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File: Catalyst Quest.png (1.27 MB, 1584x738)
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You are Father Richard Anscham. As the returning leader of the Church of Mercy, you alone are entrusted with the hearts of your country. Despite having a Goddess for a lover, your work is cut out for you. It is the year 606, and in your home— the country of Corcaea— the souls of mankind belong to demons.

Fortunately, monsters and men are your specialty. Just yesterday, you made amends with your greatest enemy, Father Henry Sullivan. Though he is the leader of the Church of Spirit, the priest of knowledge had smeared your reputation almost beyond repair. The men and women under your care have worked tirelessly to combat his efforts, and those of your oldest tormentors.

Every member of your congregation looks to you now, for your support.

It's difficult to believe— as you look to the last of the morning sunrise— that four days ago, you had defeated a demon greater than the very castle in which you now reside. King Magnus "the Merciful" has extended His hospitality, offered you an indefinite welcome in the holy city of Calunoth, and has watched over your recovery diligently. Mediating your last efforts at brokering peace, restoring your title, and offering full pardon for your prior actions ensured that He has absolutely lived up to His name.

You hope to do the same. The congregation that has fought to protect your good name is still out there, and they are all in need of your help. The Mother of Compassion told you as much, safe in your arms, just this very morning.

Wiping the golden paint from the last of your skin, there's no need to cling to the transient evidence of your lover. Flecks of metal pick up from the motion, as a solid band of gold sits at the base of your ring finger, and a holy locket sits firmly about the chain upon your neck. Both your lover's ring, and your Relic, are more than immediate relief from almost unrelenting pain.

They're a promise. While you are capable of wielding the might of all the Gods, have trained under the greatest weapons master in the country, and are allied with an archdemon, you want for more than a weapon. Pride is of no use to you, either.

You want a world of hope. For in the days to come— as the Father of Compassion— kindness is your greatest strength.

Archive (Expedition into the ruins 1-5, Recovery and the Church of Flesh 6-10, Investigation in Calunoth 11-14): http://suptg.thisisnotatrueending.com/qstarchive.html?tags=Catalyst%20Quest
Discord (Art, a giant music playlist, fan projects, etc.): https://discord.gg/24cmNWp
Father Anscham's Journal (High-res calendar, maps, info on demons you've faced, and much more!): https://drive.google.com/drive/folders/1r-yFdCSj0VJi63LsD3Vl9T0DWw4us6wn?usp=sharing
>>
>>4274153
FIRST POST
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File: What is Catalyst Quest.png (6.53 MB, 1200x2839)
6.53 MB
6.53 MB PNG
>>4274153
https://youtu.be/cajpoQCN_ZE

For the first Time in your life, you feel completely equipped for the task at hand. Father Sullivan has yet to return from his study, and you have the extreme luxury of a few moments to yourself. The sun has yet to climb much higher than the horizon, which you confirm, tossing open a set of thick curtains.

Dust catches on the morning light. You're easily three stories above the ground, at only half the height of the demon you slayed earlier in the week. The priest of Spirit's room you're currently residing in overlooks every eastern districts you've traveled in weeks past. It's immediately evident why he was stationed at an opposite end of the castle from you. Smoke still rises from many buildings, though the plumes are white. It would seem that the worst of the chaos has been subdued.

Hundreds, if not thousands of homes stretch out between segmented and highly fortified walls. Those that have remained untouched by the worst of the demonic outbreak are bustling with activity. You can pick out the district of Flesh in the distance, the rubble and decay, and pray that Ofelia's home has stayed intact.

It's a small comfort that construction is being set about in almost all directions, repurposed from old ruins. Between the clergy of Flesh and Mercy, countless citizens and the last remnant of real human civilization, Calunoth remains a hive of activity.

It brings another breath of fresh air into your lungs. Turning from the window, to frown to your dog, you see that Ray is still fast asleep. Utterly oblivious to how much work you have to set about, he at least ensures you take the Time to pick the last few flecks of gold off your robes, and to think ahead.

You've been given a fair amount of counsel this morning, and want to make the most of it.

(Options in next post.)
>>
>>4274158
>A] Go seek out Father Sullivan. You'd like to make your most significant human alliance public knowledge.
>1] You figure he'd know the most appropriate way to do so. Leave it to his discretion.
>2] Request that you take a walk through the castle together. You need to properly thank him for encouraging you to make the Time for Mercy this morning.
>3] Ask if he knows of a place in the closest district to get a decent breakfast. You want to get the word out as soon as possible, as tactfully as possible.

>B] Head to your quarters, and inspect the material King Magnus has left you. You're certain at least some of it outlines the details of your return, as the Father of Mercy. Though you're certain everything in your possession will remain secure, you don't want to leave any matters of importance unattended.

>C] Your congregation is your top priority. Head to the royal library, and seek out the scholar you have yet to meet. Walter Middleton has been holed up in there for MONTHS, and could probably do with a little light.

>D] It's going to be incredibly difficult to manage, but see if Father Sullivan can accompany you to meet Walter. It's asking for trouble, but you believe it will ultimately be of greater benefit for all of your allies to TRY and get along.

>E] Write-in.
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>>4274159
>>B] Head to your quarters, and inspect the material King Magnus has left you. You're certain at least some of it outlines the details of your return, as the Father of Mercy. Though you're certain everything in your possession will remain secure, you don't want to leave any matters of importance unattended.
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>>4274170
+1
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>>4274159
>B] Head to your quarters, and inspect the material King Magnus has left you. You're certain at least some of it outlines the details of your return, as the Father of Mercy. Though you're certain everything in your possession will remain secure, you don't want to leave any matters of importance unattended.
>>
>>4274170
>>4274193
>>4274202
(Locking the vote here, let's get this show on the road! I'll keep half hour voting windows for this session, unless things slow down.)
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>>4274206
There's nothing that could be more important than to ensure you don't repeat past mistakes. The sheer length of Time you've spent in the dark has you itching to get up, as you rouse Ray, and set right out the door. "Come on, boy. Stay close. Guard."

You nearly collide straight into four guards. Each one stiffens faster than the last, attentively echoing the other's choir of, "good morning, Father Anscham!" "Father Anscham," "g-good morning."

One particularly grizzled gentleman gets the door for you, eyeing Ray sideways. Your mastiff doesn't so much as glance at any of the men, as you hurry past them, quickly murmuring, "good morning," knowing full well how to escape the pomp and ceremony.

No one can hope to match your strides, though several call after you hopelessly. Eagerly, and quickly, you almost break into a run as you set down the cavernous halls of the castle. There's little need for torchlight, as the sun filters in through magnificent murals of stained glass in countless archways. The fractures of painted history cast over long corridors, enough stone to rival the ruins, and what seems like a hundred inquisitive faces. More open hands follow, in the symbol of your church, from clergy, nobility, and more common men alike.

There's simply no way you can keep them all straight. The chorus of greetings and addresses becomes a blur, within minutes. It's not for a lack of memory, but due to the sheer pressure of Time. Your rapid pace takes you halfway across the castle before long, and you arrive back at the colossal, banded, wooden and metal door to your chambers.

More guards are posted. Patiently, you go through the effort of politely asking them to stand aside, to relent the formality, and to let you get to your things. It's a lot of hassle, and you gently remind yourself that you're going to have a lot more of it back home, as you get back inside your room.

There's a mountain of flowers stacked in every corner. Most of them are of the strain you and Mother Bethaea cultivated. Their yellow luminescence eases the shadows, while you pull open several pairs of gilded curtains. The entire room is gilded, and hard on the eyes, but you aren't about to complain. A huge spread of dried meats, cheeses, and several bottles of incredibly fine wine are all set aside on a table nearest to the only bookshelf in the chamber. You pick up a note alongside it, which reads in a familiar, and impossibly ornate script of solid gold strands,

"Father Anscham,
Wishing you well, courtesy of our friends to the east! We'll discuss them another Time. There are much more urgent matters to attend to."

A small, simple, and silly diagram of a bookshelf is sketched into the column of the note, which resembles the bookshelf next to you. Wondering if King Magnus was bored while outlining the details of your position, recently or otherwise, you try to focus on the letter itself.

(1/3)
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>>4274313
"Volumes 1-9 on the first shelf are of your position's history, and obligation. You can safely skim all but the first. You are entirely familiar with the severity of the position you hold, and the obligations that await you back home. The entirety of the second shelf comprises relevant tomes We hoped you may enjoy perusing, upon returning to Eadric. The parchment and scrolls We have provided on the bottom shelf pertain to the history of the Church of Mercy, its surrounding lands, and select readings from Adrian and Morris' work in the past few months. Please do not concern yourself with them now."

Glancing up from King Magnus' note, you confirm that nine incredibly weighty tomes occupy the top shelf. They're lined with age, though you've seen older, and have handled more delicate parchment without fear. Beneath it is a collection of myriad tomes, on everything from recent history, to noble lineage, to a slender pamphlet on devotion towards Mercy through recent history. Your scowl softens considerably, having to kneel down to catch your gaze on a pile of neatly stacked letters and scrolls. All have already been opened. Several have blood on their pages.

You blink, unphased, and get back to the note. It's really more of a colossal scroll. Torn between grimacing, and laughing at being bested in flowery discourse, you pick at some of the food set out. Tossing Ray an entire hunk of some animal's leg, you continue to read, "As previously stated, your request to postpone your return to the Church of Mercy has Our blessing." Your dog's growling and slobbering interjects your own dismayed grimace and sigh, at the following list:

"While occupying Our most holy city, the following are in need of your immediate attention:

- The eastern district of Flesh. Four hundred and eighty nine citizens have contracted severe complications of their lungs, in the wake of Brother Murdac's efforts. The deaths number well over three hundred, and are rising by the day.
- Lady Edith and her aide, Sir Douglas, were last seen in Our company six years past. Her safety is of the utmost importance to Us, though We trust that she has been safe under your care. As previously stated, We cannot bear the loss of another one of Our children. Please ensure her safe return to Us.
- The north-eastern district of Flesh. Upon your congregation's flight from the sewers, no fewer than fifteen of our guard were struck down, and killed. Their grieving families are without shelter. Kindly delegate this matter of your congregation's actions as you see fit.
- The restraint of Mathers Ormond, Eckard Sollers, Clarence Connelly, Carlisle Ballard, and James Sower. Punishment befitting of their treason has been stayed only by your hand. Putting an end to their slaughter of Our people demands the utmost urgency.
- Insurance that those who sought refuge under Norward Bauldry's company will not bring further turmoil to Our city.
- The whereabouts of Harvey J. Algrith."

(2/3)
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>>4274317
You can feel a headache coming on. Not only are the last two items almost entirely out of your hands, you realize you haven't even been tasting the food, and go instead for the wine. The former was decadent, and obviously imported. The latter is exactly to your taste, nothing is causing you further pain, and isn't so strong to spoil the morning. It's a good thing, as the back of the scroll has more.

"As you have been recovering from your exploits for the last several days, We have seen to formally announcing your appointment as Father of the Church of Mercy. Please enjoy the hospitality of Our capital as you see fit."

The prospect of actually getting out and about, without your life being in immediate danger, almost puts a smile on your face. It's gone as quickly as it came.

"Word will reach Eadric in a few days Time. We strongly recommend that you see to your return home as soon as possible, but please, do not spurn the matters of great importance here, in Our capital. We have appointed a guard of Our own, at the Church of Mercy, and will continue to see to its safety in your absence."

Swallowing hard, you get to the end of the excessive note. "Please take care of your repaired relations with Father Sullivan. Most of all, kindly look after yourself."

The entire rest of the scroll is an exhaustive list of titles, formal closings, and lastly, "King Magnus, the Merciful."

You take a very ragged breath, and grimace to Ray. He glances back to you, oblivious. Confident that you're at least in a better state of mind for the overwhelming responsibility, picking up your satchel, sheathing your sword, refastening your shield, and ensuring your mace is clean and in place, you mutter, "we had better get started."

>A] Walter can wait. You're heading back to the safe house, where the majority of your company SHOULD still be located. You'll decide what to do when you get there.
>1] Take a hefty guard with you. You're easily the most famous and recognizable man in the city, and don't want to take a single risk.
>2] Only an imbecile would attempt to openly confront you. Travel with just Ray, openly, until you get closer to where your congregation resides.
>3] Go discreetly, and as quickly as you can manage (which is quite a lot).

>B] Gather as many hands as you can. You need to get to the dead and dying nearest Ofelia's home.

>C] While you're in the castle, go find Father Sullivan.
>1] You already need further counsel.
>2] Delegate the matter of the widows and children in the north-eastern district to him.

>D] Slow down, just a little bit. Take the Time to have a decent breakfast, inspect the rest of your room, and maybe look over some of those books.
>1] The first volume of your specific obligations, back at the Church of Mercy.
>2] The religious writings, for something lighter.
>3] The bloodied notes from Brother Morris and Brother Stace.

>E] Write-in.
>>
(Going to call the session here since we've definitely slowed down, will be back with an update either later tonight or tomorrow morning, votes permitting, EST as usual!)
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>>4274321
>C] While you're in the castle, go find Father Sullivan.
>2] Delegate the matter of the widows and children in the north-eastern district to him.
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>>4274443
+1
>>
>>4274321
B
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>>4274321
>>C] While you're in the castle, go find Father Sullivan.
>2] Delegate the matter of the widows and children in the north-eastern district to him.

This shouldn't take to long and tackling multiple issues at once is always a good bet.

>B] Gather as many hands as you can. You need to get to the dead and dying nearest Ofelia's home.

This seems like the most urgent task, we need all hand on deck including our congregation which is why I think we should grab them on our way there.

>A] Walter can wait. You're heading back to the safe house, where the majority of your company SHOULD still be located. You'll decide what to do when you get there.
>2] Only an imbecile would attempt to openly confront you. Travel with just Ray, openly, until you get closer to where your congregation resides.

This way we have enough manpower to deal with everything as quickly as possible minimizing deaths. Hope can't be just one man.
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>>4274443
>>4274462
>>4274481
>>4274858
>delegate
>see to the dead and dying
>get your lads

(Why not, we can do all of this. Back as promised, vote is locked. Writing now!)
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>>4274940
A fire is under you. Back out the door, to every guard posted, you quickly begin to bark with every bit of urgency you can muster, inching to run, "get every hand you can find to the north-eastern district! Any able-bodied clergy of the Church of Mercy is to begin any work they're capable of performing, with or without my supervision. Do not wait for me. I will be there as quickly as I'm able. Do you all understand?"

A choir of "yessir!" and "yes, Father Anscham!" rapidly greets you in turn. Two guards linger, at your room, and you pay the additional security no mind. You're already tearing back off, right back in the direction you came at the start of the morning. Every open hand extended towards you— from golden robes and mildly concerned faces— quickly becomes another pair to attend to the task at hand. Simply along the way to Father Sullivan's study, you send off another eleven priestesses to follow in the guard's footsteps. Each one of them is ordered to find more aid.

Your own rapid steps and quickened pulse practically skid to a stop, outside the door to Father Sullivan's study. Ray helpfully growls at the guard that hesitates to grant you entry, before you tear into the modest chamber.

Father Sullivan is just as unsettling as he was the day past, standing at the far end of the room in stark white robes, an excessive amount of thread, shawls, and the pits of his milky eyes.

"Sullivan," you huff at him. Your breathlessness is not from lack of breath, but sheer exasperation. "Good morning."

"Good morning, again, Richard." The priest asks, with reluctant concern, "I take it everything went well?"

You pause, almost forgetting yourself. With a quick display of Mercy's symbol, you murmur, "exceptionally. Thank you."

Closing the door behind you, crossing the rest of the distance over to the elderly man in your company, you earnestly and briefly produce Magnus' letter. The Father of Spirit seems legitimately flattered that you'd bother to go through the trouble, and looks it over in earnest. "He's trying to kill you," Sullivan frowns, though dry humor is discoloring his voice.

"He is attempting to save several hundred lives," you mutter back, rolling up the scroll rapidly, "including those that my company has ruined."

The frown pointed at you deepens. "This isn't the start of it."

"It is a start," you clarify, putting a hand to his shoulder, "which is why I leave you entirely with the bereaved."

He's outright scowling.

You elaborate, "no one could be better equipped to understand their needs, let alone have the resources to see to such a delicate matter. I trust you with their well-being completely."

Under his breath, something along the lines of, "an astute observation, Father Anscham," begrudgingly escapes the priest. "Where are you going, first, then?"

(1/2)
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>>4274980
The expression is so foreign, your face is already hurting, but you manage a slight smile before the edges of your mouth relent. "Thank you." Grimacing in full, as you back out the door, you sincerely murmur, "to heal. The Gods are Merciful, Sullivan. Come on, Ray—"

The guards posted just outside are baffled at how little Time you spent with the Father of Spirit, and both call out to you upon your exit. You really can't be bothered, until you realize you have absolutely no idea how to even exit the castle. They're both happy to point you in the right direction, and offer an escort. You politely decline the latter.

With no difficulty, you and Ray practically sprint down the next several levels of corridors, halls, and a significant amount of activity. As you wind through the lowest levels of King Magnus' home, past the painted glass and long halls, a small gathering of nearly forty clergy are all rapidly filing out. Beyond the high stone walls, about one of two drawbridges, ample supplies for seeing to the wounded and dying are in the arms of your church. Every face seems worn with care, to white-knuckled hands that are working as quickly as they're able in all directions. Hardly anyone even notices you in the commotion, though your robes are a slightly deeper hue of gold, and your height is a dead giveaway of your identity, if nothing else.

You continue to grimace, slow your pace, and try to not linger. It's a beautiful day, the scent of flowers and morning dew is in the air, the sun is pulling up in the sky, and a hundred questions are being directed towards you. You're only capable of piecing out a couple, and the tone isn't particularly to your taste.

"The Gods are Merciful, Father, but—"
"Are you coming with us, Father Anscham?"
"What can we be expected to do—"
"Leave it to us, Father. Who might you wish for us to prioritize?"
"Fathe—"

The grimace on your face is so intense, you manage to cut off the last few pleas for guidance. Knowing full well that the district your clergy is heading is completely in the opposite direction of the city from your congregation's safe house, and what a miserable idea it would be to delay things any further, you want to at least let your men and women take heart. Granted, it's mostly women from the interior of King Magnus' castle.

It doesn't quite give you pause, as you're wracking your brain with how to best address the situation. Not a single soul in the country— save for you— is capable of calling directly upon Mercy's healing. You're en route to Sister Corbon, who will certainly be an invaluable help, but your clergy here needs you now.

(Options in next post.)
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>>4274981
>A] Leave it to your clergy to decide how to proceed. Insist that you will meet them all as soon as humanly possible, with even more helping hands. You know that things must be (and have been) dire, but they're stressed, not helpless.

>B] Take an additional moment to offer explicit directions to anyone who seriously needs it. You're aware literally everyone is going to want your instruction, but you'd rather spare the Time here than to risk them wasting Time with the sick.

>C] Plainly and clearly stop what you're doing, to offer some guidance and encouragement. It's going to slow things down, but giving some heart to the people looking up to you may be worth even a life that would have otherwise been saved. They'll be of no use to you if everyone is worried you won't even meet them there.

>D] Write-in.
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>>4274982
C
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>>4274982
>>C] Plainly and clearly stop what you're doing, to offer some guidance and encouragement. It's going to slow things down, but giving some heart to the people looking up to you may be worth even a life that would have otherwise been saved. They'll be of no use to you if everyone is worried you won't even meet them there.
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>>4274982

>>C] Plainly and clearly stop what you're doing, to offer some guidance and encouragement. It's going to slow things down, but giving some heart to the people looking up to you may be worth even a life that would have otherwise been saved. They'll be of no use to you if everyone is worried you won't even meet them there.

>Insist that you will meet them all as soon as humanly possible, with even more helping hands. You know that things must be (and have been) dire, but they're stressed, not helpless.

Keep everyone stable at the very least, Corbon alongside us should be able to deal with the worse off patients.
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>>4275007
>>4275015
>>4275032
(Awesome, unanimous vote with some write-ins. Got it, vote is locked, writing now.)
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>>4275069
It's entirely necessary to stop, find a nearby outcropping of rock beside the drawbridge, and to get yourself another head taller than everyone else in the crowd.

The very moment you clear your throat, and look out to the bustle, everything stills. All eyes are on you. Without hesitation, or a single falter of your tone, you speak out. "Sisters, and Brothers. You all are to keep our fellow citizens stable. Is there a soul here who does not know of pervinca, of our wreaths, or of licorice and comfrey?"

Complete silence greets you in turn. The vast majority of supplies your clergy is carrying are of exactly what you speak, and a multitude of other aids. Bandages and stretches are of little use to the church of herbalism.

"Good," you softly state, before re-emboldening your tone. "We have countless capable hands in our midst. More will follow. Many of you surely witnessed Sister Corbon's work, as she kept me from death? While she and I put a demon of Storm to rest?"

Several murmurs of, "yes, Father Anscham," greet you in turn. Some are clearly all fire, already. Everyone else is infinitely too well-groomed to speak over you, or to even reply.

"She will accompany us," you promise, "in our work against these last vestiges of a demon of Agriculture." It's necessary to remind everyone, "it is dead, by Our hand." You lower your voice, and encourage everyone to strain to listen. "Every moment we tarry, another life may be taken from us."

There's a distinct shifting from the majority of people in the crowd. "I have already wasted enough of your Time," you mutter, to several protests.

"Even when I am not at your side," you speak out, much more urgently, "and because you have been under great strain, it is an insult— to every last one of you— to do anything less than acknowledge your strengths. Take heart. Sister Corbon, myself, and any greater hands I can gather will join you all, with due haste. You all have worked diligently. It is our oath, our bond, and our duty to continue to do so. To heal is to serve," you prompt.

A chorus of, "to heal is to serve," greets you in reply.

You think you catch a few determined grimaces, and even a smile from one or two of the priestesses, as you move to go. Calling Ray to follow you, it's not for appearances that you break off from your clergy in a full sprint. Striding across the drawbridge, you're hollered at by several more guards, and a few of your men and women. They sound grateful, if not mildly concerned, though none are capable of stopping you.

The stone underfoot streaks from your field of view, as you keep your gaze to the crowds. Shifting on heel and trying to not stagger, you narrowly miss running through several groups of gathered nobility. More barriers, several tedious explanations, and wall, after checkpoint, after bridge and further security make way for the edges of the royal home.

(1/2)
>>
>>4275094
https://youtu.be/kJWvmSJ3k9Q

Past the ceremony, back outside castle walls, under the morning sun and with flame in your chest, you emerge into the destroyed remnants of King Magnus' gardens. The morning sun is casting heat even below the shadow of His castle. Dirt and dust is in the air, amidst the scent of flowers. The cathedral ward is entirely under construction, and so little remains of its former glory, your steps almost falter.

Running past dilapidated stone fountains, little streams of redirected water, and beyond the craters remaining from the impact of the demon's assault, you actually have to pause. Nearest the edge of the gardens are a hundred splinters in the stone. Copper flooded through them, from your invocation to Flesh and Mercy, and every divine splinter has persisted long after your work. There's a colossal opening at its center, where you cleaved Piety straight into the molten rock.

The recess has been filled with flowers. There's a memorial, to every life that was taken, and a display of devotion to the work of the Gods themselves. The blossoms are the very same as the ones that are packed into your room, back in the castle. Taking a deep breath, as a few nearby workers wave to you call, "good morning, Father Anscham!" it's entirely necessary to appreciate the faint scent of lemon and honey on the air.

With renewed verve, you take back off running, out of the cathedral ward, and into packed city streets. It's only then, that you fully realize that you were only given vague directions towards your congregation's safe house. It's intentionally kept a secret, of course. The men and women you rescued from the ruins are universally heathens, murderers, and outcasts. It's appropriate that they reside within the slums, beyond the red-light district, on the other side of Calunoth. The house with a tamer, and a lion vaguely resembling Ray is so specific, you'd surely know the building when you see it— but the streets are packed. It's hard to see much of anything.

Just beyond the edges of the checkpoint, that takes you from the cathedral ward, to the western walls you know will come out to slums, is commotion. Bustle. Navigating the city without accompaniment is actually an entirely new experience for you. You're without bodyguard, escort, drinking companion or assassin, and are but a farmer's son with your dog. It's a little overwhelming, but you're certain you can handle a thousand voices, filthy faces, packed streets, bustling markets, and beggars in all directions.

(Options in next post.)
>>
>>4275095
>A] Make a convoluted route to where you suspect the safe-house to be, and simply search yourself. Time is precious to you, especially now, but it's difficult to shake the feeling that your congregation is not welcome in the city. Leading someone straight to them may be naive, at best. (A low roll will be required, at the cost of significantly more Time.)

>B] You know a river that runs right alongside the district your safe-house should be in. Though you are INCREDIBLY recognizable in that portion of town, you shouldn't have anything to fear from the citizens of Calunoth. None that mean well, at any rate. (A moderate roll will be required.)

>C] Cut a straight path to the red-light district. You've taken down demons greater than the King's castle. You'd like to see anyone try and give you trouble. (A high roll will be required, though this is the fastest option by far.)

>D] Linger near the cathedral ward, and see if you can find a reputable guard or two to accompany you. Traveling without an escort is probably a terrible idea, given your status in the city, and the Relic you carry. (No roll will be required, at the expense of a significant amount of Time being taken, and whatever qualms your congregation may have with the King's men. [Even if you technically are one, as well.])

>E] Write-in. (A roll may be required.)
>>
>>4275096
>>B] You know a river that runs right alongside the district your safe-house should be in. Though you are INCREDIBLY recognizable in that portion of town, you shouldn't have anything to fear from the citizens of Calunoth. None that mean well, at any rate. (A moderate roll will be required.)
>>
>>4275096
>>B] You know a river that runs right alongside the district your safe-house should be in. Though you are INCREDIBLY recognizable in that portion of town, you shouldn't have anything to fear from the citizens of Calunoth. None that mean well, at any rate. (A moderate roll will be required.)
>>
>>4275096
>A]
>>
>>4275098
>>4275099
>>4275112
(Going to call the vote here, going with majority for B but keeping the A vote as a modifier.)

>Roll 1d100. Best of 3 will be used!
+5 AWARE OF YOUR SURROUNDINGS (MOSTLY)
+5 NOTHING TO FEAR
-5 EXCEPT FOR ASSASSINS
-5 THE RELIC YOU CARRY
-5 AND NOT HAVING SLEPT NEARLY AS MUCH AS YOU SHOULD
>>
Rolled 3 (1d100)

>>4275117
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>>4275117
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Rolled 81 (1d100)

>>4275117
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Rolled 26 - 5 (1d100 - 5)

>>4275117
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>>4275118
>>4275122
>>4275128
(Alright guys, Bo3 will be that 76! Writing now.)
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>>4275133
https://youtu.be/dlome5tTfcU

This isn't anything you haven't managed before. With your faithful hound snarling at any approaching beggars or vagrants, you eagerly side-step a hand reaching just too close for comfort. Renewed energy picks up, into your steps, your perfect form, and your level breath. By all rights, you are already completely exhausted, but nothing can slow you down now.

After all, you've had more rest in the last few months than you've had in most of your life.

Running through the broad city streets, around rubble that has yet to be cleared, you know better than to pause at a single gesture or cry of your name. Though it pains you to ignore the downtrodden, there's infinitely more pressing concerns at hand, and lives at stake. Your sprint carries you beyond the furthest edges of the royal gardens, and beyond another checkpoint without contest. You peel through a mercantile ward, and emerge back out into the slums before long. With sweat sticking to the back of your robes, the sun in your hair catching on gold and flecks of exertion, you could almost smile.

Heat and light is coming in rays off of the river running adjacent to Calunoth's borders. You break stride, though keep your form, and grant yourself a moment of a slower pace. The silhouette of yours and Ray's procession is on ripples of water, broken by the splash of skipping stones. There's children running about on the opposite shore, laughing and screaming as their mothers tend to laundry, bathing, and keeping young voices down. More hollers rise from men on the street, and as you pick your steps up, not every voice is nearly as friendly.

Winding through narrower and narrower roads, it's no wonder that so many heads turn at your motion. From women leering off of porches— indecently hiking their skirts about their ankles and knees— to more malicious vagabonds with blades indiscriminately unsheathed, you come down to a jog. Having come through here recently, in the garb of a priest of Vengeance, you are not quick to forget the recent execution of a priest of Storm at your hands. Neither are they.

You're left well alone, for the most part. Breath hot in your throat, the sun baking down on your back, it would seem that every shadow from the many painted walls of the holy city are another blessing. Depictions of every family history you can think of leers back. Murals in hues of red are predominant. Berry-lips paint across whorehouses. Bloodied swords smeared across more nefarious lodgings, still. Between them are a few spotted flower shops, or shacks with notions of greater heritage. Between all of the boasting and heritage are a few modest scrawls of younger handwriting.

(1/3)
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>>4275188
Tales of modern heroism, names of lovers intertwined, and every other painting are easily eclipsed by the absurdity of one, ramshackle dwelling. The building is short, squat, and you nearly walk past it. Were it not for a caricature of a beast master on the side of the abode, you would have not blinked twice. You blink once, at the absurdly strong chin, and again at shoulders as broad as the house. Three times, you blink, at a whip in hands as scarred as your own, which are commanding a hilariously inept portrayal of a lion. Upon its wrinkled face is unmistakably Ray's visage, spread across the side of the building. Laughing, you stop your run, come around to the front door, and rapt only once.

Several locks on the other side clink against on another at the motion. You don't dare to announce yourself, glancing behind your shoulder at every shadow. Before you can knock again, countless bolts slide apart, a few keys can be heard, and the door opens.

A priestess flashes before your eyes, grinning broadly, before she leaps up and takes you into such a tight hug, the air is squeezed right out of your lungs. As a few spots dance in your eyes, and you choke out, "S-Sister Cardew—!"

Right behind her is a gaggle of heathens and clergy alike. She punches you in the shoulder, pulling back, and granting you more than the air in your chest. The sight and sound of a commotion immediately starts. The Flea Circus, gathered around a table, completely upends a game of dice. They clatter to the floor, as Mick knocks the table clean onto Victor's head. Swears, cursing, and a mellow voice all blend together as you're taken by a totally unscarred hand. Brother Wilhelm gingerly leads you inside, helping Sister Cardew with the door, while he mutters, "we all heard the news. It is good to see you, Father Anscham."

"Likewise," you stammer, urging Ray to get inside, and look wildly around. The space is altogether too small for nine, even for a short period of Time. Sister Corbon and Sister Tirel were quietly talking to each other in the corner of the hovel, but both have gotten to their feet, and politely look to you. Ofelia and Cyril are nowhere to be seen. "Where...?" you start, eyes falling on stacks of parchment from Sister Cardew and Theodore, away from mounds of inappropriately cutesy pastries, a pile of blankets and sheets, and towards only one other door at the opposite end of the shack. It's really more of a single kitchen, with a broad hearth and a few tables, than anything.

"Couldn't keep them off each other," Randall leers, laughing hysterically at the heat that immediately comes to your face. He makes a few indecent gestures towards you, and the far door.

(2/3)
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>>4275190
Flashing your gaze over to a definitely locked and absolutely quiet bedroom at the other end of the room, away from the debauchery, you are tapped on your shoulder, by Sister Cardew. She shakes her head, and makes a face, and you both seem to wholeheartedly agree that it's unthinkable.

Groaning, as he helps Victor to his feet, the more lecherous of your company continues to grin, "not that I wouldn't have minded helpi—"

"Enough!" Victor snaps, chucking an entire dice cup at the portly rogue, and to their taller companion. Whipping his head to you, narrowing his eyes, he's happy to march over, and demand, "have a fine time rubbing shoulders with royalty while we were all rotting, did you? Father Anscham?! Whole lot of thanks we've been getting!"

An incredibly large hand drops on his shoulder, as Mick grins. The hulking scoundrel has something in his teeth. You point to you own mouth, politely, showing him the spot. The scoundrel picks at it, and in a deep voice mutters, "thanks. Been four days. We were about to pack up."

"He's speaking for himself," Sister Cardew snips, as she finishes wiping her glasses down. Straight-lipped, and as composed as you'd hope for, the priestess nods towards the two sisters quietly sitting at the back of the room. "We have been more than happy to wait. What's kept you?"

(Options in next post.)
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>>4275194
>A] Plainly tell everyone in your company exactly what you've been up to. Don't spare a detail. It's going to take awhile, but they deserve to know.

>B] Explanations REALLY have to wait. Take a minute, to give everyone a hug, and try to at least briefly touch on what THEY all have been doing in your absence.

>C] Simply ask everyone (that you know can be of assistance,) if they're willing to follow you for the morning. Promise you'll come back as soon as you can to properly speak to everyone. There's literally people dying while you've lingered. It goes without saying that you need Sister Tirel's healing...
>1] ...and you want to make sure that Spangle is actually okay. You both went through a LOT together.
>2] ...but Sister Corbon gave her arm for you. As a priestess of Mercy, she should be capable of lending a hand, too. Try to be sensitive. Maybe you can talk on the way to the sick and injured about her abilities.
>3] See if Theodore can come with you, for his vision. The young man is absolutely capable of deducing a sound course of action, and you suspect that he may be of great help prioritizing who can still be saved.
>4] You don't trust Sister Cardew's safety alone with the rogues in your clergy, and want her company just to ensure her safety. You both have a LOT to discuss, anyways.

>D] You SERIOUSLY need Mick to make sure his Flea Circus is under control.
>1] It's not your place to tell him how to control his men, but, well, it is. Tell him.
>2] Simply ask him what's happened to everyone from the sewers.

>E] Ofelia's knowledge of poison is unparalleled, and she helped out in this district at the start of the outbreak. Cyril's strength and heroism is pretty much unrivaled. As much as you hate it, you really could use their help.
>1] Ask someone else if they can get their attention. It's not that you're a prude, you just don't have the heart for it, and have way too many other concerns right now.
>2] There's no tactful way to interrupt your friends. Forget about tact, and tap into every bit of the priest of Flesh that you know you rightfully are.

>F] Write-in.
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>>4275195
(Of course I forgot the pic. From left to right, Ofelia, Sister Tirel, Theodore, Sister Corbon, Ray, you, Cyril, Mick, Sister Cardew, Mad Eye and Randy.)
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>>4275196
(Mad Dog*

Disclaimer, I've got a bit of a fever and cold. Gonna try and keep updates coming but might have to slow down a bit this evening.)
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>>4275195

>>C] Simply ask everyone (that you know can be of assistance,) if they're willing to follow you for the morning. Promise you'll come back as soon as you can to properly speak to everyone. There's literally people dying while you've lingered. It goes without saying that you need Sister Tirel's healing...
>>1] ...and you want to make sure that Spangle is actually okay. You both went through a LOT together.
>>2] ...but Sister Corbon gave her arm for you. As a priestess of Mercy, she should be capable of lending a hand, too. Try to be sensitive. Maybe you can talk on the way to the sick and injured about her abilities.
>>3] See if Theodore can come with you, for his vision. The young man is absolutely capable of deducing a sound course of action, and you suspect that he may be of great help prioritizing who can still be saved.
>>4] You don't trust Sister Cardew's safety alone with the rogues in your clergy, and want her company just to ensure her safety. You both have a LOT to discuss, anyways.

>D] You SERIOUSLY need Mick to make sure his Flea Circus is under control.
>2] Simply ask him what's happened to everyone from the sewers.

>B] Explanations REALLY have to wait. Take a minute, to give everyone a hug, and try to at least briefly touch on what THEY all have been doing in your absence.
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>>4275195
>A] Plainly tell everyone in your company exactly what you've been up to. Don't spare a detail. It's going to take awhile, but they deserve to know.
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>>4275208
C4
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>>4275208
>>4275235
>>4275263
(7 prompts. Alright. Sure, why not. Vote is locked! This one is definitely going to take me a minute, but writing now.)
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>>4275289
"First things first," you quickly assert. Everyone looks to you quizzically, as you completely keep your gaze to the far end of the room, to the hearth, a comfortable looking chair, and shut out any sounds you think might have escaped from the bedroom in which your company resides. You may be a prude, and want to do virtually anything and everything other than have to address Ofelia and Cyril. It's alright.

As you take a seat beside Sister Corbon, Sister Tirel, and motion for Sister Cardew to join you, you're among fairer company, and keep your mind on the task at hand. "I have been incredibly busy, as you've heard," you say, pointedly towards Harriet, "but I would like to hear how you all have been in my absence, first."

The priestesses immediately at your side give you two incredibly weary smiles. "Never thought I'd see you walk again," Sister Corbon manages, with a listless look in her eye. "I've been getting some sleep, as well."

"Too much." Clemence flashes her teeth at her like a wild thing, and then to Ray, for good measure, as your boy trots over to you. He flashes his teeth back, confused, as Harriet drops right alongside the mastiff. He's easily as large as she is, and you realize there's legitimately not enough room in the hovel for you to all comfortably speak at length.

Plainly, to the priestess of Spirit, you murmur, "we have a lot to discuss. No matter what we have to say to one another, I would pray you will remain in my company, Sister Cardew."

She thrusts three envelopes into your hands. "I wouldn't have it any other way. Don't open them," she mutters, "but I know. I've been in contact with Father Friedrich." There's a wince. "He's going to kill you, but wants you to know he's happy nothing got to you, first."

"Thank you so much," you mutter, and resist every urge to open the letters in hand.

"I've been fine," the priestess earnestly states. The light of the hearth and several heady tallow candles catches on the lenses before her eyes, as she whispers, "thank you for looking out for me, Richard."

You take her into a big hug, and murmur, "of course."

Theodore distantly says, as he ensures the front door is completely locked, "I've sent word to father as well. It will be a few weeks, but he knows of your appointment. Rest assured."

"Your aide has been invaluable, Brother Wilhelm," you call over. He takes a seat a few feet away, giving everyone enough room, and knows full well that his work is far from over. A pointed glare to your Flea Circus is prudent, who have inched over towards you. "Mick," you start.

"Father Anscham," he grins, dropping alongside you. You make a point of wedging yourself between him and the women in your company.

(1/3)
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>>4275404
The utter absurdity of your position is all the invitation Randall needs. He practically skips over, and tries to drop himself in your lap. You stand up, and warn all three scoundrels, "if all—" your grimace breaks, as you choke out a laugh, "all you've wanted is a hug—"

Victor looks like he's inhaled spoiled milk, and sounds as foul, as he drawls, "not on your fucki— get your hands off of me, Richard—!"

You squeeze him a little tighter, battling down the smell of old cigars and sweat before letting go, with a warning stare. "Your gathering, in the sewers. What's happened to them? To all of you?"

"They'll be fine," Randy leers, attempting to trail a hand over your shoulder. You bat it away, give him a glare that could cull a demon, and he pockets his hands. Like a dejected puppy, but a little more seriously, he admits, "most of them, at least. They'll have gone looking for somewhere new to settle. We have a few beds to lie in, under the city— if you haven't led Magnass's cowards through all of them, too."

Your grimace is as intense as Norward's laughter. "Waited six fuckin' months! Four days wasn't shit," he claims. "Knew you wouldn't be able to help any of them. Least you could do was save our hides."

It seriously dawns on you— for the first Time— that you have no idea why anyone in your congregation has been following you. Rather, why they have been supporting your name, or you, or anyone in your company at all.

"This is unacceptable," you insist, and try to ignore the headache threatening to creep back between your temples.

Wearily, Sister Tirel leans back. You practically drag Randall aside, to keep his focus on you, as she breathes, "he's been busy, Mick."

Literally everyone has their eyes on you. It doesn't escape you how clipped everyone's reply was, or that you've been fidgeting incessantly since returning to less civilized company. It's fine, and you happily inform them, "it was not necessarily— that I have simply been preoccupied. I've nearly died. Several Times over. You told them all, didn't you," you look, to your congregation members. Those who were with you, on the field of battle.

Electrum blanches. "It didn't seem like my place to."

A look of abject horror crosses over Sister Corbon's face, in turn. "I've been unconscious for the last few days, Father Anscham. We were just speaking about it, now." With a sneer to the curvier of the two women, Spangle huffs, "you can't tell me you left it to—"

With a triumphant "ha," Victor leans over towards Sister Cardew, and Brother Wilhelm. "While you were being looked after by our resident baby-sitter—"

Mick kicks him, hard enough to elicit a shout. Randall snaps, "shut the fuck up, Victor," and offers you a grin. "Go on."

(2/3)
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>>4275412
Sister Cardew's face remains completely straight, as she shifts a chair over, leans away from the rogues, and declares, "we've all missed you, Richard. I am listening, at the very least."

While Theodore goes about making tea for everyone in the room, your retelling of meeting King Magnus goes over as well as could be hoped. A cup of mint and honey is placed in your hands by the end of it. Everyone is clearly extremely uncomfortable, but far too proud of your actions to really complain.

"Thank you, Brother Wilhelm."

"By all rights, you should be able to retire in Somerilde by now, Father Anscham." He offers you a slight smile.

You give him an incredibly earnest grin back. "There's more," you breathe, taking a sip of tea, and trying to not have a panic attack. Confirming that Sister Cardew doesn't have any knives immediately visible on her peasant's garb, it dawns on you that, in the commotion, you hadn't quite realized what disarray all of your congregation was still in. They seem to have washed off the worst of the sewers, but plenty of sleeves and pant legs are slashed from knives, frayed from battle, and Sister Tirel's false arm is absolutely still flecked with blood in places.

You wince, set your tea aside, get up, and hug everyone in turn. Victor doesn't even pull away, and as you sit back down, everyone is utterly silent.

A mattress squeaks, a little, and that's all the prompting you need. Clearing your throat, battling down the flush on your face, you put a hand to Ray. It's not just for reassurance, or for the knowledge he'll maul anyone who tries to kill you first.

You keep a hand to your dog, scratching behind his ears for a little more courage, as you state the unthinkable.

>A] "The Church of Mercy and the Church of Spirit are officially allied." Give them a moment to process the implications. Let everyone voice their grievances, if necessary.

>B] "Sullivan came to my heel." Stress that your relationship is ultimately one where you have complete authority, and FIRMLY leave it at that. They don't need to know that it's one of mutual respect just yet.

>C] "I've made amends with Sullivan. Please try to understand that I have not made this decision lightly." They all really need to know that he is no one to be feared. Not any longer. Defend your alliance with everything you have.

>D] "Harriet," you need to clarify, to ensure that the vindictive priestess doesn't do anything unbefitting of her station,
>1] "do you still have all of those knives on your person?" You're legitimately worried for everyone's safety.
>2] "please promise me that you won't kill me outright." You're worried mostly for your own safety.
>3] "may I speak with you privately?" She was under the impression you both were going to kill this man, not befriend him. (This option is mutually exclusive, and if majority chooses it, will trump any other prompts picked.)

>E] Write-in.
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>>4275419
>>C] "I've made amends with Sullivan. Please try to understand that I have not made this decision lightly." They all really need to know that he is no one to be feared. Not any longer. Defend your alliance with everything you have.
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>>4275442
+1
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>>4275442
>>4275457
(Alright my dudes, gonna lock the vote here. Writing now!)
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>>4275497
https://youtu.be/mRJSIYmHuNI

"I've made amends with Sullivan." Complete silence greets you in turn. You persevere, "please try to understand that I have not made this decision lightly."

A few birds chirp outside.

Harriet drives a knife straight into her chair. Sister Tirel jumps out of her skin, while the priestess of Spirit visibly shakes. Venom drips from her tone, unapologetic and seething, as she whispers, "you did what?"

Sister Corbon immediately tenses at your side, and doesn't dare to say a word. It's abundantly clear that both priestesses of Mercy completely respect your decision, and remain straight-faced.

Everyone thinks, for a good, long moment. Mick, Randall, and Victor are still too stunned to speak. Theodore yawns.

Mad Dog throws his teacup at the wall.

The priestess of Mercy at your side takes one of your hands in hers, as a little tea drips on the edges of your hearing. A grip she clearly still can't control, and fingers of solid gold are infinitely too firm for such a soft woman, but neither of you care. Clemence demands that you meet her gaze with her own, and earnestly informs you, "we left the day we found out about the state of the Church of Mercy, you know."

Her sister is battling between a scowl, and something worse, as Beatrice mutters, "you're too good for him. For any of this. That demon doesn't deserve your kindness, Father Anscham. You haven't deserved any of this."

You might cry, shake your head, and can't possibly convey what you're thinking. You didn't recognize either priestess in the ruins, and still don't understand their plight. Whether they served under Father Edmund, or heard about your imprisonment, you're unsure.

But Mick has actually gotten up, and started getting his things together. You get to your feet, and try to explain. "We have all been doing what we thought was best—"

"Save it," the rogue mutters.

Victor grumbles, "not laughing now, are you, you big sack of shit?"

The hulking scoundrel beside you finishes strapping on a bag to his back, a number of knives, and looks you dead in the eye. "We've been fighting for months. You don't know how bad it's been. You don't need to." A hand goes to your shoulder. "Save the sermon this time."

Mercy, no, why? Why can't he understand?

(Options in next post.)
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>>4275582
>A] No no no no no no no not like this. You can't have a man responsible for hundreds of heathens and blasphemers turn on you. Not now. Not ever. This is about more than your people. It's about him. You need to know how to make this right. Ask Norward how you can help. Beg him, if you need to. Surely, he can be reasonable. Everyone is reasonable. Surely, you can at least try to be friends.

>B] You can know a lost cause when you see it. It's a miracle Norward helped you at all, and allying yourself with his worst enemy is not the best news for even the sanest of men. Simply ask the man if he can do you the honor of looking after his own people.
>1] Wish him all the best.
>2] Pray that he can go with more Mercy towards his congregation than you have.

>C] Oh, Mercy, Harriet is being REALLY quiet. So is Randall, and Theodore, and Victor, and you're trying VERY hard to not have a panic attack. Focus on trying to keep this from becoming a complete nightmare. Show Mick enough respect to let him walk away, without lecturing or preaching. Try to keep yourself, and your friends together. You can explain. You know the rest of them will at least try to listen.

>D] Write-in.
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>>4275588

>D] Write-in.

As much as we wanted to, as much as he deserved it. It was not possible to kill him, because this whole country needs him so I have done what I decided was the next best thing which was to bring him to heel. I don't expect you to work with him, and you are always free to leave. But I can only hope you can trust my judgement, *the problems we face are bigger than every single one of us.*
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>>4275622
(No idea why 4chan ate my post. Vote is locked! Had been writing, glad no one got missed. Posting now.)
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>>4276503
https://youtu.be/G1mWfvbcjcI

It hurts more than you can say, but you try, regardless. Watching as the scoundrel finishes strapping several more weapons to his frame, without a shred of tension in his body, your words practically cut the interior of your mouth. "No sermons. No preaching."

Glancing between Mick, and everyone else in your company, you mutter, "you know just as well as I. What— what he's deserved."

"Good!" The scoundrel chirps, giving you a broad grin, and dropping a hefty hand on your shoulder.

You don't flinch, or do so much as stare him straight down. "As much as I have wanted to—"

"Save it, Father. You're not gonna convince me for a fuckin' second you would've killed the old shit."

"You are always free to leave my company, Mick."

With an amused glance, he takes his hand off your shoulder, crosses his arms, and lingers.

Hating to go immediately back on your word, you really can't help yourself. You're not only a preacher. You're the very leader of the Church of Mercy. This is your life, your work, and with utmost conviction you practically shake as you declare, "I could not kill him. I will not. The problems we face are so much greaterthan any single one of us."

"I know," he immediately fires back. "Why do you think I'm still trying to help you?"

"...excuse me?"

"You think I stuck around this shitheap for days, with Randy's thumb crawling up my ass—" the lecher waves obscenely, winking, while Mick can't help but laugh, "—or that any of us have died over anything less?" He can't help himself, and takes you by both of your shoulders.

"I can't stop now," you murmur, practically wanting to cry. "I have done everything that I can. Not— not just to bring Sullivan to my heel—"

His laughter falls as soon as it came, with a frown, as he declares, "you gave us all a second chance." The grip parts. "None of us deserved it." He spits. "Still don't."

"Your lives are about so much more—"

You're cut off, by a look so stern you nearly draw back. Norward jerks a thumb to Victor. "Yeah. You have any idea how many like him are out there?"

The madman makes such a rude gesture back, you flush, but every ounce of willpower you have keeps your voice level. Honestly, you murmur, "not in the slightest."

"That's right," Mick happily grins back to you. "Not in the slightest. Better that way." With infinitely more seriousness, the rogue looks to the door. You realize he can't even say it while looking at your face, as he drawls, "you worry about this bullshit up top, and your politics, and keeping old men from torture, and murder. Way you came running in here, I'm sure I'm keepin' you from something more important, still!"

(1/4)
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>>4276505
"Will you just fucking go," Victor drawls. Randall punches the man so hard in his shoulder in reply, they both wind up off of their position in the floor, battling to hit the other. Sister Tirel and Corbon inch a little further away, while Sister Cardew extracts her knife from her chair.

"Listen," Norward grins back to you. "Listen. You up there, Richard? You with me?"

Your grimace could not be any more extreme. "I am. Now— and— and I do not intend on going anywhere—"

"Now," he nods. "When we're face-to-face. You've got so much shit weighing you down. I get it. You can't look after everyone. Not even close. You reminded me, just now! About what you said, when we first met."

One of the most sincere smiles you've ever seen flashes at you. "Really met, I mean. We haven't lost. Not even close."

You might cry, know full well that you've given this man the will to live, and nod, keeping your lips tight.

He goes for the door.

"You're being cruel," Randall happily calls out.

"Shut the fuck up, Randy."

"Don't forget that drink you owe me!"

"Get the women, and we'll talk," the scoundrel fires back, heading out the door. "Give Cyril a pat on the ass for me, will you?"

The door that has been blissfully closed practically flies off its hinges, as Cyril, in a state of complete disarray, pulls his pants and most of his shirt back on, ignores that his bangs are standing on end, sprints across the room, and clocks Norward right across the face.

The behemoth of a man slams his face into the side of the door, hits the wood so hard a tooth is knocked loose, and collapses straight to the floor.

Everyone gets to their feet. There's enough incoherent shouting that it's all you can do to rush over, and make sure Cyril hasn't killed anyone today. The scoundrel is not only breathing, but immediately laughs, and waves you away.

Backing up, you narrowly avoid bumping into Ofelia, as she lingers in the doorway. Red-faced, with her deep blue cloak done about her like a robe, her curls bob angrily as she whips her head from the two meat-heads and back to you. "The fuck ya' didn't come and get us for, Richard?! Awful stupid of ya', fer how smart I thought— Cyril will you give him a fuckin' hand, the guy can't even see straight—"

You are absolutely too stunned to speak, as Cyril obliges, and cheekily gives Norward a hand to get back to his feet. The priest is angrily smiling. The latter is completely amused, rubs his jaw, as he gets up, and tongues the gap between his missing tooth while looking to the blonde.

"For fuck's sake. I'm only going to be gone a few days," Mick informs him, groaning. He winces, as the priest tenses a fist. "Alright! Maybe a little more."

"You could have told him as much," the priest of Flesh tenses, cracking his knuckles. A grin is flashed over his shoulder, to you. "Good to see you, Richard!"

"L-likewise."

"Hair's lookin' better than before. Glad She's treating you well."

(2/4)
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>>4276508
"Th-thank you, Cyril," you manage, run a hand through what's probably a lot more gold, wonder if you're too young for it to go gray, and have to sit back down.

Both men linger in the door frame, talking for just a few minutes. You hear something along the lines of the Rub and Grub Pub, a debate on whether The Battered Maid would be too mild for Randall, and they both eventually agree on some watering hole you can't even hope to pronounce the name of.

Mick is waved out the door. Cyril slams it shut, runs over to Ofelia, and whispers several things to her.

Everyone is completely unamused, and entirely silent. Randall gestures for the priest to at least put the door back on its hinges.

With more disdain than you can manage, after a silence so long you couldn't hope to measure it, Harriet calls over to Cyril at last. "Brother Trebbeck."

"Yes, Sister Cardon't?"

"Richard's gone and befriended Father Sullivan."

"About fucking Time," the priest laughs, slamming the door back into place, and grinning over to you. He doesn't cross back over the room, but fires you an incredibly cheeky grin. He winks. "Willingly?"

You lean a little in your chair, even if it kills your back to do so, and try to breathe. Ray whines at you, and sits himself right back by your side. You realize you've distanced yourself a little from everyone in your company. Thanking your boy, you go and sit back by everyone. With a ragged breath, looking straight at Harriet, you declare, "yes. With, and without Spirit."

Her gaze falls behind the lenses of her glasses, entirely inscrutable, though she puts away the knife.

Theodore yawns, again, and replaces Victor's teacup. The lunatic looks too guilty to throw it again, mutters his thanks to the young priest, and watches as Brother Wilhelm patiently gives you another cup, as well. It's light blue, with a couple sheep painted on the side. You love it, almost as much as the lemon and honey, and thank him sincerely.

Victor and Randall launch into a discussion among themselves, in low voices, while the priest of Dream at your side demands your full attention. "Father Anscham," he mildly says, completely ignoring everyone else in the room.

"Yes," you manage, having to tense much more than you'd like to fight down the tremor in your hands.

"This is wonderful news. Wonderful."

"I'm so glad you think so," you choke out.

"Bringing the churches of Mercy and Spirit together bodes well for our entire nation."

"Yes, it does," you half-whisper, battling to keep yourself together.

"Mr. Bauldry's people are our own. He has been working very hard. Very hard. I am confident that he will be just fine."

"Thank you, Theodore."

"They will not be, without his aid."

"It has been one of my highest priorities."

"You haven't had them straight. You haven't been sleeping enough, Father Anscham."

"Four days, Brother Wilhelm. Just this week."

"For Dream?"

(3/4)
>>
>>4276514
"For Mercy."

"Not my expertise, Father."

"I know."

"It's alright. Your tea is not. Do not let it get cold."

You take a ragged breath, try to enjoy the steam, and look to everyone in your company. They're all, impossibly, quieter. Harriet's lips have never looked so thin, as she's clearly fighting down each and every urge to fire off a complaint.

You take heart.

They may not like it. They may resent me for it— but all of my friends really do respect my decisions.

>A] You can talk en route to the district of Flesh. No matter how shot your nerves are, there are more important matters at stake.

>B] You seriously need to know what your congregation has been doing in your absence. Now.

>C] Thank Cyril for his pragmatism, and Brother Wilhelm again for being so unshakable. You REALLY could use a moment to collect yourself, and to give everyone a minute to breathe.

>D] Write-in.
>>
>>4276521
>>A] You can talk en route to the district of Flesh. No matter how shot your nerves are, there are more important matters at stake.
>>
>>4276521
>C
>>
>>4276521
A
>>
>>4276597
>>4276637
>>4276681
(Alright, calling it here while the tie is broken! Still can incorporate a good bit of C, though. Vote is locked. Writing now!)
>>
>>4276691
https://youtu.be/WqCpWu8tgRw

Cyril drops down beside you, finishes buttoning his shirt, and fires you a broad grin. Even if he smells like sweat and sex, has blood on his knuckles and laughs at the motion, it doesn't stop either of you. He really doesn't mind that the tremor in your hands is worse than usual, either, as you pull him into an unrestrained hug. The priest pats you on the back, and any anger still clinging to him totally dissipates as you stammer, "I really— there is no saying how much I— I appreciate you all—"

The blonde coughs, "easy, big guy. You know I gotcha'."

Politely, Brother Wilhelm takes your cup of tea, and nods, "you never need to, Father Anscham. Truly."

You're given a collective, exhausted, pained, and understanding smile from almost everyone in your company. Harriet is still extremely agitated, but keeps her lips tight. Victor glances to her, and to you, unable to stop from scowling, "the fuck did you come back for, anyways?"

Prying yourself off of the priest of Flesh at your side— who helps himself to your tea— you try to ease your frayed nerves.

Mercy— it's no use, is it?

You're on the border of panicking or laughing hysterically, as you fidget with the band on your ring finger. Through a broken composure and suppressed twitching, you manage, "King Magnus immediately set to reinstating more than my prior responsibility— as, as the leader of the Church of Mercy—"

Sister Corbon and Sister Tirel fire each other a pair of worried looks. With a scowl, Spangle gets to her feet, and offers you a hand. Your heart melts, as you take it immediately. "I knew I could count on all of you," you choke out, getting to your feet, "but I am still in the dark. The casualties— from Brother Murdac— and—"

The priestess of Mercy keeps her hold on your hand, for just a minute longer than necessary. "We'll take care of it. You know we already have been."

They've been working in the city undercover for months, haven't they?

You try to not choke up, fail, and run a hand through your hair again. "I need your help. There have been well over three hundred deaths. We have to do something. There are four hundred citizens just near The Honey Bee, who need our help. I cannot fathom how much Time I have wasted—"

Ofelia clucks her tongue, gives you a teasing scowl, and mutters, "can't believe ya'. Don't wait up, but I'll be just a minute."

The door closes, and everyone gets on their feet, save for Victor. "Go on," he drawls, sweeping the thrown dice cup from the floor. "Leave me to the mercy of this despicable," Randall slides next to him, "cheating," they grin to each other, "useless piece of filth."

(1/3)
>>
>>4276739
"I knew you cared," the lecher drawls back, before glancing up to you. "We'll hold the place down." With a nod to Cyril, he fires off the string of incomprehensible nonsense that the priest had mentioned as a drinking spot, to Mick. You're almost reminded of orcish boasting, as Randall confirms, "see you there?"

"No promises," Brother Trebbeck sighs, groaning as he stretches, and looks about everyone in your company. "Know a better way to get there than the main road?"

Victor huffs, like he's actually offended, and immediately produces several maps from a nearby stand. Harriet gasps, grabbing at the other parchment before it all collapses to the floor. The two shout to each other for several long minutes. Before long, you all have the most expedient route possible, each other's company, a more presentable demeanor, and are out the door.

"Thank you," you mutter, again, to the remainder of your Flea Circus. "The Gods are Merciful—"

"No!" Victor interjects, "stop it! Stop it. You are. Now get the fuck out of here. Go on."

Randall smacks him upside the head, shouting, "ignore him, Father Anscham! Safe travels!"

They leave you to the streets, the high morning sun, and a beautiful day. Ofelia has her hair tied back, and a colossal assortment of vials, trinkets, and assorted smoke-assisting devices on her person. For the first Time, you notice how conveniently the cloak in her possession shifts away from any straps or packages about her. You eye them sideways, eyes having some difficulty adjusting to the enchanted fabric, as she insists on taking the lead. Cyril pockets your maps, and is right behind her. Brother Wilhelm is more than happy to accompany you and Ray at the rear, while Sister Cardew is neatly situated at the center of your company, flanked by Sister Tirel and Corbon, all safe from prying eyes.

There are plenty of prying eyes. The size of your gathering and the audacious garb of the Church of Mercy is enough to draw stares, but having a halfling among you is unique enough to outwardly draw shouts and leers. You try to drown out any indecent calls from women on the street, scoundrels about their business, and the lowest classes of the capital not minding their business in the slightest.

Carving through the deepest portions of the red-light district, Brother Wilhelm is a breath of fresh air, as he politely tries to keep your attention. "The members of your congregation have scarcely rested," he notes. "In the months since their return, Father Anscham, I fear the Church of Dream has completely failed them." He nods, towards Sister Tirel, "her help has been invaluable. It has been difficult to gather any information. Sister Cardew has done as much as she can, as well."

You're all keeping a brisk pace, but it's nothing you can't manage with a level breath. Still, you're having a hard Time of breathing, and can't help but sharply exhale, "I see."

(2/3)
>>
>>4276741
"They all have been through a great deal." Theodore trails off, almost as if he's asking for permission, "if I am not mistaken..."

"Your thoughts are— are always appreciated, Brother Wilhelm. It's alright."

He smiles slightly to you. "I believe they wished you had taken a longer absence. To rest."

They haven't just been waiting for me. They're worried for my well-being, too.

Your heart threatens to give out. It's altogether too difficult to reply, but you keep your gaze firmly on the priestesses of Mercy ahead. They're saddled with a number of makeshift bandages from your own equipment, and a great deal of herbs that Sister Tirel presumably has gathered in her own Time. Sister Cardew has literally turned up her nose, can't seem to handle the two women passing the medicine by her, and finally falls back, to walk beside you.

As modestly as you could hope for, Brother Wilhelm nods to you both, and asks, "may I go ahead with Ray, Father Anscham?"

You nod to the two of them, command your dog to keep on the priest's heels, and they both run ahead, past Ofelia and Cyril. You're certain that the priest of Dream is going to offer an explanation at the checkpoint, and formally introduce you. The young man is an absolute blessing, surely about to save as much Time as possible, and you make a mental note to find some way to repay him and Father Wilhelm for all their kindness, one day.

Look down to the singular, petite priestess at your side, you flinch as she sneezes. There's no calming your nerves down, but you take comfort from the compulsive murmur, "bless you."

Her hair is frizzing from lack of proper care, there's scratches on her glasses, she's scowling, and fishes out a handkerchief. "Thanks."

You don't flinch, as she puts the item away, and in her free hand, firmly takes your fingers into her own. The touch is colder than it should be, and is significantly more reassuring than you remember. No matter how upset she is, the priestess of Spirit still finds a way to articulate herself. There's so much anger in her voice, you can hardly stand it, but you look earnestly to the young woman as she demands, "I need to know. What happened to him? To you? Did the King threaten him with death? Imprisonment? Torture? Or did his cowardice win out, and drove him from hiding? Why, Richard? Why now?"

(Options in next post.)
>>
>>4276743
>A] "Nothing of the sort, but I can only speak for myself." Don't make a single assumption about Father Sullivan's behavior. He's done enough of that towards you, and you want to learn from the man's mistakes, not repeat them.

>B] "He has honestly changed— for the better. Without any ulterior motive." Stress how severely the priest had broken down, over everything he'd done. Knowing that he truly wants to repent for his sins could make a huge difference to Sister Cardew.

>C] "We have so much to discuss, I don't even know where to begin." Sullivan looked into well over 1600 years of demonic memories with you, and you both could barely keep it together. Try to express just how much help he was, even if it's nearly impossible to convey.

>D] "This is something I need to share when we have more Time." It's not fair, it's not right, but there's never enough Time for everything you want to do.
>1] Try to touch on your alliance with Cyril, a week late. You're STILL reeling from everything you need to discuss with Sister Cardew, and can barely sort it all out.
>2] Implore the priestess to let you know how she's really been doing. You've saved her life in multiple ways in just the last few weeks, and you know she's been doing this all for the sake of your research.
>3] Your research may be ruining this woman's life. Father Sullivan brought up how unhealthy her behavior has been in the past, and you're deeply concerned for her well-being. Ask her if she's up to the task ahead. Your findings can wait.

>E] Write-in.
>>
>>4276745
>>A] "Nothing of the sort, but I can only speak for myself." Don't make a single assumption about Father Sullivan's behavior. He's done enough of that towards you, and you want to learn from the man's mistakes, not repeat them.

Putting all feelings aside, it is the wisest move. We did not just remove an enemy piece of the board, we stole it for ourselves. Sullivan might have a long list of sins to his name but so do I, pride is of no use to us.
>>
>>4276745
>A] "Nothing of the sort, but I can only speak for myself." Don't make a single assumption about Father Sullivan's behavior. He's done enough of that towards you, and you want to learn from the man's mistakes, not repeat them
If she wants we can arrange a meeting for her to make her own judgement. As long as there's people to make sure she doesn't go nuts.
>>
>>4276752
>>4277199
(Awesome, taking note of all the write-ins. Vote is locked. Per usual, going to average 1-2 updates during the work week. Writing now!)
>>
>>4278083
You can't help but pause, and understanding Sister Cardew's righteous anger completely. For all her knowledge, the priestess knows so little of who she speaks. It's with a heavy heart that you admit the same.

"Nothing of the sort— but— I, I can only speak for myself."

She's baffled, and looks to you like you're crazy. "You're joking."

You grit your teeth, and expertly shove down every emotion that may cloud your judgement. Devotion to your friends and your cause persists, as you mutter, "all feelings aside—"

Another glance is given to you, like you've lost your mind. "Richard—"

"It was the wisest move," you assert. "To not only remove his antagonism from our lives— to stop all of the manipulation, fear-mongering— and hate—"

Both of you stop walking. Unable to beat down the waver of your voice, you softly murmur, "he is on our side."

"I can't believe you," Sister Cardew confesses, sounding as broken as the Father of Spirit did just yesterday. "He's gotten under your skin, Richard. Into your head. I know him. How he works. If you've got a heart of gold, his tongue is silvered—"

It's impossible to not admit in turn, "I have just as many sins to my name as he does."

The priestess makes no effort to disagree.

"You know just as well as I do," you earnestly remind her, "that none of us are free from guilt. I have no use for any pride, Sister Cardew. It is unfathomable— to— to continue to repeat the same mistakes. Not only my own."

"Don't," she groans, hating every second of the conversation.

You know that she only hates how right you are, as you swear, "I want to learn from Sullivan's mistakes."

The rest of your company seems to have noticed that you've stopped moving, and pause. Reluctantly, you and Harriet pick back up your steps. She's outright sneering, and you gesture to her, with open hands, "I have had enough of assumptions, and games."

The hard lines of the priestess' mouth soften, if only a little. You continue, as resolutely as you're able, "I was only able to restrain myself, thanks— thanks to King Magnus' grace. It was nothing short of a miracle that I stayed my hand. I found it in my heart to listen— and I do not expect a single soul to do the same." Every trace of Vengeance has dropped from your frame. Quietly, you murmur, "though his sins are abhorrent, I forgave him. That cannot change the fact that your judgement is your own. You should not take my word for his actions, repentance, or any intent that he still possesses."

She glances up to you, wary, and already aware of what you want to propose. You say it anyways. "If— if you would like, I— I can arrange a meeting. For you to make your own judgement. With anyone present necessary— to help you stay your hand."

(1/2)
>>
>>4278265
The very idea has her cringing, and Sister Cardew is obviously so conflicted she can barely speak. She manages to expel a little more poison from her lungs, with a whisper of, "you're asking for me to serve both of our patrons, Richard. "

An edge comes into the young woman's tone. "But I don't know if I can. Not right now. I would like to, but I need to know." Teeth bare, as she sharply grits out, "just how much damage he's done."

You've sworn to yourself, up and down, to try and respect the priestess' wishes and wisdom. As she nods, towards the checkpoint ahead, you do your best to not look too crestfallen. Sister Cardew frowns at how distraught you must appear, and parts her hand from yours. "Please don't give me that look."

You give her the same look. You're an honest man.

With significantly more composure, she admits, "I know how difficult this must be for you."

Your frown decimates the intensity of her own. "It is not, save for my concern over your well-being."

She somehow manages to sniff proudly, while simultaneously sounding heart-broken. "You've done so well. I can hardly believe it."

"It is almost entirely thanks to your help," you politely reply.

"Don't be absurd." Her frown threatens to beat yours in intensity, though she may be joking, "I'd have never encouraged you to get along with him."

You lose the fight, smirking as you remind her, "to lie is to sin, Sister Cardew."

She can't help herself either, back to a straight-face and a huff. "I'll consider it."

That's more than I could have prayed for.

The entirety of your company arrives at the nearest checkpoint, to re-enter Calunoth's walls. The fuss over your passage is entirely circumvented by Brother Wilhelm's tactful foresight, as he dismisses a number of the guards questions. With some intimidation on Ray's behalf, you're all through the fortified tower, past the gates, and well on your way to Ofelia's home district. You suspect you have no more than an hour of travel, given your company's brisk pace, the route your Flea Circus has provided, and the guidance of a priest of Dream.

(Options in next post.)
>>
>>4278269
>(Time is limited. Please clarify what importance you place on any prompt chosen. Vocal oppositions will be taken into full account. Majority vote will decide, if there is so much selected that it's not feasible to address everything at once.)

>A] It's so bizarre to make the time to talk to anyone in your company as you walk, that you really aren't comfortable doing so. Encourage everyone to move as quickly as possible, and save any further discussion for after your work is seen to. You can handle this! You just need some space to breathe, and think.

>B] After everything they've been through, make sure all the Sisters in your company are alright. It's not just that you're a gentleman, or are entirely sympathetic towards their own stressors. No matter how battle-hardened they are, losing an arm, taking on a demon of Storm, and nearly being dragged into sewage and bondage isn't exactly befitting of fairer clergy.

>C] Your Relic, the alliance you formed with Cyril, and your investigation into the demon of Agriculture nearly got you and the priest of Flesh killed (several times over). You think sorting at least some of your traumatic experiences out will help ease your nerves.

>D] Plainly tell Harriet that you're worried for her well-being. Your reservations about continuing to work with her are growing by the day, and you are only taking her with you right now to ensure her safety. Be transparent. She's sworn to help you, and you feel she's done enough.

>E] You know that Harriet has always meant well, too. Share as much as you can coherently piece together about your experience with Beltoro's memory...
>1] Even if it came from your work with Father Sullivan. Withholding your discovery from the priestess of Spirit would be cruel to an extreme, even if it trivializes all of the work you've done together.
>2] Because it came from Father Sullivan. She has the right to know that the Father of her church was appointed there for good reason. She's got thick enough skin to learn what he's capable of.

>F] It's a blessing, to be able to travel and actually talk at length with anyone. You have wanted an opportunity like this for ages. (Write-in.)
>>
>>4278270
>>B] After everything they've been through, make sure all the Sisters in your company are alright. It's not just that you're a gentleman, or are entirely sympathetic towards their own stressors. No matter how battle-hardened they are, losing an arm, taking on a demon of Storm, and nearly being dragged into sewage and bondage isn't exactly befitting of fairer clergy.
>>
>>4278270
>>B] After everything they've been through, make sure all the Sisters in your company are alright. It's not just that you're a gentleman, or are entirely sympathetic towards their own stressors. No matter how battle-hardened they are, losing an arm, taking on a demon of Storm, and nearly being dragged into sewage and bondage isn't exactly befitting of fairer clergy.
>>
>>4278760
>>4279025
(Cool cool, going to lock the vote and knock out an update before work! Writing now.)
>>
>>4279073
https://youtu.be/5SSNwhvEqo8

Beyond a fair number of market stalls, into the mercantile ward, and as you all proceed through the start to the city proper, Cyril immediately goes on guard. Hollering, cries of vendors, vagrants, beggars, and a fair amount of fuss immediately greets you all. It's beyond a relief to have capable hands at your side, as the priest of Flesh makes quick work of dissuading anyone from doing so much as propositioning you all for more mundane activity.

They're not your concern. Though you're all unphased, and briskly head for your destination, worry knits your brow. To the woman at your side— who is already having some difficulty keeping up with you all— you offer a guiding hand to help her keep pace, and lean down to speak more discreetly.

"You have been dodging my question, Sister Cardew." With a glance to the other priestesses in your company, you mutter, "all of you have."

The tight lips and glare of the sun on Sister Cardew's face ensures that she remains inscrutable. "No one wants to worry you further, Richard."

Squeezing her hand slightly, you murmur, "you know I will, regardless."

"I knew full well what I was getting myself into. You've done everything you can to look out for us—"

"I am worried about you."

Her spine gets a little straighter. "I'm fine."

"Are you lying to—"

"No." She's trying to not get too offended. "Not to you. Not to myself, either. I've had a few days to think it over. You made sure no harm befell me. I would be lying if I said I wasn't shaken," her glasses are pushed up, again, and she sighs in an exasperated way. Parting her hand from yours, to adjust the straps holding her lenses in place, Harriet finishes, "but that is beside the point."

You're reminded of how young you thought the priestess looked upon first meeting her, but her tone is just as mature, and significantly more worn now. A weary smile is cast up to you. "You've always been a gentleman."

"This is about more than—" you try to not smile back, and manage to maintain your straight-laced demeanor, "than good breeding, or—"

"You should know by now," she continues to smile, more mischievously.

"What?"

"It will take more than a few scoundrels to get under my skin."

She's stronger than anyone gives her credit for.

Realizing that you've been fidgeting incessantly with your Relic, noting how much difficulty she's having breathing, you politely ask, "do you need any assistance—"

The priestess huffs, "I would appreciate it."

You stride ahead with ease, get the attention of Clemence and Beatrice, and you all slow your pace enough to stay alongside Sister Cardew. Despite Electrum being fairly stocky, and Spangle having a lankier frame than you used to, they're both taller than average, and have absolutely no trouble with the brisk pace.

(1/3)
>>
>>4279214
A cloak is draped over Sister Tirel's shoulders, which you immediately nod to. She laughs. "It's crazy. Still feels strange. I'd heard the story, you know. Thought it was just that. A story. Unbelievable."

"Excuse me?"

With an air of mysticism, she puts on a voice befitting of a minstrel, and retells, "deep within the church of the material, a mortal man bore witness to the last trace of gold in the world. From the hands of Mercy came another! A hand," she reveals a few gilded fingers, and flexes them in the sunlight, "and an arm," the priestess happily grins to Sister Corbon, "of metal that moved like Flesh itself! A gift. One only made possible by a man of all the Gods." The grin directed towards you could not be brighter. "I should be dead. You both have given me more than another chance to fight."

Sister Tirel looks up from the road, nearly tripping immediately on bits of rubble. With a bemused, shark-like grin, she muses, "just think of how much this could sell for."

I narrowly escaped a demon of coin, didn't I?

Wrapping an entirely mundane arm around her Sister, Beatrice sneers at her, "I'll plate your lips shut if you so much as joke about something like that again."

Electrum happily wrestles the wiry woman into a hold. "I'd like to see you try!"

The priestess of Spirit beside you is as unamused as you could hope for. You're at least paying some attention to the road, and try to intervene, "Sisters."

All three of them immediately pause, though you all keep your steady pace through the last of the district. Another checkpoint is passed through, into a small district you've yet to encounter. It's mostly residential, the streets are much emptier, and you count the blessings of the expert navigators in your company. Cyril stops his guard, to get to the head of your group, and encourage a more mellow pace for Harriet's sake. While the priestess of Spirit tries to breathe, you part hands, and plainly ask all of the women beside you, "are you all alright? Truly."

They all blanch. Sister Corbon is somehow grumpier. "I could ask you the same, Father."

You frown back at her. "You have done so much more than save my life."

She frowns more intensely, still. "It was only possible because of your healing."

Your grimace cuts the edges of your face. "By your hands."

Her scowl threatens to becomes grotesque. Sister Tirel is laughing, as the woman at her side grumbles, "fair."

A smirk and a renewed skip is in Sister Cardew's step, as she can't help but comment, "what a pleasure." Beatrice snaps her head towards the priestess of Spirit, daring her to say something sarcastic. Harriet frowns back at her, immediately clarifying, "to have some reasonable company, for a change."

You can't help but sigh. "Avoiding answering me is a far— an infinitely greater strain than simply telling me what is plaguing you—"

(2/3)
>>
>>4279216
With a renewed grimace, Sister Corbon nods to you. "I had told myself that I was giving up. That all of this was for nothing."

Clemence nods as well. "Mhm."

"At your side," Spangle scowls, "it didn't seem like facing down death was my real concern. Not nearly as much as what we've been fighting for, all along."

The two sisters of Mercy give each other a knowing look, and glance up to you. Electrum notes, "healing for."

"Protecting," Spangle asserts. "You gave me the hand I needed, Father Anscham. I knew you would." Her scowl intensifies, looking to the next checkpoint. "I'll be alright when we're all safely back home."

A little more air comes into your lungs. It smells like old blood.

"We have more than enough concerns in front of us," Clemence notes, wincing at the sound of cries in the distance.

There's a few screams for Mercy on the air. Your heart drops.

"I'm glad you all are still with me."

"Of course," Sister Cardew immediately snips.

Both priestesses of Mercy are too grief-stricken to reply.

You're all taken through a last gate, into a district with the scent of death on the air. Every door and window is shut, but there are dozens of your clergy in the streets. The mostly residential district of Flesh has seemingly been gated off, and turned into a makeshift residence for those affected by Brother Murdac's work. The few taverns and inns you can view from the edges of the guard tower's gate have beds and hammocks done about, and every space is occupied.

There's fresh, dried, and sticky crimson in the road. The clergy of Flesh and Mercy going about their work, stoking healthy smoke, driving out the decay of the lungs, utilizing every herb and tonic at their command— moving bodies, aiding those still coming into the district— they have yet to notice you.

They all answer to you.

Ofelia falls back, as you all totally exit the checkpoint, to shift her satchel. Vials clinking, her heavily accented tone picks up over the screams and sobs that feel as if they're closing in around you. "Hey, Richard? I can go ahead, but we really had our work cut out fer us. This shit's nasty."

"Is it the same toxin, Ofelia?"

"Yeah. The slow actin' one? These guys are at the worst of it. There's not a whole lot yer guys are gonna be able to do. Turns the chest real foul. Gonna have gotten in the blood. Even I don't have enough stuff to work through everyone here. Not by a longshot."

"What makes you think—"

"No offense, Richard, but yer periwinkle and wreaths ain't gonna stop a pair of lungs that's gone black. Definitely not the blood. Might give your guys a little comfort before they go. That's about it."

Sister Tirel is visibly offended, looks like she wishes she could crack all of her knuckles, and keeps her comments to herself.

Ofelia raises an eyebrow to the priestess, and politely asks you, "you got any plans, big guy?"

(Options in next post.)
>>
>>4279222
>A] Brainstorm with Ofelia for the exact antidote and quantity of it you might need. Invoke Agriculture, and produce as much as you are capable of. Your congregation can distribute it, with Ofelia leading any instruction on the administration.
>1] Don't kill yourself. There's over 400 people here in need of your aid. Go to your comfortable limits. (Invoking Agriculture typically results in some extreme weight loss or gain, and you're unsure of the mechanism. Write-in any restrictions you want to impose.)
>2] You seriously don't care. There's lives on the line. Push yourself.

>B] Gather your clergy, as best as you're able. It's going to take precious Time and attention away from the sick and dying, but you need to gather some information. Learn of their priorities, and create a triage, before making any big decisions.

>C] Have Sister Tirel go and lead those who can only heal through mundane means. Invoke Mercy, to aid the worst of the injured with her. Send Sister Corbon to lead and delegate her own healing capability as best as she sees fit.
>1] Work with Cyril and Ofelia to identify the worst of the injured as quickly as you can. There's entire buildings here in need of your aid. Between her eyes, and the priest of Flesh's familiarity with his church, they should make the fastest work of assessing the situation.
>2] Plainly ask Theodore to invoke Dream. His foresight should be invaluable here.

>D] You're not fucking around. Invoke Mercy and Agriculture simultaneously. You have absolutely no idea what it will do to you, and you don't care.
>1] Your intent is to produce a cure to this poison as quickly as possible.
>2] You want to have the means of drawing out the sickness without causing yourself any harm, even if it has to be done on an individual basis.
>3] Write-in.

>E] Write-in.
>>
>>4279226
>>C] Have Sister Tirel go and lead those who can only heal through mundane means. Invoke Mercy, to aid the worst of the injured with her. Send Sister Corbon to lead and delegate her own healing capability as best as she sees fit.
>>1] Work with Cyril and Ofelia to identify the worst of the injured as quickly as you can. There's entire buildings here in need of your aid. Between her eyes, and the priest of Flesh's familiarity with his church, they should make the fastest work of assessing the situation.
>>2] Plainly ask Theodore to invoke Dream. His foresight should be invaluable here.

>>D] You're not fucking around. Invoke Mercy and Agriculture simultaneously. You have absolutely no idea what it will do to you, and you don't care.
>2] You want to have the means of drawing out the sickness without causing yourself any harm, even if it has to be done on an individual basis.

The job of everyone else is to keep people alive until we can get to them and get the poison out.
>>
>>4279248
This
>>
>>4279248
>>4279635
(Going deep with as many people as possible? Got it. Vote is locked. Writing now.)
>>
>>4280161
(So it looks like my roommate replaced our router while I was at work. Changed the IP, and my ID. A little upset, and going to take a minute to decide how to proceed. Will write shortly.)
>>
>>4280181
(Going to proceed with the rest of the thread without formatting! If any of you guys feel it's a serious hindrance or have any other feedback please let me know. Writing now.)
>>
>>4280161
"You know I never ask for any of you to follow me," you immediately declare, to everyone in your company. They all seem torn between amusement, and frustration.

Cyril smirks, and the edges of his busted lip curls grotesquely. "Don't get me started."

No one needs to say anything further, as you request, "please identify the worst of the injured, as quickly as you can. I need your feet," you glance to Ofelia, "and your eyes on the ground."

The priest of Flesh nods to her. "Church'll have the worst of it."

Harriet can't help but mention, "the dead will be significantly easier to move closest to the walls. Rather than the at the center of the district."

"The fuckin' Half-Pint," Ofelia frowns, taking off her hood, and looking to the horizon. "Yep. 'Course. Capacity's probably fer fifty, at least, Richard. Full up."

You put a hand to Brother Wilhelm's shoulder, intending to address him. The young man's eyes are already swimming with hues of blue in every shade, and you nearly pull away. He anticipates the motion, leaning towards your flinching hand, and takes it in his own. A distant, melodic, and completely divine voice resonates from his slight smile. "You have seen this destruction once before. Look not to the trees."

Fear of the Gods practically defines you, and you keep your gaze locked with his own. His smile disappears, completely. "Look not to the lungs."

"Sister Corbon," you mutter, as quickly as you can, not daring to look away from the priest of Dream. "your presence here will be expected. I trust your ability completely."

"I'll head for the tavern," she fires off, and nearly runs off with your fellow priestess of Mercy.

Not daring to interrupt Brother Wilhelm, you almost let her go, as he muses, in an incredibly distant and melodic tone, "look to the home."

Panic slakes you, as you dare to call out, "Sister Tirel!"

"Yes, Father Anscham—"

"Please accompany me! Our clergy will have need of your guidance—" she's already running back, to your extreme relief, "and I may not be capable of doing so myself."

The young man before you finishes his invocation. "Look upon each seedling, placed in your heart."

As Sister Corbon resolves to break off, Harriet has the decency to warn her on your behalf, "the Honey Bee!"

A wave of acknowledgment comes from the lanky priestess, as she tears off towards the further edge of the district. Blinking away swirling hues of turquoise and cornflower, the natural brightness of Theodore's eyes shine back at you. He comes back, away from divinity, to say, "I do not need to tell you. There is little to interpret."

"We need to hurry to the church," you confirm, which he mildly nods to. Grimacing, particularly to Sister Tirel, you mutter, "go. All of you." You gesture to Ray, to follow the more vulnerable members of your company for protection, while you insist, "I will catch up."

(1/3)
>>
>>4280627
The priestess of Mercy doesn't hesitate for a second, and barks to Sister Cardew and Brother Wilhelm, "I'll need every hand I can get. Come on."

They take off running. The poisons master and bodyguard in your company linger, despite your request. "Richard," Ofelia starts, to which Brother Trebbeck immediately follows up.

"I'm sticking right by your side," he insists, "but you just let me know what you need. Alright?"

"Thank you," you murmur.

With worry discoloring her features, Ofelia tosses up her hood, and gestures towards several more houses. "No idea how we can get to 'em all."

"Our mission—" you clarify, "your mission, is to keep as many alive as you can. Grant Sister Corbon and I the Time to act. Please."

She nods, breaking away, and following the rest of your companions. You can't make the Time to wait for anything further, brace yourself, and call upon your Goddess.

https://youtu.be/FnTd0HvAwCI

A flash of heat and devotion is on you faster than a flare from the sun itself. Cyril staggers backwards, and you almost do the same. The sheer intensity of the Goddess' blessing is unlike anything you've ever felt before. Spots of gold swim in your vision, as metal completely plates over your eyes, and the sensation of arms tightly wrapping around you keeps you in place. You look upon a wave of heat and light, dripping from the palms of your hands, as Mercy embraces you, and keeps you from falling completely into ecstasy.

There's more heat than you can stand, wrapping itself through the base of your spine, up through your chest, and before you can even register a single thought or acknowledge Cyril's caution to "stop, Richard— you don't have to—" you are knitting your hands together for *more*.

The voice of grace itself parts from your lips. It is not of blood, though it is pure, when held in the hands of Mercy. You take several steps forward, towards your calling.

To the church.

While thinking to the soil underfoot, and remembering to breathe, you catch something as sweet as the smell of your lover's dandelion curls. It's the season of Grace, flowers are in bloom, and there is still life to be had in the cries of death all about you. "Goddess of Bounty," you murmur, aching with compassion. "Your gardens have been overturned. Your trees have been felled. Your gifts have been tainted, and Your love gone unheeded for far too long."

From the corners of your eyes, to the flakes of gold parting up, off of your hands, and into the air, you catch a glimpse of green-gold. It's not metal. Pollen is rising, and dissipating. You part your hands, permitting the manifestation of your Goddesses to openly be seen. Trusting in your partner, in yourself, in your faith and the hold within every crack of your soul, you lean into the invocation.

Mercy grants you light, under every step. There is verve and love in every word, as you declare, "I want only for your protection."

(2/3)
>>
>>4280629
Cyril has sprinted ahead. On the periphery of swimming radiance, and a softness to the edges of your senses, you hear something along the lines of, "BY THE ORDER OF KING MAGNUS, THE MERCIFUL—"

"Goddesses of Beauty."

"THE HANDS OF THE CHURCH OF MERCY ARE ON YOUR FUCKIN' DOORSTEP—"

You slow your procession, as the pollen makes way for something deeper. Under your skin, inside of your veins, there is an embrace so complete that it works itself into more than your Flesh.

"Come unto me."

"OPEN UP!"

They're on you, and in you, as you can't help but declare, "Goddesses of health. Of growth, of life, of death, of grief, compassion, and enough LOVE to drive out the *sin* that has plagued your children."

"BY *ALL* THE GODS! RICHA— *FATHER ANSCHAM*—"

At the declaration of your name, a pair of doors opens up, just ahead. They're of an old and ancient wood, though you are not concerned with the trees felled in their making. Nor are you particularly focused on the moss, deep in the recesses of winding stone, that comprises a holy structure. The church of Flesh within Calunoth is nowhere near as significant as the home of the Father of Flesh.

"Let us draw out this sickness."

The bodies, in its interior, are cause for your aid. You mutter, feverishly, enamored with the embrace that is working itself up, into your lungs and heart. "Agriculture. Mercy. Your blessings are *needed*."

The dozens of souls within the building are trapped in a nightmare. Blackened skin and more pain than you can stand immediately greets you, with the scent of extended torment. Men, women, and children who have succumbed to weakened lungs still lie in some beds, never granted the air they needed, frantically being moved away by priests and priestesses who could do nothing to stop the inevitable.

You are a priest of life, death, and everything in-between.

Your hands are shaking.

A tendril of green-gold that may be a hand, or a finger, a vine or a blossom has come forth from the cracks in your soul, to steady your hands. It could have been a caress. One from the base of your spine, up through the heat crossing your face, and the impression of a finger pulling gently through your hair. You're certain it is of the petals that have worked between your fingers, and the agony threatening to crush you with more weight than the world itself.

Utter control over nature knits itself into the spaces between your hands, with a tendril, and a blossom. It more than a spring yellow gold, that wants to grant air to the lungs before you.

There is a desire for restraint, to control the desire to reach out.

Someone has been talking, and you're being shaken so hard you can't really ignore it any longer. "Richard. RICHARD."

Ofelia is at your side, and earnestly points to Brother Wilhelm. He calmly calls from the banister, in a distant voice, "there is no Time, Father Anscham."

(Just over 3/4)
>>
>>4280634
The back of Sister Corbon's gilded robes catch on the periphery of wafting pollen, the herbs in the air, a dozen priests of priestesses of Mercy, their last-ditch efforts at staving off more suffering than they can stand, a cry for help. A man is turned on his side, frothing at the mouth, and in the clutches of death. Another's wheezing threatens to stop completely. A grown man is crying hysterically, unable to breathe through his sobs, and desperately grabbing at his own chest in a poor attempt to calm himself, and not die from the strain.

There's simply no way to heal everyone individually. There's no Time.

You've asked the Goddess of Compassion for her protection, and are quite satisfied with being unable to register any further sensation properly. A thought occurs to you, amidst mild pleasure, and an all-encompassing urge to permit two Goddesses to exert their will over the mortal coil. To stop the suffering. To save as many lives as possible.

>A] Save as many lives as possible. Take a leap of faith. Invoke Flesh. There are over four hundred lives here, waiting to be saved— and you will settle for nothing less.

>B] There are more lives to be saved than the ones in this church alone. Show restraint. Serve your Goddess, respect your partner, and love yourself. Reach out with Agriculture, trust in Her works, and know full well that Mercy will protect you.
>1] Purify the lungs of every single man, woman, and child in the church.
>2] Take the toxin from the blood of every single man, woman, and child in the church.
>3] Ease the pain of every single man, woman, and child in the church who cannot be saved.
>4] Do everything conceivable in your power to completely heal every single man, woman, and child in the building. You don't know if Mercy can contend with Agriculture's will to such an extent, but you're willing to pray for the best.

>C] Compromise your own well-being, to save as many lives as possible, and share both of the Goddesses love with those present. Ask Mercy to heal through you, as much as She is able, rather than guide your invocation to Agriculture. They love you too intensely to kill you. They want to help, and save every life before you.

>D] You are utterly terrified of losing yourself and the small voice in the back of your mind that wants you to live another day is stressing that there is something you can do here that does not involve any personal sacrifice, to save as many lives as possible. You've worked incredibly hard to build up your alliances, look after your health and restore your connection to all of the Gods. Fight down the urge to go any deeper, and (write-in).
>>
>>4280636
A, with great power comes great yada yada
>>
>>4280636
>C] Compromise your own well-being, to save as many lives as possible, and share both of the Goddesses love with those present. Ask Mercy to heal through you, as much as She is able, rather than guide your invocation to Agriculture. They love you too intensely to kill you. They want to help, and save every life before you.
We FUCK
>>
>>4280636
>>C] Compromise your own well-being, to save as many lives as possible, and share both of the Goddesses love with those present. Ask Mercy to heal through you, as much as She is able, rather than guide your invocation to Agriculture. They love you too intensely to kill you. They want to help, and save every life before you.

THIS IF FOR YOU MOTHER BETH.
>>
>>4280636
>>C] Compromise your own well-being, to save as many lives as possible, and share both of the Goddesses love with those present. Ask Mercy to heal through you, as much as She is able, rather than guide your invocation to Agriculture. They love you too intensely to kill you. They want to help, and save every life before you.
>>
>>4280913
(Really appreciate you man, going to take this into account but)
>>4281028
>>4281032
>>4281065
(Going with the overwhelming majority! Taking all write-ins and comments into account. Writing now.)
>>
>>4281284
https://youtu.be/JEsoAwdABsI

Nothing else could matter more to you than this moment. Your lover. A Goddess scorned. Pleasure, without pain, and the sensation of hundreds of souls on the brink of destruction.

There is no need for fear, or any other reservations. "Heal through me," you implore, "that We may save *every* life before Us."

There is a scattering of priests and priestesses who flock to you. Their hands are open. They need your love. They need your compassion. Your heart breaks. Each seedling of grace and sincerity comes to fruition, in a desperate bid to retain your identity, sanity, and beloved memories.

You think of Mother Bethaea, and choke out, almost in a sob, "We will make light, even in this darkness."

There is a compromise. You reach out, with open hands. From the pollen drifting across the splinters of your soul, green-gold flecks part, into the air. They drift, across the edges of your blurred vision. You see light. You see green, tinting the yellow-gold that is swimming and growing in your eyes.

It hurts. The agony of every man, woman, and child is on you, as you and the Goddess of Compassion clutch a hand to your chest. Struggling to breathe against the softness underhand, you murmur, "Agriculture must take away Her bounty—"

With a gasp, and a pain through your chest that is utterly suffocating, you dig into the pain. You harvest the morning, in mourning, and watch as yours and Mother Bethaea's flower blossoms. The radiant herbs have seeded into the stone underfoot. From the base of the entryway in which you stand, from pollen and the will of the Goddesses, you reach out, further. Love, devotion, and the hope for a union of Mercy and the Goddess of Life tends to a new garden.

"She has so much to *give*."

Flowers burst into view, snaking their way from your position, and into nearly every natural surface.

"We shall ease the body. In memory, and loving devotion."

Their gentle, golden radiance is of honey, sweetly pouring oxygen into the air.

"Through which We shall cure *any* poison."

You can't take a deep breath, and clutch harder onto the tender Flesh between your skin and your heart. You miss her. The Goddess of Sympathy and the patron of a fallen Mother are in you, grieving.

"We will grow."

A man eased into a makeshift hammock, frothing at the mouth despite being placed in a pew and the arms of two priests of Flesh stops fighting against imminent death. You look not to his lungs, but to his heart. To the blood, that you reach out to, with the hands of Mercy.

"Life. Death."

A woman on the verge of death, with blackened skin and despair in her soul can no longer weep. Laid out like a corpse, the decay in her muscle is *nothing* the Goddess of healing cannot mend.

"It is an endless cycle," you murmur, with verdancy blossoming from every syllable. "In more than the fields."

(1/2)
>>
>>4281503
Twisting your wrist, as if you were adjusting your grip on a scythe, you motion to every last soul on the brink of death in one fell motion.

"In more than the green!"

The memory of the sun baking down upon your back, in the field and beside the fallen Mother of Agriculture is more than a bereavement. The Goddess of Light tends to the growing pressure against your back, up along your chest, from the pit of your stomach, the swell and *tension* all throughout your arms and hands.

You bury the notion of self-preservation, and harvest decay. Not merely with the will of Agriculture, but the combined might of your partner, your lover, and your greatest ally: you *heal.*

Slowly, as every single person in the Church of Flesh goes utterly still, you motion to the flowers. You motion to the rot. You pull your arms in, to embrace the love of two Goddesses, and share them in full.

The blackened and decaying skin all about one child utterly dissipates, leaving nothing but vibrant, healthy skin the Goddesses wake.

A man, sobbing hysterically to himself, stops his motions. Clutching at his throat, in disbelief, bloodshot eyes mend instantly and look to you with gratitude.

A citizen in the throes of death stops their seizure, while the life, death, and everything in-between is channeled through *your* vessel. It is instant, and overwhelming, and you cannot possibly take in the sight and sounds and taste of over fifty lost souls all being saved with the grace of your hands.

You are full. Impossibly full. Two Goddesses, who love you more than they can hope to express, and know of your devotion, have heard your plea. Mercy works through you, desperately, and tirelessly. There are so many who need your aid. There must be twenty who's sickness you've harvested, and twenty more on the brink of death. More are stable, but will rot if left unattended.

Agriculture knows of your plight, and is blossoming, all through you. Your shirt and belt beneath your robes are complaining, and you feel as if you can't take another second of the invocation. More than the impression of dirt packed under your nails, the weight that's dropped you to one knee, there is a swell. Deep into your stomach, there's a seed that's been buried.

You want to do more. The conflict is almost more than you can take,.and you don't dare to look away.

Several priests and priestesses are already harvesting the flowers you've brought to life.

Mother Bethaea should be remembered. She always wanted for more.

You're insatiable, and through the melted edges of your mind, from the caress of two Goddesses, and the softness of every inch of you— you can't help but feel the same way.

You're feeling, and trying desperately to breathe, and to save every soul that you can. There are already families and friends talking together, asking why, and trying to make sense of your work. Their lives were brought back in a single, blessed moment.

You can do *so* much more.

(Options in next post.)
>>
>>4281507
>A] You need to stop. Mercy and Agriculture won't outright hurt you, if they can manage it, but you're pushing their limits. Leave the clergy here to finish the job, and look to your allies for where your help is needed most.
>1] Keep up the dual invocation. There's over 400 people in this district in need of your aid.
>2] Release your invocation to Mercy, if only to spare your sanity. You need to focus.
>3] Release your invocation to Agriculture. You have very little grasp on how to manage her, and don't want to ruin yourself. Gather as much of yours and Mother Bethaea's flower as you can, and supplement Mercy's healing with it.

>B] You're not going anywhere. You wanted to heal everyone here, no matter the cost. Commit to it.

>C] Release the invocation completely. You hadn't realized the scope of this sickness, and have already provided an incredible amount of resources for your clergy. Try to get yourself together, and regroup, with a clear mind and some strategy.

>D] Write-in.
>>
>>4281509
>>A] You need to stop. Mercy and Agriculture won't outright hurt you, if they can manage it, but you're pushing their limits. Leave the clergy here to finish the job, and look to your allies for where your help is needed most.
>>1] Keep up the dual invocation. There's over 400 people in this district in need of your aid.

MERCY DIDN'T RAISE A COWARD.
>>
>>4281519
+1 WE STILL FUUUCK
>>
>>4281519
>>4281705
(GOING IN
VOTE IS LOCKED
WRITING NOW)
>>
>>4281973
https://youtu.be/Qk40cJLgRTY

"Mercy," you smile, through the ecstasy of your lover, and yet another Goddess working under your skin. "There is nothing to fear."

On bent knee, ignoring the discomfort from how full you are in every conceivable way, you attempt to look for your allies.

You can't. You need more.

There is pain, in the dozens of men and women who are being attended to. Your clergy now have the tools they truly need at their disposal, from the hand of Mercy, and your smile broadens. With it is reassurance, that the blossoms covering every visible surface will bring further relief. The interior of the church of Flesh is positively radiant. You are enamored, yet it feels as if the weight of the world is on you. In you.

It feels as if you're suffocating. There is more to the invocation than an embrace. A desperate need works its way through the space under your skin. The motion is devoid of heat or cold. Tenderly— in fear, and apology— there is the desire to ensure that you never want for anything again.

The Goddess of Compassion knows you are unafraid. There is no fear of death, or any reluctance to persevere. Though you ache from the pain you've endured, you take heart. It was on behalf of fifty innocent souls. Every ounce of decay has gone back, to the soil, and to you.

Someone takes you hard by the shoulder. It's Brother Trebbeck. He looks relieved. Sister Cardew is directly behind him, with Ofelia. You can see Theodore parting from Sister Tirel's side, in the distance. Before any one of your company can utter a word, you speak out. The natural, spreading green-gold about your eyes winces, utterly insane and unquestionably divine. "There are more to save."

A long moment passes, in which the sensation of two deities working their way through your vessel stretches out— out, into what may be hours, or minutes. There's no Time. There is complete control over recovery. Over the natural world.

It's just a moment, in which you move to stand, and look to the tall ceiling of the church of Flesh. Thousands of petals adorn every single inch of the structure. Pollen is raining down upon the citizens you have saved. Families look to each other, call to each other, and take one another in their recovered arms. They take in clean air, and a remedy befitting of the Gods.

You're certain that these people are *now* in capable hands. Clergy are running about, making rapid work of your invocation's remnants, and tending to those who still require aid.

(1/2)
>>
>>4282125
The sheer intensity of the invocation has your vision swimming, in hues of gold and flecks of petals. You can barely see the collection of clergy behind your friends, shouting. Cyril has kept his hand on your shoulder, and you understand that it's been to keep you steady. Firmly, he jerks his head in the direction of the door. He's fighting down the urge to shake you. You can feel his sympathy, and compassion, from the hold on your body to the fire in his speech. "Are you alright? Richard? You in there?"

"Yes." An impression of verdancy emanates from the tenderness of your speech. Earnestly, you ask, "Where are We needed most?"

No one replies, initially.

Brother Wilhelm is almost visibly frustrated, for the first Time since you've met him. The young man practically shoves aside the rest of your company, lingering next to Cyril. It feels as if every other word is an invocation. *He* understands. "You know that Sister Corbon is across the district, tending to the dying. Her skill is *yours*, Father Anscham. What ails our fellow man resides in the home. My interpretation— Our vision— is one of resignation. There are more buildings such as this. It is nearly impossible to see who should be tended to first. The citizens of Calunoth will have largely kept to their own dwellings, and I fear many of them cannot be reached in Time."

The priest's respect for the Gods completely outclasses the fear on the rest of your company. Cyril's hold on your shoulder is unbelievably tight. "You know I want to help."

Shoving herself ahead, Harriet snaps to you, "Richard. *Richard.* Breathe. Think. Are you *sure* about this?"

From your soul, as a vessel, and a man who wields the Gods themselves, you speak a single word. A trio of replies stems, and radiates, and evokes: "Yes."

Rapidly, Cyril nods again, towards the door. "They said they're keeping the worst cases near the wall. We'd better hurry."

"It's as I said," Sister Cardew notes, "though I was mistaken in one respect. As Brother Wilhelm mentioned. As Ofelia has observed. A number of heathens within their homes are bound to succumb to this illness." In a lower voice, straight-laced and blasphemous, she notes, "I highly doubt they all can be saved, Richard. Please. Do *not* kill yourself trying. Let us help you."

Ofelia can't help but speak up, convicted, and unshaken. "You guys turn under stress?"

Sister Cardew seems beyond offended, but before she launches into an explanation, you put up a hand. Your wrist is thicker, but you don't pause. "In a way. The Catalyst is cause for concern."

"Saw a couple guys around town," the halfling frowns, "real messed up. I can take you to 'em, but I don't know if you wanna. What with how much is goin' on. You sure yer ok?"

(Options in next post.)
>>
>>4282131
This vote has three parts. MAJORITY WILL DECIDE, permitting any overlap if necessary.

1. Specify where you would like to assign your company, from A-F.
2. Specify how many individuals you would like to take away from the church of Flesh, if any, from G and I.
3. Use the options from J-L, to indicate where everyone is going.)

>1] THE FOLLOWING INDIVIDUALS— IF THEY ARE ABLE AND WILLING— WILL GO WHERE YOU ASK THEM:
>A] Ray. (Moral support is important.)
>B] Brother Cyril Trebbeck (He has more physical strength and speed than anyone else in your company.)
>C] Sister Harriet Cardew (Her observations and caution are commendable, though she's slow on the ground.)
>D] Brother Theodore Wilhelm (His foresight and respect for the Gods is nearly as intense as his father's. His help towards your well being is up to your interpretation.)
>E] Sister Clemence Tirel (Traditional healing and a strong constitution makes for far easier mundane work.)
>F] Ofelia Banks (Possesses a limited supply of remedies, and a deep knowledge of poison. Her company is almost always invaluable.)

>2] AS THE LEADER OF THE CHURCH OF MERCY, THE FOLLOWING CLERGY ARE AT YOUR IMMEDIATE COMMAND:
>A] Approximately 30 clergy of the Church of Mercy. (Incapable of invoking, but are traditional healers, and are rapidly stocking up on yours and Mother Bethaea's cure. Largely defenders of the weak and weary, but excel in prevention more than reaction.)
>B] Approximately 15 clergy of the Church of Flesh (Capable of invoking Flesh. Likely do not have any further information than what Cyril acquired, but will be able to move through the city just as fast Brother Trebbeck. Infinitely more capable of putting down a newly born demon.)

>3] THE FOLLOWING LOCATIONS ARE KNOWN TO HAVE CITIZENS ON THE VERGE OF DEATH:
>A] The Half-Pint, where Sister Corbon is working. Sister Tirel will likely be of the most use with the greatest amount of hands at her disposal.
>B] The general populace of this district. Having Theodore in your company will ensure you see to those in the greatest need of aid.
>C] The heathens, blasphemers, liars or soon-to-be-demons that Ofelia identified. Having her in your company is mandatory to find them.

(Due to overwhelming, unanimous, and consistent votes to pursue this course of action, write-ins will not be accepted for the outcome of this prompt. You are committed to maintaining your invocation to Mercy and Agriculture.

That said, feel free to discuss any strategy you like for positioning, anything you want to say, how to save as many lives as possible, etc. Please let me know if you have any questions!)
>>
>>4282136

1A 1B 1F 2B Will go to 3C

1C 1D 2A(5 only the most skilled) will stay 3B

1E and 2A(the rest) will go 3A

We need to take care of those demon as soon as possible lest we need to suffer through yet another outbreak, the spirit of these people is broken enough as is. Cyril and Ofelia can go on a cute demon murdering date and Ray has always been more than just moral support.

Having the majority of the mercyfags with us is redundant, we need to spread out as much as possible, theo is with us for mimaxing and Cardew to tell us when it's time to pull out.

The people in the half pint are getting the second best thing to Richard himself, hopefully that is enough.
>>
>>4282447
+1
>>
>>4282447
+1
>>
>>4282447
>>4282504
>>4282615
Just to be totally clear, are you going with Cyril/Ofelia's group, or keeping Theodore with you to tend to the general public?
>>
>>4282679

We are keeping theo and cardew with us while we tend to the general public
>>
>>4282683
(Copy that, thanks for the fast response. Vote is locked, then! Writing now.)
>>
>>4282685
https://youtu.be/QDNhe1Vy0No

You take a step forward. A trail of mullein blossoms in your wake. As quickly as you're able, addressing Ofelia and Cyril, new flowers might as well come forth from your lips. The tone is that of grief, yet emboldened with the grace of the Goddesses. "The Spirit of our people is broken enough as is. Would you see to those who need your aid most? To end the suffering of those who cannot— *will not* be saved?"

They both nod, completely understanding the gravity of your request. You are in the throes of sensation so divine, you don't dare to kneel down to Ray, but you command your boy to follow and guard them both without fail.

There's a moment where Cyril almost protests your glance to the rest of the clergy present, but with a flash of green and gold to his own blood-shot eyes, there's no use for him to pause or counsel. Lives are on the line. You raise the divinity in your voice, and call out, "Sisters, and Brothers! We ask for you to COMBAT UNCERTAINTY!"

Every single member of the church of Flesh completely stops their motions, to dart their eyes to you, and to stop their movement. "Go," you declare, "that the Church of Mercy may make the most of Our works here!" With a gesture to Ofelia, you command, "look to the eyes of the Goddess," and with a wave of your hand to Cyril, ignoring the pollen that falls in its wake, you declare, "and the command of Brother Trebbeck!"

There's immediately shifting, as the clergy resolve to finish their duties.

You bark, "show your DEVOTION! Do NOT spurn His works! Do not tarry a MOMENT longer!"

Cyril has already ran to the door, and begins calling out to the rest of his fellow clergy.

"Each breath we draw may be their last!" You demand, "GO!"

It's all the encouragement they need. Every single priest and priestess of Flesh begins to run out of the building, and you note that some of them are wearing the flowers you've produced in lapels, collars of their robes, and even in one woman's hair.

The assassin at your side quickly, resolutely comments, "yer a lunatic. I gotcha', though."

"Thank you," you softly reply.

"I'll see ya' back at the Bee."

"The Gods are Merciful, Ofelia."

"Yeah. I know. Take care of yerself, Richard."

She gives you that pained smile you hate to love, and in a toss of her cloak, is gone.

Knowing full well that you can't heed Ofelia's caution at the present moment, you direct your full attention towards Sister Cardew. She's already frowning. "You don't need to ask."

You do anyways. "Your guidance means more than We can convey. Tell Us. When to stop. To come back."

Wearily, lips tight and straight-faced, the sister of Spirit informs you, "I will." She nods, towards the structure, flowers, patients and clergy behind you. "I know They won't hurt you. You will be alright, but they need you, now. We *all* do."

(1/4)
>>
>>4282796
It seems you've commanded the attention of the entire church. Aside from the clergy of Mercy that persists, the sight of so many healed brings more light into your heart than you can stand. Sister Tirel hasn't stopped her motions, command, and work. Though you know of her capability, you call out to every other priest and priestess among you. "FIVE! With the ability to aid those beyond aid! Will FIVE of you lend your hands, to serve alongside Us?"

An elderly man, only a few feet away, immediately works his way through the collection of clergy that have been clamoring to get your attention. His neatly combed mustache and beard hardly bristles, as he quickly states, "Brother Fergant. At your service, Mercy. Agriculture. Father."

You give him an appreciative nod. "Thank you, Brother. Your respect is greatly appreciated."

While the rest of the clergy recognizes their aid is needed more here, and that you are not giving any answers, a few more come to you. There's shifting, as three women part from Sister Tirel's side. It's clearly at her urging, as they're shooed away from upstairs.

Another man, who's short, but with all the speed and urgency you could hope for, practically materializes after squeezing through the group about you. "Brother Durville," he says. His voice is grizzled as the gray in his stubble. Both of you share a brief nod of understanding, and mutual gratitude.

While the three priestesses upstairs make their way down, you call out, "as We see to those who could not be with Us here today," To the priestess of Mercy, in particular, you stress, "to those who are able follow Sister Tirel's command! Your aid is still needed! The Half-Pint, repurposed into a house of Mercy, sits at the edge of this district! Take heed of our Sister's judgement! Spare as many lives as you are able!"

At your back, Sister Cardew is speaking in a hushed tone with Brother Wilhelm. Over their whispering, you hear Electrum call out, "yes, Father Anscham—! ALRIGHT, YOU HEARD THE MAN! LET'S MOVE!"

While shee barks a number of orders to the healers about the top of the church, at its base, the remaining three clergy you've called for make their way over. The space about you rapidly clears, revealing a blessed sight. Each woman's arms are positively brimming with the flowers you've produced. In baskets, bandages, and every makeshift carrier they could find, you pause, and almost do a double-take. All three women look nearly identical, curtsy, and say simultaneously, "Sister Willoughby."

"Agnes," "Susan," and "Tilda," is fired off, in quick succession, from each woman. They look so similar, you can't hope to sort them out, though there's a slightly different inflection in each one of the sandy-haired, full-lipped, and youthful priestesses voices.

(2/4)
>>
>>4282798
Sister Cardew immediately informs you, just to your side, "Brother Wilhelm will minimize his invocations to Dream., while he remains awake. It would seem that there are at least one hundred more who require your immediate attention, Father Anscham."

"There is no Time," the young man distantly repeats, in a daze and the sight of a God. His brow is knitted, in mild distress, as his eyes lose focus. A few clouds shift in his speech, while the crescents of his pupils open into a full moon.

He smiles, slightly. There is a crack in his very skin, running alongside his left eye. Paint swims in the depths of what should be exposed muscle and bone. It's impossible, beautiful, disturbing, and is spreading by the second as Brother Wilhelm maintains his invocation.

Very gently, without drawing back, you implore the priest, "nothing is impossible. Will you run with me?"

"Amidst the moon, and stars in the sky," he replies instantly, as you all bolt out of the building.

Leaving behind the bustle of Sister Tirel's delegating, the work of the remaining 25 clergy of your church, and every man, woman and child who calls for you, the doors to the Church of Flesh remain open a moment longer. As you look back, to a trail of flower petals and divinity trailing along the ground, in impressions of light and gold from every step, there's a curtain. From the pollen drifting from the interior of the church, beyond the pews and in makeshift beds of every kind, over fifty people are all waving, and calling out. Many are crying, in sheer relief. It was difficult to hear, at first, but not even the divinity pushing up, and in, and through your soul could sound so sweet.

"Thank you, Father!"
"*Thank you!*"
"The Gods ARE Merciful, Father Anscham."
"YOU are Merciful!"
"Go with the Gods, Father Anscham!"
"Bless you, Father!"
"Thank you!"

The doors to the church close. You've definitely lost count of how many lives you've saved on Father Friedrich's behalf, and as you run through the city streets, keeping just behind Theodore, you can't help but ask, "where, Brother Wilhelm? Where are We needed most?"

He all but skids to a stop. The district you reside in has countless winding streets. Though the Church of Flesh is just off the main road, little cobblestone alleyways peel off, into Ofelia's old residential area. The small houses of the few halflings who take refuge in Calunoth are gently pointed to, by the priest of Dream. "Long have you gazed upon blasphemy and sin. He will not look upon them."

Brother Wilhelm whips his head around suddenly, to stare straight at you. The motion is so harsh, for such a gentle priest, you almost draw back. The vessel before you loses a voice of his own. For a moment, the moon and stars of the God of the Night Himself declares, "the hands of Mercy cannot hold every one of Her children."

(3/4)
>>
>>4282800
A streak of pain lances through you. Not merely in your heart, but in every crack of your soul. You are MORE than outraged. You are the Father of your children, and are more than capable of seeing to their health. Their lives. Their souls.

You want to believe that this is blasphemy. You, and the Mother of your children, are aching.

It has to be a lie.

You HAVE to save them all.

More mildly, yet persisting with the God of Visions, the priest of Dream before you murmurs, "one hundred souls." He points, to a break in the road ahead, and gestures in a specific and incredibly odd pattern. It's almost as if he's painting, as Theodore motions, "sixty may yet be saved. They have indicated upon their homes, that they have turned from the light of Mercy. Closed are their hearts, and their homes."

The three sisters of Mercy in your company look like they want to sprint to their aid, but wait for your command.

Pain laces through Brother Wilhelm's tone. You know he's imagining what must lie ahead, as the young man winces, "forty are dying. This is not the place of Dream. This is a nightmare."

He wakes up.

The young man practically collapses. You reach out. A dozen vines are produced from the motion, though you stop his fall with your hands. The hands of Mercy are those of a healer, and as you keep the priest on his feet, all exhaustion seems to fall from his frame.

The vines about you return to the Aerth, and the flowers that have grown behind your motion wave slightly in the wind. Brother Wilhelm looks up to you, with eyes of mortal blue. He shakes his head. "I will take you to them. Sixteen are in enough pain that they wish to die, Father. They are all in different homes. This is not counting a family who has a newborn among them. She may die as we speak."

Panic hits you, and must be visible in every inch of your frame. Much more urgently, Brother Wilhelm rattles off, "seven more are in their midst, though in fairer condition." His tone gets a lot more distant. "Five homes have young children. Younger than I. They are in death's grasp."

You wonder for the boy's sanity, as he parts from your hold, to stand on his own two feet. "The remaining two are elderly, and have accepted their death. They are on opposite sides of the wall."

There's definitely something broken in Theodore's speech, as he repeats yet again, "it is impossible. There is not enough Time."

>Options in next post.
>Please choose one option from each group. (e.g. A1, B2, C1, D2, E1.)
>MAJORITY VOTE will decide for each category. If there is a direct contradiction, the vote will remain open until a consensus is reached.
>>
>>4282803
>A] The three priestesses of Mercy in your company could cover a lot of ground.
>1] Send them to see to the less injured throughout town. Have them provide the rest of your company with as much of their supplies as they see fit. Preventing anyone from needing your care would be prudent.
>2] Keep them by your side. You can't stand the thought of losing anyone who could have been saved, by their hands. You're going to see to this catastrophe, no matter how long it takes.

>B] Sixteen innocent lives are at stake, who may not want your help. You know how it feels, to long for death. No matter how much pain they must be in, you aren't quite sure how you feel about intervening.
>1] Let them go. You have more than enough people to save who want your help, and no Time to see to their plight.
>2] Send Sister Cardew to attend to as many of them as she can, before they pass. The priestess of Spirit may be able to at least bring some comfort to them, before they die.
>3] Turning from the Gods, especially when you're in the throes of Their embrace, is unthinkable. You fear for their souls, more than any other, and are making this your first priority.

>C] The population of Corcaea is in constant decline. A family of eight is about to lose an infant.
>1] You can't stand the thought of it, and are sprinting there as fast as you can. Let the rest of your company catch up. You'll sort out the rest of their family once you're certain that the baby is saved.
>2] Brother Durville seems like the fastest man in your company. Send him to attend to the entire family as he sees fit.
>3] EVERY life in your hands is of equal weight. No matter how much it hurts, you need to focus on those who have less of a chance of surviving the first of your care. Don't attend to the home, or the infant, until you address someone else first.

>D] Five homes within this district have young children, on the brink of death.
>1] Delegate the matter to the five clergy of Mercy in your company.
>2] It might be hurting him to do so, but ask Theodore to accompany you, and help you save all of them yourself.
>3] Go with everyone in your company. Don't tax Brother Wilhelm any further, and ensure you save every last child.

>E] Two senior citizens are extremely far from one another. You know you cannot physically reach them in Time, even with Mercy and Agriculture within you. Your vessel can only do so much.
>1] Ask Brother Wilhelm for a criteria to prioritize who to save. (Write-in how you go about doing so.)
>2] You don't feel right picking and choosing who to save. Simply have the young man tell you both their locations, and (Write-in how you wish to do so.)
>3] You have to accept that you can't save everyone. Let them die.

>F] Dream won't look upon the souls of sinners. You will. Tend to the halfling refuge. (Write-in how.)
>>
>>4282807

>F] Dream won't look upon the souls of sinners. You will. Tend to the halfling refuge. (Write-in how.)

Richard runs to every single child who is about to die and brings them back to a stable condition, the mercyfags we have with us remain in his wake to tend to the other members of the families *just enough to buy us more time*, after Richard manages to bring everyone back from the brink he should tend to the 16 others who are in great pain, and only after that see to the elderly if they are still alive. If at any point one of our clergy members is idle they should sprint to the aid of the seniors. Theo and Cardew can assist in any way they think they can without slowing down Richard.
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>>4282880
(Sorry if this wasn't clear. To be totally clear, Dream did not give Theodore ANY information regarding the halfling refuge. The five homes with young children (16 people total) are human. This prompt is for your FIRST plan of action, as you are uncertain how long this will take, or how the situation may change.)
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>>4282885
(For further clarity, the premise of the vote, like I tried and failed to demonstrate, was :
Letter (for which group to get to first)
Number (for who to assign, who makes sense to have there)
The only pure write-in is for the halfling district, as no info was provided at all.

If anyone would like to provide a pure write-in, please CLEARLY specify who is going where, and what course of action you'd like to take IMMEDIATELY.)
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>>4282885

Right, I didn't understand the prompt properly. I say we leave the refuge last because halflings are basically immune to poison so they shouldn't have the same amount of trouble as the humans
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>>4282890

I should also clarify that Richard should tend to the most critical baby first and then run to the rest of the children, the mercyfags tend to the family while dick focuses on the kids.
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>>4282897
(Gotcha. So for ABSOLUTE clarity, your vote is for C1. Tentative plan of action being tentative, will absolutely bear it in mind.

Got an appointment in about an hour, will be keeping tabs on the thread if anyone has any further questions!)
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>>4282807
>C] The population of Corcaea is in constant decline. A family of eight is about to lose an infant.
>1] You can't stand the thought of it, and are sprinting there as fast as you can. Let the rest of your company catch up. You'll sort out the rest of their family once you're certain that the baby is saved.
>>
>>4282880
>>4282933
(Alright! Locking the vote here. Writing now!)
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>>4283084
Inching to run, your mind instantly races with a singular, definitive plan. It's impossible, of course, but you are a *hero*. You are a man of all the Gods, and don't care in the slightest about what is, or isn't possible.

Through more pain than a mortal could fathom, you have to start, "where is the newborn, and her family?"

Brother Wilhelm immediately understands the situation, and murmurs as quickly as can, "take the main road east. Third alley. Make a left. Second house beyond the rubble to the right."

You're off running, calling behind you, "everyone with Brother Wilhelm! Come as quickly as you can!"

To your relief, every single person in your company can be heard picking up into a full sprint after you. There's no burn in your lungs, or fire in your chest as you completely leave them in the dust. You really can't feel much of anything, beyond the ache of compassion that wrestled itself in to the deepest fibers of your being. Mercy is with you, and cannot ease this pain. The potential of losing another life— *especially* when you are together— is unthinkable.

The Goddess of Healing ensures you follow each direction to the letter. Relief soaks into what should otherwise be an utterly exhausted form. Not a stone beneath yours or Agriculture's feet could be a hindrance, either. You might as well have teleported in front of the small home, with two stories, and the sound of a few crying children within.

It's not right to open the door without at least declaring, "Father Anscham, leader of the Church of Mercy! By the sight of Dream, and order of the King, we come with Mercy, Agriculture, and more help on the—!"

The door is jerked open before you can finish, by a burly citizen befitting of the Church of Flesh. The intensity of his anger and grief is only dwarfed by a wheeze, as he comes right up to your face. Immediately taken by a horrific coughing fit, trying to look back to the interior of the house as he bends over, the man demands, "get inside—! Do what you have to—"

Nestled about the hearth are a number of beds, that have been dragged closer to the mundane smoke and flame. Coughs interject the entirety of the humble abode. Three small girls are nestled together, on a single mattress. All of them have blackened lips, and though only their faces are visible, you are certain their lungs have gone foul.

Two young women, around Brother Wilhelm's age, are beside a rocking chair. In it is surely their mother. All three are in slightly better health, though they're practically taking turns coughing. The mother sitting at the center of the group can't conceal a huff of blood, that comes to her lips. She was clearly too ill to even hear you at the door.

As she realizes who you are, you're met with a cry. Her pain outclasses yours, or Mercy's. "Please, Father. My baby. My baby girl. *Please.*"

(1/2)
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>>4283187
Wiping away the efflux of crimson, and revealing the network of decay that's spread along her arms, from her bosom, the woman practically staggers up to meet you. "Hurry."

You cross the room, paying the two boys no mind who have ran to their father's side.

There's no Time. There's a newborn, wrought with the first days of a sickness, and struggling to breathe as she clings to herself in pain. You can't stand the thought.

There is Mercy, who works through the flowers knitted between your fingers, and gently takes hold of a dying child. There's a slight impression of Her embrace, in the back of your mind. For a moment, the scent of decay, ruin, and poison is replaced with honey.

A cascade of faint, golden flecks is about the mother's shawls, and healthy tissue is about her child. The woman begins to sob hysterically, holding her baby to her chest, who is back to crying right alongside her. Incoherently, over healthy wails, she tries to choke out, "thank you— Mercy—! Thank you, Father! Thank you— my sweet, sweet little Marigold—"

You might cry, and have to turn on a heel, to address the seven men and women who have sprinted to your aid. They're in the door, and there is legitimately no Time to process anything that's happening.

(Options in next post.)
>>
>>4283192
>A] Your intent was to leave your clergy here, to buy you more Time. You speculate every child here is in a later stage of this Agriculture-based illness, and will eventually require aid, if your antidote will not mend them. Write-in who among your company you would like to stay in this home, to look after the sick as they see fit.

>B] You can spare one more minute, to help administer yours and Mother Bethaea's flower. (It should probably have a name by now. Anyone who wishes to write-in a moniker for it is welcome to at any time.)

>C] You're already here, with Mercy and Agriculture on your side. You know you're going to run yourself into the ground at this rate, but you are trying to look out for your company, too. Heal everyone here...
>1] ...with Mercy, alone. It will take slightly longer, but you know She wants only the best for all of you.
>2] ...with Agriculture, alone. Poisons are Her domain, and it will be instantaneous, but will likely cost you.
>3] ...with Mercy, and Agriculture. The strain on your mind and soul is already extremely intense, but you can't spare a second.

>D] No one here is in the throes of death. Many more are. You're certain the three girls here cannot move on their own, but will try to not curse the lack of any clergy of Flesh among you. You're taking everyone else, and running to the district where the remaining children are with this illness. Before you go...
>1] Have only one of your clergy momentarily part from your company. Have them escort the family to the Half-Pint, and rejoin you as soon as they possibly can. (Specify who, and if you have a preference for where they should find you.)
>2] Ask Brother Durville to run, to order the clergy of Flesh to assist you all. (Specify how many, if you need more than one clergy member.)
>3] Swear to this family that you'll send for more aid as soon as humanly possible. (Leave with everyone.)

>E] Write-in.
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>>4283195
>>A] Your intent was to leave your clergy here, to buy you more Time. You speculate every child here is in a later stage of this Agriculture-based illness, and will eventually require aid, if your antidote will not mend them. Write-in who among your company you would like to stay in this home, to look after the sick as they see fit.

We are leaving whoever has the most trouble keeping up with our pace, probably the oldest healer we have.
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>>4283202
+1
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>>4283202
>>4284070
(Good afternoon guys! Probably not going to have a session today but will be around and have my eyes peeled, updates as often as possible this weekend per usual. Locking the vote, writing now!)
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>>4284511
https://youtu.be/e52IMaE-3As

You, Mercy, and Agriculture firmly beckon a single member of your clergy forward. Pollen continues to fall from your outstretched hands, between the beams of sunlight cast from the gentle motion. "Brother Fergant."

The elderly gentleman has already taken a great deal of supplies from his sisters of Mercy, and without question, comes forward. "Of course, Father Anscham. I'll see to them."

"The Gods are Merciful," you insist, nodding to the bereaved and devastatingly angry father standing at the door to his home. The scent of death is still in the air.

Brother Wilhelm was too kind to mention that this home had already lost a child.

Your clergyman stays behind, with a "thank you, Father," before beckoning the parents within the small abode to assist in his work. You know they're in capable hands. Panic is drenching you, but you shove down every urge to sprint. Walking out the door, you try to ground yourself.

The soil is fair, and more tender than you feel. You think of the roots underfoot, and a few pale green flowers sprout up merely from your loving attention.

Harriet has her hands to her knees, and is clearly struggling, but is being aided by one of the sisters Willoughby. Brother Wilhelm is breathing a little harder than he should. You know he can't keep your pace, yet he points down the street. "You do not wish to know who to aid first," he breathlessly states, looking to you earnestly. The crack alongside his left eye has stopped spreading. The network trails down his cheek, in a melancholy way, and you have to say something.

"No," you murmur. "They are *all* Our children."

A look is flashed at you that says the young man knows he's already wasting too much of your Time. A number of directions are rattled off, and seared into your memory.

As quickly as you're able, you tell the rest of your clergy, "remain behind at each home, and only if necessary. Do *not* tarry. If your work falters for but a moment, please see to the elderly across town. Brother Wilhelm— Sister Cardew— please find me as soon as you are able."

They both nod. You're off, down the road. It's immediately apparent that Theodore's directions were to take you only to the nearest home. There are a few bodies in the street. In the distance, a number of priests of Flesh are moving the dead onto wagons. Time has no place here. Not for how quickly you arrive at your destination, nor for formality.

(1/3)
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>>4284640
Banging on a small home's door, briefly announcing yourself as you move to open the shelter, you're greeted again with desperation. A single woman, all in black, raises reddened eyes to you. Five children are about her, each one seemingly younger than the last. She draws them close, possibly unaware she had left the door unlocked, and clearly is in too much distress to recognize you. Her voice— ragged from crying, over what she presumes to be a lost child— breathes a single word.

"Mercy."

Extending a single open hand, the Goddess replies, "in a different form."

You step into the building, shutters drawn, candles low and unattended. Blankets and sheets are done about the floor, the hearth having gone out some Time ago. A house cat looks to you, quizzically, while its eyes reflect the verdant, golden light you leave in your wake. From Her reach, and upon every last flower that sprouts from beneath the dirt beneath your feet, between floorboards and stone, comes the promise of continued life.

From the reach of two Goddesses, from a wave of your hand, you spare yet another life. The young mother before you throws herself onto her bundled child, stricken with too much emotion to speak or sob. A muffled, "may all the Gods be praised," is all you hear before everyone in the building goes utterly silent.

Battling down every urge to let your heart crumble, turning your back on a family stricken with reverence and disbelief, the world shifts from under you. You, or Mercy, or Agriculture, may have nodded in acknowledgment.

You run, from house, to house.

One couple, with two children, cannot understand why only one of their babies was afflicted in such a way.

"What kind of Gods would allow this?"
"Who do you think you're serving?!"
"My baby. My baby boy— why did you wait so long? *Why*?"

They don't thank you, as you leave. There are curses.

They don't have to understand. Their child might, one day. It doesn't matter. The Gods are Merciful.

Another home is so grateful for your work, they beg you to stay. You have to pull off a woman clutching to your robes. The scent of liquor is on her, as she pleads, "my other children, Father. You have to. *Please.* I'll lose them ALL."

It doesn't matter.

She starts rattling off Mercy's tenets. It's such a mockery of Her work, you can't even recall the extent of the mother's sin.

The Gods are Merciful.

You implored her to seek the church of Mercy's aid, from the sisters in your company, before turning to run.

The work becomes something of a blur.

You're losing track of just how long you've been with Mercy, and Agriculture.

They're in you. They are you. From the reassurance that there is nothing to fear, that your hands are that of a healer, that your gifts are endless, and a bounty all their own, it's definitely the fifth home that you've been to.

You stand in the street, and try to not reel. Reaching out towards a nearby building, for support, you find there's no need.

(2/3)
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>>4284645
The embrace of your lover is all through you. It's terribly hard to feel anything, in the hands of the Goddess of Healing. You're certain that you can't want for anything more. The Goddess of Bounty is all about you, and soothing, sating, ensuring that Sister Cardew has to practically scream as she shakes you to get your attention.

"RICHARD! Sorry—! Richard." She's having an exceptionally hard Time breathing, but manages, "Richard. It's alright. You're alright."

Out of the corners of the sage and gilt practically sparkling along the edges of your vision, from the heat of the sun, the gift of every rock, and tree, the soil underfoot and the flowers littering every step, from every path you've taken, leading up to the small garden growing underfoot, you think you might catch a few clergy of the Church of Mercy, down the road.

"They heard you had come back. What happened at the Church of Flesh."

Your heart sings. "A blessing. Over fifty lives spared. Our gift, that will save hundreds more."

"You've done enough."

You have never wanted for more in all your life. A little insanity works its way into every divine note that demands, "there are more."

"You're hurting yourself," the priestess states, just as firmly, "and Brother Wilhelm needs to rest."

The Goddess of Compassion seems torn between melting down the heathen at your side, and sympathizing with the pain drenching such a devoted priestess.

"This is not the only district that was affected, Richard." She's furious, but keeps a level voice. "King Magnus shouldn't have asked this of you. I know you're hurting."

Your own compassion, obsession, and drive wins out. "Many would have died without Our aid. There are *more* to save. We are wasting Time."

"Brother Wilhelm explicitly said they didn't want to be saved," Harriet snips. "You asked me to help you. Let me. Come back."

(Options in next post.)
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>>4284647
>A] No. You just got started. There are still eighteen more people, minimum, who could be saved with your aid. Sure, they might not all have lived. You don't care. You're committing to seeing this through, even if it's just for visual confirmation of homes that need to be relieved of the deceased.

>B] Mercy, you just want to do the right thing. Ask Brother Wilhelm if he can confirm if there are any surviving citizens. Anyone you know with some certainty you can save. Wait to make your decision until you have a little more information. You can't even tell where he is right now, but swear to yourself to find a way to make it up to him.

>C] Let Sister Cardew help you. Simply ask her what she advises, and try to heed her counsel.

>D] You hate to admit it, and will at least get back to The Half-Pint. Make sure everyone in your congregation is safe, and then release the invocation.

>E] You know she's right. Get back to The Honey Bee, knowing that Ofelia and Cyril will have headed back as soon as they're able. You probably are going to need to rest for a long while after this, and want to be somewhere safe and quiet.

>F] Write-in.
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>>4284650
>>B] Mercy, you just want to do the right thing. Ask Brother Wilhelm if he can confirm if there are any surviving citizens. Anyone you know with some certainty you can save. Wait to make your decision until you have a little more information. You can't even tell where he is right now, but swear to yourself to find a way to make it up to him.
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>>4284661
+1
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>>4284661
>>4284781
(Awesome, locking the vote. Writing.)
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>>4284784
https://youtu.be/wS_6u1F2gz4?t=15

"Mercy," you choke out, "I just want to do the *right* thing."

A rain of spider chrysanthemums drops from your lips. It really feels like you're suffocating, in heat, and devotion, as the edges of your vision continue to swim. It's getting harder to speak. You put a hand to the blessing, and the petals that persist. They drip through your fingers like melted gold.

You're so full— of life, and the blessing of your Goddesses— that nothing could taste sweeter. There's an incredibly strong compulsion to choke down *more.*

"Brother Wilhelm," you murmur, catching edges of fractured blue, "We cannot turn from those in aid. Not without certainty. *Please.* Of the citizens you spoke of, how many are still enduring?"

A fracture, and another web catches on the edges of your sight. It's a splinter, across a young man's soul, and across his face, as he endures long enough to inform you, "only one. It is as I said, Father. He wishes for death."

A splinter catches on the edges of your mind. It's of sixteen lives, gone, in just a few minutes. This is not the only place in the King's city that was affected by the demon of Agriculture. Brother Murdac poisoned two districts under your sight alone.

You left for Calunoth last month.

It has been six that your children have waited for you.

In four months time, it will have been a year, since you left the Church of Mercy to die.

You did want to die. As a kind, and compassionate, and loving man, with more empathy in your soul than any mortal can withstand. It's difficult to not think, back, to the Church of Mercy. A place where you could never have enough hands for every soul that came to you for aid.

There's a woman at your side, who has heard all of this before, and sees the pain written across your face that not even two Goddesses can stave away. "Richard. You need to listen to me. We are *all* here to help. Your clergy are here, in the streets. In the church. They are still at the Half-Pint. They *will* go back to The Honey Bee. They all need you, but you need to look after yourself."

She practically shakes you, but you really can't feel it. Sister Cardew must have taken your hand in hers, at some point. The touch is significantly softer than you remember it being, and a lot less cold. It's likely the Goddesses, though there might as well be another deity of compassion at your side.

The priestess of Spirit is usually inscrutable, but your partner knows she's worried for you. "Listen to me. You trust *me*, don't you?"

"Only one," you repeat, unable to respond normally.

On the verge of collapse, Brother Wilhelm nods, "yes. With due respect, Father..."

"Go ahead."

"You need to rest, too. I cannot imagine how quickly father will kill me. For not doing more. You have done an incredible thing here, today. Permit us to find someone, to attend to your charge. If my interpretation is not mistaken, you would thank me."

(Options in next post.)
>>
>>4284888
>A] No matter how much it taxes your mind, body, and soul, you will NOT permit someone to die who may be saved by your hand. Disregard every plea and counsel, and demand to know where this last lost soul is. You will not rest until you see to them.

>B] You've done more than enough. Get back to The Half-Pint. Make sure everyone in your congregation is safe, and then release the invocation. You know they'll look after everything in the district on your behalf.

>C] You know they're right. Let your friends help you. Get back to The Honey Bee, where you know they all will gather, and release the invocation somewhere safe. There have been many, many more lives lost to your neglect than just this. Don't neglect yours, now.

>D] Write-in.
>>
>>4284890
>>C] You know they're right. Let your friends help you. Get back to The Honey Bee, where you know they all will gather, and release the invocation somewhere safe. There have been many, many more lives lost to your neglect than just this. Don't neglect yours, now.

We need to worry about the future lives we have to save too.
>>
>>4284912
+1
>>
>>4284912
>>4284915
(Unanimous C vote. Good shit, noting the comments. Vote is locked, writing now!)
>>
>>4285195
Worry knits your brow, as Mercy's arms and heat wraps behind you. She's in less of a hold, and more of a caress. From your chest, up, along your neck, and into your hair, She's there beside you, as you *both* think to *every* life you have yet to save.

She loves you so much.

"I will go back," you murmur, through the dirt packed into your throat. Swallowing down the thought of another life is worse than the grit, of every person you were have left unsaved. "Go. Meet me at The Honey Bee."

"I'm not leaving you," Sister Cardew insists, still holding onto your hand. You know she wants to keep you grounded.

"Thank you." It's more to both of the clergy in your company. The priest of Dream, who's sight has granted you more blessings than you can count, simply nods. Without wasting another second, Theodore takes off running. You know he'll keep his word.

At your side persists a singular friend, who guides you back, to the little, winding, cobblestone streets. From the weathered roads adorning the majority of the district, the halfling refuge is a welcome sight. There are so many flowers, in varying states of disarray. Each step is another blossom, brought back to fruition. The wilted and drying trees come into color, and life, as the scent of pollen and freshly cut grass is all you can think or feel or see.

Through the narrow alleys, to the small picket fence, up a flight of stairs made of fairly old wood, you quietly observe as Sister Cardew makes immediate work of picking the front door's lock. A weary frown is offered to you, by the priestess of Spirit, as she works.

You take the note off of Ofelia's front door. It read, "Closed until further notice." A wreath of flowers blossoms in its place.

Gingerly taking you from the trails of stems and blossoms, the gold, and the green, Sister Cardew leads you into a home in disarray. You do not focus on the upturned furniture. Neither the papers strewn about the floor, the kitchen supplies scattered about, or every piece of evidence on the floor is cause for alarm.

The King's men will no longer think that Ofelia was harboring anyone befitting of capture. There is no one else home, but you don't mind. Into the guest chambers, onto a familiar bed, you're encouraged to sit down.

The bed squeaks, louder than usual.

Sister Cardew grabs a chair, and does not need to light a lantern. The pollen falling from your hands is so radiant, the entirety of the windowless room is aglow. So are the flowers spilling forth from your lips. You move, to put a hand to them, and realize the priestess beside you is holding onto you as tightly as she can. Stopping the motion, Harriet quietly states, "Richard."

"Yes," you acknowledge, barely able to speak.

"It's alright," she says, in a warning, wary fashion.

Taking in a deep breath, almost unable to feel or taste the air, you murmur, "We know."

(1/2)
>>
>>4285354
A trail runs from the base of your spine, as an impression, into a hold. Two Goddesses have filled every crack in your soul. Their embrace has lasted longer than any man could hope to bear. They cling to you, for one more moment. They know how much you care. They know how much more you wish to do. How you long to serve, and express your devotion. To the land, its people, and every last fracture in the hearts of mankind.

The Goddesses of Mercy and Agriculture have hope, as you release your invocation.

Immaculate gold glints off of the pupils of your eyes. Rimmed with natural sage, it's not the overwhelming heat, or compassion, that has you draw in on yourself. You're overwhelmed with affection, and nurture, that demands you never want for anything again.

You immediately keel over. An out-pour of flowers spills from your lips. The light green petals are soft, gilded, and impossible. Like a caress from the deepest recesses of your gut— which is unmistakably preventing you from bending over completely— you let the blessing spill forth.

It's uncomfortable, and makes no sense. Sister Cardew has a bucket, and politely helps you. There's no nausea. It's not that you're retching. It's a sensation you have not felt in nearly four years. Not without torture, or abuse.

As the last of the petals and seeds fall from you, it occurs to you that you are so full, you simply can't keep anything more in your body. Pulling back, with a clearer mind, and the taste of honey and petals on your lips, no exhaustion takes you. Instinctively taking a sharp breath in, you try to stifle the urge to vomit again.

More than a significant amount of weight rests on your broad shoulders. It's in the pit of your stomach, and has clearly spread out. Filled out, rather, by several more inches. The hold on your chest is soft, along with the weight in your rounded out mid-section. Despite having spilled ounces of bounty from your vessel, there's no indication of the swell going down. Not from your thickened wrists, or legs, or arms. Certainly not from the reassurance you're immediately trying to tell yourself.

It's a blessing that you can't imagine ever eating again. More than a few months of running may be necessary.
How appropriate, that Mercy had you running without feeling a thing.
You knew utilizing Agriculture for over fifty souls burdens couldn't have put enough on you to kill you.
Surely, the Gods are Merciful.

Squeezing somehow even more tightly on your hand, the priestess beside you attempts to keep your attention. She does manage, at least, to pull your gaze back to her. Her glasses are smudged with blood, and decay, and the peasant's garb about her is still frayed. Covered in pollen, she sniffs, "you're still awake. Good. I knew they wouldn't hurt you."

Despite every attempt at keeping her composure, Sister Cardew is clearly extremely worried, and doesn't hesitate to note, "that doesn't mean you're alright. Are you okay?"

(Options in next post.)
>>
>>4285360
>(Feel free to choose one option from A, and at least one prompt from B-F.)

>A] You've always had an affinity for Agriculture.
>1] You're not okay in the slightest.
>2] This is honestly not a big deal, and a trivial burden for how many lives you saved.
>3] You're really not sure how to feel.
>4] Write-in.

>B] You're immediately reading your damned letters and getting back in touch with Father Friedrich. Even if he kills you. Ask Sister Cardew to stick around for some counsel and support.

>C] You really just want to change clothes. Ask the priestess if she can acquire something before everyone gets back to The Honey Bee.

>D] You are extremely worried about how Mercy could have permitted this. Ask for some privacy, and immediately invoke Her. You seem to actually have some Time at your disposal, now.

>E] You're worried sick about everyone else. Ask Harriet if she can just talk to you, while you make sure you're physically alright, and wait for everyone else to show up.

>F] Write-in.
>>
>>4285360
>B] You're immediately reading your damned letters and getting back in touch with Father Friedrich. Even if he kills you. Ask Sister Cardew to stick around for some counsel and support.
Training montage 2.0 (2)
>>
>>4285366
>>B] You're immediately reading your damned letters and getting back in touch with Father Friedrich. Even if he kills you. Ask Sister Cardew to stick around for some counsel and support.
>>
>>4285983
>>4286014
(Alright guys, locking vote to write before bed!)
>>
>>4286025
Three concerns come to your mind. The answers— your damned letters— have been among your things throughout the entire day.

Gently pulling Sister Cardew's hand off of your own, you immediately unsling your satchel. Dropping your shield to the floor, setting aside your mace, Piety, and begrudgingly turning around to adjust your belt. You try to not think about how many notches. Sitting back down, with a grimace, you fish out three letters from Yech's endless storage solution. Each envelope is already opened.

Your stomach turns again. Opening one without discrimination, you murmur to Harriet, "I would appreciate your continued counsel, Sister Cardew."

The brunette sits beside you, not even brushing the pollen out of her hair, or adjusting her glasses. Firmly, she insists, "you are not answering me, Richard."

"I would appreciate your continued support," you mutter, "in contacting Father Friedrich as quickly as humanly possible."

"I see."

"I know he's going to try to kill me. He can try— all— all over again. I do *not* care."

The priestess of Spirit smirks. "I would like to see him try."

You can't help but offer her a weary frown. Some part of you wants to smile, and you really can't manage it.

"Go ahead," she murmurs, gesturing to the envelopes in your hands. Taking out some parchment and a pen preemptively, the priestess insists, "We'll get to it."

The letter in hand is a reply to your note to Mother Aimar, from *five months back.* It's a brief, methodical, and an almost unfamiliar script. The straight, small, and deep purple text is as tidy as the only other example you've seen from the Mother of Time. The note before you, by comparison to the singular previous sentence that welcomed you to the Church of Mercy, is significantly longer.

"To the order of Father Richard Anscham, as of the 27th of the Thundering Moon, 605.
Your observations are correct. Father Edmund had penned his final note to you forty-nine months ago."

You have to blink, several Times. She wrote the letter the day you initially wrote to Eanlac, surely. The day that Father Edmund's suicide note was given to you.

It's practically seared into your memory. His acknowledgement, and caution. Of the burden, and all the responsibility he was placing on your shoulders. "'It will likely be years before you even *begin* to understand everything that this means for you.' He wanted to try and prepare me. I know Father Edmund loved me, despite— despite the neglect— and everything I had suffered. He wanted to do more than apologize. He offered his blessing, over my appointment as the Father of Mercy." Very quietly, trying to pull yourself out of reverie, you note, "he— he said he knew that She loves me. It's been six months, Sister. So much has happened."

The priestess at your side mentions, "he would be *very* proud of you, Richard."

"Yes," you choke out. "He would have been."

(1/2)
>>
>>4286076
With a nod, Harriet urges you to continue looking over the letter. You realize that the correspondence is addressing each one of your prior questions, in order, without taking the Time to even properly acknowledge them. You try and fill in the blanks.

- Why was Father Edmund's letter withheld from me? There is no conceivable reason that the validity of my title should be withheld for any period of Time.
"The validity of your title will not be under question. I have withheld nothing that is not already common knowledge."

- If you were aware that I was to be appointed his successor after his death, why have you abstained from delivering this to me, personally? Father Wilhelm had this item in his possession for several weeks, at your instruction. Why was he instructed to wait?
"Father Wilhelm's concerns have been addressed as they have arisen."

- Regardless of the 'need to know' basis the Church of Time operates on, Father Edmund perished during a catastrophic outbreak of demons. He died on the field of battle, in an attempt to save the lives of hundreds. If you possessed knowledge of how to reach him, or where to obtain this letter, it must be made clear to me with all due haste. This is to say nothing of the events of his death, or any preventative measures that could have been taken.
"Her will is unchangeable.
Father Edmund died so that others might live.
Let us both make the most of the Time that is given to Us, now."

She at least took the Time to repeat herself.

"Welcome back.
-Mother Astrid Aimar"

You look over the back of the letter. There is nothing, save for a slight impression of the woman's pen, for how firmly and quickly she must have pressed into the parchment. Sister Cardew looks mildly terrified, and asks to see the paper, regardless. You hand it over, to which she winces, and rapidly hands the note back to you. "The date is correct," she notes, having deduced the age of the ink on the page.

There was a lot more to your note to the Mother of Time. Granted, it was terribly flowery, you were extremely ill at the Time, it may have not *all* been necessary, but you are the Father of the Church of Mercy.

Every other church leader still— ultimately— answers to you.

(Options in next post.)
>>
>>4286077
>A] Reply. This is exceedingly insufficient. You are determined for things to be different. YOU NEED ANSWERS and you need them NOW.
>1] Implore the Mother of Time that she needs to actually acknowledge your first question to her. She was in close contact with Father Edmund, possibly up to the day of his death. WHY was this letter withheld from you at all?
>2] HOW is she capable of utilizing any sort of blessing from Time? You're not only obsessed, you are desperate for ANY sort of information.
>3] WHEN did she intend on getting this information to you properly? This is a grotesque disrespect of your own Time, and you're deeply dissatisfied.

>B] Take a deep breath. Every church leader (save for Sullivan, who is a *very* special case), has completely respected the distance you've given them. Until very recently, that is. At least wait to reply until you've seen all your mail.

>C] You're not wasting Mother Aimar's Time on any further questions. You have significantly more pressing concerns at the moment, and know that she is avoiding addressing these subjects for good reason. Trust her judgement, and get to the rest of your letters.

>D] Write-in.
>>
>>4286080
>>C] You're not wasting Mother Aimar's Time on any further questions. You have significantly more pressing concerns at the moment, and know that she is avoiding addressing these subjects for good reason. Trust her judgement, and get to the rest of your letters.
>>
>>4286080
>C] You're not wasting Mother Aimar's Time on any further questions. You have significantly more pressing concerns at the moment, and know that she is avoiding addressing these subjects for good reason. Trust her judgement, and get to the rest of your letters.
>>
>>4286080
>>C] You're not wasting Mother Aimar's Time on any further questions. You have significantly more pressing concerns at the moment, and know that she is avoiding addressing these subjects for good reason. Trust her judgement, and get to the rest of your letters.
>>
>>4286092
>>4286094
>>4286269
(C gang rise up. Unanimous, vote's locked! Writing now.)
>>
>>4286285
The only thing in this world you respect anywhere as much as Time itself is the Mother of Her church.

"I trust her judgement," you firmly state, "and will not insult Mother Aimar with any further questions. She can write to me any Time she wishes, if there is anything further for us to discuss."

Harriet patiently keeps her own parchment and pen in hand, nodding to you while she writes something to herself, regardless. "Not just a gentleman," she murmurs.

Taking some comfort in knowing the priestess still finds you sharp, you fold Mother Aimar's short letter neatly, and set it back among your things. The next is written upon wrinkled parchment. Harriet is unable to stop smiling, adjusting her glasses as she looks to the page. "Water-proof ink. Fantastic."

https://youtu.be/I4GXUrYtEzY

The entire document is stained with saltwater, and smells distinctly like something you've never looked upon. The sea is in a wavering script, that stretches from the base of the letter up to its horizon. Father Barthalomew has always had nice handwriting, despite his disability. As a respectful, level-headed man, it's almost a surprise that he's a devotee to such a temperamental God.

Reports from the coast, of his activity in Rimilde, and reassurance of the continued safety of Corcaea's northern shore have come across your desk a few Times before. It's odd to look at his elegant, coral handwriting anywhere else. Harriet gets up briefly, to stoke the hearth and light a few lanterns, as you start to read.

"1st of the Setting Moon, 605.

Father Anscham,

Weather's been shit."

You blink, and try to recall the beginning of the last Setting Moon's weather. It was pouring, as you ran with Sister Cardew out of A Hope, on A Prayer. She was all in white, you both had a lovely evening together, and didn't really mind the rain in the slightest. The priestess murmurs over her shoulder, unphased, "Storm didn't relent for months after."

There's a nod for you to keep reading. You try to not grimace, and can't help but wonder if the singular comment from Father Barthalomew set off the God of the Tempest. It's now been nine months since Storm first appeared to you. Eight months since the second visit. Six months since you wrote.

"Glad you wrote to Henry. The old windbag has been worried sick. You want some advice, see him for it. I want some answers."

Almost all of the residual seething from being delayed your letters starts to lift. You beat him to it, alright. Sister Cardew could not be more disgruntled, but you take heart.

"What's really going on over there? You left us for months, and not even Storm sent you back? You haven't wrote. You haven't replied. No one has come from Eadric in what feels like an age."

You can't help but almost relent in your grimace. Help will come, and he gave you some advice, regardless of your absence.

"You can't run from the Tempest, Richard. You adjust your sails."

(1/2)
>>
>>4286339
Sister Cardew frowns a lot more intensely at the next few lines.

"I'll try and send some help to the capital. We're strapped for men here, and could always use another hand, but I'll find a way."

You both have to wonder if the news of Brother Murdac's activity and death has reached him yet. It's probably not your place to do so.

"Write me back. Pay me a visit, if you can. I know you can handle the trip. Let me know if Storm's giving you a hard Time. I'll set Him straight."

You can't help but lift your eyes, to a phrase the priest has yet to share with you.

"Calm is our center. Fire, wave, and tempest DEFINES our devotion. Weather not the Storm!
-Bart

P.S. Send Fred my regards. He's the only one of us worse at writing back than you are. At least kick his ass for me, if you can't make the Time for a letter."

The rest of the envelope is empty. To your mild amusement, the priest sketched a small boat on the back of the parchment, with a handful of fish beneath it. You speculate he wants some Time off, as well.

With a penchant for fishing and the sea, you both at least have several things in common. The lack of actual address towards anything you've asked, yet again, isn't so frustrating, in context. Still, you have a choice to make.

>A] Write back a thankful and respectful reply. Keep it light. Mention how excellent the fishing was in Beorward, and at the base of the Folorast mountains. Promise to beat down Father Friedrich, as soon as you get the chance.

>B] Ask the priest a few more questions. You have always wanted to go visit Rimilde, and your curiosity is piqued. How their weather has been, if Father Barthalomew's health is alright, and maybe if he's had the chance to get out on open water shouldn't be too intrusive.

>C] You're sick of people being opaque and dodging your questions, dammit. As the leader of the Church of Mercy, you're aware that you're going to be treated differently from most people, but you need normalcy. Transparency.
>1] Plainly ask Sister Cardew for some advice on how to address your fellow church leaders. You're uncomfortable, know nothing about politics, and don't know how to handle this.
>2] You think you can manage just being straight-forward. Insist that Father Barthalomew address your visits from Storm. If he can't write about it, maybe you can plan an eventual visit.

>D] He asked explicitly for a reply, but regular communication is something of a struggle for you. You recently killed one of his men, and this just doesn't seem right. Put off writing a reply just a little while longer, while you see to the last letter you were given.

>E] Write-in.
>>
>>4286340
>A] Write back a thankful and respectful reply. Keep it light. Mention how excellent the fishing was in Beorward, and at the base of the Folorast mountains. Promise to beat down Father Friedrich, as soon as you get the chance.
>>
>>4286340
>>A] Write back a thankful and respectful reply. Keep it light. Mention how excellent the fishing was in Beorward, and at the base of the Folorast mountains. Promise to beat down Father Friedrich, as soon as you get the chance.

Also mention that we are going to visit him on the first chance we get.
>>
>>4286364
>>4286428
(Cool, definitely will make mention of the write-in. Vote is locked!)
>>
>>4286455
Sister Cardew is more than happy to give you some parchment, and a pen. To your amazement, there's no tremor in your hand. Permitting your calligraphy to flow much more freely than usual, a few flourishes are absolutely necessary, as you capitalize on being able to produce your own script without hindrance.

You keep it light. Having a hard Time with brevity, you easily wind up filling nearly two pages. It's mostly in thanks to Father Barthalomew's respect towards your position. Gratitude towards his own quick response, you're sure to include more reassurance, and some actual answers. Not only that you've been trying to look after yourself, but notes regarding fishing from the Morinburn river. From your excursion beneath the shadow of the Church of Flesh, and all the way down to the base of the Folorast mountains, you can't resist asking Father Barthalomew if he's ever been river or ice fishing.

At some point, Sister Cardew leaves to get a pot to make some tea. You pay her no mind, as she quietly sets some water to boil.

With a solemn oath to lay waste to Father Friedrich, and promising to visit the Father of Storm at the first chance you get, you happily sign the document, "the Gods are Merciful. Sincerely, Father Anscham."

There's a few things in your possessions that King Magnus must have seen to. Yellow sealing wax, a stamp bearing the symbol of your church, and a fair amount of coin is entirely familiar to you. The priestess of Spirit at your side is happy to assist with the tedium of sealing the note, promising, "I'll send it out by the fastest channel I have, as soon as I can."

Nodding with gratitude, you're slightly amused, as Sister Cardew deeply enjoys handling the faint gold envelope you hand off.

You direct your attention towards the last letter. The envelope isn't scorched, but the parchment within might as well be on fire. It's from Father Friedrich.

"Try to not take it personally," Sister Cardew frowns.

Your eyes almost immediately glaze over. It's nothing you haven't heard before. About two paragraphs of debasement, in all capital letters, detail the Father of Flesh's outrage at your neglect of his routine. Between extreme criticism of your sleeping habits, replacement of most water with beer or days without any actual nutrition, he seems inconsolable.

You skim, trying to ignore that the priest is this outraged from only your first two successful invocations to Agriculture, and get down to the actual context that matters.

"Glad you're not wasting all of our training! Putting down a demon of Agriculture with your bare hands, TWICE? I need the full story. And invoking Mercy, on top of it?! Bet you're right as rain!"

A slight smile threatens to escape you. Father Friedrich was really the first person to encourage you to go out of your way to be with your Goddess, with or without need, rhyme, or reason.

"At the rate you're going, you're going to need this, and all the help you can get."

(1/2)
>>
>>4286500
There are three pages inside the envelope, which you take out, and immediately frown at. It's an exercise routine that easily eclipses the insanity of your old one, and covers all three pages. You flip them over, and on the back of the last letter is a small note, above a sadistic diet regimen. "Good thing you like greens so much! Better get used to them."

Sister Cardew's lack of amusement almost rivals yours. With a grimace, she sniffs, "he'll get over himself."

The end of the note is a little worse, with several comments about not coming back to Beorward until you're in better shape. It's signed, "sorry about the mail. You've had more important things to worry about. Take care of yourself, and don't worry about writing back. I'll let you know if anything comes up. Congratulations on coming back into the fold. I know you earned it.

Remember, even piety must be taken in moderation! MODERATION!
-Father Friedrich"

"He's a hypocrite," Harriet grumbles, looking through the colossal exercise schedule in hand. "You simply cannot make the Time for all of this. Not without compromising your work here. I'm certain it would be feasible back in the Church of Mercy, Richard, but not now. You're already running yourself ragged."

"I will likely be busier," you mutter, "the moment I return to Eadric. There was never enough Time, Sister Cardew. There never will be."

You pause. "This is not dated."

"He sent it with the other letters, a fair amount of coin, more armor, and a list of names on the day before you returned. The messenger was a priest of Time. It would seem he spared no expense to return your correspondence, once he received news of your appointment."

"Names?"

Putting a hand to her temple, Sister Cardew mumbles, "local farmers. He's terribly upset. Apparently, he thought you would appreciate knowing where to get produce in the city. Only produce. I have half a mind to write him back, for giving you such a hard Time."

"The armor?"

"Try not to worry about it," she frowns, more apologetically. It strikes you that anything fitted for your previous measurements are not an option, as the priestess of Spirit finishes, "he sent the coin for anything else you may need. Not that it should be an issue, now. I believe he is *trying* to show you some support."

(Options in next post.)
>>
>>4286504
>A] Even if it kills you, you're sticking to this routine, and not writing back to Father Friedrich. He REALLY doesn't need to know that you've put on more weight just today. (This will take upwards of several hours out of your days, multiple days a week, and you might not be up to the task initially.)

>B] Your mentor should probably be aware of your current physical condition before you start on his training regimen. Write him back, as you intended, and ask him for a revised routine. Be honest.
>1] Stay as close to his regimen as you can, in the meantime, but don't kill yourself trying. (Same time restrictions as A, without risk of injury.)
>2] You're already an incredibly active man, and legitimately don't think you could even eat the pittance Father Friedrich is recommending. You'll be alright. Stick to your current lifestyle, until you hear back from him. You don't want to hurt yourself.

>C] Not only is your current lifestyle absolutely sufficient for dropping some weight, you're certain that you're going to be fine. Especially with Cyril's help. Don't write back, for now.
>1] You might be just a little offended.
>2] You're pretty offended.
>3] You really don't care about the hot-headed priest's debasement, and just don't want to engage him when he's so upset.

>D] Write-in.
>>
>>4286507
>>B] Your mentor should probably be aware of your current physical condition before you start on his training regimen. Write him back, as you intended, and ask him for a revised routine. Be honest.
>>1] Stay as close to his regimen as you can, in the meantime, but don't kill yourself trying. (Same time restrictions as A, without risk of injury.)

Make a habit of working out when doing other things, instead of sitting in chairs we hover right above them, running literally everywhere, sparring with Cyril during normal conversation, carrying Theo and Cardew whenever we need to go anywhere with them and so on. If we can't make time for working out the second best thing is to mix it with everything else.
>>
>>4286513
+1
>>
>>4286513
>>4286517
(Great stuff, locking the vote. Writing now.)
>>
>>4286817
You get to your feet. The capability to still *see* your feet while standing is an immediate relief. The weight on your mid-section, and suffocating fullness, is not. Previous fidgeting is put to shame, as you shift, and pace, and try to decide how to best keep any movement going.

Sister Cardew seems a little uncomfortable with your pacing while you both speak, but she moves to pen the letter for you without complaint. "I suppose you will want to keep on the move."

There's no conceivable way she's more uncomfortable than you are. You fuss with the collar of your shirt. "Precisely. Please inform Father Friedrich that I will adhere to his— to his regimen, as closely as I am able. For the Time being. Stress— if you could—"

"Of course."

"Please stress that I need a revised schedule. Strength training, perhaps. Endurance, and— and *speed*."

Rapid writing punctuates your diction.

"If I cannot find the Time to incorporate these things into my day, I will do so with other activity." Almost inaudibly, you murmur, "as well as I am able. Please inform him of my physical condition," you finish, "as well as you are able."

Deciding ultimately on hovering around the bed, you're given another sniff. Finally brushing the pollen off of her clothes, Harriet raises an eyebrow to you, and tries, "husky?"

Frowning intensely, trying to not notice your stomach in your peripheral vision, and fidget further with your undershirt. "He should get an honest reply."

With a nod, Sister Cardew takes a long minute to look you over, produces a pocket mirror, and tries again to reassure you. "To be honest, Richard—"

"Go ahead," you sigh, flicking open the small lens.

"There's much less in your face. You'll be fine."

You don't reply, and scrutinize the sage still barely bordering your pupils. Gold plating sits at the center of them. A significant amount of the strands of gold in your hair catch catch on a nearby lantern's light. Practically reflects off the hues on your robes, you can tell that the amber runs through what was formerly a disheveled mop. Your scars are much lighter, as the skin on your face almost seems healthy. It's decidedly rounder, and at the upper limit of what you're comfortable with, as you poke the soft spots sitting where hollows once were.

"Going soft is not the worst thing to happen to the Father of Mercy," she smirks, getting a slight smile out of you, "if you can forgive me."

"I may find it in me," you quietly note. The deep bags under your eyes, the poorly healed nose, and a little more insanity in your eyes persists, but you conclude, "more of Mercy, than of Agriculture."

Closing the pocket mirror, and handing the valuable trinket back to Sister Cardew, she reflects the sentiment. "It is certainly stranger. Try to not worry yourself."

You both try to not sigh. A few more minutes of mutual silence are shared together. As the priestess finishes scratching out your note, she hands it to you for approval.

(1/2)
>>
>>4286958
There's a tactful comparison of your physical capability from your entry to Beorward's exterior ward, to your previous inability to even properly wield a mace and shield. She makes mention of your savvy with a great sword, and the story of your first fight against a demon of Agriculture. Noting respect to endurance, an ability to out-run Cyril, and an estimate that you are at least double her weight, you fold the letter.

It's handed back to her. Another long minute passes. Your face hurts from grimacing, and your body doesn't feel like your own, but you resolve to make movement your newest devotion.

Harriet puts up the mail, and notes, "it may be some Time before everyone else arrives. Was there anything else you wished to discuss? I can't begin to imagine how much King Magnus has tasked you with, if this was your first order of business."

>A] Ask Sister Cardew for her counsel, regarding tying up any loose ends here in the district of Flesh.
>1] You intend to leave the rest of the matter to the hard-working men and women of Calunoth, but simply want Harriet's advice.
>2] You're not leaving this district until you've personally ensured a satisfactory job.

>B] You want to know everything the priestess gathered on Mick's Flea Circus.

>C] Touch on what might be necessary to arrange a meeting with her and Father Sullivan.

>D] See if she's gathered any information on Lady Edith and Sir Douglas. You have no idea if they've moved.

>E] The Freak Show is still out there, and you need to find them.

>F] Harvey Jay Algrith continues to escape everyone's grasp.

>G] You seriously need a breather. Though you'll keep up your movement, some recovery wouldn't hurt.
>1] Go out, personally, and run to get some additional supplies. (Clothes, armor, weapons, etc. are all viable. You are the leader of the Church of Gold, and money is really not an issue. Feel free to write-in any specifics you may want to acquire.)
>2] Look over those farmers markets. Get something other than pastries and honey in Ofelia's house.
>3] Stay in The Honey Bee, and just talk to Harriet. Thank her for everything, and make sure she's okay.

>H] Write-in.
>>
>>4286965
>>A] Ask Sister Cardew for her counsel, regarding tying up any loose ends here in the district of Flesh.
>>1] You intend to leave the rest of the matter to the hard-working men and women of Calunoth, but simply want Harriet's advice.
>D] See if she's gathered any information on Lady Edith and Sir Douglas. You have no idea if they've moved.
>>
>>4286965
>>F] Harvey Jay Algrith continues to escape everyone's grasp.
>D] See if she's gathered any information on Lady Edith and Sir Douglas. You have no idea if they've moved.
>>
>>4286970
>>4287992
(We can definitely get to all of this. Locking the vote here, writing now!)
>>
>>4288087
Though half of you wants to run out the door and resume your work, you settle on pacing through the small guest room, and insisting, "I cannot turn a blind eye from the situation at hand. Our people have worked— diligently, earnestly, and for far too long without any aid."

A proud sniff is directed at you. "So have you, Richard."

The slight smile threatens to come back. "You are a priestess of Spirit."

"Yes."

"You surely are familiar with loose threads."

Harriet can't contain a smirk.

You do. "How to tie them up—"

She's trying to not laugh. The priestess loses her composure as you finish, "and keep this situation from unraveling any further."

Shoving down a little pained laughter, Sister Cardew straightens up, puts away her handkerchief, and raises a teacup to you. "Well. Since you asked so nicely." more seriously, she recommends, "trust in your friends."

"I do," you immediately, and honestly reply.

More gingerly, she advises, "try to not ask too much of them. While I believe that your congregation is more than capable of keeping up— even with you—"

"Of course," you mutter, with a great deal of pride.

"I can't say the same for the rest of us," Harriet firmly adds.

You try to not think too hard on the bags under her eyes, how much difficulty she's still having breathing, or the scars lacing Theodore's face.

The image is practically seared into your mind. "Do you think he will— will be alright—"

"He was sent to look after all of us," you're reminded, "and has seen you under far more severe conditions. He is resilient. Give the boy some Time. Give *everyone* some Time. When you can. This was not the only district affected, but was easily the hardest hit. I believe King Magnus may have wanted you to witness how many lives you've affected. He trusted you to save many more."

The grimace upon your face feels like it will never relent. "The men and women of this city are working just as hard as any of us. I only wish to make their lives easier, Sister— but I— I know we are all in capable hands. Their hands will see to this matter. Surely."

A glance is given to your own hands, behind smudged lenses, with a frown. "I don't suppose all of the fidgeting is intentional," she muses, "but we'll work on it."

"I have more pressing— immediately— there are *other affairs* that I have in mind," you insist.

"Go ahead."

"Norward and his gathering have *their* own business to mind," you mildly state.

Harriet's mouth falls open, realizing that you're meant to track their activity, but remains quiet as you continue, "and I have no use for the mundane. We can leave Cyril to more material affairs, if necessary."

Harriet snorts at her tea. "Well said."

"The remainder of *my congregation*, Sister Cardew. I MUST find them. King Magnus is grieving over losing more than enough of his people. Another child may be more than He can bear. Than *either* of us can bear."

(1/3)
>>
>>4288388
Your pacing picks up in intensity. "Though my invocation to Spirit and Mercy came at the beginning of our flight from the city, Lady Edith and Sir Douglas are— were—"

A deep breath later, you manage, "I pray they are still within the ruins themselves. Algrith was to be in their company. Have you had any word? Any news— anything?"

"Not a word," she simply states.

You try to not look devastated. "Nothing?"

"No news is often good news. Without any indication of their capture, let alone any movement, they may still be where you last saw them."

"It has been at *least* four days," you muse, "and I cannot fathom anyone— anyone persisting in the ruins for so long. Not without any travel, or movement."

With a scowl so foul even you are impressed, Harriet informs you, "they may have given up."

You frown at her with equal intensity. "They gave survived worse things."

"It's entirely possible that no news has reached them of your work throughout the city," Harriet begins, launching into what you suspect is a sharp recollection of something she's read. "Calunoth was built on more than the ruins. Networks of rot, and ruin, that could not be repurposed in the city. The forgotten cities beneath our capital have been *stripped clean.*"

You both share a moment of appreciation, of the collective nightmare that's the human existence, and are probably enabling some mutually unhealthy interests. It's alright, as the priestess of Spirit eagerly states, "I've read of terrible things. Of demons without a domain."

An unhinged smile tilts, to say, "you will have to show me the libraries within Murgate, Sister Cardew, as soon as— whenever we get an opportunity."

A weary glance shines back at you. "You'd love them. I would be lying if I didn't say I was worried, though."

"I will be perfectly fine—"

"No," she quietly states, "them. The nobility. Algrith. Who could find going back to the ruins a better alternative to a castle, or the Church of Mercy?"

A loud creak announces someone at the door to The Honey Bee. You and Sister Cardew fly out of the guest room, to see Ofelia covered almost head-to-toe in blood. She's wincing, possibly only at the door's noise, while she quickly slinks inside. Theodore is being carried on Cyril's back. The priest of Dream is sound asleep, while Brother Trebbeck is struggling to get a key out of the lock without making a further sound.

Ray practically shoves himself through the door, to come up to you, and sits politely, whining. He's hurt.

You all start whispering, beginning with your reassurance to Ray. "Come here, boy. It's alright."

He has a small cut along his gums, from biting on something incredibly sharp. It only takes a second to run back to the guest room, grab a number of supplies from your satchel, and work on making a salve.

While you work, Sister Cardew echoes your sentiment, looking to Theodore. Everyone's filed into the entryway. "Is he alright?"

(2/3)
>>
>>4288391
"Yeah," Ofelia huffs, "got 'im from the side of the damn road. Couple'a priestesses were with the guy. Sisters. He's okay— Cyril, will you stop standin' there and get him to a bed, please—?"

The priest of Flesh is clearly dazed. There's no injury on his body, but multiple slashes in his shirt, streaks of blood in his hair, and the impression that he healed himself through near fatal injuries several Times over. You give him a hand, and a shoulder, and lead him to get your youngest ally to lie down.

Cyril really looks like he needs to lay down, too, but he drags himself back to the hall, and collapses on the floor. Still concious, he rolls over, and points to you. "Richard."

"Yes," you fidget in reply.

"That shit—" he's on his back, and talks halfway to you, halfway to the ceiling, "that shit was fucked."

Ofelia drops on the floor next to him, while Sister Cardew gets some towels and water. Both of the combatants among you look like they need a stiff drink.

"What happened to you?" Cyril laughs. "You've gotta be more terrified of what Fred's gonna do! More than of anything we put up with, at least."

"Leave him alone," Ofelia drawls, collapsing onto the floor, and clearly not caring if she's getting blood everywhere.

>A] Ask them what happened.
>1] Direct your questions towards Ofelia, even if she hates talking at length, and might not understand the situation as well.
>2] Point your inquiry towards Cyril, even if he seems shaken. He'll have full context.
>3] Ask both of them what's going on.

>B] Save your questions for another Time. Have Harriett go check on the situation. Make sure everyone's injuries are attended to, get them anything they need, and look after Theodore, for good measure.

>C] Give all of your friends a break. Fill them in on what you've been up to, go along with some teasing, and simply ask them if they need anything. Double-check on Theodore, when you get a minute, too.

>D] Write-in.
>>
>>4288394
>>B] Save your questions for another Time. Have Harriett go check on the situation. Make sure everyone's injuries are attended to, get them anything they need, and look after Theodore, for good measure.
>>
>>4288394
>>B] Save your questions for another Time. Have Harriett go check on the situation. Make sure everyone's injuries are attended to, get them anything they need, and look after Theodore, for good measure.
>>
>>4288394
(Dropped pic ofc)
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>>4288399
>>4288403
(Alright guys, locking the vote here and will try to write ASAP. May take an extra minute but I'm on it.)
>>
>>4288534
You move to the door— with serviceable speed, despite discomfort and heaviness— and look to the street. There's a collection of priests of Flesh standing about. Talking among themselves, those that are keeping watch in the streets take a moment to wave at the sight of you.

Obviously, the men and women who came to ensure your friend's safety were instructed to not come inside The Honey Bee. Further down the lane is the sound of movement, carts, and probably your clergy from the castle hard at work. There's no doubt in your mind that they're all capable of looking after themselves, but there's an entire district that used to literally be on fire.

Whipping your head back to Sister Cardew, you urge her, "please gather as much information as you can, regarding the situation at hand."

Without question, garnering a sincere smile from you, she immediately goes to head out the door. With a straight-laced nod, she promises, "I'll let you know what I find. No need to wait for me. I'll get your letters out, as well."

"Thank you so much. To know is to serve, Sister Cardew."

She's gone in a flash, with the door closed behind her.

Taking a deep breath, more of anxiety than anything else, you're greeted with the scent of all the pollen still on your robes. Dusting it off quickly, and picking a petal or two out that became stuck in your hair, there's a familiar note of every herb and grain in your bag. From the the honey down the hallway, a trace of chrysanthemums on the other side of the door, and the salve you've made for Ray, you want to pause, to take in life, and appreciate all of the blessings that have been given to you.

An infinitely more manageable triage is at hand, and you don't dare to stop moving for an instant.

Ray is stoically laying down. Now that he's got your company, he doesn't protest or whine any further. Big, brown eyes flit up to you, as you kneel down, gently scratch behind his ears, set aside the mortar and pestle, and look for any further injury. Aside from his old scars, and a very slight abrasion on his left side, there's no serious damage. Nothing seems to be concealed by his fur, though he's got a fair amount of soot around his nose, and blood on his teeth that is not his own.

Knowing that the only member of your company who can't speak is in no serious pain or injury, you breathe a little more easily. The scent of goldenrod picks up, under pestle and mortar, as you finish grinding a paste. It makes for a simple salve on Ray's bite wound. He immediately sets to licking at the palatable plant, despite your commands to leave it be.

For a moment, you consider that you may be physically incapable of stopping your devotion to both Agriculture and Mercy. It really doesn't matter, as an entirely human concern is at hand. As much as you don't want to bother anyone with a single question, you have to ask your friends, "were any of you hurt?"

(1/2)
>>
>>4288828
"Don't worry about it," Ofelia starts, and laughs, as you put up the supplies for Ray and practically sprint to her side. "Easy! It's nothin'. Really."

You gently hand a towel off to her, and throw one to Cyril. Predictably, his reflexes are unrivaled, but he makes a point of catching it a moment later than he should. The cloth drapes over his head, disguising the scars across half his face.

A nervous, relieved, and disjointed laugh escapes from you. They both seem fine. The more blood that Ofelia wipes off her face, the clearer it is that not a drop was her own.

You gather a good deal of water, some basins, and make use of some white willow bark and turmeric. The few cuts that your friends have on their hands and forearms shouldn't be aggravated any further, and they both seem extremely appreciative.

With a quick nod, and a murmur of, "excuse me, for just a moment," you leave them to finish cleaning up, and make for the guest room.

Opening the door as quietly as you can, your anxiety almost drops off entirely. Theodore is buried under five blankets, and a mound of pillows. It looks disgustingly comfortable, and he's soundly asleep. There's still a fair amount of blood on his robes, but the young man had the energy at some point to wake up, put on a nightcap covered in small sheep, and create the absurd sleeping arrangement he's in now.

Backing up, closing the door, and returning to the hall, you see that Ofelia has moved to the dining area, and obtained several bottles of strong liquor. Your friends are both on the floor, and are taking turns drinking straight out of a bottle of whiskey that smells divine. You don't have a palate for liquor, beyond a sincere appreciation for binging, but there's nuance. Notes of exotic spices, wood, and smoke are in the air.

There's no use dwelling on the lingering attunement to Agriculture. She hasn't hurt you, even if you're battling to not get overwhelmed.

It would seem you're entirely capable of healing, despite having given Sister Corbon the very same tenet. Either Mercy has worked more miracles through you, or the craft came back with infinitely greater ease than any restraint.

While you wonder if it may have to do with granting your gifts to a priestess of Mercy, rather than a demon, Ofelia looks up from her absurd position. Reclining against Cyril as if he was a chair, she motions for you to join her on the floor. "Don't tell me yer goin' to go runnin' off again. After what you pulled? Can't believe it. Still can't believe it."

(Options in next post.)
>>
>>4288834
>A] Your friends look like death warmed over, and clearly feel worse.
>1] You can tolerate sitting for a minute or two while you listen to your friends. Accept a small shot.
>2] Stay standing, and try to engage Ofelia and Cyril without being too pushy. You're not having anything to drink, but they're not acting like themselves, and you're worried.
>3] Ask Cyril and Ofelia plainly what would make them the most comfortable. Try to be there for them, and go along with what they want until Harriet gets back. This is about everyone in your company, not just you.

>B] Disregard Harriet's advice. Tell Cyril to get on his feet, and spar with you. You know that not only will Ofelia appreciate the sight of it, but that he's physically fine, and you both need to discuss what's going on with your invocations. (A ROLL WILL BE REQUIRED.)
>1] You're intent on getting him in a choke hold, and ruffling his stupid ponytail.
>2] Overpowering him for the first Time in a mock fight would be deeply satisfying.
>3] Write-in.

>C] You actually, seriously, really need to run.
>1] Back to the Flea Circus' safe house. Victor and Randall deserve to know what's going on, and you could use their help navigating below the city.
>2] To the castle, to check on Father Sullivan's progress with his own work. You're not sure of his capabilities with Spirit, but his counsel and presence could be invaluable in getting Lady Edith, Sir Douglas, and Algrith back to the surface.

>D] Write-in.
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>>4288835
>>A] Your friends look like death warmed over, and clearly feel worse.
>>1] You can tolerate sitting for a minute or two while you listen to your friends. Accept a small shot.
>>
>>4288835
>>A] Your friends look like death warmed over, and clearly feel worse.
>1] You can tolerate sitting for a minute or two while you listen to your friends. Accept a small shot.
>>
>>4288863
>>4289398
(Woke up early this morning, writing now! Vote is locked.)
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File: Brother Cyril Trebbeck.png (751 KB, 1000x1500)
751 KB
751 KB PNG
>>4289399
https://youtu.be/YMB8F4O0_ZQ

Certain that you can tolerate a few minutes of sitting, you grab a shot glass from a nearby counter, make sure Ray is alright, and let your boy come sit next to you on the floor. Cyril props his feet up on your leg, and none of you really mind how ridiculous anyone looks.

A shot is poured into your glass, which you intend to nurse, for how borderline medicinal the scent is. Sipping the glass, you wind up putting the entire drink back immediately. It's unbelievable. There's notes you couldn't pick up from the smell alone, of the sea, and something as sweet as vanilla. Cardamom and black pepper persists on your tongue, as you think to open your mouth to speak.

You immediately decide against it. Both of your talkative, blonde friends are being extremely quiet. Ofelia wiggles a little, against Cyril, trying and failing to get comfortable.

Many minutes pass, until the woman among you mentions in a casual way, "there were a lotta kids, Richard."

Something catches in the back of Cyril's throat, and he goes for the bottle again.

"Didn't wanna mention it," Ofelia continues, "thought it'd be better if ya' didn't know off the bat. I gotta stop doin' that shit. Yer a grown-ass man. Doesn't matter how much you've been through. Yer nothin' but honest with me. It's not right to not do the same."

"It'd help," Cyril frowns, and shoves you slightly with his legs. "You wouldn't have wanted us to go. Heard what you did on the way over here. Not saying it's your fault— but—"

He's trying to not choke up, and leans completely back against the floor. Ofelia rolls off of the priest, sits upright, and punches him again. "Nobody would've kicked as much ass as you did. We needed ya'. Besides, yer a beast—"

There's a shake in Cyril's shoulders, at a phrase he hasn't heard from his little dew drop in weeks.

You slide over to the absent father, and pat him firmly on the shoulder.

"Richard," he mutters, brushing his damp bangs off his face, trying to conceal moving aside any mist in his eyes, "they weren't even imps. Just kids. Kids and their parents. They had enough. Turned the second they realized we weren't able to save 'em. It was disgusting. Some real shit. Just like that. Barely formed. We had to kill 'em. They were goin' for homes, and— if we had another outbreak? After everything you've done?"

An incredibly small hands knits itself into Brother Trebbeck's, as Ofelia asserts, "ya' did more than anyone."

(1/3)
>>
>>4289446
He winces, wiping at his face again. "I didn't." It seems like the graying eye on the left side of his face doesn't have functioning tear ducts, for how badly it was slashed previously, and you're uncertain if it's a Mercy or not. The rest of the man's face is hidden by a dark blue handkerchief, that your host immediately hands over, and drops on his face. Muffled, not bothering to move it, Cyril mumbles, "that just makes it worse. How many more do you think there were, that we didn't get to? Who turned, and stayed like that, even longer?"

His voice cracks, and the priest rolls over. Dragging himself upright, trying to not break down, he looks to *you* for answers. "I've been killing and fighting my whole life. Never once thought about it 'til now— but it's gonna kill me, Richard. Just kids. They were hurting. Bad. I could tell. Could see it in what was left of their faces. They were just kids. Probably didn't understand half of what was happening."

A pair of muscular arms takes you into a tight hold. You immediately return it, not caring in the slightest about how much softer you are, or that you can't breathe. Cyril is struggling with everything he has to maintain his composure. "Tell me," he chokes out, gritting his teeth. "I don't care if it's a lie. I can handle monsters. I can take down men. I'll rip an orc in half with my bare hands, or take an elf's ears right off. Send me back to the 'fen, for all I care."

He's beside himself, and seems to dry his tears, to angrily grit out, "I know some of 'em are kids. Even when we fought back in Beorward. Just— tell me they don't know what's happening. That they aren't hurting. Tell me I'm not a child killer. I can't take it—"

Ofelia tugs gently on Cyril's shirt. He turns around. She punches him as hard as she can, and angrily spits, "don't put that shit on him."

He whips around, coming out of your hug. "He'd know better than anyone."

"Doesn't matter," she snaps. "Yer the one that agreed to help him. Isn't that right?"

Brother Trebbeck sniffs. "Yeah."

"Then act like it," she frowns. "You don't know the half of it. You got a problem with how *we* work," she smiles sincerely at you, before scowling to Cyril, "go pack up. Go see your girl."

A scowl distorts the majority of his face.

He's seriously thinking about it.

Several long moments pass, before he goes for the whiskey again. Ofelia looks to you apologetically, while the priest between you drowns out anything he might want to say. With a firm tone, the assassin mutters, "there's gonna be no pretendin' I'm just runnin' a bakery, after all this. Not that it matters. Fuck it. *I* knew what I was gettin' into, Richard, but—"

There's a glance to the guest room, where Theodore is sleeping, and back to you. "I never meant to hurt yer feelin's. Every time I thought, or said, or whatever— that I wasn't sure if you were human?"

(2/3)
>>
>>4289448
Your grimace could cut glass, but you remain silent, and let the halfling finish.

"Yer stronger than any guy I've ever met," Ofelia frowns, before punching Cyril, "including this meat-head. It's not normal. Not sayin' it's not right, or that I'm not proud of ya'." The blonde darts her impossible, radiant eyes up to you. "It's just not healthy. I can't tell ya' how glad I was to see ya', and I'm worried yer gonna kill yourself all over again. Humans are all crazy. It's like they said."

She shakes her head, with significantly less bob in her wet hair than usual. "Fuck 'em. I wouldn't have ya' both any other way."

Taking the whiskey back from Cyril's hands, the poisons master finishes the bottle in a smooth motion. It occurs to you that your friends put back an entire bottle of liquor in a matter of minutes. The scent of peat and smoke is hot on the air. Theodore's snoring drifts out of the guest room, as further reassurance that he's still alive.

Cyril sits back up, and hugs you again. Reluctantly, he mutters, "can't lie to you, Richard."

You tense slightly, expecting another intense statement. The priest's begrudging smile is broad enough that you can feel it against your shoulder. "This is really comfortable."

Ofelia snorts, and goes to open a second bottle.

"Damn glutton," the priest holding you laugh. "Going and ruining yourself for half the fuckin' city."

You try to not frown too much.

"No one's gonna appreciate it as much as those kids," he murmurs. "Over sixty people. Bet most of 'em didn't even thank you."

Patting him a little on his back, you continue to frown, "most of them did, Cyril."

"Good. You're probably sick of hearing all this," he mutters, muffling himself in your robes, "but this is normal for you, isn't it?"

"That is an incredibly generous use of the word."

He laughs. "How the fuck do you live like this? Even Fred doesn't—"

Cyril pulls back, and looks you over. Something occurs to him. "You're harder than Fred, you know that?"

(Options in next post.)
>>
>>4289450
>A] This is possibly the lengthiest, almost-normal conversation you've ever had with either of your friends (without Ofelia being in tears, or Cyril getting philosophical). Simply stay quiet and reassuring, while they work this out of their system.

>B] Answer the priest's question. Tell him in plain terms what you know about what happens to humans, post-Catalyst. He explicitly asked you to tell him the opposite, but truth is a tenet of Mercy, and you are not about to let him live with a lie.

>C] It's REALLY challenging for you, but do your best to respond in a normal way to your friends concerns. Allow yourself to have a few drinks with your fellow veterans. Try to loosen up, and maybe actually respond to their comments.

>D] Reassure Ofelia and Cyril that things are going to be different. You're the Father of Mercy, not a lunatic, and are not going to kill yourself working to death. Even if it's agony to not constantly be doing *something* for the church and your research, try to slow down your pace a little. (THIS PROMPT WILL HAVE LONG-REACHING EFFECTS, IF MAJORITY VOTE DECIDES. This is in direct opposition to prior decisions to go after your congregation with as much speed as possible. Prompts presented will come at a slower pace, unless situation dictates otherwise.)

>E] Write-in anything you wish to convey to Cyril and Ofelia. (Your QM will be happy to interpret any suggestions or comments appropriately.)

>F] Write-in.
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>>4289451
>>C] It's REALLY challenging for you, but do your best to respond in a normal way to your friends concerns. Allow yourself to have a few drinks with your fellow veterans. Try to loosen up, and maybe actually respond to their comments.
With great power comes great responsibility unfortunately. If not us, then who?
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>>4289451
>>B] Answer the priest's question. Tell him in plain terms what you know about what happens to humans, post-Catalyst. He explicitly asked you to tell him the opposite, but truth is a tenet of Mercy, and you are not about to let him live with a lie.

Don't think about the ones that turned, think about the ones you spared, the ones *you will* spare. Don't let this demolish you, there are plenty more people that are going to need you, in their darkest moments. If you put them to rest before they turned, maybe it was a Mercy, the only one they could afford at that moment.
>>
>>4289451
D. Good in excess is bad, yada yada yada
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>>4289513

Not really in this case, we already made a promise to go after our congregation and out of everyone here Richard is the most capable one, by not doing what we promised we are abandoning our congregation for a second time. We can relax when we get back to Eadric and settle into a routine, right now there is a lot of stuff we need to fix.
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>>4289453
>>4289459
>>4289513
>>4289534
(The vote for D was to be included if the majority vote went for it, but since we have vocal opposition with a lot of justification, going to note it. No false promises, etc etc. Think I can incorporate just about everything though. Locking the vote here, will try and update before work. If not I'll get this out ASAP. Writing now!)
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>>4289634
There isn't a single word that's come out of your friend's lips that hasn't had you worried or tugged at your heart strings. Knowing full well that Cyril doesn't want to go anywhere, you keep him in the hug for a few more moments. Gesturing to Ofelia, over his shoulder, you make every indication for her to get some glasses for the rest of the liquor.

"Cyril." You have to try and reassure him.

"Yeah." He's intentionally muffling his voice in your shoulder.

"The power granted to us— it is more than that of even Flesh, or Mercy."

"The fuck are you on about?"

"We have responsibility."

"I was afraid you were going to say that."

You pull him back, to stop his self-pity, take the priest by his shoulders, and stare him straight in the eye. His are unbelievably red, and you're certain he's unsettled by your own gaze. Wincing, the priest can't help but ask, "the fuck did they do to you, Richard?"

"Even the best of— thank you, Ofelia—" you take a glass of some licorice-smelling liquor from her. "Even good, in *excess*, can lead to bad."

You raise your glass, and make your point. It's beautiful, and almost the same color as the last green in your eyes. The priest of Flesh at your side can't help but laugh, in a dry, and dark sort of way. Looking to the cup in hand, and back to your friend, you grimace at the scent of licorice, and knock back the entire glass. It's been diluted with water, has a little sugar in it, and tastes unmistakably like anise.

"The fuck has gotten into you," Cyril manages, a little more seriously.

You practically shake him, as he's not getting the point, and you're losing your patience. "At least fifty pounds— in less than two weeks—" Ofelia nearly spits out her drink, "—not to mention a few death threats from Father Friedrich—"

A darker laugh of, "humble estimates," comes out of the priest, stopping your laundry list of complaints.

"We've all made promises," you insist. "I intend to uphold mine."

You part your hold from Cyril, and don't complain as Ofelia sidles up next to you and Ray. "Routine, and relaxation will— there will be ample opportunity for normalcy when I return to Eadric." It's entirely necessary to implore the priest, "you can let this destroy you, Cyril."

The fighter is legitimately offended, but remains silent, as Ofelia makes quick work of shoving another glass into his hand of the same emerald-green liquor.

"Or," you point out, "you can look to your displays of Mercy. The lives you've saved. The suffering you've ended—" you glance to everyone around you, "—and the people who still are looking to you for aid, in the dark."

It's absolutely necessary for everyone to raise their glasses.

"If not us," you frown, "then who?"

(1/2)
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>>4289714
Ofelia hands off her glass to Cyril, muttering to you, "that's what I like to hear. Cheers, Richard."

Unable to help himself, Brother Trebbeck returns your toast. "Cheers."

The halfling drinks straight from the bottle once again. Cyril can't help but laugh, sets her offering aside, and seems to have calmed down significantly. He nods to you, and resolves, "it'd better be us, right?"

You offer him a weary smile, and try to nurse the rest of the liquor given to you. Musing that it must be from Spira, there's no ill-effect— until you're certain that a button on your undershirt gives out. Maybe two.

Calmly setting your glass aside, three now sit in front of Brother Trebbeck.

He looks to you, your fidgeting, to Ray quietly laying next to you, and to Ofelia. He drops back against the floor. "This is so stupid."

"Hey," the halfling frowns.

"Not you," he grins. The flash of his usual attitude seems to spark up a bit more, musing to the ceiling, "this shit is just taking *so long.* I'm beat, and I know," he waves to you, "that you got some shit planned."

"I'll kill ya before anyone else can," Ofelia frowns to him, "but he's got a point. Watcha' got, Richard?"

>A] You can't ask them to go running into the ruins. Reassure Ofelia and Cyril that you'll be alright, and simply keep their company until Harriet gets back.

>B] Ask Ofelia to come with you to find Lady Edith, Sir Douglas, and Algrith. She's easily one of the most resilient people you've ever met, and you think she can handle it.

>C] Ask Cyril if he's seriously okay to go back out today.
>1] Plainly ask him if he can get some things from town while you wait with Ofelia, for Harriet to get back.
>2] Go with him into town for a bit, for the company, some fresh air, and to curtail any stupid hat purchases.
>3] See if he's up for an excursion into the ruins, despite everything.

>D] Write-in.
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>>4289718
>>B] Ask Ofelia to come with you to find Lady Edith, Sir Douglas, and Algrith. She's easily one of the most resilient people you've ever met, and you think she can handle it.

>C] Ask Cyril if he's seriously okay to go back out today.
>3] See if he's up for an excursion into the ruins, despite everything.

Don't push it, at the first sign of hesitation refuse to bring any one of them.
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>>4289724
+1
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>>4289724
>>4289735
(Locking the vote here. Writing ASAP!)
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>>4289867
You plainly explain, "my last invocation to Spirit— along with Mercy— was over four days past. At the Time, I knew my congregation's location with absolute certainty." Though it needs no elaboration, you frown to Cyril, "hence the urgency. This has not merely been a matter of obsession, or gluttony—"

The blonde gives you a sheepish grin. You're fully aware that he can't resist rapping you on the shoulder, putting up his hands, and smirking, "alright! Alright. I get it."

With a milder frown, you continue, "it is a matter of their collective safety. Even if King Magnus had not urged me to find them, I MUST locate Lady Edith, and Sir Douglas. Algrith is likely in their company. Sister Cardew was unable to gather any news regarding their whereabouts— and my knowledge of their location—" you think back, through a mild buzz in the back of your head. "They were— and may still be— within the ruins. Beneath Calunoth. Well hidden— and if Sister Cardew's speculation is correct..."

Cyril can't help but grumble, "it usually is."

"Yes. Well." Your fidgeting intensifies. "There is likely *very* good reason we have not heard anything of their activity. They certainly do not *wish* to be found." Almost inaudibly, you murmur, "I can imagine a number of reasons that they would find the ruins preferable to human company."

You cut to the chase, continuing to murmur. "Ofelia."

"Yep." She's already getting to her feet.

"You are resilient—"

She's moving some floorboards. "Mhm."

"You know how much I treasure our friendship. Your company. Your expertise."

An assortment of poisons and knives are being pulled out from under her kitchen floor. The vials are being handled with care. The blades are being taken out three at a time. "Yep. Same to you!"

"Would you—"

She laughs. The halfling sets aside what you believe to be throwing knives made of an exotic metal, to walk over to you. She's at about eye-level while you're sitting, and pats you on the shoulder. "I told ya' already. I'm not lettin' this lie 'til yer safe, and everythin' is all sorted. You want me to stick around this time, right?"

You pull her into a tight hug, and nod. "Of course."

She seems speechless, for a moment, before both of you pull apart. Your shoulder is poked. "I'm not gonna get used to this."

"Don't," you immediately inform her. Taking care to not jostle Ray out of any slumber, you get to your feet, and try to not resent the effort it takes. It's appropriate, as you resume pacing, to look to Cyril.

He finishes all three glasses on the floor, gets to his feet, and can't seem to decide on what to say. The singular moment of silence is all you need to hear. "Look after Brother Wilhelm," you suggest, giving the bodyguard an easy-out.

He can't help but start, crossing his arms, to protest, "now wait just a minute—"

"No," you grin.

"Dick," he starts, knowing you hate it, "you sure you don't want my ugly mug hidden in all that shadow?"

(1/2)
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>>4290160
"I could not be any more certain," you insist.

You both try to not laugh, faking scowls at one another, just as there's a firm knocking at the front door. Ofelia runs to get it, and immediately gasps.

You and Cyril rush to see what's the matter.

It seems that Sister Cardew went through the trouble of replacing her old holy symbol, and is carrying a few oversized packages in her petite arms. They're totally eclipsing her. The brunette smirks, "give me a hand," while you effortlessly take the bundles away from her.

Shifting the items in hand, noting that it feels almost entirely like cloth, you hear Harriet mention, "mail was sent. Sister Tirel and Sister Corbon are making quick work of the remaining cases. Your action easily stopped another outbreak," she must be speaking to Ofelia and Cyril, "and it will be *far* easier getting word now that the worst of all this fuss is over. Mail was sent. Excuse me a moment," the priestess sniffs, swiping the four topmost items from your arms. "Go," she hisses, shooing you to a side room with a rare grin, "we can talk when you're done. You'll like it. Promise."

You go to Ofelia's windowless sitting room, unsure of what to expect, and are left to your own devices for a moment with a small bundle. It's wrapped in light green paper. Taking a moment to light a singular candle, you squint to read an attached notecard, in Harriet's fine writing.

"Thank you. You don't hear it often enough, for all of your hard work. I hope you can make better use of this once we've tied up all our loose threads! (I know you'll tell me if I've missed any.) Congratulations, *Father* Anscham. You really have earned it."

There's a couple garments of clothing. The priestess of the immaterial clearly could not decide on a color scheme, and went for several muted shades for trousers, and plenty of darker tones for shirts. Unwrapping what must be ten articles of various long sleeves and string, you're greeted by a much smaller item.

The wrapping paper is yellow, tacky, and you already love it. It's tied off with a new, tidy, plain white string. You unfasten the holy symbol of Spirit, and set the paper aside.

Inside the simple packaging is a new journal. She knows how beat up your old one is. The new tome is also a deep, forest green. It has the same gilded bindings, and a black bookmark, but the shape is neither distorted from old blood, nor bent with age. There's probably a hundred, beautiful, stark-white pages inside. They're all blank. It has that new-book smell.

You probably spend a solid minute simply standing there, and enjoying the sight and scent of it.

(Options in next post.)
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>>4290164
>Choose one prompt from A, or write-in, if you like. (If nothing from A is picked, I'll roll a 1d3 to represent some indecision.)
>Choose at least one prompt from B, or feel free to write-in.

>A] You're going to go make a first impression on royalty, and possibly your your most devoted follower.
>1] Put on something befitting of the Father of the Church of Mercy. Harriet seems to have an eye for cloth, and you are certain you can keep it tasteful.
>2] You are wearing all black, and would like to see anyone try and stop you.
>3] Honestly, you've been more comfortable than you thought you would be representing both the Church of Mercy and Agriculture. Stick to gold and green.
>4] Write-in.

>B] This was extremely sweet of Sister Cardew. Let her know how much you appreciate it.
>1] You know she'll want to come with you to the ruins, but you're worried about Cyril. Honestly, you should probably have someone watch Ray and Theodore while they're sleeping and healing, too. Ask her if she can keep an eye on The Honey Bee, and promise to look after yourself, while she looks after everyone else.
>2] As tempting as it is to go delving below the city with just Ofelia, you'd prefer some more cerebral company. Not only for Sister Cardew's guidance, but along with a big hug, you want to let her know what a nice gesture this was.
>3] You REALLY want to get Randall and Victor, but don't know if you can handle the two of them in addition to the two women in your company. Ask the priestess if she's okay with their presence, before moving on.
>4] Write-in.
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>>4290165
>>A] You're going to go make a first impression on royalty, and possibly your your most devoted follower.
>2] You are wearing all black, and would like to see anyone try and stop you.

>B] This was extremely sweet of Sister Cardew. Let her know how much you appreciate it.
>1] You know she'll want to come with you to the ruins, but you're worried about Cyril. Honestly, you should probably have someone watch Ray and Theodore while they're sleeping and healing, too. Ask her if she can keep an eye on The Honey Bee, and promise to look after yourself, while she looks after everyone else.
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>>4290165
>A] You're going to go make a first impression on royalty, and possibly your your most devoted follower.
>1] Put on something befitting of the Father of the Church of Mercy. Harriet seems to have an eye for cloth, and you are certain you can keep it tasteful.

>B] This was extremely sweet of Sister Cardew. Let her know how much you appreciate it.
>1] You know she'll want to come with you to the ruins, but you're worried about Cyril. Honestly, you should probably have someone watch Ray and Theodore while they're sleeping and healing, too. Ask her if she can keep an eye on The Honey Bee, and promise to look after yourself, while she looks after everyone else.
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>>4290493
+1
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>>4290347
>>4290493
>>4290541
(Alright guys, going with unanimous vote for B1, and majority for A1. I think I can work something out. Vote is locked. Still at work for a bit but I'll try and write just as soon as I can.)
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>>4290587
(Realized this afternoon that I have low-key been forgetting to include environmental art for about 9 threads now. Since no one has mentioned it, I'm assuming it hasn't been a deal breaker, but expect a lot more to make up for the backlog, and moving forward. Writing now!)
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>>4291055
Setting aside your new journal, you look for a moment over your robes. The enchanted garment has miraculously maintained its perfect fit. You're certain it's the same item, peppered as it is with flecks of blood and bits of petals. Curiously, you place a hand to it, and confidently say, "something befitting of the Father of the Church of Mercy."

In an instant, all trace of grime is taken in. The muted yellow-gold flares forth, into an utterly blinding, metallic, and hideously tacky item you've only had the displeasure of seeing a few Times before. Quickly, you clarify, "nothing ceremonial. Practical— tasteful— *flattering*, if at all possible."

Another shift happens in the tone of the robes, and their cut, as well. You can't help but smirk at a more angular collar, a better fit at the waist, fitted sleeves, length that is entirely serviceable for extended travel, and absolutely no buttons. The hue shifts between a deep amber in the nearby candlelight, to a flattering, warmer tone— between marigold and beige— in the shade. The black trim is gone, though the item is accented with gold-thread that catches on the light. It all emphasizes your height, the breadth of your shoulders, and probably compliments your hair and eyes. It's definitely the classiest thing you've ever seen for a priest of Mercy, and is entirely befitting of a church leader. Musing that even Father Friedrich would have difficulty giving your appearance a hard Time, you genuinely smile.

The expression is gone as quickly as it came. A mental note is made, while you keep your eyes on the journal at a nearby end-table. It would make for a nice exercise log. One in which you could record your dedicated plan on how to work in Father Friedrich's exercise routine, in the coming weeks. It was three buttons that you lost to having a few drinks with friends, and while you imagine that you could carry the weight of your last invocation in worse ways, you make it a point to get dressed again as quickly as humanly possible.

Black. Raven-hued trousers, black leather shoes, and a high-necked, deeply-dyed shirt. You go through two belts, but they are all black, and more flattering than a scowl. The expression only persists until the robe goes back on, anyways.

It's more of a coat, makes you look at least 20lbs slimmer, and you genuinely feel a lot better with it on. Feeling remarkably lighter, you sweep the remainder of your gifts back up, and head right out the door.

Everyone is obnoxiously standing right outside the door. Cyril whistles. "Neat." He's reclining against the wall, wearing a stupid new hat. You knock it off, to his amusement.

Ofelia also whistles, but has no hat, and you wouldn't have the heart to knock the smile off her face. "What? You won't dress up fer me like that? Cyril—! Don't you even start—"

(1/4)
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>>4291221
He ruffles her hair. The two blondes fire each other a few good-natured insults, while Sister Cardew takes a step forward, and asks quietly, "well?"

You can't help yourself, and take her into a hug with one arm. "Thank you so much."

"What?" Cyril mocks offense, ruffling harder. "I'm not good enough for ya?"
His shorter blonde counterpart teases, "rippin' every pair of sleeves off isn't exactly high fashion—"

The priestess in your arms remembers herself, and returns your gesture in full. "I probably overdid it," she sheepishly admits.

The two blondes beside you continue bickering, oblivious. "Oh? How would you know? Have you even *been* to Beorward?"
You have always assumed Cyril hates Beorward, yet he's pulling this card.
Ofelia is fully aware. "Don't gotta be a tourist to know they wear as little as they can—"

"It was *terribly* sweet," you insist, trying to tune them out, "and probably excessive." A smirk is fired at you, as you grin, "your company is already a gift—"

"Stop," Sister Cardew grins back. "Stop it."

"To lie is to sin, Sister Cardew."

"Stop. What do you want?"

It's impossibly to tune out Cyril. The priest is up in arms. Literally, he sweeps Ofelia up into his arms. "You should know! Show a bumpkin like me a thing or two."
"Maybe I should," she fires back, stealing his hat, and triumphantly wearing it herself. "Looks better on me!"

Firing a guilty look to Cyril and Ofelia, you whisper to Harriet, "I'm worried about him."

She immediately whispers back, "he seems as stupid as ever. More than usual, you mean?"

You grimace in reply. "Much more. See if you can talk to him— if— if he's up to it? If you are up to it. Theodore and Ray were both hurt, as well. They— Mercy, they need to be looked after—"

"Say no more," she frowns, and says much more clearly, to Ofelia, "I would be happy to look after The Honey Bee. In your absence."

The two exchange a little formality, some nonsense about how many locks to put on the door, several pairs of keys, and you give the priestess extensive instructions on looking after Ray. She insists she doesn't need to hear it for the tenth Time, which you make a point of ignoring, and make a written listen of instructions.

While you're talking, the priestess of Spirit barks a few things to Cyril, to get him moving, and before long you're saddled with an *excessive* amount of supplies. Trying to not think too hard as to why Ofelia has the majority of it ready, and set aside in the floorboards of her kitchen, you run a mental checklist.

(2/4)
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>>4291223
-Three weeks worth of water, across several waterskins in various sizes.
-A complete restock of all of your herbs, bandages, and a good cleaning of every tool at your disposal.
-One hundred feet of rope for you, and another coil for Ofelia.
-Gloves, scarves, cloaks, masks, and every change of clothes that Harriet purchased for everyone that may be in your company.
-Blankets, and a nightcap. (You safely assume Theodore will try to kill Ofelia if she doesn't take one, and that's a fight you don't want to bet on *at the moment*.)
-Ample writing material.
-As many candles and as much oil as you can safely part with.
-Two lanterns.
-Torches, for good measure.

"Sister Cardew, this is *extremely* excessive—"
"You are not going down there to die," she mutters. "Not this Time. Pawn it all off on a beggar. Leave it at the church if you must!"
"But—"
"No buts!"

-Your new journal.
-Your old journal, carefully obtained from Ray's harness without waking him up.
-More writing material.

"You always need more than you think you do," Sister Cardew muses.
"I made do with two pens and some chalk in two months, before—"
"You'd better take some chalk, too."

-AMPLE writing material.
-You're told a week's worth of food, but are certain you're not having any, and suspect it would last between you an Ofelia for at least a month.
-Piety, your mace, your shield, and the unbelievably light bag that the majority of the supplies are situated in.

"Can we go," Ofelia hollers, shouldering her old over-sized bag. Of course, she kept it, and is standing in the door, trying to not laugh, as she realizes what she's done.

"One more thing," Harriet calls out to her, and makes a point of dragging Cyril to the door.

You all make a show of stoically standing around one another. "Come back safely," Sister Cardew plainly frowns.

"I'm not leavin' him to burn the place down," Ofelia grins, thumbing to Cyril.

With a smirk, he insists, "I'll be sure to leave you the embers," before planting a peck on her cheek.

The halfling pulls down on his collar, and goes in for a bigger kiss. You keep your eyes to the wreath on the door, for a moment, and are certain that they're not Mercy's favorite flower. The yellow petals are more of neglected love, optimism, bounty, and you try to not think too much harder about it.

When you're certain that you aren't interrupting anything, you mutter to Sister Cardew, "my congregation has been enduring for months— and you know— you know I cannot abandon them. Not a second Time. That said— I— I will do *everything* in my power to get us all back safely."

The priestess adjusts her glasses, and gives you a stern glance. "I know."

(3/4)
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>>4291226
Your heart skips a little in your throat, as your friends linger in the door. Ofelia practically skips off the front porch, making a few rude gestures to Cyril before waving over her shoulder, to both him and Harriet. While you both walk back out, into the winding streets of her neighborhood, she glances up to you. "Somethin' a matter?"

It's a little too difficult to meet her gaze. You settle on the murals of nearby buildings, the bustle of clergy in the road, the last of the afternoon sun, and swallow your angst. "No one saw me out— when I last left for the ruins."

"This'll be different."

You know this will be different. Your vision of Lady Edith "Starlight" Douglas amd Sir Allan "Stardust" Douglas came four days past, but you have learned so much. Not just of the city, but of how to approach your endeavors.

You could take the straightest path above-ground, to where you suspect they're located. While you have almost nothing in the way of any knowledge regarding the ruins beneath Calunoth, you know enough of its streets by now (and enough connections) to enter at a safe point.

It's possible that extended exploration beneath Calunoth would lead you to a trail, especially if Algrith has traveled to either royalty's side. Given how dangerous your past experiences with the underbelly of the capital has been, you're not certain if that will lead you further astray.

It's also possible that the scholar in your congregation, Walter Middleton, will have more news. He could have been in contact with Algrith, or simply know more regarding this subject than anyone in your present company.

Just to be certain, you lean over to Ofelia. Shooting a weary frown at the number of clergy down the road— that immediately try and get your attention— you try to step up the pace. Quietly, and urgently, you ask, "have you traveled beneath Calunoth, during your residency here in the city?"

"All my work's been above-ground, Richard. Can't say it's been pretty, but you know I stayed sharp. I can take whatever we gotta head into."

>A] Do the majority of your travel above-ground, and only descend where you think the straightest shot to the royalty in your company may be. You may have an absurd amount of supplies in hand, but there's no point taking unnecessary risks right off the bat. Get to the entry-point into the city's ruins that you're aware of, and fast.

>B] You're going in as soon as possible. There's no telling how many delays you'll get in the city, given your reputation, and you want to start your search for Algrith ASAP. You've already spent months delaying this mission, and are not about to waste any more Time.

>C] Think smarter, not harder. Take a brief detour to the palace, and head into the royal archives to find Walter. He's been there for months. If he can't get you any answers, then Father Sullivan should be back by now, and will definitely have some guidance.

>D] Write-in.
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>>4291228
>>C] Think smarter, not harder. Take a brief detour to the palace, and head into the royal archives to find Walter. He's been there for months. If he can't get you any answers, then Father Sullivan should be back by now, and will definitely have some guidance.
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>>4291228
>>C] Think smarter, not harder. Take a brief detour to the palace, and head into the royal archives to find Walter. He's been there for months. If he can't get you any answers, then Father Sullivan should be back by now, and will definitely have some guidance.
>>
>>4291228
>C] Think smarter, not harder. Take a brief detour to the palace, and head into the royal archives to find Walter. He's been there for months. If he can't get you any answers, then Father Sullivan should be back by now, and will definitely have some guidance.
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>>4291232
>>4291597
>>4291623
(Awesome guys, going to try and write before work today. Vote is locked!)
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>>4291628
"Stay close," you softly insist. Narrowly evading multiple calls for your name, you both break out into a jog. Peeling out of Ofelia's neighborhood even more quickly than you entered, you huff, "we are taking a brief detour—"

"Don't tell me," she frowns. "We're goin' back fer those chumps who roughed up Harriet?"

You try to not acknowledge the rightful smear against Victor and Randall, and instead nod to the massive structure on the horizon. King Magnus' castle is visible from almost every street in the city. "There is another member of my congregation who has *not* been forgotten."

"He's in the castle?!"

"Yes—"

"Why didn't you see him already?"

It takes a moment, as you all weave between clergy members, ordinary families in the streets, and what feels like a hundred shouts out towards *you*, to gather your thoughts.

"This was more important."

You both have to pick up into a run, yet call out a few apologies to the extremely grateful citizens of this district. Everyone in the country should know in a few weeks Time that *you* are one of the busiest men in the country.

Getting through each subsequent checkpoint becomes increasingly tedious, as you have to outright ignore any questions directed at you. Through the mercantile district, away from the main road, narrowly avoiding a mishap with a vagrant that marked you as an easy target, ensuring Ofelia didn't kill the rogue outright, getting through the gardens, into the cathedral ward, and up towards the castle takes the remainder of the afternoon.

You catch your breath, slowing your pace, and looking about the reconstruction of fountains and fallen flowerbeds. Ofelia nods towards the memorial constructed from your sword's temporary resting place. You nod past a few collapsed iron fences, thanks to a number of lanterns being lit, up towards the building ahead.

https://youtu.be/tKXlzI0pKO4

An organ begins to play. The composition is intense, and so loud that most men working about the gardens stop everything that they're doing. You can't help but listen. You've only heard the instrument on a few other occasions, during late evenings studying within the royal archive. The instrument is gargantuan, and the only one remaining in the country. It can easily be heard within the castle walls, and echoes far outside of it.

From the barren and rubble-strewn entryway to the palace, you give Ofelia a slight smile, and lead her company up more steps than you care to count. You have an ear for at least one kind of music, and can sincerely appreciate the pitch, and tone, that practically shakes the halls you proceed beneath. The instrument reminds you of a magnificent choir. It resonates over each and every introduction you escape from guards, and the clipped explanations that *have* to be given regarding your business.

(1/3)
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>>4291651
Eventually, you resign to walking straight past anyone that attempts to waste any more of your Time. The passage to the royal archive is seared into your memory. It's one of the few places you were permitted to move about freely in, upon your last visit with Father Edmund.

Ofelia is having some difficulty keeping up with you. She still has yet to complain, as you both briskly move down the halls of stained glass, and old stone. Hundreds of candles are being lit, by servants, clergy, and guard. Your shadows flicker together, along the last few corridors, up a tremendous flight of stairs, and beyond multiple locked doors. With ample explanation, you still have to flash the letter King Magnus penned for your congregation members no less than four Times, in different locations, to armed guard, and irate clergymen. They answer to you, but take their work as seriously as you remember.

Finally— you ascend, up— and on to a beloved balcony. It overlooks the height of Corcaea's royal library. Though the shelves cannot rival Ostedholm's archives in any capacity, this is the second greatest store of knowledge above the entire country. Second only to Murgate's colossal halls, you look upon a dizzying number of books. The shelves and their pillars of support do not merely reach the heights of the palace. They descend, into man-made depths, from repurposed ruins.

Every conceivable subject that King Magnus would have deemed worth preserving— and protecting— resides here. You know that Walter wouldn't have left it voluntarily. You pray he's still here.

"He's there," Ofelia chirps, pointing down.

No vertigo takes you, as you lean over the banister just enough to see down at *least* five stories, into the lowest levels. It's veiled in shadow, and almost no candlelight.

Eagle-Eye seems completely certain of all but one thing. "He's a heathen?"

"He has worked to protect my name for months—" you're already back to jogging, leading Ofelia to another flight of stairs, "without thanks. Without the respect any of my congregation rightfully deserves. King Magnus thinks him a fool— yet has tolerated his presence, and granted him permission to explore a fraction of these halls freely—"

You peel around another corner, down three more flights of stairs, and arrive before a large, wooden door. There are roughly forty signs posted, in erratic handwriting. Some are written with dying pens, others are upon wrinkled parchment. Many are crumpled in balls upon the floor.

All state some variation of "do not disturb."

On the floor, beneath a pile of crumpled-up notes, is a flask of wine, and possibly something that was once food. You are certain that this man has not moved from the interior of the building for months— and that your clergy of Mercy walk its halls.

You question— for the first Time— what Walter has actually been searching for.

(2/3)
>>
>>4291654
If you weren't mistaken, he hasn't budged from the room ahead in at least a week, or three.

You never feel like you even have a minute.

Before you can even knock on the door, Ofelia lets out a sigh. Gesturing to something you can't see, she frowns. "He's got an alarm system set up. Dunno if it's trapped."

That would be ridiculous, you think to yourself. Why, this is the royal palace. Anyone with the audacity to booby-trap a corridor within a palace library would have to be the kind of person crazy enough to survive the ruins.
To make it out alive.
To then spend months risking their life, just to serve your name.

You take a step back.

>A] Ask Ofelia to try and disarm whatever Walter has set up. Don't move until you're certain it's safe.

>B] You sincerely don't have Time for this. Call out to him, and make yourself known.

>C] You're worried, but not for yourself. Go ahead, regardless, and knock on the door. Try to introduce yourself to the scholar, come what may.

>D] Write-in.
>>
>>4291658
>>B] You sincerely don't have Time for this. Call out to him, and make yourself known.
>>
>>4291658
>>B] You sincerely don't have Time for this. Call out to him, and make yourself known.
>>
>>4291658
>B] You sincerely don't have Time for this. Call out to him, and make yourself known.
>>
>>4291660
>>4291700
>>4291728
(Going to work in a few more updates today if I can! Locking the vote and writing now.)
>>
>>4291809
You aren't judging. His paranoia is valid. Every one of your congregation has been marked for death until just this week. "Walter. Walter Middleton! This is Father Richard Anscham."

No one replies. You can hear a page being turned.

"In my company is Ofelia Banks," you continue, praying to test his memory.

A nasally, impossibly smug voice asks from just on the other side of the door, "who?"

"She saved all of our lives— mine, again, just this afternoon. It is *her* skill that put down the demons who were guarding Ostedholm's libraries. She granted you all escape."

"No, Father," the voice on the other side of the door distantly notes. He might have a head cold. "Aside from it being Algrith who got us to safety, and more sacrifices than you should ever hope to know. *Who*?"

You take in a very deep breath, and try to not lose your patience. "Professor Echo." You mutter, a little desperately, to the floor and a glimpse of some trip wire. "I do *not* have the Time for this—"

Something hits, hard, on the other side of the door. "Yes, you do. You came down here, just to ask me questions. Isn't that right? Isn't that what everyone wants? You didn't need me for half a year. What could be so important now? What's changed, Father? And don't give me that drabble about your title. You didn't need it to save half the city. You certainly didn't look it when you saved any of us."

There's a cacophony of papers shuffling. The door opens a crack. He's obviously too curious to see you and Ofelia to even wait for a reply.

The rogue beside you fires you a look that says she will tear Walter's brain clean out of his skull if he even thinks about trying anything suspicious.

>A] Respect the professor's space and eccentric behavior. Don't move. Try and talk to him. Be patient. You're the Father of the Church of Mercy, and doing everything in your power to not fuck it up this time around.

>B] Put your foot in the door. Ask Walter to meet you halfway. You have answers for him, too, but he has to try and work with you.

>C] Catch the door when it opens, pray nothing is set off, and be firm. You are no liar. You don't have Time for games, childish misunderstandings, and hope that the truth would be more appreciated than anything else.

>D] Open the damn door and tell Walter to cut the act. You've had enough of a rough day already. You have other allies who are dying to assist you, but you went out of your way to seek HIS help.

>E] Write-in.
>>
>>4291853
>>A] Respect the professor's space and eccentric behavior. Don't move. Try and talk to him. Be patient. You're the Father of the Church of Mercy, and doing everything in your power to not fuck it up this time around.

I am glad to see you, *Walter*. How have you been?
>>
>>4291853
>>A] Respect the professor's space and eccentric behavior. Don't move. Try and talk to him. Be patient. You're the Father of the Church of Mercy, and doing everything in your power to not fuck it up this time around.
>>
>>4291853
B for Bravo
>>
>>4291858
>>4291923
>>4292090
(Favoring A for majority, but I think this has enough overlap to reasonably work. Vote is locked! Writing now.)
>>
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>>4292242
Sallow skin and a mop of greasy hair flashes from behind the door. It's hard to gauge Walter's demeanor from a distance, but given the pits under his eyes, even a brief glimpse shows he's not taking care of himself. Patiently, you wait for the man to slam the door shut again. Several of the "do not disturb" notes flutter to the ground.

"I am glad to see you, *Walter,*" you gently start, wielding more compassion than even anyone in your position rightfully should. "How have you been?"

"You didn't even see me," the nasally voice immediately contradicts.

"I have seen more than enough," you hint at, "and would happily give *you* answers, if— if you could have the decency to meet me halfway."

"Does he always speak without listening, or waiting for an answer," Walter snaps, clearly to Ofelia, and definitely bullied that you aren't using his preferred title.

"When he's got someone stressin' him out, yeah," she snaps back. "Yeah. Sure. Ya gonna answer him?"

The door opens. A few bottles clatter. You're given a glimpse of an incredibly well-lit study, stacked to the ceiling with scrolls, parchment, open books, closed tomes, old wax, and grandiloquence. A few statues were dragged into the room, obviously from a different location in the library. The candelabras are gilded, and hideously out of place. A few paintings are propped up against the side walls, of beautiful women.

Your congregation member is standing to the side, with a book and quill in hand, looking to you thoughtfully. He might have jumped into the center of a large rug spread out over the floor. "Father Anscham—"

Ofelia almost laughs, interrupting immediately. "Are you posin'?"

A pair of awkwardly long legs shifts from beneath a faded tunic, that probably hasn't been washed in five months. "First impressions are important." He frowns, closes his book firmly, and tucks the quill behind his ear. "It is *regrettable* that ours comes so late."

You carefully avoid kicking aside the glass bottles. They are swimming with something smoky, possibly sorcerous, and you leave it to Ofelia to make a clear path while you linger in the door. "Walter."

There's a permanent slouch in his narrow shoulders, but he tries to meet your rigid posture, and winces from the unnatural movement. "Yes?"

"I know you heard me."

"Likewise."

"How are you?"

He turns up his nose. "I should ask you the same. What's happened to you? Only your voice seems to have gone unchanged."

You have dealt with demons that put this man's obstinancy to shame. "I made a decision," you immediately state.

"Oh?" He sniffs. He actually seems to be quite sick. "Just one?"

"I have gone back on almost every one that's mattered. Right now— just right now, Walter— I would like to stop being a disgrace."

A few of the airs drop off of the scholar. "I see."

"You're sick."

"Aren't we all?"

Ofelia rolls her eyes. "You good, Richard?"

(1/2)
>>
>>4292370
"No," you frown at her, nodding that she's actually better off waiting in the hall. "Please don't kill any guards. They haven't done anything."

Walter stares at you like you're insane. The halfling beside you waves over her shoulder, as she walks away, unable to stand the man's company for another second. It might be the smell of stale sweat, used tissues and pretentiousness drifting out of the study. It is probably that the last time you traveled with Ofelia in the company of someone so conceited, she's refused to speak of them ever again.

You only fear what is justified. Accepting the invitation to come inside without hesitation, you're nodded at, and directed to close the door. Walter slumps down into a nearby chair, and seems to compulsively open the closest book. Without looking at you, he mutters, "I've been jealous, you know."

To your enormous relief, he seems to neither notice nor care that you immediately start pacing. A few papers are kicked up, which you instinctively pick up.

They're all about Ostedholm, written in the same erratic handwriting as the notes on the door.

With wide eyes, you glance to the slumped over brunette, who seems to be staring off into space. "I can't invoke. I'll never be able to have all the Time I could need. Not to learn of it all. I don't have the Spirit to understand everything, either." Rolling back in his chair, looking to the ceiling, you realize his eyes are still plated with a dull, golden hue. "You showed me Mercy. *I didn't want it.*"

Violently, slamming his hands onto the table and knocking aside another book, Walter shouts, "I needed to KNOW. Did you think we all went down there just to die? That I would have been happy, to have been led like a lamb to slaughter? I am no fighter, Father Anscham. Many of us were not. I am the ONLY non-combatant among your men and women to survive!"

He starts to cough, hard, and looks to you with reddened eyes. "I have survived thanks to my wits, and the KNOWLEDGE of every FREAK that thinks they can take advantage of me."

A pair of entirely unhinged, narrow, and passive eyes are boring into yours. A few long minutes pass.

"You've been dying, haven't you, Walter?"

There's a glint in his eyes. A normal response escapes him. "Let's play a game, Father."

You twitch, and can't stop yourself from murmuring, "I am listening."

"I want to see how long you can go without asking anything of me. I want you to answer my questions! All of them!"

"I cannot intentionally make a promise that I cannot kee—"

(Barely over 2/3)
>>
>>4292372
He laughs, in a low, and devastated way. "Oh no. Don't give me that. There was more truth in the slander about you than not, until just a few weeks ago. Isn't that right? You can agree to this much. Mercy isn't leaving you. I've been waiting for you to come back. You," he turns from the desk, pointing straight between your eyes, "you have more knowledge than any man or demon in the country. I need it. I want you to help me, Father. Show me the Mercy that I'm asking for."

He drops his hand. "You know that I want to help you. That we all have been ruining ourselves, trying to help you. You know I don't trust you to not run away again. Leave me in the dust. I don't want to leave, but don't pretend for an instant that you don't have bigger and better things to get to. More than pathetic men playing at pathetic games. More than this circus."

>A] Blanketly agree. You'll play his game, even if he doesn't like the answers you have to give. This ball of obsession has been wallowing for months. This is the least you can do, but demand that he let you look after his health in the meantime.

>B] This is ridiculous. Answer the questions that Walter has already asked, and try to stress that you want to have a healthy, normal conversation with him.

>C] Write-in.
>>
>>4292376
>>A] Blanketly agree. You'll play his game, even if he doesn't like the answers you have to give. This ball of obsession has been wallowing for months. This is the least you can do, but demand that he let you look after his health in the meantime.
>>
>>4292376
>>A] Blanketly agree. You'll play his game, even if he doesn't like the answers you have to give. This ball of obsession has been wallowing for months. This is the least you can do, but demand that he let you look after his health in the meantime.
>>
>>4292376
>A] Blanketly agree. You'll play his game, even if he doesn't like the answers you have to give. This ball of obsession has been wallowing for months. This is the least you can do, but demand that he let you look after his health in the meantime.
>>
>>4292429
>>4292531
>>4292534
(Locking the unanimous vote here! Writing now.)
>>
>>4292557
https://youtu.be/Qk40cJLgRTY

"I don't want to leave you," you murmur, stopping your pacing, to insist, "and more than anything, I would like to help you. Yes. Of course, Walter."

His eyebrows almost disappear. "Really?"

You take a good, long, hard look at the man before you. He's older than you, though not by much. The bruising around the collar of his shirt is neither from age, nor injury. The pallor of his skin, the yellow hue and the clear pain in his bones and muscle is not only something you've read about. You've experienced much of it first-hand, and know exactly how to treat his symptoms. You even have the items to do so on your person. "On one condition."

"I knew it."

"You need to let me look after your health."

He makes a face. "Typical."

You frown harder. "You know I will not kill you."

"I'm more afraid of you helping me."

"Do you intend on— on conducting your research from an early grave?"

There's a haughty, half-nod, half-shrug, half-sniff, noncommittal reply. You're aware it's the best you're getting, and dump several of the rations you were given onto the table. Some dried mushrooms go with them. You scowl, muttering a reluctant prayer to Agriculture, and explain, "not seeing the sun in months will do things to the body, Walter, that I need not explain."

"Explain," is his first demand.

You get a pestle, mortar, some wine, and make the dried mushrooms into something palatable. Numerous other herbs go with it, that you know have seen more of the sun than either of you combined. You go into excruciating detail about every ailment that could possibly afflict him. The lesson goes up to— and including— the woes of subsisting in the ruins on moss and old water, for however long he was down there.

A nauseous smirk informs you, as he finishes the rest of the wine you've provided, "only four years."

There's no air in the library. Every cell in your body is screaming to ask, "what," but you stop yourself. You are a master of restraint, and with a trembling hand, grab a chair, and try to not collapse.

"You destroyed half of my life's work, in less than a few minutes, Father."

He's referring to you and Celegwen dissipating hundreds of books in Ostedholm's libraries. You swallow, hard. "I never would have found my Relic otherwise."

"You're wondering how I know this."

"Yes."

"I went back."

You resist the urge to bite your tongue, or vomit. Something choked comes out, as you struggle to articulate the words, "I see."

"When I saw how much you and the elf had worked over— did she have a name?"

"There was no memory of what she preferred. 'Celegwen' was given to her. From exile."

"Sounds like a sneeze."

"She hated it as well."

"Leave on bad terms, I take it? You're getting snippy."

"I am doing everything in my power to be accommodating. This is the *most* I can do, Walter."

(1/2)
>>
>>4292742
"Sounds like a bitch—"

You raise an eyebrow.

The stiff almost laughs, instead haughtily catching himself with a quick and earnest, "pardon my language, Father—"

Waving your hand, you try to get your composure back.

"I digress," Walter sighs, "I knew that I couldn't keep up. That we'd see each other again, and that *then* I could pick your brain." Walter looks like he literally could, for how intensely he's fidgeting. His fingers extract the quill behind his ear. Pulling at its feathers, he stresses, "I was right. So tell me. Keep telling me."

You're reminded that you're fidgeting with your Relic intensely enough that your hands ache, and get back to your feet, to pace further. "Go on."

"How much of it have you been unable to parse or understand?"

The impression of 210 fingers crawls over your lips and out from your eyes. "A little over 1600 years."

An organ plays, beyond the walls of the library. You had almost forgotten it, but the last of its muffled symphony is the only sound for several long moments.

"The imbeciles in our company will be devastated that you've befriended Father Sullivan." Walter gets to his feet, eyes wide, and cannot maintain his composure. Smiling, tilting his head, he asks, "have you shared this with him?"

"This information came from a demon of Spirit."

"Don't insult me. I know."

You twitch, wanting to ask how he would with everything you have. Mentally chanting 'restraint' to yourself, and imploring Mercy for strength, you mutter, "briefly. We parsed more of it in a single afternoon than I have in six months, with or without any further support."

"Good."

Crossing the room back towards the table, you shove some more wine and mushrooms at the scholar, needing someone to indulge in something before you go insane. He's possibly too fascinated to tell, ignores your gesture, and continues to grin. "Father Anscham. I don't want to torture you with questions."

"You are doing a magnificent job, Walter." You try to not smile, or scream. "Yet, this— this is easily the *mildest* abuse I've had in ages."

"They did a number on you, didn't they?"

"Yes." You will snap if one more person points out any semblance of masochism. "Please do not get into any name-calling, Walter. It has been an incredibly long day."

You *did* show the man Mercy. "You haven't been ignoring us for half a year, have you?"

"I ignored multiple signs of how desperate your situation has been— but no. I would never— could never— the *last thing* I could want for is any further suffering."

"Not even Sullivan was able to call you a sadist."

You resist the urge to flip the table.

"I'm keeping you from something incredibly urgent."

"*This* is incredibly urgent."

"It's really not. I'll be alright."

(Options in next post.)
>>
>>4292744
>A] Flip the table.

>B] Vent. It's been awhile. You know you won't hurt Walter, and might just need to punch a wall or something. (Feel free to write-in any further suggestions, complaints, or whatever you might want to say.)

>C] Stay calm, and plainly ask Walter if he can divulge whatever he knows about Lady Edith, Sir Douglas, and Algrith's whereabouts. Maybe go punch a wall, or flip a table later. You're trying to set an example, here.

>D] You have been repressing any and every defense against every insult directed towards you for months, in the hopes of it getting easier. It really has!
>1] It's probably masochism, but Walter obviously isn't judging. At least one person doesn't seem bothered by it. Don't interrupt him. You're honestly interested in what he has to say.
>2] You are transcending the sheer amount of bullshit that dictates your every day life. It legitimately doesn't matter. Let people say what they want. You're going to let this man work the neurosis out of his system and *be there for him*, dammit.

>E] Write-in.
>>
>>4292747
>>C] Stay calm, and plainly ask Walter if he can divulge whatever he knows about Lady Edith, Sir Douglas, and Algrith's whereabouts. Maybe go punch a wall, or flip a table later. You're trying to set an example, here.
>>
>>4292747
>C] Stay calm, and plainly ask Walter if he can divulge whatever he knows about Lady Edith, Sir Douglas, and Algrith's whereabouts. Maybe go punch a wall, or flip a table later. You're trying to set an example, here.
>>
>>4292747
>>C] Stay calm, and plainly ask Walter if he can divulge whatever he knows about Lady Edith, Sir Douglas, and Algrith's whereabouts. Maybe go punch a wall, or flip a table later. You're trying to set an example, here.
>>
>>4292819
>>4292830
>>4293010
(Stay calm and carry on? You got it. Vote is locked. Might take me a few to write but I'm on it.)
>>
>>4293471
Deep breaths. You are calm, collected, and trying to set an example. "Are you certain?"

"Never," Walter immediately replies, "but I'm aware of how many other matters you need to attend to. I won't waste more of your Time, Father." He grins in a way that makes you want to take a bath. "You'll come back. For more answers. Which ones would you like today?"

"Do you know *anything* regarding the whereabouts of Algrith, Lady Edith, or Sir Douglas?"

He makes a face. It's something between disgust and genuine amusement. "Oh."

Your frown demands an explanation.

The scholar clearly relishes withholding his information for a moment longer. "You don't know?"

"I thought you wished to not waste more of my Time, Walter—"

He puts up his hands in a parody of Mercy's symbol. Your grimace could probably curdle milk, as he laughs, and immediately stops the gesture. "Alright. No gossip."

A large piece of wrinkled parchment is pulled from the bottom of a stack on the table. Walter nearly spills the last few drops of wine onto the page, which he clumsily smears over a corner, and further ignores while drafting an elegant map. Your frown vanishes, as he quickly mutters a complex series of directions, three code phrases, and prompts you to pay attention to some symbols used for navigation.

"They will be hidden, on the walls. Show them to your halfling friend. Do not engage *anyone*. Word is already out that you and Sullivan are back on speaking terms. A lot of our men will want answers. Let us handle the mess for you. I know you don't have the Time for it."

Nothing makes any sense. Your dismay is probably written all over your face, as you nod, and politely roll up the map that's been given to you.

"You weren't expecting untamed demons right under our city, were you?"

Adjusting Piety's scabbard, your shield, and a scowl, you don't need to answer.

"Ostedholm's ruins were in the middle of our wilderness," Walter patiently reminds you, "and likely have never been fully explored. Not a single one of our Kings have let the resources beneath Calunoth gone unplundered. They may be barren, but *we* have needed shelter *somewhere,* Father."

You're intensely reminded of the human suffering within the sewers.

"You're walking blind, aren't you?"

"News is difficult to come by," you mutter, "when every messenger is intent on keeping me in the dark."

Walter knocks another book off his desk, and frowns at you. "It's nonsense. Why do you think we've fought against the Church of Spirit?"

You don't dare assume, and let the man speak.

"Our company's hatred comes from a place of *unwilling* ignorance. We all want answers. The Gods have provided us with none."

You probably hurt yourself, for how firmly you tense your hands. "The Gods are Merciful, Walter."

(1/2)
>>
>>4293674
"Ignorance is no Mercy. Following the teachings and leadership of our country has led to the end of humanity. There are hundreds of us *left.*" He's obviously speaking only of your congregation. "Many more have died. King Magnus was happy to cull the dissent. To squash out each and every believer in *humanity*, and the wisdom to look for answers in our *own* strength—"

You swore to yourself many months ago to stomp out any such blasphemy personally. You thought it was merely directed towards your work with the Gods, previously. Mostly in regards to how many lives you've saved, through your patron's hands.

"This has been about much more than your work, Father. We have all wanted something more to believe in. SomeONE who was capable of going against the insanity that's defined us. That's *ended* us."

With a slight frown, Walter looks to you, and earnestly explains, "you did need to get involved. You came too late. I know full well of your loyalty, and devotion. You are a man of the *Gods,* Father Anscham. Not of us sinners and scoundrels. We've been doing worse things for your name than Sullivan could have hoped to." His frown deepens. "You're a good man." He looks pretty ashamed of himself. "Better than I could have hoped for."

>A] If you're about to go into a den of heathens who feel like you've failed them, you probably need a more thorough explanation. Educated decisions are almost always a luxury for you.

>B] Humanity is not only far from extinct, but the answers you've been given from the Gods have saved countless lives. You've already heard enough to know that your beliefs are completely founded. Thank Walter for his help, but respectfully disagree with his sentiments.

>C] Despite all your authority, you are still no politician. Even if this entirely your business, you're not comfortable speaking on the matter.
>1] You're going to go pick your congregation members out of their wallowing, knowing full well that you're doing the right thing.
>2] This raises a lot of questions, that you might not be comfortable discussing right now.

>D] This raises a lot of questions, and you need them answered. Now.
>1] What has your congregation been doing, exactly?
>2] Just how many people died for the sake of usurping the theocracy in *your* name?
>3] King Magnus has told you nothing of this. Mick mentioned that his men lost everything. Should you even concern yourself with a battle that's possibly already over?

>E] Write-in.
>>
>>4293679

>D] This raises a lot of questions, and you need them answered. Now.
>1] What has your congregation been doing, exactly?
>2] Just how many people died for the sake of usurping the theocracy in *your* name?

>B] Humanity is not only far from extinct, but the answers you've been given from the Gods have saved countless lives. You've already heard enough to know that your beliefs are completely founded. Thank Walter for his help, but respectfully disagree with his sentiments.

I would be nothing without the gods, all of you would still be at the bottom of the world if it wasn't for them. The folly has always been with man, and I seek to rectify that.
>>
>>4293690
+1
>>
>>4293690
+1
>>
>>4293690
>>4293803
>>4293804
(Sounds great guys. Locking the vote here, writing now.)
>>
>>4293830
https://youtu.be/flMl5iocfcQ

It's something you've told yourself night and day, for as long as you can remember. Not coming from a place of debasement, but gratitude, you say it with more devotion than anyone could ever hope to understand. "I would be nothing without the Gods."

"You know that isn't true."

You knew he wouldn't get it. That's alright. "The answers I have been given—" you need to clarify, "from the Gods— have saved countless lives. Were— were it not for them—" it pains you to say it, but you have to disagree, "all of you would still be at the bottom of the world."

He doesn't deny it. "For all the good it's done."

There has always been hope in your heart. "Humanity is far from extinct, Walter."

"You think Mercy couldn't just put a stop—"

So much pain crosses over you that his words are stopped dead in their tracks. You murmur, "the folly has always been with mankind." He almost interrupts, but the sheer amount of compassion hanging from your speech stops his protests. "I seek to rectify that."

He gets it. Another desperate, prouder laugh escapes him. "You're going to need a lot more help than a halfling and a few outcasts, then."

"That is precisely what I came to you for." You take a ragged breath, and tighten your hold on the map in hand. "Thank you. For all of your help."

Another deep breath is necessary. You need answers. Now. "I would like to stop our games, Walter."

"Go ahead," he frowns, slumping over the nearby table with his entire upper body.

Quietly, as the answer has been withheld from you for months, you ask, "what has my congregation been doing, exactly?"

The scholar beside you slowly sits upright, and looks at you with a blend of horror and confusion. "You really don't know, do you?"

You stop your pacing, and softly explain, "I can't say I know any of you, Walter. Let alone your activity in my absence. I want to help. I know my beliefs— everything that I do stand for— is completely founded. The least I can do is pray to understand you all with a fraction of as much certainty. Please. I—" there's literally pain in your chest, for how much you need to know, "how many people, Walter? How many have died for— for attempting to usurp our churches? For fighting in our home? In *my* name?"

Greasy strands of unwashed hair shake a moment, as Walter seems completely incapable of conveying everything he wants to say. "It must be hundreds, Father. I wanted nothing to do with it. Algrith has kept me informed, as I requested. The worst of it is over—"

"Please. Answer me."

"It started as preaching. Attempts to educate the public. I was to find as much information as I could, to support the effort. To substantiate our claims. To unroot the lies, and corruption—"

"Not even Sullivan has anything more to hide than his own suffering, Walter."

(1/2)
>>
>>4294045
"Every one of us have had enough sins to bury. It wasn't manageable. I was fine with hiding. To get away from it all. To read. To learn. It hasn't been so bad."

"You never even had a chance to go home."

"I have no home," he spits, "and neither did they. People listened. They heard. That there was someone willing to go looking for us. That there was a man willing to forsake the church, and save our lives, without EVER asking for worship in return. They heard about independence, Father."

The gold in your eyes reflects off the high candlelight. "Our sinners, and heathens, who felt they had to live under fear of tyranny, had a common bond."

It's impure. There might as well be blood in Walter's eyes. "You."

"This is blasphemy."

"Tell that to the hundreds of men and women who fought in the street, against King, and country—"

"Treason."

"King Magnus happily ordered the Church of Spirit, Flesh and Mercy to indiscriminately kill anyone that's associated with us. I'm certain his favor only extends towards those of us in your immediate company."

"What did you all do, Walter?"

"We've protected ourselves."

"You have been hiding for good reason."

"I said I wouldn't gossip."

>A] Tell him to spill the dirt on every one of your congregation members. You really do need to know if you're enabling scum to walk the streets freely, before making any further choices.

>B] Just on the way here, someone tried to assault you. Granted, it was nice to not come under fire from a demon, but you're worried about what amounts to a failed uprising having your name all over it. Express your concerns directly to Walter. He wants to help. Give him the opportunity to.

>C] This man is more than a heathen. He's a criminal, and a threat to your home. So is Mick, Randall, Victor, and possibly both priestesses of Mercy you've saved.
>1] You need to head back to The Honey Bee and consult with your friends. This is way over your head.
>2] Excuse yourself, and go see Father Sullivan. He knows this situation better than anyone. Even if he doesn't have all the answers, you want both sides of this story.

>D] Walter is going out of his way to not talk about himself. Try to get him to open up.

>E] Write-in.
>>
>>4294055
>>B] Just on the way here, someone tried to assault you. Granted, it was nice to not come under fire from a demon, but you're worried about what amounts to a failed uprising having your name all over it. Express your concerns directly to Walter. He wants to help. Give him the opportunity to.
>>
>>4294055
>>B] Just on the way here, someone tried to assault you. Granted, it was nice to not come under fire from a demon, but you're worried about what amounts to a failed uprising having your name all over it. Express your concerns directly to Walter. He wants to help. Give him the opportunity to.
>>
>>4294060
>>4294332
(Great, vote is locked. Writing now.)
>>
>>4294349
"Please don't," you immediately ask, resuming your intense pacing.

Walter makes a motion of fastening his lips shut, and looks up to you with a lot less exhaustion. He's waiting for you to speak. He's waited six months, to hear you speak again.

"I was assaulted just on the way here, Walter."

He scoffs. "Did they have a death wish?"

"Ofelia saw to the matter before I could properly react, beyond asking her to stay her hand. I have been overwhelmed, without having assassins or rogues breathing down my back—" the room feels suffocating, and you try to breathe in, "without a failed uprising bearing my name."

"It's not exactly your fault."

"That is not my concern," you scowl. "Father Wilhelm attempted to caution me about this matter months ago. Blasphemous, heretical, treasonous work. Of men and women who would look to my name— before the Gods Themselves—"

"And rightfully so."

You stop your pacing, and snap your gaze to Walter. "I have a home to get back to. My family is that of the Church of Mercy. My love, and devotion, lies with the Goddess Herself. My soul is that of ALL of the Gods, and I will NOT support these ACCUSATIONS against my name."

A little fire creeps up Walter's spine, as he gets to his feet. "You're a little late."

"You wish to help me," you murmur.

He turns up his nose. "So long as you're willing to come back. Yes."

"Then help me."

His nose, impossibly, goes higher. You suspect he may want to match your height. "I've been trying. For months."

You look around the disheveled study. There are used tissues at the base of every statue. Books are stacked haphazardly. Hundreds of notes regarding the ruins are scattered about the floor. Some are pinned to the wooden walls, and a few have sketches of women on them, as well.

"Please elaborate," you murmur, praying that the company you keep isn't filled entirely with low-lifes.

"What you did for us. I've resented it. I needed to understand. I want to know. Your connection to the Gods— ALL of the Gods— is unprecedented. It makes no sense. Most men and women require a lifetime of devotion and study to endure Them for moments. You influenced us all, and from what I've heard, are the only source of Mercy left in our world. For hours. For days. With enough devotion to exert Her will unlike any other. You can even give Mercy to others. It's incredible. You have easily surpassed any expectations any of us have had of you— and some of our more enthusiastic members have literally been singing your praises."

"I don't think there's a single man alive who could kill you," Walter lowers his nose, just slightly. It's to caution, "I think you're going to kill yourself, Father, trying to save every *single* one of us."

He puts his hands behind his back. "I think that the Gods have protected you from any harm. That They want to work through you, to whatever end. Possibly only to your ends."

You cringe. The very suggestion is so appalling, you can't even speak.

(1/2)
>>
>>4294574
"You don't believe me?"

"There is much that I believe in, Walter, and *only* when it is justified."

"Isn't it odd?"

"What."

"Sullivan worked for years to unseat you, along with the fucki—" he pauses, gives you an apologetic look, and continues, "the *insufferable* buffoons that have seated themselves back in the Church of Mercy. Look at where it's gotten them. Begging for your Mercy. Their life's work undone. They're afraid, Father. Your enemies are terrified."

"I keep more people in my company than my own Flesh and blood, Walter."

"Point taken."

"I cannot bear the thought of someone coming after my friends." You're trying to not have a panic attack. "My family." The gash along Ray's mouth is practically seared into your mind. "My home." Homesickness is creeping into every word. "There is more at stake here than— than my own life. I fear that you all have undone any hope I could *possibly* have of a healthy life."

An eyebrow is raised at you.

You're too distraught to even scowl. "I want to walk the streets of Eadric again, Walter." Enough pain cuts through your words to sound more like a sob than a murmur. "I want to take my dog out, in the sun. I miss fishing. I want to run for the sake of it. Not towards another disaster. Not from someone wanting for violence."

You're trying hard not to cry, sit back down, and mutter, "I want to heal."

The book in Walter's hand is unceremoniously tossed back to the floor. He slams his quill down on the table beside you, and barks, "you worked a miracle on Father Sullivan. Don't waste it. We're all a bunch of cowards and losers. You're wasting your Time on us. Go talk to him."

You slam your hands on the table, and bark back, "I am NOT abandoning you all YET AGAIN. I have sacrificed EVERYTHING to ensure your safety."

"It's not going to do us a whole lot of good if you can't take care of yourself. Do you even know what you're going to do with yourself, back in the Church of Mercy?"

The wind is knocked out of your sails. Resolutely, you straighten up a little further, and insist, "everything that is needed of me."

"You're going to kill yourself."

"I will not."

"You need a hand."

"Many."

"Use mine."

You blink. "Excuse me?"

Walter stands up, and assumes another ridiculously pompous pose. With his hand cupped beneath his chin, looking to the ceiling, the tacky chandelier reflects a bit off the gold in his eyes. It mostly sinks into the bags beneath them, highlights the yellow in his skin, and you really don't care. The scholar declares, in a distant voice, "you need my help."

"Yes."

"There is not enough Time here, for me to grant you the full extent of my knowledge."

Glancing to the mountains of open books scattered throughout the room, you murmur, "it is highly unlikely."

(Barely over, 2/3)
>>
>>4294577
"Let us make the Time for your research. If I may grant you my first counsel...?"

You frown, and don't interrupt.

"Go to Father Sullivan, at the first and every opportunity you have thereafter. Permit me to be your hands, and eyes," he laughs to himself softly, "and your brain, in the meantime. You are struggling to do so much as mind our affairs now. The Church of Mercy will be your undoing. Let me help you."

>A] Ask Walter to stay here, in the Royal Archive. Give him the letter that King Magnus drafted for you, to grant the man free movement throughout the higher levels of the library. You want his help, and don't want to squander his devotion. (Walter Middleton is only one man. The following are mutually exclusive.)
>1] On Ostedholm's history, and anything that will continue his research. It's clearly his passion. Ask him about it, for good measure.
>2] On any record of Relics throughout human history. He deserves to know why you left everyone behind.
>3] On the Catalyst. It needs no further explanation, but tell him everything you know, regardless.

>B] Give your room in the palace to the scholar. He deserves it, some safety, a bath, and you need his help while you're staying here in the capital. Insist that he look after himself, and take it a little easier in the coming days. (The following are not mutually exclusive. Please specify which you would like him to study first, if multiple options are chosen.)
>1] Ask him to comb all nine volumes given to you on the responsibilities that come with your position. He is officially charged with disseminating them to you, when you get the first chance. (These books were substantial, and may take some Time to read.)
>2] Ask him to look through the letters from Brother Morris and Brother Stace. Only those letters. You don't have the Time for everything else King Magnus left for you, but this needs to be seen to before you go back to Eadric. (Walter can likely go through this material in a single afternoon.)
>3] You want him to go through all of the history and geography books left to your care, so that you can be better acquainted with the lands and ancestry of your home. You need to be prepared when you return to the Church of Mercy. (You're uncertain of the contents, but due to the quantity and size of the material suspect it may take several days minimum to review.)

>C] Accept Walter's aid without question. Ask for his suggestion on how to proceed, and go with it. You want to demonstrate your trust, and ensure that he knows you want equal partnerships.

>D] Write-in.
>>
>>4294586
>>C] Accept Walter's aid without question. Ask for his suggestion on how to proceed, and go with it. You want to demonstrate your trust, and ensure that he knows you want equal partnerships.
>>
>>4294586
A3
>>
>>4294586
>C] Accept Walter's aid without question. Ask for his suggestion on how to proceed, and go with it. You want to demonstrate your trust, and ensure that he knows you want equal partnerships.
>>
>>4294600
>>4294756
>>4294759
(These are mutually exclusive, so going to go with majority, but noting the A3 vote for sure. Vote is locked! Writing now.)
>>
>>4295097
(As I've been writing, realized how easy it is to integrate all 3 votes. Disregard this please, going to work it all in.)
>>
>>4295105
https://youtu.be/1cuWsuONhjo

You get back to your feet. "Absolutely."

A hesitant smile flashes at you, for just a moment. "Really?"

"How— how would you like to proceed, Walter?"

"You're joking."

Gingerly, choking down obsession and an all-encompassing desire for more information, you explain, "I would never wish to have you follow me. Not without mutual respect, and trust in one another. A partnership should be made on equal footing, and I— I trust your judgement."

After a full minute of contemplation— in which you twitch a few times— Walter says, "it's an honor, Father Anscham. You have exceeded my expectations."

"Thank you."

"I would *strongly* recommend that you see Father Sullivan, and turn to him for your pursuit of sorting out any further information. Preferably as *soon as possible*."

He's seriously concerned for your mental health. It's fine. "I appreciate the counsel, Walter."

"What other matters do you have to attend to, in the city?"

It's almost a tic, as you immediately murmur, "the Catalyst."

A knowing, weary smile is directed at you. "Your muse."

"Mercy," you correct, "no. It is a search— I— you do not need an explanation—"

"Go ahead." He sits down.

You note that he's trembling with excitement. You are, too, and resume an erratic form of pacing. Every trace of timidness drops from your voice. Your soul might as well be ablaze. "The weakness that resides in the hearts of humankind. It is no mere fracture of the soul. I have felt it, Walter."

He shifts, uncomfortably, but doesn't run.

"I have felt it thirty-one times."

"That is impossible."

You could not be any more convinced to the contrary. "Nothing is impossible— and I WILL understand why."

He doesn't dare argue otherwise, and seems to have forgotten anything else that may be worth discussing. A pen, and paper, is searched for. "Go on."

"It comes from a place of endless suffering. Not the worst of humanity— for I have known, Walter— I— I have been, and seen, and felt what it is to have lost oneself to the very thing that embodied them—"

You're given a concerned look, but the man at your side doesn't dare to interrupt.

"Demons are lost, Walter. They cling to the only parts of themselves that they *know.*"

The knit in Walter's brow becomes significantly deeper. He found some parchment, and starts writing, as you speak. "Go on. I'm listening."

"They lack hope. We are a plague on the world BECAUSE we lack hope. We constitute children's nightmares, in lands far beyond our borders. The Catalyst has persisted through the ages—" you're given a look that seems baffled as to how you could know this, "—from treaties made between every other race bordering our land. To fight our lost brothers and sisters with everything they have. To our most ancient history. Our first Kings were incapable of invoking. I believe that they were incapable of knowing the Gods themselves— and— and yet—"

(1/3)
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>>4295124
You take your Relic in hand, and look to it, earnestly. "They felt that they needed to combat our weakness. My Relic is a *different* kind of Catalyst. One through which I can unite the hearts of humankind. One through which I may bend and reshape violence, into good intent. To compassion."

Enough love sinks into your voice to stave off the obsession, if only for a moment. "To Mercy."

Walter has stopped writing. He might be overwhelmed, but doesn't interrupt. You continue, "King Magnus speculates that our first Kings united themselves, and fractured off their own *weaknesses* in order to protect their people."

"What...?" He runs a hand through his hair, and goes back to writing.

"Ofelia believes that our Gods exist solely to fight it." You want to cry, ignore the stunned looks being fired at you, and shove down every emotion.

Fervently, you state, "I believe in hope. That there will be peace. That our fallen brothers and sisters may be returned to us."

You look again, to your Relic. A pair of clasped hands shines back at you, against the gold in your eyes. "That they can be shown Mercy. They are not condemned. They have fallen, and need our hands."

Walter cannot get to his feet. He wants to, and shifts, but is trembling too much to do so. Quietly, he asks, "where. Where have you looked."

"I was granted access to the lowest levels of King Magnus' archives in 601, in the month of the Tending Moon—" you almost laugh, "it was five years ago. To— to the day. I did not leave these halls for two solid weeks— and in that Time, I found a pittance, Walter. Ramblings of madmen, who's descent into the Catalyst was documented. They were meant to be cautionary tales. I felt for them. I knew that there was another way. The majority of my research has come from first-hand experience— and in the incredibly recent past. Self-reflection will likely garner more answers than interrogating the King— who has only heard second-hand accounts—" your heart is breaking, "or my friends, who have suffered enough."

"F-first hand experience." It's not a question. He's terrified, and fascinated.

"My greatest allies have been demons."

An unhinged laugh spills out from Walter, who is horrified, and puts a hand to his mouth. "Excuse me. What?"

"I have granted restraint to two demons, previously. One of my dearest friends is an archdemon. All of them were capable of staying their hands." You twitch. "All of them were capable of understanding Mercy. My kindest mentor—" it's difficult to say, but you manage, "one of the former Mothers of Mercy— she asked for *nothing* BUT Mercy. I know that they are not lost to us."

You pause.

"Granting restraint to Father Friedrich's fallen son, in Beorward, ultimately—" you are struggling to find a kind way to phrase it, "ultimately led to my confinement within the Church of Flesh."

An incredibly wary look is given to you. "I had heard a fraction of it. Suspected it was slander."

(2/3)
>>
>>4295126
"I had to know what had happened to Jonathan Friedrich," you mutter, "and was in no place to investigate the issue at the Time. My absence from your side— from everyone's side— was a necessary evil. I still—" your voice cracks, "I still need help, Walter."

The chair Walter is sitting in is knocked over, for how quickly he stands up, and insists, "what imbeciles have prevented you from pursuing this?"

A desperate laugh escapes you. The out pour of twenty-five years of intense suffering, distractions, and more responsibility than any one man should bear. It's erratic, and ugly enough that you sit back down, put your hands to your head, and have to take a few minutes to gather yourself.

At some point, Walter sits back down beside you, and pats your shoulder. "I probably shouldn't have asked."

"No," you choke out, confident and utterly certain of your direction in life, "I'm glad you did. It doesn't matter, Walter. Looking after the men and women that are still with us comes first."

Walter sniffs. "That's ridiculous."

"Excuse me?"

"We're dying by the day." He looks at you, hard. "This work could save us all." His eyes narrow. He's thinking, and a full minute passes as the last of the organ in the distance fades out. "I have a few requests."

"Please," you mutter, "anything I can do to help. The resources of the Church of Mercy are at my disposal, Walter. At— at our disposal."

"I'll need access to those archives, and everything else you have regarding what King Magnus spoke of."

You produce the letter King Magnus drafted for you, and hand it over. "This belongs to you."

He frowns. "This doesn't cover a single section that I would find necessary."

"He left an entire bookshelf to me, across the castle, with hand-selected readings."

Walter practically jumps out of his skin. "You're joking."

You give him a look that says he'll know when you're joking.

"I— may— may I see it?"

"Of course."

He gets to his feet. "Take me there. Being seen in your company will ensure my continued safety."

"King Magnus—"

"Is a notoriously violent killer. I do not wish to be turned into a statue and left in the gardens."

"That is a disgusting rumor."

"I'm not willing to find out how much validity there is to it."

(Options in next post.)
>>
>>4295127
>A] Get Ofelia, escort Walter to your quarters in the castle, and leave him to his work. Don't ask for any deadlines or further information. You'll come back to check on him as soon as you can, knowing he's in good hands.

>B] You're pretty worried. Ask Walter to stay put for just a little while longer. You want to heed the scholar's repeated advice. Go find Father Sullivan— if only for some final counsel before going after your congregation, and an update on his work today.

>C] You're extremely worried. See if there's any conceivable way you can get further audience with King Magnus. The lives of your congregation may still be in serious jeopardy, and you aren't about to risk anything when it comes to their safety.

>D] Write-in.
>>
>>4295130
>C] You're extremely worried. See if there's any conceivable way you can get further audience with King Magnus. The lives of your congregation may still be in serious jeopardy, and you aren't about to risk anything when it comes to their safety.
>>
>>4295130
>>B] You're pretty worried. Ask Walter to stay put for just a little while longer. You want to heed the scholar's repeated advice. Go find Father Sullivan— if only for some final counsel before going after your congregation, and an update on his work today.
>>
>>4295130
>>B] You're pretty worried. Ask Walter to stay put for just a little while longer. You want to heed the scholar's repeated advice. Go find Father Sullivan— if only for some final counsel before going after your congregation, and an update on his work today.
>>
>>4295131
>>4295195
>>4295204
(These actually are mutually exclusive. If there's still the desire to see the king after speaking with Sullivan I'll present the prompt to do so, but going with B for now. Vote is locked! Writing.)
>>
>>4295205
https://youtu.be/vawqt4-s7JU

"I have a request as well, Walter."

He raises an eyebrow. You get the impression that he loves to raise his eyebrows.

"Grant me a little more Time to ensure your safety. I would like to heed your counsel— to go speak with Father Sullivan."

A smug grin paints the face before you. "Good. Right, then." He waves the parchment in hand to you, declaring, "this is incredible. You'll give me some Time to think it over. I'll have a plan of action by the Time you return, Father."

You move for the door, with so much relief you can hardly breathe, "the Gods are Merciful, Walter. I *will* return."

"You're brilliant, Father."

"Flattery will get you nowhere."

"Insults will?"

"Good night, Walter."

"I'll see you soon."

You leave the stale-smelling study behind with a frown on your face, and find Ofelia a fair ways down the hall. You try to not pay too much mind to her complaints about the man's hygiene, paranoia, lack of manners, pompousness, or anything else that you ultimately tune out. There's urgency in your pace once more, as you exit the royal archives, head through the castle, beyond another dozen questions by clergy about your work this afternoon, completely ignore every guard trying to stop you to answer mundane questions about your accommodations, and ultimately arrive before Father Sullivan's door.

Only two guards are posted. Worry still knits your brow, as you order them aside. They make a point to not listen to your command.

"Sullivan," you eventually declare.

"He's not to be disturbed," the burly gentleman to your right mutters once again.

"Sullivan! It's Father Anscham! Open th—"

A familiar, thin, elderly, self-indulgent voice trails out from behind the door. "Are you all deaf? Step aside. Let him pass."

"He's got company," the hulking guard to your left hollers to the door. "Halfling."

The door opens, abruptly. Sullivan nods to you, with a cloying smile. "Richard." He looks down to Ofelia, and somehow goes whiter. With a glance up to you, he then snaps to both of his guards, "step aside."

You all file into the sparsely decorated bedroom you occupied just this morning. The guards are ordered to stay outside. To your moderate amusement, a house of cards has been built on a nearby table. Sullivan walks smoothly past it, not disturbing anything as he bows slightly to Ofelia. He glances up to you. "Are you going to introduce us, or simply stand there all day?"

Scowling is appropriate. "Ofelia Banks is preceded by her reputation. You should be fully aware that her combative prowess is only second to her knowledge of poison and subterfuge. Though she hails from Spira, I have trusted her company more than any other. She has been a stalwart defender against demons and sinners alike, Sullivan. You would do well to mind her company."

Sullivan straightens back upright, giving her an inscrutable glance.

(1/2)
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>>4295275
You pause, insist to yourself that this man deserves to be treated with as much respect as he's shown you, and formally state, "Ofelia. This is Father Henry Sullivan, leader of the Church of Spirit. As I am entrusted with the hearts of our country, he is to care for our minds. The libraries of Murgate easily dwarf those we saw today, here in the palace— and if I am not mistaken— Father Sullivan is to know all of their contents in full."

Ofelia whistles. "Neat. Guess Richard's taught ya' a thing or two those books couldn't show ya'—"

"To know is to serve," Sullivan firmly interrupts. Rather than make further comment, he looks you over from head to toe. The priest of Spirit wrinkles his nose. "Nice coat," he stiffly manages, clearly torturing himself by not making some disparaging remark.

You cross the room, and mutter, "Ofelia put a stop to another outbreak this afternoon. I personally saw to saving the lives of over sixty citizens. Hundreds more were aided."

He can't help himself. "Merely disguising yourself as a priest of Agriculture was sufficient. Galterius will be inconsolable."

It seems prudent to put a hand to his shoulder, and squeeze slightly. "He already is. He is also going to help me. He already has, despite his reservations— just as you have. What of the request I asked of you this morning, Sullivan?"

There's a sniff, as Ofelia immediately recognizes the situation, and politely directs her attention towards the paneling on the walls.

"I offered my counsel, and have arranged for funerary services," you're informed, with a wave of his hand. The cards behind you both remain unmoving, for how faint the motion is. Sullivan's hands are steady, and most of the neuroticism you saw in him just the day before seems to have abated. "They were offered safe refuge at Murgate, Eadric, or under the watch of King Magnus. Those who refused the church's protection were compensated. A trifle, Richard." An insanely dirty look is fired to Ofelia, who must not notice, as Sullivan sneers, "you should know by now, that this was not the first Time someone in your company has left grief in their wake."

>A] Thank Sullivan sincerely for taking care of such a headache for you, before getting down to more business. No matter how much bad blood there is between you, you don't have Time to get into this mess right now.

>B] You don't particularly care for his tone. This is as fine a segue as any into your fears about your congregation's safety, and to stress that there needs to be no ill will between any of your allies.

>C] Skirt around the subject of your congregation for a moment, and touch on how many grieving families Sullivan has had to deal with. He ultimately played a huge role in all of this, and his conscience can't be so light. He was beside himself yesterday. Continue to show the man as much Mercy as you're able.

>D] Write-in.
>>
>>4295278
>>A] Thank Sullivan sincerely for taking care of such a headache for you, before getting down to more business. No matter how much bad blood there is between you, you don't have Time to get into this mess right now.

Pride is no use to men like us, Sullivan
>>
>>4295278
>>A] Thank Sullivan sincerely for taking care of such a headache for you, before getting down to more business. No matter how much bad blood there is between you, you don't have Time to get into this mess right now.
>>
>>4295285
>>4295309
(Unanimous for some sincere thanks and all business. Gotcha. Writing now!)
>>
>>4295370
"Sullivan." You have no use for pride, let alone for more political nonsense.

"Yes, Richard?"

"You know how many headaches I have had to deal with. You— I cannot fathom what a difficult position I have placed you in. Thank you."

He seems extremely impressed, and folds his hands neatly. "You may not even need my counsel, at this rate," Sullivan smirks.

He's fishing for compliments. You don't bother giving one to him. "My *congregation*, Sullivan. Their safety is paramount. You know that I must attend to them. Walter cannot walk through the castle without fear for his life. I am worried that— that his concerns are completely valid.

"I don't see no problem," Ofelia chimes in, curiously approaching the house of cards at the side of the room.

Sullivan waves a hand, and collapses the entire structure before she can reach it. "I understand completely, Richard. We can appoint surveillance—"

Ofelia is having a small internal meltdown. You put a hand to her shoulder, very gently, and have to reach down slightly to do so. Her outrage is spoken over, by your insistence of, "no."

She pouts. It's adorable. You take your hand off her shoulder, resist the urge to pat her head, and resume an intense frown. "I'm worried for his research. His health. My congregation needs to be capable of living their lives *beyond* the scope of my work."

"We can appoint a few priests of Flesh—"

Your frown deepens. "My name has been tarnished beyond repair, Sullivan. Hundreds have died. By my name. The families of the deceased will not forget us so quickly. Neither will those who blame you for not intervening. Nor the Church of Storm, for their actions... or my friends, for the lives they claimed— in self defense— this is something that will require more than muscle—"

"Richard." The priest of Spirit snips, firmly enough to stop your increasing panic. "They need Time. In just a few weeks, you've saved more lives than those that were lost in months of conflict. Let them breathe. Let them come to terms with what's happened. Focus on your own endeavors. We can protect those in your charge, but it is impossible to guard each and every heathen who has turned from Mercy. All we can do is make the best use of our resources at hand."

The ache in your hands is coming and going, each Time you part them from your Relic. The pain borders on soothing, but you make the effort to simply knit your fingers together, and to try and calm down. "I have been advised to seek your counsel on— on two counts today."

"Oh?"

"Father Barthalomew thinks highly of you."

An unbearably pleased smirk crosses the priest's face. "Bennett has always been wiser than he lets on."

"So does Walter."

The Father of Spirit's curiosity is piqued. "Is that so? What did your *professor* have to say?"

(1/2)
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>>4295446
"He respects my— both of our judgement enough to abstain from explicit instruction. To advise your guidance in sorting out— coping with— with understanding my experiences. We both believe that self-reflection may be the key to our research."

"You have your work cut out for you." He's not being sarcastic. The priest looks legitimately concerned, crosses over to the table, and eyes Ofelia warily. While scraping the fallen cards together from the table, laying them out for her to look over, Sullivan quietly states, "King Magnus will forgive you if you do not resolve every one of his concerns in a single day, Richard."

Ofelia can't help but smirk, and make some use of the game your fellow church leader has at hand. You're all business, and run a mental checklist of just how much you've accomplished as of this morning.

-At least four hundred and eighty-nine citizens lives were in danger, just as the sun had risen. You have ensured their collective safety, at comparatively smaller cost to yourself and your allies.
-Fifteen families were left without loved ones, in the wake of your congregation's actions earlier this week. Father Sullivan has granted them safety, security, and solace.
-There's insurance that Norward is attending to his men and women from below the city. You're not certain where they will go next, but that he is still definitively on your side. One less enemy in your immediate company may make for the safety of hundreds more.
-You're well on your way to getting to Lady Edith and Sir Douglas.
-In the palm of your hands is a map to Algrith's last known location.

You legitimately have almost resolved a catastrophic amount of incidents in a single day. All that remains is finding the remainder of your congregation. Your original mission. The last hurdle standing between you, and returning home.

(Options in next post.)
>>
>>4295448
>A] Give yourself a break, and spend the rest of the evening in the castle. You are certain that between Father Sullivan and Walter, you'll have the means of tracking down the rest of your congregation first thing in the morning. Start by talking a bit with Sullivan about some of your concerns. There's no rush.
>1] The long-term security of your congregation.
>2] What you're going to do about your own friend's and family's safety.
>3] Some measures for spreading more appropriate news about your intentions, devotion to the Gods, and good name.
>4] Your research into the Catalyst.

>B] Your fear of Time easily surpasses all desire for self-preservation or normalcy.
>1] Ask Father Sullivan if he can be here for you, when you return to the castle. You can handle things from here, but want to know that his guidance remains available.
>2] See if the Father of Spirit can allocate some of his guard to protect Walter during his stay here. Let him know he's staying in the library, and pray accommodations can be made to help out your ally.
>3] You still feel like you're walking blind. Show your maps and instructions to Sullivan, and see if he can give you a little more advice before you head straight out to get royalty.

>C] Write-in.
>>
>>4295449
>>B] Your fear of Time easily surpasses all desire for self-preservation or normalcy.
>3] You still feel like you're walking blind. Show your maps and instructions to Sullivan, and see if he can give you a little more advice before you head straight out to get royalty.
>>
>>4295457
+1 Close enough to C
>>
>>4295457
>>4295472
(C vote in Spirit to keep on trucking. Appropriate. Writing now!)
>>
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>>4295524
Without wasting a moment, you slam the maps in hand onto the table. In covering multiple playing cards, you reveal the anxiety running through every inch of your frame. You are a God-fearing man. A Goddess-fearing man, to be precise— and to scorn Time's blessing is unthinkable. "Her will is unchangeable," you mutter.

Ofelia scoots back, and lets you work the tension out of your system. It's a short prayer. You know She's listening, and you feel a little better.

"I am still walking blind," you continue to quickly mutter, "and I would appreciate your guidance, Sullivan."

"You're going under the city." He could not be more unamused.

"Yes."

"You have a history, Richard."

"This will be different."

Ofelia pipes up, "he'll be fine."

"You have a *history,* Richard," Sullivan stresses.

"Are you going to obstruct my work," you mutter more intensely, still, "when lives are at stake— when I am coming to you for counsel— when King Magnus himself has ordered me to—"

"Richard." He's pinching the space between his brow, and might have a headache. "Let me come with you."

Ofelia laughs. "No."

The sneer directed towards your friend could not be fouler. "These directions will take you both through dens of untamed ruin. Aside from the heathens down there, who will be out for your blood at best, or want to keep you down there— not even at worst—"

Your scowl is so intense, it stops the priest for just a moment.

He isn't so phased as to stop talking. "Your ability to wield the Gods blessings is unrefined, Richard. You continue to harm yourself, and everyone in your company."

"Not another word, Sullivan. I will not tolerate—"

"Am I mistaken?"

"Mercy and Agriculture see fit to— to bless me without injury. Without pain. Without weakness—"

"You're going to kill yourself." He makes a point of tastelessly glancing to your stomach, and back up to your face. "Let me come with you. I can take you through another route. I know you went to The Pit— hovel that it is— to speak with Marjorie."

"That is *one* way to put it." You can practically feel how badly you were drugged that night, even now.

"In my company, no one would dare bother you." He could not sound more confident. "Not where we'd be heading. We would come out a short ways from where their location is marked. I trust you both would be capable of protecting me, if it came down to it."

Ofelia could not be more disgusted. She looks to you with a pleading gaze. One that says, "I'll kill him myself if I have to drag an old man through underground nightclubs or ruins."

(Options in next post.)
>>
>>4295554
>A] Accept Sullivan's offer, on the condition that he does not speak under any circumstances to your congregation without your permission. This will make the situation INFINITELY more delicate.
>1] Leave the matter of Walter's guard up to Sullivan.
>2] Handle it yourself, briefly, before you go.

>B] Accept Sullivan's offer, and try and reason with Ofelia. Ask her to guard him with you. You really can't do everything by yourself. (Write-ins may SERIOUSLY help here.)

>C] Respectfully decline the offer. You're taking Walter's route. Insist that the priest give you some counsel before you go.
>1] Head back to Walter before you head out. Let him know how much he's appreciated, and make sure a guard is appointed for him.
>2] Head straight out. Have Sullivan sort out Walter's safety.

>D] Write-in.
>>
>>4295555
C] Respectfully decline the offer. You're taking Walter's route. Insist that the priest give you some counsel before you go.
>1] Head back to Walter before you head out. Let him know how much he's appreciated, and make sure a guard is appointed for him.
>>
>>4295555
>>C] Respectfully decline the offer. You're taking Walter's route. Insist that the priest give you some counsel before you go.
>>1] Head back to Walter before you head out. Let him know how much he's appreciated, and make sure a guard is appointed for him.
>>
>>4295583
>>4295592
(Going to absolutely decline. Writing now.)
>>
>>4295863
https://youtu.be/HYmn5BQIxdQ

"With due respect, Sullivan—"

His frown matches the intensity of yours.

"My focus needs to remain with my congregation. I understand that you mean well. Thank you— for looking out for my well-being—"

Ofelia sighs, "yer way too fuckin' nice, Richard—"

"Ofelia." You're itching to go, snatch the maps off the table, and silence her complaints with a single look. Glancing back to Sullivan, who is outright scowling, you really can't afford to give him Time to interrupt. "Will you offer your counsel, before we leave?"

The wrinkles at the bridge of his nose deepen, for how hard he's sneering. "What choice do I have?"

You move for the door. "It is always your choice, Sullivan. What you do with your own path is none of my business—"

The back of your robes are pulled on. It's simply to grab your attention. You turn around, to see the Father of Spirit look up at you with genuine concern. "We can't lose you again."

"You won't."

"Stay focused. Find them, and come home. Eadric will not go anywhere, Richard, but your Spirit is still wandering." He knows exactly how much you're struggling to keep together. "Nothing is worth killing yourself over. Lean on your friends, if you can. Know when to run, if you can't."

The same nervous, thin curl of his lips catches your attention. He's biting on them. Distancing himself from what's going on right around you all. You take a step back. "When have I not known when to run?"

His lips waver. A desperate laugh comes out. "That is not reassuring. Not in the slightest."

"I probably shouldn't—" you match his laughter with a lot more pain, trying to not cringe, and ask, "Mercy— is there anything else?"

"King Magnus is truly Merciful. He doesn't care for ceremony, and takes no issue with your earnestness." A look is flashed towards Ofelia, that you don't particularly care for. "His children will. Mind your manners."

Your training in etiquette beaten into you, and then some. "That will not be a problem."

"It's worth the reminder." A more sincere frown is directed at you. "We're always pressed for Time." He's referring to you as a fellow church leader, and your heart swells. Sullivan almost smiles back, "the clergy here are insufferable. I suspect King Magnus is itching to unseat me from the Church of Spirit. I'm staying put, but don't think for a minute that I don't have better places to be, Richard."

He really cares. You give him a sincere smile, at the door. "I won't keep you waiting for too long. The Gods are Merciful, Sullivan."

The priest shakes his head, muttering, "to know is to serve, Richard. Don't forget everything that you've learned."

(1/2)
>>
>>4295994
It's difficult to not keep your smile. Even to the irritable guards at the door, you exit, head down the hall, and make use of the sheer number of people that have accosted you today. The first clergy of Flesh to ask you a question is happily appointed as a guard, once you've confirmed that he has no pressing duties. The look of horror on the poor man's face who's designated to bring Walter something for personal hygiene makes every subsequent question worth it. You gather a priestess of Mercy, to mind the man's health, and a few more priests of Flesh for further insurance.

Everyone is yawning, clearly being jostled out of a mundane evening. Their lethargy falls within moments, into the brisk pace of your company. You, Ofelia, and your congregation make your way back to every ridiculous flight of golden and stone stairs. Everyone is probably irritated, and remains silent, save for Ofelia. She's whistling, interjecting the tune to whisper, "not bad."

"This is— by all rights— my fourth year as the leader of the Church of Mercy. I have had to delegate far more than this back in Eadric. Lending Walter further protection is not only— not just the least I can do."

She stops her whistling, though remains amused, as you all approach the royal archives.

Your murmur of, "to protect is to serve," does not go unnoticed by the men and women at your side. The priests of Flesh in your company are happy to ensure quick, and unobstructed passage into the deepest levels of the library. No heads are severed, but everyone seems fairly tense, given the extreme security. You're followed outright by one particularly defensive priest of Mercy, as you descend to the lowest levels of the palace once more.

Walter's door is free of the wrinkled "do not disturb" notices. Everyone leans in, and as all clergy are literate in Corcaea, you attempt to try and read the note on the door.

He's constructed a placard, out of a scroll of parchment, covered in his erratic handwriting. You have to squint, to read, "Residence of Walter Middleton: Research Coordinator on behalf of Father Richard Anscham, and Leading Associate of historical developments for the Church of Mercy. On behalf of the leader of the Church of Mercy, and in the name of all that is good and holy, do NOT disturb. For the continued survival of humanity, please direct all inquiries to the following..."

Detailed instructions on how to file written complaints are included. You don't knock, gesture for everyone to keep their distance, and announce, "Walter! It's Father An—"

(Just over, 2/3)
>>
>>4295997
The door is pulled open. You're given a broad grin. The man's tied his hair back into a tight ponytail, and he's cleaned up slightly. The floor is almost visible behind him. You look, wide-eyed, to a spread across the far wall. At Walter's desk are the notes he penned, in regards to your experiences with the Catalyst. Upon his desk, up the wooden paneling, touching the rafters and down to the stone floor are books, notes, and more parchment than you suspect anyone could read in a lifetime. Bits of string are between several documents, more ink than you've ever seen in one place is stacked upon the desk, and he seems to be filling an entire book with his findings.

"I'm starting light," he grins to you, "and wanted your thoughts, before you go." Unable to glance over your shoulder, he leans sideways, and points rudely to everyone behind you. "Who are they?"

"Your personal guard, for the Time being."

They're ignored. He's all fire. "*You* had better come back in one piece."

You can't help yourself, and put both hands to his shoulders. "I cannot tell you enough how much I appreciate your work— your help. Thank you so much."

"Thank me when you can stop pacing for more than a minute." His grin is ear-to-ear. "But you're welcome."

>A] You are too curious to not postpone your venture for one more moment. This is your life's work. Go see what Walter's planning.

>B] Father Sullivan's advice was to not get distracted. Heed it. Leave, now, with the confidence to venture back beneath the surface.

>C] Write-in.
>>
>>4296007
>>B] Father Sullivan's advice was to not get distracted. Heed it. Leave, now, with the confidence to venture back beneath the surface.
>>
>>4296007
B
>>
>>4296019
>>4296096
(Locking the vote here. Writing now.)
>>
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>>4296261
"Can this wait until my return, Walter?"

He smirks. "Are you kidding? Just send those documents my way." He looks behind you again. "When you get the chance."

You make a point to gently instruct the clergy behind you. They're plainly tasked with what duties they're to perform, unless instructed otherwise by King Magnus or Father Friedrich. One of the priests of Flesh is ordered to retrieve all of your books and supplies from across the castle, and is sent off running.

While resisting every urge to take off running, you turn back to Walter, and demonstrate Mercy's symbol for just another moment. "Through the Goddess, and Her everlasting compassion, *we* will cure them."

"Absolutely," the heathen rolls his eyes. "Go on. I'll argue with you another Time. Safe travels, Father."

Shifting your hands back to fidgeting, you nod, and gesture for everyone to resume their business. You're once again waved out a door, by someone actually awaiting your return. A slight smile almost crosses your face.

Briskly, you and Ofelia part from everyone's company, and head out the library. Candles linger in long halls, reflecting off of painted glass. Far fewer people call out to you, and you're both able to leave the castle far more quickly than you came. With little fanfare or fuss, you return to fresh air, and an open sky.

https://youtu.be/7-4t_CM88nE

The night is stunning. Clouds gather in every shade of blue, beneath more stars than you can count. A little light is cast upon the city before you, from the God of the moon and the stars. His blessing meets flickering torches, and guards posted on every street corner. Taking in a deep breath, of soil being tilled in the gardens, and smoke rising in all directions, you set back out.

The gardens pass you by, along with broad roads, and little bustle in the streets. The city is largely sleeping, but your work is far from over. You make excellent work of the maps in hand. Walter's directions take you through multiple checkpoints, through multiple districts you've never seen before. The hour draws late, by the Time you've finished your fourth explanation as to why you're out after dark. It would seem the curfew is still in place deep within the city. You leave the cathedral ward, pass beyond countless mercantile districts, leave a segment behind that's dedicated solely to livestock, and try to not smile at a small Church of Mercy.

The questions at each checkpoint fade fast from your mind. Your pace slows, upon entering the slums. Ofelia is on high alert, and helps you navigate away from several dens of illicit activity, away from multiple cut-purses, and into enough alleyways to avoid all detection. Beyond rubble, past a number of deserted homes, deep into the heart of a south-western street, you realize that you are in the district closest to Eadric.

Though you can't hope to see the Church of Mercy from such a distance, you know that your home is off on the horizon.

(1/2)
>>
>>4296331
"Hey. Richard." Ofelia tugs on the side of your coat. "Get yer head outta the clouds. Where are we goin', exactly?"

Straight-faced, and entirely aware of the danger you may be headed towards, you relay every code word, symbol, and direction you've been given. The expert navigator doesn't ask for so much as a single explanation, but remains completely silent until you're finished speaking.

"I've worked for some of these guys," she shrugs. "We'll figure it out." A small finger points over your shoulder, to something you can't quite make out.

You turn around, to look down the winding city street. There's only a few homes, some sparse trees, and ample defensive walls on the horizon, so far as you can tell. "You had better take the lead."

She does, smiles to you, and taps her temple, right beside her eyes. "We'll need some light. I dunno if ya figured it out. Lets me see demons, Richard. Yer sinners. The real twisted bastards who don't see what's right in front of 'em. Doesn't give me any light of my own, but I light up the place! Would you believe it."

You can't help but smirk. "No surprise."

"I know what to look for," she waves over her shoulder, for you to follow over a muddied road. You stay on her heels, and approach a small building. "Typical." She opens the door without knocking. You nearly shout, but the rogue puts a finger to her lips, and gestures for you to come inside.

There's no light. The last of the starlight behind you casts enough of a glow into the small structure for you to tell that it is a single room, no more than ten feet across in any direction, and that Ofelia is making work of something on the floor. You murmur, "give me just a moment," while going for a light source of your own.

She jokes, "keep yer voice down," while fishing for some supplies. "I can see ya just fine. Gimme a sec to get this lock. Nearly rusted shut. Must've not had anyone come this way in ages."

>A] Stay on Ofelia's heels, and conserve your supplies. You'll literally be walking blind for quite a while, before your vision adjusts, but this is nothing you aren't used to. Help her bust open the lock, as well.

>B] Get a hooded lantern out of your bag. You have enough oil to last a solid day, thanks to the endless carrying space you carry, and don't need to worry just yet about supplies. Keep the light low, and the hood down.

>C] You're not wasting any resources. Make sure there's enough ventilation where you're going, and either light a torch or a candle. It's impractical, but you'd got supplies to spare.

>D] You have a history with this sort of thing. Common sense escapes you, at the best of times. Despite having ample, sane options, you are already itching to do something unorthodox. (Write-ins subject to QM approval based on established promises/vows/characterization. Vocal opposition will be taken into full consideration, as always. It's safe to assume that this will apply to all endeavors, but bears repeating before venturing forth.)
>>
>>4296335
>>A] Stay on Ofelia's heels, and conserve your supplies. You'll literally be walking blind for quite a while, before your vision adjusts, but this is nothing you aren't used to. Help her bust open the lock, as well.
>>
>>4296335
>A] Stay on Ofelia's heels, and conserve your supplies. You'll literally be walking blind for quite a while, before your vision adjusts, but this is nothing you aren't used to. Help her bust open the lock, as well.
I say,by Mercy turn the lock to molten gold to save time
>>
>>4296335
>>A] Stay on Ofelia's heels, and conserve your supplies. You'll literally be walking blind for quite a while, before your vision adjusts, but this is nothing you aren't used to. Help her bust open the lock, as well.
>>
>>4296338
>>4296341
>>4296549
(We can work with this no problem. Vote is locked, writing now!)
>>
>>4296724
https://youtu.be/0C7d_6UKyOw

"Step back, Ofelia. Even if it's momentary, you know Our light is significant."

You can hear her frown. "Alright."

"Avert your eyes."

"Richard, are you really—"

"Ofelia."

You can hear her turn, and start putting up her supplies. "If yer sure."

There's little need to speak out, especially to ask Mercy for her aid. There's never been need for words between you, but nothing feels quite right. Aside from the persistent impression that your body isn't quite your own, there's a nagging feeling in the back of your mind as you kneel. Looking in the last of the starlight, beside the item Ofelia was fussing with on the floor, you can see a lock on a trap door. Both items are recessed deeply into the floor, and were covered with a rug that's been tossed aside. Making sure that you aren't directly on top of either opening, you take the rusted lock in hand. It's so ravaged with age, crusted and toxic as it is, it's inconceivable for anyone to pick it.

It's not quite right, to pray to your lover for such a simple thing.

It's fortunate, that there's no need for words between you. Instinctively, you clasp your hands around the lock, and seal off any air from the item. Heat surges forth into your hands, that should rightfully burn your skin clean off. Rust intermingles with gold, and pools between your palms. You part your hands, letting the liquid drip away, so hot that the very air around your hands is swimming. The metal persists in mid-air, in wavering droplets.

You don't need to see them clearly. You have faith, that the Goddess' hand upon the back of yours is all the guidance you need. You drag the metal back into your hands, and create rivulets all along the edges of the door. Its hinges, and every possible weak point are subject to enough heat to utterly destroy its integrity.

The heat in the palms of your hands dissipates. The sensation of cooled gold clings to the recesses of a few scars, and is reassuring to an extreme. It's as if Mercy Herself is still clinging to your touch. As you heave the door aside— certain that the halfling beside you would have been incapable of doing so herself— you offer Ofelia a slight smile. "It's alright. I suspect it wouldn't have blinded anyone. She *is* Merciful."

"Nice work," the rogue admits, obviously waiting for you to get out some sort of light.

"Please take the lead, Ofelia. I trust in you completely."

She's doesn't move. "Yer gonna be blind."

"You act as if— as if I'm not entirely used to it."

"Very funny."

"I am completely serious."

The slight rustle of her bushy blonde curls against her hood can be heard, even as the rogue goes for the trap door. She whistles. "This is stupid." It echoes.

You're itching to move. "I only called upon Mercy to save Time, Ofelia. Both Goddesses must have our respect."

Your hand is taken in her own. "If we get separated, you'd better get some light out."

"I will not jeopardize our safety."

(1/2)
>>
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>>4296825
"I know. It's a steep staircase. Watch yer step."

A little more worry creeps into your friend's voice, as she descends. Muttering, "humans," "gonna be the death of me," and a few other minor complaints, Ofelia quickly finds the heart to silence herself.

The steps underfoot are dry. It's unsettling. You're used to ruins being slick with moisture and moss. The scent is of dry dust. Insects along the walls skitter away, as you both leave behind the surface.

There is no light to speak of, within a matter of seconds. You don't bother to look back. Certain that your eyes will adjust, you keep a hold on Ofelia. Granted, you have to lean down slightly to do so, and she's probably going to have an ache in her arm from lifting it to a comfortable height for you, neither of you say a word. There's a crunch, underfoot. Old dirt, fallen insects bodies, and the occasional rock are the only sensory input for quite some Time.

It's almost comfortable. You're not exactly taken back to an old cell, and years in the dark. It's not so much like fleeing for your life, in shadow and sin.

You think back, to walking with Ray, and longing for answers. For comfort.

It takes you no more than ten minutes to adjust your eyesight in complete darkness. The night you're in is nearly complete. From the furthest reach of the corridor you're currently walking on, you can hardly make out any forms, and have to look *up* to see the end of the tunnel.

"Sorcerery," you mutter.

"It's an incline, yeah."

"It feels as if we're descending."

"I think ya might've had the right idea, Richard."

Ofelia lets go of your hand, for just a moment. To your surprise, she fishes a blindfold out of her bag, and smiles up to you. The radiance in her eyes is incredibly muted, and vanishes behind cloth in an instant. "Just a reminder for me," she notes. "Can't actually stop seein'."

Realizing that her eyelids were completely melted off, you try to not feel ill, and mutter, "the descent does match Walter's directions. I—" you swallow, and try to see any pits, breaks in the floor, or any further obstacles ahead, "I cannot help but wonder why there would be any security so soon—"

"These guys all are worried fer their lives, Richard. I know I wouldn't stop at nothin' to protect all you guys." There's a clicking sound from her bag. An impressive, compact series of sticks is taken out, as she quickly assembles a lengthy cane to sweep with. "C'mon."

(Options in next post.)
>>
>>4296827
>A] Trust completely in Ofelia's judgement. You'll both walk blind, and ignore any and every visual stimulus. She can't stop seeing, and may be trusting you to keep your eyes shut. (A ROLL WILL BE REQUIRED.)

>B] This seems like an easy way to walk into an actual trap. Take off Piety's scabbard, and use it alongside Ofelia to at least feel for anything as you move ahead. You'll stay blind, but try and feel out anything. (You are an experienced explorer, but this is pretty new to you. A ROLL WILL BE REQUIRED.)

>C] This seems like a horrific idea. You're familiar enough with Magic to know illusions can manifest physically. Let Ofelia walk blind, but keep your eyes open. Your nerves aren't quite on end, but you're staying on high alert. (A ROLL MAY BE REQUIRED. Write-ins may help here.)

>D] Write-in.
>>
>>4296827
>A] Trust completely in Ofelia's judgement. You'll both walk blind, and ignore any and every visual stimulus. She can't stop seeing, and may be trusting you to keep your eyes shut. (A ROLL WILL BE REQUIRED.)
>>
>>4296829
A
>>
>>4296872
>>4296909
>FAITH IN THE DARK

>Roll 1d100. Best of 3 will be used.
>>
Rolled 17 (1d100)

>>4297029
HAHA DICE GO BRRRR
>>
Rolled 55 (1d100)

>>4297029
>>
Rolled 29 (1d100)

>>4297029
>>
>>4297041
>>4297089
>>4297120
(Awesome guys, locking here with that 55 as the bo3. Might take me a minute to write but will ASAP,)
>>
>>4297274
Ofelia can't stop herself from seeing. You know that she's trusting you. You take her gently by the hand, close your eyes, and do what you do best.

https://youtu.be/AdfdcfcBS6E

You walk into the unknown. Blindly, with only your faith as your guide.

It's hard to not smile at the still air. Despite the age of the stone around you, a hyper-attunement to all things that grow takes precedence. There's the scent of winding roots, and ancient moss. No drafts pick up between the humus, as you and your friend descend down countless stone steps. They appeared to be utterly barren, but you know life is teeming underfoot. There's the soft padding of the leather soles from both of your feet. The clatter of Ofelia's walking stick punctuates every few steps, and she seems to be doing so erratically, as if she expected to bump into something at any moment.

Crackles of insect carapaces punctuate Ofelia's movement, from Time to Time. She's breathing hard, and doesn't want to speak. It's alright. You squeeze her hand slightly, with enough warmth to warrant being known as the Father of the Church of Mercy.

She takes heart. It's clearly everything that Ofelia can do to keep her forward momentum. Either she's feeling ill, or has something frightening her terribly. The palm of her hand is sweaty, and her breath continues to pick up the longer you walk.

An hour must pass, at least. Descending beneath the city, it feels as if the ground finally levels out, and a slight current is on the air. There's noise off in the distance, though you struggle to understand what it could be. Either stone is grating against stone, or your senses are so starved for any reminder of Ostedholm that you're imagining the familiar.

A slightly panicked squeak comes out of Ofelia, and her steps slow dramatically. "Richard!"

"There is no danger, Ofelia."

"Really!" She comes to a complete stop. "I can handle most shit, but I'm pretty sure— this looks real. It doesn't make no sense, but I'm pretty sure."

You stop, if only to make her feel better. "Magic can't be trusted, Ofelia."

She sounds like she's going to be sick, but quickly insists, "just open yer eyes."

Wanting to trust her more than anything, you open your eyes, and almost take a step back. No more than a few yards ahead is a colossal, vertical drop. The stone underfoot is completely smooth. It's almost as if it's been swept clean. Strange, angular architecture looms on either side of you. It continues a great way behind, though the corridor you entered from is far in the distance. Spinning around, looking to the ceiling, you try to not gasp. It's almost as if the structures beyond are twisting up, towards a ceiling comprised of more impossible stone, and darkness.

(1/2)
>>
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>>4297390
You blink, realizing you can see at least your immediate surroundings. The floor is practically emitting a soft light of its own. The stone is not merely swept clean. It's polished. The longer you look at it, the more reflective it becomes. Your vision begins to swim, slightly, and as you look back up, you feel your stomach turn.

The buildings are shifting. Horizontal shapes bend, and the angular becomes something impossible. Turning from concave to convex, wrapping in on themselves, the grating sound in the distance suddenly makes much more sense. Steps reach out into many of the buildings just around you, ascending and descending simultaneously. The very floor beneath your feet is disorienting, and you close your eyes once again.

Putting a hand to your head, you try and fail to stop it from swimming. "Mercy."

"Look, just—" Ofelia trying to not throw up, and whispers, "just hang back. Gimme a sec."

The hold from your hand parts momentarily. You really can't help yourself, and take a few paces forward. Rather than risk any catastrophic separation from the navigator in your midst, you're really more concerned about Ofelia's safety. She flits about the landing you're both on. The ledge just ahead is devastatingly sharp, and though there's no current to indicate a huge shift in air flow, it seems as real as you could hope for.

You're always impressed by how quickly a halfling can move, especially given Ofelia's size. You think she may be petite, even by her races standards, yet it takes no more than a few minutes for her to finish inspecting the entire space. A green tinge is on her face. "Doesn't make any sense," she mutters, while fishing for something to drink.

You look to a nearby building that's upside down. There's no movement you can make out, in its incredibly dark windows. "I can't claim to know more about this than you would."

"Don't suppose that grease-ball told ya' anything about it?"

You take your maps back out of your satchel, and try to stay oriented. "Allegedly, we should be capable of walking—" a nearby fixture in the ceiling unfurls into liquid stone. It drips to the floor. You squint at it. "This can't be right. Just a moment."

You turn around, to look for the passage you entered from, to orient yourself. It's gone.

Ofelia immediately throws her walking stick to the floor. "Fuck!"

Taking a deep breath, you face the exact opposite direction, and pray that it's the same you came in from. "We *should* be able to navigate the buildings ahead, if we do not become distracted."

"Yer memory's fine, Richard, but there's a limit. There's a fuckin' limit."

You frown, take a handful of chalk out of your bag, and draw an arrow on the floor. It's pointing towards the direction you need to take. "We can leave a trail— " you sketch a line as straight back as you can, "granted, not a permanent one—" the corridor continues to escape your sight, "but it should be sufficient."

(Barely over, 2/3)
>>
>>4297393
Running back to Ofelia, you keep a fair amount of the writing equipment in hand, and murmur, "for— for immediate back-tracking. We had best get moving."

A flask of whiskey seems to have culled the worst of Ofelia's vertigo. She wipes her mouth on the edge of a sleeve, and groans, "yer tellin' me. What are we supposed to do about this?"

"I believe that the building up ahead should bear a marker. Perhaps they are a better indication of how to orient ourselves."

"Fine by me."

>A] Stick as closely to Walter's directions as humanly possible, for now. Keep your eyes open for ANY indication of what he instructed you all to follow. (A ROLL WILL BE REQUIRED. Write-ins may help.)

>B] You're already extremely worried about becoming lost. Though your resources are limited, you want to make a better trail. (Ctrl+F "a mental checklist", the first result has the list of your current supplies.)

>C] Curiosity is getting the better of you. Look over the edge of the ruins.

>D] As pressed as you feel for Time, the geography of this place has your nerves on end. Try and confirm if there's anyone watching you both before venturing forth. (A ROLL WILL BE REQUIRED. To avoid redundancy, write-ins may always help! I won't stress it further.)

>E] Write-in.
>>
>>4297397
>>A] Stick as closely to Walter's directions as humanly possible, for now. Keep your eyes open for ANY indication of what he instructed you all to follow. (A ROLL WILL BE REQUIRED. Write-ins may help.)
>>
>>4297397
>A] Stick as closely to Walter's directions as humanly possible, for now. Keep your eyes open for ANY indication of what he instructed you all to follow. (A ROLL WILL BE REQUIRED. Write-ins may help.)

look over the edge upwards
>>
>>4297397
>>A] Stick as closely to Walter's directions as humanly possible, for now. Keep your eyes open for ANY indication of what he instructed you all to follow. (A ROLL WILL BE REQUIRED. Write-ins may help.)
>>
(Squeezing in locking the vote before bed! I'll hopefully be able to update first thing in the morning.)
>>4297539
>>4297626
>>4297632
>STAY FOCUSED!

>Roll 1d100. Best of 3 will be used.
>+10 OFELIA'S SEEN SOME SHIT
>+5 SO HAVE YOU (LESS RELIABLY)
>+5 CLEVER OBSERVATION
>>
Rolled 11 (1d100)

>>4297687
>>
Rolled 87 + 20 (1d100 + 20)

>>4297687
>>
Rolled 36 (1d100)

>>4297687
>>
>>4297694
>>4297825
>>4297832
(Wow. That 107 will do the trick. Writing now!)
>>
>>4298024
Your course is clear. Granted, it's shifting before your eyes, bending up several hundred feet towards an impossible absence of ceiling, and is giving you slight vertigo, but it's absolutely still there. For good measure, as you lead Ofelia onward, you turn your head towards the vertical drop. Darkness looms from your peripheral vision.

You're still sharp as a tack, and look *up.*

The world shifts. Nothing makes sense, and you're certain of what you're seeing. A descent of thousand of stairs greets you. It's not dirt that's been littering the floor. Flecks of sand are piled as much as an inch high, in places, and trickle further up, into the bottom of the world.

There's remnants of a battle fought, and lost. Skeletons litter the lower recesses. Some are wearing magnificent armor, though it is now rusted, and much has hallowed completely. Weapons are scattered all about, in every make imaginable. The entire space is illuminated by something unseen.

No scent of death is on the air. It's clean, and untouched by Time.

Cold sweat and more nausea creeps into you, as you look away from the bottom of the stair, glance back down, and focus on where you're going. Ofelia runs slightly ahead, knowing just as well where you should be going— and immediately takes a step back. "Oh, no. Nope. Not gonna happen." She grabs your hand again. "We're not gettin' separated. Let's stay close."

The structure before you seems flat, as bricks on its exterior recess and protrude in a rhythmic pattern. You take note of it, and see a small emblem carved into the nearby stone. It's of a star, with only two points, exactly what you're looking for, and you step forward confidently.

You step backwards confidently, and have to stop moving. The door behind you remains as angular and odd as before. The door ahead of you is in the ceiling, to the right, in a recess sideways in the distance, and right in front of you. The stairs you are certain you need to take should be to the left. The staircase to your left runs up and down, simultaneously.

Ofelia is paler than the walls, the rigid stone carved into obscenely sharp edges, and holds onto your hand more tightly still. "You got this?"

Closing your eyes, you inch a few feet forward. The floor is flat. "Yes."

Ofelia tries to not scream.

You take a few more steps forward, screwing your eyes more tightly shut, and keeping a hand extended. There should be a wall— and in a few more steps, there is. You take a breath, and before moving to ascend the steps, open your eyes.

Ofelia screams, and grabs onto your legs as tightly as she can. You're upside down. The walls are smooth, and there's no hold. There's a few doors just ahead, sticking out from the wall. There's a split second, before you're certain that you and Ofelia are going to drop from a distance of at least thirty feet straight onto another sharp stair. It may be an illusion, but it's one that is affecting you regardless.

(Options in next post.)
>>
>>4298052
>(A ROLL WILL BE REQUIRED FOR ALL OF THE FOLLOWING.)

>A] Father Friedrich gave you extensive training on how to take a fall. Use it. (A MODERATE ROLL WILL BE REQUIRED, WITH HIGHER RISK OF OFELIA GETTING HURT.)

>B] Invoke Dream. You're not sure if you can do so in Time, but know you can manipulate this shifting environment with His blessing. (A HIGH ROLL WILL BE REQUIRED, WITH NO RISK TO YOU OR YOUR COMPANION.)

>C] Unsling your shield and take the brunt of the fall, to ensure Ofelia is protected. (A LOW ROLL WILL BE REQUIRED, WITH HIGH RISK TO YOURSELF, AND NONE TO OFELIA.)

>D] Write-in.
>>
>>4298054
>>C] Unsling your shield and take the brunt of the fall, to ensure Ofelia is protected. (A LOW ROLL WILL BE REQUIRED, WITH HIGH RISK TO YOURSELF, AND NONE TO OFELIA.)
>>
>>4298054
>>B] Invoke Dream. You're not sure if you can do so in Time, but know you can manipulate this shifting environment with His blessing. (A HIGH ROLL WILL BE REQUIRED, WITH NO RISK TO YOU OR YOUR COMPANION.)
>>
>>4298054
>B] Invoke Dream. You're not sure if you can do so in Time, but know you can manipulate this shifting environment with His blessing. (A HIGH ROLL WILL BE REQUIRED, WITH NO RISK TO YOU OR YOUR COMPANION.)
>>
>>4298058
>>4298063
>>4298064
>BLESSED BE THE NIGHT

>Roll 1d100. Best of 3 will be used.
>+40 YOUR FAITH IS REWARDED
>-20 GRAVITY STILL APPLIES
>-10 PROTECT THE HALFLING (AND YOURSELF)
>-5 BREVITY ISN'T YOUR STRONG SUIT
>>
Rolled 75 (1d100)

>>4298067
>>
Rolled 68 (1d100)

>>4298067
>>
Rolled 14 (1d100)

>>4298067
>>
>>4298069
>>4298073
>>4298078
(73 it is! Vote is locked, writing now.)
>>
>>4298081
You mean 80?
>>
>>4298083
(I realized a few minutes ago, so embarrassing. Thanks for pointing it out.)
>>
>>4298081
>>4298083
https://youtu.be/g0vMYKN5GZE

There is actually need for you to speak, to invoke the God of Creativity. You have EXACTLY enough Time on your hands to call out, "DREAM!"

The walls streaking past you both are not white, tinged with purple. They are cerulean, and the world itself turns blue. Aquamarine drips from the edges of your sight, and out from your eyes. The God of Visions sees through you, beyond the gold and green.

Ofelia clutches onto you as tightly as she can, and screams, as you drop about thirty feet. Wind whips through your hair.

It's thrilling. You want to laugh, as divinity courses into you from a single syllable. Instead, you feverishly continue muttering a prayer. Together, you and Dream care to paint your impact differently.

With a rapid wave of your hand, the staircase below you is brushed aside. Streaks of paint drip into a new recess in the floor. The fall now ends with a slide, into the night. Using every bit of training at your disposal, you fall with perfect form, and let a roll further cushion the blow. The woman clutching onto you stops her screaming, as the end of the fall is cushioned by thousands of soft bristles. In piles, they're mounded against a rounded wall. The stop itself is comprised of more cushion, more akin to a painter's rag than hard stone.

It's difficult to breathe, as it feels like something wet needs to come up from your lungs. Getting to your feet is an ordeal, but you manage, and look up.

The slope doesn't suit your vision. With a jerk of your hands, you turn the bend into a stair. Each step drips with oils and pigment, sloshing underfoot as you pick Ofelia away from clutching to your legs, and up onto your shoulders. She seems much more at ease, despite spitting out several bristles, and gasping, "fer fuck's sake, Richard, good goin'—"

The room stops shifting for just a moment, as you reach the top of the landing you've created. Seeing through the eyes of a God grants you some peace of mind. There's a blossoming pain along your shield arm, but the God of Interpretation sees it as no blessing. Your pulse mellows. There's no pleasure in your Flesh, and no further Mercy.

They are a distraction, from the task at hand. Calling upon Dream for such a small matter borders on a different kind of abuse, and you're certain you wouldn't have died, but there's an overwhelming desire to do *more* with His gifts.

A slight tug is on your hand, from the friend beside you. Her brow is knitted in fear and concern. "Hey." She jerks a thumb up, towards the ceiling. "Don't look, but the door's up top. Stair's still in place. You okay?"

The moon and stars echoes in your speech. "Yes."

"Ya' think we can do somethin' about this? I don't want you killin' yerself, Richard. We can take it easy. Really."

(Options in next post.)
>>
>>4298110
>(A and B are mutually exclusive. Majority vote will decide. Vocal opposition will be taken into full consideration.)

>A] Think of Harriet's, Sullivan's, Walter's, Cyril's, Theodore's, and Ofelia's caution. Release your invocation to Dream, now, and find a mundane way of getting to your destination. (A ROLL WILL BE REQUIRED.)
>1] Get out the rope, pitons, elbow grease and some self-respect. You're climbing up, with as much restraint as you can muster.
>2] Check your maps and the room thoroughly. See if there's another route.
>3] Write-in.

>B] BLESSED BE THE DREAM
>1] Make another stair. One that you have control over.
>2] Create a platform independent of your environment, for you and Ofelia to move freely on.
>3] Write-in.
>>
>>4298111
>>B] BLESSED BE THE DREAM
>3] Write-in.

Slides are fun, make more and turn this nightmare into a dream. I am sure the god of creativity would enjoy some out of the box thinking, let's make a paint waterpark until we are out of here.
>>
>>4298122
+1
>>
>>4298111
A2, look before you leap
>>
>>4298122
>>4298139
>>4298140
(You know what? Given the nature of this write-in, I think we can incorporate everything without a roll. Vote is locked! Writing now.)
>>
>>4298149
https://youtu.be/WB-bZ5G4DfU

Picking Ofelia gently off from your shoulders, you set her back to the floor. Paint drips from your speech, speak into shadows and stars. Ea h word materializes, connecting in your calligraphy, with a strand into the air. You look to the congealed text with some amusement, as you write, "blessed be the Dream. Blessed be the night."

Nervous laughter escapes from the halfling at your side. The phrase hangs in the air for a moment, while you casually get your maps back out.

Beyond all doubt, nothing in the room makes a lick of sense. The staircase you should be walking up is absolutely on the ceiling.

Glancing to where the slide you've made *should* be, it seems to have been consumed already by the stone underfoot. A smooth floor conceals the blessing of a God, and it's not to your taste at all. Neither are the faces looming from the occasional shadow. You dart your gaze around, noting that there's undoubtedly shelter here. Many of the rooms beyond resemble small homes, far off in their shade. Others contain a glimpse of a few gardens, or eyes leering from those too frightened to emerge. You wonder for their sanity, to choose this dwelling before braving what lies on the surface world.

There's nothing resembling sanity, in the cerulean of your eyes. Pulling the strand of your speech into the air, you continue to murmur, "look to the moon, and the stars in the sky." More text follows. More prayer follows.

With one hand, you spin, and swirl, and shape the evidence of divinity into your own interpretation of this nightmare. A slope begins to take shape, far overhead, leading towards your destination. With your other hand outstretched, you politely ask Ofelia, "would you like to join Us, in a vision more befitting of Him?"

She takes hold of your hand, and insists that you wrap an arm completely around her. "Yeah. Do what you gotta do, Richard."

You genuinely grin. "This nightmare now belongs to Dream."

You look up. The floor gives out from under you. Your light laughter intermingles with Ofelia's shout, and you're falling all over again.

A brush of your hands manipulates the paint you've been gathering. Pigment courses underfoot. Dream orients you, to focus on your destination. The shadows and faces leering from the impossible structures and stairs streak by, for how quickly you're falling.

(1/3)
>>
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104 KB JPG
>>4298193
From the tips of your fingers, the slide you've been building stretches out to meet you. The pigment solidifies, as evidence of your devotion. You confidently land on the steep slope, utterly confident in your faith. It's impossible to not stagger, given the speed you've fallen in, and your forward momentum threatens to take the world out from under you. A lift of your fingers creates a slight bump up on the slide, and a blessed decrease in movement. You motion to decrease the slope even further, to help Ofelia keep her footing, who is barely touching the ground for how close of a hold you kept on her.

She's breathing hard, as you both almost come to a stop. There's just a few feet to exit the chamber you've entered from, yet the passage beyond looks just as foreign. You're absolutely still standing on the ceiling, though the divinity underfoot keeps you entirely in place.

Ofelia is clutching onto you for dear life, and looks to you wordlessly for a little more support. You sweep her into your arms, and grin to her as brightly as a star.

"Y-you're enjoyin' this, aren't you," she stammers, looking to the chamber around you.

"Would you like to have some fun as well, Ofelia?"

"Go ahead," she sighs, trying to battle down her own smile. "I knew comin' with ya was gonna be more interestin' than anythin' else."

You decrease the descent before into a nearly vertical drop. Holding onto Ofelia with just one hand— she's impossibly light— you don't hesitate further. With a flourish, you spread your fingers. The entirety of the steep drop is slick with paint.

You kick off, bend your knees, and try to not laugh or shout. The room streaks past you in an instant. The air leaves your lungs, which are certainly filled with paint, and you can't help but love it.

Ofelia is entirely incapable of breathing, as she gives a small scream. It's not of terror. It's abundantly clear that your companion is having just as much fun as you are.

There's more speed than you're capable of achieving through running alone. Odd architecture is left behind, as you both successfully skid, and pass into a new series of room. The corridor is just as angular, and the shifting room and shapes are utterly disorienting.

You spin the descent into a number of turns, just for fun. Knowing full well that you're meant to continue through the next few regions, there's no need to hold back. The slide gives you so much momentum, you have to curve up the edges of the ramp. Twisting down into a spiral, you are utterly amused as Ofelia parts her hands from you, and puts them in the air.

She's laughing. You make a few more turns, a number of ramps, and forget your restraint for just a moment. A number of odd corridors pass by, in white stone, and the scent of more dust. Sand trickles from the ceiling in places. To try and orient yourself, you pull up on the vision.

(2/3)
>>
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890 KB
890 KB PNG
>>4298198
You pull up, and out, and producing a large hill. Grinning ear-to-ear, you bend your knees even deeper, predict precisely where to create a landing, sprint against the slide, and jump cleanly over the top.

You're flying, for a moment. There's no need for Time.

An excited, "wheeeeee!" lingers in the background of your mind. Ofelia holds onto you tighter, as a wave of your hand creates the steepest slope yet. You have to bend your knees further, and almost miss how broadly your friend is grinning.

The exterior of the ruins might as well not exist. Streaks of blue splash across your sight, as you have to get completely down.

Out of breath, out of any ability to register further sensation, you create one last gentle ascent.

You come to a stop.

Ofelia's disappointment is immeasurable. "Aaawww, c'mon, already?"

Sitting on the floor, covered in blue paint, you try to register something other than the blessing given to you. Coughing hard, trying to get some of the pigment out from your lungs, it's at least possible to register Ofelia handing you a handkerchief. She makes no motion to move from your hold on her, and is clearly still terrified of your surroundings.

The slip of cloth is also dripping with paint. You take it, and make a tiny slide for it on the ramp you're sitting on, just for fun. Manipulating the handkerchief to mimic yours and Ofelia's silhouette, you admire more than the control you seem to be gaining over invoking Dream. There's little pain in your chest, despite the scar lancing it. It's swimming brightly enough to be visible under your shirt and coat, but you pay it no mind.

You send the tiny fabric dolls down their own slide, and glance around. The passages ahead are difficult to make out. They're not in shades of blue, but specks of the moon are dancing in your eyes. You squint, to try and make out a distant corridor. The chambers beyond may be marked, as well. You're certain that these are residences for several associates of your congregation, in the chambers beyond, though you have no idea what lies between.

The woman in your arms gently extracts herself from your hold, and doesn't give you a hand to get up. Ofelia looks to you, her hair disheveled from the slide, and simply smiles.

You forget about code words and rogues for just a moment.

>A] Release your invocation to Dream, and take a moment to formally pray to the God of the Night. That was wonderful, got you safely out of a disastrous situation, and you want to show Him your thanks.

>B] Release your invocation to Dream, and take a moment to hack your lungs out, clean up, and try to compose yourself. The invocation likely took a lot out of you, and you don't want to run yourself ragged. To rest is to serve, after all.

>C] Maintain your invocation to Dream a moment longer. (Write-in some imagining worthy of persisting with the God of Imagination.)

>D] Write-in.
>>
>>4298203
>C] Maintain your invocation to Dream a moment longer. (Write-in some imagining worthy of persisting with the God of Imagination.)
Cold shiver in spine, from what were the residents hiding to begin with? Embrace the dreams other side
>>
>>4298203
>A] Release your invocation to Dream, and take a moment to formally pray to the God of the Night. That was wonderful, got you safely out of a disastrous situation, and you want to show Him your thanks.
>>B] Release your invocation to Dream, and take a moment to hack your lungs out, clean up, and try to compose yourself. The invocation likely took a lot out of you, and you don't want to run yourself ragged. To rest is to serve, after all.
>>
>>4298203
>>A] Release your invocation to Dream, and take a moment to formally pray to the God of the Night. That was wonderful, got you safely out of a disastrous situation, and you want to show Him your thanks.
>>
>>4298235
Supporting.
>>
>>4298214
(Founded paranoia duly noted, but going to go with majority for course of action)
>>4298235
>>4298284
>>4298497
(Favoring a formal prayer and some classic devotion. Writing now.)
>>
>>4298524
Preemptively taking a knee, you brace yourself, and breathe out a word of thanks to the God of the Night.

With it comes the release of your invocation. The paint encompassing your vision drips away. The air is cold. The physical world is no longer subject to your slightest fancy. You long for warmth, and further embrace. There's an ache in your soul. Confirmation that the Gods are Mericful persists, in the forefront of your mind.

A chill creeps up your spine, at the thought of every heathen in these ruins. They've turned from Their gifts.

You look over your shoulder, leaning hard on your knee, and fight to stay away. You were constructing each segment of the painted structure as needed. It must have spanned hundreds of feet back, up, and beyond the edges of your sight. A trail of turqoise and azure is in huge streaks, indicating your path far off into the distance. The structures at your back shift and groan. Jerking back around, over the sound of grating stone, you cough. Hard.

It doesn't matter. You keep a hand to your lips, and another to your chest. To the scar over your heart. Frenetic prayer follows, as you formally state your devotion to Dream.

Ofelia finds a clean kerchief, and has to force it into your hands to get you to notice it. You only take the item due to a particularly bad fit of coughing, and only then when you think your prayer has been compromised.

You endure. You're grinning, and find it in more than your heart or aching lungs to give your thanks. The night lingers in your speech, melodious and brimming with devotion. You conclude, "...may our release from reality never go unspoken. To imagine is to worship. To *rest* is to serve."

No exhaustion slams into you. A weary smile persists across your face. Resisting every urge to slide against a nearby wall, you stay kneeling, and permit yourself to clear your lungs. The acrid, sharp taste of what should be toxic paint keeps coming up, though it's at least wet, and has no further substance.

You practically laugh, as Ofelia cycles through five handkerchiefs, until the worst of it parts from your soul. Looking to her with what is no doubt red in your eyes, the last traces of blue pass. A little bit of the night lingers in your speech. "Thank you."

She punches you, right on your shield arm, and definitely didn't realize it. It's still aching, though likely only has a bruise (now two), and your smile becomes a tilted attempt to bite your lip and muffle any sound simultaneously.

The rogue at your side can't help but actually laugh. "Shit. Sorry."

You wave a hand, beat back the heat from your face, and don't reply.

Her light laughter continues. "We're a mess. I was gonna say—"

You both are covered nearly head-to-toe in paint. Her usually bushy hair is matted, disheveled from the slide, and sticking up in one place. You point to it politely, which she musses down, bashfully declaring, "don't go thankin' me, alright! That was all you."

(1/2)
>>
>>4298644
Propriety and genuine dismay insists you both clean up. "Dream," you mildly correct, while getting some supplies.

"Don't you start."

You drop a towel on her head. She huffs, and leaves it.

You have to wonder if you're having a harder Time simply because of your weight. Thinking back to the last Time you were in the ruins is inescapable. To your demonic, skeletal reflection, after two months of neglect. "I cannot fathom how you tolerated my appearance— when we last ventured together."

A warning fist wavers, as Ofelia smirks to you, "none of that. It was some shit. No time to breathe," she musses the towel over her hair, "let alone look after ourselves."

"You have a point." You place a hand to your robes, and mutter, "same hue. Please remove the paint."

Not only does the garment take in all indication of the paint in hand, its capabilities seem to redouble. Ofelia begins to point out, "even havin' some fun down here. What a difference—"

The remnants of any grime on the rest of you promptly vanishes. You're left once more with the ludicrously tasteful gold garment, in the same cut, but there's a small blue flower on the lapel.

Ofelia's blue-flecked frown could not be any more extreme. "No way. That's not fair."

You pluck the flower off your robes, and hand it to her. "Father Wilhelm is *incredibly* generous."

She takes it, with fingers slick with paint, and can't help but smirk. "Alright! Get him to take care of a girl when he gets the chance, will ya'? Wish my cloak did nearly as much as that."

You give her a fair bit of water and cleaning supplies, before properly look at the chambers beyond. The angular, unusual archways flank either side of an incredibly long hall. The ceiling is vastly shorter than the prior areas you traveled through, and suspect this may be a shortcut to your congregation.

It almost looks like a prison, of sorts. You can't shake the feeling of still being with Dream.

Thinking to faces marred with shadow, there's a slip, and a thought, as to what they could be hiding from.

Who they could be hiding from.

"Richard."

You blink. "Yes?" The taste of paint is inescapable, but the thought of imbibing anything is worse than dealing with something so foul on your tongue.

"I don't wanna go off by myself anywhere in here. Turn around, okay? Keep an eye out."

She's holding an armful of the spare clothes you gave her. You know she doesn't care for modesty, and is doing as much for your sake.

Immediately, you turn around, and occupy your attention with the ceiling. There's a spider.

The prickle running up your spine redoubles. It's meaty, hairy, and its web stretches across a good four feet of one corner on the building. You think to all of the insect carapaces on the way here, and note there isn't a single one about you. Not in the hallway stretching out.

There isn't a single distraction from the shadow of Ofelia changing clothes.

(Options in next post.)
>>
>>4298653
>A] You are chaste, the leader of the Church of Mercy, a loyal partner to a Goddess, and will occupy yourself with the rest of the room. Completely.
>1] One of the most powerful demons you've ever faced commanded thousands of them. Don't take your eyes off that spider for a second.
>2] Keep your ears open for any movement up ahead. Focus on the positive! Keep yourself together!
>3] Keep your eyes peeled, just as Ofelia has. There's no chance you're letting any harm befall her. Keep your mace and shield out, for good measure.

>B] A peek at her shadow couldn't hurt. You're stressed, and would be lying if you said you hadn't thought about it before.

>C] Your peripheral vision is actually better than your normal sight, in this much darkness. You aren't exactly in the best state of mind. Hazard a glance.

>D] Write-in.
>>
>>4298655
>A3
>>
>>4298644
(Fourth paragraph should read "fight to stay awake," not "fight to stay away." Will try to be more thorough with proofreading, had more than a few errors today.)
>>
>>4298655
>>A] You are chaste, the leader of the Church of Mercy, a loyal partner to a Goddess, and will occupy yourself with the rest of the room. Completely.
>3] Keep your eyes peeled, just as Ofelia has. There's no chance you're letting any harm befall her. Keep your mace and shield out, for good measure.
>>
>>4298870
+1
>>
>>4298659
>>4298870
>>4298967
(Unanimous for A3, got it. Locking the vote here, will get out one more update this evening! Work in the morning but thanks so much for the stellar weekend guys.)
>>
>>4299019
(Writing now!)
>>
>>4299117
https://youtu.be/LApkHzyKxrw

There is no conceivable way that you will let any harm befall your friend. The gold in your eyes only turns from the corridors ahead for a moment. You unfasten your mace, and immediately balk at how much lighter it feels.

Everything has seemed slightly out of place since this afternoon. Its sharpened flanges are unmistakably the same, but it might as well be a new weapon, for the ease in which you carry it. As you readjust your grip on the weapon in hand, the band upon your ring finger presses slightly against its hilt.

You can't help but smile. It's difficult to believe that just this morning, you had Mercy in your arms.

The heft of your shield is just as effortless to hold. You quickly unsling it. The bruises along your arm provide a moderate thrill, as you shift the item into place, but you do your best to stay focused. The black, flawless, matte metal face soaks in any light that could indicate a potential threat.

The radiance in your eyes cannot be dissuaded by sorcerery, or even remembrance of demons, as you look along the chamber ahead. There's no movement, but every inch of you is on high alert. You assume a defensive stance, focusing on the sounds of steps in the distance. It's a challenge to make out anything over the grating of stone on stone, but you're determined to not let down your guard for a moment.

There's more on the line than Ofelia's well-being, or even your congregation's continued safety. Your lover is a Goddess. You have remained loyal to Mercy, above all others, and are here to uphold your promises.

Your oaths.

Your vows.

A crackling sound picks up, far down one of the passage. Every hair on your body must stand on end. "Mercy—"

You whip your head to the ceiling. The spider is still in place, monstrous though it is. You look again down the corridor. There are no long shadows, or any signs of movement. "Ofelia." You don't dare to turn around. The shadows looming from the farthest reaches of every room feel like they could be hiding anything. If you aren't mistaken, the sound came from the direction you need to head. "Did you hear anything?"

A muffled reply greets you, as she's likely pulling a blouse over her face. "Hearh what?"

"A crackl—" It happens again. "Please tell me as soon you are finished, and listen—"

"Yeah." She taps you on the side of your leg. "Fer what?"

You only hazard a brief glance behind. "Just listen."

Unceremoniously, paint-streaked clothes are shoved into her already-stuffed backpack. The rogue makes a point to stand behind you. She's wearing something Harriet likely picked out. The lilac blue of her blouse nicely compliments her cloak, which billows in the absence of wind. She pulls the hood well over her eyes.

The blindfold comes off.

The last of the paint and water in her hair drips to the floor, as you both wait, and listen.

(1/2)
>>
>>4299170
There's another crackle. The sound is distant. You're uncertain if the walls are obscuring the noise, or if your mind is playing tricks on you. It's familiar in a way that has a cold sweat on every inch of your body. You're reminded of a shifting demon. One caught between lightning, and fuzz. A static, that couldn't be captured in material or immaterial forms.

The burn behind your shield, as you stand and linger, reminds you distinctly of a break in your arm. Pain, without relief— until a litany, and reprieve in a way that only the Goddess of Compassion could grant you. It was unlike any other Time before.

Mercy is still with you. You're sure of it. From the reassurance—

Ofelia whispers up to you, "yeah. I hear it."

You plummet back down to Aerth, swallow hard, and ask, "do you think...?"

"We'll go ahead together. I don't see anythin'. Not yet."

Tightening the grip on your weapon, you don't dare to take a step forward. Not yet. You were cautioned multiple Times today to stay focused, to not get distracted, and to not engage anything you discovered down here.

"Would you have? Before?"

"Yeah. I think so." Worry coats her question, "you alright?"

>A] Your nerves might be shot, and you're having trouble staying in the present, but you're going to grin and bear this. Press on, and don't let yourself get distracted. Do everything in your power to remain grounded. You've learned a lot in the last several months.

>B] You might be paranoid and a little shaken, but it's justified. You'll be fine once you investigate. Stay close to Ofelia, and don't let your guard down for a second.

>C] Coming back into the ruins so soon may have been a poor judgement call. You're not even a little bit alright, but you know this is a necessary evil. (Write-in virtually any additional measures you may wish to take before venturing forth.)
>>
>>4299171
>>A] Your nerves might be shot, and you're having trouble staying in the present, but you're going to grin and bear this. Press on, and don't let yourself get distracted. Do everything in your power to remain grounded. You've learned a lot in the last several months.
>>
>>4299171
>>A] Your nerves might be shot, and you're having trouble staying in the present, but you're going to grin and bear this. Press on, and don't let yourself get distracted. Do everything in your power to remain grounded. You've learned a lot in the last several months.

This is our element, keep calm and remember we have survived worse while still being in the dark about our own abilities.
>>
>>4299179
>>4299247
(Remember your victories. Vote is locked. Writing now.)
>>
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>>4299429
"We— I have survived worse," you mutter, and immediately move forward.

"Be careful." Ofelia's voice is firm, but you can tell by how silently and carefully she's creeping that her nerves are just as shot as your own.

The noise is clearer. It's not just a crackle. It's a clang. There's something metal, off in the distance, grating or dragging in an unnatural way.

Your steady steps avoid disturbing too much debris underfoot, or making much further noise of your own. The hall is sparsely filled with debris. Only the archways on either side, and the occasional spider, provide any relief from the monotony of stone.

You're acutely reminded of how sheltered you were from your own abilities, when you last walked amidst such dilapidated structures. Of your successes, *because* you were kept in the dark.

The grating intensifies.

Another star is carved into a nearby wall— with three points— beside the second-to-last chamber. You enter it without hesitation, and are greeted by a slightly curving stretch of natural rock. The weight of the city bears down from overhead. You can't fathom how deeply you've already delved, and it's all the more reason to keep moving. Every step forward reminds you a little more of your successes. Though your breath is rapid, and a cold sweat persists from the back of your neck to the palms of your hands, you don't pay the increasingly narrow and winding corridors any mind.

You've navigated labyrinths, without direction. The map does not come out again. You've seen the pages enough to have already memorized them. Ofelia is quick to head where you need to go, as well. The two of you are so used to traveling in silence, you almost feel comfortable as you carry on. The spike in your pulse from background rocks falling, and the odd grating, nearly fades from your mind.

Along another branch, triple checking that a faded "x" on the wall is the one you need, and a narrow decline later, there's not a sound to be heard.

A horrifically loud *CLANG* bellows from behind.

You whip your head around, shield up, mace in hand.

The corridor is empty.

Ofelia is visibly sweating, with two daggers out, and doesn't look away from the direction you've been walking from. "You sure 'bout this?"

You grit your teeth, realize how hard you're tensing, and make a conscious effort to take a deep breath.

There's a faint scent of blood on the air. Blood, soil, and something damp.

You take another breath, and force yourself to relax your hands before you hurt yourself. Sister Cardew didn't tolerate you for four solid months for nothing. Some of the pain in your arm abates. Your pulse winds down, and you mutter, "Yes. I—"

There's another harsh metallic noise, that makes your teeth hurt. The taste of paint is still on your tongue, as you insist, "I will *not* ignore the counsel I have been given. We will keep moving, so long— so long as I am certain we are not in significant danger."

(1/2)
>>
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>>4299495
Ten minutes likely pass by. You should have lost track, by all rights, but counting the minutes is soothing in a morbid way. You've survived more than the ruins. You've escaped confinement. You kept your sanity (enough, at least,) during eight years in the dark.

So you count. Your steps are level.

The grating noise shifts into a harsher clang.

You've moved for another five minutes.

The sound is possibly closer.

You pick up your steps. They're a third as fast as they could be, and exactly fast enough to not tax Ofelia too thoroughly. You both move as quietly as you can down a last long, and winding tunnel. Your next major landmark should be up ahead, but this corridor seems to narrow and darken the longer you move.

In fact, the walls are practically closing in. Though your procession started in broad halls and cavernous passages, these narrow branches are scarcely broad enough to walk with Ofelia at your side.

You both are forced to slow your pace. The crack ahead seems to soak in all light behind you. There is a chill of even colder air from within, and the sound of dripping water. It's tall enough that you wouldn't have to crouch down, possibly as high as seven feet.

"This isn't gonna work," Ofelia mildly states, and gently tugs on the back of your pants legs. "We'll find a way around. C'mon."

Etched into the side of the rock is a small etching of a dog. You almost move to enter. Peeking into the darkened recess, you're certain that it gets even smaller, further in. You're a poor judge of your body at the best of times, but there's no question your stomach is going to prohibit entry. It would have been fine last week, surely, but to prevent your robes from snagging on the rough walls, you hang back.

Steel wool on sandpaper feels like it's crackling in your ears. It must be closer, as the noise echoes down the corridor ahead. It must stretch back at least a hundred feet— likely more.

A dark, and equally abrasive thought occurs to you. You think to one of the first few Times you dealt with proper exploration in the dark. Of winding passages, and abuse— when you had no idea of what horrors might result from your actions.

(Options in next post.)
>>
>>4299497
>A ROLL WILL BE REQUIRED FOR ALL OF THE FOLLOWING.

>A] It's a sin of the highest caliber. You know the risks, and that's exactly what you want. Intentionally try to abuse Agriculture. (You're still uncertain of the mechanism of this. Feel free to ask questions regarding what you already should know, or write-in other uses.)
>1] Invoke Her just to widen the opening. You're not trying your luck that far.
>2] Try to space out the corridor further beyond, and maintain the invocation for a moment.
>3] Seal off the passage directly behind you. If something's coming, you don't want to risk any interference while you sort this out. Keep the invocation going as long as you need to.
>4] Write-in.

>B] Take Ofelia's suggestion. This is not the end of the world. Put your experience and skills to the test.
>1] Find an alternate route as close to here as humanly possible. It may lead to another unworkable passage, but will take the least Time. (A MODERATE ROLL WILL BE REQUIRED, and failure may result in a complete waste of Time.)
>2] Find a path further back. It may be dangerous or get you lost, but you're willing to take the extra Time to ensure you keep moving forward. (A HIGH ROLL WILL BE REQUIRED, but progress is guaranteed.)
>3] Develop a shortcut. You're determined beyond all measure to make the best out of this situation. (A VERY HIGH ROLL WILL BE REQUIRED. Results may vary.)

>C] Write-in.
>>
>>4299500
>B1
>>
>>4299500
>>A] It's a sin of the highest caliber. You know the risks, and that's exactly what you want. Intentionally try to abuse Agriculture. (You're still uncertain of the mechanism of this. Feel free to ask questions regarding what you already should know, or write-in other uses.)
>2] Try to space out the corridor further beyond, and maintain the invocation for a moment.

I am not sure how this is abuse of Agriculture, why can't we just normally invoke to make room for ourselves.
>>
>>4299511
(Invoking any God for anything less than a matter of life or death is tantamount to abuse. You know that much with absolute certainty. Not only do you not have confirmation if there's any danger right now at all or not, but you have multiple other options at your disposal. Mercy has always answered you, and there *is* a distinct chance that Agriculture would still look favorably on you for this. Hence the use of dice, here, but as you guys are uncertain exactly of what constitutes responsible use of Her abilities, it's a toss up.

It's worth noting that information on invocation is scarce in most of Corcaea. Not just due to illiteracy, but due to how few people can call upon the Gods themselves. As it typically takes a lifetime of study and devotion, paying a visit to or writing to the Church of Agriculture may be worth pursuing!)
>>
>>4299505
+1
>>
>>4299511
(Really appreciate the questions man. Hope that was clear enough.)
>>4299505
>>4299523
(Going with majority for B1!)

>NO SUCH THING AS A DEAD END
>Roll 1d100. Best of 3 will be used.

>+10 YOU'RE IN YOUR ELEMENT
>+10 OFELIA IS SHARPER THAN SHE LOOKS
>-5 WALTER WRITES LIKE A CHILD
>-5 YOU'RE PULLING AN ALL-NIGHTER AFTER INVOKING DREAM
>>
Rolled 6 (1d100)

>>4299578
>>
Rolled 87 (1d100)

>>4299578
>>
Rolled 52 (1d100)

>>4299578
>>
>>4299579
>>4299580
>>4299585
(Wow, that's a 97 out of 100. I'm going to bust out a quick update in just a few minutes! Thanks for your patience guys.)
>>
>>4299588
You have to wonder why it's abuse at all. Why you couldn't call upon Agriculture to aid you, your search, your friends and your children. It's frustrating, but you silently shove away the thought. You know enough to focus on the present, to not repeat past mistakes, and to turn to your ally at hand.

One of your greatest mortal allies. Ofelia already has the maps back out, which are nearly as broad as her entire arm span. Still, she's looking to the parchment with determination.

You give her a weary grin, as you both set to pouring over Walter's chicken scratch. For a man who fancies himself a professor, his writing is more akin to someone who's never learned how to hold a pen properly. Splotches of ink litter a few wine and grease-stained corners of the parchment.

It all makes perfect sense. The waver in his hand is incredibly similar to your own. The small, unintelligible symbols are clear markers of buildings. The wavering trails of ink are intentional breaks in the ruins, and indicative of where the space changes.

You grin ear to ear, and point out to Ofelia, "just here is the passage that— that I thought was plainly indicated."

"Yep. Markers lead straight towards it."

"This is the route Algrith must have taken. See here," you mutter, over a hideous screech in the distance, "these symbols."

"The dust on the parchment," Ofelia dead-pans, unamused.

"It's stuck," you murmur, and brush at the page to make your point. "Intentionally. I will have words with Walter over such eccentricity, but— this. This here shows a number of buildings they took refuge in last. The tally marks— they are likely what order they moved in. It would seem that they have been rotating through a number of safe shelters, Ofelia."

Her eyes light up. "Makes sense. Means there's somethin' they're avoidin' down here though, Richard."

The blonde's hair practically stands on end, as another clatter persists down the corridor. You're effectively in a dead end, so it's prudent for both of you to move, and start walking back the way you came.

In a low voice, you suggest, "the closest alternate route will be the stairs. The space within them will be just— just as disorienting as the room we were in previously." You really feel the need to clarify, to stay calm. A scraping noise sounds like it's dragging along the opposite side of the wall up ahead. "Before the slides. Nearest the heathens wreathed in shadow."

"There's a house buried a little ways back," Ofelia whispers, "weird, too. Probably a safer bet. Shows it comes out at the same place as that tunnel."

"There was one other route."

"The thing that looked like a door?" She's squirming. You both have seen enough of strange doors to last a lifetime.

"Yes."

"I dunno. I'd put my bet on playin' it a little safer, Richard."

"Brother Wilhelm is going to be terribly upset."

She grins. "Who says he's findin' out what we've been up to? I said safer, not slower."

(Options in next post.)
>>
>>4299647
>A] Take the nearest path, to the winding stair. You may need to push yourself further to keep Ofelia safe, but want fast travel. There's no conceivable way you're stopping anywhere in these ruins.

>B] Backtrack slightly, to the house of exits. It will likely be less taxing, but take a little longer. You trust Ofelia's judgement more than any other person's alive, and are curious just how safe a place can be in the ruins.

>C] Find the shadowy door. You don't know what to expect, and that's exactly how you like it.

>D] Write-in.
>>
>>4299648
>>B] Backtrack slightly, to the house of exits. It will likely be less taxing, but take a little longer. You trust Ofelia's judgement more than any other person's alive, and are curious just how safe a place can be in the ruins.
>>
>>4299648
>>A] Take the nearest path, to the winding stair. You may need to push yourself further to keep Ofelia safe, but want fast travel. There's no conceivable way you're stopping anywhere in these ruins.

We know ruins are wars of attrition, we need to get in and out as fast as possible. I am confident we can deal with any danger we come across with relative ease if not completely avoid it
>>
>>4299648
>>B] Backtrack slightly, to the house of exits. It will likely be less taxing, but take a little longer. You trust Ofelia's judgement more than any other person's alive, and are curious just how safe a place can be in the ruins.
>>
>>4299656
>>4299659
>>4299899
(Confidently backtracking! Locking the vote here, writing just as soon as I finish winding down from work.)
>>
>>4299908
(Got some gardenias potted real quick. Writing now.)
>>
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>>4299937
https://youtu.be/gdbjnnx8S1s

You shake your head, and adjust your shield, to offer Ofelia a hand. She takes it, and lets out a small shout as you hoist her onto your shoulders. While adjusting Piety's scabbard to not bump against her small frame, the blonde pouts, "not givin' me any choice in where we're headed, huh?"

"On the contrary. I believe that— that you have the right idea. Let's move."

As quickly as you can move without jostling your friend, you set back off, towards the beginning of the long and winding tunnel. The scraping noise on the other side of the walls is sharp. It punctuates every tenth step.

Every fourth step.

Every step.

You break into a run, and turn hard around the corner you need to take. "I am confident," you huff, heading down an oddly lit passage, "that we can deal with any danger we come across."

While clutching onto your robes, you can feel her turn her head, hard, to something just to your right. "Richard."

You glance to the right. It's a solid wall.

"This is not right," you murmur.

You're inside of a home you did not intend to enter. It's extremely disorienting, but you look away from the solid wall, and to the right again.

The space ahead is strange to an extreme. Several rooms are in range, though their interior is unbearably dark. What little light refracts off of each surface highlights strange architecture. The halls are far more ornate than anything you're used to, even within the royal palace. The floors are just as audacious, interlaced with tiles in shifting shades of lavender and amaranth. There is debris scattered about the floor, of crumbled stone, and more sand.

The passage you needed to take should have been at least forty feet to the left, after another sharp turn, up a stair, and at the end of a straight path. You glance up. The space around Ofelia's empty eye sockets are as wide as can be. She's clearly seeing something you can't, though she doesn't protest as you set her gently down onto the floor. Sketching another marker, you try and clarify the direction you know you need to head.

The woman beside you is shaking, hard, and takes out more knives. She's holding three, as she mutters, "I can't see."

Something dull and metallic clangs, off in the distance. It's followed by an intense crunching sound, like a suit of armor that's been crushed in by some unbearably heavy object.

You don't dare get closer, as she keeps her weapons aloft. Instead, you softly insist, "tell me what's happening to you."

The golden light in her eyes is almost the only radiance in the entire space you're standing in. Darkness reaches behind you, drawing closer as she murmurs, "it's all in light. All of it. I can't tell if there's anyone out there. I can't see them."

"Them?"

"All of the people down here. Sinners. There must've been hundreds back there. But I can't see them." She's putting on a brave face, but her voice wavers, "I can't see you, Richard."

(Options in next post.)
>>
>>4299974
>A] Invoke Mercy for Her protection. Buy yourself some Time, hold your ground, and try to reassure Ofelia. If nothing else, you want to ensure she's alright before moving forward.
>1] You're certain that her sight will return. If it won't, you'll see to restoring it.
>2] Promise you won't let anything happen to her. Ask if there's anything she needs you to do to help.

>B] This is all the more reason to keep moving. Hug the walls of this hallway in the direction you need to travel, even if it may be towards an enemy. Stay on high alert.

>C] Keep your shield and mace up. Get Ofelia back on your shoulders, and run. This area wasn't on the map, but you're certain you can handle this much. (A ROLL WILL BE REQUIRED.)

>D] Explain that the exit is no longer behind you. Make sure that Ofelia is alright for you to take her hand, at least, before making some thorough inspection of the area next to you.

>E] Write-in.
>>
>>4299976
>>C] Keep your shield and mace up. Get Ofelia back on your shoulders, and run. This area wasn't on the map, but you're certain you can handle this much. (A ROLL WILL BE REQUIRED.)
>>
>>4299976
>>C] Keep your shield and mace up. Get Ofelia back on your shoulders, and run. This area wasn't on the map, but you're certain you can handle this much. (A ROLL WILL BE REQUIRED.)
>>
>>4299976
>C] Keep your shield and mace up. Get Ofelia back on your shoulders, and run. This area wasn't on the map, but you're certain you can handle this much. (A ROLL WILL BE REQUIRED.)
>>
>>4299981
>>4300051
>>4300057
>NAVIGATE THE IMPOSSIBLE

>Roll 1d100. Best of 3 will be used.
>+20 SPEED DEMON
>+10 YOU'RE IN YOUR ELEMENT
>-15 AGRICULTURE NEEDS TO TAKE IT EASY
>+5 NOT TOO EASY, THIS MIGHT ACTUALLY HELP
>>
Rolled 51 (1d100)

>>4300071
>>
Rolled 88 (1d100)

>>4300071
>>
Rolled 11 + 20 (1d100 + 20)

>>4300071
>>
>>4300075
>>4300078
>>4300079
(108 out of 100. I'm contractually obligated to ask if you guys want to do anything particularly cool while navigating a house of horrors.)
>>
>>4300083
hardcore parkour?
>>
>>4300086
(That'll work. Locking the vote/roll/etc here! Got mauled by mosquitoes on my face going outside for a few, so this is a race against the clock to update before allergy meds kick in. Writing now!)
>>
https://youtu.be/JDTpQh5Pw-Q

"I can see you clearly," you confidently assert, "and I am getting us out of here."

Terrified, she doesn't know how to respond.

"Put your weapons away," you mutter, over another horrific screeching. The cold sweat on you intensifies. "Mine are staying out."

Her voice remains steady. "I'm trustin' you, Richard." Knives are promptly stashed, as she takes heart, and looks towards the sound of your voice.

"I'm picking you up."

A single nod is all the confirmation you need. You sweep Ofelia off her feet, into your arms, and take extreme care to not let your weapon get anywhere near her. Light as a feather, she clings to your robes for a moment. Still smelling of paint and dust, her curls almost straighten at the sound of a pipe being smashed. It's significantly closer than the last. You speak over the noise, looking around intently in the direction you're certain you need to go. "I've got you."

"Yeah."

"I'm placing you on my shoulders."

She nods again, and clutches onto you for dear life. "I'm not lettin' go. Not even if ya' ask."

Adjusting the grip on your shield, you sling it over your aching arm, so you have at least one hand free. "We're going to run. Hold on tight."

A window shatters behind you. Glass plinks onto tile, as Ofelia yelps, and clutches onto you straight through your robes.

Grit crunches underfoot, and a rug slips slightly for how deeply you dig in your heels.

Running is truly your element. Nothing feels like it should, though. Shadows loom on the periphery of your vision, from countless blackened rooms that you sprint past. Your form is perfect, but isn't as quickly as you'd like it to be.

You have complete confidence in your abilities. A collapsed column at the end of the corridor, at least five feet tall, reminds you uncannily of a training hall back in Beorward. Months within the halls of the Church of Flesh was about more than running.

Leaping arms first, you deftly compensate for all of the weight on you, and throw your legs over the entire obstruction. The forward momentum is obscene. You use every bit of it to keep moving, over a collapsed wall.

Sliding intentionally into a pit in the floor, you skid down, and keep running back up. The ruined corridor doesn't stretch far, but you know this isn't a dead-end. A wall comes right up to your face.

You swing your mace with all your might, into a nearby door. Ofelia jumps in place at the deafening splinter in the surface. She doesn't throw you off track. The traction in hand is more than enough to safely turn on a heel, and gain *more* speed.

You turn, and pass into the door. Ripping chunks of wood paneling off the wall, you nearly slide. The floor on the other side is almost slick with fine sand. A banister, waist-high, is in place to save any possible falls two stories down.

(1/2)
>>
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>>4300171
At the bottom of the first flight of stairs is something in your peripheral vision. A shadow, of sorts. You jump clear over the banister. Ofelia screams. The floor doesn't exist.

The entirety of the mansion streaks by your sight below. It's packed with pelts and skins of foreign beasts. There's decaying furniture, indulgent rising smoke, and a shadow in the corner of your eye. The opposite end of the room has another angular stair, which descends three levels. It has a railing, which you land on, feet-first. The wood cries in complaint for less than a second, as you leap clear off of the rail.

Your pulse couldn't be louder. Your movement was straight towards the wall, just ahead.

There is a shadow in the wall. It shifts like sand, and becomes a gaping doorway. It doesn't make any sense, as the deep space opens up to swallow you whole.

You change direction so hard and fast that you skid.The skid becomes a deliberate turn. While your body screams in complaint, Ofelia stops herself from making any noise entirely. You forget how to breathe, as your heels contact the back wall.

You kick off.

To achieve is to serve.

You launch yourself and Ofelia forward, back over the banister, and fall straight to the ground floor. Your shield comes up, only to protect your charge, as you shout, and brace yourself.

The impact is deafening, as you land with perfect form, and roll only at the last second. Ofelia could not be holding you more tightly.

You get back to your feet instantly. Sweat-soaked hair sticks to your forehead and the back of your neck.

Looking up five stories of angular stairs, you're positive that you are in a battle of attrition. There's no doubt you can scale this building, but you know it may not be wise to do so.

"Richard?"

A fireplace crackles in the center of the building. It's taunting you. So are the pelts of human skin adorning the walls. Something resembling a miniature organ has keys made of teeth, all strung together. Strands of human hair are interwoven along its interior. Paintings tilt from the peaks of each banister. All the figures captured upon them are not of your Time.

This place is ancient, and a shadow is looming overhead. Right behind the second floor's banister.

Ofelia is breathing just as hard as you are, and has to ask, "what is it?"

On the second floor, there's a figure in the dark. It's flickering up the walls, with each crackle of the fire. "There's someone— or something here."

The shadow is on the first floor. You can feel Ofelia trying in desperation to look around, or to hear anything. "Where?"

It's in the corners of your eyes, moving too quickly for you to understand what you're looking at.

"Mercy—"

You blink. The feeling persists, of only seeing shadows.

They're on every floor. They're on every surface. They're existing outside of your mind's eye, and completely occupy it all at once.

You're certain this is what everyone was hiding from.

(Options in next post.)
>>
>>4300175
>A] Run. You know you can handle this. Push yourself to your absolute limit.

>B] Close your eyes. Walk blind. Trust in your faith.

>C] Invoke Mercy, for Her...
>1] Light.
>2] Protection.

>D] Invoke Flesh, for His...
>1] Strength.
>2] Speed.
>3] Endurance.

>E] Take your Relic. Unite yourself with Ofelia's ability to only see light.

>F] Write-in.
>>
>>4300176
>>A] Run. You know you can handle this. Push yourself to your absolute limit.

The thing we are best at, kinda wish we weren't so fat but what can you do.
>>
>>4300176
>>A] Run. You know you can handle this. Push yourself to your absolute limit.
Sullivan did say don't get distracted
>>
>>4300176
>>A] Run. You know you can handle this. Push yourself to your absolute limit.
>>
>>4300176
>A] Run. You know you can handle this. Push yourself to your absolute limit.
>>
>>4300179
>>4300218
>>4300282
>>4300490
(Well, running and taking some good advice is definitely something you can do! Unanimous vote is locked, will write ASAP.)
>>
>>4300596
https://youtu.be/wy9r2qeouiQ

Clawing tendrils streak along the floor. The arms of pitch-black sand whip towards you, faster than you can blink.

You have no fear of the dark. Not when it's your oldest ally.

The ground floor flies underfoot, as you head for the stair, and jump. Hard.

Four steps are left behind. You have enough momentum to run alongside the wall for a blessed second. Kicking off, you land clear at the top of the first flight, and throw your shield straight in front of you.

There's a shadow looming dead ahead. You charge at the nightmare, scream, and crash straight through the obstacle.

There's no need to reassure the woman clutching onto you for dear life, trying to not scream. The shadow is made of sand. It bends and shifts away from you, as another blessing.

Every step of momentum persists, as you stagger, pivot, and instantly right yourself.

A groaning, screeching cacophany rises from every wall as you run. The burn in your long legs has you wanting to groan, but you're certain that this, too, is a blessing.

There's no time to ruminate over your weight. Running all you can do, after all.

You jump clear over a fallen chair. Kicking off from it, you leap onto an overturned couch. It shifts underfoot, and you seize the motion, to leap over a bizarre metal construct. Just as it's about to be left behind, you kick off, without hardly touching the item. Shadows crawl up, along every surface beneath your jump.

You don't dare to touch the ground. A grand instrument you've never seen before is a final landing pad. The opposite stair is likely ten feet beneath you. The fire in you eclipses the dimming flame on the ground floor. It's getting much darker. The banister ahead is completely shrouded in night.

The blind assassin on your shoulders cries out, clutching onto you terribly, as you jump. Two stories of darkness reach out from below.

There's no vertigo. You've known worse nausea.

Sullivan did tell you to not get distracted.

You scarcely touch down on the railing ahead, which can't be more than a foot wide. You keep your balance, and ignore every protest from your frame. The course is straight.

The run you manage along such a narrow path takes the breath from your lungs. The clanging and metallic screeching reaches a crescendo.

Ofelia buries her face into the back of your robes, not daring to cover her ears. You can tell she's hurting.

Your resolve is absolute. Stashing your mace at your side, you come off the banister, by throwing yourself at a fallen pillar. Using only one arm, you put your full weight into the motion, land expertly, and vault clean over the third floor's obstructions.

Your landing ends only a few feet from the far wall. All the speed you've gathered carries on from your landing. Your feet firmly contact a pile of scattered bones and shadow. You don't hesitate, kick up, and kick off of the nearest wall.

(1/2)
>>
>>4300798
The turn is hard. Up, straight towards the banister. Up, towards the fourth floor.

Three stories loom beneath you. It sails past your sight. You throw every ounce of strength in your body, from the broadness of your shoulders to the scars on your hands, right into a grab. You take the fourth floor's banister under one arm, grabbing so hard with the other that the wood may have cracked.

Your upper body sings. It's a different kind of ecstasy, as you pull yourself and Ofelia over the ledge.

No amount of pain or exhaustion can stop you from throwing yourself back onto stable ground, back onto your feet. The building is crumbling behind you. Impossibly, the floor you're on remains intact, while everything below turns to sand.

Every morbid piece of decor falls into absolute darkness. Stairs bend and shift in a pit of pale hues, rising from tendrils of the night.

Keeping your form, you sprint up the final staircase, four steps at a time. Kicking off from the landing, you know you've been keeping to your plan all along. A huge stretch of flat tile stretches out before you.

You break into a final, mad dash.
This is what you do best.
The heat in your lungs.
The fire in your long limbs.
The unbelievable pace of your heart.

The walls are metal. You've never heard anything so loud in your life.

You can't hear the pulse in your head. Ofelia's cries have completely stopped, but she tries to shout something over the din.

>A] Look behind you. (A ROLL WILL BE REQUIRED.)

>B] Run straight towards the end of the hall. Don't stop for anything. (A ROLL WILL BE REQUIRED.)

>C] This is all kinds of wrong, but your adrenaline is coursing, your heart is pounding, it's hard to think, and you might just need to do something else to make it out of here unscathed. (Write-in.)
>>
>>4300800
>>C] This is all kinds of wrong, but your adrenaline is coursing, your heart is pounding, it's hard to think, and you might just need to do something else to make it out of here unscathed. (Write-in.)
Invoke Flesh to help us with
>B] Run straight towards the end of the hall. Don't stop for anything. (A ROLL WILL BE REQUIRED.)
>>
>>4300925
(Good shit man. Going to call the vote here, and since you guys know what you're doing...)

>DON'T STOP FOR ANYTHING

>Roll 1d100. Best of 3 will be used.
>+20 SPEED DEMON
>+20 FLESH OF MY FLESH
>-15 FEELING THE BURN
>+10 IT FEELS GREAT
>>
Rolled 35 (1d100)

>>4301061
>>
Rolled 52 (1d100)

>>4301061
>>
Rolled 90 (1d100)

>>4301061
>>
Rolled 34 (1d100)

>>4301061
i am speed
>>
>>4301066
Ahahaha
>>
>>4301063
>>4301065
>>4301066
>>4301067
(SPEED. That's 125, holy shit. I have something in store for you guys. Real quick question while I'm writing, no pressure but is there anything I can do to help with votes? I love you guys and appreciate the rolls, but votes in between really keep the quest going.)
>>
>>4301071
https://youtu.be/EwFA2VdCGcY

You didn't stop during the last six months of formal prayer. Neither did you give up— not even once— in any month of your grueling training regimen. You didn't hesitate when you ripped a demon of Agriculture apart with nothing but your bare hands. In each and every outbreak you've faced, during every mile you've ran, and every demon you've faced has been an opportunity.

Every swing of your weapon.
Each strike upon your shield.
The pounding of your heart.
The steps underfoot.

They have been signs of your devotion. You're not stopping for anything. Not even when you realize that the corridor ahead stretches on indefinitely. It's been growing, with every step you take. Its endless nature is unmistakable.

The woman clutching onto you for dear life lets out a scream, over the chorus of grinding metal all about you. You can make out what she's been saying. Ofelia is screaming, over and over again, "there's no exit, Richard— THERE'S NO EXIT! It just keeps goin'—!"

Her cries stop, when she feels how tightly you tense. Your sprint doesn't slow. You turn on a heel, and skid so hard and fast that the world itself becomes nothing but red. The tile underfoot is caked with enough sand that a wave of it kicks up from the motion. Touching down to the ground with an outstretched hand, it streaks between your fingers, and gathers in your palm as you slide at least thirty feet across the floor.

You don't come to a stop. You set Ofelia onto the ground, thrust your shield into her hands, and see with blood in your eyes. There's no longer shadow.

"FLESH OF MY FLESH!"

Flame bursts from the recesses of your soul, out of each scar upon your body, and wraps without heat upon every inch of your frame. The fire of your making casts light in every direction.

Strength has been your bedfellow. You tense a fist, crushing the sand with a heat so devastating, blackened particles waft into the air as you part your fingers again. The shirt beneath your robes is shredded from the motion, as your arms tense, tighten, and harden with the might of a God. The enchanted fabric upon your chest heaves, as your broad shoulders shift.

Each and every vein beneath your tightened skin is pulsing with the need to move. To serve. You get to your feet, upon legs that could lift the skies themselves. Your height is almost eclipsed by the might of your form, in all its strength.

The shield Ofelia's been holding clatters to the floor. She can see, alright. The light of a God licks around you, as shadows in all directions do not dare to approach your form. They cling to the piles of sand, throughout the boundless chamber.

A god, a demon, and the sinner among you feels like all that's left in the world.

(1/3)
>>
>>4301124
There is someone who is always beside you. Though compassion is your greatest strength, you speak not with the voice you share with your lover. The speech of the material is deep, resonant, and so familiar to you that your heart might as well leap out of your chest. You grin insanely to your enemy, and laugh, "I know you are afraid."

Every last limb of the monstrosity around you flinches.

The shield gifted to you by a demon of generosity feels much smaller, as you sling it back upon shoulder blades carved out of marble. It's not going anywhere. You sweep Ofelia back into your arms, as she lets out a small noise of dismay. Your biceps are likely broader than her entire body. She laughs, realizing what's happened. She's not going anywhere, as you keep her in your arms.

"We are leaving," you promise, to a demon of Time.

The noise about you fades into the back of your mind, despite every last barbed limb that hangs in the air. Sand solidifies into shards of glass. It sounds as if a window breaks, in every direction around you. Panes begin to drop one by one to the floor. They suspend, fall, and rise again. An endless expanse stretches ahead. A speck is in the distance, miles beyond the end of a horizon. Of a place, in another Time.

You run.

There's no pain. Every last trace of exhaustion drops from your frame, as the God of the Material *adores* you. There's an oath, that you've upheld night and day. In the absence of answers, and through everything you've endured, your faith has *never* wavered. He's with you. Your Flesh could not feel more divine. It's not like any pain you've experienced before.

You swore to uphold His tenets.

As you run, without any fear for your life, you feel just a little closer to God.

The end of the hallway closes in, fast. You don't slow your pace. Hesitation is unthinkable. Doubt is defeat.

You pour yourself into the motion. The last fibers of your soul don't need to cling onto desperate hope.

There's light.

You emerge, into the house you originally intended to find. Ofelia actually cries with relief, as she obviously can see once again, and looks around wildly. "RICHARD! Richard, I'm so fuckin' glad to see you—" she's hugging you somehow even more tightly, choking out, "holy SHIT— I knew we'd be alright—"

The house feels too small to move in, compared to the space you have exited. Four white staircases are dead ahead. Two ascend, two descend, and they're all centered on a flight of steps that you stagger up. It takes every inch of the entire flight to stop your momentum, and you still have to grab hard onto a nearby rail to catch yourself, before you and Ofelia crash through the painted glass against the back wall.

Your grip is so strong, you nearly tear the wood right off of the banister. You've never breathed so hard in your life, as you stagger, get your footing, and look in the direction you came from. There's a smooth expanse on a solid wooden wall.

(2/3)
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>>4301127
There's no trace of your foe. An unnatural light filters in, reflecting off of the frosted, painted glass behind you. You take a knee, to release the invocation to Flesh, and thank Him with everything you have. He leaves you.

The blessing does not. There's still a fire in your chest, which is as broad and firm as the stone beneath your bent knee. You place a hand to your chest. Your heart is beating so rapidly, you wonder how you're even still alive— but the muscle beneath your robes is unmistakably real. You pull back on a sleeve. Light reflects off your scars, which are stretched over an expanse that puts your father's to shame. There's no tremor. There's an awkwardly fitted coat still adorning your torso, where your shirt has completely shredded off, to show a physique that a God would be proud of.

You look, wide-eyed, to Ofelia.

She's blushing, and gives you such a broad grin back that you're certain what you're seeing is real. The hug she takes you into confirms it. The halfling can't fit her arms around your waist, even though it's tapered. Her tears have stopped, but she's still choking up as she mutters into your robes, "saved my life all over again. Could you imagine any other poor sap goin' down there without you?"

It's clear that she's so shaken, she needs to likely pass out, scream, or maybe have a stiff drink. The look in her eye tells you she'd do all three, if she could.

>A] You're not going to stop moving for anything. Offer to give Ofelia a hand, and be supportive while staying on your feet. Try to figure out where to go next.

>B] Breathe. Take a minute. Try to figure out what the fuck just happened. You don't know if you're in anything resembling a safe space yet.

>C] Drop to your knees and make an extended, formal prayer to Flesh. Maybe an offering. Definitely express your gratitude. Everything else can wait.

>D] Write-in.
>>
>>4301128
>>A] You're not going to stop moving for anything. Offer to give Ofelia a hand, and be supportive while staying on your feet. Try to figure out where to go next.
>>
>>4301128
>>A] You're not going to stop moving for anything. Offer to give Ofelia a hand, and be supportive while staying on your feet. Try to figure out where to go next.

Don't get distracted, tell her as much. Promise to talk about all of this over many stiff drinks after we are out of here.
>>
>>4301128
>>A] You're not going to stop moving for anything. Offer to give Ofelia a hand, and be supportive while staying on your feet. Try to figure out where to go next
>>
>>4301148
>>4301158
>>4301161
(Hell yes. Going to note the comments. Locking the vote here, should definitely be able to post again before bed. Writing now!)
>>
>>4301171
You literally give Ofelia a hand. She takes it without question, and you both try to catch your breath as you gently ask her, "would you like to sit on my shoulder? I— it is unbelievably poor form to stop moving so suddenly— after running so hard—"

She nods, and sniffs, and seems delighted as you sweep her up. Effortlessly, you set her upon your right shoulder. She shoves Piety's scabbard aside again, muttering, "didn't need no sword to deal with that shit."

Getting back to your feet, you jog back down the steps you came from, and set to pacing about the landing. The wall you entered from is unmistakably intact. "Let's not get distracted, Ofelia."

Sweat is clinging most of her bangs to her face. There's hardly any bob in her hair, as she shakes her head at you. "Yer crazy." She's taken an over-sized flask (comparatively, it seems reasonable to you,) out from her bag. The small woman sets to drinking like a priest of Storm. "This is crazy. I knew this shit was going to be crazy, but that was somethin' else."

There's a pause in her muttering, as you look down the hallways on either side of you. The flask hangs on the edges of your vision, which you politely refuse. "It would be a pleasure to share a drink with you," you murmur, "after we get back to the surface."

A pained laugh escapes from the killer, as she takes the item back, and mutters into it, "alright. Sure. Yech would die if he saw ya' lookin' like this, y'know that?" Your attention is entirely preoccupied with either end of the room, as you do your best to not get lost in old memories. "There's no one down the hall, by the way," she insists.

You blink. Each side of the room is flanked with a hallway, but they hook into a sharp turn almost immediately. Though the ends of them aren't visible, you're certain Ofelia can see well through the walls by now. "What of the stairs," you ask, fidgeting with the ring on your left hand while you pace. It still fits nicely, and you can't help but smile.

"Nah. Ends real fast. That friend of yours—"

"He has a name," you frown.

"Walter 'what's a bath?' Middleton," she immediately fires off. Your smile falters only slightly, while the blonde asks, "this place is a bunch of exits, right?"

"Allegedly," you muse, looking down the leftmost stair. It seems there's a broad door at the bottom, adorned with more painted glass. It reminds you of a cathedral, and your frown completely vanishes.

"Can't see past any of the doors," she mutters, "but I can't see no one up here. Not even that demon." The first flask goes away. Another immediately follows, smelling strongly of the same emerald-green beverage you were drinking earlier today. She doesn't bother adding any sugar or water, while you look down the bottom-right staircase. A warm light emits from the crack beneath a simple wooden door.

(1/2)
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>>4301240
Your breath is calming down, though not by much. For good measure, you keep your pacing, and ascend back up to the landing. Glass crunches underfoot, as you try to look out the window. There's a solid wall in place of open air, though light is coming faintly from it.

A prickle runs up your spine, you step back, and run up the upper-right stair. "I cannot begin to tell you what— what a relief it is— for you to be able to see—"

A solid stone door is at the top of the landing. A grin stretches across your face, as you muse that it should be no issue to open.

Your hair is ruffled, by the criminal who doesn't care at all for any of the gold running through the sweat-slick strands. "You've gotten me outta worse binds. I knew it'd be alright. Just look at ya'!"

As you slow your pace further, and head back down the stairs, it's hard to not feel phenomenal. Not having your stomach in the way— let alone in your peripheral vision— is a very welcome change. Even if it was only for the day, you and your friend both seem completely stunned into silence. A long minute passes, before Ofelia goes back to the drink, and thinks out loud, "wonder how Cyril's gonna take it."

The thought of his response escapes you. The priest of Flesh is resilient, and you legitimately have more pressing concerns on your mind. Without any guilt, knowing full well that you have rightfully earned it, you relish running up the rightmost flight of stairs without issue. Torchlight flickers behind the cracks in the surface of a banded iron door, and a slight wind can be felt from within. It's not unlike the barriers you've seen in many castles and churches throughout Corcaea, but you don't dare to touch anything just yet.

You pause, mentally consult the course you charted, and lament, "Walter's handwriting could— he would benefit from a few lessons."

"Thought there was one exit," Ofelia mutters, stashing her flask, and adjusting her cloak while you come back down, to the center of the room. "His writin' is shit. Shocked we got this far at all. Coulda gotten us both killed. Should've, really."

"His guidance has been far more valuable than— than wandering without any direction. I strongly suspect the demon we encountered would have found us if— if we kept to Walter's path."

"You pick, then. I got yer back, Richard, but this shit is beyond me. Let me off yer shoulder to test the door." You do. Ofelia's resilience astounds you. She seems to be feeling better already, and brushes her bangs off her face messily. "Don't wanna waste our time with all of 'em."

(Options in next post.)
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>>4301244
>The following are mutually exclusive. Majority vote will decide.

>A] Take the bottom-left door, on the suspicion you'll pass through an abandoned cathedral. Though holy structures cannot keep out demons, you always feel inherently safer in them.

>B] Take the bottom-right door. You're the very Father of light and warmth. You can't imagine further harm befalling you in such a nicely lit portion of the ruins.

>C] Take the upper-left door. Nothing sounds better right now than testing your strength.

>D] Take the upper-right door. If you weren't mistaken, the area beyond has open air in some capacity— and you REALLY need to cool off.

>E] You are rightfully stressed, and need to confirm beyond any doubt that you're not in any immediate danger. (Write-in.)
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>>4301245
>>B] Take the bottom-right door. You're the very Father of light and warmth. You can't imagine further harm befalling you in such a nicely lit portion of the ruins.
Not.But still,light would be good
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>>4301245
>A] Take the bottom-left door, on the suspicion you'll pass through an abandoned cathedral. Though holy structures cannot keep out demons, you always feel inherently safer in them.
As we walk through the valley of seat rows, Fleximus maximus dei gloria
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>>4301245
>>A] Take the bottom-left door, on the suspicion you'll pass through an abandoned cathedral. Though holy structures cannot keep out demons, you always feel inherently safer in them.
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>>4301251
>>4301273
>>4301298
(Taking A, looking for some light. Got it! Vote is locked. Will write just as soon as I can.)
>>
>>4301494
https://youtu.be/kO2B-dNm9tQ

You jog down to the bottom-left stair, and take a moment to admire the painted glass while Ofelia catches up. The hues are faded with age. Unlike the cathedrals on Calunoth's surface, the decoration here does not portray any image you know of. Instead, they're ornate patterns. Each one wraps in on and reflects off of themselves.

A weary voice from behind you insists, "get back. Don't know what we're dealin' with, and I'm not takin' any chances." You take a reluctant step away, as Ofelia smirks,"don't want ya meltin' down any one way outta here."

She produces several wrappings of leather from her supplies, and as she gets out a few tools, and mutters to the door, "not yet, at least. Let's see whatcha' got." You take another broad step back, as the rogue sets to tinkering and testing nearly every surface on the exit before you.

Without any explosions, poison gas or demons in sight, you'd think it was completely safe. A thread gets pulled off from the enchanted cloak about the blonde's shoulders. She hooks the blue fabric into an instrument resembling a boning knife, and firmly shoves the entire implement into a hinge. It smokes. She shifts the small tool further. The air smells like the color blue. You try to forget the remnants of paint on your tongue, as Ofelia pulls back, and extracts a blackened remnant of the item.

Promptly, she takes off the entirety of her cloak, and shoves it into her bag. "No traps here, Richard. This place wants to see us, though. No hidin' up ahead, alright?"

You almost laugh. Given your height and bulk, the gold in your hair, and the divinity in your eyes, you can't fathom hiding from anyone. For good measure, you put a hand to the ill-fitting garment upon your upper body, and murmur, "there is nothing to hide."

The fabric you're wearing persists in the same tasteful amber and marigold hues, but it takes on a fitted cut that perfectly accentuates the muscle beneath. There's almost nothing left to the imagination, save for the loose belt upon your hips, and your nearly skin-tight, sand-flecked trousers. You're delighted to fit the belt to the smallest notch, which still fits loosely, while Ofelia shakes her head.

Mumbling something derogative about priests of Flesh, her tools are stashed, and she takes you by the hand. "Together, with me, alright?"

You both reach to push open the door simultaneously.

You both reach out, to stop from staggering forward. A narrow, wrought-iron banister caked with rust stops you from falling down to the next floor. On a high balcony, on the second floor, on a hope and a prayer— you smile, and cannot believe your eyes.

(1/2)
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>>4301569
A cathedral is before you, and its nearly intact. A substantial organ resides at the far back of the structure, behind an altar to Dream. High, stunning lattices of painted glass are upon the wings of each hall. They filter in just enough moonlight to bring even more radiance to your eyes.

You flit to a nearby stair, and gladly keep behind Ofelia as she moves ahead of you. Her pace and the tight space ahead demands that you move gradually, which suits you perfectly fine. The narrow, spiral staircase's corridor has stone walls, which brush up against the bulk of your arms and shoulders.

Upon reaching the base of the first floor, you pause, and tense. There's truly nothing to hide here. Not in the columns of painted devotion. Murals of the moon and stars reach up to the ceiling, upon each supportive structure. Between the crumbling wooden pews, and the painted tile adorning the floor, you could almost miss the lone figure sitting quietly in the front row.

They're wearing a hood, and are so still you would not have even noticed them were it not for the moonlight coming in from each and every window. The figure doesn't speak out. They seem to be immersed in thought, or prayer, and make no motion to even turn towards you.

Ofelia's hair is bristling. You didn't even feel it, but she's parted her hands from yours, and taken out two daggers.

Neither of you dare to speak. A few grains of silt fall from the lofty wooden rafters overhead. The acoustics in the building are so phenomenal, even the few grains of sand that fall to the floor echo all around you.

>A] Plainly call out to the figure. State your name, and that you mean them no harm.

>B] Draw your weapons, and approach them as slowly and carefully as you can. (These are mutually exclusive. Majority only will dictate if one of these prompts are chosen. A HIGH ROLL WILL BE REQUIRED.)
>1] With your mace and shield.
>2] With Piety.
>3] With one of the countless throwing knives on your person.

>C] Ask Ofelia if she can tell whether this is a demon, a heathen, or some other foe. (These are mutually exclusive. If chosen, majority vote will decide.)
>1] In a normal tone. They'll hear you.
>2] As quietly as you can. (A MODERATE ROLL MAY BE REQUIRED.)

>D] Write-in.
>>
>>4301570
>>C] Ask Ofelia if she can tell whether this is a demon, a heathen, or some other foe. (These are mutually exclusive. If chosen, majority vote will decide.)

Can't we gesture to her eyes and then the figure? We can get the message across without speaking.
>>
>>4301581
(Absolutely.)
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>>4301587
(Vote is still open, super swamped at work but should be able to write again when I'm back home. Will keep this open for at least a few more hours.)
>>
>>4301570
>D] Write-in.
Do what >>4301581 wanted and upon confirmation just say "Blessed be the Dream."
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>>4301659
+1
>>
>>4301581
>>4301659
>>4301823
(Sweet deal. Back home, vote is locked. Writing now!)
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>>4301927
https://youtu.be/G3LDWN9gzpQ

With a gesture to your eyes, to Ofelia's eye sockets, and over to the figure, you manage to get your point across. Ofelia squints, and does one of the cutest things you've ever seen. She holds both daggers up to her head like horns, bares her teeth like fangs, and then promptly shakes her head.

It's not a demon.

In a parody of prayer, she nods towards you, puts her hands together, and shakes her head again.

They're not of the church.

Your heart is about to burst, as the halfling waves her hand side to side, and makes an exaggerated shrug.

They're something in-between.

Looking to the rafters ahead, painted with varying shades of night, there is no fear in your heart. Anyone who wishes to hear a prayer in this sacred building should be heard, no matter how many ages have passed it by.

Softly and melodiously, you murmur, "blessed be the Dream."

The figure sitting on the pew rises. You've dreamed of him before. It's a man, with a fair amount of height, though not nearly as much as your own. His steps are unsteady, but silent. Only a few are taken, to come around the pew, and stand plainly in the cathedral's aisle.

His hands are open. They're paler than the moonlight, adorned with freckles, and in the symbol of your church. He glances up.

You almost stagger backwards. Even from a distance, you catch a glimpse of reddened hair. It's unlike the stark hues of a demon. Eerie tones of wine and rust are in the unwashed strands. All of his unsettling appearance lies beneath a tattered hood. The garment is without any dye to speak of— unlike any member of the clergy.

The enigma looks up towards you, just slightly, with pain and weariness coating him. It's not unlike the muted gold plating his irises. The scars lacing his face are new, though one of them are nearly as intense as your own.

There he is. The ringleader of your circus.

His name escapes your lips, in shock and disbelief. "Harvey Jay Algrith."

Anxiety lances across his eerily pale features upon hearing you speak. It's no wonder. This is the most wanted man in the entire country. To associate with his company has meant certain death for months. He has ran, and hid, and fled unlike any other.

Your most loyal congregation member takes another hesitant step forward. A nervous smile breaks out across his face, as he pulls his hood back to better see you. His hair is so matted, you imagine it's crunchy to the touch. His oddly braided beard doesn't move with a shake of his head.

You instantly realize his dismay is not from your appearance, your statement, or the fact that you have met in the lair of a demon of Time. The last Time you both spoke, he made a point to answer you with as few words as possible. "Is-s that r-really you—" It seems that Algrith can't help but intensely furrow his brow, forcing himself to not lisp, "Father Anscham?"

(Options in next post.)
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>>4302003
>A] You're speechless. Walk up and hug him as tightly as you can. This man deserves your respect and loyalty more than any other.

>B] You're overwhelmed. Answer him, and spill every explanation he needs. You can't imagine what he's been through.

>C] You're deeply concerned. Algrith looks like he's never seen the sun. Make sure he's alright. Ask him how he got down here.

>D] There's so much you want to say, you hardly know where to begin. (Write-in.)
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>>4302007
>>A] You're speechless. Walk up and hug him as tightly as you can. This man deserves your respect and loyalty more than any other.
>>
>>4302007
>A] You're speechless. Walk up and hug him as tightly as you can. This man deserves your respect and loyalty more than any other.
>>
>>4302007
>>A] You're speechless. Walk up and hug him as tightly as you can. This man deserves your respect and loyalty more than any other.
>>
>>4302030
>>4302234
>>4302254
(Great guys, locking the vote here. Will write just as soon as I can.)
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>>4302495
You're speechless. Ofelia politely hangs back, and puts up her weapons, while you do the only thing that makes any sense. You stride past the cathedral's pews, close the distance to the end of the aisle, and telegraph with every fiber of your being that you're going in for a hug.

Algrith rushes forward at the last second. You take one another into such a tight hold, you're certain neither of you can breathe. You knit your eyes shut for just a moment, and are certain you are in no Dream. The man in your arms is significantly stronger than he looks, probably hasn't bathed in longer than six months, and neither of you care. His hair does crunch slightly, as you can feel him smiling against you.

Wincing from how firmly you both hug one another, you pull back simultaneously, and share an extremely knowing look. There's no need for either of you to say anything. Harvey has a few lacerations across his hands from glancing blows of knives. One gash in his robes is substantial enough to have come from a sword. The scars upon his face are unnatural, and definitely the work of evading a demon. Though his features are severe, and fairly exotic, you know he hails from Corcaea. The inflection in his tone, the mellowness behind his speech, and all of the man's demeanor screams that he's of the church.

Algrith keeps his eyes mostly downcast. "I've th-thought for months ab-bout what to s-say to you." You're given an apologetic glance. "If we m-met again."

Abruptly, he pulls you into another tight hug. You don't mind not being able to breathe for an extra minute.

It's all that either of you really need to say.

When he does part his hold, the red-head glances over to Ofelia. "Th-thank you."

She points to herself, amused, from the other side of the cathedral. Her question echoes off painted glass. "Me?"

You're the Father of Mercy, and gesture for her to run over. Algrith's shoulders relax, not having to hear any stutter project around the building. Ofelia complies immediately, hanging back just enough to not have to crane her neck up.

Algrith is apparently a gentleman, as he kneels down, and quietly states, "you gave us T-Time. I've n-never had th-the chance to th-thank you. Wh-what is your name?"

"Ofelia," she frowns, looking terribly worried, "Ofelia Banks. Your guys," she glances up to you briefly, "called me Eagle-Eye." Her frown becomes a resolute line across her face. There's fire in her speech. "Wish I coulda' done more. It's one of yer miracles that ya made it out alive."

Algrith gets back to his feet, and looks around the cathedral you're in. "We are n-not out y-yet."

A terribly concerned glance is directed up to you, behind Harvey's matted beard. "I h-have p-prayed for you, Father."

Unsure if you can stand another blessing from the ally beside you, you simply nod, and radiate gratitude.

(1/2)
>>
>>4302608
"Father W-Wilhelm has helped en-normously. It h-had been weeks s-since our last contact. He h-had the f-foresight to not interf-fere with your work."

More silt falls in specks from the rafters. The moonlight is frigid, your breath is coming out in a fog, but there's enough warmth between the three of you to make up for it. There's a long pause, of mutual respect, and contemplation of just how much everyone has sacrificed to get here. Algrith looks with extreme concern to you, like he's just killed Ray. He can't help but ask, "y-your dog…?"

A pained laugh escapes from Ofelia. She's mortified that she does so, but doesn't apologize at all while you immediately insist, "Ray is alive, and safely back in Ofelia's home."

Disbelief flashes across Algrith's face for just a moment, before he genuinely smiles, "g-glad to hear it. It is n-nothing sshort of a miracle to see you b-both again." His smile falters, looking to the moonlight. "We sh-should stay on the m-move. You are l-looking for…?"

The trail off is clearly intentional. You spare him a little discomfort, nodding, "Lady Edith, and— and Sir Douglas. Our path was taken off course, but— Walter was incredibly helpful in providing us with further guidance."

Algrith smiles slightly, looks like he could hug you again, and nods towards the organ at the front of the building. "Want t-to take a s-shortcut? W-walk, and t-talk?"

There's virtually no way you could decline his guidance, as you all head for the end of the cathedral, with hope in your heart.

>A] Ask about the lovers.

>B] You are dying to know what's led Algrith to go to such extreme lengths to aid you.

>C] You need the full story. No details spared.
>1] As Algrith wants to relay it. No pressure. (No flashback.)
>2] As close to the story as he can tell. (Flashback from Algrith's POV, a subsequent post will be provided to discuss how in-depth to go.)

>D] Write-in anything you might want to ask or explore.
>>
>>4302609
>>C] You need the full story. No details spared.
>2] As close to the story as he can tell. (Flashback from Algrith's POV, a subsequent post will be provided to discuss how in-depth to go.)
>>
>>4302628
(I would like to wrap up the thread with one final post leading into the flashback, if it's voted on. We could go:

>E] Very deep, detail the congregation's escape from the ruins, escapades in the Church of Mercy, battles in calunoth, and retreat. Would make the bulk of the next thread.

>F] Hit the major stuff, touching on just the ruins and political turmoil in Calunoth.

>G] Briefly touch on everything. Would have a post or two maximum for significant events.

If anyone wants to vote for C2, please let me know which one of these sounds best to you. If the idea of a big flashback at this point in time is unappealing, just let me know which vote (A-D) you'd prefer instead. I may continue the thread for a few posts if that's the case.

I'll leave this open for a few more hours at least! Please let me know if you guys have any questions.)
>>
>>4302609
>>A] Ask about the lovers.
>>B] You are dying to know what's led Algrith to go to such extreme lengths to aid you.
>>
(Since we're tied and I have work incredibly early tomorrow, I'm going to leave this open overnight. Have a good evening everyone! I'll still be around if anyone needs anything.)
>>
>>4302628
+1
>>
>>4302708
>>E] Very deep, detail the congregation's escape from the ruins, escapades in the Church of Mercy, battles in calunoth, and retreat. Would make the bulk of the next thread.
>>
>>4302708
>F] Hit the major stuff, touching on just the ruins and political turmoil in Calunoth.
>>
>>4302628
>>4303412
>want the full story, flashback
>go deep
>>4302709
>learn about what's going on now
>>4303263
>>4303675
>want the full story, flashback
>focus on what happened in the ruins and in Calunoth

(I think we miraculously can do all of this. The flashback will continue into the next thread, so don't worry if it isn't touched on just yet! Vote is locked. I'll start writing shortly.)
>>
>>4303982
There are so many questions you wish you could have asked, in every last day that's passed of the last six months. Your reply is immediate, though you don't know where to begin. "Yes. Please. Mercy, I— I have so many questions—"

Harvey motions for you all to walk around to the back of the building. The end of the cathedral lies behind a door, and behind the organ, which you all step behind.

https://youtu.be/ML6tpvHw_io

You arrive in front of the building. The floor beneath your feet is solid. You watch with horror as, starting just a few feet ahead, the entirety of a decayed cathedral sinks ominously into the ground. It sinks as if the stone around it was made of water. An entire series of corridors, archways and doors drops from the blackened pit of a sky in its wake. The motion is gradual.

You're reminded of a scroll unfurling. No one dares to budge an inch. It might have taken a second, or an hour. You definitely did not breathe the entire Time.

The three of you are back outside the cathedral. You are also inside, and under an archway. It's the space is confusing, and awful. Many more buildings stretch out in the distance, up and down flights of stairs. It makes no sense. Your head already hurts, and Ofelia looks incredibly ill.

You promptly put a hand to Algrith's shoulder, for fear of becoming irrevocably lost within seconds. The woman at your side takes you by the hand, and resumes drinking without missing a step.

It's a good thing, as a veritable labyrinth is now before you. The red-head before you assumes a casual stroll, as if this is all perfectly normal. The lavender steps and angular stone corridors have your skin crawling. Pale shadows leer and twist from a space that has your head swimming. The very thought of someone being adept enough to familiarize themselves with something so foreign has at least one question on the tip of your tongue. "Do you know where they are? Lady Edith, and Sir Douglas? Is there anything you can tell me about them?"

The first answer is immediate, though it's much shorter than you're comfortable with. "Allan and Ed-dith? Th-they're hiding." It's abundantly clear that he can't, or isn't willing to easily explain. An acceptable, "no b-better p-place for it," follows. The unacceptable conclusion has your stomach turning. "It t-takes five day's t-travel n-normally."

"Five?!" The blonde beside you might throw up.

A nearby wall seems to fold in on itself in protest. You might throw up, think of vomiting chrysanthemums this afternoon, and decide you can handle this.

Algrith smiles to you both gingerly. You try to not laugh inwardly, or have a panic attack, and keep a straight face as he insists, "it will t-take us only one d-day." More pensively, he quietly says, "plenty of T-Time."

(1/2)
>>
>>4304147
You take in a deep breath. The air smells vaguely of dust. Algrith definitely hasn't bathed in months. Ofelia should not be alive, for how pungent of a whiskey she's putting back, but you're not about to question anyone's habits. Ignoring the wall ahead that is turning in on itself, you keep your eyes fixed on the back of the robes ahead of you.

A great number of burn marks, tears, and holes from battle leer back at you, from the hood alone. It's to say nothing of the state of the rest of him. It must be several minutes later, when you return Algrith's quiet statement with a more subdued question, still. "What could have led you to— to go to such extreme lengths to aid me? For— for..."

It dawns on you that there might also be something wrong with *your* speech. Eight years in the dark didn't do wonders for your social skills, sure—

Ofelia squeezes politely on your hand. "Richard?"

This is one insecurity you're certain is not worth your Time. You just faced down a demon of Time head-on, after all. This is nothing you need to be concerned about. Not now, at least. You've been through ruins before. You may be stressed out of your mind, but this man deserves your respect. Your loyalty.

With *confidence*, you stress, "I cannot begin to tell you how much this has all meant to me. All of your sacrifices. What everyone has done— and not merely on my behalf."

Without making any indication of turning around, Algrith quietly says, "I d-don't know how t-to explain it."

Of course he can't. It's abundantly clear that you should be challenged.

The space around you continues to shift. It is, in fact, changeable. Dread creeps into you, as you murmur, "we have Time."

Anxiety weaves into the shoulder you're holding onto. Harvey is clearly concentrating intently on your navigation, but he takes a moment to slow his steps. The muted gold in his eyes glances back to you. "N-no, Father. We have M-Mercy."

With two of your oldest allies at your side, you permit yourself to escape awhile. You all are looking for hope, and a distraction from the sight of demons and sin. Algrith speaks carefully, choosing each word with far more deliberation that you'd ever hope to.

No matter how much it pains you all, your most loyal adherent promises to tell you everything.

(END THREAD.)
>>
>>4304152
Archive (Ruins of Ostedholm 1-5, Recovery and Church of Flesh 6-9, Investigation in Calunoth 10-14): http://suptg.thisisnotatrueending.com/qstarchive.html?tags=Catalyst%20Quest
Discord (art, music, fan projects, etc.): https://discord.gg/24cmNWp
Father Anscham's Journal (high res-maps, calendar, tons of info on your expedition into the ruins of Ostedholm, and more!): https://drive.google.com/drive/folders/1r-yFdCSj0VJi63LsD3Vl9T0DWw4us6wn?usp=sharing

We're going to kick off the next thread with a BIG flashback to Ostedholm, and work up to the events in Calunoth. I intend to put a lot of love into the art assets, presentation and some extra resources in the meantime! It will be at LEAST one week from today when we resume. Likely will start our next thread **June 20th**. Look for the /qtg/ and our Discord for notice on when we'll run again!

Thanks so much guys. This has been an absolute blast. If anyone has any suggestions, feedback, or anything else on how to keep this all running as smoothly as possible I would sincerely appreciate it. I'll be in the thread until we're off page 10! Really looking forward to running again soon!
>>
>>4304160
I got a suggestion, how about you post more often ? :^)
ty for running
>>
>>4304545
You know I will! Hoping the next thread will be much faster paced. Thank you man.
>>
For anyone still keeping tabs on the thread, I've made a strawpoll for anyone who may have a preference for when you start the next thread. All times listed are EST, ranging from June 19th-June 21st. Please let me know if anything else sounds better!

https://strawpoll.com/yzp73xeh
>>
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>>4305086
We'll officially start the next thread this coming Saturday, June 20th. I'll be running early in the morning EST. As usual, I'll post in our discord and the /qtg/ when we begin!



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