growth against you is laughable. Put this young upstart in his place. Invoke Agriculture yourself, and... (A LOW ROLL will be required. Be advised that this could impact your weight.)

>1] Resolve this matter with minimal bloodshed.​

>2] Teach Tybalt a lesson he won't soon forget.​

>D] Write-in. (A roll may still be required. Subject to QM approval.)