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File: Catalyst Quest.png (2.29 MB, 1600x1190)
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In the circus that is your life, you are the main event. To each and every lost soul you've saved in the depths of the world, you are known as a beast tamer.

Even when your service dog isn't at your side, or when you aren't placating demons, your closest followers trust you to tame the hearts and minds of the King himself. You're an unprecedented diplomat. At the bottom of the ruins of Ostedholm, in a mission to obtain a divine Relic, you did more than serve the Goddess Mercy's will. (Though the mission was a complete success, and you extensively wield your Relic to this day.)

Demons and men alike don't merely respect your honesty, tenacity, and obsession with the truth.

As the father of compassion, benevolence is your foremost vow, and is the hallmark of your church. Kindness is your strength, and the Goddess of Mercy is your partner.

You are the only man alive capable of calling upon Her, and Mercy has trusted you with more than Her blessings. The Goddess has shared Her deepest regret: She had lost faith in humanity. She is now looking to you, and your love, to make the world a better place. To live up to your ambition, and to achieve the goal dearest to your heart. The one mission that has shaped your life, your love, and the pursuit of honesty.

You are Father Richard Anscham, leader of the Church of Mercy. As the founder of a blasphemous congregation, the true conqueror of the ruins, the Father of Compassion, and as the foremost researcher of the Catalyst, it is YOUR mission to learn of the weakness in the hearts of mankind.

The Catalyst is an absence of hope. Through it, your brothers and sisters become the embodiment of their deepest emotions: demons, with only a trace of their former selves. You have only met a few even capable of speech, let alone restraint— but you are up to the task. Having recently saved the holy capital city of Calunoth from utter destruction; unseated a traitorous priest from poisoning the markets and air; defeated two demons terrorizing your brethren; earning the respect of the King, and a full pardon for previous sins; and finding well over half of your traitorous followers— you are the rightful heir to your position.

You alone can call upon Mercy, and you are capable of wielding ALL of the Gods might. You are a beacon of hope, in a world utterly devoid of it.

It is the year 606, and in your home— the country of Corcaea— the souls of mankind belong to demons.

Archive: http://suptg.thisisnotatrueending.com/qstarchive.html?tags=Catalyst%20Quest
Discord (Art, a giant music playlist, fan projects, etc): https://discord.gg/NqrBRWK
Google Drive— TIMELINE HIGHLY RECOMMENDED FOR NEW READERS (A very brief timeline/summary of the quest, high-res maps, calendar, official character art, fanart, information on invoking the Gods, and more!): https://drive.google.com/drive/folders/1LkahIC8EcwHBPbrkEODUMH9iwQhxkFvB?usp=sharing
>>
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>>4339365
It took hours to descend into ruins beneath Calunoth. After navigating impossible architecture, escaping heathens in hiding, and running out of an endless detour, the new muscle beneath your holy vestments is aching. It was a gift, from the God of Flesh, for demonstrating your endless devotion these last many months.

It's taken an additional day of travel to reach your destination, even with the guidance of the most cunning navigator alive. Harvey Jay Algrith is also the bravest man you've ever met. Traversing the incomprehensible domain of the demon of Time has been like second nature to him. He's been in hiding for months, on your behalf, and fears neither capture nor execution. Though the red-head's beard and cloak practically crunch with every broad motion he takes, you can't help but hold enormous respect for the leader of your congregation. The forsaken, blasphemous loyalist looks to the rising city ahead.

The ruins are impossible. As the lair of a demon of Time, there is no consistency in its age or position. Staircases rise and fall simultaneously. The paths you traverse wind in, and onto themselves. Archways appear from thin air, and evaporate into chambers that may have never existed at all. The structures ahead are littered with water, somehow making the scene even more disorienting. Rivers without direction flow vertically, pouring into buildings, and flooding rooms that warp with every shift of your eyes. It feels like every time you blink, something has vanished, and you're struggling to not close your eyes for relief from it all.

Here, at the bottom of Calunoth's ruins, Harvey points to a waterfall rising straight into the air. He shrugs, as if it wasn't disorienting to an extreme. "Like I said, d-don't panic. It's an illusion, at worst. Starlight and Stard-dust haven't moved in weeks. Th-they should b-be just a b-bit furth-ther."

The mission that's taken you beneath the depths of the capital is on behalf of King Magnus. Every nobleman and woman in the country is a member of his family, by blood. Lady Edith "Starlight" Douglas was your primary concern, as it seems that the King favors his daughter. You've never truly met her, but from the stories you've heard, she's cunning enough to have escaped His wrath. Having thought her dead, the King wants nothing more than to see the survivor alive and well.

The other twin in your circus, Sir Allan "Stardust" Douglas, has been called an aide, at best. He's prone to dying the gold out from his hair, is a wanted man, and fearlessly has taken his romantic inclinations to the ends of the Aerth. It's difficult to not respect his tenacity. Though the nobleman refused to participate in a single battle your congregation fought, he's sworn to emerge from the ruins the very moment he's certain that he can truly make a difference. He resents the theocracy, bitterly distrusts the King, and may be an opponent to the very organization that defines your life.

(2/3)
>>
>>4339369
You look again, to the horizon. It's all stone, in shades of lilac. Trying to concentrate on the way any nearby walls, staircases, or archways that suddenly materialize has your head spinning more than before. Searching beyond, for an exit, is somehow worse.

Your stomach shifts, and you look down, to the halfling beside you. Ofelia "Eagle-Eye" Banks is one of your dearest friends, and insisted on coming with you. A horrific accident burnt the very eyes from her skull. Thanks to you restoring her sight with divinity, the assassin is physically incapable of looking away from her surroundings. The poor woman's skin is even more sickly than usual, and not because she's dependent on poison to live. Ofelia has kept the hood of her enchanted cloak up for many hours, and pulls it aside to heavily breathe, "you said this was a shortcut?"

Harvey sniffs, "we could have ran, b-but you seemed worse for th-the wear. Th-their place is m-much nicer th-than you'd th-think. We'll g-get some rest. Try keeping your eyes on th-the g-ground, Ofelia."

The blonde glances down, and puts a hand to her mouth, taking yours with the other. Muttering, "still a walk in the park, right," a slight smile escapes from the edges of her hand.

Things have been easier than you would have expected. No one minds that you broke down completely, after hearing everything Harvey's done on your behalf. The men and women in your company fully accept that you're a little off-kilter. You've been through a lot, but there's progress!

No longer do you disgrace your Gods, King, and country on a daily basis. You've been diligently worshiping your patrons, looking after your health, and heeding the counsel you're given. Your kindness is no weakness. It's commonly known that you have no use for pride, or regret, which is exactly why you are pursuing the twins in your congregation. It's for more than to disband the blasphemers under you from terrorizing the city, or to follow the tasks King Magnus has outlined for you.

There's only a few members of your congregation still out there. They're the only obstacle remaining, before you can truly return to the Church of Mercy. Homesickness has followed you even to the bottom of the ruins, and you know that carrying out your mission will grant everyone in your company the closure they sorely need.

(Options in next post.)
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>>4339372
>A] But, honestly, you don't know what to think about the twins. Reserve your judgment (and any serious decisions about their welfare) until after you meet Starlight and Stardust.

>B] There has to be a way to reunite this family, without any more blood being spilled. You want to set things right between the King and his children, even if it might not be your place to do so.

>C] This is actually your business. You are the Father of Compassion, and want to offer shelter at the Church of Mercy to both hidden members of your congregation.
>1] To hide, away from the King. You'll figure out the details later.
>2] To plainly defy His will. You won't stand for anyone coming between them, even if it's not conventional. They aren't hurting anyone.

>D] Write-in.
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>>4339376
>>A] But, honestly, you don't know what to think about the twins. Reserve your judgment (and any serious decisions about their welfare) until after you meet Starlight and Stardust.
>>B] There has to be a way to reunite this family, without any more blood being spilled. You want to set things right between the King and his children, even if it might not be your place to do so.
>>
>>4339535
+1
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>>4339535
>>4339543
(Sweet deal, locking the unanimous vote here. Writing now!)
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>>4339566
Sir Allan was absolutely in the right, to refuse the call to battle.

There has to be a way to reunite the royal family. Hundreds of lives have been lost, due to your congregation's actions alone. You want to set things right, for him, and his sister. Still, it may not be your place to do so.

Keeping your thoughts on the matter entirely to yourself, you resolve to withhold your judgement until you actually meet the twins. The landscape has finally smoothed out. Walking straight into the heart of the buildings before you, the world shifts hard, and goes completely black. For a moment, you blink the spots out of your eyes, and resist every urge to grasp for a wall or any other hold.

"Just a sec, hotshot," Ofelia murmurs.

A grating noise snaps your attention to the right. It's accompanied by the trickle of water.

You think back, for a moment, to a corridor at the bottom of the world. To a tunnel, in which a God of Storm visited you for the first time. Water, in your lungs, and lightning upon your fingertips.

Ofelia's hold on your hand tightens, and beams up to you with a pained smile. It's sufficient to keep you grounded. She takes you a few steps further, in utter darkness, as you both try to ignore the walls literally closing in.

You both catch up to Algrith. The darkness completely fades, and you seem to be back outdoors. It's impossible, and you know better than to question Magic's mechanism by now.

There is a body of water, just up ahead. A series of plain, natural, wooden steps descend from your exit. The buildings behind you are utterly shrouded in night, and staring into the abyss at your back has your stomach turn twice over.

The view ahead is far more pleasant. A lake, covered in waterlilies, is surrounded on all sides by a dense forest. Fireflies flit about, dancing over the otherwise still surface of the water. You're clearly still underground, despite the illusion of a sunset off in the distance. Harvey is twitching at the sight of a pale building, just opposite the water, and gestures to it. "D-don't hold your breath, or swim," he repeats, "and you sh-should b-be fine."

"Mhm," Ofelia nods, sarcastically jerking a thumb to her left. "Right. The boat's just for show, then?"

There's a boat. It might have not been there before, but there it is. Humble, shallow, probably capable of holding two men. Ofelia might weigh 30lbs soaking wet, and you figure she'd be fine to ride along with you both.

"Yeah," Harvey frowns. "It is. Come on." The fighter glances to you, your jet-black satchel that has endless carrying space, and asks, "...you d-don't have anyth-thing like paper on you, d-do you?"

You are a scholar, a researcher, and have no fewer than two journals, two calendars, a full map of the country, a few drafts of Calunoth's eastern district, and multiple stacks of parchment within your bag. They absolutely cannot get wet. "Yes," you mutter. "Give me just a moment."

(Options in next post.)
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File: Within the River.png (1.08 MB, 1920x1080)
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>>4339613
>As with all rolls in Catalyst Quest, write-ins can help enormously with situational modifiers. Strategic, creative, or otherwise clever write-ins may circumvent rolls entirely.

>A] Leave all of your research material on the shore. Ask Ofelia if she can part with her enchanted cloak to disguise it, and pray to all the Gods that nothing happens. (A ROLL MAY BE REQUIRED.)

>B] These are easily your most valuable possessions. Having grown up beside two rivers, you can handle a boat like no one else. Try your luck. (A ROLL WILL BE REQUIRED, with a positive modifier due to your background.)

>C] You're positive it's not necessary, but you'd rather hurt your body than risk any further damage to your research material.
>1] Invoke Mercy, for Her protection.
>2] Invoke Dream, and envision a means of traversing this lake without becoming submerged.

>D] Swim, against Harvey's advice, and try to keep your things above the water. (A ROLL WILL BE REQUIRED, with a positive modifier due to your recent invocation to Flesh.)

>E] Write-in. (A roll may be required.)
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>>4339614
>B] These are easily your most valuable possessions. Having grown up beside two rivers, you can handle a boat like no one else. Try your luck. (A ROLL WILL BE REQUIRED, with a positive modifier due to your background.)

Test the boat's carrying capacity--without the documents--with everyone. If necessary, have some people swim. The important part is that the documents are inside it.
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>>4339624
To clarify, I mean put the documents in after testing the carrying capacity without holding them.
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>>4339614
>B] These are easily your most valuable possessions. Having grown up beside two rivers, you can handle a boat like no one else. Try your luck. (A ROLL WILL BE REQUIRED, with a positive modifier due to your background.)
>>
>>4339614
>>B] These are easily your most valuable possessions. Having grown up beside two rivers, you can handle a boat like no one else. Try your luck. (A ROLL WILL BE REQUIRED, with a positive modifier due to your background.)
>>
>>4339624
>>4339626
(Gotcha, good shit. Totally get what you're saying, thanks for the clarification.)
>>4339628
>>4339629

>HANDLE THAT BOAT
>Roll 1d100. Best of the first 3 rolls will be used.

>+5 FISHERMAN OF THE MORINBURN RIVER
>+5 GREW UP BESIDE THE EVENTIDE RIVER
>+5 YOU SERIOUSLY KNOW WHAT YOU'RE DOING
>>
Rolled 92 + 15 (1d100 + 15)

>>4339635
>>
Rolled 95 + 15 (1d100 + 15)

>>4339635
>>
Rolled 33 (1d100)

>>4339635
this boat will be begging for more by the time we're done with it
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>>4339638
>>4339641
>>4339643
(Wow what a fucking start lol. That'll do lads. Writing now!)
>>
(Thanks for your patience guys. Unexpectedly taken out for food due to the holiday, and will be back very shortly to write. Likely within the next half hour.)
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>>4339677
(Back and ready for action. Writing now!)
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>>4339690
Unslinging your satchel, you look to Harvey, and declare, "this boat will be begging for another performance, by the time we're done with it."

Ofelia laughs, while the ringleader snorts, "is th-that so?"

You scowl, expertly hiding your amusement, "I will swim, if necessary."

"Want m-me to g-go first, then?"

The urge to hug him again is rising. Ofelia somehow tops the suggestion. The rogue swirls her cape off of her shoulders, loosely folding the enchanted fabric, and hands it off to you carefully. "Don't think so." She heads for the boat, practically skipping. "I'm way lighter." Her voice is almost sing-song, through her weariness, obviously taking heart in a static environment again. "I'll test it first!"

Muttering a prayer to Spirit— "for having such remarkable company"— you stride right ahead of the halfling. Tapping her lightly on the shoulder, "Ofelia," you ignore her groan, while setting aside your shield, mace, and sword.

An inspection is in order. "Just a moment. Full end, less rocker—" you glance to Ofelia, and politely explain, "it should be fine on the still water." To Harvey, "it may look slow," you roll up the sleeves of your robes, and grin, "but speed should not be an issue."

Digging in your heels to the moist sand upon the shore, you plant your hands on the sturdiest planks you can find, and nod for Harvey to get alongside you. "A hand, if you could."

Running over, he gets right up at the bow, and merely guides the boat along the shore. You push off, with a healthy burn through your legs and arms in just a few steps. It's devastatingly heavy, but Harvey is nearly dragged into the water, for how much momentum you got in just a few steps. The veteran expertly keeps his footing, and takes a hold on the boat before it drifts more than a few more feet out.

As you get ankle, thigh, and knee-deep in the water without fear, a chill runs up the entirety of your body from the frigid lake. You grab your shield, knowing full well that almost nothing can get past its defenses, and toss it firmly into the boat. There's still no shift in the bottom boards, and it might as well be water-tight for how little dip there is in the water.

"Ofelia," you nod, as she's already walking over. She grins, and readily accepts your gesture to lift her up. The seat doesn't so much as creak as she sits down, though there's at least a shift in the water. You all conduct several more tests, confirms the ship's complete soundness, and finally take a seat closest to the bow. Keeping your parchment safely secured, on top of your shield, you take up an old oar. A splinter gets in your hand. It's magnificent.

Ofelia insists on sitting beside you, and elbows you with a grin. "No offense, Harvey."

"None taken." He nods to you, as you both begin rowing. "We d-didn't need to b-both-ther, Fath-ther."

"I insist."

(Barely over, 1/2)
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>>4339747
The lake is slowly, but surely, turning upside down. The water is completely still beneath you. The boat is still affixed to it. The forest is tilting, and a few fireflies flit off into the sky. The sunset is gradually shifting to the side of the horizon, headed for a position beneath you all. Ofelia takes in a sharp breath, and clutches hard onto your arm, despite you trying to row.

"D-don't panic," Harvey calmly repeats. "Seriously. It'll speed up."

It occurs to you that nothing is keeping you in place, and you are probably about to fall into the sky.

>A] Calmly ask Harvey what he means, and grasp onto the boat like your life depends on it.

>B] Don't panic, and keep rowing. This is fine.

>C] Stop here, get out, and swim. You're not messing around with any sorcery. (A ROLL WILL BE REQUIRED, with a large positive modifier from previous insanely high success.)

>D] Write-in.
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>>4339748
>B] Don't panic, and keep rowing. This is fine.
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>>4339748
>B] Don't panic, and keep rowing. This is fine.
Everything is fine.png
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>>4339753
>>4339755
(Locking the vote here. Writing now!)
>>
>>4339769
https://youtu.be/A9dhDkIZ5C4

With Ofelia firmly affixed to your arm, you keep rowing. "This is fine," you breathe, absolutely not having a panic attack.

The still lake— moving gently beneath the paddle in hand— is still there. The water beneath the boat is like glue, surely keeping the vehicle in place.

The statement is a mantra, of sorts, as you feel the world giving out from beneath you. "This is fine."

The woman beside you takes a deep breath, and forces herself to not move. You suppress a noise, from how tightly she's holding onto you. There's probably no blood moving through your arm, and "this is fine."

Harvey continues rowing right ahead, keeping your pace, as the sky turns beneath all of your feet.

"This is fine," you assert, through gritted teeth, and no air whatsoever in your lungs.

Everything stops, for one,
impossible,
permanent
second.

The entirety of the boat, the sky, the forest, and several fireflies snap hard to the back of the lake.

For a split second, you feel as if five years have fallen off of your life. The collision— from being warped out of the sky, back upon a normal direction, into the boat, right on the seat, as you row onto dry land— has your stomach turn even harder. Nothing makes sense, for a few seconds, and you're so disoriented you nearly lean over the boat to vomit.

"This is fine," you gasp.

The world seems to catch up. Several fireflies zip past the air ahead of you, flying faster than what should be possible, and collide with the pale building at the end of the lake. The crackle of their bodies splatting onto a hard surface rings in your ears for several seconds after their impact.

Harvey casually gets up, out of the boat, and offers you a shaking hand. "See? Noth-thing to worry ab-bout."

Ofelia unsticks herself from the death-grip she kept on your arm, taking Harvey's hand before you can respond, to stagger out of the boat. "A warnin' would have been great," she inhales, trying with all of her might to get up on her feet.

A slightly unhinged grin is fired at the both of you. "B-better to learn b-by d-doing. Not th-that you need to take m-my advice, b-but we could have walked."

With a gentle pull, the blonde beside you is taken away from your side. Practically rolling out from the side of the boat, you get back onto dry land, and give the boat a little pat on the side. "Good show."

Harvey can't help but chuckle, and knocks on the door to the building. Your vision stops blurring for long enough to see a stunning set of extremely familiar windows, beside a singular door. You have an impeccable memory, and the urge to vomit is becoming impossible to ignore.

"We've been here before," you state, as if this is perfectly fine.

"B-before," Harvey replies.

(1/2)
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>>4339797
The door opens, back into the same fucking building you were in just before you met up with Algrith. It's just four staircases, two hallways, and the window at the end of the hall. The window is is no longer broken. There is no demon of Time present, at the moment, but your heart is racing faster than it rightfully should, for the barren and well-lit home.

"Mercy," you murmur, putting a hand to your bare chest.

"Th-they'll b-be here in a few minutes," you're informed, over the sound of Ofelia throwing up on the side of the shore. "Th-thought you'd want a m-minute. Come on in."

You wait just a moment, staying by Ofelia, before re-entering the lair of a demon of Time.

You probably never left it.

Starlight and Stardust might be crazier than any of us.

>A] Try to make yourself presentable, before seeing royalty.

>B] Take a few deep breaths, and focus on composing yourself mentally.

>C] Politely ask Harvey what in the actual fuck is going on.

>D] Write-in.
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>>4339800
>>B] Take a few deep breaths, and focus on composing yourself mentally.
>C] Politely ask Harvey what in the actual fuck is going on.
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>>4339800
>C] Politely ask Harvey what in the actual fuck is going on.
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>>4339801
>>4339804
(We can definitely do both of these. Last update before I get some sleep, will do a full session tomorrow [starting Sunday afternoon, EST]. Vote is locked! Writing now.)
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>>4339800
>C] Politely ask Harvey what in the actual fuck is going on.
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>>4339827
(I gotchu bro)

>>4339819
Taking a few deep breaths, getting Ofelia's hair out of her face as she finishes getting sick, you do everything in your power to compose yourself mentally. Smoothly walking back inside, leading Ofelia by the hand, you calmly ask Harvey, "what— what exactly is going on?"

The rogue beside you sighs, and collapses onto the floor, using her own satchel as a makeshift pillow. Ofelia waves, "don't care. Takin' a nap. Wake me up when this shit is sorted out. Please."

"Of course," you murmur. Dropping your voice to a whisper, you point to the window at the end of the hall, and continue, "we were here just yesterday. I nearly fell, at the top of the stair, as— as a demon of Time pursued Ofelia, and I. That glass should be scattered across the floor. This wall—" you look to the door, which is gone, and try to not vomit again. "This wall is— is definitely the correct— the same one—"

Harvey scratches his beard, for a moment. "Yeah, the demon. D-don't know its n-name, but th-that's a th-thing, right?"

"Yes." You are the Father of the church of restraint, and can handle your emotions. This wouldn't be the first time either of you befriended or allied with a monster. "You know the demon."

Both of the man's scarred hands come up, like you're about to attack him. The lacerations on his palms, from climbing into the lair of a demon of teeth, are still plain to see. He's smiling, of course, and has no indication of actually being bothered by the question. "D-don't g-get th-the wrong id-dea," is his token excuse. "It's a small d-deal. J-just to keep th-them safe."

"Please elaborate." Fidgeting always helps. You favor the ring on your left hand. It's fairly warm, like usual, and extremely soothing.

"It's a d-demon of d-delay, so I ag-greed to pass some Time d-down here for th-them. It's as g-good a hid-ding spot as any. Starlight and Stard-dust wouldn't b-be hurt— have not b-been hurt— and I had a place to g-get away from anyone on my ass. Worst th-thing it's d-done is m-make me lose track of a few d-days."

Correcting him as gently as you can, you repeat, "months."

The frown on Harvey's face is deep enough to rival your own. "Not a b-big d-deal. Th-they've b-been safe, and I haven't b-been caught."

Significantly leveler breaths follow, as you take a step back, and allow yourself to fidget more intensely. "What Time is it," you murmur.

"Th-that's its th-thing," Harvey apologetically nods, towards the unnatural light filtering into the room. "Can't really tell d-down here."

(1/2)
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>>4339850
You take several good minutes to compose yourself. Breathing helps. The room, walls, floor, stairs, doors, and intact structure refusing to budge under any scrutiny helps. Ofelia's mild snoring (which you've never actually heard before, and are extremely relieved to see her sleeping for once), is extremely soothing. There's no need to panic. If this demon purely wants to waste your Time, it may not be a serious threat. Of course, it's obscenely powerful. To control such a large domain, it may be a major demon. At the top of its hierarchy. Possibly even an archdemon.

Footsteps from down the hall interrupt your theorizing. Harvey firmly nudges Ofelia, with the side of his foot, and grins, "d-don't fuck th-this up for Fath-ther Anscham. G-get up."

A little groaning, and she's back on her feet. Just in time for you to see two unbelievably disheveled twins come from around the corner.

The golden roots of Stardust's hair catches on what little light is in the room, as he peeks around the corner. The muted yellow in his eyes picks up. Even if he's paler than death, there's still defined cheekbones, barely any bags under his eyes, and a smile plastered across his devastatingly handsome face. You wonder— with some detachment— if there's elvish in the royal line.

You dismiss the though, as relatively short nobleman comes fully into view. The muscle and height you'd expect has wasted away to a slender shadow, beneath a tattered cloak and old finery. He doesn't care in the slightest for appearances, it seems, and leads Starlight by the hand behind him. It's all while beaming at you, with teeth as white as the Church of Spirit. "Come on, Edith— Father Anscham! It can't be. You look fantastic!"

An outstretched hand— the symbol of your church, no less— closes the gap in the hall, as Sir Allan strides right ahead. It's hard to not smile in return.

Lady Edith is practically dragged behind him, with an unfailingly similar demeanor. Her jawline is softer, and the gold in her absurdly long, flawless hair is plain to see, but she's otherwise almost identical in appearance. Another grin is spread right across her face. Even her unpainted lips are tinted, with a shockingly fair appearance given how long they've been in the ruins for. Her cloak almost completely covers her frame, but it's obvious that she's looked after herself, and you're tempted to keep your eyes only at face-level.

Before Allan can totally reach you, Lady Edith steps aside slightly. Clasping her hands, she gently states, "Father Anscham. I cannot believe it. I would not have recognized you, were it not for Harvey's company." With a much milder smile towards Algrith, she nods, "thank you so much."

The year is 606, in the country of Corcaea, and you are a gentleman. Both nobles are positively ecstatic to see you, but at least give you a second to breathe. There's a lot unsaid here, and the usual manners to consider.

(Options in next post.)
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>>4339853
>A] Shake Stardust's hand like your life depends on it, kiss Lady Edith's, and give the nobles a fairly casual introduction.

>B] You're extremely well-mannered, and seriously want to make a good first impression. Introduce yourself and Ofelia formally, starting towards Lady Edith.

>C] Etiquette be damned. You are beside yourself, with how happy you are to see these two alive. Give them both a hug, and try to express a modicum of your sincere joy to be in their company again.

>D] Write-in anything you want to say or do right off the bat. (Father Anscham is a little stuffy, but as the Father of Compassion, it isn't a stretch for you to spill your guts the second you see your congregation members.)
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>>4339855
>C] Etiquette be damned. You are beside yourself, with how happy you are to see these two alive. Give them both a hug, and try to express a modicum of your sincere joy to be in their company again.
>>
>>4339853
>C] Etiquette be damned. You are beside yourself, with how happy you are to see these two alive. Give them both a hug, and try to express a modicum of your sincere joy to be in their company again.
>>
>>4339855
>>C] Etiquette be damned. You are beside yourself, with how happy you are to see these two alive. Give them both a hug, and try to express a modicum of your sincere joy to be in their company again.
>>
>>4339864
>>4339868
>>4340010
(Good afternoon everyone. Should be able to run a full session today, will see how the voting windows go depending. Great unanimous vote! Locking here. Writing now.)
>>
>>4340299
https://youtu.be/kJWvmSJ3k9Q

Etiquette be damned. You take Allan by the hand, and pull him into a hug with just one arm. He can't help but laugh, putting on a pseudo haughty voice, "Father Anscham, what is the meaning of this—"

Grinning, you gesture for Lady Edith to join you both. Pointing to herself, as if getting hugged is even a question, you give her a cheeky grin that says this is absolutely not optional. Crossing the last gap over to her, you effortlessly sweeping the noblewoman into your other arm.

Both of your congregation members aren't starving to death, as their shoulders aren't as emaciated as their silhouettes appear. Sure, they're disheveled, and probably aren't bathing as often as they could, but you're still relieved beyond measure. "It is so good to see you both. To see that you both are still— still alive—"

A tighter squeeze is necessary. They're both giggling, trying their best to not lose their composure. Lady Edith returns the hug, and Stardust quickly follows her lead. It's as if they're afraid of letting you go. No one minds that you can barely choke out, "Mercy— you both look wonderful, as well. All— all things considered."

Edith nods, amused beyond words.

It's a hard to speak, with stars in your eyes. All three of you are legitimately too shaken to let go of one another, and so you keep hugging while you talk. It's comforting to an extreme, despite how scratchy Stardust's cloak is, or at the sand that's sticking to Starlight's hair.

"You took to the ruins," you murmur, "before the surface. It's— this is a travesty. I couldn't stand the thought of it. This— this is all— you both deserve so much more—"

Stardust pats you on the back. "We have faired well, thanks to Harvey's assistance. We do appreciate the concern, Father, but there's no need to worry yourself."

With a sniff, you pull back, to properly look both nobles over. There's a lot of pain in both of their smiles, but it couldn't be more clear just how sincerely they're happy to see you, too. You don't regret anything— not your absence from their side for the last eight months, nor any action you've taken since then— but a shooting pain lances through your chest at the sight of them.

Starlight clings a little to you, even as you pull back at arms-length. You go back to hugging her, and let the fair woman rest a head against your chest. Significantly taller than both of the twins, you don't mind looking up to murmur, "the Gods are Merciful."

Harvey and Ofelia politely stand a little to the side, arms crossed, and fire each other a quick grin. They're both far too respectful, and prone to being quiet, to even try and interrupt your reunion.

You have so many questions. The possible presence of a demon of Time just on the other side of the wall is a legitimate concern, but you've faced it before, and hope your company will be able to tell if it's coming.

(Options in next post.)
>>
>>4340357
>A] Ask Stardust and Starlight about their time spent in the ruins. Maybe segue into asking why they're risking so much to hide.
>1] You honestly are gaining a serious interest in Corcaea's politics. It relates to your work deeply, and you're sick of being in the dark.
>2] It's not that you have an interest in politics— but their welfare is a serious concern of yours, and this is worth asking right off the bat.

>B] Immediately express your distress over their current location, but only ask if there's somewhere safer you can speak. Everyone has been through a lot, but you don't want to impose anything on these two that may cause them further distress.

>C] Gods, you're relieved to see the twins. Just ask about how they're doing. Try to be normal. It's been nearly a year, and they've risked life and limb for you.

>D] Emphasize how stressed you've been over their welfare. Make your intentions clear from the get-go, and ask them if they would be willing to talk with you about the situation with King Magnus.

>E] Write-in.
>>
>>4340357
>C] Gods, you're relieved to see the twins. Just ask about how they're doing. Try to be normal. It's been nearly a year, and they've risked life and limb for you.
>>
>>4340359
>>C] Gods, you're relieved to see the twins. Just ask about how they're doing. Try to be normal. It's been nearly a year, and they've risked life and limb for you.
>>
>>4340406
>>4340454
(Great! Vote is locked. Writing now.)
>>
File: Piety.png (83 KB, 930x416)
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>>4340458
Taking a step back, you make every effort to stop fidgeting, and to put on a normal demeanor. Your posture might be impossibly stiff, and there's permanently an unhinged tilt to your gaze, but no one minds. Not for how sincerely you murmur, "it's such a relief to see you both. How are you? How have things been?"

"Well," they both say in unison.

There's a blink, to each other, then mutual grins back to you. "Well enough," Stardust stresses.
"Our health has certainly been fairer than Echo's," Starlight grins.

You can't help but interject, "I couldn't help but see to his health. He should— should be alright, in due Time."

"He still hasn't been captured," Stardust asks in disbelief, right to Harvey.

Your ringleader cheekily shrugs, "of course. He's in g-good hands."

A collective grin is working its way around the hall. Stardust takes a knee, to nod to Ofelia, "I believe I haven't had the pleasure, Miss...?"

"Banks," she flushes, "Ofelia Banks. Friends call me Eagle-Eye, but you guys call me whatever you want."

Harvey is quick to note, "she g-got th-the g-guards outside of Osted-dholm. All of th-them."

Starlight takes a step over, to curtsy slightly to your friend, as Stardust stands fully upright. They're both floored, and immediately fire off an absurd amount of thanks and formality. The next twenty minutes or so are spent catching up Starlight and Stardust on what's transpired since Harvey last saw them. They were entirely unaware of your confrontation with Brother Murdac, or the justified death of the priest of Storm. At news of you reconvening with Mick and Randy, they're positively delighted that no one was outright killed. Most importantly, the battle you fought alongside Sister Corbon and Sister Tirel has Stardust torn between admiration, and shock.

"That's Piety, I take it," he gestures, to the sword at your back. You nod, badly wanting to keep the weapon sheathed during such a pleasant meeting.

"It could not have possibly taken on any lightning," Starlight frowns, looking to the unscathed scabbard as if it's cursed.

"The Gods are Merciful," you firmly reiterate. "It took more than metal to save the cathedral ward."

News of your public, dual invocations is unbelievable. The use of your Relic with Sister Corbon more so. At the news of your title being restored, officially, has both of the twins in need of sitting down. Holding hands, they can't help but look up to you, as Harvey finishes recounting the last news he's heard of your exploits.

"We have been cut off from everything," Starlight murmurs. "You said it has been eight months, Father?"

"Yes," you apologetically frown. "Though there is still— still ample Time at our disposal."

"It has been easy enough to let the sands slip through our fingers," Starlight muses, in a distant way. "Though I can scarcely remember how."

(Barely over, 1/2)
>>
>>4340541
Repressing your concern is tolerable. You frown, and try to breathe, as the the twins get back to their feet. They look between you, Harvey, and Ofelia. Stardust frowns, "it is so good to see you all. Father, if I may...?"

"Of course," you wave. Even nobility answers to the Father of the Church of Mercy. The only man you truly answer to, in the entire country—

"The King." Starlight clinically interjects, as if He isn't her actual father, "did he say what He would do with any of us, if we came out of hiding?"

>A] He didn't, you never asked, and probably hadn't realized how weird it was at the time. Not wanting to make any assumptions, honestly answer that the King was vague to an extreme, beyond His insistence that NO member of your congregation was to return to the castle.

>B] Produce the note that King Magnus left for you, with the list of urgent issues to attend to within Calunoth. Let the twins interpret it however they see fit.

>C] Write-in.
>>
>>4340544
>>B] Produce the note that King Magnus left for you, with the list of urgent issues to attend to within Calunoth. Let the twins interpret it however they see fit.
>>
>>4340544
>>B] Produce the note that King Magnus left for you, with the list of urgent issues to attend to within Calunoth. Let the twins interpret it however they see fit.
>>
>>4340544
>B] Produce the note that King Magnus left for you, with the list of urgent issues to attend to within Calunoth. Let the twins interpret it however they see fit.
>>
>>4340556
>>4340564
>>4340577
(Sweet. Locking the vote. Writing now!)
>>
File: Calendar 606.png (1.4 MB, 1000x1294)
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>>4340602
https://youtu.be/_oq9UAV028U

Sifting through the endless carrying capacity of your satchel, it takes only a moment to extract the last letter King Magnus drafted for you. Glancing down at the sheet, your grin fades to just a slight smile.

The 14th of the Tending Moon was a VERY productive day. A few lines are already scratched out.

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

"̶-̶ ̶T̶h̶e̶ ̶e̶a̶s̶t̶e̶r̶n̶ ̶d̶i̶s̶t̶r̶i̶c̶t̶ ̶o̶f̶ ̶F̶l̶e̶s̶h̶.̶ ̶F̶o̶u̶r̶ ̶h̶u̶n̶d̶r̶e̶d̶ ̶a̶n̶d̶ ̶e̶i̶g̶h̶t̶y̶ ̶n̶i̶n̶e̶ ̶c̶i̶t̶i̶z̶e̶n̶s̶ ̶h̶a̶v̶e̶ ̶c̶o̶n̶t̶r̶a̶c̶t̶e̶d̶ ̶s̶e̶v̶e̶r̶e̶ ̶c̶o̶m̶p̶l̶i̶c̶a̶t̶i̶o̶n̶s̶ ̶o̶f̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶i̶r̶ ̶l̶u̶n̶g̶s̶,̶ ̶i̶n̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶ ̶w̶a̶k̶e̶ ̶o̶f̶ ̶B̶r̶o̶t̶h̶e̶r̶ ̶M̶u̶r̶d̶a̶c̶'̶s̶ ̶e̶f̶f̶o̶r̶t̶s̶.̶ ̶T̶h̶e̶ ̶d̶e̶a̶t̶h̶s̶ ̶n̶u̶m̶b̶e̶r̶ ̶w̶e̶l̶l̶ ̶o̶v̶e̶r̶ ̶t̶h̶r̶e̶e̶ ̶h̶u̶n̶d̶r̶e̶d̶,̶ ̶a̶n̶d̶ ̶a̶r̶e̶ ̶r̶i̶s̶i̶n̶g̶ ̶b̶y̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶ ̶d̶a̶y̶.̶"̶

You personally saved over 60 citizens, and guaranteed the survival of everyone else in the district. Sure, it bloated your body for the afternoon, but the price was well worth it. A perfect invocation to Mercy, and to Agriculture, has your heart singing just thinking back to it.

"- 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."

It's confusing, to an extreme. You're getting at least three different messages here, for the King's intent, but you're going to sort this out.

-̶ ̶T̶h̶e̶ ̶n̶o̶r̶t̶h̶-̶e̶a̶s̶t̶e̶r̶n̶ ̶d̶i̶s̶t̶r̶i̶c̶t̶ ̶o̶f̶ ̶F̶l̶e̶s̶h̶.̶ ̶U̶p̶o̶n̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶r̶ ̶c̶o̶n̶g̶r̶e̶g̶a̶t̶i̶o̶n̶'̶s̶ ̶f̶l̶i̶g̶h̶t̶ ̶f̶r̶o̶m̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶ ̶s̶e̶w̶e̶r̶s̶,̶ ̶n̶o̶ ̶f̶e̶w̶e̶r̶ ̶t̶h̶a̶n̶ ̶f̶i̶f̶t̶e̶e̶n̶ ̶o̶f̶ ̶o̶u̶r̶ ̶g̶u̶a̶r̶d̶ ̶w̶e̶r̶e̶ ̶s̶t̶r̶u̶c̶k̶ ̶d̶o̶w̶n̶,̶ ̶a̶n̶d̶ ̶k̶i̶l̶l̶e̶d̶.̶ ̶T̶h̶e̶i̶r̶ ̶g̶r̶i̶e̶v̶i̶n̶g̶ ̶f̶a̶m̶i̶l̶i̶e̶s̶ ̶a̶r̶e̶ ̶w̶i̶t̶h̶o̶u̶t̶ ̶s̶h̶e̶l̶t̶e̶r̶.̶ ̶K̶i̶n̶d̶l̶y̶ ̶d̶e̶l̶e̶g̶a̶t̶e̶ ̶t̶h̶i̶s̶ ̶m̶a̶t̶t̶e̶r̶ ̶o̶f̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶r̶ ̶c̶o̶n̶g̶r̶e̶g̶a̶t̶i̶o̶n̶'̶s̶ ̶a̶c̶t̶i̶o̶n̶s̶ ̶a̶s̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶ ̶s̶e̶e̶ ̶f̶i̶t̶.̶

Delegating Father Sullivan to the matter was easily the wisest possible decision. He not only consoled everyone involved, but you facilitated a meeting between the responsible party (Ofelia) and the priest without any further issue.

(1/2)
>>
>>4340689
- 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.

There's no doubt in your mind that the Freak Show has killed, extensively, on your behalf. The details are still fuzzy, but you'll address it. They're devastatingly loyal, and won't leave the city so easily.

- Insurance that those who sought refuge under Norward Bauldry's company will not bring further turmoil to Our city.

Mick left your company yesterday morning, assuring you that he would see to his Flea Circus. It's probably worth checking up on him— and the hundreds of heathens in his care— as soon as possible.

- The whereabouts of Harvey J. Algrith.

This is probably something to worry about.

You glance to the Ringleader, brow furrowed. He frowns slightly back, picking up instantly on your concern. There's a silent moment of understanding, that he's to get nowhere near the castle in the near future, as you hand off the letter to Starlight.

She takes it as quickly as possible, pouring over the note alongside Stardust. They both sigh. "He is using you, Father Anscham," Stardust denounces. "He's too twisted to say it outright. Getting you to track us down—"

"Someone who we trust," Starlight mutters, looking as if she might cry. The letter is firmly handed back to you, as Stardust clearly struggles to not crumple the note to pieces. "He's running you ragged, and doesn't want a single question asked. How could you possibly think, let alone challenge Him, when He's demanding you look after half of the city? This—" he's shaking, he's so furious, "this is an outrage. You should be back in Eadric. Not looking after our home, and destroying yourself for— for the common man— all on His behalf—"

Lady Edith delicately puts a hand to Sir Allan's shoulder, and looks to you with red in her eyes. "He'll have Allan killed. I'm sure of it. We simply can't go back, Father. I would rather die than to lose him. He can't possibly understand. He never has, and I—"

"We won't take that risk," Stardust asserts.

Harvey sniffs, "he b-busted his ass just to g-get d-down here, you know. Fath-ther Anscham isn't trying to g-get anyone hurt. You b-both know b-better."

With a smirk, Ofelia glances up to the redhead. Appreciation is written all across her face. You're deeply impressed by how tactful the (typically crass) killer is being, but she obviously understands the importance of this meeting enough to keep her thoughts to herself.

"Father Anscham," Starlight frowns, taking your hands, and clasping them beneath her own. They're cold, and shaking horribly, along with every other inch of her. "We must not be careless. Too many lives have been lost."

(Barely over, 2/3)
>>
>>4340691
"Too much blood has been spilled," you immediately agree. "Which is precisely why I would like nothing more than— than to set things right."

Stardust scowls. "How do you propose we would do that?"

>A] No one will shoot you, as a messenger. Offer to deliver some correspondence from the twins back to the King. Granted, getting down here was an absolute nightmare, but you're willing to expend the Time and effort to keep the twins out of harm's way.

>B] You sincerely believe that King Magnus lives up to His title as "the Merciful." Disagree with Stardust's and Starlight's judgement, make a case for the King's compassion, and see if you can sway their hearts. This must be a huge misunderstanding. (Write-ins may help!)

>C] You never want to see these ruins again. Promise to protect Lady Edith and Sir Allan with everything you have.
>1] To take them back to the surface. You'll talk to King Magnus, and figure out His end of the situation. Paying Walter a visit in the castle, for news of his breakthrough, is probably a good idea anyways.
>2] To get them in safer hiding, back on the surface. Mick, Randy, Mad Dog AND Electrum all have safe houses. Do whatever it takes to keep them from harm.

>D] Write-in.
>>
>>4340692
>A] No one will shoot you, as a messenger. Offer to deliver some correspondence from the twins back to the King. Granted, getting down here was an absolute nightmare, but you're willing to expend the Time and effort to keep the twins out of harm's way.
>>
>>4340692
>C] You never want to see these ruins again. Promise to protect Lady Edith and Sir Allan with everything you have.
>2] To get them in safer hiding, back on the surface. Mick, Randy, Mad Dog AND Electrum all have safe houses. Do whatever it takes to keep them from harm.
>>
>>4340692
>>A] No one will shoot you, as a messenger. Offer to deliver some correspondence from the twins back to the King. Granted, getting down here was an absolute nightmare, but you're willing to expend the Time and effort to keep the twins out of harm's way.
>>
>>4340692
>>C] You never want to see these ruins again. Promise to protect Lady Edith and Sir Allan with everything you have.
>2] To get them in safer hiding, back on the surface. Mick, Randy, Mad Dog AND Electrum all have safe houses. Do whatever it takes to keep them from harm.

I propose we send them into the care of Father willhelm, the church of dream is very far away and well protected by one of our most stalwart allies. A man who also has the power to make people forget, that is without a doubt the safest place they can be, away from the capital and the king.
>>
>>4340710
Sorry add C2 to that
>>
>>4340699
>>4340702
>>4340710
>>4340712
>>4340713
(You know what? I think we can do the write-in, C2, and A. Eating some lunch ATM, as soon as I'm done I'll write. Vote is locked!)
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>>4340817
(Writing now!)
>>
File: Father Atticus Wilhelm.png (1.79 MB, 1994x2013)
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>>4340861
https://youtu.be/QL9_rPPyCMQ

Keeping your hands firmly clasped upon Starlight's clammy embrace, the sheer amount of earnestness furrowing your brow has your face hurting. You're the Father of Compassion, and won't stand for a single soul under your care to come into harm's way. "I swear to both of you— upon ALL of the Gods— that I will not let any harm befall you. Are either of you familiar with Somerilde, and the Church of Dream?"

They're both well-groomed, naturally are familiar with their country's geography, and nod simultaneously. "Of course."

"Father Wilhelm's home is remote. He is—" you struggle to express how deeply you care for his friendship, "he is a stalwart ally, and a good man. I know that he would protect you both as well, without hesitation. The alliance between the churches of Dream and Mercy could not be sounder— and— and what better way to leave the King's attention, than to seek refuge with a man who can make others forget?"

"That's just a rumor," Stardust immediately frowns.

It's unusual, for you to raise an eyebrow, but you do. "I would never lie to you. His ability is without compare. His home is as far away from the capital as we could hope for, and— and away from the King. It is— without a doubt— the safest place you could be. Permit me to act as a messenger, for you both. Please. At least consider it."

Both of the twins shift. There's literally nothing they could say in protest, but you continue. "No amount of Time is worth more than your safety. I— I would be more than happy to deliver correspondence for you, if you wish. Not only to Father Wilhelm, though you don't need to. It would be preferable to keep any messages to him as discreet as possible."

You and Father Wilhelm, conveniently, set up a small code and a number of security measures for this very reason, many months ago. He'll remember.

"We would," Starlight wilts, beside herself, as she takes your hands a little more tightly. "I would like to consider it." Glancing to Stardust— not for permission, but for his honest thoughts— she's met with a horrible frown.

Sir Allan looks like he could cry. "Father, I don't think we could thank you enough."

"Thank me when you are safe, and sound," you insist. "We can wait on the message, to the King, or to Father Wilhelm." You twitch. "I will not wait on my own letters."

Ofelia almost giggles, and stops herself, horrified that she's finding humor in it. "Sorry, Richard."

"It's fine," you mutter.

It's fine. Five months of delay with my mail is fine— but never again.

With a LOT more urgency in his voice, Harvey looks to the wall adjacent to you all. "We n-need to m-move. Th-the lett-ters will actually wait. Right, Fath-ther?"

"Yes," you murmur. "Do either of you have a preference, for who's safe house to take?"

(1/2)
>>
>>4340923
"They're all madhouses," Stardust reluctantly smiles. He's sweating, as Harvey shifts, telegraphing with every fiber of his being that you all are going to need to run if you linger. "We can think about it while we get out of here. Fair?"

"Fair," you immediately reply. "Harvey." Nodding to the ridiculous lair you're in, to the enchanted doors, you try to patiently ask, "if you could."

"N-no prob-blem," he nods. "So. Pick your poison." A nod, to the bottom left door. "Way you and Ofelia m-met up with m-me. B-blasphemy, at b-best. Waste of Ttime." A gesture to the bottom-right door. "Th-the long way." He points to the upper left door. "Pain in th-the ass, but it's th-the fastest." A quick glance over his shoulder, eyes wide, and he rapidly points to the upper right door. "Scen-nic route. No arg-guing. Let's g-go."

>A ROLL WILL BE REQUIRED FOR ALL OF THE FOLLOWING.
>Write-ins may add situational modifiers.
>Majority vote will decide.

>A] Sprint to the upper left door, and heave the stone exit open as quickly as you can.

>B] Take the bottom-right door, and trust in everyone's ability to handle a lengthy pursuit.

>C] Take the upper right door, and pray that there's enough in your environment to handle an incoming demon of time.
>>
>>4340930
>>A] Sprint to the upper left door, and heave the stone exit open as quickly as you can.

We should keep in mind this demon wants to waste our time, anything *long* would be playing right into its hand, we need to any% speedrun this shit.
>>
>>4340930
(In retrospect I probably omitted way too much here, given that this area was described in a two-part post back in thread 15. Please feel free to ask any questions if you guys are confused or need more detail.)
>>
>>4340951
+1
>>
>>4340951
>>4340977
(Alright guys, we'll go ahead with the unanimous vote!)

>ANY % SPEEDRUN THAT DOOR
>Roll 1d100. Best of 3 will be used.

>+10 FAVOR OF FLESH
>+5 HARVEY DOESN'T SKIP LEG DAY
>>
Rolled 80 + 15 (1d100 + 15)

>>4341031
Let's gooo
>>
Rolled 22 + 15 (1d100 + 15)

>>4341031
>>
Rolled 1 (1d001)

>>4341031
>>
Rolled 72 + 15 (1d100 + 15)

>>4341031
benis
>>
>>4341042
>>4341225
>>4341368
(Alright guys, that'll do it. Writing now!)
>>
File: through the stone door.png (806 KB, 1920x1080)
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>>4341369
https://youtu.be/h8hRaLDu-ao

Sprinting up the stair, before anyone else can even react, you hang a sharp left, and skid to a stop right before a solid stone door. There's no grooves or handles on its ancient surface. It looks devastatingly heavy, and is easily five inches thick.

Harvey slides up alongside you, not even a second later. The walls begin to quake. You take hold of your mace— enchanted, and unbreakable— and hand it off to the man at your side. "For leverage," you insist, planting your feet, and assuming the best form you can. The ground is decaying underfoot. The walls are decaying.

Things are speeding up. There's no question that the building was the one you came to before.

The glass window behind you shatters, blasting lethal shards down the entire staircase. Ofelia, at the base, plainly tackles Stardust out of harm's way.

They'll be fine. Digging your fingers into the deepest groove you can find, at the base of the door, you pray, "grant strength to this vessel. Flesh of my flesh."

Deep breath.

Pins and needles shoot through every last inch of your body, as you heave, and put every muscle within you to its absolute limit. Harvey doesn't need to wedge anything under the door, but slams himself, his hands, and shoulder beneath the door the second he's able. It's impossible to breathe. All 200lbs of your pet mastiff are child's play, compared to the object in hand. Entirely unable to speak, Harvey shouts on your behalf to everyone else, "RUN!"

Sweat, and a fire in your lungs, burns hot for several agonizing, beautiful seconds. Ofelia, Stardust, and Starlight sprint at full speed into the corridor beyond. You can barely see, for the sheer amount of effort you're exerting, and can't help but grin. It's phenomenal, though you don't dare shift your position until everyone is past the archway.

With a strained nod to Harvey, you both slip into the corridor beyond at the same time, and let the door drop back into its initial position. The collapse shatters the rock beneath, with a deafening crack. There's an urge to put your hands to your ears, but you can barely feel your arms.

Praying to all the Gods that it will be sufficient to delay the demon— even for a moment longer— you try to stop hyperventilating, and look to the chambers beyond.

The shortest path out of Calunoth's ruins are somehow more convoluted than anything else you've seen before. The landing outside the door is no more than five feet long, and descends outwards. Staircases lead off, into the horizon. It's abundantly clear that they can be traversed, and are no mere illusion, though their angle would make it impossible without some form of climbing equipment.

(Juuust over, 1/2)
>>
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>>4341434
Your vision swims, looking to see the twins helping each other do just that. They're climb down a series of sideways steps, like they know exactly what they're doing. Ofelia is still on the landing, back to the wall, eyes wide. "The rope," she mutters to you, and points down. "We'll need it."

There's an abyss. The drop clearly goes straight to the bottom of the ruins— with no end in sight. Darkness looms, from hundreds of feet below. The stone at your back is weathering away, as if sand is wearing down its surface. The flat obstruction to the demon is becoming concave, one invisible grain at a Time.

You gasp, struggling to breathe, "there's no Time."

>(A roll may be required for all of the following.)

>A] There's Flesh. Invoke Him, to traverse this landscape without fear of exhaustion or injury.
>1] Offer to pick up Ofelia, and carry her. She's easily the slowest among you all, and the thought of her being left behind— or falling, even— is unbearable.
>2] Ask Harvey to go ahead with Ofelia, while you tail the twins from the rear of your group. Distract the demon, if necessary.

>B] There IS Time. Stay behind, and stall the demon. You'll play its game, if only for long enough to grant your friends Time to escape.

>C] There's Mercy. Hold your ground, and invoke the Goddess of protection. You're going to show it the tenets of your church— restraint, in particular— in a more tangible form.

>D] Write-in.
>>
>>4341438
>C] There's Mercy. Hold your ground, and invoke the Goddess of protection. You're going to show it the tenets of your church— restraint, in particular— in a more tangible form.
"Stop wasting Our time"
>>
>>4341438
>>C] There's Mercy. Hold your ground, and invoke the Goddess of protection. You're going to show it the tenets of your church— restraint, in particular— in a more tangible form.
>>
>>4341728
>>4341741
(Locking the vote here! Writing now.)
>>
>>4341772
https://youtu.be/DbZYnEWx_XQ

"Go," you breathe, "now. I'm holding it off. Harvey, please take Ofelia to safety. I will catch up."

The last of the color in Ofelia's face leaves. "Richard. I can't. I'm not leaving you—"

"Go." The walls are shaking. The walls are melting from decay, and it's only a matter of seconds before you're certain a demon will be upon your company. "Now."

Without any protest, Harvey sweeps Ofelia into his arms. She positively screams, "let GO of me! I'll kill you if anything happens to him—!" Algrith is setting off, firing you an apologetic glance over his shoulder, as the blonde in his arms practically sobs, "RICHARD! YOU'D BETTER NOT GET HURT! DON'T LEAVE ME AGAIN, HOTSHOT—!"

"I will find you! The Gods are Merciful, Ofelia! Please take care!"

Gritting your teeth, holding your ground, you put both palms to the door before you. "All of you." Resting your arms for only a moment is not your primary concern. Something is coming. Something deep, and dark, and terrible. You can feel it, in the very depths of your soul. The stone underhand is trembling, from the sheer force that's behind it.

A few grains of sand blow beneath the stone under your palms. The very stone before you is wearing away, to nothing.

There is one Goddess that you hold more dearly than any other. One of protection, and restraint. You take a step back, teetering on the edge of a fall to the bottom of the world without fear. Clasping your hands together, bowing your head, you look to the promise ring upon your hand. It's solid gold, and evidence of your union. There's been no need for words between you both, for a very long Time.

But you want Her to hear. You want Her to know how badly you need Her.

"Goddess of Austerity. Let Your will be known. Come unto to me, for my need is dire. Our children—" She's already on you, though not in a physical form, "—who's very souls are in peril—" hotter than the sun, working over your very skin, "Mercy—!" and in you, before you can even formally finish the invocation.

You don't stagger backwards, despite the sheer drop that's directly underfoot. A radius of faint, golden light is beneath your steps. It is more than a pedestal to walk upon, in darkness, and terror. You're reminded of a shield for a split second, before being pulled forward by an unseen force.

The Goddess doesn't need to be by your side, when She can work through you in so many more ways. An embrace wraps in, up, and around even last crack upon your skin. It's not merely that you're littered with scars. Your lover has you lean into the invocation, and into Her, as your eyes flush with solid metal.

(1/2)
>>
>>4341836
With the sun in your eyes, you dare a glance behind. The forms of your friends are making off, into the horizon, just as you whip your head back around to a nightmare. The last defense between you, and your pursuer, has eroded into nothingness. In the abandoned home that Starlight and Stardust fearlessly occupied, the walls have been worn to dust. There is a swirling vacancy, of space, just like the endless domain you escaped from once before.

Walking calmly up the last set of the crumbling stairs is the form of a man. Upon his cane is a singular hourglass, though there is no sand within. Upon the demon's brow is a streak of starlight. About his body is a constellation of stars, dripping with sand. It pools beneath his feet, clad as they are in polished glass. The armor, cloak, and regalia adorning the figure is imposing to an extreme. Every dully reflective inch of his regal attire reflects stars in a sky that cannot possibly be there. A huge chunk of glass is upon his brow, obscuring all but the deepest, darkest, vacant pits for eyes you've ever seen. He must be nine feet tall, and all in unsettling hues of amethyst.

You grit your teeth, reach out with two hands, and practically growl, "stop wasting Our time."

From the tips of your fingers, and the symbol of your church, pools strands of liquid gold. They're forming bands of solid light. You are the Father of the Church of Mercy, and are bent with all your will upon one, singular tenet: restraint.

From the demon comes a voice, simultaneously spry, ancient, wise, and youthful beyond all measure. You feel sick from its first enunciation, and resist the urge to take a step back with everything you have as it quickly interjects, "wait. You must understand."

There is one Goddess that you fear more than any other. The thought of disgracing Time for a single further second has your skin crawling, all through the invocation. Your lover is on you, keeping you warm through the cold sweat that's formed on every inch of you.

Mercy understands the Goddess of Time, in ways you cannot comprehend. Her will is unchangeable. You understand demons more than likely any other man alive.

Mercy has sworn to defend you, and impart Her gifts even onto the like of monsters, if you will it. You respect Her, and would never subject the Goddess of Compassion to anything less than your devotion, and love.

But by all the Gods, do you fear Time. It occurs to you that you've hesitated, despite yourself. It might be demonic influence. It might be just how exhausted you are. It may just be that a war has been raging through your soul, all of your life, and you have rarely had the chance to acknowledge it.

(Options in next post.)
>>
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>>4341838
>A] You understand completely. Go after this monstrosity with every ounce of restraint that you have. Mercy would end the world as you know it, before seeing any harm befall you, or your children. Nothing it has to say could be more important than the safety of everyone in your care.
>1] Pin it down. It's difficult to manipulate anything, if you can't move.
>2] Get its staff away from its body, if nothing else. This is obviously a sorcerer of extreme power.
>3] Focus on containing the sand. The demon is likely manipulating its domain, rather than itself.

>B] This isn't your first encounter with a demon who could speak. This creature is likely absurdly intelligent, and powerful beyond all measure. You'd pin it as a major demon, just upon a first impression.
>1] Don't fuck around. Demand that it speak quickly, and plainly. Bind it to the ground the moment it shows any sign of hesitating.
>2] Listen. Hold your ground, and implore Mercy for Her protection. You are desperate to understand the weakness within humanity. You need this opportunity. You need to TRULY understand what could compel a monster like this to give you a moment to listen.

>C] Write-in.
>>
(This'll be the last update of our usual weekend sessions! Going to resume sometime tomorrow afternoon, EST. Mondays-Thursdays we always update at least once a day, usually more than that. Votes will always remain open unless otherwise specified! Have a great night everyone.)
>>
>>4341839
>B] This isn't your first encounter with a demon who could speak. This creature is likely absurdly intelligent, and powerful beyond all measure. You'd pin it as a major demon, just upon a first impression.
>1] Don't fuck around. Demand that it speak quickly, and plainly. Bind it to the ground the moment it shows any sign of hesitating.
>>
>>4341839
>C] Write-in.
Ask for his name, even though we fear Time, this is only a demon of her. We have met with more fearsome ones like Beltoro and to him we also showed Compassion and our Tenets of Mercy.
>>
>>4341839
>>C] Write-in.

Restrain everything except it's ability to speak, if it truly wants us to understand it wouldn't mind, otherwise *we know* it's just trying to stall us.
>>
>>4341850
>>4341899
>>4341964
(Good afternoon everyone! Awesome write-ins. Locking the vote here and going to try to incorporate as much as I can. May take a few to get the update out but will ASAP.)
>>
>>4342381
Hesitation is defeat. Tensing your hands, tensing the restraints you have made, tensing the very bonds of gold and light from within the cracks of your soul— you extend your blessing.

A hundred strands of heat and radiance are upon the demon, before it can even react. You turn your outstretched palms downward, tensing, twisting, and reshaping the bonds into a more tangible form.

The demon is slammed to the floor, with the shackles made of your devotion. Colliding with the stone, it shatters the first few inches of ground in its wake. Your ears are ringing, from the sheer force of it. Dust kicks up into the air, along with countless grains of sand, as the floor trembles. It's still decaying, unstable, and as devastated as the demon's voice. It tries to raise an arm. "Wait."

A wave of your arm is sufficient, to disarm the demon, and scatter its staff off, into the dust of its own making. The demon's gaze trails after it, for only a moment, before snapping its eyes back to you. "You cannot comprehend what you are doing."

Every last gesture is another wave of Mercy's blessing. It's heat, and comfort, relief and euphoria, all wrapped up into the finest recesses of your soul. There's a strong desire to smile, to gasp, and you channel every last ounce of your repression right into your hold. To persist with the invocation, for as long as necessary.

You clasp your hands together. The gesture takes only a moment. With it, you fully illuminate a pair of shackles upon the demon's wrists. There is another, upon its ankles. Tightening your fingers, knuckles white, there are binds around its neck. There is no slack in the mere inch of chain that holds it. The bond reaches deeper than the abyss. Every last glowing band of divinity is as strong as your will.

A scowl is more appropriate, as the lair around you crumbles. "You will speak quickly, and plainly. Tell Us your name."

Peeling back the edges of its lips, a pair of pointed, lilac-tinted teeth are flashed at you. "Arkthros", it replies, without any hesitation.

The shark-like smile stretches a little further across his face. The demon of delay stops talking, immediately.

You jerk the demon's head face-down, closing the last inch of slack between its neck and the ground. The crunch of the glass upon its brow cracking from the sheer force of the impact makes your teeth hurt, so you grit them harder. "If you truly wish for Us to understand your intent—"

The monster cranes its head around, to look at you, with legitimate fear in its eyes. "I do."

He can't help himself. He has to wait. He'll stall until we die.

I might need to help him, if we're going to speak.


(Options in next post.)
>>
>>4342410
>WRITE-INS MAY HELP ENORMOUSLY WITH ILLUMINATING FURTHER INFORMATION.
>Demons cannot speak of the Gods directly. Questions involving Time or any other deity will likely only be answered in a very roundabout way.
>Your environment is literally dissolving. Fewer prompts and/or brevity may help in escaping these ruins in one piece.

>A] "What, precisely, must I understand?"

>B] "Why is your lair turning to dust?"

>C] "Are you the archdemon of these ruins?"

>D] "Why are there no other demons here?"

>E] "Just yesterday, you pursued me, and my companion. Why?"

>F] "How may I exit your domain freely?"

>G] Write-in.
>>
>>4342412
>>A] "What, precisely, must I understand?"
>>
>>4342412
>C] "Are you the archdemon of these ruins?"
>>
>>4342434
+1
>>
>>4342434
>>4342438
>>4342445
(Great. Locking the vote, writing now.)
>>
>>4342610
https://youtu.be/5UVSTG0_6X0
Exhaustion ceases to run through your limbs, as the Goddess of healing mends every last inch of you. Struggling to not take a sharp breath in, for how intense your partner's hold is, you lower your tone, its divinity, Mercy's ire for this creature, and take a step forward. "what, precisely, must I understand?"

Tension contorts what little of the demon's face is visible. Every word is stressed, as though it's the most important thing that could ever be said. "They. May. NOT. Leave."

You have eight solid years of experience, with restraints, and torture in the dark. Stomach shifting at the sight of the demon's clear distress, you rapidly ask, "is there more, Arkthros?"

"Yes," he mutters, shifting again. Hands still clasped, you quickly part your fingers. The bonds upon his wrists, ankles, and neck immediately pull, twisting the monster's limbs just enough to halt any further motion.

Urgency and the cold sweat on you intensifies tenfold. There is practically nothing left of the house behind him. A gaping void of space and sand is swirling, gathering, and wearing down at the exit to his domain. "Tell Us," you firmly plead.

The rest of his speech is rapid fire. "Their leader, with flame upon his brow, and fire within: he swore to me, and upheld his word. The King, in His grace: He swore to me, and upheld His word. He alone had aided me, these many onethousandeighthundredandninetyeightyears."

Your vision swims, and your breath hitches, just slightly. It's as if a hand, and an arm, has wrapped up and around you, trying to keep you steady, and reassuring you that you are not alone with the most ancient creature you've ever heard of.

"No others may flee," Arkthros hisses. "The thousands I have imprisoned: they have NOT bled. I cannot risk their retreat, invoker. I will bring them no harm, if my will is honored. It is a simple request. One that you must understand."

You try to not reel, and breathe, "are you the archdemon of these ruins?"

Those teeth. More are visible, as the demon's grin grows. "Neither the last—"

There is a howl, on the periphery of your vision. You dig in your heels, and reach out, with both hands. There's something horribly wrong. With a heave, Arkthros flexes his right arm in, and snaps your bonds free from the floor. "Nor the first—"

You're already creating a new restraint, tethering the monster's limb. A gust of sand pushes and rolls his staff back from the empty space behind, right into his grasp.

"—nor the many who have come before—!"

The ruins behind you are disappearing, into nothingness. You likely have precious seconds left, to stand on any ground at all.

Arkthros is not wearing a cloak. He unfolds a pair of wings, comprised entirely of melted glass. They can articulate, as the liquid shifts into more grains of solid particles. It has no definitive form. The wings are a liquid, and a solid, and they rip the restraint off of his left hand.

(1/2)
>>
>>4342758
"These are my ruins, and mine alone. There is no one left, to service themselves to my position. Yes, invoker. To answer your question: yes. I am an archdemon."

You move to replace the bond, heart racing faster than your company's retreat, as the demon tears the bonds off of his neck. Smoke is rising from the his hands, as what little skin and sinew is upon his form burns into the metal of your creation. He declares through excruciating pain, "you have intruded upon my home. You have infringed upon the King's prison, and the RESTRAINT of several hundred lost souls. You will not release this burden from me." He's referring to the twins. "You will not take this gift from us."

You can't help but gasp, from a surge of ecstasy overriding the intense pain lancing your chest. "Mercy—"

Brother Morris knew the location of your entire congregation. A demon of moths was controlled by the church of Mercy...

"They are mine. Do not oppose me, priest. These ruins remain empty by my design, alone."

The King is fully aware of the location of His children.

"This must be a falsehood."

"Do not insult me."

King Magnus may be allied with a demon of Time. There may be hundreds of traitors to the throne underneath His very city. Beyond any doubt, Starlight and Stardust are in extreme danger.

Arkthros lets loose a laugh. Not a scream, though his hands are blistering under the heat of his bonds. He laughs, and rips through the restraints upon him as if it were made purely of light. He looks exactly as he did before, when he first walked up the stairs.

You blink, and confirm that he is now several feet back, calmly walking up the stairs. They've rematerialized, and there are no burns upon his body. With a straight face, he implores you:

"Wait."

>A ROLL MAY BE REQUIRED FOR ALL OF THE FOLLOWING.

>A] Invoke Flesh, while keeping the invocation to Mercy, and run for your life. Pray that you can heal through anything this monster dishes out.

>B] Keep the invocation to Mercy, and attempt to call upon Dream.
>1] To restrain the demon, and put it to rest.
>2] To escape via Dream's vision, while protecting yourself as much as possible.

>C] Run straight at the demon, and force your Relic into its hands. Bend its insanity towards compassion, and good-will towards men.

>D] The Church of Mercy didn't raise a coward. Hold your ground. You're talking this demon down.
>1] You genuinely feel sorry for it. Show the monster some compassion, and try to understand why it's threatening only two people. Stop trying to keep it restrained.
>2] Make your best case for your own alliance with King Magnus, and that the twins are under your care. There must be another solution to this.

>E] Write-in.
>>
>>4342767
>>C] Run straight at the demon, and force your Relic into its hands. Bend its insanity towards compassion, and good-will towards men.

>D] The Church of Mercy didn't raise a coward. Hold your ground. You're talking this demon down.
>2] Make your best case for your own alliance with King Magnus, and that the twins are under your care. There must be another solution to this.

"Time waits for no one, her will is unchangeable. And its *Father*, Arkthros."
>>
>>4342792
+1
>>
>>4342792
+1
>>
Rolled 466 (1d1000)

>>4342792
>>4342854
>>4342857
(Fully noting that write-in, and D2. As for C...)

>BEND VIOLENCE TO COMPASSION
>CONTACT IS NECESSARY FOR THIS MISSION
>+20 MERCIFUL SPEED DEMON

>Roll 1d100. The total sum of three rolls, from three separate posters, will be used.
>The roll made in this post represents Arkthros' position. Only matching his roll ensures contact.
>The closer your total roll is to his, the more successful your attempt will be.

>If at any point you realize that your roll makes it impossible to match his position, you may CLEARLY SPECIFY that you wish to have Richard WAIT that many minutes.
>Sacrificing your roll, and your Time in this fashion, means another roll can be made.
>This may be done up to three times, but only once per ID.

>If the roll immediately makes it impossible to match Arkthros, only the first three rolls will be used.

(Please ask me if this is unclear in any way, or if anyone has any questions.)
>>
>>4342916
(For extra clarity, 360 is the highest possible sum, so the first three rolls will be used for the next post.)
>>
Rolled 56 + 20 (1d100 + 20)

>>4342916
>>
Rolled 12 + 20 (1d100 + 20)

>>4342916
Dammit
>>
Rolled 26, 40 = 66 (2d100)

>>4342916
>>
Rolled 92 (1d100)

>>4342951
Woops, please disregard. Would delete if I could.

>>4342916
>>
>>4342928
>>4342933
>>4342954
(No worries man. That makes 76+32+112=220. 246 shy of Arkthros' 466. Taking all write-ins and the other prompt into consideration! Currently working, but will update as soon as possible.)
>>
(Thanks for your patience dudes. Writing now!)
>>
https://youtu.be/5M-CfgAG2n4

No weapon could be more powerful than your symbol. Ripping at the chain around your neck, you unfasten your Relic in a single motion, and sprint at full speed straight towards the archdemon. Mercy is in your heart, in your soul, and every ounce of intent you have: to bend this demon's insanity towards compassion.

"Time waits for no one!"

In the second it takes you to blink, before another breath parts from your lips, and the very moment after your first footstep falls towards the demon— he's moved back, at least another 200 feet. Sand swirls in an endless vacuum at his back, devoid of heat, light, or hope. All of the ruins are growing darker, and more vacant by the second. Your head swims, as the monster moves back further, laughing softly to itself. "I am no one."

The Church of Mercy did not raise a coward. The stars themselves resonate through your speech, in a blend of Goddesses, conviction, and a declaration that CANNOT be refuted: "HER WILL IS UNCHANGEABLE—!"

A torrent of sand— without wind, or air— blasts straight at you. "Is that what they have taught you, priest?"

You manifest a shield of solid light, with a sweep of your arm. There is no handle to hold. There's a tether from the scars upon your palms, outstretched, and twitching under the sheer force of the gust directed at you. Shifting into the flurry at the last second, you practically scream, "it is not priest—!"

The blow is so intense, you see the sun itself in your eyes. There's no hope of keeping your sprint, as pain explodes through your hands and arms. Skidding at least twenty feet through the sand thanks to your momentum, straight towards the abyss behind you, there is still hope in your heart.

The shield gets dropped, so quickly that no one could possibly react to the sheer insanity of it. Letting yourself get battered, as the hurricane of sand threatens to give your hold on the ruins, you raise a hand.

"It is Father, Arkthros."

A band of the sun, in a house without light, is pulled from a sky that cannot be seen. With all the force you can muster, you shape the colossal beam into a band of solid gold.

It's commanded to fall straight upon the demon's wings. The collision is deafening.

Arkthros has vanished.

Blinking, spinning around, you compulsively creating another shield. In the other, your knuckles are white, clutched around your Relic.

You stagger backwards. The demon is inches away, in the same spot on the ground that was occupied several moments ago. He leans in, his teeth right before your face, to lecherously drawl, "their leader."

"Yes."

The restraint you created ripples, before melting straight into the floor. You do not need restraint. Not when have your voice, can lean in, and take the demon by the hand. "In service of the King."

(1/2)
>>
>>4343306
He's gone in a flash. In a second, Arkthros returns to the horizon.

You call out, "just as you are!"

"Pray tell, Father: what makes you think that you are serving my King?"

Sand pelts towards you, in all directions. You have to swing up both hands. In one is a tower shield. The other slakes completely over with solid gold, shielding your Relic, and most of your arm. "The children of the Church of Mercy are under Our care—! There is no need for any of this!"

There's a sharp, grating sound, of glass in motion. The particles battering at the edges of your shield catch on anything exposed upon your body. It's like sandpaper. "You do not wish to bring harm to them," you breathe, inhaling the dust, and flushing at the sheer intensity of it grating against your skin and throat.

The struggle to keep yourself together worsens by the second. Mercy works over the injury, works over your skin, works over the pain—

"Yes."

There isn't a second to react. Arkthros closes the gap faster than you can scream, wings pointed straight at your body. They're huge shards of glass.

Jumping straight back, repressing the urge to scream only for fear of inhaling more dust, you teeter for a moment on the edge of the abyss. "Work with me—!"

The platform, leading out to the exit of the ruins, has completely worn away. A fall into blackness is imminent— and the sensation of an arm wraps around your tapered waist. You're held, for a moment, and kept from plummeting to your death.

"Mercy," you gasp, taking a step forward.

Looking up to the monster, as it steps just out of arm's reach, your ragged breath is a decree. "King Magnus has commanded that they be returned to the surface."

That smile. It leers, as the sorcerer before you makes a swift gesture with his staff, and flies straight back. A torrent of sand rises from all directions. You take another step forward, to break back into a sprint. Shield up, you demand, "you must understand—!"

The sprint never comes. The assault flies straight at you, nearly pushing you again into the fall. Another pummel comes hard from the left, pitter-pattering against the gold surrounding your relic. The metal defense spreads further up your arm, in an attempt to guard you, just as your shield at the right is slammed so intensely the you fear your arm may break.

There's another tug on your robes, and it is not divine. It comes from a flurry of sand, rising up, from the bottom of the world.

"I understand completely," Arkthros grins.

(One paragraph over, 2/3.)
>>
>>4343325
The flurry solidifies into a singular blade of glass.

It slices the back of your ankles clean open.

The sound of every tendon splitting, and of your blood splattering onto stone, hangs in the air for an eternity. Shock doesn't allow the pain to register for a singular moment. The Relic in your hand will not permit the pain to register, for as long as you hold it. It is one, priceless moment. One in which you still have not collapsed forward, or indecently screamed. One moment, with which comes one decision.

>The following prompts are mutually exclusive. Write-ins may require a roll. Vocal opposition to any votes will be taken into full consideration. Discussion is strongly encouraged.

>A] Invoke Flesh, while maintaining your invocation to Mercy. Your first dual invocation to Flesh and Mercy may have instilled severe masochism in you— but that may actually be a benefit, against this monster.
>1] Stick to the plan, and attempt to get your Relic into the hands of an archdemon. (A ROLL WILL BE REQUIRED, with a massive positive modifier, and the same rules as the last roll, with additional options.)
>2] Run for your life. (A ROLL WILL BE REQUIRED, with a massive positive modifier, and a new parameter for success.)

>B] Invoke Agriculture. Turn this demon's sand against it. Weaponize each and every rock, stone, and pebble. You will reap its own harvest, and heal through the worst of the assault. You can take it.
>1] Righteously restrain it. If you have to hurt this demon to have a conversation, so be it.(A ROLL WILL BE REQUIRED, WITH A VARIETY OF NEW OPTIONS.)
>2] It has to die. Don't hold back. (A ROLL WILL BE REQUIRED, WITH AN OBSCENE POSITIVE MODIFIER. There will absolutely be social and political consequences.)

>C] Invoke Time.

>D] Write-in.
>>
>>4343331
>>A] Invoke Flesh, while maintaining your invocation to Mercy. Your first dual invocation to Flesh and Mercy may have instilled severe masochism in you— but that may actually be a benefit, against this monster.
>>1] Stick to the plan, and attempt to get your Relic into the hands of an archdemon. (A ROLL WILL BE REQUIRED, with a massive positive modifier, and the same rules as the last roll, with additional options.)
>>
>>4343331
(Very late to the party here but just to clarify, B1 also would grant a positive modifier.)
>>
>>4343331
>B] Invoke Agriculture. Turn this demon's sand against it. Weaponize each and every rock, stone, and pebble. You will reap its own harvest, and heal through the worst of the assault. You can take it.
>1] Righteously restrain it. If you have to hurt this demon to have a conversation, so be it.(A ROLL WILL BE REQUIRED, WITH A VARIETY OF NEW OPTIONS.)

If we want to get anything out of this guy we need to *force* him into action, that means fully controlling the fight. Invoking Flesh right now wouldn't do much because we already have Mercy healing and attacking him with his own sand works both as a defensive and offensive measure.
>>
>>4343331
>C] Invoke Time.
That moment of injury, happened another time
>>
>>4343331
>B] Invoke Agriculture. Turn this demon's sand against it. Weaponize each and every rock, stone, and pebble. You will reap its own harvest, and heal through the worst of the assault. You can take it.
>1] Righteously restrain it. If you have to hurt this demon to have a conversation, so be it.(A ROLL WILL BE REQUIRED, WITH A VARIETY OF NEW OPTIONS.)
>>
Rolled 85 (1d1000)

>>4343353
>>4343789
>>4343766
>>4343822
(Alright my dudes. These prompts were mutually exclusive. Seriously appreciate you, but we're going to go with the majority, for B1!)

>RESTRAINT
>+20 THE GODS ARE MERCIFUL
>+20 FLESH OF MY FLESH
>+5 OFFENSE AND DEFENSE
>-45 EXQUISITE AGONY

>Roll 1d100. The first three rolls will be used. All 3 rolls will be counted.
>The dice roll in this post represents Arkthros' position.
>As you have elected to use an area-of-effect attack/defense, exceeding his roll will represent degrees of success. Falling below his roll may still have some effect.

>+45 MASOCHISM TANGO
For the low, low cost of public indecency— and some of your threadbare sanity— you can choose to convert the -45 to a +45 positive modifier.
(This modifier is available if EVEN ONE voter chooses to take it. Only vocal opposition will prevent it from being removed, once chosen.
It's worth stressing that this is not going to be pretty, if selected.)

>SWEAR THAT YOU'RE MINE
(The negative/positive modifier will decrease substantially, eventually to 0, for as long as you maintain your invocation to Mercy.
ELECTING TO CONTINUE TO INJURE YOURSELF WILL MAINTAIN THE POSITIVE MODIFIER AT +45, even through Mercy's healing.)
>>
>>4343871
(For absolute clarity please bear in mind that the SUM TOTAL of all three rolls will be used.)
>>
Rolled 16 (1d100)

>>4343871

There is no public so I don't mind being indecent.
>>
Rolled 70 (1d100)

>>4343871
>>
Rolled 64 (1d100)

>>4343871
>>
>>4343880
>>4343881
>>4343882
thank mercy we didn't need to resort to old habits
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>>4343880
>Activate the device

>RESTRAINT
>+20 THE GODS ARE MERCIFUL
>+20 FLESH OF MY FLESH
>+5 OFFENSE AND DEFENSE
>̶-̶4̶5̶ ̶E̶X̶Q̶U̶I̶S̶I̶T̶E̶ ̶A̶G̶O̶N̶Y̶
>+45 MASOCHISM TANGO

>>4343881
>>4343882
(That's 106 + 160 + 154 = 420 bois

420 vs 85. Let's do this thing. Vote is locked. Writing now!)
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>>4343880
>>4343885
(Hold up. Before I start writing I want to be ABSOLUTELY clear that you opted in for the positive +45 modifier.)
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>>4343887
I did, curbstomp incoming
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>>4343891
(Thank you for clarifying, especially so quickly. It's incredibly late here, so last update for the night!)

>>4343885
(Definitely abstaining from any additional self-harm, but just wanted to make sure that the three rollers were all aboard. Since none of them opposed prior to rolling, going to stick with the hefty modifier. Writing now!)
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>>4343894
Ok, although I don’t see why since we were against an 85
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>>4343899
whatever we get over the DC is extra success levels, everything counts
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>>4343886
https://youtu.be/WfOUo97vBQw

You let go of your Relic, drop your defenses, and it hits you. Sharp, and as hot as the blood trickling into your shoes. There's no scream. There's been worse pain. Just when you thought your pulse couldn't go any higher, your breath reaches a speed it rightfully shouldn't. You stay on your feet. There's still function, and motion. It's excruciating, so close your eyes, and moan.

Arkthros is stunned into hesitation. The sand around you calms, if only for a moment.

"M-Mercy—" heat rises through every last muscle upon you. You clasp your hands together, your skin singing from the slightest friction. "Goddess of— ahhn— of— of bounty—!"

This isn't merely something exquisite. You lean into it. "My need is dire."

A voice, in the back of your head, acknowledges that this is utter insanity. You still have motion in your legs. Yes, the demon tried to rob you of the ability to run, but there are other ways to go about interrogation. It's made no attempt to kill you. There's no question that the archdemon is slowly backing away, without calling upon its own ability.

That Arkthros has managed to choke out, "oh. How repulsive."

There's no need to kill him.

This is something to be embraced, as your lover works through you, and sets to mending your newest scars just as quickly as they came. Under your breath, feverishly, you seize the singular moment of legitimate respite. It's a few syllables. You try closing your eyes, to close out the relief working through your lower body.

A haze of poor justification worms itself into the softening edges of your mind.

There's no public here.

"Ah— aahn—! AAaahhhhh—" you can barely breathe, let alone speak, and swallow hard. One word. Just a few syllables. "Aah, Aagriculture—!"

The Goddess does not hesitate further. The sheer force with which She's upon you sends you staggering back. In less than a second, the unmistakable sensation of Her presence works under your skin.

Ecstasy weaves itself into a swing of your arm, as you don't waste another second, and motion to the rock beneath your feet. There is something so deeply satisfying, building in the recesses of your soul, that each motion is a battle to keep yourself from collapsing to the ground, or running a hand all along

"Father." Arkthros gets a hold of himself. Barely. What he's witnessing should be impossible, aside from the way you're handling it. "Two...?"

A scythe. A scythe comes to your hand. The weapon is blunted. You can barely see, as sage breaks through the gold plating your vision. Trails of hyacinths form from the ground underfoot, with each step you take. The flowers usually represent forgiveness.

Apology.

(1/2)
>>
>>4343960
Fear and revulsion drenches the demon. "At once."

He puts up a hand, rapidly constructing a wall before him. "Wait."

The blade is made of stone from the ruins of Ostedholm. You'd recognize the moss embedded in it anywhere. Its handle is wood, from the orchards of your home. The vines extend from the base of the blade, all around its handle, blooming with yours and Mother Bethaea's flower.

"Father. There's no need." His barrier is the home you were in before. The demon has elected to put the wall directly between the two of you. "Take a moment. Think."

Not likely. "Nn— aaahn— "

Arkthros may have momentarily forgotten his own ability.

The tendrils of your weapon sinks straight into your skin. It's not painful, as you flood with the blessing of both Goddesses. The pain comes from the effects of a demon, and it's lessening by the second.

The scythe sings through the air, as you sweep it with both hands, and cut a path straight through the air. Every rock, stone, and pebble under the sorcerer's control changes direction mid-air, and slices through the barrier.

"Arkthros," you gasp, unable to stop yourself from grinning, as you take a few steps forward. A path neatly forms underfoot, blossoming. Pollen drifts into the air, as you quicken your steps, and revel in the joy of your agony.

Concern is wrought across an ancient face. You're certain he has no idea what you're going to do, and isn't about to take any chances. The staff and its hourglass slams to the ground at Arkthros' feet, which has only barely reformed. With it, thousands of grains of sand— scarcely felt, through the sheer intensity of what's working through you— try and direct themselves straight your way.

In a flash, he's gone from sight, and out of the home.

Bringing your scythe up before you in a single motion, you don't even bother to bite on your lip to silence an out pour of noise. The sand clumps together in mid-air, shifting to soil, and blossoming into thousands of chartreuse flower petals. They're chrysanthemums. You know it's Agriculture's favorite flower, and want to show your appreciation.

"Blessed be Her harvest."

Your breath could not be heavier. You'll probably be heavier after the invocation, and it really doesn't matter. With a turn of your wrist, you hook onto a crop of your own creation. Each and every yellow-green petal becomes static. They are under Agriculture's domain. You reach out with your other hand. They are not petals. They're gilded weights, under Mercy's control. You turn your palm down.

Every single weight drops upon your target, and melts into a liquid nightmare the second it lands. "Restraint, aah-Aarkthros," you gasp, turning around, to see the vacant domain covered in your mutual destruction. The archdemon is buried, smoking, and desperately trying to not scream.

He bares his teeth, and spits, "hypocrite!"

(Options in next post.)
>>
>>4343963
>A ROLL MAY BE REQUIRED FOR ALL OF THE FOLLOWING.

>A] You feel a little dirty. At least take hold of your Relic, to try and manage the pain. You'll wait only a moment, and are not letting your guard down for a second.

>B] Double down on keeping this demon at bay. Don't do a thing about your injury, and keep both hands out where he can see them. This might be a trap.

>C] Arkthros' purpose is to delay you.
>1] This is worth your Time. You have questions that need answering. (Write-in why you were so determined to restrain this demon, rather than run.)
>2] Try to ensure he is down, as securely as possible, and flee for your life.

>D] There's absolutely a saner way to go about this. (Write-in.)
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>>4343963
>>C] Arkthros' purpose is to delay you.
>>1] This is worth your Time. You have questions that need answering. (Write-in why you were so determined to restrain this demon, rather than run.)

Why are you keeping people down here, why would the king want this. What do you get from this deal with the king. Why shouldn't I kill you.
>>
>>4343971
+1
>>
>>4343971
+1
>>
>>4343971
+1
>>
>>4343971
>>4343972
>>4344138
>>4344664
(Good afternoon everyone! Locking the unanimous vote here. Writing now!)
>>
>>4344707
https://youtu.be/RdYEBkHoC4Q

Closing the gap between the two of you might as well take an eternity. Every stride is another gift. Though Mercy has nearly mended your severed tendons, there's lingering ecstasy reaching up, into, and throughout every last sense. Agriculture provides more than the relief from pain. There's something greater than a caress. The Goddess of plenty, and Her embrace, presses from within.

Your steps are wet, underfoot, but you don't recoil at the squish of your leather soles. Not from walking upon your own blood, and not from the obscene gratification that comes from each necessary motion.

You gradually shift the demon's domain into a veritable garden, keeping a trembling hand outstretched. It rises with every hitch in your breath, with the heat upon Arkthros, and the light that radiates from his form. Tensing further, as you keep the molten weight pressed upon his' writhing form, you do not struggle to keep him under your grasp.

You've probably been standing aside from Arkthros for several minutes, just to level your breath. The struggle is to regain enough stability to speak at all, and it's not getting any easier. In the throes of two Goddesses, insanity tilts off of your mortal eyes, through which you all look down upon your captive.

Through the haze of pollen, blinding radiance, and an unabating wave of pleasure, you relish the form at your feet. The archdemon must be capable of breaking free. His power is immense. Yet, through the scalding burns upon his skin— there is fear soaking into the sunken pits of his eyes.

He's planning something, and you aren't waiting to find out what.

After all, why should you even acknowledge his accusations, when you have so many of your own?

"Why are you holding anyone within your domain?"

Despite being pinned to the floor, Arkthros cranes his scalded neck up to sneer right at you. "Why should I give any answers to a profligate, who will unhinge themselves before I can begin to encourage it? Do you linger for the pleasure of my company, Father? Or perhaps, your station has tasked you so greatly, that the very idea of a fitting punishment—"

This really isn't anything you haven't heard before. With a sigh, you turn a fraction of the heat from within your own body— out— into the mounds of liquid gold. No further smoke rises from the archdemon. He's charring, and in too much pain to speak.

Letting every bit of madness leech into your voice that you would normally repress, you lean your head back, and murmur, "nnnh. Why— why shouldn't I kill you."

The archdemon literally spits at you, missing his mark by a wide margin. It's despite every indication that he would rather scream. The fear you recognized earlier is back on him in full force. The clipped response is obviously in regards to Mercy, and you get his meaning well enough. "You cannot. Will not."

(1/2)
>>
>>4344822
>>4344825
>>4344822
He's more frightened of what I wish to do while he's still alive.

Tilting your head back, you take a knee, just beside the archdemon. "We are Merciful, Arkthros." He laughs. "There is still no need for any of this. No harm needed to befall you. All I wish is to protect those within Our care. Now, speak— and speak plainly. What purpose do you serve, as the warden of these ruins?"

A violent jerk of his head, to try and wrest free from what is no doubt crushing weight upon his chest, precludes Arkthros' proud declaration. "That of the King, who truly upholds that which you profess to lead—"

Your gaze softens, if only slightly. The backs of your ankles are completely healed, and your mind is clearing more rapidly by the second. It's still not saying much, but you can at least ask without moaning, "this— this is a pact between King Magnus, "the Merciful," and yourself? The two of you, alone?"

"Yes. Those who came before," he likely means the half-dozen Kings who must have reigned in his lifespan, "were fools. They terrorized my domain, and the thousands of my kin that have occupied it. No mere prisoners. My demons. Those within my care. They had fought bitterly, to the very end. I am not the first archdemon of Calunoth. I do not intend to be the last—"

"Answer the question, Arkthros."

He's actually incapable of brevity. "You don't care in the slightest, about my history. You may be capable of subsisting on lasciviousness, and sin alone, Father—"

You lean in, just enough to give him a warning glare. "Do you intend to find out the full extent of my proclivities?"

He draws back into himself, just slightly. The edges of his wings twitch from within their confinement. "No. I am compelled, Father. I stress that which you may understand. My charge here, on behalf of the King, permits me to seek that which I hold dear."

"Delay."

Your insistence upon straight answers may be a worse torture than burning Arkthros alive. The demon writhes so violently, you take a broad step back, fully upright, and have to bend everything you have into keeping him at bay. "Why would the King want this—"

"He has enemies," Arkthros spits, twisting hard against the hold, "and is just as delusional as you are."

Does King Magnus think imprisoning anyone within these ruins is Mercy...?

"What do you get, from this deal with the King?"

"Do you see any other demons beneath the city?!" A freakishly familiar statement falls from the ancient creature's lips. It's one that you've heard from another decrepit monstrosity, though it was many months ago that you met Malimos. "They will not suffer us to live, Father. I cannot give you any reason to keep me alive that you would truly take heart in. You are blind."

(Options in next post.)
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>>4344830
(Formatting error, please refresh/F5 if the old post is still displaying.

>A ROLL MAY BE REQUIRED, FOR ALL OF THE FOLLOWING.

>A] Arkthros is just as trapped down here as anyone else. Take pity on him.
>1] Offer to extend your Relic's ability. Explain what it can do, and see if the archdemon would be willing to try and temper his own insanity.
>2] Swear that you don't want to bring him further harm, and take a step back. You'll go only on the defensive, if necessary.

>B] You have probably dug this whole WAY too deeply already. There may not be any pride in it, but keep Arkthros down for as long as possible, while you try to get away.

>C] You have a fraction of an idea of what this archdemon is capable of, but want to push your luck. Continue trying to interrogate him.
>1] Why Starlight and Stardust?
>2] Ask it plainly: If you continue to try and ensure the twins escape, will Arkthros legitimately try and kill you? Have you been in ANY real danger?
>3] What can you do, to ensure the retreat of everyone in your care?

>D] Write-in.
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>>4344836
>C] You have a fraction of an idea of what this archdemon is capable of, but want to push your luck. Continue trying to interrogate him.
>1] Why Starlight and Stardust?
Quiet night today
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>>4345064
(It's all good, moving some stuff around at home. I'll get at least one more update out this evening. Appreciate you man! Hope you're doing well too.)
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>>4344836
>>A] Arkthros is just as trapped down here as anyone else. Take pity on him.
>>1] Offer to extend your Relic's ability. Explain what it can do, and see if the archdemon would be willing to try and temper his own insanity.
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>>4345074
Support.
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>>4345064
>>4345074
>>4345079
(Alright guys! We can do both of these. Locking the vote, writing now.)
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File: Father Anscham's Relic.png (315 KB, 750x852)
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315 KB PNG
>>4345140
https://youtu.be/vsZtCLMsevM

"You may be right," you murmur.

Arkthros jerks with his entire body, harder than before, in a desperate attempt to escape. It's not your invocation that halts his movement. He stops the violent motion, the very instant you stress, "I do not understand, but— but I would like to."

The pits of blackness upon the archdemon's face bore into you, silently seething. He wants to talk. He wants to share.

"Why? Starlight and Stardust—" you pause, and elaborate, "the King's children. Why?"

"The King's mind is weak. He could not bring himself to kill either of them." You notice that there is dried blood, packed thick with sand, encrusted along the gums of Arkthros' teeth as he smiles broader than ever before at you. "It would have been terribly easy. They have lingered. They have waited for you."

He knows much more than he's letting on. All trace of ecstasy drops from your frame, as you scowl, "I returned for them."

A long moment passes between the two of you. It's alright. This is worth your Time.

"I still cannot understand why so much has been sacrificed, all on behalf of retaining two humans within your domain."

"King Magnus is afraid, Father Anscham. You should be, too."

He knows who you are, beyond any doubt. One of the archdemon's wings has been solidifying, all this time. It skewers straight through the soft metal keeping him in place, piercing into the air with an ear-splitting shatter. The thrashing underneath your hold redoubles. You take a step back, hand to your Relic. The fire upon it eclipses the sun itself. "I know you are afraid."

"You know nothing—!"

"I want to help. The Goddess of Mercy has gifted me with more than Her love. Allow me to extend my ability, Arkthros."

"There is nothing you could do for me. Nothing you could willingly give. You will run, and condemn us all, just as every one of your predecessors before you—!"

Another one of the demon's wings pierces straight through your hold. Rapidly, you melt it back down, to try and encase and solidify its prison with the same motion. The air itself between you waves, from the very heat of your devotion. Your voice remains firm. "This may yet be a gift, from a King who has come before any of us. I know with absolute certainty that it is mine, through which I may cure more than my pain. It is a blessing, to relieve the pain of so many others."

A bark of a laugh is your reply. The archdemon takes in a sharp breath, like he's been wounded. He has been wounded, by your hand, and the cracks upon his burnt lips scowl, "what makes you think that this would hold any sway over me?"

(1/2)
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File: Hyacinths.jpg (69 KB, 509x308)
69 KB
69 KB JPG
>>4345275
This domain is worn beyond all reaches of Time, and likely only persists through Arkthros' will. You have been blind. Enthralled with divinity, but you look to something tangible. Hundreds of hyacinths wave around you both, in a nonexistent wind. The garden pushes out, into the furthest reaches of a nonexistent domain. There has been no sand for some time. The soil underfoot is purely of your own making. You look to a single, flawless locket in hand. One that you earned through earning the trust of an archdemon.

Fearlessly taking a step closer, you put yourself right into the reach of a lethally serrated blade of glass. "I have granted my tenets to others before. Healing: to a priestess who could not take the hands of Mercy. Restraint: to a demon of knowledge, who had lost its meaning."

Stunned into stillness, he spits, "that is impossible."

"Light," you stress. "Comfort. Healing. Restraint." You're both cringing, but you stress, "hope. We both know of our weakness. That which lurks within the hearts of humankind. I possess an item that may not bend the Catalyst, Arkthros— but it may bend our insanity. My Relic can turn our violence towards compassion."

"You're a poor fucking show of it," he grins, back to ripping himself further from your bonds.

"It may do more than permit men to wield the might of all the Gods," you erratically breathe, fighting with everything you have to keep yourself steady. Exerting further influence over every breach in Mercy's defenses is taking more out of you than you anticipated. You've only been with Mercy and Agriculture once like this before, and had ample aid in knowing your limits. A plea, your obsession, and a unique brand of insanity falls from your own bloodied lips. "This is folly, Arkthros. Plese. Help me understand."

With horror, it occurs to you that the compression and heat you've exerted over the demon's body is responsible for the extreme toughness it's exhibiting now. The glass upon its wings, in the dozens of tendrils extending outwards, are nowhere near as mobile. They've hardened, into dozens of long and toughened knives. In unison, they slice up, and free Arkthros entirely from captivity.

The archdemon is so injured, he rises back to his feet through flight alone. Hanging back no more than five feet, the blackened and crusted skin upon his burnt limbs move to twist his neck. The crack releases a small cloud of dust.

The grains of sand twist into petals, the moment you lay eyes upon them. "Permit us to help one another," you gasp. Unable to maintain the form of his hold, you release the tension in your hands, and permit the golden prison to liquefy. The sheer might of your invocation has destroyed the sorcerer's staff, and only a charred outline of it remains upon the little stone left between you.

(One paragraph over! 2/3)
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>>4345280
The cracked glass upon Arkthros' brow leers at you. You realize he's only moved the minimal distance it would take to comfortably look down. Disgust, curiosity, and desperation further discolors the archdemon's sneer. "Why should I trust you?"

>A] It wouldn't be the first time you've made a pact with a demon. Offer to do something for Arkthros, as a show of good-will, before exerting any other influence over him.
>1] Make a suggestion you're comfortable with. (Write-in.)
>2] Let him make a proposition.

>B] He shouldn't. Honesty is a tenet of Mercy, too. ...wait a minute.
>1] Offer to give your honesty to Arkthros. Maybe this is exactly what he needs, to speak and act with candor. (With a 100% success rate, this notoriously strips you of this tenet of Mercy, and may be an enormous ordeal to reclaim. This option will only be used if majority vote decides.)
>2] Propose that you stay awhile, and help Arkthros to talk about his history candidly, to start. He'll get to waste your Time, you'll get information, and you'll both be observing the King's and Goddess' will.

>C] Write-in.
>>
>>4345284
>C] Write-in.
"I have catalysted 32 times, yet remained human. If you work with me now, We can help you regain a part of your sanity, your self, your old time."
>>
>>4345284
>>B] He shouldn't. Honesty is a tenet of Mercy, too. ...wait a minute.
>>1] Offer to give your honesty to Arkthros. Maybe this is exactly what he needs, to speak and act with candor. (With a 100% success rate, this notoriously strips you of this tenet of Mercy, and may be an enormous ordeal to reclaim. This option will only be used if majority vote decides.)

Everyone gets a tenet. We got back our other tenets before, allying with the most powerful and ancient demon we have ever met is worth the effort, just imagine the research potential of being on speaking terms with someone that is 2 millennia old. Besides, it is the right thing to do.
>>
>>4345284
>B] He shouldn't. Honesty is a tenet of Mercy, too. ...wait a minute.
>2] Propose that you stay awhile, and help Arkthros to talk about his history candidly, to start. He'll get to waste your Time, you'll get information, and you'll both be observing the King's and Goddess' will.
and this >>4345492 as well
btw how does losing a tenet works ?
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>>4345597
In the case of Honesty it would mean we would for a period of time have a hard time to speak directly what we want to say, hesitate and delay or outright lie.
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>>4345624
>>4345597

To add to this, we would be essentially giving him a part of us that we "cultivated", it doesn't mean it's gone forever, just that we are gonna need to work on growing it again. When we gave Beltoro our restraint we ended up learning hundreds of years of history and found out that the Catalyst is actually the absence of hope. Who knows what we could learn from an archdemon that is that much more ancient than Beltoro, I think this is a trade worth making.
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>>4345624
>>4345644
>>4345520
(Love the discussion dudes. Friendly reminder for you guys that you had successfully given the tenet of healing to Sister Corbon, as well. Though the process with the priestess of Mercy was instantaneous, and had absolutely no effect on your capacity to heal, you have almost compulsively attempted to exert that particular tenet of Mercy at every opportunity since then.

Conversely, the initial gift to Beltoro completely destroyed the form of Archdemon Idonea's Relic, was extremely taxing, nearly killed you, and eight months after having granted the tenet to Beltoro... employing restraint has been a fixation. One that's been difficult to employ even to this day. See: this entire encounter.

It could be that either your Relic, the individual you exert this ability over, or your own tenets are variables that could make the process have different outcomes!

I elected to make B1 only an option in case of majority vote, due to the severity of even offering as much. I'll absolutely stress that you guys want to make things right, here, but going to stick with

>>4345492
>>4345597
The write-in, and B2, for this post. Doesn't mean you're locked out of that offer forever, but we'll abstain for now. Vote is locked! Writing now.)
>>
>>4345850
https://youtu.be/jJ-9lW8j3E8

Staring straight at an archdemon's absence of eyes, the burns upon his skin, the cracks upon his face, and every attempt he has made at avoiding injury, you insist, "you shouldn't."

Several long moments pass, as the void around you both impossibly expands. The garden you've created feels as if it's being tugged upon, at the edges of reality. Every blossom on the edges of the abyss are continually wearing down. You try to focus on keeping stable, on staying grounded. After everything you've been through, you've at least learned something from it.

The invocation to Mercy has gold dripping from your hands, dripping from your soul. The yellow-gold upon your gaze must be as intense as the mounting pressure of Agriculture working through you.

Focusing on anything more than their gift is rapidly becoming impossible. The thought of leaving either of them at all is impossible. In fact, "permit me to keep you company. To stay for awhile. To hear of your history. To help you speak. To pass the Time."

It's not manipulation. He's looking to you with doubt, in those pits for eyes. You are earnest to a fault, and don't draw away from the stare for a second. It's always been easier for you to keep eye contact with demon, anyways. "You are brimming with potential. The very prospect— of being able to speak with an archdemon— let alone one who is nearly two thousand millennia old—"

You take a breath, excited at the prospect beyond all measure. The hyacinths all around you have an incredibly potent scent. The floral notes and borderline sickly-sweetness is powerful. Nearly as intoxicating as the sheer volume of information standing before you. Someone to help. Someone to heal. You can be honest. "I have endured the Catalyst, Arkthros."

He actually leans in, to stare at you even more intensely. The points of his teeth are visible, as the demon's mouth hangs open for just a moment. Catching himself, drawing back, the archdemon lands back upon the soil to ask, "you are unlike any demon I have ever encountered. They would never permit one to lead."

He's referring to the church of Mercy. You repress every urge to nervously laugh. Clarifications are necessary, given the reputation of your home. "I have remained human."

A snap, out of sheer disbelief, "what was the Catalyst?"

"Faith."

The crack in Arkthros' composure is almost another crack in his face. "What?"

Insanity drips off of your legacy. "Thirty. Two. Times."

The archdemon takes a step towards you. His strides are so long, the singular motion is enough to bring him right next to you. The behemoth towers even over your respectable height. Looking down, around you, inspecting you like some kind of insect, Arkthros barks, "that is impossible."

(1/2)
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>>4345920
"If you work with me— tolerate me— I would still like to help you. You don't have to trust me. Regaining your sanity, your self, your Time—"

Arkthros is clearly too fascinated to not ask, "How are you still alive?"

You smile. "The Gods are Merciful."

The archdemon is stunned into silence. He's scrutinizing you, squinting, as if he could discern your soul's properties from sight alone.

As a show of good will, you stay in arm's reach of the demon, and take a seat. A modicum of what your body must be going through registers, and you have to take a sharp breath in.

It's dangerous beyond measure to persist with a dual invocation for this long. Not merely for the sake of your sanity, the molten gold that's coursing from your hands, the inability to stop exerting any influence over Arkthros' domain, or the pressure in your soul.

It's terribly difficult to feel anything, to want for anything, or to focus on anything. Through the intensity of it, the urge to shift, and to let out your belt, is still intense. Your waist is still tapered, the muscle upon you plain to see, but the remains of your tattered shirt are threatening to tear along the seam. There's bulk over you, and disguising the definition that Flesh has gifted you with. Your certain that the conventional effect will continue, if you keep pushing yourself with the Goddess of Bounty.

Despite being burnt beyond all measure, Arkthros finds a way to take a step back. He's almost too stunned to speak, and manages to seethe, "I have my duty. My charge. They have escaped, thanks to you."

The pressure feels phenomenal, from the depths of your soul, to the skin upon your muscle. You're tempted to lean back, and to simply enjoy Agriculture's presence. The degree of satiety eclipses your present company—

The archdemon, having sat next to you, is worth your undivided attention. "Do not disappoint me, Father."

He's clearly waiting for you to speak, to lead, to make the first move. Trying to not gasp, to moan, to assume some semblance of sanity, you take another deep breath. The demon is close enough to you that the scent of dust and blood intermingles with the pollen on the air.

Sister Cardew would likely be sneezing, were she here. The priestess of Spirit would likely be worried, if she were here.

>A] Release the invocation to Agriculture, but persist with Mercy, for your protection.

>B] Release both invocations, knowing that the environment you've created is the only thing keeping you stable in a domain removed from Time itself.

>C] Keep up both invocations, despite the potential effects on your vessel.

>D] Write-in.
>>
>>4345925
>>A] Release the invocation to Agriculture, but persist with Mercy, for your protection.
>>
>>4345925
>A] Release the invocation to Agriculture, but persist with Mercy, for your protection.
>>
>>4345925
>>A] Release the invocation to Agriculture, but persist with Mercy, for your protection.
>>
>>4345933
>>4345935
>>4345962
(Currently away from my desk so we'll be without formatting, hope that isn't a huge issue for anyone. Would rather update now with plaintext than 8+ hours from now with some bold and italics. Vote is locked! Writing now.)
>>
>>4346104
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lrBGoMFneU0

The threads of your sanity are worth tying back together. There's been so much support, and counsel, from more than just your friends. You think of half a year, spent in the care of a dear friend. You think of a woman that has sacrificed everything she has, to protect your health, and look after your mind.

Releasing the invocation to Agriculture, praying for protection from yourself, you could not be more relieved to have sat down. As the Goddess parts from your vessel, reality comes crashing back down. Suffocating fullness is on you, pressing against the pollen practically coating your robes. Moving to brush a single petal from your hair is momentarily unthinkable.

Working back through the void, through the absence of one divinity, is another. You stay with Mercy, and Her hold, and try to stop reeling. You try to think of Her nestled in your arms. The softness of Her voice. The scent of lemon, and honey, on your lover's dandelion curls. It's not that you need to escape from reality. You simply can't stop thinking about Her. She's everything, and all that's in your soul, for what might as well be another age.

Fortunately, you're in the company of a demon that thrives on delay. Arkthros is positively riveted by your silence, as the green upon your gaze fades, and the garden at the edges of your natural platform decays. The soil under you is real. Hyper-attunement to every last inch of grit under your nails has you dig in your hands, to try and get just a little more grounded. The volume of gold pooling from your hands floods the indentations in the dirt. The radiance isn't muted, by the coating of rock and soil. You can't help but marvel at how beautiful it is.

Several minutes pass by, before the archdemon observes, "you are willing to do anything for your research."

Gritting your teeth is mandatory, to not gasp, "not necessarily."

"You would rather speak with me, than to look after your children?"

The reply is utterly removed from your usual, soft-spoken tone. There's no need for timidness, when you and the Mother of your church can speak of your love, and loyalty. "They are capable of taking care of themselves."

"That they are," Arkthros leers, his teeth coming dangerously close to your face. "But what of you, Father?"

You try to get a little more comfortable, and lean a bit further into Mercy's embrace. The Goddess is more than happy to insist, through your lips, in a blend of your tone and Her resonance, "he has nothing to fear."

There's no need for you to ask Mercy for Her protection. Your partner is fully aware of your need. You make a mental note, once again, to one day discern what Mercy's favorite flower is. Warmth washes over you, as you softly smile, "Our concern lies with you, Arkthros."

(Options in next post.)
>>
>>4346188
>The following options are not mutually exclusive. You have demonstrated the capacity to maintain an invocation with Mercy for upwards of two solid days at a time. All options selected, write-ins, and comments may be used.
>Any vocal opposition will be taken into full consideration, as always.
>Bear in mind that you are still ultimately human. Persisting in the domain of a demon of Time for an extended period may not be wise.
>If many prompts are selected, they may be broken down into more than one update, for the sake of pacing.

>A] "I wish to know about your demons. Who were they? Why did you care for them? Why did they fight?"

>B] "Tell me of your personal history, as a man. I'm interested in what led to your Catalyst, if you can remember it."

>C] "How did you become an archdemon?"

>D] "I would like to know more of your relationship with King Magnus."

>E] "How did Harvey Jay Algrith earn your trust, and come to an agreement with you?"

>F] "What do you know of Starlight and Stardust? Why should the King and I fear them?"

>G] Write-in.
>>
>>4346196
>>A] "I wish to know about your demons. Who were they? Why did you care for them? Why did they fight?"
>>B] "Tell me of your personal history, as a man. I'm interested in what led to your Catalyst, if you can remember it."

What do you know of Ostedholm, the city of darkness?
What do you know of the Catalyst?
>>
>>4346221
+1
>>
>>4346196
>A] "I wish to know about your demons. Who were they? Why did you care for them? Why did they fight ?"
>B] "Tell me of your personal history, as a man. I'm interested in what led to your Catalyst, if you can remember it."
>C] "How did you become an archdemon?"
>>
>>4346221
+1
>>
>>4346221
+1
>>
>>4346221
>>4346317
>>4346353
>>4346721
>>4346725
(Hell yeah dudes, can definitely do all of this. Vote is locked! Writing now.)
>>
>>4346898
Thanks to the Goddess of Agriculture, you cannot hunger for anything of the material world. You look out, through the haze of light and gold upon your pupils. Out, to the endless expanse of swirling dust in the distance. The hyacinths have almost all decayed, and the soil you rest upon is growing thinner by the second. You look up, to a demon nearly two millennia old. He's equally fascinated, but is seriously injured, and makes no further move to attack.

You're starved for answers. No longer are you content to exert the power granted to you. Yes, you're enamored, with the Goddess of compassion. But Mercy is more than your partner. She's always tempered you. You were raised in the church of sincerity, and a softer, warmer tone sinks into your words. "I wish to know about your demons. Who were they?"

"I'll show you," Arkthros grins, waving a hand to the lair behind him.

"Wait—!"

https://youtu.be/-OMLnGtIzug

Getting to your feet as rapidly as you can is entirely insufficient. The entire world shifts, and you nearly fall over before you stand upright. Grains of sand blast from only one direction, enough so that you can immediately splay your hands, and stretch a shield of solid light before your entire body. On one knee, knitting your eyes shut, you ask, "why are you doing this—"

"Because I can," the demon laughs, as the hurricane comes abruptly to a stop. You manage to not fall over, but for how full you are, the urge to vomit is immense.

As your eyes adjust from the bitter gale of sand, they go wide, and your nausea redoubles. The ruins around you have been restored to their former hue, shape, and color. The abandoned home you fled from with Ofelia, just yesterday, surrounds you. Its hardwood floors, plastered with animal furs and blood. The exotic and excessive furniture, instruments, suits of armor, and heraldry from the floor to the ceiling. The spiral stair, and its many banisters. Visible decor, on all sides of the building, for the great expanse of lethally exposed space at its center. All five stories, that stretch up, to a monumental chandelier at its very peak. The walls are lined with doors, that you know lead out to the lair of a demon of Time. The entire mansion is occupied, and your pulse picks up faster than before.

There are demons celebrating, on each and every level. Confetti flies from a number of banisters, in strips of purple paper. Drink is flowing freely, from monsters that clearly share a common bond. Blood is flowing freely, from nightmares that cannot restrain their impulses. The pulse in your chest tells you that the screams, the scent of decay, the growing light from flame upon candles, and the calls for celebration are real.

(1/2)
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>>4347044
Arkthros is standing beside you, looks down, and gives you a melancholy smile. "We were celebrating the day I had turned. My family, Father Anscham. They were my family. We were all that was left of our world. We were all that was left of each other. No one could have kept them all safe. No one would have suffered them all to live. It didn't matter if they were fighters, lovers, priests, or sinners. Men, women, children—"

An imp, no more than ten feet away, rips off the head of another. They're both no more than half your size, vaguely humanoid safe for the swords that replace their legs. Balanced precariously, the twist of a spine snapping clean off of its neck resonates in your ears. Blood sprays hot, straight onto the killer's face. Some of the mist flecks onto your robes, looking and feeling as real as anything you've ever know.

The demon laughs, frantically getting its hands and lips into the corpse's windpipe. You resist the urge to gag, being fully acquainted with eating coagulated blood. There are so many questions, that cannot come out as gently as you'd usually manage. "Why did you care for them?"

Arkthros rips a nearby banister off of its staircase, possibly venting his anger. No one is occupying the space, but seconds later, an entire chair flies directly where he was standing. While a scantily-clad succubus slinks past you both, carrying a collection of drinks, your host sweeps two of the wine glasses into his hand.

He knocks back both, though the liquid turns to sand before it reaches his charred tongue. With a grimace, Arkthros liquefies the glass, and retools it into a new hourglass. The objects are fused together, heat emanating off of his hands. The end product is a colossal staff, which is pointed straight at the top floor of the building. "They cared for me," he mutters. "Sacrificed themselves for me."

The colossal, double-doors on the fifth floor fly open. Hinges break, wood splinters, and the doors collapse to the floor. Before dust can rise, a hideous cry breaks out among every single demon in the building. They're up in arms. Halberds, pikes, spears, javelins— you reflexively duck, trying to not panic, for how many times you've had these projectiles thrown at you. Hands above your head, casting another tower shield about you, a thought crosses your mind.

They favor ranged weapons for their own protection.

Five men at the top flight collapse to the floor, having been shot and killed in the blink of an eye. Javelins stick out both ends of their skulls. A survivor staggers, with an colossal arrow in his chest. The guilty party is a demonic archer, upon the opposite rail. Its upper body is monstrous, equipped to handle a ten-foot-long bow within its muscular hands.

(Underestimated, 2/3)
>>
>>4347047
The weapon penetrated straight through the armor upon your ancestor's chest. A priest of Mercy, in his robes of gold, staggers ahead with a single hand outstretched. He's trying to save the lives of the common men behind him. Utter chaos ensues, as he attempts to invoke the very Goddess who is working through you now.

Something odd happens. Nothing happens.

Horror drenches the invoker, as the Goddess does not answer. Three more arrows streak into his torso, and he drops dead to the floor. Ten more common men barrel ahead behind him, and a battle of ridiculous proportions ignites.

You are almost speechless, and find the will to glance to the archdemon. His attention is completely taken off of you, looking up, to the fight. He's not smiling.

"Why did they fight," you murmur, keeping your eyes on their father.

Arkthros can't look at you. You're certain he's trying to disguise his grief, and righteous anger. "To delay the inevitable."

>A] (Continue with the line of questioning that was previously voted for. Try to save additional questions for later.)

>B] Extend your condolences to Arkthros, before moving on to his life as a mortal, and any questions about his Catalyst. You know how it feels to lose someone dear to you.

>C] What the FUCK was with that failed invocation?
>1] Plainly ask Arkthros if he knows anything about Mercy's absence, at any point in time.
>2] Pointedly ask about this one incident.
>3] Keep your thoughts to yourself. You'll bring this up to Mercy later.

>D] Write-in. (Write-ins may take a backseat if they add substantially more to the line of questioning, so we can pursue the prompts already selected.)
>>
>>4347052
>>A] (Continue with the line of questioning that was previously voted for. Try to save additional questions for later.)
>>B] Extend your condolences to Arkthros, before moving on to his life as a mortal, and any questions about his Catalyst. You know how it feels to lose someone dear to you.
Condolences first, ask questions after.
>>
>>4347052
>>A] (Continue with the line of questioning that was previously voted for. Try to save additional questions for later.)
>>B] Extend your condolences to Arkthros, before moving on to his life as a mortal, and any questions about his Catalyst. You know how it feels to lose someone dear to you.
>>
>>4347054
>>4347241
(Cool guys, calling the vote here to update before bed. Vote is locked! Writing now.)
>>
>>4347251
https://youtu.be/nJaK2b_Ku1k

"Your loved ones have lived on through you, Arkthros."

The archdemon snaps his gaze straight at you, as if he's never seen you before.

You keep your gaze up, to the battle. It's senseless. Bodies are literally raining from the upper levels, from man and demon alike. A small army of servants to a King were clearly sent to these ruins, to indiscriminately slaughter anything— or anyone— that they found. Mortal's armor and prayer grants them little in the way of respite. They're cut down like animals, fighting bitterly over a cause that you intimately understand. To tolerate these creatures is to die.

You cannot suffer demons to live.

Every demon you lay eyes upon is clearly frightened for their life. Many of them flee into crevasses within the walls, through countless doors, and behind their master. They're all seeking shelter, and survival. Arkthros can't look away. He'd linger here for another millennia, if you let him.

One of your best friends is a demon. Your most beloved mentor was one, too. It's not just that the Goddess of Compassion is still working through you. Brow furrowed, you honestly murmur, "I'm sorry for your loss."

The towering figure beside you rips his gaze from your form, and dismisses the past entirely, with a violent gesture of his staff. "Don't be."

With his sneer, and a wordless incantation, the entire scene crumbles to dust.

You can't help but stare, as the walls come down around you both. The forms of every man and monster pick up in an unseen wind. The sand is carried off, into an endless horizon. The return to Arkthros' lair took no Time at all. You stare into the void. It would be impossible to discern a path out of his domain, in its current state. For a moment, you marvel at how you're even standing. A small space of light, solid and as real as your devotion, is underfoot. The gold pooling from your scars, along your wrists and hands, speckles the small platform underfoot.

Glancing up, you notice that there are no eyelids upon Arkthros' face. The grieving father is also staring into a void, boring his gaze into the memory of the scene.

The charred edges of his skin are reverting to an earlier state. It's not that he's healing. The demon's skin is reverting to exactly as he looked, before your fight. He can only look back.

He can only go back, to what was before. It's not that he's delaying anything—

"Can you tell me of your personal history, Arkthros? As a mortal?"

A bark of a laugh greets you in reply. "What makes you think I could begin to remember?"

There's no doubt in your mind that this demon remembers every second of his life with the same clarity as the glass upon his face. Through the calm and comfort that Mercy's presence should bring, you twitch in reply, "I am interested in what led to your Catalyst. If— if you can remember it."

(1/2)
>>
>>4347318
"Very well."

The world grows cold. The sky grows dark.

Back indoors, your gaze falls immediately to an elderly man. He's clad in strange garb. The cut of his jacket is as angular as a flight of pale stairs. Cloth around his neck, fastened like a bow.

The peculiar decor upon his frame is nearly as bizarre as his surroundings. He is standing in a home, unlike any you've ever seen. The walls are stark white, plastered with obscenely high-quality paper. Not a speck of fiber is visible upon its smooth, unblemished surface. The floor is wooden, though it is also as smooth and reflective as the rest of Arkthros' domain. Light filters from petal-like fixtures upon the ceiling. There is glass upon the walls, blocking angular art from the ravages of Time. There is glass upon wooden cabinets, sheltering trinkets and valuables within. There is glass upon the edges of odd furniture, in hues of lilac.

There is a man. He's elderly, and alone. In one hand he holds a cane, clearly carved by hand from a beloved old tree. In the other he has a glass container, at the center of the room. It is full of ash. It's a custom you've only heard of from the Church of Flesh, and Storm. The former pays respect to the fire they kindle in their vessel. The latter worships the very flame that can consume them all, at a moment's notice.

An elderly man is kneeling, in an empty home, and cries to himself. There's no public here. There are images in glass, upon the transparent tables, and wooden cabinets. They show a family, and friends, beside a younger man.

The archdemon at your side is trying his best not to cry. His lips are tight, as he spits, "I never had enough."

Your heart threatens to snap in half. "Time was taken from you, wasn't it, Arkthros?"

He can't look at you. He looks to the images of grown children, and a man holding desperately onto the remains of someone you may never know.

Nearly two thousand years ago, an elderly man drops to his knees. He is beside himself. He is the absence of faith. The absence of hope. He draws in on himself, and a singular emotion, so intense that nothing is left of him.

The world goes black.

"You don't need to see this."

"I understand. It's never been delay, has it?"

"No."

"You're a demon of grief, aren't you?"

"King Magnus has given me all the—" There's a violent choke, as Arkthros has completely forgotten himself, and gasps for air against the very attempt at uttering Her name.

You're the Father of Compassion. "Time," you provide.

"...yes. All that I could ask for. My children, Father—" his voice cracks, harder than the split you caused across his face, "it is as you said. They live on through me." That horrible, hideous anger is back on the archdemon in full force. "They will not be forgotten. Not if I must persist as the last forsaken abomination, in this miserable maze, until the end of all things."

(Options in next post.)
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>>4347325
>(The following are merely to tactfully shift the subject. The previously selected prompts will still be addressed.)

>A] Segue into your question about Ostedholm. Ask Arkthros if he ever met Beltoro, Malimos, or Idonea. At least make the archdemon aware that there are others out there, who wish to endure for nearly as long as he has.

>B] Now is as good a time as any to ask about the Catalyst.

>C] Specifically ask about how Arkthros became an archdemon. It is no small feat, and Arkthros clearly grieved just as intensely over his demons as he did his living children.

>D] You're stunned, but not speechless.
>1] Try to express a little more of your sympathy.
>2] Write-in.
>>
>>4347327
>>A] Segue into your question about Ostedholm. Ask Arkthros if he ever met Beltoro, Malimos, or Idonea. At least make the archdemon aware that there are others out there, who wish to endure for nearly as long as he has.
>>
>>4347327
>A] Segue into your question about Ostedholm. Ask Arkthros if he ever met Beltoro, Malimos, or Idonea. At least make the archdemon aware that there are others out there, who wish to endure for nearly as long as he has.
>>
>>4347328
>>4347339
(Great shit guys, votes came in fast enough to squeeze in one more update before bed! Vote is locked. Writing now!)
>>
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>>4347376
https://youtu.be/wRYNfaJ3v14

"There are others out there, Arkthros. I cannot speak for their past, or their future— but you may know of them. Have you ever heard of Ostedholm, the city of darkness?"

Through the utter absence of light all about you, there is concern coating the archdemon. "You must mean the city of light."

Something violent, ugly, temperamental, and more devastating than a bolt of lightning falls from your lips. "No."

Horrified, you put a hand to your lips. A little copper is on your tongue, and the impression of a Storm at the back of your mind. "I'm sorry."

Resignation defines this monster. Hopelessness sinks into his voice. "What have you done."

"I made an expedition into the ruins, Arkthros. It is a very long story. One which ended in Storm quelling Ostedholm's light, for good. It is the city of darkness. I meant to ask— Malimos, the Master of Webs, has become an informant. I do not know when, throughout the ages he's endured. He preys on those who enter his domain unaware— to— to care for his children."

Nausea is sinking into you. There has never been an opportunity to talk this out. Never so candidly, and never to someone who could actually understand a fraction of your experiences. You went to the ruins to die, and attacked each and every potential threat you faced for weeks, without asking a single question. "He had been a killer of men, even in life. I felt his Catalyst, Arkthros, and survived the experience. He was far too powerful to take Vengeance upon. We— we parted ways on— on neutral terms. He had wished to aid me, in the end."

"I have corresponded with this 'Malimos,' twice before."

There's no hope for your composure. "Excuse me?"

"Once, when Archdemon Idonea resigned herself to the bottom of the abyss. She had lost hope beyond hope, and sought to lock herself away from the world. To lock her children away from the world."

There were thousands of doors in Idonea's lair. You want to vomit, thinking of Yech extending a symbol of apology to every single one of them. There's a horrific tremor on you, at the mere thought of how vast her army was. A Goddess is in you, protecting your mind, protecting your soul, protecting you from yourself. Your shaking stops. Vacantly, you ask, "what of Beltoro."

"I was not finished, Father Anscham."

You blink, and resume the battle with the sour taste rising in the back of your throat. There's no hyacinths. A phantom of lilies is on your tongue, in your mind, and you stammer, "please— please continue."

"The second communication arrived upon the death of Malimos' archdemon. He cautioned me, that the change in power would likely come to my doorstep. The message arrived just last week."

You can't breathe. "I beg your pardon?"

(1/2)
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>>4347441
"I imagine that getting one of his children this far took multiple attempts. It carried a message. There was to be a new archdemon. One greater than any the world had ever seen before. A lord, who wishes to amend an old tyrant's neglect. A fearless, generous leader, backed by the strongest political alliance in history." Arkthros sneers, "Archdemon Yech possess more than an alliance with you, Father Anscham. Does he not? You were given Idonea's Relic. Were you not?"

The blood in your veins runs cold. "Malimos sent word to every archdemon in Corcaea."

"They may feel intimidated by your union," the reprobate grins. "I had no such concern, yet King Magnus was happy to hear the news. I have no need for falsehoods, Father. Neither does the King."

Vomiting feels inescapable. A demon of Spirit feels insignificant, compared to what's waiting for you on the surface. "He knows. He's known."

"He has strong allies," Arkthros leers. "Just like you."

"Father Sullivan." The leader of the Church of Spirit has been at your throat, in your head, and only recently at your heel. He's easily the most influential man in the country. He's easily the most capable of acquiring information, that could have been used to unseat you from the Church of Mercy.

"His children saw your descent into the ruins. They are cunning, and attempted to get as close to me as you are, now. They will seek to protect you. They will seek to destroy their own family, if it means granting you any semblance of a life in the world above. They live only for each other. This is nothing to them, and you have let them loose. I could have stopped them, for another age. I could have protected you, Father, from the truth. It's what you stand for, isn't it?"

He wants to respect your tenets.

This monster, in its own twisted way, has been trying to respect your church. The Goddess working through you.

You can't breathe. Mercy is desperately trying to keep you together. To remind you of all the good that you've done. The lives you've saved. The HUNDREDS of souls you've spared from this monster's fate. That there are seven other churches, tasked with the defense of the country. You have strong allies. MORTAL allies. They are all waiting for you on the surface. Brother Trebbeck has risked his life for you countless times. Sister Cardew lost her family, and has stayed by her side. Ofelia moved past your insanity, BECAUSE of the demons you faced together. She was desperate to not leave your side. She knew how much this all hurts you.

The only mortal friend you have left, that knows exactly how insane you can act around demons, screamed and clawed to not leave you alone down here.

"You can run. I will not blame you."

(Options in next post.)
>>
>>4347455
>A] Press the question about how Arkthros became an archdemon.

>B] Demand that he tell you about the Catalyst. NOW.

>C] You need to run. There's no telling how much Time you've wasted. (ANOTHER PROMPT MAY FOLLOW. A ROLL WILL DEFINITELY BE REQUIRED.)

>D] This demon is utterly insane, but he's given you more information in a short conversation than you've had in almost your entire life. Force yourself to stay put, and to implore him for more details about this matter.
>1] If things go well enough, you'll come back to this conversation and your questions another Time. This could be your second-most precious ally.
>2] Forget the rest of your discussion. You're getting out of here the second you get the information you need, and hope to never return again. It's not willful ignorance, naivete, or avoidance. You will bring this matter up with your King, the twins, and deal with the affairs of MEN. You have a life to make for yourself, friends who love you, and a loyal congregation. This is too dangerous of an association to keep.

>E] Write-in.
>>
>>4347456
>E] Write-in.
Does he know how Yech has been doing? I miss him
>>
>>4347455
>>B] Demand that he tell you about the Catalyst. NOW.
>>
>>4347456
>D] This demon is utterly insane, but he's given you more information in a short conversation than you've had in almost your entire life. Force yourself to stay put, and to implore him for more details about this matter.
>2] Forget the rest of your discussion. You're getting out of here the second you get the information you need, and hope to never return again. It's not willful ignorance, naivete, or avoidance. You will bring this matter up with your King, the twins, and deal with the affairs of MEN. You have a life to make for yourself, friends who love you, and a loyal congregation. This is too dangerous of an association to keep.
>>
>>4347456
>>D] This demon is utterly insane, but he's given you more information in a short conversation than you've had in almost your entire life. Force yourself to stay put, and to implore him for more details about this matter.
>>1] If things go well enough, you'll come back to this conversation and your questions another Time. This could be your second-most precious ally.
>>
>>4347456
>B] Demand that he tell you about the Catalyst. NOW.
>>
>>4347472
>>4347473
>>4347506
>>4347682
>>4347715
(D1 and D1 are mutually exclusive. Going to lock the vote here with the tie breaker and still include the write in. So sweet dude. I'll incorporate all of this! Writing now.)
>>
>>4347721
(D1 and D2*)
>>
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>>4347721
https://youtu.be/2CE3yZKO_QA

Emotion has you rooted to the spot. You're rarely this conflicted.

The one and only thing you can't do is run. Not now. Yech has been absent from your life for months. Without word, without any chance of knowing anything that he's been doing. His successes. His story.

You want to cry. "I miss him." You try to look to Arkthros, but there is a death shroud upon reality itself. A void is all that greets your wide eyes, as you quietly ask, "do you know how Yech has been?"

Understanding sinks into the archdemon. "This is more than a political union for you."

"He means the world to me. Please. If you have heard anything."

"I have told you everything that I have heard, Father. The message was brief, and likely took a tremendous amount of effort, multiple lives, and many months to reach me. The correspondence is uncommon, to an extreme."

Malimos is a gossip. You know he would have said as much as he could, if he could. There's a break in your voice, and something swimming in your eyes. "Are you sure?"

"Take solace in the lack of news, Father. He is certainly still alive, and likely faring well. If a demon as influential as Malimos swore himself to Archdemon Yech— without question— he is in capable hands."

Malimos has no hands. Malimos is a gigantic spider, made of stone, with bones and moss between the statue that comprises his teeth. Yech is out of your reach, has been out of your life, and you have sacrificed EVERYTHING to get to where you are today. The split in your soul is immense.

With a sniff, you dry your eyes, and look with Mercy through the void. There's still the vacant lair, the absence of hope, and a swirl of ash upon the sky. There must be a mile of stone above you. The weight is not suffocating. Not from the invocation that's shaped your body into another unrecognizable form for the fourth time in less than three days. Not from the pressure of an archdemon, standing just a few feet away. Blades drawn. Unable to trust you.

It's alright. There is one thing you trust in. One thing that is worth risking yourself, your Time, and the potential safety of everyone dear to you on the surface. No matter how badly you need to set things right, and to go home. To live your own life. To get away from the insanity, to care for yourself. To love your home, your family, and to never forget everything that they have done for you.

You focus on the one thing that has always mattered. An all-consuming obsession. A violent tremor runs through your hands. Try as She might to soothe your distress, Mercy cannot quell the Storm raging in you.

Emotion is not weakness.

"Tell me about the Catalyst, Arkthros." No matter what part of you wants to ally with this demon, you need to be clear. "Now."

"No."

You snap. "Do NOT toy with me."

(1/3)
>>
>>4347780
"Are you going to kill me, if I don't speak?" He's grinning. He seriously still wants to kill you. The archdemon may never forgive you, for letting the twins go. Drawing into yourself, tempering the fixation, forcing a moment of silence, you stand, and you wait. You have done worse things, to get answers.

He'll wait until the end of Time. Misery is a trifle, compared to the way you choke out, "I would like to stop repeating past mistakes. Please. I need to know."

"You have felt it."

"Yes."

"What did you feel?"

"Agony. There was nothing— there is no experience I can compare it to. It is easily a fate worse than death, Arkthros, and I have not even experienced the full extent of it. Beltoro spared me from enduring his, to save my mind. Vengeance would not permit me to witness Malimos', even when I had terribly misused His gifts. And you—"

"I would not subject you to it, either. No."

So you may be insane. "Why?"

"It is the end of humanity."

Hope is your lover. "It doesn't have to be."

"This is precisely why you are immune to it, Father."

It's been awhile since you breathed, and you aren't about to now.

"You are aware that the Catalyst does not favor any one emotion. Yes?" You slowly nod. He sees it. "My experience with the Catalyst— it made me into something MORE than who I was before."

"What?"

"I had lost hope. I had lost everything. I had lost my children, many times over. There was an illness, Father, that took them from me, over— and over again. My wife was faithful, but nothing could stop her life from slipping from between my hands. Like so many grains of sand." He's smiling. "I had lost her. I had lost everything. No pain could have eclipsed what I had already experienced."

Arkthros destroys the void around you both, and as the darkness lifts, he crosses the space between you. Standing a mere foot away from your trembling form, and all of the gold that's pooled beneath your feet, there is a ripple, in the molten gilt. Towering over you, the archdemon decrees, "I left behind all weakness. The weakness that resides in the hearts of mankind."

He tenses a fist, far too close to your face for comfort. "I seized that which has made me strong. My grief has carried me through more ages than you can fathom, Father."

There's a strong urge to take a step back, but you hold your ground. "No one could deny your capability, Arkthros."

"Yes. No one could deny my tenacity. Not for the wars that were waged, from the very doorstep of my home, to the furthest reaches of the sky. It has grown dark, and the sun has risen again, in a sight beyond my imaginings. And through it all— through every last second that has passed me by— what do you think it is, that has enabled me to endure?"

"Tell me."

(2/3)
>>
>>4347784
"RESOLVE, Father Anscham! I draw my strength from the very MEMORY of my despair. It has given me a body that can do more than weather the sands. It is mine, mine to shape, mine to control. Mine to rule. I have ruled, and conquered, killed, and consumed, without worry or fear of its effects on something so weak as my humanity."

The urge to step back becomes a reflex, as the archdemon moves towards you, so quickly and intensely that you cannot hope to escape in Time. He puts a hand to your shoulder. It's completely restored to the image he had assumed before. Blackened, decayed fingers linger with the scent of ash are a mere inch from your neck. Arkthros squeezes you, slightly, and leans in right before your face. The pulse in your throat, and the Goddess in your soul, practically ignite for how quickly they move.

There is an explosion of light, as the demon that has dared to touch Mercy's only vessel is blasted over fifty feet away. The explosion was silent, but your ears ring. You imagine there is a choir, a bell, or a whisper promising once again that She will not stand to see you in any further pain. There's a pull, in the deepest recesses of your soul, telling you to move on. Leave this psychopath behind, and live a good life. One without willful suffering, greed, manipulation, or a lust for control.

The archdemon has been completely knocked to the ground. He laughs, in a miserable way, and tries to get back to his feet instantly.

The entire right side of Arkthros' face has been completely severed. On hands and knees, he slowly raises his head, and grins at you. A few teeth loosely hang from the side of his face, but he speaks without faltering. "We look to ourselves, Father. The disconnect in my soul was a pain beyond death. There is nothing you can do to us. Nothing. If I am not mistaken, you and King Magnus are the only two individuals alive who possess the wit to see it. You are both flirting with a force you will one day comprehend. There is no hope for this world, Father. That is what makes us who we are. That is the Catalyst."

(Options in next post.)
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>>4347787
>These options are mutually exclusive.

>A] Thank Arkthros for his wisdom, his experience, his memories, and his grief. Part from his company, now, and seek to never turn this demon against you. You are already allied with his master. Protect your sanity, protect your home, and return to the world above without risking undoing everything you have worked your entire life for. There has been sacrifice beyond sacrifice. You want to change. You've felt more than anyone could hope to endure. You've grown, in every conceivable way. You KNOW now what you are up against— and you are going home.
>1] You'll take this matter up with King Magnus, once you return to the surface in one piece.
>2] You'll keep the details of this encounter to yourself, until you're certain that the twins are safe.
>3] Write-in anything additional you may want to say, use as justification, or precautionary measures you may want to take before you leave.

>B] Obsession fuels you. Allying with the archdemon of Ostedholm is not enough, to sate your appetite for company. You are not content to have the King of the country on your side. Despite having unseated your two greatest enemies from the Church of Mercy, exposing the corruption in the Church of Storm, getting Father Sullivan to trust your leadership, and earning the trust of Father Friedrich AND Father Wilhelm, you need more. You are a glutton, and will cast aside all thoughts of self-preservation to offer yourself to this monster.
>1] Write-ins with justification for why you wish to suicidally continue to pursue a partnership with Arkthros will be taken at QM discretion, and only with majority vote, due to the sheer number of factors making this an utterly irrational decision.
>>
>>4347790
>>A] Thank Arkthros for his wisdom, his experience, his memories, and his grief. Part from his company, now, and seek to never turn this demon against you. You are already allied with his master. Protect your sanity, protect your home, and return to the world above without risking undoing everything you have worked your entire life for. There has been sacrifice beyond sacrifice. You want to change. You've felt more than anyone could hope to endure. You've grown, in every conceivable way. You KNOW now what you are up against— and you are going home.
>>1] You'll take this matter up with King Magnus, once you return to the surface in one piece.
>>
>>4347797
support
>>
>>4347790
>>A] Thank Arkthros for his wisdom, his experience, his memories, and his grief. Part from his company, now, and seek to never turn this demon against you. You are already allied with his master. Protect your sanity, protect your home, and return to the world above without risking undoing everything you have worked your entire life for. There has been sacrifice beyond sacrifice. You want to change. You've felt more than anyone could hope to endure. You've grown, in every conceivable way. You KNOW now what you are up against— and you are going home.
>>1] You'll take this matter up with King Magnus, once you return to the surface in one piece.

You can't save everyone, especially not someone as far gone as Arkthros. He says he is stronger than ever before, but he still lurks like a rat under the city, obeying his betters. If this is the peak of demon kind, I have plenty of *hope* for humanity.
>>
>>4347797
>>4347825
>>4347851
(Unanimous vote is locked here! Writing now.)
>>
>>4347897
https://youtu.be/wReDBG0FjQg

A unique thought occurs to you. It's liberating, and tragic, and will probably save your soul.

You can't save everyone. Especially not someone as far gone as Arkthros.

"Thank you. Thank you for this gift, Arkthros. Your wisdom— your experience— the memories you possess. Your grief. Thank you for sharing with Us. For teaching me."

Arkthros says he is stronger than ever before, yet he lurks under the city. Obeying his betters. Filthy, decrepit, and unhinged as he is— on all fours upon the ground— you're reminded more of a rat than a ruler. If this is the peak of demonkind…

"You have granted me with more hope for humanity, than ever before."

"Go, you miserable thing." The way you've dehumanized each other is mutual. "Go. Leave me."

Hoping to never turn this demon against you, you turn, and look to the void all around you. There is ample evidence of your invocation to Agriculture upon your broader frame, though none of the hyacinths remain. Gales of sand blast in all directions, sticking to the blood and gold in your hair. Your throat should be ragged. Your eyes should be red. They are warm, slaked with sunshine, and you remain unphased by the worst of this domain. Softly, you ask, "where…?"

A ragged and grotesque sigh leaves Arkthros. He gestures to a pin-prick of space, far off in the distance. It slams towards you. Staggering backwards, you are nearly hit by the appearance of a pale violet door.

Immediately, without fear, you move to open its glass handle. "Your hope will take you from this place, Father Anscham. From our despair." Melancholy, and gratitude, quietly lingers in the air behind you. "Thank you for understanding, regardless."

The tug on your heartstrings isn't enough to keep you. There is a King on the surface to speak with. This may just be the last nightmare standing between you, and the surface.

In the hands of Mercy, in a space removed from Time itself, you step through the shifting door.

In the exit beyond is a catastrophic descent. One, final waste of your Time. You aren't sure if Arkthros is trying to run your soul ragged, or if he sincerely doesn't want you to leave. The space is familiar. Sand sticks to the ceiling. It's littered with the corpses of countless human soldiers. They are nothing but bones, clad in myriad pieces of armor. Their regalia is ravaged with age. Their identities are lost. This is both the bottom, and the top of the ruins of Calunoth.

(1/2)
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>>4348093
The corpses precariously stick to the ceiling above. You saw these corpses, just as you entered the horrifying architecture with Ofelia for the first Time. Moving instinctively, to back up, the door behind you has completely vanished. There is a flat wall, without grooves or holds. Pillars line the angular ledge on which you precariously stand. Beneath your feet are alternating beams, ledges, and no stairs to speak of. It's a clear drop into darkness. A square-like pit is the most definition you can make out, in the most vacant space within these Gods-forsaken ruins.

The bottoms of your soles are caked with dirt, coagulated blood, and sticky yellow-gold. The very idea of trying to keep yourself steady, after everything you've been through, it almost unthinkable. There's still your partner, who's embrace is running up, between your shoulder blades, around to the front of your chest. Mercy lingers over your heart. You know she wouldn't let you fall, but your pulse skyrockets. The plunge must be a thousand feet.

Arkthros' last words to you linger in your mind, long after the scent of dust has evaporated from the enormous expanse of open air at your feet. He's out of sight, but far from your thoughts.

You're certain that your Time with the archdemon was Time WELL spent.

>A] You are leaving this place with armor for Algrith, even if it kills you. (Selecting this prompt will add a dice roll to any other prompt. This is purely optional. Once the vote is called, the parameters for the attempt will be explained in full.)

>B] Burn your candle at both ends. Invoke Flesh, while staying with Mercy. You really don't know if the God of the Material is going to take kindly to asking him for something you may be capable of doing on your own.

>C] Exhaustion is going to claim you, if you aren't careful. Invoke Dream, while you have the will to do so.
>1] While staying with Mercy. You can't stand the thought of parting from Her at a Time like this. You're not certain of what may happen, to call upon both deities at once, but you trust Them.
>2] Release the invocation to Mercy, no matter how much it pains you. You know your limits. Dual-invoking three times in just a few days nearly killed you, the last Time you made the attempt. You'll create an escape, as fast as possible, and try to get somewhere to safely collapse.

>D] You're extremely clever, and are certain you know how to handle this demon's domain without running yourself into the ground. (Write-in.)
>>
>>4348095
>A] You are leaving this place with armor for Algrith, even if it kills you. (Selecting this prompt will add a dice roll to any other prompt. This is purely optional. Once the vote is called, the parameters for the attempt will be explained in full.)
>>
>>4348095
>>A] You are leaving this place with armor for Algrith, even if it kills you. (Selecting this prompt will add a dice roll to any other prompt. This is purely optional. Once the vote is called, the parameters for the attempt will be explained in full.)

>D] You're extremely clever, and are certain you know how to handle this demon's domain without running yourself into the ground. (Write-in.)

We tried making blue paint slides now it is time for golden ziplines, use Piety to slide down to wherever we need to be.
>>
>>4348111
(To be clear, in order to scavenge on the ceiling above this extreme plunge, you need to do something else. A is in ADDITION to any other prompt. Purely trying to do so with your bare hands and mundane supplies is an option, but if you guys would like to try that, please specify.

Sorry if that wasn't clear!)
>>
>>4348095
Skip A, if we're still on cordial terms with the King after this as the Father of Merfy we should be able to get armour relatively easily instead of this.
>>
>>4348116
I would like for us to make a fishing pole out of gold and haul a corpse down to loot his armor. Is there gonna be another roll or prompt?

>>4348120
Considering this is a gift for Algrith I am sure he is gonna appreciate it a lot more if Richard got it by himself rather than thru the king which he doesn't like very much. It is also quite poetic if you think about it, having ruin armor protecting him.
>>
>>4348132
(Mercy *may* not take kindly to you using Her ability to loot corpses for a heathen. Even if aforementioned heathen is one of your most loyal adherents, because there are *many* other ways to acquire armor with your degree of wealth/connections/power, it's basically textbook abuse. It is *possible* to make a golden fishing pole and line, then use it to snatch something from the ceiling. Bear in mind that getting something that isn't too decayed to still be of use + something that will likely fit Algrith is a shot in the dark. It also may hurt your relationship with Mercy. The prompts provided to do so with Flesh and Dream compliment your history with them, and tendency to use their abilities much more flippantly.

Depending on what course of action you all choose to take, a roll MAY be required.
If you all elect to try and get some armor here, a roll WILL be required.
The means of acquiring the armor MAY come with optional modifiers, but not another prompt.

Bear in mind you also have a shitload of supplies that Sister Cardew insisted you take with you. I can provide the list if anyone wants it.

Sorry again if this was terribly confusing. Thanks for asking, and feel free to ask me if you guys have any further questions.)
>>
>>4348147
I would very much like to know if we can grab the armor without abusing Mercy, a list of the supplies would be very useful.
>>
>>4348154
(Literally anything other than using Mercy's invocation to loot would be fine. The prompts listed are several examples. The Goddess would not shy away from protecting you from a fall, or injury. It's just seriously pushing it to have Her materialize equipment.

Speaking of which:)

-Three weeks worth of water, across several water skins in various sizes. (You've drank none, and Ofelia has been drinking liquor the last two days. She took only one of the skins with her.)
-A complete restock of all of your herbs, and bandages.
-One hundred feet of rope for you. (Ofelia left with the other 100ft.)
-Gloves, scarves, cloaks, masks, and every change of clothes that Harriet purchased for everyone that may be in your company. (This amount to 8 large shirts and trousers for you alone, plus an additional twenty miscellaneous garments.)
-Blankets, and a (lovely) nightcap.
-Ink, pens, charcoal, chalk, parchment and vellum in bulk.
-As many candles and as much oil as you could safely part with on the surface. It's about twenty tallow candles, and three days worth of oil for the lanterns.
-One lantern (Ofelia has the other.)
-10 torches.
-Your new journal.
-Your old journal.
-You were told a week's worth of food, but your suspicion was correct. You haven't touched it, and it could have lasted you and Ofelia for at least a month.
-Piety, your mace, your shield, and the unbelievably light (endless) bag that the majority of the supplies are situated in.
>>
>>4348169
Try to make a lasso with the rope that we have and haul down one of the corpses with the best armor.
>>
(Thanks for bearing with the supreme messiness of this guys, and for all the stellar ideas. Mobile posting is jank at the best of times, let's clean this up.

>>4348111
>Roll for armor
>>4348114
>Roll for armor, materialize an escape via invocation to Mercy
>>4348120
>No matter what, seeing the King ASAP
>>4348195
>Lasso the best looking suit down

(We'll proceed with a roll, and incorporate as much as possible!)

>THE GODS ARE MERCIFUL
>FULL PLATE OR BUST

>Roll 1d100. Best of 3 will be used.
>+5 EYES ONLY ON THE PRIZE

>Specify up to two (2) of the following additional qualities to look for:
>Exotic metal (a secret table will be rolled for what it does)
>Extreme durability
>Ridiculously cool design (feel free to write-in preferences.)

>The lower and upper range within each bracket represents further degrees of wear/quality. E.g. a 49 will locate a higher quality piece of armor than a 41.

>0-10: Rusted, not serviceable, ill-fitting.
>11-20: Rusted, almost servicable, likely ill-fitting.
>21-30: Rusted, servicable, likely ill-fitting.
>31-40: Worn, servicable, likely ill-fitting.
>41-50: Slightly worn, servicable, standard fit.
>51-60: Slightly worn, servicable, standard fit. (ONE ADDITIONAL QUALITY WILL BE APPLIED.)
>61-70: Good condition, servicable, standard fit. (ONE ADDITIONAL QUALITY WILL BE APPLIED.)
>71-80: Good condition, hardy, standard fit. (ONE ADDITIONAL QUALITY WILL BE APPLIED.)
>81-90: Good condition, hardy, will likely fit well. (TWO ADDITIONAL QUALITIES WILL BE APPLIED.)
>91-99: Great condition, hardy, will definitely fit well. (TWO ADDITIONAL QUALITIES WILL BE APPLIED.)
>100+: Masterwork armor. (If a critical success is rolled, the voter who gets the roll will be asked to specify any one unique quality upon the armor that they wish, IN ADDITION to all other qualities they selected being applied.)
>>
Rolled 52 (1d100)

>>4348286
COME TO DADDY
>>
Rolled 23 (1d100)

>>4348286
>Exotic metal (a secret table will be rolled for what it does)
>Extreme durability
>>
Rolled 99 (1d100)

>>4348286
>>
>>4348293
>>4348299
(Holy shit. Feel free to retroactively specify which qualities you might have wanted bros. Ill roll to see which ones get picked out of you three.)
>>
>>4348293
>Extreme durability
>Ridiculously cool design (feel free to write-in preferences.)
Bronze plate with golden highlights, tin and steel lions eating a sun across the upper chest glacis
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>>4348301
(I misread thats a fucking 99, all qualities will be applied. holy shit)
>>
>>4348301
The first two qualities as well I guess.
>>
Rolled 1 (1d5)

>>4348293
>>4348296
>>4348299
>>4348302
>>4348310
104/100
>Masterwork armor.
>Exotic metal (this roll will determine what it is)
>Extreme durability
>Ridiculously cool design (Bronze plate with golden highlights, tin and steel lions eating a sun across the upper chest glacis)

(Alright guys everything is locked here! Will write as soon as I can after this, have some work to do but will get to it ASAP.)
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>>4348348
(Absolutely swamped at work, will update back at home. Thanks for the patience guys, I'll have a three day weekend after this!)
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>>4348539
{We're live! Back at home, ready to blast through this weekend! Got very few plans so I can update pretty frequently with the level of participation we've had. You guys are the absolute best. Writing now.)
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(Oof, major formatting error! Please refresh/F5. I'll repost shortly.)
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>>4348863
The tools of your trade are rapidly produced. Working with mundane rope is not an issue, even between fingers slick with gold. As a fisherman, the Father of the Church of restraint, and a man of many questionable proclivities, you could make these knots in your sleep. It's not that you're just (innocently) excited over the motions.

The rope, its loop, and your current point of enthusiasm is on a suit of full plate armor. What has you grinning from ear-to-ear isn't its obscenely high make, the obvious durability it possesses, or even the fact that it looks as though it would fit Algrith perfectly. No. What has you bracing yourself against a nearby pillar, practically giggling with enthusiasm, is its heraldry. There are two lions, in yellow-gold, emblazoned upon the bronze upper chest piece. They're plated with tin and steel, dripping with gilt, as they devour the sun. It's so symbolic, so terribly appropriate, that you can't conceive of anything more poetic.

It feels like your pulse is never going to die down, as you use a great deal of the rope to tie yourself to the pillar at your back. The suit looks heavy. It's still worn upon one of the corpses. Planting your feet firmly against the ground, praying you don't dislocate both of your shoulders— "Flesh of my Flesh, please grant me your strength. Merciful Goddess, may your gifts mend this vessel. Spirit guide me, that my decisions be sound— Mercy—" you move with the rope, with perfect form.

There's a hook.

You snag your prize.

"The Gods are Merciful—!"

As the rope touches the corpse upon the ceiling, there's no movement from the body. It's as if the skeleton is flat upon solid ground. You know better than to trust your eyes, in the domain of a sorcerer. Taking a deep breath, you brace yourself, and pull.

In one fell motion, at least 200lbs of bones and devastatingly heavy metal crash down. With a SLAM the entire corpse collapses, from the top of the ruins, right onto the ledge you're perched on. You almost can't conceive of a more perfect execution. Unfastening yourself from the pillar, you drag the armor onto the little flat ground at your disposal.

Respectfully extracting the skeleton from the suit takes a moment. You do everything in your power to lay the fallen soldier safely aside. One of the sheets on your person becomes a shroud. You take a moment, to say a prayer for the soul that died within. There isn't anything more that can be done, and you are certain their legacy will live on.

The armor is stunning. There's no question that this was worn by someone within the current age, though the metal is exotic to an extreme. Rapping on the iron-gray surface produces a dull sound, akin to tapping on rock. It's brutally hard, and even a test scratch from Piety doesn't leave a single scratch upon the item. You speculate that it's no wonder the suit is in such amazing condition, given its hardiness.

(1/2)
>>
>>4349011
Given its heaviness. Given your recent heaviness, wearing a suit of armor made for an average man is out of the question. It's to say nothing of your height. You muse that you actually rival your father's build for the first time in your life. The new weight upon you is immediately put to good use. You have to brace yourself again, just to get the item upon your broad shoulders. It's not as difficult as you expected.

There's nothing of this world that would support the load you're carrying on your shoulders, your own heft, and all of the weapons upon you. Piety would bend, and possibly snap in half under the strain— though the idea is gallant, and you make a mental note to get your sword reinforced as soon as possible.

Keeping Algrith's soon-to-be-beloved suit of armor upon your shoulders, you unspool several hundred feet of light from between your hands. It solidifies, into a line of metal. Splaying your hands to the lowest pillar in sight, you watch with a grin, as the beam extends down, several hundred feet, at an insanely steep angle. The plummet is illuminated in full, and you can clearly see now that the bottom is at least three times the distance lower than you initially expected.

Slaking your hands with molten gold, you fashion another band to hold onto. One that won't ignite from friction, flay the skin from your hands, or snap under any strain. Swinging the device over the rope of your making, you muse for a moment that these ruins have provided more opportunities for leisure than what you get on the surface, most days.

What was Arkthros' intent?

The thought is gone the second you fearlessly kick off. Zipping straight down the line, with impossible speed, the very breath is taken from your lungs. The blood and sand in your hair flecks off into the wind. The grin upon your face might never leave, and you hold onto the suit of armor for dear life. There's a horrific burn in your arms, shoulders, chest, and back, and it's perfect— for maybe only a few seconds.

You are moving VERY quickly. Creating a barrier at the last moment, just at the base of your first line, you slow the descent as soon as you realize the danger you're in. Safely upon a lower ledge, looking down, you can't help but let out a light laugh.

You get to do it again. There's ultimately four rides, straight to the base of Arkthros' last gift to you. The last landing comes into view, and you realize you're about to land at the peak of Calunoth's ruins. Right where you started. It's difficult to totally make out the shifting buildings, and you're certain the world is about to shift again, but you at least have another moment to think.

There's not much to these ruins, where you're heading. Save for one, last consideration.

(Options in next post.)
>>
>>4349012
>A] Head out as soon as humanly possible. Release your invocation to Mercy the instant you can. You know you're way past your limits, given everything you'd pushed yourself to these last few days, and don't want to risk any serious or permanent damage when you have so much work to do in the days ahead.

>B] There are countless other people imprisoned down here. You won't risk getting lost or injured, but you'll try peeking your head into a building or two, if you can.

>C] You're seriously worried if everyone got out of here safely. Maintain the invocation to Mercy as long as you need to, to ensure that you can get yourself to safety, and to reconvene with your friends. They'll take care of you, if necessary. You're sure of it.

>D] Write-in.
>>
>>4349016
>A] Head out as soon as humanly possible. Release your invocation to Mercy the instant you can. You know you're way past your limits, given everything you'd pushed yourself to these last few days, and don't want to risk any serious or permanent damage when you have so much work to do in the days ahead.
>>
>>4349016
>>A] Head out as soon as humanly possible. Release your invocation to Mercy the instant you can. You know you're way past your limits, given everything you'd pushed yourself to these last few days, and don't want to risk any serious or permanent damage when you have so much work to do in the days ahead.
>>
>>4349016
>>A] Head out as soon as humanly possible. Release your invocation to Mercy the instant you can. You know you're way past your limits, given everything you'd pushed yourself to these last few days, and don't want to risk any serious or permanent damage when you have so much work to do in the days ahead.
>>
>>4349166
>>4349174
>>4349195
(Great guys, going to knock out an update before bed! I'll be back to update a hell of a lot more tomorrow. Vote is locked. Writing now!)
>>
>>4349200
https://youtu.be/mRJSIYmHuNI

The base of the ruins is fast approaching. You resolve to get back to the surface, and to drop the invocation to Mercy just as soon as you can. She's been so good to you. The exhaustion drenching your body can't possibly be healthy, and you wonder if you'd even be alive at all if She hadn't been there for you. It's necessary, though you know She'll understand.

Sliding to a stop, upon the flat ground, you almost want to utter a prayer. Words of thanks are cut short, before they can even leave your lips. Predictably, the second your feet are on stable land, the entire world turns upside down. Lurching to the side, you stagger, and practically throw yourself onto one of the nearby ledges to have something more stable than a line to hold onto. The ruins shift, and turn, completely on their side. It takes a herculean effort, but you first throw Algrith's armor to the side. The space and walls around you are giving way. With a heave, you pull yourself up at the last possible moment.

Looking behind is unthinkable. To do so would start the entire ordeal over from the beginning. You're sure of it, as you crawl up the ledge, back onto solid ground, scramble to right yourself, and get shakily back to your feet. At your back, just behind your heels, is a plunge to the bottom of the ruins.

Arkthros gave you a route back to the surface that was faster than anything you could have conceived of. He gave you a shortcut, back to the countless buildings you and Ofelia saw just two days. The same flat floor stretches out. It's polished, and slightly radiant, though you don't need the external light to presently see. Myriad buildings in angular, shifting shapes tilt and turn every which way. The prisons of King Magnus' enemies are all about you, housing eyes in the dark. You are not about to linger in the lair of an archdemon of Time, amidst traitors, when you may be on death's door.

There will be Time for questions, when you get back to the surface.

There's a lightness to your exhausted steps. It's from more than the sheer amount of heat and radiance that Mercy is working through you. Though you're weighed down by a physical burden, and are surely running yourself into the ground, there's a strong desire for once to look after yourself. Maybe it was from this week bringing more near death experiences than you're used to. Maybe it's the knowledge that even the strongest of demons in this country may just be at their wit's end. Maybe it's the fact that Yech is surely alive.

It's definitely all helped by the fact that you're heading out to see friends, and family. You miss them. You miss them all. You miss your home. There is so much work to still be done, in the days ahead. There's resolve— a sane, healthy kind of resolve— to do everything in your power to ensure that your work continues. No injury is worth ruining your passion. No pleasure is worth risking your future.

(1/2)
>>
>>4349266
Before you know it, the ruins are fading fast. Dark corridors make way for narrow, winding tunnels. With the light of a Goddess in your eyes, you can look upon what Ofelia fearlessly led you through not so long ago. It's insanity. The passages shift, and bend before your eyes. One moment, it would appear that they've collapsed in on themselves. The next, they're flooded with magma, or covered floor-to-ceiling in glass. The perilous drops littering the floor, the descending stairs back into the ruins, and every other illusion that Arkthros has put in place to protect his children has you frown.

Closing your eyes, you feel out, with the blessing of a Goddess. It's at least an hour's walk to the surface from here. You are not afraid. You feel with your hands, with your soul, and make a steady course forward. Faith has guided you down more perilous paths before.

No more than five minutes must pass in the dark, before a pair of fingers intertwine with your own. You don't draw back. The gentle embrace is more familiar to you than any other sensation imaginable.

She squeezes your hand, so gently that you almost don't feel it.

Your frown evaporates.

You can picture the morning dew that catches upon Mercy's own rose-gold, sunlight-painted smile. The copper flush across Her cheeks. The bounce of Her curls. The sway of Her hips. The warmth of Her company. Her laughter, and playfulness, and all of Her love.

She knows that after everything you've endured, this is a casual stroll. The Goddess of Compassion knows you better than anyone. She knows how you feel, better than anyone.

The scent of vanilla and daffodils picks up on the air, as your lover takes a step back. Impossibly soft strands of metallic curls brush up, against your shoulder, as you walk side-by-side. There is a voice, just beside your ear. Her whisper resonates through the air. Mercy is easily as sweet as honey, but there's no doubt in your mind that She's been terribly worried. The whisper is quiet. You know She would be alright with any answer. There's really no need for words at all between you, but She wants to hear you speak. "Are you alright?"

(Options in next post.)
>>
>>4349271
>Select ONE of the following from 1, 2 or 3. Majority vote will decide.
>1] Open your eyes. You can never see enough of Her.
>2] Sneak a peek at your partner. She'll know, and you'd like Her to, anyways.
>3] Keep your eyes shut. It's more fun that way, and you do legitimately need to not get distracted by your surroundings.

>IN ADDITION to selecting an option from 1-3, select AT LEAST one prompt below.
>The following are not mutually exclusive.

>A] "I will be." Thank Mercy for everything She's done for you, since you last spoke. It's been a lot, and She deserves to hear it.

>B] "You know I didn't lie to Algrith." You seriously are doing better than ever. Reassure Her that you are going to be okay.

>C] "I— I don't want to leave you. Would it be alright if we just talked, for awhile?" You know you'll be alright, but you want Her company. This has been a lot harder than usual. This whole month has been a lot harder than usual.

>D] (Write-in anything you might want to express to Mercy, especially right on the heels of so much insanity.)
>>
>>4349275
>>2] Sneak a peek at your partner. She'll know, and you'd like Her to, anyways.
>C] "I— I don't want to leave you. Would it be alright if we just talked, for awhile?" You know you'll be alright, but you want Her company. This has been a lot harder than usual. This whole month has been a lot harder than usual.

Blessed quality Time with God gf.
>>
>>4349275
>3] Keep your eyes shut. It's more fun that way, and you do legitimately need to not get distracted by your surroundings.

>A] "I will be." Thank Mercy for everything She's done for you, since you last spoke. It's been a lot, and She deserves to hear it.
>C] "I— I don't want to leave you. Would it be alright if we just talked, for awhile?" You know you'll be alright, but you want Her company. This has been a lot harder than usual. This whole month has been a lot harder than usual.
>>
>>4349281
+1
>>
>>4349278
>>4349281
>>4349286
(Great guys! We are live! Going with majority for 3, and can do C and A no sweat. Vote's locked! Writing now.)
>>
>>4349604
https://youtu.be/flMl5iocfcQ

Despite the urge to steal a glance at Mercy, you keep your eyes shut. The very sight of Her is enough to make your heart sing. You'd surely forget all about the position you're in— likely because of how much milder it is than the last expedition to the ruins that you took.

It's much more fun to imagine how each one of Her light steps brings you two a little closer together. The slight smile upon Her face, despite Her worry. Unlike Agriculture, Mercy is not in you. She's on you. The hold upon your hand doesn't part for an instant. The Goddess takes you by the arm, too. Intertwining your limbs together as you walk, there's no sun in your eyes. Closed as they are, the permanent plated gold is hidden from Her scrutiny. The pain and sincerity in your voice is truly your own, as you find the strength to reassure Her, "I will be."

It seems as though She actually needed to hear you speak. The hold on you tightens, almost desperately. "Thank you."

You return the motion as best as you can. Your current predicament— of carrying a full suit of armor, all of your equipment, and walking blindly in the dark— is absurd. "There is so much that I want to say, Mercy. I can't fathom having lived a single day, all these last many weeks, without— without you. This month has been—"

The Goddess of Compassion is wilting. Every last bit of pain in Her encouragement feels like it's intensified from your own tone. "Go on, Richard."

"I— I don't want to leave you." Neither does She. You can't feel your arm. It's hard to not slightly smile, "would it be alright, if we— if we just talked, for awhile?"

A slight weight comes off of your arm, as Mercy lifts Her head. A kiss is planted, just on the side of your neck. Her voice is somehow softer than Her lips, as She murmurs, "this is one thing you need never ask for. You can always speak with me."

You want to hug Her so badly it hurts. She can feel the tension run up your back, and leans in closer, as you murmur to Her, "I was still on the road, last month. I would never wish to sound ungrateful, Mercy. You have been my light, my love, and—" you can't stand it, and spend an uncomfortable minute adjusting the suit of armor to totally wrest an arm free. It wraps instantly, and fully, around Mercy's slender shoulders. She's warmer than sunlight, and so soft it's hard to believe that She's real. Honeysuckle and lemon is so close, you're certain that Her presence is going to linger upon your senses long after you've parted ways.

She's a gift, a treasure, and doesn't dare interrupt.

"I can feel it all wearing on me, Mercy. It has been nearly a month since I've arrived in the capital. So much has happened. We have been through so much, together. I— I can't begin to thank you enough, for everything."

(1/2)
>>
>>4349720
"There is no need," She smiles, "yet I am listening, if you wish to sing your praises."

You're both grinning. She's probably smiling harder, but it's much more audible in your voice. "Very funny."

"You know I loved the sonnet, Richard."

She might not actually be joking. Your smirk could make even Cyril groan. "Honestly?"

Mercy giggles, "stop." Her laughter is easily the sweetest sound in the world.

Your heart skips a beat, pulling Her in just a little closer. "My work is only just now resuming, after my absence from our church. I would be lying to you, if I did not confess—"

Her laughter picks up, just a little more. It's enough for you to let the moment linger.

A few more minutes, of walking side by side, before you softly continue, "Mercy."

"Yes?"

"I am deeply concerned."

"I know. You have every right to be— but please— Richard." You can't help but lean against Her, just slightly, in question. "Please be kind to yourself. You have done so much."

"It feels as if I can never do enough." Anxiety worms itself into anticipation, of an entire country in turmoil. "There are so many issues at hand. Our children will be looking to Us, and Our light. Our love. Our union."

"Permit me to keep you company, then."

The urge to open your eyes, and stare at Her, is immense. "Pardon me?"

"You heard me." You've never heard Her sound so serious.

You both stop walking.

"We have nothing to hide. You are the rightful leader of our church, and the Father of our home. Not a soul could take issue with my presence. Not when We can be together. They have taken everything from you, Richard— and you WILL set things right. I know that you do not need me."

"I do," you breathe, almost desperately. "Don't."

"You will need more than Our love. You will need more hands." She's still shaking, possibly harder than before. You can't imagine how long She's been waiting to ask this. Both of Her palms clasp your free hand, squeezing tightly. Words come tumbling from Her lips, as if She can't stop Herself from asking in the few moments you've gifted to Her. To be together. To speak to one another. "Hold mine. Love me. Let me be with you. I would like to see the world try and stop Us."

(Options in next post.)
>>
>>4349724
>A] WHAT (Speechlessly stare, and stammer, and maybe She'll elaborate.)

>B] YES, OF COURSE (To hell with the consequences, the corruption in your church, the enemies waiting for you at home, or anything else that could worry either of you. Take Her hands. Maybe give Her a kiss.)

>C] Take a very deep breath, and a minute to compose yourself. What does this even mean for Her? She can barely maintain a physical form for a day or two at most, and even then, only when all of your will is bent on her. There may be assassins. This could place all of your friends and family in horrific danger. This will escalate your issues tenfold, and you have no idea if She'd be in peril.
>1] You need a lot more information.
>2] You might not be ready for this.

>D] WHAT??? (Write-in.)
>>
>>4349727
>C] Take a very deep breath, and a minute to compose yourself. What does this even mean for Her? She can barely maintain a physical form for a day or two at most, and even then, only when all of your will is bent on her. There may be assassins. This could place all of your friends and family in horrific danger. This will escalate your issues tenfold, and you have no idea if She'd be in peril.
>3] Why the hell not?
>>
Support.
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>>4349831
I forgot to link this. Wooops.

Support this: >>4349735

>>4349724
>>
>>4349735
>>4349831
>>4349837
(Sweet, dudes, locking here! Writing now.)
>>
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>>4349848
https://youtu.be/uEyvjHuMR4E

You pull Her in, flush to your chest. She's just tall enough to comfortably rest your face beside Her hair. Pressed up against the scent of vanilla, and daffodils, your heart might just give out. Several deep breaths later, of Her soft and curly locks, the flush of Her skin, and the sweetness of Her smile, your composure resurfaces. There's a tremor on both of you, and so much concern that every word is a struggle. "What does— what does this even mean for you?"

"I do not know," She trembles with excitement, and more nerves than you can stand, "and I do not care."

"That's impossible," you grin to her, nervously laughing.

"You are absolutely right," Mercy immediately confesses. "But I will place my cares aside. I love you. I need you."

"You can hardly sustain a physical form for more than— more than a day, or two at a Time."

Devotion, and love, sinks more deeply into Her voice than the embrace that's pressed against your heart. "Time is irrelevant. We will be in the halls of Our worship. We will endure— as I always have."

She won't want for anything. The Church of Mercy is far and away the most heavily fortified building in the country. The largest. She'll stay in the church, where She'll be safe, and be protected. Where She can endure.

"Will you be alright?"

"I will find a way."

"I have many enemies."

"And many friends."

"There will be assassins. Thieves. Cut-purses, scoundrels, rogues, and danger—"

The Goddess of Defense can't help but be honest. "Is it not exciting?"

"It is." You set down the beloved suit of armor, and take Her into both of your arms. "You may be put into harm's way, but You— You have always protected me."

"We will protect each other."

It's hard to breathe, but you manage, and choke out, "Mercy."

"Yes, Richard?"

"Damn the risks."

She's amused beyond belief. "Richard!"

You plant a kiss on Her head. Your smile couldn't be broader. "I mean it. You're right. You are absolutely right. Why not?"

The hold around you redoubles. The hitch in Her shoulders isn't a sob. She's laughing, and so overwhelmed that She can't even speak.

>A] Kiss Her, and swear to never let Her go.

>B] While you're on the topic of commitment, you might as well ask Mercy about the ring She gifted to you, back in the healing halls of Beorward.

>C] You have so many questions.
>1] Is She alright, waiting to see you again until you return to Eadric?
>2] Is there anything She needs?
>3] Is there anything on Her mind?
>4] Is She okay?

>D] You're so overwhelmed, you can hardly stand it. Just hold Her, for a few more minutes.

>E] Write-in.
>>
>>4349909
>A] Kiss Her, and swear to never let Her go.
>>B] While you're on the topic of commitment, you might as well ask Mercy about the ring She gifted to you, back in the healing halls of Beorward.
>>
>>4349909
>>A] Kiss Her, and swear to never let Her go.
>>B] While you're on the topic of commitment, you might as well ask Mercy about the ring She gifted to you, back in the healing halls of Beorward.
>>
>>4349909
>A and B
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>>4349924
>>4349927
>>4349978
(Unanimous vote! Awesome. Locking here, writing now.)
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>>4349924
>>4349927
>>4349978
+1 before vote
>>
>>4350058
+2 before vote
>>
>>4350058
>>4350076
(I gotchu guys. Thank you all so much for your patience, I was working on a project while updating and it took much longer than usual. Almost done!)
>>
>>4350149
https://youtu.be/TnoyRnGmnlI

Neither of you can speak, and that's exactly what you want. With your hands to the small of Mercy's back, you pull Her in flush against you. With the slightest lift of Her chin, you wrap a hand up, and into Her hair. She gasps just slightly, with an audible grin, "I am so glad—"

The last word never comes. The last of reality comes to a close, as you place a kiss firmly upon Her lips.

She presses back. Clutching desperately onto the edges of your cloak, intertwining Her own hands into your hair, pulling gently, and pushing you as close as either of you can stand. All the sweetness of a woman who loves you, with all of Her heart, is on you for an eternity. There's nothing less, and everything more than each other. The taste of honey. The touch of divinity. Endless teasing, and no more than the slightest bite against your lips.

She doesn't devour you. Mercy leans into you, unable to stop murmuring through the gentle contact of lips, and tongue, "I love you. I love you— I love you so much, Richard—"

It may be for a moment, or an hour, or a thousand years. Time has no place here. Pulling back is agony, but you're breathless, and have to tell Her. She needs to know. "I love you, too. I love you, Mercy. I swear— I swear to you— I will never let you go."

You pull her in, closer than ever before. Her arms wrap so tightly around you in turn, you can barely breathe, and neither of you care. The thought of the copper flush upon Her face, the stray threads of disheveled gold upon Her hair, and the hope in Her heart has taken your breath much further away.

She's speechless, too. You've left a Goddess speechless, and you have given Her everything that you've promised.

There is a solid gold band upon your ring finger. A promise.

Keeping Mercy held flush against you, you lean just slightly to one, delicate ear. With eyes and heart aglow, you can't help but tease Her. She easily has the most beautiful name in the world. "Mercy."

"Yes," She grins. You imagine that Her eyes are glittering, with something more stunning than the moon or stars.

Parting from Her is agony, but you have to know. Taking your left hand off the small of Her back, you trace your fingers up. Up, along the spun gold constituting her immaculate dress. From the curve of Her hips, the dip of Her waist, and all along the swell of Her chest, there's more than the sun upon your face.

The Goddess takes your hand in Hers, and plants a kiss on your open palm, with a smile. You can't gather the courage to break from Her touch for another moment. You can't bear to take the golden band off, for a single moment. You've worn it night and day, from the first moment Mercy gifted it to you. It's as flawless as your lover's smile, and as precious to you as the Relic over your heart.

(1/2)
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>>4350197
Still in a whisper, you breathlessly try to convey a fraction of what you're feeling. "I never had the chance to thank you. To— to ask you—"

Impossibly, Her smile gets a little brighter. She's loving every second of how flustered you are, and teases right back, "ask me what, Richard?"

It's hard to say. To speak. She's the loveliest soul you've ever known, and is certainly looking at you with hearts in Her eyes. The warmth between you is upon your hands, as She intertwines her fingers with your own. With your own eyes still closed, the touch is heightened to an impossible intensity. With a slight gasp, you breathe, "what— why—"

"Why not?"

The reply is so simple, and so perfect, you fall in love all over again. "Did you intend for—" you're almost afraid to ask, "for it to represent anything? To mean anything?"

The hold upon your hand squeezes, just slightly. "You are My partner. My light. My life. It can mean anything We want it to."

"You—"

There is no trace of divinity, or anything more than a woman's love in your partner's speech. She gently places a finger to your lips, and promises, "I want nothing more than for us to share with one another. I love you, Richard. I love you."

>A] Tell Her that you want Her to decide. She is a Goddess. The events of your life have humbled you to an extreme. Let Her choose...
>1] ...and you will accept any decision She makes.
>2] ...and you'll ask for some Time to think it over.

>B] You're too overwhelmed to speak, and need a minute to try and process the implications of all this.
>1] Let Her voice Her thoughts on the matter. You'd rather risk hurting Her feelings, than to make a move.
>2] Simply ask for some Time. You have been through ordeal, after ordeal, and need to give your heart a rest.

>C] It means exactly what you've promise: that you will NEVER let Her go. It doesn't need to mean anything spectacular, or melodramatic. It's a REAL promise ring, from— and for— the most beloved woman in your life. You aren't ready for anything more— but you might be, one day.

>D] You are already the Father of the Church of Mercy, and would like to make your union as official as it gets. Sweep Her into your arms, give Her the biggest smile you can muster, and ask Mercy if She'll be yours. Your love, and your wife.

>E] Write-in.
>>
>>4350210
>>A] Tell Her that you want Her to decide. She is a Goddess. The events of your life have humbled you to an extreme. Let Her choose...
>>1] ...and you will accept any decision She makes.

We fully give ourselves onto her, I am sure it can't be that bad.
>>
>>4350210
>C] It means exactly what you've promise: that you will NEVER let Her go. It doesn't need to mean anything spectacular, or melodramatic. It's a REAL promise ring, from— and for— the most beloved woman in your life. You aren't ready for anything more— but you might be, one day.
>>
>>4350215
+1
>>
>>4350215
>>4350219
>>4350324
(Cool guys, going to lock the vote here. Leaning heavily towards A1 but will incorporate a bit of C if I can. Writing now!)
>>
>>4350404
(Playing with fire with so much formatting lol. Made a mistake! If the old post is displaying, please refresh/F5. Will post the fixed version momentarily.)
>>
>>4350404
https://youtu.be/TOxJpPiFe0k

"I'm yours," you whisper. "You know that I have given myself to you. Completely."

A slight shift, as Mercy looks up to you, barely nudges your tattered shirt across your bare chest. Holding a Goddess within your arms is still unbelievable. You're humbled, and reverent, and She wants to see the look on your face, as She murmurs, "yes."

At least three beats of your heart skip out of your chest. "Our promises to one another— they are Ours to make. I want to know, Mercy. I want to hear your voice. I want to hear you whisper, and— and tell me—" The hold upon your hand tightens. "Tell me how you feel. Tell me what you need. I trust you. There is nothing— nothing in this world that I wouldn't do for you."

A small sob escapes from Mercy's throat, as She wraps both arms back around you fully. Burying Her face in your chest, struggling to speak, She fights through what you imagine is more compassion than anyone could ever withstand. She knows that you've risked life, limb, sanity, pride, and your soul itself— all in Her name. She's beside Herself, for several long moments. "I cannot."

"What did you just tell me?"

"You may always speak with me."

"Please. Share your thoughts with me. Your hope. Your love. Permit me to make you this promise."

She sniffs, dries Her eyes, and clutches onto you as if both of your lives depended on it. "Promise me, then. Promise me that you will live your best life. No matter what den of sin you must enter, or what enemies that come upon Our door. No matter what illness may befall you, or how dearly Our tenets are tested. Promise me that you will stay true to yourself, Richard. Your search for answers. All of your compassion, and humility, and love. Never stop sharing hope with the world. Never let your light go out."

It's more than you could have asked for. Clutching back onto Her, as tightly as you can, you choke out, "I promise."

"The road you travel is long, and perilous." She can't help but take your hand again. She loves your hands, and every last scar upon them, as She places another kiss just beside the ring upon it. "Let this gift be a reminder to you, of our word, and our bond. Look it, any one moment that I cannot be by your side."

She's so scared of you leaving. It's more than you can stand. "You are never truly alone, Mercy."

The shake of Her shoulders, and the dew drops that fall from Her eyes, is all the permission you need. You hold your lover, and gently run a hand along Her back. With a small smile, you whisper to Her, "I knew it."

There's no tearing Herself away from your side. Mercy murmurs into your robes, muffled, and adorable, "what?"

"Your request. I suspected that it could never be horrid."

(1/2)
>>
>>4350527
The tears on the edges of Her eyes redouble, with a laugh, and another break in Her composure. Holding you all the more tightly, barely able to speak, Mercy grins, "you are a miracle. This is the most difficult thing I could ask for."

Exhaustion is drenching you, but these are easily the most precious moments of your entire life. "Where is your faith," you tease, smiling softly, and resting your head gently against Her hair.

A hand is placed upon your chest, directly over your heart. "Right here."

Taking the slender hand of a Goddess in your own, you swear, on your very own heart, "I will not forget."

-----

>Don't respect a man for making a promise. Respect him for keeping it.

>PERMANENT MODIFIER TO ALL ACTIONS BEFITTING OF YOUR PROMISE TO MERCY (e.g. forging new political alliances, sparing enemies, healing the sick, protecting the weak, etc.):
>+10 FAITH OF A GODDESS

>You have forged a PACT with a GODDESS.
>SEVERE PSYCHOLOGICAL AND EMOTIONAL CONSEQUENCES WILL RESULT IF YOU BREAK YOUR PROMISE TO MERCY.
>THIS BONUS CAN, AND WILL BE LOST, IF YOUR WORD IS NOT KEPT.
>Actions unbecoming of Mercy's tenets, self-destructive behavior, and/or sabotaging your self-improvement WILL NOW REQUIRE A UNANIMOUS VOTE *and* AMPLE JUSTIFICATION.
>Prompts will NO LONGER be presented along these lines, barring EXTREME circumstances.

-----

>A] Get back to walking, and talk for awhile with Mercy. Keep it light.

>B] Silently enjoy each other's company, on the way out of the ruins. There's nothing more you could possibly say that would feel sweeter.

>C] Ask Mercy if She has any counsel or advice for you, in regards to the remainder of your work with your congregation.

>D] Write-in.
>>
>>4350530
>B] Silently enjoy each other's company, on the way out of the ruins. There's nothing more you could possibly say that would feel sweeter.
>>
>>4350791
(Appreciate you dude. Going to get some sleep a little earlier than usual tonight. Vote is open until tomorrow morning when we'll resume! Good night everyone.)
>>
>>4350971
okay, sleep tight
>>
>>4350530
>B] Silently enjoy each others unhinged company, on the way out of the ruins. There's nothing more you could possibly say that would feel sweeter.
>>
>>4350530
>>C] Ask Mercy if She has any counsel or advice for you, in regards to the remainder of your work with your congregation.
>>
>>4350530
>B] Silently enjoy each other's company, on the way out of the ruins. There's nothing more you could possibly say that would feel sweeter.

though eventually a little C wouldn't hurt, maybe a cheeky "so any advice for me"
>>
>>4350791
>>4351143
>>4351144
>>4351148
(Great, this should be totally workable. Hope you all are having a great morning! Vote is locked. Writing now.)
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>>4351390
https://youtu.be/QFoapxPvZy4

Nothing could feel sweeter than to quietly walk alongside someone who cares. Another peck gets planted on Mercy's head before you both pull away, and resume the exit from the ruins.

The calm, and relief that washes over you with each step feels better than the last. A Goddess has placed Her faith in you. There's nothing to fear here, for all the demons you've faced. You have support, all the love you could hope for, and just a little more warmth between both of your hands.

It's getting warmer, in the corridor you traverse. An exit approaches, in no Time at all. Almost as a joke, you ask aloud, "any parting words, of— of advice, Mercy...?"

She sounds incredibly tired, for all the lightness of Her voice. "Get some rest." There's something bothering Her, and for once, it's immediately expanded upon. "You carry the company of heathens, Richard. They are worthy of your trust— but listen to your heart."

"I always have."

"So much of humanity is misguided."

"We will guide them."

An embrace is back around you, in full.

She's gone from your side.

Gone from your hands.

But there's that same lingering warmth in every last recess of your soul. One that you love, more than anything else in the world.

You open your eyes. There's a light, at the end of a tunnel, and it's coming from the morning sun. Staggering forward, shouldering Algrith's armor as best as you can, you resolve to set the suit down the moment you have to drop the invocation. The opening is a hassle to try and climb through, but for only a moment.

You're pulled up, by the back of your robes, by someone with enough strength to rival an orc. A small shout would leave your lips, as you turn, to defend— but the second you're out of the corridor, all the fight leaves you. The last time you saw this small, ramshackle shed, it was pitch black, and housed only a singular trap door upon the floor. You've been pulled up, through the trap door, alright.

Right up, into the company of ten other people. It's the year 606, in the country of Corcaea. Your people are usually restrained, to an extreme— but the company you keep is far from typical.

The man who pulled you up is, undoubtedly, Chesty. His build matches your own, and then some— though the smile across his face must be twice as wide. With a deep and spirited shout, "Father Anscham?!" he gets you fully into the room, helps you with the suit of armor, and whips his head towards a hooded figure at the door. "HARVEY— Harvey are you seein' this shit?!"

Your ringleader turns, pulls down his hood, and can't even process for a moment what you've been carrying. Everyone else is elated beyond measure.

Ofelia runs over, leaps into the air, tackles you into a hug, and is too angry to cry. "You idiot. You stupid—" She pulls back, looks you up and down, and grins. She's blushing.

(1/2)
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>>4351457
She has her preferences. It's fine.

"What happened to ya' this time— oh, fuck it— I can't even care anymore." The halfling can't begin to fit her arms around you, but makes a better attempt at a hug, on the verge of tears. "I'm so glad yer okay—!"

Three other men are politely standing about the door, alongside Harvey. A sandy-blonde, lanky, and large-nosed man— no doubt Klepto— is reclining against a nearby wall, fussing with some small item in hand, which is slipped down the back of Harvey's shirt while he stares in amazement. The clown is punched hard in the shoulder by a walking brick. Irefist's gaunt features, auburn hair, and scowl is almost as unmistakable as the Serpent that slinks over. The sun is obscured for a moment, by the significantly finer clothing upon his frame, a bald head, and a leer towards Ofelia. His split tongue slightly distorts his speech, with a terribly sarcastic, "keep your voice down."

Harvey drops his shield, walks over, drops to his knees right beside you, and looks to the armor. He still can't process it.

Starlight and Stardust are in the opposite corner of the shack— which is only about ten feet across, so you're all extremely cramped— and are both infinitely too reserved to interrupt, when so many other people are clamoring for your attention. They're in the company of a slender, disheveled, wide-eyed brunette, who couldn't care in the least for social norms.

It feels like you haven't seen Brother Theodore Wilhelm in a lifetime. The young priest, back in his favorite robes of blue (with a few stars stitched onto the sleeve, likely to match his father's favorite nightcap), calmly walks over to you. Sitting on the floor, he sidles up next to you, and quietly says, "good morning, Father Anscham. Ofelia came to get help the moment she could."

The woman in question punches you several times in the shoulder. Mercy allows it. You allow it, trying to not let your heart break as the assassin chokes out, "I knew you'd be alright. I knew you'd come back— but don't you ever do anythin' like that again. I'll kill you myself next time—!"

"—I came as quickly as I could," Brother Wilhelm murmurs, apologetically. The horrific scar upon his face has intensified, since you last saw him. The enormous expanse of cracked, paint-filled skin upon his face no longer merely trails down from one eye. It's spread out to nearly a quarter of his face, and winces with the deep bags under his eyes as he softly smiles. "We'll get you some rest, Father. Sister Tirel has made an arrangement, very close to here."

Claymore staggers over— the tell-tale burns upon his careworn face are a dead-giveaway— and gives you a stunned nod of recognition. He kneels next to the ground, next to the armor.

Harvey is beyond beside himself. There's some mist in his eyes.

They're more shocked by your find, than by your very survival.

(Options in next post.)
>>
>>4351461
>A] Give Harvey the damn armor. Do not take "no" for an answer.

>B] Return the nod to Claymore, and ask about the armor immediately. Getting it here wasn't actually a walk through the park. Literally everything else can wait.

>C] Reassure Ofelia that you're okay, and thank her profusely for actually sending for help. She ACTUALLY got a rescue party together, with nothing less than the most talented men and women in your service.

>D] There's no question that Brother Wilhelm invoked Dream to discern if you would be alright, and hurt himself in the process. Try to express how much it means to you.

>E] Try to not be too rude, and introduce yourself to everyone in the room who hasn't really met you.

>F] Politely apologize to everyone for any offense, but let them know that you need to stop your invocation, and are going to pass out. No one here hasn't seen you collapse from exhaustion before, and you have no use for pride.

>G] Stay with the invocation to Mercy just long enough to get to the nearest safe house with Brother Wilhelm. This is all way too much, and there will be Time for introductions. You just don't want anyone to impose on anyone by making them carry you somewhere.

>H] Write-in.
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>>4351463

GROUP HUG!!

With the armor too, fuck it. I doubt Harvey is letting go any time soon anyway.
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>>4351463
>B] Return the nod to Claymore, and ask about the armor immediately. Getting it here wasn't actually a walk through the park. Literally everything else can wait.
>C] Reassure Ofelia that you're okay, and thank her profusely for actually sending for help. She ACTUALLY got a rescue party together, with nothing less than the most talented men and women in your service.

And Hugs
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>>4351467
>>4351470
(We can absolutely do all of this. Vote is locked! Writing now.)
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>>4351489
Looking around, to nearly a dozen incredibly concerned friends, you can't help but say to Ofelia, "I cannot thank you enough for actually— for trying to come and save me."

She sniffs, and lets you pull her into a proper hug. "You're so stupid."

"Yes. But it is alright. I'm here. We made it." She really can't keep it together, and buries her face in your sleeve. Putting a gold-speckled hand gently to the back of her cloak, you murmur, "I'm sorry to have worried you so much."

"I don't know what we were thinking," she cries, "and I don't care. What even is this?"

Unsure of whether she's talking about the invocation you've clearly been with for several hours (at least), the fact that you're still in one piece, the most recent change in your body composition, or the gorgeous suit of armor, you settle on the latter. Keeping Ofelia in a hug, as she struggles not to cry, you nod to the veteran blacksmith kneeling at your side. "Claymore. It is an honor to properly meet you."

Neither of you care about any further formality. He doesn't make any acknowledgement towards Mercy, your physical condition, or your history. Literally everything— and everyone else— can wait. "This was upon a fallen soldier, at the base of the ruins. Stuck fast to the bottom of the world through an enchantment, and within a hidden passage: guarded by an archdemon."

Each and every word has his, and Harvey's eyes, go wider than the last. Everyone else quiets down, and listens.

"It was no small feat to find, let alone to bring back. The armory within Eadric is provided by the Church of Flesh. Its contents normally escape my attention—" you try to not frown, as you're grateful beyond measure to have a divine defense instead, "—for obvious reasons. Is there anything you can tell me about Algrith's armor?"

The red-head in question points a finger to himself, mouth agape, and looks to you with stars in his eyes. "N-no. N-no w-way."

An equally stunned statement escapes from Claymore. "You know that the gold inlay would have come only from yer church. Right, Father?"

Everyone is looking to the heraldry upon the chest piece. A little bit of the morning light catches on the lions and sun. Harvey might have something in his eye, as he stammers, "it's p-perfect—"

"This metal," Claymore raps on the leftmost, silver-gray lion, "isn't of this age. It's lighter, thinner, and hardier than anything we have the equipment for. Someone broke up an entire separate piece of equipment, just to reinforce the breastplate. This would have belonged to a prince, likely in service to the Church of Mercy—" Harvey has to blow his nose, "—you alright there, boss?"

"K-keep t-talk-king," he insists, grinning ear to ear.

(1/2)
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>>4351543
"The heraldry isn't what's so impressive," Claymore muses. "It's the make, and bulk of the material. I've seen a sample, once before, from the far north."

Irefist chimes in, from across the room, "are you friends with Father Bennett, Father Anscham?"

"You mean Father Bart—" you immediately want to correct, and stop yourself. "Not quite. I hope to pay a visit to the Church of Storm as soon as humanly possible, though."

"Good," the sailor grins.

"Good," Claymore repeats. "He's requisitioned some of this material before, for the capital, but it was in a much smaller quantity. It's harder than rock, and heavier than sin. I can't believe you were able to carry it at all."

Chesty perceptibly flexes next to you. You both can't help but grin, but shrug off the comment.

"When worn— and I mean really worn—" Claymore laughs, as Harvey can't wait a second longer, and goes to try on one of the gauntlets, "—the weight distributes neatly. This was made by a master. Wouldn't feel like anythin' at all, I imagine. Sure as shit wouldn't let you feel anythin'. There's not a metal in Corcaea that could probably scratch it, save for basin-glass." You possess a dagger, made of the devastatingly sharp volcanic glass, but it's reserved only for worship of the Church of Vengeance.

"What is it c-called," Harvey beams, flexing a hand, upon which a perfectly fitted glove resides. It looks as fantastic on him as the smiles you're reflecting to one another.

"Sinewstone," Claymore utters, as if he's having a religious experience. "I'm sure we'll never see so much in one place again." He gets up, pats you hard on the shoulder, and is too stunned to even comment further.

Ofelia has calmed down, but she's still clinging to you like her life depends on it. You sweep her up, "—Richard what the fuck do ya think yer' doin'—" get to your feet, and keep her in your arms.

Claymore and Harvey pause their work the the armor to laugh, as you demand, "group hug. Don't give me that. With the armor! I don't care how. Right now. Please."

Teddy shuffles back to his feet, and immediately complies. "It is terribly good to see you, Father Anscham." He produces a stupid looking nightcap— one with a few sheep on it— and drops it on your head before anyone else can respond. "Rest of the soul, is it—?"

"Precisely." You adjust the nightcap with one hand, keeping Ofelia firmly against you with the other.

Teddy can't help but mutter, "father is going to kill me. I believe we can wait a moment for this, though."

Harvey and Claymore seriously cannot wait to outfit the fighter with full plate. It takes several minutes, during which you actually convince everyone to comply with your request for a hug. By the time that even Klepto peels himself away from whatever he's toying with, your ringleader is completely outfitted.

(BARELY over 2/3)
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>>4351545
The sun itself couldn't be brighter than Harvey's demeanor. The suit fits him like a dream, and he worms himself into the center of the group, to hug you and Ofelia as tightly as he can. The breath is taken from your lungs, a rib would have probably cracked if Mercy wasn't still on you, and the woman in your arms lets out a squeak.

"Th-thank you," his voice is even more muffled than usual, from under the disgustingly tasteful helm upon his head, "th-thank you so m-much. You kn-now I'll put it to g-good use."

>A] While you have everyone together, there's something you want to say. (Write-in anything specific, or a general sentiment you might want to convey.)

>B] Give everyone a fair warning that you need somewhere to pass out. Stress that you don't want to stay with the invocation any longer than necessary, and appreciate any help they can give.

>C] Stay with Mercy just for long enough to get to the nearest place Sister Tirel set up for you all.
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>>4351546
>>A] While you have everyone together, there's something you want to say. (Write-in anything specific, or a general sentiment you might want to convey.)

I love all of you crazy kids.
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>>4351548
+1
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>>4351548
+1
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>>4351548
>>4351549
>>4351551
(Hell yes. Trying to keep to half-hour windows this session. Locking the vote here! Writing now.)
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(OBSCENELY AND INSANELY COOL art courtesy of a voter. Thank you so much dude.)

>>4351576
Prying yourself out of Harvey's death-grip from upon your chest, you manage to get a good look at the group you've assembled. The last of your congregation. They're all clearly exhausted. The tattered finery upon Starlight and Stardust is slick with blood, sand, and evidence of their own flight from the ruins of Calunoth. Ofelia obviously hasn't slept in days, and she can't pull herself away from your hug.

Harvey has to pull away from the embrace, to try and keep himself together. He looks magnificent, and more imposing than the King Himself. You can't help but murmur, "I mean no offense by this, Harvey— given what you all have taken to calling me..."

Beast tamer is silly. Ray is my best friend, and my allies are on level ground with me. Not under my control.

"...but right now— more than a Ringleader— I think you look more like a lion."

Literally everyone is stunned into silence. Harvey nods, and though you can't see his eyes fully through his visor, you know they're dry. Dry with resolve, and dignity, and all the respect he deserves. With conviction, and pride, he takes a pause. It can't be easy for him, but he clearly says, "the red lion."

You're taken right back into a hug. The rest of your battered, beaten, bruised, sleep-deprived, grief-stricken, traumatized, and utterly devoted congregation are eclipsed once more from view, against a gilded pauldron. "Yeah. Yeah. Sh-shit, th-that's excellent, Fath-ther. Th-thanks."

You choke out, "I love all of you crazy," no one protests, and several of them laugh, "unbelievable..." it doesn't quite feel right to call them kids, "Thank you. Thank you all for remaining so loyal. For everything you've done on— on more than my behalf. Even when I was not your Father—"

A choir of protests erupt. Klepto pulls out of the hug first, unable to stay still, and flicks a pebble at your head. "I've been calling you better than that for months! Months, you ungrateful shit! Some thanks!"

He's shoved over by Irefist. "No one could understand half the shit you've come up with, anyways, you lunatic."

Harvey extracts himself immediately from your side, his grin audible as he effortlessly gets between the squabble that breaks out. "Save it, b-both of you—"

"It means everything," you grin, "and I would love to hear it all, sometime."

A punch on the side of your arm, from Chesty, puts a few spots of sunlight in your eyes. "Don't sweat it. Really."

With a sniff, Serpent wedges himself out from Stardust's arms ("finally," the nobleman smirks, slipping back off to the side of the room with Starlight), and gets right beside you. "Don't take this the wrong way, Father—"

(1/2)
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>>4351630
A smirk is necessary. "There is nothing you could— could possibly say that would offend me, Serpent. Go right ahead."

"You know we've all been following you, right? Literally following you. And not easily, either." Under his breath, he mutters, "you can run like a demon."

"Yes. Thank you."

"You're crazier than any of us." It's practically a compliment.

"I know."

"The least we can do is show you some respect." There's a slight bow of his head. "You've saved all of our lives, Father. Thank you."

The side of your sleeve is tugged on, as you wordlessly try to convey a fraction of how much you appreciate the sentiment. Theodore frowns up to you. "Father Anscham."

"Yes?"

"There will be more Time to speak. I promise. Yet, I am certain that father will have me thrown to the bottom of Somerilde's coldest lake—" Klepto stops his squabbling, to look over with curiosity, "—his words, not mine, sir—" the clown laughs, "—if I make no further attempt to get you to shelter. If you wish, we can escort you back to The Honey Bee. The castle may be unwise. Given our current company."

A mutual laugh from Chesty, Klepto, Serpent, and Harvey is all the confirmation anyone needs.

"It has been less than a day since I envisioned your encounter," the invoker explains. "I would like to respect your wishes. For the sake of your health, I must insist."

There's no threat in the priest's mellow tone. He's simply worried, and can be assertive enough when necessary. You gently set Ofelia back to the ground, as Brother Wilhelm practically strong-arms you towards the door. You give him your honest reply.

>A] You'd love to spend some time in the nearest safe house, and get to know the last of your congregation a bit better, away from the bustle of the capital.

>B] By all the Gods, do you miss Ray. It would be really nice to let Cyril and Harriet know you're alright, too. You'll head back to The Honey Bee, even if it's grueling to get there.

>C] Leave it up to Theodore. He's REALLY overextended himself on your behalf, and you trust his judgement completely.
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>>4351632
>C] Leave it up to Theodore. He's REALLY overextended himself on your behalf, and you trust his judgement completely.
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>>4351632
>C] Leave it up to Theodore. He's REALLY overextended himself on your behalf, and you trust his judgement completely.
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>>4351632
>C] Leave it up to Theodore. He's REALLY overextended himself on your behalf, and you trust his judgement completely.
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>>4351637
>>4351641
>>4351654
(Gentlemen, rev those engines, because can confirm that I am able to extend this session basically for the rest of the night, AKA for like another 7 hours if votes come in. Got enough coffee here to kill a horse. Let's do this shit. Vote is locked! Writing now.)
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>>4351659
"This— Brother Wilhelm— this isn't necessary. Truly. You know that I trust your judgement completely."

"I am merely trying to prevent you from collapsing, Father Anscham." Theodore gives you a weary smile. In a whisper, he asks, "how long have you been with Her today, Father Anscham?"

"What day is it," you murmur.

The priest parts from you, and gives you a look over. It's non-judgmental, and he's probably just trying to discern if you've invoked Dream as well. "The seventeenth day of the Tending Moon."

The moment the words leave his lips, you compulsively fish for a calendar, and mark off the dates. You were in the ruins beneath Calunoth for a total of three days, though only one was in Arkthros' company. He clearly took pity on you, to not prolong your stay any further. "The Gods are Merciful. My current invocation to Mercy must be verging on its second day, then."

"You did so while with Agriculture, too."

It's extremely obvious. The pudge on you isn't exactly embarrassing, for how much more defined your figure is, but you're modest. You rip off the rest of your tattered shirt, stash it, and put a hand to your robes. "Something befitting of the holy capital city, and the Father of the Church of Mercy. No ceremonial garb. Keep it tasteful. Please."

All of the blood, paint, sand, dirt, and flecks of gold soak into the enchanted fabric. In a matter of seconds, a very traditional set of clean-cut robes take form. It's nicely fitted, fairly long, highlights the best of your bulk, and neatly conceals the rest. The shades of gold are muted enough to compliment your Relic and Mercy's ring, without clashing against any of the metal in your hair, and you feel much better. "Yes, Brother Wilhelm. For— for the second Time this week—"

"You do not seem worse for the wear."

"I know what you must be thinking." This is not abuse.

"You were up against an archdemon. I am certain it was a matter of life and death."

A sigh of relief escapes you. "You have no idea."

"Anyone else?"

"Flesh, to outrun the demon— upon my first encounter with it."

"Fascinating." He's has a fixation with repetition. It's borderline endearing, for how earnestly the priest mentions, "Sister Cardew will want to hear of this."

You have to tell him. "Dream, as well."

His smile is immediate. "For interpretation?"

"Not necessarily. It was a vision," there's a little less radiance in your voice, as night creeps in, with a whisper. "...of Our design. Fantasy, in a more tangible form."

The boy's mouth falls open. "By the moon and stars."

"He saved mine and Ofelia's life."

"You are going to need more than my support." He's floored, and runs a hand through his hair, looking around the room. "Mr. Connelly? If I could have a moment?"

(1/2)
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>>4351767
Chesty lifts his head. He was standing slightly bent, hands to his knees, inspecting some of the heraldry upon Harvey's shin-guards. "Yeah?"

"Could you please help me escort Father Anscham? We will be going to Sister Tirel's accommodations."

You get it, as the hulking heathen offers you a shoulder. "It's not far," he reassures you with a grin.

Making sure that your gear is secure, you wrap an arm around Chesty's shoulder, and release your invocation to Mercy. The entire world shifts sideways. Someone might as well have set every fiber in your body aflame. Though you don't feel hunger or thirst, there's is a devastating fullness in you. Grains of sand are still stuck to the interior of your throat. The very surface of your eyes feels as if it has abrasions, and you can only remember a few other Times in your life that you've felt so tired.

Brother Wilhelm pats you on the back, nods with Chesty towards the door, and calls out to everyone else in the shack. "Like we discussed. Groups of three or less. Mind the surrounding area. We won't be coming back to this location until Father Anscham has secured your safety. Does anyone not remember how to get to The Honey Bee?"

"Go on," Ofelia drawls, grinning to the young man. "I gotcha'. Take good care of him, alright?"

A big pair of blue eyes darts up to you. "Father Anscham."

"Yes," you rasp, with so much heat in your face that you might as well be on fire. The very ground underfoot is another surge of agony, as you fight to stand. It's highly likely that your weight is distributed in a very flattering way, as your body, once again, does not feel anything like your own.

"Invoking Dream in such a way is often impossible. Even with a lifetime of devotion. This is remarkable. You may have overextended yourself."

You frown, not at all ashamed to enjoy how painful it is to speak, "His blessing was sorely needed. It saved our lives. I have no regrets."

Chesty shifts, doing his best to help keep you on your feet, as you all head back out into the city streets. It's dawn, and there's the usual commotion out in Calunoth's slums. Birds flit overhead, and the scent of pollen is on the air. It's the season of Grace, though you are in the month of Vengeance, and the sun is already beating hot down upon the city streets. Screaming children, merchants hollering far off in the distance, and the chatter of the lowest class fills the rest of the air. The ground underfoot is mostly soil, and ruins are few and far between. The countless, ramshackle houses around you provide welcome relief in the shade.

(2/3 character limit goofed the middle of the paragraph)
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>>4351773
While you walk, Brother Wilhelm politely keeps his head down, and does not wave to a single beggar you pass by. They are clearly intimidated by yours and Chetsy's presence, despite your inability to stay up completely on your feet. Walking is agony. It feels like you've torn every muscle in your body, despite knowing full well that Mercy and Flesh had healed any permanent damage. The priest of Dream beside you mellowly asks, "I would prefer if we did not have to interrupt any rest, Father."

"A dangerous proposition," you frown. It should be a tease, but you're legitimately worried.

"Dream may wish to grant you more respite than you wish. To be frank, Father, it is heresy to propose otherwise."

The scamp grins at you, and gives you every opportunity to say otherwise.

>A] Ask Brother Wilhelm to ensure you're safely looked after, for as long as necessary. You are hell-bent on taking better care of yourself, no matter what it takes.

>B] The prospect of spending over a month in Calunoth before finishing your mission is unacceptable. Explicitly request to not be permitted to sleep for any longer than nine days. While your devotion to Dream is commendable, your fear of Time eclipses it.

>C] Three days is your absolute upper limit for rest. It's usually sufficient for you to bounce back from even the most exhausting of invocations.

>D] You have SO MUCH work to do. Beg Theodore if he can tolerate you sleeping for one full day. You'll likely feel like garbage, but it's infinitely more rest than most people are usually afforded.

>E] Write-in.
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>>4351776
>>B] The prospect of spending over a month in Calunoth before finishing your mission is unacceptable. Explicitly request to not be permitted to sleep for any longer than nine days. While your devotion to Dream is commendable, your fear of Time eclipses it.


We should also try to delegate as much of our work as possible before we sleep. That way when we wake up there is no need to run ourselves ragged right away to make up for the lost time.
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>>4351776
>B] The prospect of spending over a month in Calunoth before finishing your mission is unacceptable. Explicitly request to not be permitted to sleep for any longer than nine days. While your devotion to Dream is commendable, your fear of Time eclipses it.
Remember our promise to mercy, we need to take care of our health
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>>4351776
>B] The prospect of spending over a month in Calunoth before finishing your mission is unacceptable. Explicitly request to not be permitted to sleep for any longer than nine days. While your devotion to Dream is commendable, your fear of Time eclipses it.
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>>4351784
>>4351788
>>4351810
(Great dudes. Taking all of these write-ins into consideration! Vote is locked. Writing now.)
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>>4351831
"Nine days," you cough. "No more than nine days of rest, Brother Wilhelm. I cannot stand the thought of prolonging my work here in the capital to an entire month."

"I understand, Father," he quietly nods.

You all arrive in a matter of minutes to a nearby, humble, and extremely quiet home. Chesty unceremoniously unlocks the door with a hilariously excessive skeleton key, encrusted with gemstones. You're led inside, and met with even more heat as Brother Wilhelm promptly sets to kindling the hearth.

At the back of the wooden home, you're helped down onto a straw mattress. The entire dwelling is littered with simple paraphernalia, likely from months of sheltering your congregation. Old cookware, furs, shoddy blankets, and a number of old candles litter the space. None of them are an issue, as exhaustion sinks into you. With a softer tone than you even typically use, you thank Chesty profusely, and get Theodore to listen to a few instructions.

The priest of Dream is to ensure that Ofelia, Harvey, Starlight, and Stardust are brought back to The Honey Bee, for more secure shelter, and to heal. Along with them, you request if Klepto could be sent to their side. Your hope is that between him, and the red lion, that the twins will be distracted and protected for long enough to conduct all of your business.

Sister Tirel and Sister Corbon are in the nearby district, and both are capable of healing anyone through any injury or illness they acquired while in the ruins, regardless.

Brother Trebbeck is easily the most competent and diplomatic of any of the clergy among you— without any personal grievances against anyone in the castle. He's to relay your success to anyone in the palace who can get word to the King. Furthermore, you need a request relayed, to receive an audience with King Magnus as soon as possible.

It's a lot, for one man, but you need Cyril to also locate Walter while he's in the castle. The guard with him either needs to be relieved, or replaced. No matter what, it needs to be made official. You leave it up to Brother Trebbeck's experience with protective services, and his positive demeanor, to make the most of Walter's precarious position.

It's more than necessary to have someone check in on Mick, Randy, and Mad Dog, too. Irefist seems insanely competent, and Serpent's wit is more than befitting of any reconnaissance. They, along with Claymore, are to investigate the situation in the sewers. You need a report back, with any findings on Mick's whereabouts.

You politely ask Chesty if he can guard Brother Wilhelm, as he goes about the city. You write up a notice of his pardon from King Magnus, and that he is under your protection. It's stamped and sealed with the office of your station, to present to any guard that may give him issue.

He doesn't accept it. "Someone has to keep an eye on you, Father. Don't worry about it, alright?"

You won't. "I'm sorry for imposing."

"Don't worry about it," he frowns.

(1/2)
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>>4351905
"To protect is to serve," you frown back, "but you know I can't help it."

He can't help but laugh. "You sound like death. Have some water, for fuck's sake."

It's excruciating to force down any water, but you've put away an entire flask by the Time you're done delegating everything you feel is necessary. There's a lot to do, and a lot of people in your care.

No matter how difficult it is, you aren't going to neglect yourself. Laying down, with a hand to your Relic, you hand off Brother Wilhelm's silly nightcap. "Thank you so much."

He grins, as you produce your own gold-threaded hat, and bury up to your nose under a few sheets. It feels like you've got a fever, or worse, but the bed is so comfortable you really can't care.

The priest of Dream at your side bows his head. He's going to head out first, to repeat your message, but has to linger a moment longer. "Blessed be the Dream, Father Anscham."

"Blessed be the night. Take care, Brother Wilhelm."

By the Time Theodore has reached the front door, waves to Chesty, and heads back into the morning light, you're already drifting off to sleep.

No one visits you, in the darkness.

-----

Of your own accord, your eyes drift open. The small hovel you occupy is extremely quiet, smells vaguely of beer, and intensely of herbs. The hearth is low, and it's dark outside.

You feel much better. The excruciating pain in your limbs is completely gone. Sitting upright, yawning, and stretching your arms, every last motion is better than the one before. This is bizarre, to an extreme. You haven't woken up naturally more than a few Times in two decades. The sheer amount of restfulness on you is so strange, that before even looking around, you can't help but enjoy stretching a little further. You'd like to enjoy how much more bulk is on your frame, but it's so foreign, you wind up stopping your motions before really starting.

There's a large shadow by the hearth, looking over to you with some amusement. Chesty is whittling a small object in his hands, with a small dagger, and has an enormous mug beside him. There's a wedge of well-seasoned meat skewered upon the hearth, that he's likely been attending to for quite some Time. Without bothering to even get up, he smirks, "well. Would you look at that? Teddy was actin' like you'd be out for a month. Ya' sleep well?"

"Very," you murmur, adjusting your robes, and feeling a little ridiculous for not even changing into anything else. Removing your nightcap, and mussing you hair, you quietly ask, "do you know what day it is?"

"The twenty-first."

You were out for four solid days. An insanely relieved laugh escapes you. "Are you certain?"

"I wouldn't lie to ya'," Chesty smirks back. "Take as much Time as you need. It's late, and I've been sleepin' the whole day away. Should be a few hours before anyone comes knockin'." With a wider smile, he cheekily asks, "want a drink? Food should be done in a bit."

(Options in next post.)
>>
>>4351908
>A] Have something to drink with Chesty. Try to loosen up a little.

>B] You'll have a small beer, at most. You might want to do some work this evening, and want to stay sharp.

>C] Abstain from drinking, but take up the offer for some food, at least. It's been a solid week since you actually ate anything, and have to wonder how you have stayed alive for so long on so little.

>D] Go take Chesty up on his offer, but you're only drinking from your flask. Offer some of whatever you conjure to him, too. Between the poison in the market, the assassins you know are going to be on your trail, and how much you miss Yech...
>1] ...you could really use something stronger. You're confident that your current company won't mind. It's not a sin to drink, and you've been through a lot.
>2] ...Gods, do you miss Mother Bethaea, too. Have some of the tea you invented together. It always makes you feel better.
>3] (Write-in literally any beverage you want.)

>E] Write-in.
>>
>>4351910
D2 and food
>>
>>4351908
>>D] Go take Chesty up on his offer, but you're only drinking from your flask. Offer some of whatever you conjure to him, too. Between the poison in the market, the assassins you know are going to be on your trail, and how much you miss Yech...
>2] ...Gods, do you miss Mother Bethaea, too. Have some of the tea you invented together. It always makes you feel better.
>>
>>4351918
I'll take a D2 and food, please.

(+1)
>>
>>4351918
+1
>>
>>4351910
>C] Abstain from drinking, but take up the offer for some food, at least. It's been a solid week since you actually ate anything, and have to wonder how you have stayed alive for so long on so little.
Gotta fuel the dick machine
>>
>>4351918
>>4351919
>>4351921
>>4351922
>>4351927
(Nearly unanimous, I think we can incorporate almost all of this. Vote is locked! Writing now.)
>>
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>>4351945
https://youtu.be/UgHKb_7884o

Getting up out of bed, and stretching your legs feels phenomenal. With a groan, you finish stretching, and resolve to do everything you can to look after your new muscle. Food is the best place to start, so you go take Chesty up on his offer.

He's sitting on a low wooden bench. Expletives and a few crude drawings are sketched into it. There's a heart on one plank, surrounded by little stars, with "A + E" carved into it. It's adorable, so you sit on the opposite side of the fire instead of by his side.

Crackling wood, the steady stream of smoke out the hole in the hovel's ceiling, and the scent of cooking meat takes you back, to extremely pleasant company. Rather than accept any beer, you go to get your flask.

It's simple, with gold plating at its base and upon the cap.

There's a sharp pang of loss, and a longing for camaraderie that extends far beyond your work or any mission.

Gods, do I miss him.

With a little mist in your eyes, you murmur to Yech's flask, "our tea."

By all the Gods, do I miss her.

The Magic-infused item understands your intent, without further clarification. Heat and steam immediately floods the interior of the container. A light aroma of honey and lemon is obscured by an utterly unique herb. King Magnus may have cultivated a hardier strain of your finest medicinal work, but the original, delicate strain is infinitely more potent. It's astringent, can provide light in any condition, and heals nearly any poison. It can ease a man's body.

The reminder of your dearest allies does a good bit to ease your mind, as well.

It's been nearly four and a half years since Mother Bethaea died. You sniff, and keep your composure. There's no famine. The very Goddess of Agriculture looks kindly on you.

I wonder if she would be proud.

It dawns on you that you've likely been sitting in silent mourning for many long minutes, and awkwardly look around for two cups. Chesty gives you a sincere, slight smile, leans over, and offers you two wooden mugs. "Here. Mind if I ask what it is?"

You ask, shaking the endless item slightly, "my flask?"

"Seen enough weird shit to last me a lifetime. Nah. That's tea?"

"A blend," you elaborate, pouring out some into both cups. "The famine was terrible— we stretched everything we could."

Chesty's smile gets a little tighter. "I know."

"Lemon—"

"Oh. From Wearmoor?" He's probably from the west.

"The Church of Agriculture."

"Wow." Definitely a farm boy. You have a good bit in common. "You really get around, don't you?"

"Yes. It was my first mission, outside of the Church of Mercy."

"Anything else," Chesty muses, pausing before drinking to grin. "Oh. You got a sweet tooth?"

"Yes," you manage to smile back. "She kept a few stores of honey."

"Nice." Without blowing on the scalding liquid, Chesty pulls at his mug. "This isn't bad." He's obviously delighted. "What's the rest?"

(Options in next post.)
>>
>>4352011
>A] Out of respect for Mother Bethaea, you'd like to leave the herb unnamed.
>1] Mention that it was ultimately thanks to the last mother of the Church of Agriculture that it was cultivated, at least.
>2] Keep it to yourself. You really don't want to dig up the past right now.

>B] "Green Bough." You used to tease Phyllis about her name, but always thought that its meaning was borderline poetic. She deserves the recognition, and would appreciate something so simple.

>C] "Asphydel." You want to represent her death in a positive light. Something as flowery as the former church leader's holy symbol, with a little bit of both your names.

>D] Write-in.
>>
>>4352016
>>B] "Green Bough." You used to tease Phyllis about her name, but always thought that its meaning was borderline poetic. She deserves the recognition, and would appreciate something so simple.
>>
>>4352016
>>C] "Asphydel." You want to represent her death in a positive light. Something as flowery as the former church leader's holy symbol, with a little bit of both your names
>>
>>4352016
>>B] "Green Bough." You used to tease Phyllis about her name, but always thought that its meaning was borderline poetic. She deserves the recognition, and would appreciate something so simple.
>>
>>4352016
>C] "Asphydel." You want to represent her death in a positive light. Something as flowery as the former church leader's holy symbol, with a little bit of both your names.
>>
(Taking a brief break to get some food and give my hands some relief lol. Vote is still open, and I'll resume in a few. Fucking awesome session today guys, love you all and looking forward to writing more in just a bit.)
>>
>>4352016
>>B] "Green Bough." You used to tease Phyllis about her name, but always thought that its meaning was borderline poetic. She deserves the recognition, and would appreciate something so simple.
>>
>>4352022
>>4352024
>>4352072
>>4352146
>>4352227
(Cool guys, back, and going to lock the vote here with the tie. Going to find a way to incorporate both a little, though. Writing now!)
>>
>>4352260
It's 3 to 2 now though
>>
>>4352280
(Mistyped, meant with the tie broken. B was the majority.)
>>
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>>4352315
The first time you heard Mother's Bethaea's name, you thought it was a sneeze. Teasing her about it was a small joy, in Wearmoor's bleak, and barren fields. She would appreciate something with some meaning. Something simple. Something to always remember her by. "Green Bough," you murmur.

"Never heard of it," Chesty notes, already finishing the cup.

"You wouldn't have. We never had the chance to name it together."

"We?"

"Mother Bethaea and I. I think it would be nice, to— to give her the recognition she deserves."

Several minutes pass in silence, as you stare down at your cup. The reflection swimming back at you is almost completely unrecognizable. Gone is your scruffy hair, as it's threaded through and through with literal gold. Gone is the gaunt and demonically thin young man, who was whimsically called a beanstalk by one of the sweetest ladies you've ever known. Your scars are far lighter, your face is filled out, the bags under your eyes are deeper than ever, and the awful way your nose has healed from being broken multiple times is almost all that's stayed the same.

You scowl. It's a comfortable, familiar expression. The broadness of your shoulders has persisted, and all of your height, but nothing feels right. You don't quite want to move. The tea is likely getting cold.

At some point, Clarence gets up, sits right beside you, and has carved up the meat he's been cooking. A bowl is thrust at you, as he quietly sets to eating, and politely gives you nothing further than his company.

Choking down everything in front of you is like eating glass, like usual. You choke down the pain, as a reminder, of taking in a curse that had plagued every last soul dependent on the land.

The tea helps, like usual.

Only one question interjects the otherwise quiet meal. It's not towards the physical pain you're in. "Where was she buried? If you don't mind me askin'."

"I don't," you cough, fighting down the last of the meat. It was phenomenal. You want to say as much, and can barely say, "she passed away at the start of the High Reaping. They— they buried her in the fields. It's what she would have wanted." Something must be caught in your throat, as you choke out, "I've heard that the garden is stunning. Especially this— this Time of year—"

Your bowl is taken, and Chesty tactfully wrests your cup from your hands. "You two were close?"

"Yes." You are not going to cry. "I did not get the opportunity to know her— nearly— nearly as well as I—"

The dishes are set aside, and your fellow devotee promptly sits back down beside you. "Do you want to talk about it at all? I wouldn't mind hearin' about it. All kinds of stories growin' up, you know?"

It occurs to you that Clarence is one of the few members of your congregation who remembered their name, even from the beginning of his rescue from the depths of Ostedholm. "You grew up to the west," you murmur, "didn't you?"

(1/2)
>>
>>4352463
"The east," he mildly corrects.

You run your hands through your hair, and nervously laugh. "It's been a long month."

"Don't worry about it. Not so close as Wearmoor, though. Little old shitheap off the Eventide. Ever hear of Balferth?"

You haven't, but the direction is close enough to your hometown. "It wouldn't be anywhere near Pontos...?"

A slight rap on your shoulder, and a grin, is all the answer you really need. "You're joking."

"Do I— do I look like I am joking—"

"Not even close. The fuck have you been out there for?"

>A] Talk a little about growing up in Pontos. You've literally never had the opportunity.

>B] Ask Chesty about his own experiences in Corcaea. He's definitely well-traveled, and you'd like to get to know your congregation as well as possible. It might help take your mind off of things, too.
>1] Ask him if he can plot Balferth on your map, if he can. The farmhand may be unable to read or write, but you could definitely help him out.
>2] Just ask.

>C] Gods. You miss her. Take Chesty up on his extremely tactful offer, to talk a little more deeply about your Time spent with Mother Bethaea, and all the fond memories you made.

>D] You're really not ready to touch on your feelings about Mother Bethaea passing away, but talking about the Church of Agriculture might be cathartic. It's a much easier subject, at any rate.

>E] Your work with Mother Bethaea, its culmination, and the unbelievable sacrifice you made on the entire country's behalf is something you want people to know of. Tell Clarence about your first invocation.
>1] Just to get it off your chest. It deeply bothers you, to this day.
>2] You've recounted it many times, but never to someone with the ability to make it known. You want to ask him if he can help spread the word, with your congregation, for your sanity's sake.
>3] Ask him if he can help you. You still intend to look into her suicide personally. You've meant to look into the aftermath of the event for years, and could use all the help you can get.

>F] Write-in.
>>
>>4352470

>A] Talk a little about growing up in Pontos. You've literally never had the opportunity.
>E] Your work with Mother Bethaea, its culmination, and the unbelievable sacrifice you made on the entire country's behalf is something you want people to know of. Tell Clarence about your first invocation.
>3] Ask him if he can help you. You still intend to look into her suicide personally. You've meant to look into the aftermath of the event for years, and could use all the help you can get.
>>
>>4352470
>>A] Talk a little about growing up in Pontos. You've literally never had the opportunity.
>>
>>4352470
>A] Talk a little about growing up in Pontos. You've literally never had the opportunity.
>E] Your work with Mother Bethaea, its culmination, and the unbelievable sacrifice you made on the entire country's behalf is something you want people to know of. Tell Clarence about your first invocation.
>3] Ask him if he can help you. You still intend to look into her suicide personally. You've meant to look into the aftermath of the event for years, and could use all the help you can get.
>B] Ask Chesty about his own experiences in Corcaea. He's definitely well-traveled, and you'd like to get to know your congregation as well as possible. It might help take your mind off of things, too.
>1] Ask him if he can plot Balferth on your map, if he can. The farmhand may be unable to read or write, but you could definitely help him out.
>>
>>4352476
>>4352480
>>4352501
(Alright guys! These aren't mutually exclusive. Should take just a minute. Vote is locked. Writing now.)
>>
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>>4352547
https://youtu.be/JGQWVVY8Dmk

"It was where I was born. Raised, for— for some of my youth."

"No shit?"

"My parents had a small farm. It— things were difficult."

Chesty leans back, crosses his arms, and sweeps up his mug. "Sure you don't want any?"

"Yes, thank you. I'm certain that whatever you have would be better than my father's brew," you try to not smile, going back for the tea. "His skill has improved a little, over Time. I have to wonder if he needs more Time, or if he was compensating for the spoiled crop for so long— he— he may have never learned how. Properly, I mean."

"Sounds like you know your shit."

"I paid incredibly close attention."

"Helped out a lot around the farm, eh?"

There's really no kind way to put it. "I tried."

"Imagine heading home now is a lot easier," Chesty smirks at you, gesturing to one of your arms, as you fidget.

Mercy, he is being so kind. "You saw how thin I was, in the ruins."

"We all had been through a lot. Can't say I wasn't worried. You're doing alright, now?"

"It— it wasn't all bad. Running was remarkably easier."

"You don't say," the brute grins, leaning slightly to the side.

A little more life comes back into your voice. "I could make it from the edge of Eventide, right up to the last stream in the furthest home in the village, in— it was remarkably more difficult to track Time, but— it was no Time at all."

"No kidding."

"You wouldn't believe how beautiful the fields are, just— just before sunset—"

"I would!"

"You would." Taking out your map, as politely as you can manage, you ask, "I would love to see where Balferth is. Would you be able to show me...?"

"Give me a hand," he frowns, scrutinizing the parchment as you spread it across your satchel and the width of your old, flatter journal. "This isn't half bad. That the bend Pontos is at?" He points to an incredibly lonesome, simplistic sketch of farmland to the north-east.

Illiteracy is no indication of dullness, especially in Corcaea. "Yes," you murmur, more than a little impressed. Walking your fingers along the parchment to Calunoth, you point out, "and we're right over here."

Chesty whistles, as you get out a quill. "Long way from home." He might be scared to even touch the parchment, and hovers a finger east of Wearmoor, just across the Eventide River. There's no need to mask your excitement, as you confirm the spot, and immediately write in the location of his hometown.

"You grew up outside the church's protection...?"

"Some real shit, isn't it? Felt like someone was gone, every damn season. And not just from the fucking famine." You both frown. He immediately tries to deflect. "We had— have a Harvest festival, at the start of the season. Start of the second week. I'd like to go back, sometime. See it like it's meant to be, you know?"

(1/2)
>>
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>>4352645
You make a note of it. "I can't remember having a single festival in Pontos. We'd have quieter celebrations. Birthdays, mostly."

"We were more— what's the word—"

"Communal?"

"Yeah. Big on the community. Nothin' small. Wasn't worth it. I mean, it wasn't easy. Like you said. ...you do anythin' special?"

"Nothing terribly special," you muse, trying to remember anything from your earliest years. An incredibly sheepish smile crosses your face, as you recall, "my father let me tend to an entire plot of land, one year. I can't remember him ever being so proud—"

"You didn't." Chesty has to take a pull at his mug, having completely forgotten about it. "There's no way."

Pride is utterly foreign to you. "It was a miracle, to see something sprout with only a few seeds." Only. It's laughable, now, but it easily took 100 to produce a single crop, just a few years ago. "I can't even imagine how many times I must have prayed to Agriculture."

A scoff throws you completely off-guard. "Yeah."

It's easy to forget that you're in the company of heathens. "You don't believe me?"

"Look— I don't mean no offense."

"You're well-traveled. You've seen the countryside." You are trying very hard to not preach. It's almost impossible. "You know Her bounty is as real as you or I—"

"Thanks to who? She's not in the field. She hasn't broken Her back over broken land, or starved in—" There's probably enough pain across your face to have stopped his blasphemy right in its tracks. With a deep sigh, Clarence reclines, drinks a bit more, and mutters, "sorry. I'm forgettin' myself."

Placing Yech's flask back in one of your robe's interior pockets, you replace your map, and all your writing implements. The severeness of your demeanor has Chesty completely silent. The crackle of the fire, and a few owls outside are the only noise for a long while.

You stare him straight in the eye, knowing full well that the sage is disturbingly vivid, and practically marbled with the gold upon your irises. It's evidence of divinity, and swims a little, as reverence lances all the grief in your tone. "I would like to tell you about Agriculture."

The beer is set aside, and Clarence shifts back across the hearth. With a nod, crossing his arms, the blasphemer indulges you— but not as a preacher. "Least I can do."

He really wants to be friends. You practically break down on the spot, but take a deep breath, and bury your grief for just a few minutes longer. "I was sent to the Church of Agriculture, and arrived on the second day of Last Sowing. It wasn't even three months after Father Edmund had died."

"I'm sorry to hear that, Father." He makes a point of stressing your title. It's unprecedented, for a new church leader to be appointed by the last, in such a swift and devastating manner.

(Habits! Reflexively put the post length, definitely 2/3.)
>>
>>4352648
You earned your title. "...thank you. Mother Bethaea took me under her wing. She knew I was grieving, and gave me plenty of space, within the church itself. She never complained, never troubled me— not for all the hours, or any nights passed working in the field. And never— not once, did she ever trouble me, for all the questions that I had for her. She said I had an affinity, for Agriculture. She thrived on it. Someone who cared. I wanted to learn, and to help, and to grow. We— we cultivated a new herb, over the season."

Chesty blinks, and doesn't bother closing his mouth as he gapes, "what?"

"It was aided by an incredible sample she had nurtured, though it was delicate, to an extreme. It— she had been to the ruins, herself, at least once before." A pang of longing, for answers you're never getting, takes the air from your lungs. "I never had the opportunity to ask her why."

Several long minutes pass. Chesty waves one of the tea mugs at you. "So, this is it?"

"Yes," you choke out. "I named Green Bough after her, Chesty. Phyllis. It's— her name was lovely. She was lovely. It was our work, but she— she never got the respect she deserved."

"She's a hero," you're immediately corrected, "and the whole country knows it."

"She did not end the famine," you correct in turn, fighting the sting in your eyes with everything you have. "I know she tried. I know she prayed. I know she worked herself to the bone, while we all starved, and never once had an answer. She was hurting— and— Mercy, she would always try and smile—"

>A] Let yourself get choked up.
>1] Spare no details.
>2] Omit the details of the invocation (it was horrifying), but get into everything else.

>B] Shove down your grief like your life depends on it.
>1] Keep the retelling short.
>2] You are the Father of Restraint, and can handle this without breaking down. (A roll will be required.)

>C] Write-in.
>>
>>4352653
>A] Let yourself get choked up.
>2] Omit the details of the invocation (it was horrifying), but get into everything else.
>>
(Hey guys, to keep up quality, going to call this monster of a session here for the night! Vote will stay open til I'm back. Should be able to run again tomorrow morning, or early afternoon EST at the latest. Thanks again for being so stellar, everyone, and have a good night!)
>>
>>4352664
+1
>>
>>4352664
>>4352764
(Locking here with the unanimous vote. Back for the afternoon and evening, let's get this show on the road. Writing now!)
>>
>>4353179
(Messed up formatting, please refresh/F5 if old posts are displaying. Will post fixed one shortly, sorry about that.)
>>
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>>4353179
https://youtu.be/e52IMaE-3As

There's no use trying to hide how choked up you are. "I thought— I thought that even if the sun went out— that she would be bright enough to— to keep the world going, until the next Harvest. But it wasn't enough. Something— someone— had defiled our land. Our home."

Clenching onto the robes over your knees, a few tears fall onto the tops of your white knuckles. "We were all dying. Suffering. I had to do something."

Looking up is unbearable. The silence across from you is an invitation to continue, written with concern.

"I did more than pray. I was devout. I had listened, and learned. I never stopped asking questions. I needed to know, but— nothing— no amount of worship— the months of back-breaking work in the field—"

An incredibly guilty sounding cough is the only interjection.

"It was never enough."

Angst streams down your face, as you silently take a moment, and try to keep it together enough to speak. "Our work— mine and Mother Bethaea's legacy— was grueling. It was no miracle, to get a single herb to flourish. Her skill was without compare, yet she languished. The sheer injustice of it—" a sob comes to your throat. "My parents— they might as well have been dead, for how hard it had been. For all the years I had gone without returning home, wondering— and I did. I did return, once before my service in Wearmoor. I knew that the town of Pontos was still starving."

The weight on your forearms and wrists might as well be the weight of your guilt. "The whole country was. It— it wasn't right."

You look up to Clarence with hope in your watery eyes. He could not look more worried. "I knew. I knew Agriculture had not forsaken us."

Love and devotion drenches you. "I believed in Her. Her will, HER land, HER blessing, with every last break in my soul. Do you understand?"

The heathen doesn't dare reply, but is kind enough to listen, and nod, without any disbelief.

"I was willing to sacrifice everything." Chest heaving, as every word feels harder than the last, you barely manage to explain, "I went to the field, with no intention of returning. I called upon Agriculture, and do you know— do you know what happened?"

"I think so," Chesty quietly replies, "but go on."

"Agriculture listened. She had been spurned." It's not an accusation. It's the truth. "Many of Her children had turned from Her works." Justified horror cuts across your fellow farmer's face. "There was no hope," you can barely breathe, "there was no love."

(1/2)
>>
>>4353312
You are a beacon of hope, and love, in a world that desperately needs it. One that is shaking. More than the tears streaked across your face, you're drenched with conviction, and choke out, "there IS a Goddess, and She was willing to give everything to me. I accepted Her gift, Clarence. She permitted me to bear our plague, and our curse."

Speaking verges on something ugly, and you don't care. "It has been agony. Lesser men would have killed themselves after three months of it. Not three years, not four and a half, and not for the life I still have left to live."

This is not about self-pity. "I cannot begin to express what She must have felt, for well over an age. To suffer from life, to suffer from death, and to suffer from everything that comes in-between—"

You trail your gaze away from the man sitting before you, who is too stunned to speak, and stare down at the grit beneath your nails. You haven't even had the chance to clean them, since your last invocation to Agriculture, and you don't particularly care to now. "She saw fit to bless me. To relieve Her pain. She couldn't. I will not— I will never partake of a stalk of grain, nor a drop of wine, without knowing Her torment."

This is about more than sacrifice. "I will endure. I do not regret anything. I am a priest of the Church of Agriculture. I have served, and prayed, and devoted myself completely to the Goddess. No matter what pain it has caused me. It is not a cost. It is not a trade."

There's no use wiping a hand to the side of your eyes, as you sob, "SHE is suffering. Mother Bethaea knew it, with all of her heart, and still took me in. Phyllis sheltered me. She protected me, from everyone that had hurt me. She gave me a home, and somewhere to heal. She gave me hope—"

It's too difficult to say, as you hold onto yourself, and try not to sob hysterically. It takes a few minutes. Chesty sits down next to you, at some point, and puts a hand to your shoulder. He squeezes it slightly, as your breath levels just enough to remember how to breathe.

You start crying all over again. "The Mother of my family is dead."

A few more minutes pass, before Chesty quietly lets you know, "I'm sorry for your loss, Father."

This is about family, your home, and everyone you care for.

"It's— it's— she took her life."

"...what?"

"A month—" you can barely talk, you're sobbing so hard, "to the day—"

"Father Anscham—"

"—exactly one month after I had saved our country from the fucking famine—"

You can't remember the last time you've cried this hard. "I don't know why. I never got to ask her— so many things— and she's gone. She's gone."

Chesty makes no motion to move from your side.

The request is something between a weep, and a whisper. "Would you help me?"

"Yeah." The hold around you squeezes a little tighter. "Yeah. Of course."

(Options in next post.)
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>>4353324
>A] Ask Chesty if he could go to Wearmoor, to discreetly gather some information, and come back to the Church of Mercy with his findings. Leave the method up to him.
>1] Alone, to attract less attention.
>2] With Serpent, to have someone more cerebral and experienced with subterfuge at his side.

>B] GODS, you miss your birth parents, too. Helen and Robert Anscham are notoriously hospitable. Their reputation for granting shelter almost eclipses your own work as the very Father of Protection.
>1] Ask if Chesty could simply ask for shelter for a short while. He may be able to gather more information from locals, than the city at large, and you don't want to ask for too much.
>2] In addition to staying at their home to gather information, you desperately want to write back home. (Write-in any gifts, or specific messages you may want to send to either of your parents. Your QM will pick something thoughtful, if no preferences are specified.)

>C] It's a LOT to ask— they WILL wear him to the bone, even if he isn't of the clergy— but see if Chesty can get some work at the Church of Agriculture as a common man.
>1] To stay under the radar, and try to gather information from everyone who feels the effects of the church on their daily life.
>2] To rub elbows with those who must be trying to fill the vacancy that Mother Bethaea left. The Church of Agriculture is STILL without a leader.

>D] Write-in.
>>
>>4353328
>>A] Ask Chesty if he could go to Wearmoor, to discreetly gather some information, and come back to the Church of Mercy with his findings. Leave the method up to him.
>2] With Serpent, to have someone more cerebral and experienced with subterfuge at his side.

Ask them to find out more about

>2] To rub elbows with those who must be trying to fill the vacancy that Mother Bethaea left. The Church of Agriculture is STILL without a leader.

The church is still technically under our command and we have gathered a fair amount of allies and influence, we could probably help install someone as the new leader of the church.
>>
>>4353331
+1
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>>4353331
+2
>>
>>4353331
>>4353339
>>4353351
(Locking the unanimous vote, writing now!)
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>>4353382
"Would you go to Wearmoor, with Serpent? To— I don't know how you would, or could— but if either of you could learn— learn anything about anyone who is competing for Mother Bethaea's position. The Church of Agriculture is still without a leader. It still, ultimately, falls under my command. I have neglected so much— but—"

Wresting yourself away from the hold on your shoulder, you stop clutching onto yourself, and repress the urge to fidget for a blessed moment. Looking Chesty dead in the eye, you frown, "I have gained more than influence, or allies. I would like to help install a new leader, in the Church of Agriculture— but— but I have to look to my friends, first."

You're pulled into a tight hug. "Thanks," Chesty chokes out. "Bet you don't hear it a lot. But I appreciate it, Father." Words are entirely insufficient, so he gives up on conveying any more gratitude. Actions are infinitely more potent. He pulls back, with a straight face, and promises, "I'll see what I can do." He pauses, to correct himself, "what we can do. Serpent's a right bastard, when it comes to this sort of thing. He'll want in. I'm sure of it. Bet he'll be a big help."

"If either of you ever are in need of anything," you assert, "you are always welcome in the Church of Mercy. I intend to return to Eadric as soon as possible. Do not hesitate to have Serpent write to me, if either of you have a single request. And if— if either of you learn of anything—"

"Yeah." He sniffs. "We'll check in. I'll head on over the minute we got somethin' worthwhile." Something's seriously bothering him. "Yeah."

"What— what is it—"

"Serpent's not back from checkin' up on Mick yet. Most of us are pretty busy, still." He scowls, "I'm not gonna' lie to you, Father. Those pieces of shit back at your home aren't exactly the best company. Can't say I'm not worried about you goin' home. Especially if we're all gonna split."

You take several ragged breaths, and manage to calm down enough to think a little more clearly.

One thing at a Time.

>A] Ask for information on everyone's whereabouts, from the last four days of their activity on your behalf. There's no use panicking or worrying until you have all your ducks in a row.

>B] Ask Chesty about his complaints with the Church of Mercy.
>1] Purely based on his own experiences.
>2] From what he's heard, since leaving Eadric nearly eight months ago.
>3] As much information as he can give you.

>C] Write-in.
>>
>>4353415
>>A] Ask for information on everyone's whereabouts, from the last four days of their activity on your behalf. There's no use panicking or worrying until you have all your ducks in a row.

I don't think anyone is gonna fuck with us for a while, it would be too high profile. Especially if Mercy is going to manifest physically in the church, I am sure people are gonna be out for us and in force, but not so soon. We knocked out a lot of our most major enemies, we need to use this time to consolidate the political power we managed to get so far and prepare for whatever is going to come next. Getting an ally in the church of Agri is gonna be something EVERYONE is looking for. We should try and get in touch with the church of Storm and the situation there.
>>
>>4353415
>B] Ask Chesty about his complaints with the Church of Mercy.
>3] As much information as he can give you.
>>
>>4353438
+1
>>
>>4353438
>>4353487
(Going to prioritize this.)
>>4353430
(But get that info. I'm not ignoring the content of your write-in, and will incorporate some of it, but it directly contradicts with the majority desire to not turn a blind eye to what's happening at home. Locking the vote here! Writing now.)
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>>4353499
https://youtu.be/Xt-RmZ0ztBI

Despite having spent most of your life in its hallowed halls, you know incredibly little of what the outside world thinks of the Church of Mercy. Transparency, and honest answers are incredibly hard to come by. Everyone has an agenda, and as a political leader, you're used to being treated more like a pawn than a human being. This is an unprecedented opportunity, and you are not about to let it pass you by. Not when you need all of the information you can get. "Chesty?"

"Yeah?"

"Can you— can you give me your honest thoughts, regarding the Church of Mercy? Its clergy. My home. My church."

"I never thought you'd ask," he grins.

"You— you couldn't possibly have been waiting for permission—"

A large hand is placed again to your shoulder. "I didn't want to bring up any shit you weren't comfortable with, Father."

Father Sullivan has made your abuse within the church public knowledge. It's been known by your clergy long beforehand. You cringe, "I am far more concerned with my enemies moving ahead," you gently take his hand off of your shoulder, "and what I can do to reduce any conflict within my home—" you're back to fidgeting, and can barely breathe, "than by old aggressors. Brother Morris, and Brother Stace, should no longer present any issues."

An eyebrow is raised at you. It's borderline condescending, and Chesty clearly battles with himself to find a way to politely say, "I'm not talkin' about any personal stuff, Father. There's a lot more people back in Eadric than those two cumrags."

"Chesty," you laugh, fighting against a scowl.

"Don't pardon the language. I'd say a lot worse, but I'm tryin' to be respectful."

"No," you wipe your eyes and face a little further, stashing a handkerchief as you frown, "no. It's alright. Go on."

"You haven't made nearly as many friends as you think, Father. Not nearly enough, for how many they'd turned against you. Not by a long-shot. We had to do some damn dirty shit just to get away."

Nausea threatens to upend all of the meat you painstakingly put away. You've had many similar experiences. "I don't have to imagine."

"What kind of a church preaches restraint, anyways?"

It's very, very difficult to not be offended. You settle on not dignifying the question with a reply.

"Father— can I call you Richard?"

"Absolutely."

"Richard, it's fucked. There's more to this than your church." He's not trying to be rude. "People like us—" he's referring to your congregation, "we're the bulk. The base. Your foundation, you get me?"

You don't. You were born to a farm in the middle of nowhere, and were chained in a cell for eight years. Most of your life has been spent in the church, and the rest has been spent fighting for your life. There's probably a glassy look in your eye, for how gently Chesty murmurs, "it's alright. I get it. But you need to know. You all stand on us."

(1/2)
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>>4353651
"Ah." Fidgeting with the ring on your hand isn't a significant distraction— merely a welcome comfort.

"We've got marauders, and bandits. Pieces of shit who use every last piece of shit to their advantage. And it's no better than your church using demons. I've heard the stories, but I know there's worse. Cults. Fake preaching, you get me? And bastards up top who want to see it thrive."

The masked individuals within The Pit cut across your memory like a hot knife. Demons used for their entertainment. Citizens and sinners, who would fight, simply for the sport of it. To say nothing of battered women, imprisoned for pleasure— or the countless apathetic citizens within Calunoth who simply are trying to live day to day.

It occurs to you that, despite leading your country, you know next to nothing about the people who occupy it. Chesty picks his beer back up. "You know what I think?"

Your eyes and face are dry. "What?"

"I think that the Church of Mercy has been happy to run itself. The Church of Agriculture, too. They didn't come for ya'. They're all reaping what you've sowed. And I think they're going to be pissed you're comin' back."

You don't need a drink, lies, discretion, or respect. You need answers, and you are GOING to look after your home. Your congregation. Your people. "I have been asleep, for four days," you mutter, "and I would like to know how everyone has been."

"You should probably ask 'em yourself," Chesty almost laughs. "There's a lot of us. I haven't heard much."

"Has anyone stopped by— at— at all?"

"Electrum spent the whole day here, two— three days ago?"

You twitch. Not everyone respects Time. "Please try to remember," you ask, in a strained, and slightly terrified fashion.

"It's an hour or two before sunrise, so... yeah. Woulda' been two days ago. She said she'd be back today, after checkin' up on everyone at Ofelia's place. She was fine, and is gonna set up some stuff at the opposite end of the city. I think her and Spangle want to go back to Eadric, so she's probably lookin' to get some horses. I know she'll want to ask you about it."

With a sight of relief, you run a hand through your hair. It's almost entirely gold. Electrum will be delighted. "Anyone else?"

"Your dog—"

"Ray."

"Ray is doin' pretty well. Electrum looked after him, for a couple days. Soon as she heard he'd been hurt."

"Bless her—"

"Spangle checked up on everyone who'd been under the city. They both said everyone would be fine. No word, but I guess Walter's all taken care of. Your priest buddy—"

"Cyril?"

"That's the one. He looked after everything. Bad news, though."

"What."

"King can't get off His glossy ass until..." there's a mental calculation, "...it'll be four days from now, when He can see you."

(JUST over 2/3)
>>
>>4353652
You take an extremely ragged breath. It might be a blessing, as you still have one loose end with your congregation to tie up. "What of Mick's whereabouts?"

Chesty shrugs. "No tellin'. Guess Randy went lookin' for him, since the safe house was clear. No note. Might've been in a hurry. He was probably just playin' it safe. Serpent, Irefist, and Claymore all went after them," earnestly, Chesty insists, "and I know they'll find him."

"Mercy."

"Told you it was a lot. You need anything?"

>(For the sake of pacing, the following prompts are mutually exclusive. Majority will decide.)

>A] Stay in the safe house until sunrise, at least, and talk some more with Chesty.
>1] The information he's provided about the Church of Mercy is EXTREMELY alarming. You need more details, if he has any.
>2] Oh god there is so much to worry about. Can he elaborate on any of the organizations or scoundrels he mentioned?
>3] Write-in.

>B] There will be time for strategy, politics, and subterfuge for the rest of your life. Right now, you need to get moving. Traveling before sunrise will avoid a lot of foot traffic in the city, and you're sure you can still run like a demon. (Specify if you'd like Chesty to come with you as a guard, or to stay at the safe house in case anyone returns.)
>1] Head straight to The Honey Bee. It sounds like the majority of your congregation has gathered there, and you might want some company wherever else you go in the city.
>2] You're going to the castle. Walter, Father Sullivan, and King Magnus are all your top priority.
>3] Ask where Electrum's other safe house is. She has more resources than anyone else among you, and you're going to need her help.
>4] Calunoth is a big city, and you've got a lot going on. There's something else you need to take care of. (Write-in.)
>>
>>4353659
>>A] Stay in the safe house until sunrise, at least, and talk some more with Chesty.
>>1] The information he's provided about the Church of Mercy is EXTREMELY alarming. You need more details, if he has any.
>>2] Oh god there is so much to worry about. Can he elaborate on any of the organizations or scoundrels he mentioned?

Change needs to start from the bottom up it seems.
>>
>>4353659
>A] Stay in the safe house until sunrise, at least, and talk some more with Chesty.
>2] Oh god there is so much to worry about. Can he elaborate on any of the organizations or scoundrels he mentioned?
>>
>>4353666
>>4353678
(Nice trips. Locking the vote here, going to do my best with both prompts since they're with the same section. Writing now!)
>>
>>4353771
https://youtu.be/iZPHCikPJqs

You are not going to have a panic attack. You are calm, and collected, and the Father of Restraint. "Details," you reply, "on my church— but this is— this is extremely alarming—"

"I can't believe you're surprised."

Deep breath. "No one will say anything to my face."

"Yeah, well," the giant of a man beside you nervously laughs, "you're intense! Intimidates a bunch of guys wearing dresses, that gotta answer to you if they want a roof over their heads." Your scowl probably only confirms the image. At the realization, you only frown harder. Chesty can't help but sincerely chuckle.

"Can you name any names. Do you know of any particular concerns I may need to address? Anything they may be planning?"

"Fuck no," he frowns. "They kept us all separated, and I sure couldn't get any answers outta no one. I know Harvey busted some heads, at least. Him, Echo, and Serpent might be a lot more use, there."

There's a suffocating amount to worry about, and you are not going to have a panic attack. Spending months under Sister Cardew's care was not for nothing.

You take several minutes, wind down, and breathe. You focus on the birds starting to chirp outside, and the scent of burning firewood. A few voices can be heard in the street, as the earliest risers in the city begin their day. Chesty stokes the hearth, cleans up from the meal you both had, sits back down beside you, and you get your bearings. "Can you elaborate on any of the organizations— or scoundrels—that you mentioned?"

"Definitely."

"This— this is all news to me, Chesty."

Extreme concern knits his brow. "You, of all people, should know."

Fidgeting doesn't begin to describe how nervous your body language is, but it helps. "Please, start— start wherever you wish."

"Your church deals with demons, but they try to stop us before we even turn, right?"

"Yes."

"Preachin' about apathy, and restraint. Tellin' people to shove down all that makes 'em human. Not all of us are all that happy about the idea, Father." The slip back into formality doesn't escape your notice. "You can scowl at me all you want. Doesn't mean I like it any less. I got out of the ruins because you cared. Because you were nuts enough to do something different from all the rest of them. That's all we want, really. That's what most of us are fighting— and raping, pillaging, bleedin'— and crying for. We all want to live. Really live."

He leans back. "Not kiss ass, for a bunch of holier-than-thou clergy, who's all got your heads in the clouds. I know you're all fixed on the Catalyst." You twitch. "See? You're probably not even gonna pay attention to anything else I'm saying—"

"No," you breathe. "No. Please." It actually hurts to not talk about it. You tense as hard as you can, stopping the tremor, and grit out, "you're absolutely right. Go on."

(1/2)
>>
>>4353902
"Hmph. Well. I'll look into your business in Wearmoor, and I know Serpent will want to stick his nose where the sun won't shine. But I'm worried about you, Father."

"Please don't be."

"I gotta. It's nothing. But you've seriously got to worry about all of it, and then some. I feel like I shouldn't even be tellin' you any of this."

"You just said that I, of all people, should know."

"Yeah, but you look like you're going to pass out. I don't think you've even looked at me for most of the morning."

You look at Chesty. A long ponytail pulls at his widow's peak. Though his shirt is a nice shade of green, it's covered with a vest that's flecked with old blood. The Connelly family likely has no trace of nobility. He's plain, devoid of all scars, and not necessarily ugly. The only real feature of note upon his face is a possibly permanent beard shadow, and muted gold upon his irises. "Now you're staring," he smirks.

The intensely radiant gold upon your pupils darts to the floor. "Sorry."

"Don't be. But are you going to be okay, with all of this?"

The words of someone braver than a lion puts a fire back under you. "I have to be—" you grimace, "and I wouldn't have it any other way. Tell me what I'm up against, Clarence. Please do not make me ask you again."

"Alright," he takes a sharp breath in. "I know you're going to have shit for luck on the road. Things were so bad last year, the King shut down everyone from coming in or out of the city. There's been demons around the whole damn country for as long as I can remember. People tryin' to offer protective services— now that your church isn't doing jack shit for it—" you ignore every urge to tell him to watch his mouth, "—yeah, I know you're pissed. You should be. How fast do you think anyone comes anymore, from Wearmoor, or Eadric?"

Brother Murdac's disparaging remarks, and the utter dismay that anyone had at seeing a priest of Agriculture respond even within the same day to an incident still stings. "Not very quickly."

"Yeah. People are taking advantage, and making it worse. If they aren't out on the road, they're in the cities. I don't know the details, but you hear things. People worshiping false Gods. Sayin' they're walkin' among us." You almost choke. "Sayin' we should be workin' with demons, instead." You're seized with a coughing fit. "Worse things. Lots of worse things. We've butted heads with some of them, here in the capital."

"What?"

"Killing heretics isn't exactly easy work—"

What?!

"—especially not ones who get behind the nonsense the King is spreading. There's a group that's more extreme, still. A lot of people thought they were yours, or Father Sullivan's. Preaching apathy. Call themselves 'Inertia.' Bet they think it's cute. They say they know how to stop the Catalyst."

(Options in next post.)
>>
>>4353904
(Select one of the following MANDATORY prompts. They are mutually exclusive.
Prompts 1 and 2 will both have positive modifiers. Write-ins may further increase your chances of success. Selecting MANY prompts may ADD negative modifiers.)


>1] Tackle this one thing at a Time. TAKE some Time, get yourself together, and try to decompress. (A ROLL WILL BE REQUIRED. This will limit how much you can discuss in this conversation, and extend the amount of time it takes substantially. Failure will end the conversation prematurely.)
>2] Now is actually a completely justifiable time to have that panic attack. It's not the end of the world. (A ROLL WILL BE REQUIRED. All prompts selected can be pursued, much more quickly, and regardless of any failure. Failure may not be pretty, but it'll get the job done.)

(IN ADDITION to prompt 1 or 2, select AT LEAST ONE of the following.)

>A] Wait wait wait wait there are cults in Corcaea that are preaching about Gods walking among men?! WHICH ONES AND WHERE AND WHEN (You're a very honest man, and will bring up Mercy's offer if directly asked.)

>B] Oh fuck this is a VERY big concern if you're going to have Mercy at the church, WHY DIDN'T SHE MENTION THIS TO YOU (Resolve to bring this up with Mercy later, but stay quiet about it for now.)

>C] Just how many people work with demons?!!?

>D] What is this about people thinking you and Father Sullivan were behind a cult?!

>E] What can Chesty tell you about Inertia?! STOPPING THE CATALYST? WHAT???

>F] How many people has he killed? Is this the main work your Freak Show has been up to for the last 8 months?!

>G] He didn't even get to anything about human trafficking/slavery/illicit substances/demonic entertainment. That fucker.

>H] Oh, Gods, he didn't touch on any of the clergy who might actually be supporting any of these things, either.

>I] Confront Chesty about immediately starting to withhold information from you. Sure, it's entirely justified, but you are too upset to care that he's just trying to help you.

>3] Drop the line of questioning here. Respect your limits, show some devotion to Spirit, and thank Chesty for all of the information he's provided. You'll take some Time to pull yourself back together, and start your day off on the right foot. There will be Time to deal with all of these issues, but you're going to focus, and proceed intelligently right now. (If this option is selected by the MAJORITY VOTE, ALL OTHER PROMPTS WILL BE IGNORED, and NO ROLL will be required.)
>>
>>4353913
>1] Tackle this one thing at a Time. TAKE some Time, get yourself together, and try to decompress. (A ROLL WILL BE REQUIRED. This will limit how much you can discuss in this conversation, and extend the amount of time it takes substantially. Failure will end the conversation prematurely.)

>A] Wait wait wait wait there are cults in Corcaea that are preaching about Gods walking among men?! WHICH ONES AND WHERE AND WHEN (You're a very honest man, and will bring up Mercy's offer if directly asked.)
>C] Just how many people work with demons?!!?
>E] What can Chesty tell you about Inertia?! STOPPING THE CATALYST? WHAT???
>>
>>4353922
Will support this.

>>4353913
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>>4353922
>>4353954
(Cool dudes, locking the vote here then!)

>Roll 1d100. Best of 3 will be used.

>PULL IT TOGETHER
>+10 FAITH OF A GODDESS/TO HEAL IS TO SERVE
>-5 STRESSED AND OBSESSED
>>
Rolled 29 + 5 (1d100 + 5)

>>4354023
>>
Rolled 92 + 5 (1d100 + 5)

>>4354023
>>
Rolled 31 (1d100)

>>4354023
>>
>>4354031
>>4354033
>>4354040
(Absolutely blessed, that's a 97/100. Writing now!)
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>>4354043
(Apologies for the extreme delay guys, got pulled away from my computer by family and may still be a little while. Will have the update out by the end of the night.)
>>
>>4354122
(Aaaaalright everything's sorted, almost done with update. Will post shortly!)
>>
>>4354190
You spent four SOLID months on self-care, and learning how to take care of yourself. You are a sharp man, and know you've been pressing your luck, to push yourself so far. Especially given everything you've discussed just since waking up. It's a miracle that you'd think to do so, but it occurs to you that you can just come back to the conversation.

https://youtu.be/yMTglswt5dg

You politely excuse yourself from Chesty's side, get an ample supply of water, some candles, and go spend some Time unwinding. Getting ready for the day. Going outside for a few minutes, to get some fresh air. To hear more birds on the air, under a clear sky, intermingling with a city rising. Seeing the sun come up over the horizon, above the peaks of Calunoth's skyline, and all the slums many wooden homes. They cast slightly longer shadows, as you spend the sunrise make a prayer to all the Gods. It helps. Likely no more than an hour later, bright-eyed, rested, cleaner, and much calmer, you get back inside.

"Feel any better," Chesty cheerfully asks, back to whittling. He has crafted an entire wooden phallus. It's anatomically correct.

He waves it at you. The very Church of Flesh is a paler shade of red. A nearby spot on the wall is a far fairer view. He can call you a prude. It's fine.

"Don't worry, it's not for me," he chokes out, clearly trying to not laugh hysterically.

The question is irresistible. "Who—? I don't mean to pry, but— Mercy—"

"No, I'm glad you asked! It's for Randy." A peal of laughter escapes, as he tries to seriously reassure you, "so I can finally tell him to go fuck himself!"

With no humor in your gaze, you glance back, and try to dead-pan, "that is not funny." He's laughing so hard, while the carving materials gets put away, that you can't help but smile.

"C'mon," he gestures to the bench. "I know you still want to talk."

You take a very ragged breath, and have a seat. "Yes."

A pot, and some teacups are nearby. "Figured you'd like it."

It's insanely high quality hibiscus. Some petals are visible, in the deep-red brew. There's nothing else to it, save for a fair amount of heat and steam. Accepting a cup comes without question. "Thank you." The teacup is chipped, but the whole base of the tray is encrusted with small flecks of gems. It's almost as gorgeous as the brew in it, which you resolve to sipping on, despite the pain. It's tart, reminiscent of cranberries, won't set your nerves any further on end, and is easily the best strain you've ever had. "This is excellent—"

"Yeah. I know my shit." A broad grin is fired at you, by the tea-lover. "Been trying a few new things, since we got out of the ruins. I could give you some seeds, show you how to nick or sand 'em, before I go. If you want."

"That would be wonderful."

He makes no motion to move, and probably has a garden hidden somewhere in the city. "But yeah. Crazy, right?"

(1/2)
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>>4354211
"Absolutely." If he only knew the half of it. "You said there were— were people— who suggested we should work with demons? Do you have any idea how common the sentiment is?"

"Not very. But I know there's enough people out there, that think as much, for word to get around. They'd be killed for it, of course. Way more common for people to try and capture them, use 'em for their own ends. And by common, I mean not very likely. I haven't seen anything like it. But you hear stories, and stories are good for something."

"Yes, they are. But, these cults— there's some validity to their existence, at least. You had mentioned 'Inertia,' by name. That they claimed to know how to stop the Catalyst. What is their claim, exactly?"

"That shoving down emotion keeps people from turning. Claims they've never had a demon— not a one—! from any of 'em. There's talk that they're older than the ruins," you both share disbelieving smirks, "I know— but they're convinced. Seems to have caught on a lot more, in the last few months, with all the deaths and outbreaks there's been in the capital. All the fuss in the 'fen. The outbreak in Murgate, AND Beorward. Heard you did some amazing shit up there, by the way."

You easily saved well over a hundred lives within your first few hours at the Church of Flesh. "The Gods are Merciful."

He raps you on the shoulder, "don't give me that—" and you nearly spill your tea. "Shit—"

A few seconds are spent making sure you're alright. Ultimately, he mutters, "listen. They're a bunch of lunatics. They'll claim they're serving King Magnus when it's convenient, but just you watch. I bet the second you fix up shop at home, they'll come houndin' you all."

"What of these other groups? Those who say that the Gods walk among us?"

"Stupidest shit you've ever heard, right?"

"No." Your frown could not be more severe.

"Don't tell me you're—"

"Which Gods are they speaking of, exactly?"

"There's— I mean, there's a few. I know for sure that a group claims they have Flesh. It might be a sex thing. I can't even tell with them. That's—" he pauses, unsure of himself, "they're off by Mauseburg. I figured you'd be more worried about the ones who say they have Mercy. Some babe, who's goin' around healing, and actually answering people's prayers. Anyone who'll worship her, and dish out some gold, that is."

"That is impossible," you wholeheartedly agree, "and disgusting."

"What makes you so sure," Chesty grins, drinking in an incredibly smug way.

"Mercy will be staying in Eadric— as soon as I return— for as long as She would like."

Clarence nearly spits out his tea, and manages to utter, "you're joking."

"You will know when I am joking."

He spits out his tea. "...what?!"

(Options in next post.)
>>
>>4354213
>A] You've already identified at least two groups that will want to have you or Mercy killed upon arriving in Eadric, and plenty more along the way. You'll be content to focus on your work in Calunoth, and leave a guard to your men. The Red Lion will need to be spoken with, as soon as humanly possible.

>B] The sheer amount of bullshit that is going to rain on your head in the coming weeks has you wanting just a little more peace and quiet. Enjoy the rest of the morning here, see about the hibiscus, and give yourself some Time to think over where to go from here.

>C] Thank Chesty for all of his support. Ask him plainly if he needs ANYTHING to help him and Serpent out, and when he hopes to go to Wearmoor.
>1] You're already worried for the safety of anyone that keeps your company.
>2] You're simply desperate for more answers, and though you aren't trying to be rude, you want to make sure that you've delegated the investigation at the Church of Agriculture well enough.

>D] Write-in.
>>
>>4354214
>>A] You've already identified at least two groups that will want to have you or Mercy killed upon arriving in Eadric, and plenty more along the way. You'll be content to focus on your work in Calunoth, and leave a guard to your men. The Red Lion will need to be spoken with, as soon as humanly possible.
>>
>>4354214
>A] You've already identified at least two groups that will want to have you or Mercy killed upon arriving in Eadric, and plenty more along the way. You'll be content to focus on your work in Calunoth, and leave a guard to your men. The Red Lion will need to be spoken with, as soon as humanly possible.
>>
>>4354214
>>A] You've already identified at least two groups that will want to have you or Mercy killed upon arriving in Eadric, and plenty more along the way. You'll be content to focus on your work in Calunoth, and leave a guard to your men. The Red Lion will need to be spoken with, as soon as humanly possible.
>>
>>4354214
>A] You've already identified at least two groups that will want to have you or Mercy killed upon arriving in Eadric, and plenty more along the way. You'll be content to focus on your work in Calunoth, and leave a guard to your men. The Red Lion will need to be spoken with, as soon as humanly possible.
>>
>>4354218
>>4354220
>>4354226
(Great guys! Going to lock the unanimous vote here and update once more before bed. Writing now!)
>>
>>4354245
(Oh shit, nearly missed you. Gotcha man.)
>>
>>4354252
Levelly, calmly, and coolly, you set aside your tea. Ignoring the violent tremor in your hands, you smile a little to Chesty, and get up to your feet. "There are at least two groups you've named in this conversation who will want to kill us, from— from the very moment we arrive in Eadric."

"What?!" Chesty sets aside his own tea, nearly knocking over the entire pot for how shot his nerves are. "Richard. Richard!"

Briskly walking over towards where all your things were kept for the last few days, you sling your satchel back on, along with your shield. Hooking Piety's scabbard and your mace back on, you politely declare, "there will be more. Many, many more."

You're going to talk to Harvey. A guard is necessary. Immediately. For everyone in your care.

"Can I get an answer—?!"

An unhinged grin is upon your face, as you go back across the room, to the door. "You are welcome to accompany me, if you like, to The Honey Bee." You're going to speak with him as soon as humanly possible, which is immediately. There's a good deal of commotion outside. Waiting for a moment, hand to the handle, you continue, "I need to spea—"

The door slams open, right into your face. Claymore is on its opposite side, sweating like a pig, and is covered nearly head-to-toe in filth. There's blood on his sword, no one else in his company, and you really only get a brief glimpse for how quickly you two nearly collide with one another.

>Roll 1d100 to maintain your composure, and to see how you land. Best of 3 will be used.
>+10 FAITH OF A GODDESS/MORNING IN PRAYER
>-45 MASOCHISM TANGO

>For the low, LOW cost of public indecency, you can switch that -45 to a +45.
>PLEASE SPECIFY WHEN YOU ROLL, IF YOU WOULD LIKE TO MAKE THE MODIFIER (AND THE IMPACT) POSITIVE, OR NEGATIVE.
>Thanks to your resolve to uphold a better image, this option will only be made available if a unanimous vote decides.
>All modifiers will ultimately be calculated by the QM.
>>
Rolled 2 (1d100)

>>4354277
>>
Rolled 35 + 35 (1d100 + 35)

>>4354277
>>
>>4354282
>>4354286
(Can you guys please specify what you're doing? If the directions were very unclear, please just let me know.)
>>
>>4354289
I would like to not cum in our pants in front of the boys. just take the hit, negative modifier.
>>
Rolled 38 (1d100)

>>4354277
>>
Rolled 47 - 35 (1d100 - 35)

>>4354277
this isn't going to be pretty, but let's not fall to masochism
>>
>>4354291
(Yeah I figured as much, really wanted to only reflect on the mechanics we had earlier in the thread with, well, a pretty hard hit. Since you opted out, it'll be the same negative modifier for everyone. Again, to be totally clear, this roll is to see how well you take the hit since it's a wooden door to the face. Wanting to keep your shit together is totally in line with the rest of the choices in this thread and I won't penalize anyone for it!)
>>4354282
>>4354286
>>4354296
>>4354297
(Aaaaaalright lads. We're gonna roll with this. Best of the first three is 3/100. I believe in you. Writing now!)
>>
>>4354300
Blessedly, you were not looking down, and at least don't have your head cracked open.

Just about the next worst thing happens, as the door smashes right into the front of your face. It's with the strength of someone who kills demons with his bare hands on a regular basis. The pain is blinding, and a slightly hollow, dull sound— like someone swinging a bat into a pumpkin— accompanies the SLAM that rings in your ears for several seconds after.

There's a second impact, as you are knocked straight back to the floor. You're hit the ground, and do hit the back of your head, with an explosion of red-gold where your vision absolutely is not. You can't really register anything else, other than reflexively drawing both hands to your face. There's a hot stream of blood threatening to get in your mouth, which is fine, as you have resolved that even if it kills you, you are not letting this get the better of you.

Think of fishing, on the River Morinburn. The snow, at the base of the Folorast mountains. Going on a walk in the dead of Worship, in the middle of the night, after a blizzard.

Someone's talking. Someone's been talking. The already busted bridge of your nose is definitely broken (again). The grating sound from the extreme mistake of trying to put your hands to the bridge confirms it. The edge of the door hit the entire front of your face, from your forehead down to your chin.

Someone is talking, as you try to open your eyes. The door is closed, as you wince at Claymore, who is kneeling next to you. He's likely been apologizing.

Focus on the present. We spent two solid weeks with this, in the Church of Flesh. Father Friedrich did worse. Sister Cardew got me through worse. This is nothing. This is fine.

"I'm so sorry, Father Anscham. Are you okay? Can you hear me? Do you need a hand? I can't believe this— Chesty I thought he was going to be asleep for the rest of the week—"

"—don't look at me," Clarence starts, also standing beside you. "Richard?"

You're not talking. You are keeping yourself together, and having a fantastic day today.

Even if it kills me.

About three hours pass by, before you're confident you can speak while staying decent. Chesty was happy to get you every herb and remedy you needed for any pain. You made some tea for the pain, that was not so strong as to ruin the afternoon.

Claymore has sworn a life-debt to make things up to you, if it's the last thing he ever does. He scowls, "...and for the twentieth time, Father Anscham, I will not take 'no' for an answer."

"You have yet to tell me what the hurry was for," you murmur, in a nasally way, taking care to not move your jaw too much.

"I was worried your head had been knocked right off your shoulders." He looks you over, "but I'm glad you're alright."

"I am fine. This is fine."

"It was about the company you saw Mick and Randy with."

"You found Mick," Chesty breathes, relieved beyond belief.

(1/2)
>>
>>4354330
"No," Claymore grimaces at him." Serpent and Irefist are still searching. We found a few people to interrogate. They'd seen some 'Mad Dog' go running for the hills. I followed the trail. Last anyone heard, he had left for Murgate." A deathly serious, bloodshot, exhausted look snaps straight back at you. "I'm sorry again, Father. I came to tell you as quickly as I could."

You try to not laugh, as it would hurt far too much. "I allied myself with Father Sullivan just eight days past."

Chesty has to sit down. "Sullivan."

Claymore is already sitting down, but looks like he wants to pass out.

"Mad Dog was working for me,—" with a sharp breath in, you really can't speak any further, but look to both men for further explanation.

The demon slayer in your midst looks to you with murder in his gaze. "No one would kill fifteen of our men, just this afternoon, if they were working for you."

>A] No distractions. Forget walking to The Honey Bee. You are running, and can talk more about why no one in your congregation seems to have known Victor, along the way.

>B] Forget going to The Honey Bee entirely. You are going straight to the castle, and will ask as many question as you can from the source. The men in your present company can look after themselves just fine, and can stay at the safe house, until you get some straight answers from Father Sullivan.

>C] Write-in.
>>
>>4354331
>>A] No distractions. Forget walking to The Honey Bee. You are running, and can talk more about why no one in your congregation seems to have known Victor, along the way.
>>
>>4354331
>B] Forget going to The Honey Bee entirely. You are going straight to the castle, and will ask as many question as you can from the source. The men in your present company can look after themselves just fine, and can stay at the safe house, until you get some straight answers from Father Sullivan.
>>
>>4354331
>B] Forget going to The Honey Bee entirely. You are going straight to the castle, and will ask as many question as you can from the source. The men in your present company can look after themselves just fine, and can stay at the safe house, until you get some straight answers from Father Sullivan.
>>
>>4354336
>>4354338
>>4354343
(Goood morning everyone! Vote is locked, with B majority. Writing now.)
>>
>>4354599
https://youtu.be/qk-wzULTbC4

"I need you both to stay here," you wheeze, "and am formally requesting for neither of you to follow me to the castle." Protests erupt, to which you hold up one hand. The other gets you back on your feet. "I will not risk your safety, when you both are perfectly capable in any other circumstance—"

"Father Anscham," Chesty frowns, rushing to stop right by the exit. "I can stay put, if anyone else needs to come by for you, but—"

"I will be fine," you murmur, swinging open the door, and adjusting your shield. "Father Sullivan ultimately answers to my authority. If there is any information on this situation, he would be the first to know— and remains my first point of contact to resolve these matters." Lingering just a moment longer within the door frame (pleased to note that you're nearly imposing enough to occupy the entire space), you frown to both of your congregation members. "Look for me at The Honey Bee, if we can't find a way to meet back here. I will get to the bottom of this."

The worry on Claymore's and Chesty's faces lingers in your memory long after you've left.

Passing through the slums, the early afternoon sun bakes hot down on countless citizens homes. Through multiple checkpoints to re-enter the city properly, you briskly make your way along winding roads through mercantile districts. During every scoundrel's attempts to accost you, there's little need for incident beyond the most suicidal of them. Five nearby guards tackle and subdue an overly enthusiastic cut-purse, who thought that running at you with a knife might be a good idea.

Pulse in your throat, as you get through the cathedral ward, into the gardens of your King, you try to not dwell on the fact that you've been assaulted every single Time you've left the castle since you've traveled without disguising your identity.

Within the King's gardens, right up to the base of the castle, the memorial left from your battle with a demon of Storm is now overflowing with mementos. They're primarily towards the fallen. The flower you and Mother Bethaea cultivated is piled high upon the cracks in the stone left by Piety, snaking all along the steadily rebuilt area.

There's countless flowers in bloom, the scent of Grace on the air, and before long, you're through the worst of the security. Past every question regarding your business, up countless steps, and into the shock of your clergy to see you again in the palace so soon.

They don't care for your extremely brisk pace, as you practically jog down long halls. Beneath high stained glass, around every gaggle of nobility standing about, and away from the prying eyes of any maids. You desperately wish you could linger at a single bookshelf or pile of candle— to take the Time to get to know every single member of your church— but it's simply impossible.

(1/2)
>>
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>>4354677
Choirs of, "good morning, Father Anscham," trail behind you.

"If I may, Father, I've been looking into an alternative method of staunching blood flow." An elderly priestess, graying and apologetic, tries to follow you for several minutes, explaining, "it requires only a singular hot iron, though I assure you, it is completely safe..."

You're already nearly halfway to Father Sullivan's quarters, and simply do not have the Time for explanations.

A priest gawks, from attending to some nearby candles, to stare. "By all the Gods. Are you alright, Father?"

The closer you get to the leader of the Church of Spirit's quarters, the quieter the voices seem to get.

A priest of Flesh jogs up, clad in modest red robes, though the legs are tied off like pants. His mustache bristles, frowning, "...there's been a few reports that you were in the company of those heathens, Father, and I need to express my concern..."

"Father Anscham—!" three guards outside of Father Sullivan's door snap out of their conversation, turning towards you, frazzled, as they try to offer the symbol of your patron with their hands full of weapons, and shields. It takes several minutes for the youngest of them to accidentally divulge that their charge is actually in his study, for which he's smacked upside the head.

You give all three men a smile. "Thank you, gentlemen." Turning on a heel, waving over your shoulder, you murmur, "the Gods are Merciful," and ignore every one of their protests for you to come back. They're bound to their station, and that suits you just fine, as you get to the end of the hall. Turning down several more corridors— after dealing with fifteen more guards, three more clergy, a gaggle of curious nobility, and cannot even knock on the door to Sullivan's study— five more guards are adamantly standing outside of the study, staring you down.

Walking so much has exacerbated the bleeding on your face and in your nose enough that the bandages packed over most of the injury feels sticky. It's fine. With some difficulty, you raise your voice to be heard over the guard. "Father Sullivan! It's Father Anscham."

The door opens inwards. A ghost of a man materializes from around the corner, hands neatly folded in front of him, shifting an absurd quantity of bleached fabric aside. The thin strands of nearly transparent hair combed back more neatly than ever. The bags under his eyes are lessened, though the disturbingly milky, silver-white sheen over all of his eyes stares coldly beyond the shoulders of the guards standing between you both. Lips tight, Father Sullivan barks to every one of his servants, "what do you all think you are doing? Step aside and let him in."

(Options in next post.)
>>
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>>4354679
>A] Relay exactly what Claymore told you. Leave it to Sullivan to explain. You want to know what he's willing to reveal, before you start asking questions.

>B] Demand any information he has on Victor, now, without any games. You feel like there isn't any Time for anything less.

>C] The priest may look like a demon, but you know he has plenty of humanity. Inform Father Sullivan that fifteen people were killed this morning, you're worried to an extreme, and that you don't even know where to start asking questions. He's always been willing to help you.

>D] Write-in.
>>
>>4354679
>>C] The priest may look like a demon, but you know he has plenty of humanity. Inform Father Sullivan that fifteen people were killed this morning, you're worried to an extreme, and that you don't even know where to start asking questions. He's always been willing to help you.
>>
>>4354686
>>A] Relay exactly what Claymore told you. Leave it to Sullivan to explain. You want to know what he's willing to reveal, before you start asking questions.

Sulli boi likes his mind games.
>>
>>4354686
>C] The priest may look like a demon, but you know he has plenty of humanity. Inform Father Sullivan that fifteen people were killed this morning, you're worried to an extreme, and that you don't even know where to start asking questions. He's always been willing to help you.
>>
>>4354689
>>4354697
>>4354702
(Cool cool, locking the vote here. Writing now.)
>>
>>4354738
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vawqt4-s7JU

It only takes a second to dismiss every guard from within the room. You're let inside, and the door is locked tight. Pacing frenetically, Father Sullivan stands next to you, with an inscrutable expression, and an utterly calm demeanor. Hands still folded, eyes glancing over all of you, he states, "the robes were from Father Wilhelm?"

"Yes."

"Father Friedrich is still going to kill you." The corners of his lips twitch, as if he wants to smile, "but you look fantastic. I heard of your success almost immediately. It would seem They have looked kindly upon you."

So much has happened this morning, you nearly forgot how remarkable your last excursion into the ruins turned out to be. The stern old man is trying to congratulate you, despite being spurned by his own Goddess. The least you can say is, "thank you."

"That is not from a fight," the priest of Spirit observes, keeping his stare on the bandages upon your face with some amusement. "You were not attempting to set your nose straight, were you—"

You stop pacing, to fidget, "I know how much you love games." There's a Time, and a place for them. "But I— I— fifteen people, Sullivan. Fifteen people were killed this morning." A nearby chair looks like a good place to collapse in, and to gingerly put your hands to your hair. "I don't even know where to start asking questions. You're the first person I came to."

Sitting down in the chair right across from the table next to you, the priest of Spirit silently invites you to speak your mind.

"I am— I am extremely worried— for everyone in my care. I was on my way to initiate a more formal— a guard for all of my friends. My congregation—"

All of the humor drops from Father Sullivan's face. "I see." He picks up a quill, and some parchment. "I know you do not mind."

"No. Go right on ahead."

He writes, while you speak, and once again represses a smile at the unintentional pun. "I'm listening," the Father of Information still tactfully reminds you.

"No one in my congregation seems to have known him. Randall trusted him, well enough to have stayed in his company around women, and children. Mad Dog—"

There's a horrible screech, as Father Sullivan's quill digs straight through the parchment, into the table, and snaps clean off at the tip. "Victor."

An extremely ragged breath escapes you. "Yes."

Mellowly, the feather is placed flat to the table. "I made every attempt to caution you about the company you are keeping, Richard." Much more quietly, he asks, "do you have any other news, regarding this matter?"

Your voice cracks. "He was heading for Murgate."

(1/2)
>>
>>4354835
"Give me a moment." A bundle of papers gets shoved aside, more pens are produced, and fifteen letters are drafted in less than two minutes. The man is more like a machine, as he seals the last envelope to enclose a final set of instructions. They're all encoded, and several look like prose. It's odd, but they're swept up in a flurry of robes and thread. Father Sullivan gets to the guard at the door, whispers off a set of instructions, makes sure that no one has been eavesdropping on either of you, and sits back down with the door shut once more. "I'll have the fastest messengers in the city ensure that a guard is posted for your friends. Murgate will know he's coming. So will Eadric."

"You are a blessing," you breathe, through your mouth alone. What little you can smell is all old blood and congestion.

"Are you alright?"

"It has been a very long morning."

"One more moment," the church leader sighs, getting up, and going to the guard back at the door. You hear a murmur about killing anyone else that attempts to interrupt him for the rest of the day, a request for tea, and several other pleasantries.

With a sincere smile, Henry sits back down beside you. "I'll have some lunch brought over. You can stay as long as you need to."

"I've actually eaten a fair bit today, but thank you."

Disbelief glares back at you. "Something has happened." The need to know is masterfully suspended for a moment, to reassure you, "we will come back to it. This matter with Victor is alarming, and you have every right to be concerned. You recall that he had murdered six other in cold blood, during his escape from the Church of Spirit?"

"Yes," you mutter.

"My men will attempt to identify if there was any relation to either event." Deep lines, from a practiced expression, sink into the elderly man's face as a worried frown declares, "you have no idea if he has been responsible for any further loss of life."

Your own favorite expression comes out, as a grimace. "Not beyond the guards who attempted to capture me, while I was in pursuit of Sister Corbon and Sister Tirel."

"Does he have any other connections? Did he get close to you, in any way?"

Mick left your company exactly one week ago. You haven't seen Randy since, either. The former was furious you had made amends with Father Sullivan, and has several hundred lunatics at his disposal. The latter seems good-natured enough, but you barely know either of them. How they even came to know Mad Dog escapes you, entirely.

(Options in next post.)
>>
>>4354837
>A] Try to not panic. Simply ask Father Sullivan if he can share his thoughts on this matter. You won't tolerate abuse, but humbly attempt to take any criticism. This may have been a catastrophic oversight.

>B] After hearing everything Mick and Randy have done— sheltering hundreds out of the good of their heart, and risking their lives for your congregation— you honestly trust them. Tell Sullivan as much. It might change his perspective on the situation.

>C] Mick and Randy are thieves, probably rapists, definitely murderers, and ultimately a pair of complete scoundrels. You feel foolish for letting them be alone with any of your friends, let alone to be associated with your name. Ask Father Sullivan if there's anything that can be done.

>D] Write-in.
>>
>>4354842
>A] Try to not panic. Simply ask Father Sullivan if he can share his thoughts on this matter. You won't tolerate abuse, but humbly attempt to take any criticism. This may have been a catastrophic oversight.
Victor is looking kinda thin
>>
>>4354842
>>B] After hearing everything Mick and Randy have done— sheltering hundreds out of the good of their heart, and risking their lives for your congregation— you honestly trust them. Tell Sullivan as much. It might change his perspective on the situation.
>>
>>4354854
(What little you know of his history was that he's been with your congregation in some capacity, after escaping imprisonment in the Church of Spirit, having been transferred from severe restraint in the Church of Flesh prior to that. The guy might have higher priorities than bulking!)
>>
>>4354858
ok, but dude needs to eat more
>>
>>4354842
>B] After hearing everything Mick and Randy have done— sheltering hundreds out of the good of their heart, and risking their lives for your congregation— you honestly trust them. Tell Sullivan as much. It might change his perspective on the situation.
>>
>>4354854
>>4354857
>>4354871
>>4354948
(Great guys, locking the vote here. Writing now!)
>>
>>4354969
"Not that I am aware of," you honestly reply. "He kept the company of two members of my original congregation: Norward Bauldry, and Randall Holland. All three of them spent several days with a number of my allies, even— even long before I had any idea of what they had sacrificed. On— on behalf of others. I *understand* that you do not trust them. But they have both risked their lives for my congregation, over— and over again. They are the reason I was able to save Sister Tirel, and Sister Corbon from turning. From worse. They've sheltered hundreds, with *no* maliciousness." You couldn't be more certain. "I trust them."

Father Sullivan is sweating, very slightly. "I see."

You outright are trying to not panic. "This makes things considerably worse, doesn't it."

"Yes." There's a knock at the door. Sullivan ignores it. "We are both in incredible danger."

The knocking gets louder. With an exasperated sigh, Henry gets to the door, rips a tray of tea and fruit pies from the guard, and barks his thanks at him before slamming the door shut. The colorful and ludicrously high-end presentation upon the gilded tray is brought over, and gently set down. It's then instantly forgotten.

Sullivan does not take a seat, and stares at you. "Richard. Look at me."

You do. His eyes are unsettling to an extreme, and you have to wonder if yours make other people just as uncomfortable.

A firm, and pained confession hits you harder than the door that broke your nose this morning.

"He was working for me."

All of the air leaves your lungs. Crazy, unpredictable, ruthless Victor Bonamy was working for Father Sullivan. Haggard, unwashed, murderous Mad Dog was somehow involved with the Church of Spirit. He looked like he hadn't eaten in months, when you first saw him through your last invocation to Spirit and Mercy. You can't unstick the impression from your mind that someone should have taken care of him. That he needed some actual compassion. That he would have been suited fine to the Church of Mercy. You told him you were sorry.

"Did you even feed him," you choke out, in a desperate, extremely nervous sort of way, trying not to laugh as another fracture in your sanity threatens to break you in half. He hugged you, and acted like a friend. How long was this going on for? When did it start?

"No." He says it like it's nothing. "We did not." He's a little green. "He would only eat men, Richard, and I would have rather seen him starve than to indulge one more mental illness outside the walls of my home."

(Options in next post.)
>>
>>4355117
>A] That explains the nickname. You'd like that tea, and some lunch, and to not talk about anything else for a little while. You are not squeamish. You are suffering, and want to take enough Time to stop the bleeding on your face, at least, and to explain to Father Sullivan why you're hellbent on taking better care of yourself.
>1] You'll ask him about Victor when there's a better time for it. He's going to have a lot of questions about Mercy, that you also want answered. You want to focus on Mercy, and not on any more of this just at the present moment.
>2] Remain vague about Mercy, and try to keep the focus on the subject of Father Sullivan going to insanely misguided lengths to try and help you. You are not shocked. You are disappointed.

>B] "Please elaborate." You have a million other questions. They all can wait.
>1] Show some restraint. Keep the Storm of emotion down, and your replies short.
>2] Show some compassion. Express a fraction of how upsetting this is.

>C] You are already fully aware that Father Sullivan didn't pull a single punch when it came to keeping you out of the Church of Mercy. It's going to be brutal, but you would like to know the full extent of his efforts. Now.
>1] You'll pull rank on him if necessary.
>2] Don't get pushy. Stress that you want to know, but be content with whatever he has to say for now.
>3] It won't kill you. Endure only suggesting that he tell you what he wants to share, and do not ask him again.

>D] Write-in.
>>
>>4355117
>"He would only eat men, Richard, and I would have rather seen him starve than to indulge one more mental illness outside the walls of my home."
Oh fuck us
>>4355120
>B] "Please elaborate." You have a million other questions. They all can wait.
>2] Show some compassion. Express a fraction of how upsetting this is.
>C] You are already fully aware that Father Sullivan didn't pull a single punch when it came to keeping you out of the Church of Mercy. It's going to be brutal, but you would like to know the full extent of his efforts. Now.
>2] Don't get pushy. Stress that you want to know, but be content with whatever he has to say for now.
>>
>>4355132
+1
>>
(Got some work to knock out and groceries need to be done before going home, so leaving the vote open for a bit. Likely shouldn't be more than 2 hours, but wanted to give you guys a heads up.)
>>
>>4355204
(Back and ready for action!)

>>4355132
>>4355139
>Oh fuck us
(Verily. Locking the unanimous vote here. Writing now!)
>>
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>>4355475
You're the Father of Compassion. Someone who openly associated with your name has killed a minimum of twenty-one people, in the last few months alone. Six of them were definitely under Sullivan's care. The very thought of losing one of your clergy— one of your children— is unbearable. With a hand over your mouth, mortified beyond belief, trying to not think of whether or not Henry even had something to bury, you can't hope to express just how upsetting this is.

https://youtu.be/c8UWZRSg_Lg

He used this man, to try and keep me out of the Church of Mercy for good. Or was it that Victor used him?

"Please elaborate," you choke out, fighting to not vomit, or to start crying all over again. This is all wrong. You can't catch a break, and it all has to wait. Every last one of the million other questions on your mind is worth stalling for. Silently, and patiently, until Father Sullivan decides how to finally say, "Father Friedrich had Victor imprisoned within the halls of the Church of Flesh. The demon had been taking advantage of the outbreak, and absence of tighter guard around Beorward." He obviously doesn't mean he's literally a demon, but certainly sounds as if he's speaking of one. "Galterius found him, set to keeping him from harming anyone else, and spared his life. I strongly suspect he wished to contact me about the matter of his own accord, but you had intervened."

The request for aid didn't come a moment too soon. "Sister Cardew's presence was— is— she has been invaluable. I— I can't believe that Father Friedrich didn't write to you earlier—"

"He thought the man was a demon, despite his insistence to speak poorly of the Gods. He doesn't shy away from his consumption, nor for who it comes from. I knew Harriet would look into the matter. These matters fascinate her."

Recalling the book Sister Cardew wrote on her patients in Beorward's exterior ward puts a scowl on your face. "Her determination has never failed to impress me."

"Yes. Well. Not even her competency could ease his Spirit, Richard." Darting his eyes to the side, almost under his breath, Sullivan reminds you, "you know what it must be like."

He's being petty. There's no need to acknowledge it. He has a point, and you are familiar with how it feels to be completely detached from all of the Gods. "Go on."

"The moment I was able, I requested for Victor's transfer to the Church of Spirit. I had hoped to rehabilitate him. It was a success." The complete omission of detail, and clinical delivery has a cold sweat on you. The Father of Sanity is notorious for stretching the definition of stability. In a much lower voice, he stresses, "it took a matter of weeks for him to cave, to come to heel. A few more, to understand."

(1/3)
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>>4355627
Clarity flashes across the whites of all-seeing eyes. Much more rapidly, needing to give context before unveiling some revelation, Sullivan rapidly says, "he escaped, of my accord. There were to be no casualties, yet your Mad Dog was already biting, from the very first moment he came off the leash. The intent was for him to integrate into your congregation, so that Brother Mo—"

"Adrian."

He practically groans, scoffing, "so that Adrian and Theobald would have eyes on the ground. Until their plans were in motion. They are unimportant."

"Sullivan," you stress, with the taste of copper still stuck to your teeth, "it is incredibly important to me. Please. I would like to know the full— the full extent of your efforts, to keep me out of the Church of Mercy."

There's an energy about him that screams 'I wish I could stab myself.' "You don't want to know," he firmly states.

"I do. I'll respect your wishes, and be content to hear anything you wish to say now, if I must. But I— I would appreciate it."

The still air in the study between you waves, for the sheer amount of self-hatred radiating from the priest at your side. He bows his head, and mutters a prayer for forgiveness to the Goddess of his church.

Father Sullivan looks you dead in the eye, and makes his confession. "I've been keeping tabs on the Church of Mercy since you were a boy. Praying you would learn, or ask for help. I watched, and listened, and studied. None of my letters must have made it to you."

"No."

Pain twists his face. "I hoped against hope, that there would come a day when you would not merely escape from the Church of Mercy, Richard. I had prayed that you could never return. To never look upon that cell again. I lost focus."

Regret is discoloring every well-meaning word. "It's as I've said a thousand times before. When you went to the ruins, I thought it was Mercy. I never could have imagined that you would have survived, and come back in even worse shape, with over a dozen men and women celebrating your illness."

He looks like he's going to be sick. "Something had to be done. Adrian and Theobald are sadists, not manipulators, and they needed my help to keep you away. You have had a congregation willing to spread lies, and misinformation. I matched their tenacity, nearly a decade before their efforts even started. I took it upon myself to sow discord. There should not be a man, woman, or child in this country who has not heard of the last Father of the Church of Mercy— and how utterly unfit you were for the task."

(2/3)
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>>4355635
Looking every bit like he still wants to kill himself, the confession comes out in full. "I funded Adrian's and Theobald's campaign against you. I spoke to King Magnus, and proposed your removal from the Church of Mercy— for rest. I smeared your name, with everything I had, so that even if you one day returned, there would be a title only in name. I worked to sabotage Sister Cardew's stability, to delay your recovery, and to buy myself Time while you remained in Beorward. I allied myself with a man more monstrous than a demon, and instructed him on how to get inside of your congregation. Victor collected as much information for me as he could."

There's no stopping him. He's desperate to get this out. It's obviously been eating him alive, for how broken his voice and demeanor is. "I have funded blasphemers, besmirched your name, and staged the deaths of two members of your order. Out of grief, and self-doubt, I upturned their graves. I accelerated your work for the King, once you reached the city. Not so that He would trust me."

Despair is drenching him. "Even if it all turned on me, no one could hold me accountable. I betrayed Adrian and Theobald's trust, despite making them take the brunt of the King's ire. I left them to their own devices, as they tried to destroy a city, all to keep a position in their home."

He can barely even sit upright, he's struggling so much to keep speaking. "I agreed to meet you, yet never once told you how many spies, assassins, and brigands I had pitted against your movement. I kept in contact with Victor, and all of my other contacts. I was even going to try and stop you from descending beneath the city, in some twisted hope— that I could keep you from speaking to Algrith. From piecing together any of the truth."

You don't dare interrupt.

Lifting his head, parting the hold from his hands, Sullivan stares you down. "Richard, I orchestrated, installed, and groomed countless budding heathens. All to go after your men and women with everything they have. I aimed to overwhelm you, to the extent that you could never hope to operate effectively as the leader of the Church of Mercy. I took advantage of your kindness, and I will pay for it. We both will. Dearly."

A normal tone escapes you, as you mutter, "Victor has been— is playing every side...?"

"Yes. I take it Marjorie has been fighting to upend my authority, in my absence. The Mad Dog has more than enough leverage to pit the country against us." Apology coats every subsequent word. "I promise you: I did everything in my power to keep you out of this game. It is entirely my fault that you have been dragged into it."

"You seemed to have a revelation, of sorts," you say, in a distant, and utterly horrified way.

"Ah. Yes." The priest's lips could not be thinner. "I'm certain Victor will be working with Marjorie to kill me."

You had forgiven Sullivan once before, and you're a man of your word.

(Options in next post.)
>>
>>4355641
>A] Offer him safe refuge in the Church of Mercy. You're dying to go home, and as the Father of Protection, you will not stand idly by while another church leader flirts with death. You are NOT losing someone again so soon.

>B] Maybe you can postpone your return to Eadric to address this issue. Paying a visit to Beorward on the way would give you time to reconvene with Father Friedrich, see Cyril gets safely home, and honor your promise to Father Barthalomew.

>C] (Write-in any questions you have for Sullivan, or anything you want to say to him after hearing all of this. General feelings and sentiments are welcome, e.g. you want to call him out for lying to your face.)
>>
>>4355647
>B] Maybe you can postpone your return to Eadric to address this issue. Paying a visit to Beorward on the way would give you time to reconvene with Father Friedrich, see Cyril gets safely home, and honor your promise to Father Barthalomew.
>>
>>4355647
>>B] Maybe you can postpone your return to Eadric to address this issue. Paying a visit to Beorward on the way would give you time to reconvene with Father Friedrich, see Cyril gets safely home, and honor your promise to Father Barthalomew.
>>
>>4355651
>>4355656
(Alright, nice. Locking the unanimous vote here. Writing now!)
>>
>>4355782
https://youtu.be/pIS0Gw0JhRA

Taking several deep breaths, ignoring the urge to drag a hand down your face, you settle on fidgeting. Waiting.

This problem is not going anywhere. Running will not solve anything.

My home will always be there. If we don't act now, he won't have one to go back to.


Getting to your feet, you put a hand to Father Sullivan's shoulder. He's been shaking violently, and successfully hiding the motion from view. The tremor in his frame practically rises through your arm, shooting pain into the break on your face. You hold onto him, no matter how much it hurts. "This is a blessing in disguise. I may be able to postpone my return to Eadric just a little longer. We can kill four birds with this one stone."

He's too upset with himself to reply. A vacant stare rests upon the table that was between you both, the gaudy tray, the steaming tea, and a reminder of some normalcy.

Taking a knee is necessary, to look the elderly man in the eye while he stays seated. Your other hand is placed on his opposite shoulder. He's fragile, to an extreme. For all of his influence, all of his power, and all of his cunning, Father Sullivan is ultimately just a man. Just a frightened, miserable, ashamed, and deeply apologetic man. One who is willing to confess to countless sins, and try to stay by your side despite it. He's willing to admit to his mistakes, never ask for your forgiveness, and to only beg his own patron for understanding.

You give him a smile, because you know how much he's hurting, too. "The Gods are Merciful, Sullivan. I would like to accompany you to Murgate, if at all possible."

The priest's eyes focus, and snap straight to you, with disbelief. "You can't."

"We can resolve this," you gently explain. "My friends need to go home, and my work here in the capital is coming to an end. We can— we will stop by Beorward along the way. I owe Father Friedrich a visit, and made a promise to Father Barthalomew that I will see to its end. You need some fresh air. Some sunlight." Your smile gets a little broader. "Some good company."

Sullivan looks like he could cry, and shakes his head. "There is simply no way that Magnus will allow it. You have pushed your luck beyond all reasonable limits. This is irresponsible to an extreme. I can't condone it."

"We'll discuss it," you swear. "I have an audience with Him, in just four days. All roads may lead to Calunoth, Sullivan— but all roads lead out of it, as well." Taking your arms off of his shoulders, you stand upright, and look to the study around you. Papers are scattered in all directions, from dedicated research you're certain has been interrupted. "I have some of the sharpest minds in the country on my side. Easily the most experienced travelers. We— we can chart a course, and with any luck, beat Victor to your home."

(1/2)
>>
>>4355832
Glancing back down to your fellow clergyman, with a much mellower expression, you murmur, "to save both of our families, from— from any further turmoil."

Father Sullivan draws in on himself, for just a moment. "I fear that your company will kill me, long before any of Victor's men can get so much as an opportunity." Relaxing his shoulders, straightening upright, he looks you up and down yet again. "I don't question your ability for an instant, Richard. But you have so much more to consider than my welfare alone. Your children are looking up to you. To guide them, and to nurture everything that will help them thrive."

Rising to his feet, the church leader starts stacking papers. "I will return to my home. You should do the same, while you still have the chance."

This is no Time for games.

They might be the only joy he has left.


>A] Indulge Father Sullivan, and play coy. You are a TERRIBLE actor, and an even worse liar, but he might get some joy out of a bad performance.
>1] Let him express what travel arrangements he wants. (This option is mutually exclusive from all others.)
>2] Frustrate him until he demands that you decide how to travel together. (This prompt can be combined with all others, other than A1.)

>B] You'll try to introduce Father Sullivan to your congregation, and keep the peace. It's not going to be easy, but you're not taking 'no' for an answer. You'll definitely need to be frank about it.
>1] Starting with Walter. He's already here in the palace, likes Father Sullivan well enough (you think), and is easily the most cerebral of your friends.
>2] Starting with Harriet. She might not like it, but if you're traveling to the Church of Spirit, your research partner/counselor/co-conspirator needs to know.
>3] Starting with Cyril. He's affable to an extreme, and maybe easing everyone into Sullivan's company as someone who's under your protection will be easier.

>C] Keep it simple. Say you'll travel in separate groups, and you'll personally stay with Father Sullivan for his protection. Invite anyone who wishes to join you, and leave it at that. He can't possibly protest such a humble proposition.

>D] There's someone or something else that you trust enough with this priceless ally's life, to offer their protection. (Write-in.)
>>
>>4355835
>>C] Keep it simple. Say you'll travel in separate groups, and you'll personally stay with Father Sullivan for his protection. Invite anyone who wishes to join you, and leave it at that. He can't possibly protest such a humble proposition.
>>
>>4355835
>C] Keep it simple. Say you'll travel in separate groups, and you'll personally stay with Father Sullivan for his protection. Invite anyone who wishes to join you, and leave it at that. He can't possibly protest such a humble proposition.
>>
>>4355835
>C] Keep it simple. Say you'll travel in separate groups, and you'll personally stay with Father Sullivan for his protection. Invite anyone who wishes to join you, and leave it at that. He can't possibly protest such a humble proposition.
>>
>>4355837
>>4355862
>>4355877
(Awesome. Locking here to update once more before bed. Writing now!)
>>
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>>4355881
https://youtu.be/gnwfWTCZPEw

You're not budging. "I'm coming with you."

"You will push every last one of your friends away."

"We'll travel in separate groups," you reasonably propose.

"In pairs?" He smirks, finishing stacking every loose sheet of parchment on the desk. "How much protection do you think they can provide, from a distance they would actually tolerate my presence in—"

His Spirit is completely crushed.

With a much gentler tone, you insist, "if necessary. Yes. You know I want to protect you."

The appeal to both of your deities is too much for such a devout man to resist. Sullivan mutters, "you are as obstinate as ever. They spoiled you rotten, didn't they?"

Walking over to help the man clean up his office is more than an excuse to fidget. Adjusting the stacks of papers is relaxing, in a mundane, and completely innocent way. They're all in an unintelligible script, and provide no distraction, as you ignore the jab at your extremely prestigious upbringing. "It will be sufficient to simply— to ask anyone if they would have our company. I know they will surprise you."

A deep frown answers, "I'm not concerned about who wants my company. The issue is who I'll be pushing away from your side, Richard."

That's a yes.

You grin, "they'll understand. If they don't come around— they have their own lives to live, Sullivan. Their own ambitions, and their own goals." A pang of love, gratitude, and reasonable fear for your children's safety has you put a hand to your chest. You hardly feel like you're in your own skin, but at least your heart's stayed the same. "They may change their minds. And if they don't, I— I would be happy to know that they care enough to go on living."

Melancholy is swimming through your gaze. "My congregation thought they had failed to do even one single thing to help me. I— I don't think I can ever express just how much they've all taught me, already." Lifting your eyes back to Father Sullivan, you quietly remind him, "it should be their choice. We are all in this together, even— even when we're apart."

The Father of Spirit sets down the last stack of notes he's organized.

"I'll watch over you," you reassure him, "even if no one else is willing to stay by our side."

He pulls you into a hug. Sullivan is half a foot shorter than you, but the sudden movement still jostles the extremely delicate situation on your face. "Ah— ahh— watch it—"

"Shit." He reflexively pulls back— or at least tries to. "We need to do something about this—"

You catch him with one arm, and easily return the gesture, while nursing the moist bandages with the other. It hurts to smile, but neither of you care.

Around twenty minutes pass you by, over tea, as you fix the bandages on your face, organize the entire study, and Father Sullivan insists repeatedly, "I didn't mean anything by it, Richard."

(1/2)
>>
>>4355920
"To lie is to sin," you tease, putting away a mortar and pestle.

The remainder of the study is nearly packed up. You move to help the priest with a few candles, but he waves, "don't bother. I'll have the guard take care of everything."

He's practically ready to leave at a moment's notice. "You're expecting something terrible," you murmur.

"Yes," he mutters, "and I will not delay you a moment longer. We can talk more on the road, Richard. I've wasted more than enough of your Time. Go see to your friends."

The counsel is as good as any. At the door, you pause, and take a step out of its range. Glancing back to Father Sullivan, his research material, the way he's nervously sipping at the last of the tea, and the concern knitting his brow, you can't help but earnestly say, "I know there's more to all of this— but I appreciate your honesty, Sullivan. We— we will teach each other. Isn't that right?"

"Go on," he grumbles. "Get going."

A slight grin is a fair enough reply, as you excuse yourself. "The Gods are Merciful."

Something you've heard with increasing frequency leaves the priest's lips, rather than his usual farewell. "You are, Richard. Now go on. I'll see if I can get an earlier audience with King Magnus for you."

With a mild nod, and a quiet "thank you," you're out into the hall. No guards accost you, as you leave. Down winding stone corridors, past more colored windows, as the afternoon sun hangs high in the clouds. A Storm is brewing. You couldn't be more grateful to be in safe shelter, as it's a significant ways to your first order of travel arrangement. The brisk pace you take to the opposite end of the castle has your nose bleeding all over again, and you try to ignore it, after dealing with plenty more worried clergy and guards. All the way up to your old room in the palace, where you were directed to locate Walter Middleton.

A formal guard has been appointed. They're all monstrously built, wield intensely spiked weaponry, carry extremely high-quality armor and shields, and give you no greeting whatsoever. Save for one guard, standing just before the door. He's burlier than the rest, and simply grunts at you.

Judging by the red robes beneath his segmented plate, you'd pin him, and two others in the guard as priests of Flesh. You make your educated guess known. "Appointed by Brother Trebbeck, were you, Brother...?"

The guard does something odd, and whispers in a voice as deep as the abyss, "yep. Garrick."

Glancing over his shoulder, to the colossal double doors that definitely house a sleeping professor, you whisper back, "I need to speak with Walter."

Several guards muffle nervous and sincere laughter, as Brother Garrick leans over. His patchy, graying beard bristles. "He won't come out for anything, and has the door rigged, Father."

The aforementioned door has very slight scorch marks around its frame. The hinges and gilded door are like new. "I see."

(Options in next post.)
>>
>>4355921
>A] Shout to Walter to get up, to take down the alarm system, and that you need to talk to him. (A ROLL MAY BE REQUIRED. Write-ins for methods to get Walter to respond may help, or remove the need for a roll entirely.)

>B] Politely request a shield from one of the guards, and do your best to find someone that can disarm the entrance. (A ROLL WILL BE REQUIRED.)

>C] Leave a note to Professor Echo explaining where you're going next, and ask him to please make himself available as soon as possible. You'll come back.
>1] Go back to the safe house, to see if Claymore and Chesty have any news. You could seriously use the muscle.
>2] Head to The Honey Bee, where the majority of your congregation is residing. You're worried about the guard situation.
>3] Track down Sister Corbon and Sister Tirel, to see if either of them can help heal your face. It's bothering you, you'd rather not invoke Mercy over something so small, and you'd like to check up on them.

>D] Write-in.
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>>4355922
>C] Leave a note to Professor Echo explaining where you're going next, and ask him to please make himself available as soon as possible. You'll come back.
>2] Head to The Honey Bee, where the majority of your congregation is residing. You're worried about the guard situation.
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>>4355922
>A] Shout to Walter to get up, to take down the alarm system, and that you need to talk to him.
If the door is rigged, the walls wont be. Invoke flesh and punch a brick out to shout through
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>>4355922
>>A] Shout to Walter to get up, to take down the alarm system, and that you need to talk to him. (A ROLL MAY BE REQUIRED. Write-ins for methods to get Walter to respond may help, or remove the need for a roll entirely.)

I HAVE INFORMATION ON THE CATALYST.
>>
>>4355922


>>4356004
>>4356244

Support.

I have information that could lead to the arrest of Cataly--
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>>4356245
>>4356004

I am strongly against busting the fucking wall and abusing flesh to do it.
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>>4355940
(Noted that you guys want to go to The Honey Bee ASAP. I won't provide an additional prompt to head there unless any additional information comes to light that would give reason to change your mind.)

>>4356004
>>4356244
>>4356245
>>4356355
(Alright guys! As previously stated, taking action that would injure yourself [like punching a hole through a stone wall], reflect poorly on Mercy's tenets [like destroying the King's property needlessly], or would setback your progress [like abusing Flesh], won't be pursued if there's opposition and/or no majority vote. However! We can totally do this, and you guys picked a particularly compelling topic. No roll will be required! Vote is locked. Writing now!)
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>>4356360
As a preacher, you have no issue with raising your voice when necessary. "WALTER! WALTER, THIS IS FATHER ANSCHAM. I HAVE INFORMATION—" there's a groan from inside the room, "—THAT PERTAINS TO THE CATALYST!"

Something falls to the floor, and shatters from the interior of Echo's chamber. Every single guard snaps their gaze to you, with questions and dismay in their eyes.

A commotion, the clatter of glass bottles being shoved aside, enough cursing to make a priest of Storm proud, and the sound of five locks being opened answers your statement. Seconds later, the door swings open. You gasp.

Walter has taken a bath, and honestly looks the part of a research partner to the Father of the Church of Mercy. His shoulder-length hair is combed, tied back with a yellow ribbon, and a few strands frame the lessened pallor upon his face. His thin features and narrow eyes are bleary, which he rubs for a moment, though is obviously wide awake. The man seems more alert than youvr ever seen him, in fact. Wearing an absurdly tacky, golden smoking jacket over a fine set of deep amber nobleman's garb, you presume he was prefers style over substance.

He doesn't hesitate to move, or to grab you by the front of your robes, and to confirm your suspicion. An immediate realization stops him in his tracks.

You're too heavy to move, with his lanky and entirely neglected frame. Upon the discovery of your latest shift in weight, Walter draws back, and strikes a pose. With one hand to his chin, gazing wistfully off to the side of you, he haughtily declares, "Father Anscham. What a fortuitous visit. Perhaps, as serendipitous as your form…?"

You frown, and had nearly forgotten that Echo met you when you were at your heaviest. "Thank you, Walter, but—"

"Brother Trebbeck would approve. Would you accompany me into your quarters, where we may discuss this matter of our very *souls*?" He drops the pose, to lean in towards you with a glance to the guards all around, whispering, "away from *prying* ears and eyes?"

For all of your work with the Catalyst, none of your findings have ever been public knowledge. Walter clearly wants privacy, to discuss your mutual research in private. You count eighteen total men standing about, respectfully keeping quiet. Most of them likely don't even know how to read, let alone study, and depend on the church for their education.

This is setting a public precedent, for how you want to disseminate your research.

(Options in next post.)
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>>4356446
>A] Your research is not ready for any public knowledge, and may do more harm than good to speak of at this time. You agree wholeheartedly with Walter's counsel, and will ensure that no one eavesdrops.

>B] Discreetly invite anyone to listen who's bold enough to hear some truth. You won't stop anyone from eavesdropping on your conversation, but you're not putting on a sermon, lesson, or answering any questions.

>C] Even if it's in the earliest stages of discovery, your revelations about the Catalyst concerns all of mankind. Implore Walter to speak about the Catalyst openly. You'll deal with the public, and promise you'll get some privacy to go over the rest of your work.

>D] Write-in.
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>>4356446
>>A] Your research is not ready for any public knowledge, and may do more harm than good to speak of at this time. You agree wholeheartedly with Walter's counsel, and will ensure that no one eavesdrops.

Make sure to mention loud enough for everyone to hear that we aren't fully sure and we still need time to understand. Enough to put the guards at ease and maybe instill a bit of good ol hope.
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>>4356450
>A] Your research is not ready for any public knowledge, and may do more harm than good to speak of at this time. You agree wholeheartedly with Walter's counsel, and will ensure that no one eavesdrops.
>>
>>4356466
>>4356469
+1

>>4356450
>>
>>4356466
>>4356469
>>4356485
(Great, locking the unanimous vote here. Love the write-in btw. Writing now!)
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>>4356503
With a glance to the common men and clergy all around, you politely inform them, "my findings are in their earliest stages, and— I am sure you all are aware— that it will take Time for me to fully understand its ramifications. This matter requires further understanding, and is still in development. *Constant* development. Please do not intrude on our study, gentlemen—" you take a step forward, into Walter's room, and turn just slightly. With a frown, you remind everyone present, "we are toiling, and fighting, to better understand the condition of our very souls. May you respect our diligence— as our *collective* hope is what will keep our work, and our hearts aloft."

There's no grumbling, as you leave the guard behind. "The Gods are Merciful," lingers in the hall, as you give them all another stern glance. They're respectfully quiet, stay at their post, and you're certain that the majority of them have already been given more than enough food for thought.

Walter steps aside from the door, to let you in, as your frame is legitimately imposing enough to prevent you both from occupying the same space. The wiry scholar rushes to close and lock the door behind you, while you pace to the furthest corner of the gilded room.

The royal quarters are not as you left them. Though it is covered in gold from floor, to ceiling, and even in the thread upon the canopy of a colossal bed, it's obscured. There are papers. Walter is obscenely unorganized, and you can't discern any method to his madness. All nine tomes of the books King Magnus left to you— regarding the duties and history of the Father of the Church of Mercy— are haphazardly stacked on a gilded table at the side of the room. The letters from Adrian and Theobald are with them. All of the flowers that were left for you during your recovery are shoved into a corner, where the sun from a large window at the end of the chamber is casting afternoon sun. Every chair, table, bookshelf and armour, is shoved to the edge of the room, so that the papers scattered about can be observed with greater ease.

Stepping around the piles, you get right before the window, and take in some sunlight. The heat, and comfort, puts a little bit of a smile on your face. Walter strides right over to you, gesturing with a pen he's pulled out from the back of his hair, and scrambles to produce a blank piece of parchment. He's trembling with excitement, and beams at you with a glint in the muted gold upon his eyes. "You came back."

"Of course I did," you softly reply.

"You'll have to tell me everything. Go ahead. You go first."

A frown is back in full force. "We are a team, Walter. I would like to hear your thoughts, too."

He's practically vibrating with nervous energy. "Excellent."

There should still be time to broach the subject of travel, and to check on your congregation— but you are obsessed, and *cannot resist* the opportunity to discuss your life's work.

(Options in next post.)
>>
>>4356555
>A] Start with what Arkthros told you about the Catalyst, exactly as he told it to you, and gauge Walter's response accordingly.

>B] Touch on everything you know about the Catalyst thus far.
>1] Try and stay objective.
>2] Pour your guts into the explanation.

>C] Present your speculations. (Write-in any theories you may have, right off the bat.)

>D] There's another way to go about this. (Write-in.)
>>
>>4356555
>A] Start with what Arkthros told you about the Catalyst, exactly as he told it to you, and gauge Walter's response accordingly.

>B] Touch on everything you know about the Catalyst thus far.
>1] Try and stay objective.

>C] Present your speculations. (Write-in any theories you may have, right off the bat.)

Ask him about trying to instill a sense of hope alongside teaching people restraint, and how to best go about it without disturbing the balance too much.
>>
>>4356557
>>4356577
Going with this. I think that the rumored walking gods maybe demons that are “helping” people for some sinister plan
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>>4356577
supporte

>>4356557
>>
(It's that time of day where life comes knocking on my door, and wants to take me for a spin. I'll be back in a couple of hours! Vote is open until then.)
>>
>>4356577
>>4356596
>>4356654
(Back home and ready to rock. Will try to work in as much of this as I can. Writing now.)
>>
>>4357010
https://youtu.be/orneY4K9YtQ

"Starlight and Stardust were under the watch of an archdemon, Walter. One of Time— who has suffered his loss for over one thousand, eight hundred, and ninety eight years."

A sharp sniff punctuates Walter's writing. He sets down the quill, sets down the parchment, drags over two chairs, and sits down. In a very distant voice, he barely gasps, "please continue."

Taking a seat, you try to reassure him, "Arkthros claimed that he would not harm anyone under his care. It was no small feat— but I spoke with him, and learned what he could share. Not— not merely of his life, or his existence as a demon. He told me of his Catalyst."

Walter is fully aware that you've allied with demons before. Though he looks incredibly pale, he's fascinated, and does not dare to interrupt.

"The demon referred to his captives as a gift. His isolation was of his own design. Desperation drove him to— to beg me to stay. He was willing to maim, torture, and kill, to pursue his own ends. Yet— yet even when his life was in peril, he insisted that that he was no one. He insisted that I was blind. So he— he showed me glimpses."

"Glimpses of what...?"

"Glimpses of his Time."

Anyone that keeps your company for long enough is fully aware that nothing is impossible. Swallowing hard, Echo quiets down.

"It was another place," you try to explain, "in another Time. So far removed from our own that I— I scarcely understand what I looked upon."

"What was it?"

"His home. His family. His children. He stressed their humanity, Walter. That it did not matter who they were in life. He loved his demons, as they loved him. They held onto one another, until the very... bitter... end."

It's not a hierarchy at all. Every demon I've ever met treated one another as if they were family.

You are speaking much more quickly. "They fought to delay the inevitable. His Catalyst was grief. He sought— he sought to have more Time—" you stand back up, and snap your gaze to Walter. "Arkthros was insistent on not exposing me to his Catalyst. He stressed that it was the end of humanity. That— that I am immune to it— for that very reason—"

The professor puts both hands to his head, and gasps, "holy shit—"

"The Catalyst made Arkthros into more than he was before. He felt as if he had lost everything." You struggle to keep your voice down, choking out, "until he lost everything that made him human. His body was made of glass. Yes, he could reshape it— heat it— fly, and control it in any form— but he was brittle. Bent with age. Even as an archdemon— who claimed to have persisted through resolve alone— he confessed to only enduring because of the memory of his despair."

Walter stands up, with the sun in his eyes. He puts his hands on your shoulders. "That's it."

(1/2)
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>>4357131
"He said that his kind look inwards. To the disconnect from their very souls. That there was no hope. We know that is what makes demons who they are, but I didn't have half of the picture—"

"They're a family," Walter breathes. "They're all trying to take Time, and Mercy, and all the rest—"

"They have lost hope—" you gasp, running a hand through your hair, "but that— that doesn't mean that it cannot be instilled in them—!"

Walter is laughing. "They don't cling onto what they are."

"They're surviving off of what they've lost." You sit back down, reeling. "That is the Catalyst."

Your research partner sits back down, as well, and looks to you with admiration in his eyes. "You can't turn— because—"

"Because I've never truly lost my faith." A little nervous laughter escapes from you. "It's much more than the absence of hope. It's— it's so much worse—"

"Did you try and help him," Echo asks you, more soberly.

"He was beyond my aid," you wince, and try to explain further, "it was so much more than his physical state. He had lost his mind, Walter. Truly, truly had lost his mind. He was consumed with anger, and has likely wallowed in his own despair for— for age, upon age. Demons— they— they lose sight— he was trying to tell me the entire Time. We're all blinded by our desires, Walter."

Another realization hits you, so hard that you would have staggered, were you standing. You clasp your hands together, with two of your fingers upon Mercy's ring. It's more than a reminder. "They need restraint."

With love and devotion sinking into every word, you breathe, "the Church of Mercy's foremost tenet. It is not insanity. We do not preach repression." It's so obvious. "We preach temperance."

You can't help it, and get back to your feet. This is more than a revelation. "Modesty, and humility— harmony, between that which defines us— and the piety— the belief— the devotion to control our basest desires— "

This is your life's work, and the most important thing you can conceive of. Taking Walter by his shoulders, trying to not shake him, you have to ask, "what can we do? How can we— there must be a way to test this, to confirm our speculation, this truth—"

Concern has washed over Echo's face, as he quietly looks up to you. "Was that not why they did," he waves a hand, apologetically, clearly not wanting to touch on the subject, "what they did to you?"

The wind is knocked right out of your sails. Much more quietly, as your smile fades, you deflect, "demons may yet walk among us. There are some who would say that the Gods do as well, Walter. One's who's sinister plans, masquerading as good intent, may be threatening the lives of innocents—"

"I haven't the faintest idea," the shut-in frowns. "But this threatens the entirety of your church, does it not?"

(Options in next post.)
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>>4357136
>A] Speculate with Walter about the cults of Corcaea, based on the little information you both have.

>B] That comment about your imprisonment in the Church of Mercy is going to keep you up at night. Address it.

>C] Walter is almost as blasphemous as a human can get, but you want his thoughts on preaching this revelation to the people.

>D] Write-in literally any thoughts, sentiments, or anything else you want to express regarding any of these subjects. (Feel free to specify if you don't want to have any ideas incorporated into the following post, if you're thinking of ideas and want to keep them to the thread.)

>E] This is a lot. You might be getting carried away, and really need some clarification. (Write-in anything you're unsure about, up to and including everything discussed in this post.)
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>>4357138
>A] Speculate with Walter about the cults of Corcaea, based on the little information you both have.
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>>4357136
>>A] Speculate with Walter about the cults of Corcaea, based on the little information you both have.

>C] Walter is almost as blasphemous as a human can get, but you want his thoughts on preaching this revelation to the people.

BECAUSE he is so blasphemous we need to ask him about how to preach, if we can reach people like him we can reach almost anyone. We need to see what exactly pushed people away from the gods, it is beyond all doubt the fault of *the clergy that we are in charge of*. I would love to ask the sisters about why they left the church in the first place and start to work on those issues, there is a clear disconnect between the church and the people.
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>>4357310
+1
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>>4357310
+1
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>>4357189
>>4357310
>>4357311
>>4357312
(You guys are the absolute best. Locking the vote here, going to do everything I can to update before bed. Writing now!)
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>>4357314
https://youtu.be/RF9PFRyEvf0

"There is a disconnect," you murmur, sitting slowly, and settling into the disgustingly luxurious chair, "between the church, and the people." There's a desperate desire to know more about those who are already loyal to you. To get to know the clergy who left while under your leadership, without ever telling you why. But Sister Corbon, and Sister Tirel will have to wait.

You look to the symbol of your church: your open hands. There are dozens of scars upon your palms alone, littered with callouses. The pallor upon your skin, under a rare beam of sunlight, is only relieved by the perpetual dirt under your nails. A phantom sensation of scrubbing off cold blood with boiling water, and all of the lives you've taken with weapons and divinity in hand, is only a part of the tremor that may never leave. They are the hands that your lover has held, and kissed, while asking you for nothing more than to be by your side.

You look up to Walter, and all of his belief, with hope in your heart. "I want to reach out to them. Why do you know nothing of these cults, Walter?"

He scoffs. "It would be an insult to my limited Time, to waste a single second on that utter nonsense. My concern lies with the weakness within our very souls, Father. Not in trivial lies, and schemes of the damned. They are charlatans, who would capitalize on the ignorance of the masses."

You stare a moment, at the blasphemer's gaudy clothing, his pretentious demeanor, and the conviction that hangs off of his every pompous word. "How would they reach you?"

It's like you've slapped him. "...what?"

Shifting slightly, to turn to face Walter, you ask again, "how would they reach you? For that matter, how— how would anyone? You are cunning, and skeptical to an extreme. How could a man— with nothing to believe in, and everything to hate— how would you come to trust the church? Or for that matter, a pretender?"

"Not everyone needs something to believe in," Walter almost spits, looking disgusted beyond belief. He pauses, though, and seems to be seriously considering your question.

"I have believed in you, and Harvey. There are more ridiculous questions. ...give me a minute."

Several minutes pass. You resumed fidgeting before the first had finished transpiring. By the tenth, Walter raises his hand from his chin, and looks you straight in the eye. "They would have to give me answers."

"Answers," you repeat, as if it's the most beautiful word you've ever heard.

(1/3)
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>>4357340
"Yes." He's particularly pleased with himself. "That's what it boils down to, doesn't it? Answers. Everyone has a different question. The theocracy has attempted to provide solutions, and has completely failed. It doesn't matter if it's a farmer, who spent his entire life in famine, only to have his church become vacant the very same day we had relief. It's got nothing to do with war, or defense, or even your church's protection. We're all dying. We all want answers." The scholar leans back, and scowls, "even if these idiots are asking all of the wrong questions. There's other kinds of monsters, taking advantage of their desperation."

With a very deep breath, Echo puts a hand to his face, and murmurs through his fingers, "I may have spoken too soon. This could be a very serious problem."

"Walter," you ask, letting your disdain out towards the enemy, "what would a group of sinful, manipulative, blasphemous, cut-throat heathens do, to get the people on their side?"

"Whatever they asked for," he immediately fires back. "For a price." There's a pause, and he starts visibly sweating. "No, no. Strike that. Only the most foolish of them would. They'd fall to pieces, the moment they were found out. It wouldn't be sustainable." He looks like he's going to be ill. "They would tell the people what they need, to get the answers they're seeking. They would create questions— such as, 'why should I follow the church, when the Gods walk among us?' 'Why should I listen to a church leader, when their patron is speaking ill of their work?'"

He grimaces. "I hate to say it, Father, but anyone could spin what you do in the very same way."

You try very, very hard to not be offended, and give the heathen the benefit of the doubt. "Please explain."

"Your tenets. Your vows. Your devotion, and worship— it is your means to an end. The clergy spends their life separate from the people, in hallowed halls, enjoying the blessing," he practically spits each word, "of the Gods. Your power comes without cost, save for living a sheltered life, while the rest of us patch up the remnants of your conflict. You preach that if we follow the exact same practices, YOU will come to our aid. Not the Gods. And rarely— very fucking rarely, might I add— do any of us even get to see that much. We can't hope to fight. We run, and hide, and if we're lucky you all might answer before our families and friends die in our fucking arms."

(2/3)
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>>4357341
With absolutely no judgement, you look to Walter. He's never looked so furious. The scholar makes no indication of throwing anything, be it furniture, or a tantrum. He looks to you, with hate in his eyes, and ice in his voice. "A lot of us have given up, you know. On the theocracy. Fixing the state of affairs seems impossible, compared to simply finding an alternative." His grimace intensifies, somehow, and there's a waver in his voice. Walter isn't going to cry. He's clearly doing everything in his power to not scream, "I'm willing to bet that most of the people following these cults are fully aware that they're a sham. They're probably desperate for a SOLUTION, Father Anscham."

Echo hangs his head, and sounds particularly ashamed of himself. "Just like the rest of us. I still can't believe what you did for us, in Ostedholm. Most people couldn't. They lost, even with the hope of your relief on our side."

The muted gold upon Walter's eyes snaps to you. It's certainly the only connection he's ever had to the Gods, and it's so much more faded than your own brilliance, he practically looks dull. "We all waited for so long, everyone's lost count. You came back for us— and I can't even imagine what you must have been through— but it may not have been soon enough."

>A] You hadn't quite realized how dire the situation at home is likely going to be, but you're beginning to get an idea. You want every ally on your side that you can muster— and as few enemies as possible. Ask Walter if he'll accompany you and Father Sullivan to the Church of Spirit. You're going to need ALL of your wits about you, to contend with the game you're being dragged into.

>B] Father Sullivan's immediate response to you avoiding Eadric even a day longer was dismay, and discouragement. The Father of Spirit clearly respects your decisions, but you're second-guessing the wisdom behind leaving the Church of Mercy for even longer. Inform Walter of Father Sullivan's counsel, and get a second opinion.

>C] Plainly ask Walter if he has any idea of how to keep Father Sullivan safe, when you part ways. The guilt of leaving your congregation cannot eclipse the growing knowledge that you have denied EVERY SINGLE person in the WORLD the protection of Mercy. Keeping Her away from your home any longer than necessary is unthinkable. You have to go back to Eadric. Father Sullivan will have to understand.

>D] Ask Walter if he's alright. He seems horribly shaken up by this line of conversation. Even though he's passionate, the man can't resist any form of intellectual stimulation, and may be pushing himself way past his comfort zone for a chance to talk to you. Ask him if he's actually okay.
>1] Ask him if he'd like to just accompany you to The Honey Bee. Maybe you can introduce him to Sister Cardew.
>2] Ask him if he'd like to talk with you about this matter as friends, not business associates.

>E] Write-in.
>>
>>4357342

>>B] Father Sullivan's immediate response to you avoiding Eadric even a day longer was dismay, and discouragement. The Father of Spirit clearly respects your decisions, but you're second-guessing the wisdom behind leaving the Church of Mercy for even longer. Inform Walter of Father Sullivan's counsel, and get a second opinion.

>C] Plainly ask Walter if he has any idea of how to keep Father Sullivan safe, when you part ways. The guilt of leaving your congregation cannot eclipse the growing knowledge that you have denied EVERY SINGLE person in the WORLD the protection of Mercy. Keeping Her away from your home any longer than necessary is unthinkable. You have to go back to Eadric. Father Sullivan will have to understand.
>>
>>4357342
>C] Plainly ask Walter if he has any idea of how to keep Father Sullivan safe, when you part ways. The guilt of leaving your congregation cannot eclipse the growing knowledge that you have denied EVERY SINGLE person in the WORLD the protection of Mercy. Keeping Her away from your home any longer than necessary is unthinkable. You have to go back to Eadric. Father Sullivan will have to understand.
>D] Ask Walter if he's alright. He seems horribly shaken up by this line of conversation. Even though he's passionate, the man can't resist any form of intellectual stimulation, and may be pushing himself way past his comfort zone for a chance to talk to you. Ask him if he's actually okay.
>1] Ask him if he'd like to just accompany you to The Honey Bee. Maybe you can introduce him to Sister Cardew.
>>
>>4357365
+1
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>>4357345
>>4357365
>>4357385
(Great guys, I think we can do all of this. Vote is locked! Writing now.)
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>>4357681
https://youtu.be/P9nRSkXy0Tw

"I need to go back home."

Though he's coated with fury, Walter's shoulders relax a little. "That is an outstanding proposition, Father."

"Sullivan and I spoke, just before I came to see you."

Some normalcy washes back over the scholar, as he straightens upright. "What did he have to say?"

"We both fear for his life. I— I believe he may be too apologetic, to offer me entirely sound counsel. I insisted on accompanying him to Murgate, for his protection." You glance back up to Echo, and softly ask, "could I ask you for a second opinion?"

He's disproportionately flattered. "Of course."

"There was a man in our congregation, who had been working for Sullivan," you gently attempt to explain, as Walter shoves down his anger, "and we both have reason to believe Victor will make every attempt to destroy the Church of Spirit from the inside, out. I can't bear the thought of losing someone else—" you're trying to not choke up, and grit out, "but I can't neglect my own duty. My own clergy. I know you are always forward with me, Walter. Do you think— do you think that he will understand— or if there's any conceivable way to keep him safe, when we part ways—"

"Brother Trebbeck," Walter immediately fires back, so smugly that his frown almost evaporates. "You have a veteran member of the Church of Flesh in your employ. Use him."

"He has a home, and child to go back to—"

"You know you can trust him. It doesn't have to be him, in particular. See if he can do something for his protection."

This is so genius, you're a little embarrassed to have not thought of it first. "Beorward is only a slight detour, on the way to Murgate—"

"It is at least a week's ride out of the way, Father."

"A slight detour," you insist, "in the name of his ensured safety."

He tries to not laugh, "yes. Well. I'm certain Father Friedrich would want to do something about his neighbors."

Almost in a whisper, you modestly inquire, "you did not entertain the idea of me accompanying him, for even an instant—"

"Father Anscham," Walter interjects, "you are arguably the second-most influential man in the country. Your absence from the Church of Mercy is the only thing more devastating than your association with Mercy. And I mean no offense. But the concept— the very idea of you taking up guard duty, for the man who's worked his entire life to unseat you?" There's a scowl, as he mutters, "I understand the premise. The fact that you two were able to make amends is a miracle. But to pursue Sullivan's agenda before your own? At a Time like this?"

He crosses his arms, leans back, and frowns. "It would be an honor to see you home. Only to see you home."

You get up, and pull him into a hug. The slender bookworm immediately protests, "you're going to wrinkle my jacket," to which you frown, completely ignore his request, and briefly crush the air from his lungs.

(1/2)
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>>4357731
"Would you accompany me to The Honey Bee?"

He can't really talk, muffled against your robes. The sheer amount of newfound strength you have is fantastic. You must be absurdly comfortable to hold, as he's stopped complaining instantly, and slowly returns the hug. "Is it some place of business...?"

"It's Ofelia's place of residence. Sister Harriet Cardew— a priestess of Spirit— has been my research partner for the last several months. She should be residing there, and I— I would like to introduce her to you." You pull back, and note, "upsetting you was not my intent. Thank you for all of your counsel. I— I can't begin to tell you how much I appreciate your honesty."

"You're welcome," he frowns, not denying he's upset for a second.

"Are you alright," you quietly ask.

There's a pause, before Walter shoves a nearby book off the adjacent table. Exasperated, he scowls, "no."

Another minute passes you both by, as you invite him to speak his mind. Crossing his arms, Echo seethes, "do you have any idea how hard it is, to see people like you?"

You don't dare to interject.

He can't look at you. Brow furrowed, Walter's gaze drops to the floor, muttering, "even when you could barely stand, you had the ability to influence all of us. Every time I've seen you, you're stronger, or wiser, or have done something incredible to save lives. And—" he snaps his gaze up, desperately asserting, "I'm trying. I won't fight. I won't kill anyone, or anything, when we're all working to survive. I hate it, Father. I've always hated all of you, and it only keeps getting harder."

"Yet—" you can't help but ask, putting off addressing his valid concerns for a moment longer, "yet you want to accompany me to the Church of Mercy? To work alongside me, and the company I keep?"

"Of course," he snaps. "This is the greatest opportunity of my life." He's disgusted. "Everyone wants to use you. Don't believe anyone who says otherwise for a fucking second. It's shameful. They have no concept of actual righteousness."

Passion has him lean forward, clutching onto the edge of his seat, to swear, "this is about more than friendship, or honor. I am pursuing the truth of our hearts and souls, Father Anscham. Even if you're some violent pervert, or an abuser, or want to sabotage the King's work— don't give me that look, I know you've heard it all before— EVEN IF it's all lies, or you shit solid gold— I don't care."

Walter leans back, and crosses his arms once more. He looks to the ceiling, nose high, and sniffs, "I'm above petty judgement. I seek answers, and would gladly call a demon of Mercy my friend. I know you aren't. I understand that we'll come to know one another, in time. But I am not fine, Father Anscham. Neither are you— which is precisely why we're going to make this work."

(Options in next post.)
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>>4357733
>A] Take an extra minute out of your day to try and get to know Professor Echo a little better.

>B] Your reputation has SERIOUSLY been tarnished by Father Sullivan's efforts, and Klepto heralding you as a holier man than the King has probably not helped the opposite extreme.
>1] Try to tell Walter a few normal things about yourself.
>2] Be frank, and try to have an honest exchange with him.
>3] You're pretty self-deprecating, and also brutally honest. He'd likely appreciate the effort. Let him know what truth there is to the rumors about you, in both extremes.

>C] Walter's disparaging remarks about the clergy are going to get you into hot water, fast.
>1] And you agree with them completely. There's no need for you to argue about this. Let the heathen know that his beliefs are founded, but you seek to improve matters as soon as possible. Anyone who takes issue with his complaints can always prove him wrong, themselves.
>2] As tactfully as possible, see if you can encourage Walter to tone down his hatred for the theocracy while not in private company. This isn't a matter of pride— you are seriously concerned for his safety, if he wants to come back to Eadric with you.

>D] Write-in.
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>>4357735
>>B] Your reputation has SERIOUSLY been tarnished by Father Sullivan's efforts, and Klepto heralding you as a holier man than the King has probably not helped the opposite extreme.
>>1] Try to tell Walter a few normal things about yourself.
>>2] Be frank, and try to have an honest exchange with him.
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>>4357735
>B] Your reputation has SERIOUSLY been tarnished by Father Sullivan's efforts, and Klepto heralding you as a holier man than the King has probably not helped the opposite extreme.
>2] Be frank, and try to have an honest exchange with him.
>C] Walter's disparaging remarks about the clergy are going to get you into hot water, fast.
>1] And you agree with them completely. There's no need for you to argue about this. Let the heathen know that his beliefs are founded, but you seek to improve matters as soon as possible. Anyone who takes issue with his complaints can always prove him wrong, themselves.
>>
>>4357735
>C] Walter's disparaging remarks about the clergy are going to get you into hot water, fast.
>1] And you agree with them completely. There's no need for you to argue about this. Let the heathen know that his beliefs are founded, but you seek to improve matters as soon as possible. Anyone who takes issue with his complaints can always prove him wrong, themselves.
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>>4357786
>>4357828
>>4357892
(We can definitely combine all of these. Locking the vote, writing now!)
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>>4357735
>B] Your reputation has SERIOUSLY been tarnished by Father Sullivan's efforts, and Klepto heralding you as a holier man than the King has probably not helped the opposite extreme.
>2] Be frank, and try to have an honest exchange with him.
>C] Walter's disparaging remarks about the clergy are going to get you into hot water, fast.
>1] And you agree with them completely. There's no need for you to argue about this. Let the heathen know that his beliefs are founded, but you seek to improve matters as soon as possible. Anyone who takes issue with his complaints can always prove him wrong, themselves.
>>
>>4357986
(Gotchu too boss. I might have a delay on the update due to work but will get to writing ASAP.)
>>
>>4357786
>>4357828
>>4357892
>>4357986
(At LONG last I am home, and can update. Writing now!)
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>>4358429
https://youtu.be/-YxxTcuIiQE

Placing the tips of your fingers together, you point towards Walter, and ask, "can I be honest with you?"

A confused laugh escapes him. "Are you not always honest?"

"Well," you glance away, to the sunset pouring over Calunoth, "I thought you would be interested in hearing the truth of the matter."

"You know I can't resist," he gripes, rolling his head back slightly, to grin to the opposite wall, "go on, then. Let's hear it."

"There's lies to the matter, too," you preface, to spare yourself further torment. Locking your fingers together, to try and keep your fidgeting at a minimum, you murmur, "I don't know how much you want to hear. I'm curious about your own reputation, as well."

Smirking, he sniffs, "oh? And what might that be?"

"Some might say that your work for our congregation is far and away the most important, out of everyone else's efforts."

The scholar is utterly pleased with himself. "Well. No matter how significant my research may be, our holy capital seems to think that you're our saving grace."

"I have—" you legitimately can't keep track anymore, "—I have lost count of the lives I've saved, Walter, but I have had so much help. Between my allies, and all of the Gods—"

He's fascinated. "Is it true? That you can turn anything into liquid gold?"

"I— I'm not entirely sure— and I would rather not find out, at the present moment. My work has also harmed plenty of people, Walter. I am to exercise discipline, and restraint, wherever I can—"

As if a name could leave a rancid taste on his tongue, Echo looks you over, and grimaces, "Sullivan's been saying you're a glutton, for almost everything I could conceive of. Several things that I couldn't. His besmirching is as legendary as the depravities he's associated with your name. It makes one wonder about his behavior—"

"It's not all lies," you squirm, "and I— I hope to be rid of it all, one day."

Walter squints, as if he could see right through you. "I see." He has no such qualms about restraint, and tastelessly says, "you never asked for most of it, did you?"

"No." You're instantly back to fidgeting with your Relic. "Not a single proclivity. Not even some— some of the blessings that I have received."

A long silence stretches between you. Echo shifts, without judgement, and is clearly suppressing every desire to ask for more information out of sheer respect.

Your gratitude cuts the air like a knife. "The Gods work through me, Walter— and I cannot begin to understand why—" you have to take a sharp breath in, to keep your voice steady, "why things must be so difficult."

(1/3)
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File: Ray.png (274 KB, 800x979)
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274 KB PNG
>>4358557
There's no pity staring back at you. Walter clearly holds serious respect for what you've been through, as he mutters, "things are looking up." He gets to his feet, and looks to the window. The last bit of daylight filters in. He beams to you, with a cheeky smile. "Not an abuser, then!"

"No," you immediately agree, getting to your feet as well. You pause, and think back to a handful of moments, months ago, that had you question your sanity. "Not recently. It's complicated, Walter—"

"How long has it been, then?"

This line of questioning is insanely uncomfortable. "One of my greatest concerns is determining precisely how to define this—"

Demons typically look less smug. "What of the King?"

The answer could not be any simpler. "He is Merciful."

His smile fades, slightly. "There's not much truth at all to what Klepto's been saying, is there?"

"I am trying just as hard as anyone else to live a good life, Walter." You can't help but add, with a frown, "please refrain from any further name-calling, or accusations of degeneracy."

He's clearly dying to ask about all of your proclivities, but holds his tongue. "Very well."

More earnestly still, you insist, "I agree with your sentiments completely, Walter. Particularly about the clergy. Your beliefs are founded," there's stars in his eyes, torn between disappointment and satisfaction, "but I will seek to— to improve matters, as soon as I am able."

Worry is drenching him. "I'm going to make things much harder for you."

You put a hand to his shoulder, and try to not scowl. "Anyone who takes issue with your complaints can always seek to prove you wrong, themselves."

The heathen's face twists with emotion. Walter's lip quivers, and he struggles to find a way to express his appreciation. Settling on reaching up, he pats you hard on the back, nodding silently for a few moments. The two of you part, and as he takes a step back, Echo quietly muses, "you might be onto something, Father."

"There is more to me than prayer, and— and sin, you know."

"Oh," he grins back, amused. "Such as?"

"You have yet to meet Ray properly," you inform him, with the utmost seriousness. "He is far and away the most valiant defender of the Church of Mercy, in all of recorded history."

Disbelief has Walter ask, "a defender...?"

"My dog," you declare. "A mastiff. I've taught him almost everything he knows. He has taught me infinitely more, in turn."

Echo snorts. "Oh?"

"Don't you dare laugh," you frown back. "I'm certain that he's smarter than the both of us, combined."

"Well," the scholar smirks, "we'll see. I'll have to put his wit to the test."

You both head for the door, as you mutter, "I do also enjoy reading, and gardening, when I have the Time."

"You may not have much where we're heading." Walter sweeps a book bag off a nearby chair, and loads it up with research material. "I would enjoy hearing about any of it."

(2/3)
>>
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>>4358561
"Do you go fishing," you ask, with sunlight in your eyes.

"Do I," Walter immediately replies, putting on every air conceivable. "My skill is that of legend, Father Anscham. The very Church of Storm could not compare to my dominion. For the rivers, and all of the sea must be mourning! To have not felt my presence for so long," he sniffs, putting the back of a hand to his head, with drama beyond drama, "it is truly a sin. Truly."

With a deep breath, and a genuine smile, you say, "we will have to make a trip to Morinburn as soon as we're able, then." More seriously, you murmur, "I cannot endure, while my country suffers."

The grin on Walter's face falls off completely. So does yours. You both share a moment of silence, while you help Walter pack up all of the research material he doesn't trust to leave behind.

"I have been seriously concerned about the guard posted." Worry is sticking to every syllable. "And— and we should get moving. Father Sullivan will be safer here, in the castle, than anywhere else in the country. I'll be sure to bring you back, as well, Walter. If you are still concerned with your safety."

"Yes, well," he replies, throwing on a traveling cloak in a disgustingly tasteful hue of amber, "if Sullivan is seeking an earlier audience for you with the King, he's likely not even in his quarters. We should have ample Time. I would like to continue looking over the material left for your review, as well."

"Where did you even get that," you muse, to the cloak.

"Was in one of the cabinets. King Magnus probably left it for you, with all the rest." He grins once more, cheeky as can be. "I thought you wouldn't mind if I borrowed a few things."

(Options in next post.)
>>
>>4358567
>Select ONE numbered prompt for EACH letter.
>Please select a total of three prompts, so that each category is covered.(E.g. A3, B2, C1.)
>Majority vote will decide.
>Write-ins are welcome for any category.

>A] You've been assaulted every time you've gone out in public without disguising yourself.
>1] It might be a little fun to put on a disguise. It will certainly be easier, and safer. (Write-in how, otherwise your QM will come up with something appropriate.)
>2] Keep Walter's guard of 18 men with you both. They seem more than capable, even if it will attract a significant amount of attention to you both. (Write-in if you want to bring less than all 18 guards, and specify if you want any of the 3 priests of Flesh with you.)
>3] Stay on high-alert, and focus on guarding you both. Only someone with a death wish would actually try to harm either of you. (A ROLL WILL BE REQUIRED, with a positive modifier.)

>B] Walter looks ridiculous.
>1] Compliment him. You're flattered that he wants to openly associate with you and the Church of Mercy, no matter how gaudy it is.
>2] Keep your thoughts to yourself. There will be Time to cultivate a more befitting image for your research partner another Time.
>3] You're going to be seen through half the city together, and a lot more often in the future. Head out to a mercantile district, and pick him up something nice.
>4] He's pretentious to an extreme, and you run the Church of Gold. Find a tailor in the cathedral ward, and set him up with the best Calunoth has to offer. (Write-in if you want to get something for yourself, too.)

>C] Professor Echo is either the best or the worst conversationalist you've ever met.
>1] Touch on your interest in cartography. Maybe Walter's traveled? Crazier things have happened.
>2] You're hopeless, and want to talk more about Ray. Maybe tell Echo a story or two.
>3] So you might be a workaholic. Ask Walter about what he's read, in the last few days.
>4] Tell him about Eadric. You are seriously homesick, and he should be interested.
>>
nice
>>
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>>4358580
(Thank you.)
>>
>>4358570
>A] You've been assaulted every time you've gone out in public without disguising yourself.
>2] Keep Walter's guard of 18 men with you both. They seem more than capable, even if it will attract a significant amount of attention to you both. (6 guards and 2 priests of flesh)

>B] Walter looks ridiculous.
>1] Compliment him. You're flattered that he wants to openly associate with you and the Church of Mercy, no matter how gaudy it is.

>C] Professor Echo is either the best or the worst conversationalist you've ever met.
>4] Tell him about Eadric. You are seriously homesick, and he should be interested.
>>
>>4358615
+1
>>
>>4358570
>>A] You've been assaulted every time you've gone out in public without disguising yourself.
>2] Keep Walter's guard of 18 men with you both. They seem more than capable, even if it will attract a significant amount of attention to you both. (Write-in if you want to bring less than all 18 guards, and specify if you want any of the 3 priests of Flesh with you.)

I say we keep only the priests of flesh with us, too many guards would just put a target on us.

>B] Walter looks ridiculous.
>1] Compliment him. You're flattered that he wants to openly associate with you and the Church of Mercy, no matter how gaudy it is.

>C] Professor Echo is either the best or the worst conversationalist you've ever met.
>3] So you might be a workaholic. Ask Walter about what he's read, in the last few days.

He spent so much fucking time in that library.
>>
>>4358615
>>4358790
>>4358897
(Going to go with majority vote for number of guards, unanimous vote for B, and try to incorporate both C votes if at all possible! Vote is locked. Writing now.)
>>
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>>4359018
"Not at all," you smile, looking Walter over. The gilded belt— which matches his shoes— cinches excess fabric from his tunic. Neatly disguised beneath his coat, the fit and color scheme is much more thoughtful than your initial impression. "It's far better suited to you. Not everyone can manage the hue— and you— you look fantastic."

A smug, and delighted smile shines back at you. "You really think so?"

You're legitimately flattered that he wants to be associated with you, let alone the Church of Mercy, and smirk back. "Absolutely."

Swinging open the door, you promptly call to the guard outside for the six most able-bodied men among them to tail you both. With emphasis on the hulking security to keep their distance, they hang back as you, Walter, and the priests of Flesh head out. They're to stay on you and Walter without fail. You sincerely hope that the precaution should be sufficient to avoid any further attention being directed towards you.

With Brother Garrick handling the rest of the logistics of getting you and Walter halfway across Calunoth without issue, you all depart from the castle, and head out, into the night.

https://youtu.be/GK9LAnA-_P4

Torches, lanterns and lamps are gradually being kindled in all directions. An orange glow practically emanates from the city streets, rising towards the turquoise and stars in the sky. With a deep breath of fresh air, there's almost a skip in your long strides. It's still warm out, from the sun baking on Calunoth all day. Pollen is all about, from King Magnus' hardier strain of Green Bough all throughout the slowly-repaired gardens. Smoke rises from hearths working hot in the distance, and plenty of citizens are still moving about the streets, conducting the last of their business for the day.

Your heart is not here, as you proceed away from the palace. Far behind you both, the guards are filtering out, and break away to discreetly tail you. Glancing to Walter, his nerves seem to be on end. Now that he's in public, the recluse is practically twitching at every sound, and intentionally avoids the gaze of every person you walk by.

It's going to be a substantial walk to the district Ofelia resides in. While you both keep close behind the guard, the least you can do is strike up a little conversation to pass the Time. More importantly, you're so homesick, you can't help but wistfully ask, "do you know anything of Eadric?"

Brother Garrick glances back curiously, but he, and the rest of the guard (two siblings— the Nye brothers— seem nice enough, but have not said a word beyond their last name) respectfully remain silent.

(1/2)
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>>4359099
Walter's twitchiness eases, likely due to having his knowledge tested. "Naturally. It goes by several other names. The City of Shields, Calunoth's Last Defender, our Bulwark, and the Home of Restraint. It is primarily Mercy's Refuge, overseen by the Church of Mercy, and is home to the second largest population in the country. I have read on the city extensively, but my findings have been mostly archaic. It would be a privilege to hear of your first-hand experiences, Father."

The scholar could not be any more polite. You're more than happy to indulge him. "My home— my city— is entirely self-sustaining. We are closely allied with the Church of Agriculture— more so than any other church in the country. I took it upon myself to encourage the cultivation, and maintenance, of a network of farmland within the city walls. Now— now that the famine has ended, and we have all had several years to work the land— we have stores to spare. Not merely in the event of another plague, but to guarantee the longevity of— of any of our peoples. Be it in times of siege, war, drought, or any other hardship that may befall us."

Parting from King Magnus' gardens, leaving it to the guard to handle the checkpoint, you continue, "my personal gardens dwarf the ones we've passed by. King Magnus assured me that they have been tended to, in my absence. The petals are so dense in places, you cannot even see the soil underfoot. They have always remained open to the public— for leisure, and to encourage education. We— we can expect to return to it in full bloom."

There's a lot more warmth in your speech, your heart, and your soul. "Eadric is also the City of Curatives."

There's some fuss, as you all enter the cathedral ward after dark. Muttering from passersby comes only from your audacious company. There's a few waves, and "good evening, Father Anscham," but not much else.

"As the hands of King Magnus," you continue, "we are to answer to every single outbreak. To heal, defend, and serve every other church as needed. We cannot turn away a soul in need from our doors, and must provide counsel wherever needed. Adrian was an advocate for— in addition to our usual service— for spreading the word throughout the country. To reach out to those in need, who could not come within Eadric's walls."

"It sounds like you were running a tight ship," Walter frowns at you. With his hands in his pockets, slouching, he looks up to ask, "what issue would any imbecile take with any of this...?"

"We have been stretched thin, Walter. I nearly worked myself to death, in just a few years, and I pray I will not do so again. Speaking of which— might I ask what you've been studying, in these last several months...?"

(Just slightly over, 2/3)
>>
>>4359104
"Initially, Ostedholm's history," he grimaces. "I had a revelation, Father, and shifted my research towards the study of demonic presence in the country. Reviewing your church's work in the countryside. In the last two days, I delved into your responsibilities within Eadric, the history of your position— and the documents in your possession from Brother Stace and Brother Morris."

With the brisk pace you're making, there likely won't be Time to touch on everything just this evening.

>For the sake of pacing, please select one to two (1-2) prompts. Majority vote will decide.

>A] You can't help but ask about Ostedholm.

>B] Inquire about the bulk of Walter's research, with outbreaks in Corcaea.

>C] You'd like to hear about how your church's sermons have been documented, and their effects on your people.

>D] Touch on the extensive duties entrusted to you, as the leader of the Church of Mercy.

>E] The history of prior Fathers and Mothers of the Church of Mercy sounds fascinating.

>F] WHY DO YOU NEVER HAVE TIME FOR YOUR LETTERS (Calmly ask about the items from Adrian and Theobald. This is fine.)

>G] There's actually something else you'd rather discuss. (Write-in.)
>>
>>4359106
>>F] WHY DO YOU NEVER HAVE TIME FOR YOUR LETTERS (Calmly ask about the items from Adrian and Theobald. This is fine.)

Our letters always had some really important stuff in them.

>C] You'd like to hear about how your church's sermons have been documented, and their effects on your people.

The first step in changing the discourse towards hope is understanding exactly how our words affect the people we are trying to encourage. We know for a fact this specific change can help quell the outbreaks, we can get to the rest of the research later, we are gonna have enough Time for it in Eadric.
>>
>>4359113
+1
>>
>>4359113
+1
>>
>>4359113
>>4359118
>>4359122
(Give me your power lads, locking the vote here, going to try and update again before my commute. Writing now!)
>>
nice x2
>>
>>4359139
(Thank you.)
>>4359133
https://youtu.be/Bng6P118R48

"The first step in changing the discourse towards hope is understanding exactly how our words affect the— the people. Everything else can wait, Walter. What have you learned— or heard— of our sermons?"

Straightening out of his slouch, nose to the air, Echo informs you, "it would appear that Brother Stace—"

"Adrian."

"Oh." He grins, in a sadistic way. "Good. Adrian has been reporting his work to King Magnus for quite some Time. Disparaging remarks were aplenty, in regards to your usage of invocation to extinguish outbreaks as they appeared. The focus of the displays were not on educating the people."

"What?"

"His aim appeared to be the documentation of the outbreaks, themselves. Intentionally moving towards villages in disrepair, or reporting to areas that suffered recent outbreaks was his top priority. While there were notes in regards to spreading the King's intent— preaching apathy, restraint, and all the rest— the context was not nearly as important."

The memory of being given no direction whatsoever during your first sermon is like ash in your mouth. "I see."

More disgusted still, Walter continues, "it was almost as if he was encouraging the unrest. Nothing quite strikes hopelessness into the hearts of man, than to discover their saving grace is nothing more than—" he stops himself, and mutters, "I digress. The point being, Father— I believe he did not aim to do a thing for the common man. For all of that talk, the reports may have been an excuse to plant himself closer to the King's correspondence. There must have been hundreds of letters. The vast majority had something to do with your ineffectiveness, lack of awareness, and emphasized Adrian's attention to the details of the operations."

"I see," you try to not seethe, "and what of my letters, Walter?"

"Ah." He blinks. "They were disturbing, to an extreme. Most had some sort of blood on them. They were clearly intended for your eyes alone, but I may have spared you some turmoil." Glancing up to you, Walter asks, "you are aware that the Church of Mercy also houses demons?"

You close your eyes, keep walking, try to not melt down, and quietly manage, "yes."

The lot of you make your way to a mercantile district. Over the bustle, you likely can't be easily heard. Still, Walter gets closer, enough that he can whisper, "I believe that King Magnus is also aware of Theobald's experimentation. He has been attempting to provoke the Catalyst in others. The madman seems to think he could learn of its mechanism, by stressing human limits, and testing the threshold for its activation."

You stop walking, and soullessly whisper, "what of the rest."

(1/2)
>>
>>4359169
The guards ahead of immediately pick up that you've stopped moving, and keep close to you and Walter, as the scholar glances around. "We should probably discuss this indoors. All of the writings pertained to his work beneath the church itself. Adrian vouched for his loyalty to the church, and swore up and down that he was not mad. It would seem he's been covering for Theobald's activity for a very long time."

There's an intense urge to vomit, or scream, but you get back to walking, with a splitting headache.

It's like there's a vice around your temples. Or boards on your legs, threatening to keep you from ever running again. As if there's a hot iron pressed to the small of your back, or nails driven under your nails, or

"Father Anscham," Walter snips, grabbing your attention. It's too difficult to respond, but you glance to him, and do everything in your power to assume a normal expression. Worry knits his brow. "You said you have a priestess of Spirit in your company?"

"Yes," you choke out.

"I would like to save this discussion, to not need to repeat myself." He's adamant. You're exiting the mercantile ward before long.

How long was I even thinking for

Walter gets a little closer, nudging you with the side of his shoulder. "Are you alright?"

>A] No, you are not alright. Drop the subject until you get to The Honey Bee, and take the Time during your walk there to calm down.

>B] You REALLY aren't alright, and have WAY too many issues at hand to get distracted. Respectfully request to save this discussion until you know you can work through the matter with Sister Cardew— possibly at a MUCH later date.

>C] You can handle this, and NEED to know. Press the subject. (A ROLL WILL BE REQUIRED. Each prompt chosen may add an additional negative modifier.)
>1] Ask about the way your sermons were used as leverage to make you seem unreliable and untrustworthy.
>2] What the FUCK is all of this about Theobald's work????
>3] WHY THE FUCK were YOU of all people subject to experimentation???
>4] WHY WEREN'T THESE LETTERS GIVEN TO YOU SOONER
>5] What is Walter's opinion on this matter, and does he have any conclusions about what these men may do, now that their actions have been exposed to the King?

>D] Write-in.
>>
>>4359176
>>C] You can handle this, and NEED to know. Press the subject. (A ROLL WILL BE REQUIRED. Each prompt chosen may add an additional negative modifier.)
>5] What is Walter's opinion on this matter, and does he have any conclusions about what these men may do, now that their actions have been exposed to the King?

Walter has been thinking about this for longer than we have, not that we are in a proper state to think right now anyway. Trust in the months of research he has done.
>>
>>4359176
>B] You REALLY aren't alright, and have WAY too many issues at hand to get distracted. Respectfully request to save this discussion until you know you can work through the matter with Sister Cardew— possibly at a MUCH later date.
>>
nice x3
>>
>>4359193
+1
>>
>>4359250
(What a nice guy.)
>>4359231
(Going to bear this in mind, but we're going with the majority here!)
>>4359193
>>4359358
>WHY, WHEN, WHERE, AND HOW

>Roll 1d100. Best of 3 will be used.
>+5 TO KNOW IS TO SERVE
>+10 FAITH OF A GODDESS/TO KNOW IS TO HEAL
>-15 UNRESOLVED TRAUMA
>-5 IT HAS BEEN A *VERY* LONG DAY
>>
Rolled 54 (1d100)

>>4359374
>>
Rolled 85 (1d100)

>>4359374
>>
Rolled 66 - 5 (1d100 - 5)

>>4359374
>>
>>4359383
>>4359387
>>4359390
(Nice, that's an 80/100 for bo3. Locking here, writing now!)
>>
>>4359395
https://youtu.be/C-uE70aBUio

"No." You might as well be suffocating. Held up, off the ground by your throat, crushing your windpipe—

"Please, give me— give me just a moment."

He does. You both walk together, in silence.

Most men in your position would be broken beyond repair. Most people would be dead, had they endured the same treatment— but you have spent solid months on healing, and recovery. On *not* dwelling on the past.

The injury. The confinement. The torture. Walking helps. You're not chained to a filthy cell, starving and thirsty for even another man's blood. You've had tea *twice* today. No one had to die for it. You're not literally being made to eat glass. You did not have to beg or plead for food or water, after weeks of being denied—

It's fine. Everything is fine.

Walking helps. The silence helps. It's familiar, after eight years of it. Twenty minutes likely pass by. It's not eight years. You have a habit of counting the very seconds that pass you by. You have an intense fear of wasting the Time given to you, from a little ray of sunshine, at the top of a cell, for only a few hours a day, and all of the darkness in-between. You're a little numb. It's still overwhelming, to take in everything around you at once. But no one is forcing you to abuse a God or Goddess, to feel. There's no one to kill.

You're walking, on a quiet night, and remember how to breathe normally. There's vendors, with all their wares packed up for the night. Carts with linen and string, concealing crops and gems alike. You are not tied to the floor, or a rack, and you are not going to break down crying or screaming.

It seems that you've passed through another district, on your way to see your friends, and it has been well over six years since you've even seen that cell. You're outdoors. Moving helps. Fidgeting helps. Sister Cardew has been so patient. You do not need to snap at anyone, or run from anything. You are doing better. You are learning, and growing, and saving lives nearly every day. You've been keeping eye contact, and making new allies, and your partner loves you *dearly.*

Teasing your fingers around the band upon your ring finger, the warmth, and the *comfort* of having some tension on you in the *right* way levels your breath.

You probably look like a disaster, and that's alright. You have enough weighing you down to crush any man alive, and anyone who actually knows you understands.

You should come back to this another Time, with Sister Cardew, and with every intention of doing so, you glance to Walter. He's been watching you like a hawk, and worry is written all over his face. A little relief eases the wrinkle between his brow, the moment your eyes meet. Quietly, and with no pretension, he leans towards you with a mutter, "we're getting you a drink tonight. Do you need anything from me, right now?"

(1/2)
>>
>>4359513
With a shallow breath, you find the heart to mutter, "I— I am in no state— no state to think." Every old tic is coming out, your hands shaking like leaves. You clasp them together, shove down the angst, and level your voice. "Would you please do so— for me?"

The thin line of Echo's mouth deepens, into a determined frown. "I can think of nothing I would like to do more."

"I trust in your months of research." You have intelligent friends, and strong allies. Not sadists, not psychopaths. "You must have your own opinions." Heathens, blasphemers, and demons are as honest as it gets. "You must have come to some— to some conclusion, about this matter."

You're not breathing normally, and it's fine. You are not having a breakdown in public. Discussing this, unaided, while maintaining a normal appearance is manageable. You've conquered the ruins, and survived demons of Time. This is nothing. You are *keeping it together.*

"...what—" it's incredibly hard to breathe, "and what do you think they may do, now that their actions have been exposed to the King?" It helps to remember that they're powerless, and have lost everything. "Now that they are no longer with the clergy?"

For appearances sake, Walter doesn't wrap an arm around you. His body language is screaming that he wants to hug you, but instead he gently says, "I strongly suspect that their actions originated with good intent. Both of these men had a long history with the church. Both of them are incredibly influential. Both of them went to lengths no human should be able to, in the pursuit of their own truth. Theobald may have an obsession with his sadism now— but there was evidence that he was tormented by the work. Letters. Adrian clearly was trying to protect him, and to find an alternative method of furthering their research— all at your expense. They used you as a scapegoat. Their plans have failed. They will likely not run. I believe they'll stay within the Church of Mercy for as long as possible, up to, and possibly after your return."

Something incredibly ugly creeps into Walter's tone, as he seethes, "I hope they kill themselves."

(Options in next post.)
>>
>>4359515
>A] Go find an alley to vomit in. You'll feel a lot better, getting this out of your system. (ALL NEGATIVE MODIFIERS WILL TEMPORARILY BE REMOVED.)

>B] "M-Mercy." Pray for Walter's soul, and for your own well-being, all the rest of the way back to The Honey Bee. (ALL POSITIVE MODIFIERS WILL BE TEMPORARILY INCREASED. This cannot be combined with any vote from C.)

>C] Dig just a little deeper. You've probably got half an hour left before you get to Ofelia's house. (A ROLL WILL BE REQUIRED.)
>1] Ask Walter if he actually means what he's saying, and if there's any chance that Adrian or Theobald would actually take their own life.
>2] What makes Walter so certain that either (former) priest meant well?
>3] Is Walter implying that Theobald is actually insane? Does he think there's any chance he could have, would have, or would still be able to stop his violent actions?
>4] The dynamic between Adrian and Theobald has you feeling physically ill. Why would they pass all of this off onto you?
>5] Was there any evidence that their experimentation amounted to anything?
>6] Gods, you're upset. There's so many questions here, you barely know what to do with yourself. (Write-in anything else you might want to ask or say.

>D] Agree with Walter, thank him for the information, and drop the subject. You will resolve to have a good night, to have a drink this evening, and to have further discussion with Sister Cardew when you can. You'll journal or cry or scream later. Shove it down, for now.

>E] Write-in.
>>
>>4359517
>C] Dig just a little deeper. You've probably got half an hour left before you get to Ofelia's house. (A ROLL WILL BE REQUIRED.)
>5
>>
>>4359517
>C] Dig just a little deeper. You've probably got half an hour left before you get to Ofelia's house. (A ROLL WILL BE REQUIRED.)
>1] Ask Walter if he actually means what he's saying, and if there's any chance that Adrian or Theobald would actually take their own life.
>5] Was there any evidence that their experimentation amounted to anything?
>>
>A]
>6]
>>
>>4359521
>>4359563
>>4359591
>SELF-RIGHTEOUS SUICIDE?

>Roll 1d100. Best of 3 will be used.
>+5 TO KNOW IS TO SERVE
>+10 FAITH OF A GODDESS/TO KNOW IS TO HEAL
>-20 IT'S A *LOT* OF UNRESOLVED TRAUMA
>-5 ONE VERY LONG DAY
>>
Rolled 34 - 10 (1d100 - 10)

>>4359786
>>
Rolled 64 - 10 (1d100 - 10)

>>4359786
>>
Rolled 67 - 10 (1d100 - 10)

>>4359786
I have ass cancer.
>>
>>4359807
>>4359841
>>4359893
(Outstanding, and so sorry to hear about the ass cancer. That 57 is bo3! Writing now.)
>>
Rolled 28 - 10 (1d100 - 10)

>>4359786
I'm curious to see what a 4th roll would be.
>>
>>4359897
>>4359962
The district leading towards Ofelia's home was poisoned. Last week, over 400 lives were saved, in less than an hour— by your quick thinking, the help of your friends, and what you thought was a sacrifice that would have ruined your body for months to come.

Exiting the checkpoint, every guard in your charge is instantly on high alert. So are you. Despite the lateness of the hour, there's plenty of revelry in the streets. There was a festival today, and your heart catches in your throat. On men's lapels, fastened in the braids of girls and ladies hair, in baskets and being planted throughout the entire portion of Calunoth is your flower.

The scent of honey and lemon is on the air, from Green Bough, and several hundred souls who have you to thank, for their health, and their family's lives. The first few people to see you wave, and smile, and a few call out your name. Briskly walking, and trying to shove down any and all tears that want to surface, is almost insufficient as a small wave of thanks carries from one citizen to the next.

Walter looks to you, dumbfounded, as you knit your eyes shut, grit your teeth, swallow a swell of sour bile that wants to surface, and suffocate on a question you never wanted to ask. "Do you sincerely mean that, Walter? Do you honestly believe that either of them would ever take their own life?"

Someone tosses a garland to Brother Nye. He wears it, and along with your other guard, pays no heed whatsoever to the weight of your conversation. They're quiet, and reserved, and with every passing soul you could not be more grateful for their protection. The slightest noise has every nerve in your body screaming, and you almost bark at Walter to fucking answer the goddamn question already but he's looking to you, with concern, and finally gives you a reply.

Walter's tone is so vicious, your heart nearly jumps out of your chest. "I would have done it myself, and taken the opportunity from them," he sneers, "given the chance. Mick and Randy tried. We've been hiding for months, like rats, just to have gotten the chance." He literally spits, sounding as nauseous as you feel, "but it would be too good for either of them. They don't deserve an easy death, Father."

You are rapidly approaching the halfling refuge. Sister Corbon must have come through the area. There's little yellow streamers tied up, around garden beds, the trees in full bloom, and upon many windows that are radiating with candlelight. Far fewer people are about, though there's the scent of smoke and cooked crops on the air. Your stomach almost turns inside-out.

(1/2)
>>
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>>4360097
Small waves of nervous laughter spill from your lips, as you try again to not get violently ill. You are the Father of Restraint, and put a hand to your mouth, as if you could shove the sound, and disgust, and misery back into your body. Your hands are covered in scars. So are your lips, and all the rest of your face. Almost every inch of you has been broken, in some way. You're modest. High collars, and robes, hoods, and not wanting to show your face to your own mother is fine. Mercy has healed you more times than you can count. The bones in your legs must have a thousand fractures. For all you know, they're made of gold at this point.

You couldn't bear to tell Ofelia and Cyril the extent of it. The Honey Bee is just down another bend or two in the road. They didn't want to listen, or know, and you're certain their hearts couldn't take it.

But Walter is an insensitive man. He is not of the clergy, nor the fairer sex. He has endured, and resents your tormentors enough to have hidden for nearly eight solid months under the King's very nose. He's one of the most loyal men you've ever met. You are not breathing normally, and your head may be killing you, but you look to one of your best friends.

Your research partner. He could not look more worried, but he knows how important this is to you. "You're a priest of Vengeance, aren't you, Father?"

The church of retribution is not always at odds with the church you lead. "Yes," you breathe, taking enormous comfort in the familiar. "Know thine enemy," you quote, with verve, and devotion, "for righteous is our cause."

"They will likely not uphold the same tenets," Walter grimaces. "If anything Theobald wrote carried any weight, he has been struggling to justify his actions for decades. He is easily at the highest risk of acting, before we ever get to him."

One more broken question is the most you can muster, fighting through the bleariness in your eyes. You covered a lot of ground today, in every sense of the phrase. You are going to get answers, and you do not want to make a fool of yourself now. "Was there any evidence—" you grit your teeth, and wipe your eyes, ignoring the rest of the world, "Was there any evidence that their experimentation amounted to anything?"

"Yes," he quietly replies. "And I'll tell you all about it when we get inside."

The Honey Bee, with its little flower pots, small staircase, single-story stone walls, and humble front door is positively covered in ribbons and flowers. Ofelia has Green Bough in no fewer than fifteen pots upon the front porch. The windows are shut, the door is closed, there's a little sign on the front door, and you are positive that you managed to keep yourself together just long enough to hear voices from inside her home.

Your friends are probably waiting for you, and you've never felt so sick in all your life.

(Options in next post.)
>>
>>4360103
>A] Ask Walter if he'll find somewhere quiet to talk with you outside, just for a little while. Let the guards worry about your security. You have to talk, and need to cry your eyes out before you get inside. Hopefully you'll be composed enough to deal with whoever needs to see you.

>B] Fortune favors the bold. Risk getting overwhelmed, go up to the door, and
>1] Completely ignore everyone. Grab Sister Cardew, Walter, and Ray. Forget any sort of proper introduction, and get some privacy. You all need to talk, you pray she'll have a better idea of what to do, and everyone else needs to try and understand.
>2] Hug the first person you see, bawl your eyes out, and let your company handle the rest. You seriously can't think straight, and just want someone to take care of you.

>C] Write-in.
>>
>>4360097
https://youtu.be/dp6wHzfAH7k

(Whoops, dropped the music I wanted to include!)
>>
>>4360110
>A] Ask Walter if he'll find somewhere quiet to talk with you outside, just for a little while. Let the guards worry about your security. You have to talk, and need to cry your eyes out before you get inside. Hopefully you'll be composed enough to deal with whoever needs to see you.
>>
>B] Fortune favors the bold. Risk getting overwhelmed, go up to the door, and
>2] Hug the first person you see, bawl your eyes out, and let your company handle the rest. You seriously can't think straight, and just want someone to take care of you.
>>
>>4360110
>>A] Ask Walter if he'll find somewhere quiet to talk with you outside, just for a little while. Let the guards worry about your security. You have to talk, and need to cry your eyes out before you get inside. Hopefully you'll be composed enough to deal with whoever needs to see you.
>>
>>4360110
>A] Ask Walter if he'll find somewhere quiet to talk with you outside, just for a little while. Let the guards worry about your security. You have to talk, and need to cry your eyes out before you get inside. Hopefully you'll be composed enough to deal with whoever needs to see you.
>>
>>4360125
>>4360640
>>4360641
>>4360642
(Hey guys, got a game to play but I'm going to lock the vote here to avoid any ties. I'll write just as soon as I'm done and will give a head's up when I'm back, so we can start the session!)
>>
>>4360643
(Back, writing now!)
>>
>>4360711
https://youtu.be/kjlu9RRHcbE

Anguish has been threatening to overwhelm you today, from almost the moment you awoke. It's entirely too difficult to think. A small part of you wants to go inside, and to boldly let your friends see you like this, but you can't do it.

You turn, and walk away, and look for somewhere quiet to sit down. Walter is right beside you, the guards know their place, and you leave it to everyone else to think. There's a little alleyway, in the dark, with a few garden beds. Fireflies float lazily along the air. It's so hot, you're suffocating. In the dead of night, with only a few stars twinkling overhead, you look with no radiance in your eyes to the floor. Slumping against the curb, you give no complaint as Walter sits right down beside you. In fact, you pull him into a tight hug, and let yourself try to work the pain out of your system.

You close your eyes, as the swell of agony spills out from your eyes, and a heave of despair can't be easily muffled past your lips. There's no one watching, save for a good friend. The guards were asked to give you both some distance. The darkness is familiar. Having someone hold onto you is comforting.

It's incredibly hard to think, so you focus on being held. You love hugging. It's not so much about the sensation. The pressure of arms tightly fastened about your chest or abdomen does make you a little sick. An acute reminder of a metal bar on your throat, or bonds upon your wrists, and ankles, and the floor pressed against your face while you suffocated, and couldn't move, or breathe normally for hours, or days, or weeks, or years

It's uncomfortable to an extreme. There was somewhere you were going with this, but all you can think of is skin sloughing away from months of restraint. Being healed, while overhearing clergy asking why a demon was fit to be kept alive to begin with, and being too tired or dehydrated or devastated to beg for help.

Seeing it happen over, and over again. You have to pull back, and blink, catching some of the mottled scars and abrasions. They're on your intact, healthy, actual skin. They're so much more faded, after all of these years, and you've come [so far from where you were before. It isn't the wrist of a starving little boy, removed from his family, or anyone who would listen.

You can move. You hold onto Walter a lot more tightly, as if he could keep you from collapsing in on yourself, while you sob hysterically, and try with everything you have to stay in the moment. Being held is a reminder that you are not being hurt by anyone, and that there is someone here. Someone who wants to help.

(1/4, get comfy.)
>>
>>4360825
Walter gingerly pats your back, and keeps returning your embrace. He's probably too worried about upsetting you further, to say anything. It's alright. If you've cultivated only one skill— in all your life— it's learning how to ask for help. "This— this can't wait— I need to talk about it. Please—" you're sobbing so hard, it's almost impossible to speak clearly, but you work through it to finish, "tell me, Walter. It's— it's going to kill me— Mercy—"

Talking really only makes it harder. While you utterly lose your composure, Echo is more than happy to answer. It's not that he loves the sound of his voice, or is trying to be pretentious.

He's trying his best to provide answers, in a world completely devoid of them.

"Anyone would tell me that you should not hear this." You nearly draw back. He sounds furious. "Which is exactly why I'm telling you everything."

You couldn't possibly cry harder. "Thank you—"

"King Magnus left this information to you, without any explanation. You wouldn't have had even half of the picture, to piece it all together." He's shaking, he's so upset, but keeps the hold on you just as tightly as before. He clearly doesn't mind you soaking the shoulder of his cloak with tears or snot, or squeezing half the air out of his chest. "I'm going to sound like a rat bastard, Richard, and I know you are going to appreciate it."

He pulls back, just slightly. You almost trail after him, for how desperate you are to have someone to hold, but he needs to look you in the eye. You draw away from the stare instinctively, wincing, wanting to vomit at the memory of being beaten half to death for so much as existing under the light of day. Echo pulls you back into a hug, and murmurs, "I'll know if I need to stop. It's alright. Go ahead and let it out."

There's a gesture of some sort, as you bury your face back in his shoulder, and your chest aches for how hard it's heaving with ever ragged sob. He's probably, tactfully, and responsibly gotten the guards to give you both some distance. They're probably were worried, and wanted to make sure you're alright. They told to give you both some space, while you discuss something only one other human is aware of in any capacity.

Sister Cardew did not spend nearly a year learning of your church. She spent a third of a year learning about your perspective, but Professor Echo gets it, in full. "There is precedent for demons being kept within the Church of Mercy. Not all of them entered the building that way."

(2/4)
>>
>>4360827
You feel so sick, you can't speak, but nod, and continue to cry. You are not a demon. It's been said to you so many times.

"You see why I mistook you for a demon, no?"
"Something is terribly wrong with you. You, by all rights, should have activated it a lifetime ago. I see the strain inside of you."
"The boy already looks like a demon."
"You can't turn into a demon because you're already something far worse, Daddy."
"He's a monster!" "A demon!" "They took my boy from me. He took my baby, Father."
"Please, don't hurt anyone else. We're here to help."


"I'm not a demon," you mutter, sobbing, "I am not— I'm not a demon—"

"I never said you were," Walter quietly reassures you. "And we all know that you aren't. I had to ask myself, Father Anscham, why you were brought to the Church of Mercy, to even begin with?"

"Please, Richard. We need you to stay still."

"Your research started terribly late in life, for how long you had reportedly been under their service. I had a revelation, several months ago. I asked myself, 'why is the Father of the Church of Mercy more concerned with our weaknesses, than with elevating our strengths?' 'Why did Father Anscham enter the ruins, and never report his findings to the King?' 'What would drive a man to risk his life for dozens of lost souls, when everything he should have been taught would have him turn the other cheek?'"

Seething, Walter pulls you into an even tighter hug, still. "'Why us?' You looked to be on the verge of death, from the first moment I saw you. I knew something was horribly wrong with you, Father—"

"What's wrong with this guy—"
"What's wrong with you?"
"Richard?! What's wrong with you?! Oh— oh by all the Gods—!"


"—and not through any fault of your own. Your self-sacrifice, and duty to your church, is practically the stuff of legend. I read. I spent over half a year in that fucking library to dig up every single article and record I could find. I had a revelation, before I had begun my search. I had to confirm it."

He takes a deep breath, and levelly states, "Adrian and Theobald have been attempting to cure the Catalyst."

A few fireflies float by. Your tears evaporate. You remember how to breathe, through the hoarseness of your torn throat, and rasp, "what?"

Anger is boiling Walter alive. "The King has been aware of their activity. I have reason to believe that Father Edmund was oblivious, as he was never referenced in a single document— save for in passing."

You wipe the tears off of your face, still staying in his hug. "What...?"

(3/4)
>>
>>4360834
"They have been preying on individuals who would not be missed. Criminals. Traitors. Getting rid of their opposition, with what they presume to be a noble cause. You were a spectacular exception, Father." He doesn't think you're a criminal, or a liar, or anything of the sort. "You were capable of invoking a God at an age that is miraculous, even for clergy. Because you suffered. They seized the opportunity. Their methods were macabre, and I cannot fathom how you survived. But you did, Father Anscham, and they had their answer. Their experiments amounted to someone."

He pulls back, and scrutinizes you. The looks feel worse than a knife, and you can't bear to look at him in return, but Walter continues, "they found someone with a Catalyst, who would not turn. They spent most of your youth attempting to understand why."

You can't breathe, and try putting a hand to your chest. It doesn't help, and neither does the Relic. It's not physical pain that you're in.

"Father Anscham, I have reason to believe that these men have worked for nearly two decades on you, in the hopes of replicating your experiences. Your appointment within the Church of Mercy, and their attempts to stay as close to you as possible, was no saving grace. You've slipped further and further from their grasp, from the moment you left their hold." He pauses, and takes you back into a hug. "I am so sorry. But you need to understand— there is simply no lengths these men will not go to, to further their own investigation. Theobald has been as obsessed as you, or I, and I believe Adrian will protect his work with everything he has. They were willing to kill half of Calunoth to try and get back to you."

"They pitted Father Sullivan against you. Now his life may be in danger, too." Walter's been speaking very quietly, and almost inaudibly mutters, "all of ours will be, for a very long time to come, unless we can put a stop to this foolishness."

The scholar draws back, and with complete conviction, insists, "they're idiots. Even if this was a means of stopping the Catalyst, it's not worth it. Nothing is worth what you've been through, save for getting you a decent life, and putting a stop to all of this madness. Look at me, Father Anscham."

(Options in next post.)
>>
>>4360838
>Roll 1d100. Best of 3 will be used.
>+5 TO KNOW IS TO SERVE
>+10 FAITH OF A GODDESS/YOUR LOVE IS A VICTORY MARCH
>-25 IT'S EASY TO FORGET JUST HOW MUCH TRAUMA THERE IS
>-5 ONE VERY LONG DAY

>The following prompts may be OPTIONALLY selected. You do not need to select any of them, and may just roll, if you wish.
>A and B are mutually exclusive. Majority vote will decide if either is used:

>A] Add +20 to the roll, to gather your composure, and calm down, by respectfully requesting that Walter ease up on being so blunt. This may affect the accuracy of the information you're given.
>B] Add -50 to the roll, to give Walter full disclosure on what was done to you in the Church of Mercy. This may help your mutual study, and his conclusions, immensely. (An additional prompt MAY be provided.)
>C] Write-in anything you think may help. Any additional modifiers agreed upon by the voters will be added/subtracted by the QM accordingly.
>>
Rolled 6 - 15 (1d100 - 15)

>>4360844
in mercy we trust
>>
Rolled 17 (1d100)

>>4360844
>C] Write-in anything you think may help. Any additional modifiers agreed upon by the voters will be added/subtracted by the QM accordingly.
"Give me hope, Walter."
>>
Rolled 38 (1d100)

>>4360844
Heres DICKY
>>
>>4360858
>+10 YOUR FAITH IS ALWAYS REWARDED

>>4360866
>+10 HOPE IS YOUR STRENGTH

>>>4360870
>23/100
>Total of 43/100

(Going to work with this, no additional prompts necessary. Vote is locked! Writing now.)
>>
>>4360928
https://youtu.be/ESutMG5BrXo

You want to make eye contact so badly. You want to be normal. You think of the looks you're given from your friends, each and every Time that they're happy to see you. Their praise, support, and devotion means the whole world to you. You want to think of your lover, and the hearts in Mercy's eyes. You trust in Her smile, and your bond. You hold onto the ring against your hand.

Collapsing in on yourself, holding your chest and sides, you cry so hard you're worried you might die. Your body doesn't feel like your own. It's bulkier, and softer, and though you're certain you could be incredibly imposing, you've never felt so small. "Give me—" you're choking, on tears, and every single beating that broke your ribs for so much as looking at Brother Stace, "give me hope, Walter—"

He grabs you by your shoulders, and with obvious difficulty, jerks you upright. Wedging himself behind you, keeping you sitting upright, the lanky, lightweight, and complete gift of a friend gives you a scowl. He shakes you a little, and asserts as gently as he can, "I don't need to. You've got all the hope you need. Now listen to me. We can take care of this all later, but I don't have Time for this shit. Are you listening to me?"

"Yes," you wheeze, fighting with everything you have to get your composure back.

"Good. I'm certain that Adrian and Theobald got the answer they were looking for, Father. But it was not in the way that they wanted. They were asking the wrong questions, and got the right answer. It's you, Father Anscham. They did not get a cure. They found the man who would in turn find an answer, himself."

The furrow in your brow, the scowl on your face, the sting in your eyes and the intensity of your misery hurts in every conceivable way.

"You're their key," he insists. "Do you understand?"

"No," you sniff.

"There are other people who have suffered what you've suffered."

You understand, instantly, and violently. Twenty-eight times. Twenty-eight other people, who you called Vengeance upon, under pain of death. Twenty-eight souls, who were in as poor of shape as you. You were told they were sinners, heathens, blasphemers, and deserving of a fate worse than death. Every single Time it felt worse than death.

Again.

And again.

And again, and again, and again


You have to get up, pushing off of Walter, stagger to the side of the road, and vomit. It's awful, but you manage in time, and keep your hair out of your face.

Walter stands right beside you, while you retch, and politely speaks over the sound.

"They got rid of the evidence."

He doesn't know it was me.

(1/2)
>>
>>4361024
"There were others, who were incapable of enduring— because they didn't have hope. It's like you said. They found someone who could succeed, where they had failed, in every conceivable way. You survived, and went on to prove yourself to a man who recognized your potential. Father Edmund may have not known what you went through—"

Your stomach is completely empty, and dry heaving doesn't cut it. You put a hand to the stone wall before you, out of breath, with acid intermingling with hours-old tea. It's horrible, and makes you want to be sick all over again, but you're infinitely too exhausted to bother. "He knew," you assert. "He knew in the very end."

"Oh." Even Walter has to pause, and runs a hand through his hair. Looking to the sky, he muses, "Mercy."

"Precisely," you choke out, unable to cry any further.

Straightening up even taller, Echo glances back down, and mutters to you, "well. He ensured you would have everything you need, to set things right. And you have, Father. I know you've worked tirelessly. They may have done everything in their power to keep you from exposing their lies, and all their sin, but it's going to be for nothing. You are ultimately the one who will accomplish your life's work. Their lives are as good as over."

With a step forward towards you, Walter hands you a handkerchief, and makes sure you look presentable after you clean off your face. "We don't even need to go after them. I could never blame you, if you never wanted to return to Eadric ever again. But you're stronger than that. You're wiser, and I am certain that you are capable of taking down any demon." He puts a hand to your shoulder, pats it, and scowls, "because you aren't one. You know I'm right."

>A] You have to tell him that you were forced to kill nearly thirty people. Sister Cardew knows, but not why, and this is resurfacing every one of your worst memories like it just happened yesterday.

>B] You might feel like you're dying, but Walter has legitimately given you hope. A significant amount of it. Tell him, and try to talk yourself through this. You know you can be okay.

>C] Give him another hug, cry it out for awhile longer, and head back inside. You'll figure out how to proceed from here, and piece yourself back together, once you have a better idea of who's coming with you to Eadric. Maybe some lighter company will help, too.

>D] Ask Walter if he'll join you in a formal prayer to Vengeance. You're a Gods-fearing man, and may not be in the best state of mind, but you're more concerned for your soul than your mind, or your body, right now.

>E] Write-in.
>>
>>4361027
>>A] You have to tell him that you were forced to kill nearly thirty people. Sister Cardew knows, but not why, and this is resurfacing every one of your worst memories like it just happened yesterday.
>D] Ask Walter if he'll join you in a formal prayer to Vengeance. You're a Gods-fearing man, and may not be in the best state of mind, but you're more concerned for your soul than your mind, or your body, right now.
>>
>>4361045
+1
>>
>>4361045
>>4361095
(I think we can do both of these. Locking the vote here, writing now.)
>>
File: Dagger of Vengeance.png (246 KB, 1000x810)
246 KB
246 KB PNG
>>4361154
https://youtu.be/vQronGkBdGI

You can't breathe. It's like it happened yesterday, or any one of the days when you struggled to count the seconds, to know with certainty that another year of your life hadn't slipped through your bound and bleeding fingers like so little sand. It's as if there's any one of the malnourished, screaming, begging, pleading souls, trying with everything they had to demand that you kill them. Thanking you on hands and knees, without a hope or a prayer. Or those who were catatonic, barely able to register what was going on around you.

You can't breathe. Your chest is killing you. There's no one stepping on your head, or chest, or promising that you'd have something broken again.

It's the truth. You want to vomit. You're an honest man. You want to uphold your tenets. You won't lie. You won't hide it.

"You're honest, Dick, you're fucking honest alright. You've shown me plain as day that you're a preacher, a gambler, a glutton, a masochist, a killer— AND YET NEVER— NOT EVEN ONCE— have you actually shown me what I NEED! I wanted you to be everything that you were supposed to and you're a fucking loser, Dick. You're fucking pathetic. You're weak and can't resist the very first fucking temptation that crosses your path—

You are not a sinner.

"I killed them."

There's a dagger, among your possessions. It's reserved only for devotion, to the God of Sacrifice. It's beautiful, and used only to bleed out in the name of Vengeance. You move to fish for it. Walter catches your wrist, instantly, and you suspect he's been watching for any motion like this for most of the night.

"What are you doing," he gently asks.

"I am— I am worried for my soul," you explain, and try to not lose your mind on the spot.

"Why don't you sit back down with me," he mildly proposes, and leads you by the wrist away from the end of the road, away from the vomit, away from the dark, and back into starlight.

There's a few houses with candles and hearths still ablaze. It's late. Your chest aches, your body is on fire, and you sit back down, beside Walter, who is look around for the guard. They're still a respectable ways away.

"I killed them, Walter." Most of them begged for it. You can't breathe, and your head is pounding. "I killed twenty-eight people—" you never knew their names, "by— by invoking Vengeance," all for the sake of their research, "and I would like to pray."

Disgust discolors Walter's face. Despair threatens to overwhelm you, but he immediately clarifies, "you do not need to apologize to anyone."

(1/2)
>>
>>4361276
A long pause threatens to stretch out between you both. The scholar at your side is sharp enough to recognize that leaving you to your own thoughts right now is the worst thing conceivable. "I'm certain that you're recognized by the country for your work as a priest of Vengeance, Father Anscham. I certainly have heard as much. It may not all be flattering, but your faith is without equal. Certainly without question. Father Anscham."

"Yes," you murmur, shamelessly fidgeting.

"We don't need to get into the details. I believe now would not be a good Time to inflict any harm upon—"

"There is nothing harmful—!" you start to snap, and are too horrified to finish the sentence.

"There are other ways to express your devotion to Him," he assures you, as you keep a hand to your lips, and quietly implore Mercy for forgiveness. "Like looking after yourself." He doesn't mind the compulsion, and continues, "you might think me a heathen, but only an idiot would criticize something they aren't informed of. I'm certain— and you correct me if I'm wrong, Father—"

You nod, still too mortified to risk speaking again.

"—but would it not be the greatest retribution imaginable?"

With an exasperated sob, you at least manage, "what...?"

"To take care of yourself." Walter gingerly pulls you back into a hug. "No blood sacrifices required."

You're crying all over again, and can barely find it in you to frown, "that is not conventional."

"Father Pevrel should be appointing me as well, then," Walter smirks, patting your back. "Father Sullivan, too." He drops his voice, and doesn't make you look at him. A quiet question— one that you haven't wanted to ever ask yourself— comes out almost as a whisper. "What do you think?"

"I—" he has no idea what it was like, "I do not know—"

"We do not have to discuss this any further," Echo assures you. "But most of the men in your company have killed a lot more. I understand that it's not the same— but I hope you understand my point. I cannot fathom you doing any of this by your own will. And even if you had, I would never think any less of you."

You hug him a lot harder.

He sniffs, "and don't you dare even respond if it's going to set you off all over again. I would like to speak with Sister Cardew, and I believe we will be able to assist each other in this matter, enormously." With more verve, Walter insists, "but I imagine she hasn't asked. Not really. Not in a way you can answer. I'm here, if you need me." He smiles, slightly. "Good luck getting rid of me, too."

"That is not funny," you sniff, almost smiling, despite yourself.

"Really," he insists, much more seriously. "I'm not asking for research, or anything more than the fact that I would simply like to know."

(Options in next post.)
>>
>>4361285
>A] You've said it before. You'll say it again. Every life you've taken was in self-defense, or under pain of death. You are NOT a killer. You are going to move past this, of your own accord.

>B] You're never getting this worked up about the lives you've taken, ever again. You'll work with Sister Cardew to find some sort of way to manage the past, cope in the present, and look to the future. This is a conversation you'd like to respectfully reserve for the priestess who actually knows you best.

>C] Guilt is eating you alive. You've derived visceral enjoyment from violence for as long as you can remember. No part of you regrets any of your actions, but the way you've handled this is crushing your soul. Insist to Walter that you want to repent. You can't get internal validation, but you're going to seek it elsewhere, no matter what it takes.
>1] You can handle a ritual, to appease Vengeance through blood sacrifice. Really. (A HIGH ROLL WILL BE REQUIRED. The cumulative negative modifiers are still there. Write-ins may help.)
>2] Ask him if he thinks it might be a good idea to write to Father Pevrel, and the thoughts of the leader of the Church of Vengeance on ANY of this.
>3] Straight up beg Walter to not stop you from a dedicated prayer to Vengeance. You have no use for pride, even if it might hurt his opinion of you. (A LOW ROLL WILL BE REQUIRED. Negative modifiers will still apply. Write-ins will definitely help.)

>D] Write-in.
>>
>>4361290
>C] Guilt is eating you alive. You've derived visceral enjoyment from violence for as long as you can remember. No part of you regrets any of your actions, but the way you've handled this is crushing your soul. Insist to Walter that you want to repent. You can't get internal validation, but you're going to seek it elsewhere, no matter what it takes.
>2] Ask him if he thinks it might be a good idea to write to Father Pevrel, and the thoughts of the leader of the Church of Vengeance on ANY of this.
>>
>>4361303
+1
>>
>>4361303
>>4361317
(Got some pizza, and good to go. Locking the vote here. Writing now!)
>>
>>4361437
https://youtu.be/wo2THfYZrJI

"I enjoy— I enjoy violence," you barely choke out, "and it makes me scared. Each, and every Time." It's impossible to cry, as your face is dry, your throat is burning, and your soul might as well be on fire.

Desperation is drenching you. The gold and green in your eyes is probably lanced with red, from how hard you've cried. There's definitely going to be spots of ruptured blood around your eyes and nose, for how hard you vomited, and have been sobbing for what feels like well over an hour.

It's late, and you can barely see each other as you hug in the dark, but a few fireflies pass by. The man at your side is terribly worried. Walter's hair is a little disheveled, but had an obscene amount of sleep before seeing you. He's been following the routine you gave him for his diet and health. You're sure of it, for how level his demeanor is.

You can't breathe, and gasp several times, trying to hold onto your heart through your chest. It helps. Other people help, and you are positive that you have to get help from someone outside of yourself. "I can't breathe," you continue to choke out. "It's crushing me, Walter. The guilt— it's— it's eating me alive—"

It hurts to keep your hands to yourself, away from your things, away from what is not certain devotion. Away from blades, away from blood, away from pain, and relief, and the blessing of a God.

You clutch back onto Echo. The damn break on your face was nearly forgotten, for all the hours you've been worried sick, but all the tea and herbs are wearing off. Your voice is hardly your own, nasally and husky from sobbing and the resurging feeling of congestion. It's awful, you hate it, but you are too tired to cry. You are cracked, but not broken. "I want to repent. No matter what it takes. I would like to write to Father Pevrel, of the Church of Vengeance— and, and I—"

A tremor runs through your shoulders, as dry sobs interject your statement. Walter hugs you a little tighter. You've never even met Father Pevrel. He doesn't write. He might not even care. You've been afraid of your fellow, asocial leader, for the last twenty-five years. "Do you think it would be a good idea? To ask— to ask him about any of this?"

Gods, your chest hurts. Doubt is somehow a physical pressure. You wonder if your heart has stopped at all tonight, but your pulse is there, thrumming like a hummingbird in flight.

He's taking his Time to respond.

Everything hurts.

The professor takes a deep breath, and pulls back from your embrace, to look you over. He knows you hate it, even though it's been so much better these last few months. You've been doing so much better. Sister Cardew has been so supportive. You had gone over this so many Times before. To try and get out of the restraints of your mind, and to ground yourself. To focus.

(1/2)
>>
>>4361487
So you take a few deep breaths. The air is brimming with Green Bough. Freshly trimmed shrubs, trees in full bloom, and sickly-sweet flowers are all along the streets. A few fireflies pass by, providing more relief from the dark. There are no bees at this hour, but you're certain Ofelia baked something with honey. The hearth within her home still puffs smoke out, up into the midnight sky.

A few minutes to think isn't so bad. Reassuring yourself that no one is going to hurt you here, you continue to glance around, still avoiding any direct eye contact. The guards are posted. No one accosted you on the way here, likely because of their presence.

The most competent men and women you know are just a few feet down the road, and you have a good friend at your side. You glance up, and instinctively wince. Your skull feels like it's on fire, and your nerves would have you jump at the drop of a pin, but there's no foundation for fear.

Your research partner is thinking, intensely, and doesn't want to do so much as give you a thoughtless response. He's willing to challenge you, and push you, but he is adamantly refusing to speak.

Not until he's positive that the answer you're given is the best one possible. The shoulder of his cloak is wrinkled and tear-stained, and neither of you care. Walter removes a hand from his chin, and firmly asserts, "I think you should tell him everything, Father Anscham, and not risk sparing a single detail."

A breath of relief escapes you, and it almost feels like your soul goes along with it.

"Thanks to Father Sullivan," your congregation member continues, "and what I presume was the efforts of your priestess— Sister Cardew— the actions of Adrian and Theobald are almost public knowledge. Not only may this come as no surprise to Father Pevrel—" he seems quite pleased with himself, and simultaneously as apologetic as possible, "—but he may have already guessed at your history. I hear he is devastatingly sharp."

It's typical for his clergy to use the sharpest volcanic glass they can obtain for their symbol. The icon of his very church has blood in it. "How—" you are trying so hard to lighten your mood, it physically hurts, "how appropriate—"

A very tired smile shines up at you. "Very. It would be an honor to assist you. If you would like some company, when you draft any correspondence to him, I am always here to provide it." His smile falters, with a smug, "I know you'll accept my counsel, Father Anscham, so I'm not going to ask for permission."

You nod, and manage to actually smile slightly, right back at him.

"I believe," his usual attitude is resurfacing, unrelentingly honest, "given your current situation, and all of your concerns here in the capital, that it may be wise to compose this confession once you are safely back in Eadric. I wouldn't stop you from writing it, especially now— but having a stable location to receive his correspondence would be wise."

(Options in next post.)
>>
>>4361499
>A] You'll draft the letter tonight, and have it sent by the most secure route humanly possible, as soon as possible. Simply request that Father Pevrel write back at a date you can expect to be in Eadric.

>B] Write your confession tonight, but hold onto the letter— and have Ray guard it with his life. You know he'll keep it safe, you'll have gotten the guilt a little off your chest, and can send out the message when you're safely back home.

>C] Thank Walter profusely for his counsel, and take his advice in full. There's so much going on, you don't want any distractions weighing you down— and you are positive you will never forget this evening. Wait to write this out until you're back in the Church of Mercy.

>D] Write-in.
>>
>>4361502
>>B] Write your confession tonight, but hold onto the letter— and have Ray guard it with his life. You know he'll keep it safe, you'll have gotten the guilt a little off your chest, and can send out the message when you're safely back home.
>>
>>4361502
>B] Write your confession tonight, but hold onto the letter— and have Ray guard it with his life. You know he'll keep it safe, you'll have gotten the guilt a little off your chest, and can send out the message when you're safely back home.
>>
>>4361516
>>4361592
(Great. Going to lock the unanimous vote, writing now!)
>>
>>4361608
https://youtu.be/Zfe_6fMKQyw

Taking several more deep breaths, you nod to Walter. "Thank you. I— I will wait to send any correspondence out— out— until I am safely back in Eadric." You close your eyes a moment. It's fine. Your speech is fine. Everything is going to be fine. "I— I will draft a letter tonight, and keep it with Ray." A wary look is directed at you, which you shut down with the firmest, "I trust him with my life," that you can manage. "It will be fine. I— I would appreciate your company, Walter— and— and thank you, again. For everything."

He pats you on your shoulder several times, mouth tight, trying hard to not complain. "Yes. Well. It is easily the least I can do, Father. Particularly after everything you've done for us. Do you think you can manage getting inside?"

"Yes," you quietly reply, as you both get back to your feet. Your head is swimming from how little water you've had, your body might as well be on fire, you want to drop dead from how emotionally exhausted you feel, and it's fine.

There's still candlelight emanating from The Honey Bee's closed windows. The edges are nearly the same orange glow as the fireflies buzzing about. One lands on Walter's sleeve, which he tolerates with some amusement. With a mutual wave to the guards to come back from their distant posts, you manage a slight smile. "You don't want to— to hurt so much as a firefly...?"

"It has done nothing wrong," Walter sniffs, turning up his nose. "What sort of imbecile would approve of something so senseless?"

You can think of quite a few, as you head up the steps to The Honey Bee, and the smile stays. The sign on the door has been vandalized. It's meant to read, "Open Again for Business!" A few small bees were drawn, floating around the page. It's adorable.

Walter scowls, at the word "Legs" scrawled in ornate calligraphy, right at the start of the sentence. The bees have been given similar appendages, and several that put some heat in your face. "Klepto," he mutters, ripping down the sign. "I'd recognize his handwriting anywhere."

Doing your best to hide a grin, you try to ruffle your hair back in place, straighten your robes, ensure there's nothing on your face, adjust your satchel, and Walter loses his patience with a knock on the door. He glances to you, smirking, "you look fine."

Your face is covered in bandages, your nose is still broken, you've been crying half the day, and earnestly murmur, "thank you."

Sister Cardew opens the front door. It's been 26 days since you last saw her dressed as a priestess. She's a sight for sore eyes, and immediately takes you into a hug. "Richard?"

(1/2)
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>>4361660
"It's good to see you, too. Please— please, if— if could have a little space—"

At least a dozen white shawls totally conceal the young woman's frame, her penchant for floor-length dresses, the transparent veil over her face, the ridiculously large glasses under her scruffy hair, or the simple string around her neck. She's paler than her holy symbol, the bags under her eyes are deeper than ever before, and the plain scholar's face is instantly stern. "Something has happened. Excuse me, sir—"

Registering Walter's presence, Harriet pulls back, smooths out her skirts, and and curtly gestures for you to come inside. "Ofelia told me as much as she could. Come inside. Please."

The professor has already taken off his cloak, and gently closes the door behind him. In the most comical display of gentleman-like behavior you've ever seen, he's bowed his head slightly, and both brunettes are unquestionably making eyes at each other. It occurs to you that they're both likely slightly younger than you, and haven't seen another intellectual in months.

Your eyes trail off, around the corner of Ofelia's entryway. It's incredibly late. There's some quiet talking around the corner, but it's obvious that anyone still awake is trying to not disturb anyone else resting in the house. It's a precious moment of respite.

Walter REALLY enjoys making first impressions— and you really should introduce your research partners to one another.

>A] Ham it up for Walter's sake. Don't lie, but you owe him this much.

>B] You're way too tired and stressed out for serious formalities. Encourage your friends to talk to one another, and go find somewhere to sit down. Let them have their fun.
>1] Find Cyril, Harvey, and Klepto. Watch from around the corner.
>2] Respect their space, and go find your friends.

>C] Give a straight, formal, and customary introduction for your friends, on behalf of one another. You don't need to exaggerate anything. They're amazing, by their own merit.

>D] Write-in.
>>
>>4361664
>C] Give a straight, formal, and customary introduction for your friends, on behalf of one another. You don't need to exaggerate anything. They're amazing, by their own merit.
>>
>>4361699
Supporting this.
>>
>>4361699
>>4361711
(Hell yeah. Hope to knock out at least one or two more updates before bed! Vote is locked. Writing now.)
>>
>>4361765
Both of your scholarly friends are amazing, all on their own merit. It feels like they don't need an introduction, but you're polite, appreciate them both half to death, and wouldn't take no for an answer even if they tried to stop you from making a formal introduction.

"Sister Cardew," you softly say, getting her attention instantly. "This is Walter Middleton."

He flat-out steps forward, encourages the priestess to extend a hand, and kisses it as if she were royalty. You suppress the urge to snicker or grin with every single fiber of your being, as they grin to each other like a pair of teenagers. "Walter, I would like to introduce you to Sister Harriet Cardew."

"A pleasure," he murmurs, stepping back with a giant grin.

"Charmed," she replies, repressing a smile with everything she has.

"Sister Cardew," you manage, "is far and away, the most devoted— the most devoted clergywoman of the Church of Spirit that I have ever had the privilege to work alongside. In addition to possessing an encyclopedic knowledge of Murgate's most closely-guarded materials, she— she is an accomplished traveler, and has fought gracefully. Working alongside the churches of Dream, Flesh, and Mercy— she is a diplomatic ally, and I am honored to have her in our company. In— why, in just six days— she will have counseled me for the last six months, without fail." You give her an incredibly appreciative glance. "I can never hope to express how critical her wisdom— and devotion— has been in aiding our work."

You glance to Walter, who is melting, even before you confidently stress, "finding you all would not have been possible without her help."

Looking back to Harriet, who is giving you an equally thankful smile, you gesture formally towards Walter. "Walter's independent studies— both in the royal archives, through his personal endeavors, and within the ruins— is second to none. He has specialized in study regarding the Church of Mercy alone for the last eight months. I cannot stress enough that his experience," you smile, "his experience, observations, and care in regards to his work is without compare. His friends call him 'Professor Echo,' if you please."

Walter is positively glowing, as Harriet quietly asks, "professor...?"

"We are in a closed system," Echo stoically explains. "My research is in regards to the last of humanity. We thought it was only fitting, to acknowledge that my speculation, findings, and research cannot leave Corcaea." In a much mellower tone, he notes, "I would like to be rid of the name completely. It initially was a joke. I've taken to it, but feel free to address me however you wish."

"Teaching an echo chamber." Harriet's eyebrows go a little higher, but smiles as she remains silent, and internally debates how to proceed.

You continue, "I am extremely pleased to welcome Walter into my home. He will be accompanying me to Eadric, to assist both in counsel, and in study."

(1/2)
>>
>>4361842
A delightful thought occurs to you. "You both should be pleased to know that our mutual interest in studying the Catalyst has little overlap."

You all are grinning, and everyone immediately gets it, but your friends are inclined to indulge you. With a nod towards Harriet, you point out, "your research has been entirely conducted from the hidden archives of the Church of Spirit. Furthermore— despite having— having comparatively limited observations in the field— your recognition of preventative measures is without compare."

Looking to Echo, you conclude, "your perseverance, personal experiences, and field study is only strengthened by your intellect, Walter. I could not hope to have someone in my company who understands the limits of the Catalyst, and its effects after it has taken hold, while being capable of maintaining an intelligent perspective."

The energy in the air between the three of you is palpable.

There's a little commotion, from the room to the side. Harriet quietly explains, "Cyril, James—"
Walter gives a confused look. You whisper, "Klepto," as Harriet continues without missing a beat.
"—Sir Allan, and Harvey have been arm wrestling. For half the night. I keep telling them to quiet down. Ofelia won't liste—"

A familiar shout, from a halfling with particularly excellent hearing, chimes from around the corner, "I heard that—!"

Harriet puts a hand to her face, muttering, "dammit all," while Ofelia comes from around the corner. She's wearing a flour-caked apron, there's a few flecks of blood on her face, her cheeks are a little red, and her curly blonde hair is put up in a bun. It's skewered with an entire dagger, looks as ridiculous as the rest of her, and all three feet of halfling tosses off her apron, wipes her hands on her skirts, and hugs the side of your leg as tightly as she can. "Ya' look like shit, Richard. Not the," she vaguely gestures to your arms and waist, grinning, "y'know," and then to your face. "But this? What happened?"

You fire a look at Walter, mouthing, I look fine? while he sheepishly grins. With a sigh, you mutter, "the only thing I have to fear in this world, Ofelia, appears to be Time— and doors that open inwards. I would rather not discuss it."

"It's so good to see you back," she laughs, pulling back from your robes, and patting off a little flour from the fabric. "Did everythin' go okay? You wanna' come sit down?" She knows you incredibly well, and can probably tell when you're ragged. Very quietly, Ofelia mentions, "Ray's sleepin', by the way. Sister Tirel was a big help, patched him right up."

Walter is tickled pink that she's entirely ignoring him, until the blonde grins at him. "Don't think yer gettin' off that easy, grease-ball."

"I—" he's mortified, and turns up his nose, "I cannot believe this. Your hospitali—"

(Baaaarely over by one paragraph 2/3)
>>
>>4361844
"Bet you'd all loosen up if I can get a few drinks in ya'," the baker grins, paying no heed whatsoever to Walter's dismay. "C'mon. I finally made that honeycake without burnin' half the house down, too, Richard."

A few of your heartstrings pull, but so does obsession, and an incredibly long day.

(The following may not necessarily be mutually exclusive. If prompts can be combined, or followed through with even later in the evening, they will be noted and addressed when it makes sense to.)

>A] Politely ask if you can use a spare room, to talk with Walter and Harriet alone. The honeycake is fine. Tea is fine, too. She'll probably not want to stay and talk, but that's fine, if she insists.
>1] You seriously just need some quiet, reserved company.
>2] The prospect of working to take your mind off of today's events is way too appealing. You may be a workaholic, and that's fine. The Catalyst waits for no one.

>B] You would kill to get some tension out. Take up Ofelia on the offer to go sit down. You're going to have a FANTASTIC DAY.
>1] A drink would be nice. Nothing too strong. Just to take the edge off. The honeycake is fine. You're going to want both, 'cause you're getting in on that arm wrestling, even if they're all worn out.
>2] Just stop in and say hi. You're exhausted, and will go along with pretty much whatever anyone proposes at this point. You seriously just want to make sure everyone is alright.

>C] Stay in the hallway a moment. Respectfully ask Ofelia if she has a spare room that you can go to. You have a letter to write, and you are going straight to sleep when you're done (if you can). Everyone else can wait until morning.
>1] Ask Sister Cardew if she'd keep you company. She'll insist, if you don't, but you legitimately want her there.
>2] Respectfully ask Sister Cardew if she can give you and Walter some space. (Write-in why. Be forewarned that this may result in badgering in a way that only a priestess of Spirit is capable of.)

>D] Write-in.
>>
>>4361846
>>A] Politely ask if you can use a spare room, to talk with Walter and Harriet alone. The honeycake is fine. Tea is fine, too. She'll probably not want to stay and talk, but that's fine, if she insists.
>>1] You seriously just need some quiet, reserved company.
>>
>>4361846
>C] Stay in the hallway a moment. Respectfully ask Ofelia if she has a spare room that you can go to. You have a letter to write, and you are going straight to sleep when you're done (if you can). Everyone else can wait until morning.
>>1] Ask Sister Cardew if she'd keep you company. She'll insist, if you don't, but you legitimately want her there.
>>
>>4361854
+1
>>
>>4361854
>>4362003
>>4362133
(Thank you so much for your patience guys. We're live! Locking the vote here. We'll immediately address the majority vote for A1, and get to C1 when it makes sense to. Writing now.)
>>
.
>>
>>4362421
https://youtu.be/7GXGxO9xTgI

Quietly, and with no pretense, you murmur to Ofelia, "are there any spare rooms I could use, for the evening? Along with Walter, and Sister Cardew."

She gets it, immediately. "Yeah. No problem."

With a skip, your host takes you by the hand. There's a little flour still on her small palm, and she only keeps an incredibly loose hold, to lead you down the hall. "Turned the pantry into a spare room, what with all yer friends we got comin' around. Teddy insisted," she smirks, glancing back, as Walter and Harriet trail behind you both with some amusement.

You're not led into a small, windowless room, with no light to speak of. You do not panic, and stuff down the worst of your nausea. Ofelia politely parts from her hold at the door, and chirps, "just a sec," before disappearing into the space with a nearby candle in hand.

She's as thoughtful as ever. The room is glowing with heat and light in a matter of moments. Brushing a few cobwebs out of your mind, you look to the four small mattresses set up upon the floor, at least ten candles all aglow, a few nightstands, chairs, and more pillows than you could hope for. Ofelia steps aside, and simply calls to Harriet as she heads back down the hall, "hey, Sister. Come get me when you guys need anythin', okay?"

A slight nod in reply from the three of you is more than sufficient, as you call down the hall, "thank you, Ofelia—!" before you all step inside. Harriet promptly closes the door, and neatly sits in a chair. Walter assembles a small fort of pillows for you both to collapse on.

You shrug off your satchel, shield, sword, mace, and drop down beside him on the pile. It's disgustingly comfortable, even on the floor. You and Walter definitely look ridiculous, but it's fine. Looking to the ceiling, loving the support on your back, there's no spiders in sight. No moths, no demons, and you immediately want to close your eyes. "Sister Cardew," you mutter, knowing she's listening, "I— I have had a terribly long day. I would like to compose a letter later this evening, and we— I am certain that we will get to it."

Closing your eyes, gratitude seeping into you, you murmur, "all I want right now is for your company." Exhaustion is drenching you, so you softly emphasize each fantastic word, "quiet. Reserved. Company."

Both of your friends are quiet. They don't say anything for several blessed minutes. It's dark, but you don't mind. It's a few moments of respite.

There are no demons here.

No one is trying to kill you.

There is no torture, no torment, no lives to save, and nothing more to fear than for looking a little absurd among two good friends.

There's nothing to think about.

It's dark, and quiet.

(1/2)
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>>4362485
You nearly fall asleep

And a sudden, unexpected sound is like a shock to the base of your spine, a strike of lightning in your skull

>Roll 1d100. Best of 3 will be used.

>+5 (To rest is to serve.)
>-30 (The past refuses to let go of the person.)
>-5 (One of the longest days of your life.)

>(Write-ins are welcome, to try and wind down, regardless of the result of the roll. Positive modifiers may be added, and your QM will calculate any results.)
>>
Rolled 71 (1d100)

>>4362490

Think of Ray, think of the sun. After each day there is a new, possibly better one. Tomorrow is a hope, never a promise. Come what may, We will always face it, and never alone. Not anymore.
>>
Rolled 95 - 30 (1d100 - 30)

>>4362490
we can't even rest in peace, may the gods have mercy
>>
Rolled 35 (1d100)

>>4362490
C
>>
>>4362501
>+15 (Looking to family, friends, and future.)
>>4362513
>+10 (Your faith is always rewarded.)
>>4362594
(Appreciate all of you guys! After all modifiers, bo3:

>90/100

Vote and rolls are locked! Writing now.)
>>
>>4362610
For a split second, there is nothing in the world but agony. There's a fire in your skull, and a streak of pain across your chest. But you are positive that there can't be any danger, here. Though your chest is aching, your head is pounding, the break on your facing is a nightmare, and you feel like you couldn't be given any rest if you died— you take several ragged breaths, and open your eyes.

https://youtu.be/FtEmD8JdVY4

There's no demon. No bolts of lightning dance across your hands, or from within your skull.

Walter and Sister Cardew are politely kneeling beside you on the floor. Harriet has a handkerchief to her nose, looks mortified, and clearly had only just sneezed.

You laugh. It's light, and nervous, but it helps. There's nothing going to hurt you. You couldn't even tell what the sound was, and it's alright. Without apology, or so much as a single word, she quietly sits next to you, and gives you a minute to let your nerves wind down. Neither of your friends are judging.

You stop laughing, collapse back on the pillows, close your eyes, and think of someone with a horrible fear of sound. Ray, for all the years you spent raising him, never fully outgrew the terror that struck him from thunder. Maybe he had to take shelter from Storm, and never learned to love Him. Your dog is easily the most fearless fighter you've ever met. He's never hesitated to comfort you, even in your darkest hours.

Ray is resting, after fighting valiantly on behalf of several hundred people. He went where you could not, deserves a full night's sleep, and you want to do him proud. So you open your eyes, and stare at the ceiling. You know that it's technically a new day. The sun will rise in a few hours, and with it might just come a fairer horizon. Something to look up to, with the gold in your eyes.

"May the Gods have Mercy," you breathe, taking a deep breath, and sitting upright.

Without further prompting, Harriet sits herself right down next to you, and gives you a hug. She's so petite, she practically can't get her arms around you. The wide lenses on her face comically enlarge her eyes, as she firmly states, "I am so sorry."

"Don't be," you murmur, and hug her back with a single arm. "I— I needed someone— or something— to shake a little sense into me."

Tomorrow will come, and you'll be there, to face it head-on. You look to your friends. They're worried, and right by your side.

Truly, you are never alone.

Not anymore.

A very slight smile has crept over your face, as you motion against Harriet's arm, and ask her, "see?"

She pulls back, and immediately gives you an exasperated grin. "Right as rain. Is that it?"

"Storm himself is less tumultuous," you fully smile back. "So no— no. Not quite. But it is a start."

"Can you do me a favor," Harriet politely asks, looking to you, and to Walter. She has that look. That glint on her glasses, and the audible gears turning in her head.

(1/2)
>>
>>4362784
Walter is oblivious to her mischief, and happily replies, "of course."

He doesn't know her, like you do. You politely ask her in turn, narrowing your eyes, "what is it?"

"Nothing sinister." She's grinning, now, and fishes out a book. It's more than a reference. It's your book. Worn down to the gilded bindings on its white-leather spine, from how many times she's flipped through the record of your work together. "It's been a long day. We can discuss whatever you like, but before we begin— can you both tell me about a few things that bring you joy?"

Walter almost laughs. No amount of good grooming can compensate for his atrophied manners. "How contrived."

Gesturing with a quill at Walter, as if she were scolding a child, Harriet jabs, "not if you think about it."

Drawing back as if he's been burned, Professor Echo immediately leans back, and assumes what he likely thinks is a thoughtful pose. "Very well," he sniffs.

"I am not referring to a religious experience, either." Harriet gives you a knowing glance. You avert your gaze, instantly, and can hear her frown. It's a step back, but she's not dwelling on it, continuing, "nor any simple pleasure. A joy. Three, or more. If you can. Don't worry yourselves if you can't come up with that many."

The professor leans back, giving you a questioning glance, but respectfully keeps quiet.

He actually has to take a moment to think about the question.

You take a moment, to breathe. The woman at your side doesn't move from her spot, but shifts a little, to let you hug her more easily. It's disgustingly comfortable. She smells faintly like parchment, enough that even with your significant height different, you pick up on it.

There's nothing to fear.

As a few moments pass by, as it dawns on you that there is a fair amount of things that fit Harriet's criteria.

>(Any number of the following prompts may be selected. Write-ins are welcome. Established characterization will be taken into consideration, but feel free to make new suggestions, if you think of something that might be fitting!)

>A] Ray. Gods, you love him so much.

>B] The water— particularly the Morinburn River.

>C] The Church of Mercy, contrary to popular belief.

>D] Gardening.

>E] Traveling.

>F] Your friends.

>G] Cartography.

>H] Talking. At length. Not preaching— and as often as possible.

>I] Hugging. At length. As often as possible.

>J] Mercy.

>K] Okay, you do love preaching. But it's in a completely healthy, and wholesome way.

>L] Reading, despite rarely getting the opportunity to in recent months.

>M] Running.

>N] Write-in.
>>
>>4362789
>M] Running.
>N] Write-in.
Working out
>>
>>4362789
>A] Ray. Gods, you love him so much.
>M] Running.
>>
>>4362822
>>4362837
(Good shit, locking the vote here. Writing now!)
>>
>>4362918
https://youtu.be/XgHBbm7g_4k

This is incredibly dorky, even by your standards. Walter is still thinking, so you pipe up, and immediately assert, "Ray." A little more modestly, you insist, "he is a miracle."

"He's missed you," Harriet informs you, "and I know he's going to tackle you the very moment he wakes up."

There's almost nothing in the world you could look forward to more, save for one hobby. "We used to go running together," you wistfully, reverently muse. "I— I can hardly wait to do so again. Not necessarily because I have to—" you note, and draw back, and are not going to tolerate a single comment about your recent fluctuations in weight, "but for the love of it. Getting to race him— or—" you practically want to tear out of the room, and shift out of Sister Cardew's hug, fidgeting, to finish, "or not even for the sake of pushing myself, beyond own limits. Just to run."

Giving you all the space you could want, Sister Cardew adjusts her glasses, and grins. "Cyril has been killing himself. He thinks he can outpace you, Richard."

"Oh," you can't help but smirk. "He must be mistaken."

"Yes." She's trying incredibly hard to not grin. "You seem to have inspired him. That, or he was naive enough to believe you wouldn't get right back to running."

You couldn't grin any harder. "He is in for a terribly unpleasant surprise."

"Oh?" There's no helping it, and Sister Cardew hides her teeth behind a hand.

"I could easily—" you're fairly certain you already can, but he never fails to surprise you, "I suspect I could out-lift him, too. Any sort of physical activity has always been a joy for me, Sister Cardew."

Both of Harriet's eyebrows disappear beneath her bangs. Catching herself, she clears her throat, and muses, "that was quick."

"What—"

Walter pipes up, lifting his chin off a fist, to mutter, "thrice, Father Anscham, has your quick-thinking outmatched my own." The muttering intensifies. "That, or you are far more optimistic than you let on."

Both you— the angst singularity— and Sister Cardew exchange an incredibly knowing look. For the sake of avoiding any self-deprecation, or bullying, you both pipe down. "There is still a great deal that I wish to improve on, Walter." Glancing to Harriet, you murmur, "my routine, included. Did you receive any word back, from Father Friedrich...?" Your letters, you mentally seethe, "...or anyone else, for that matter?"

Every hair on her head stands on end. "Yes," she immediately squeaks. "I know you hate it, Richard, but I— I burned the letter."

You're so baffled, you can't help but stare, and frown, "what?"

(1/2)
>>
>>4363176
In all your Time together, you've never seen Harriet so torn between anger, and dismay. "He said that you might as well not eat, until you return to Beorward. That it would be a waste," she sighs, dead-panning, "for how quickly he would kill you. I know he meant it in jest. But it's terrible. He's terrible. You don't need any additional trouble. I have yet to write him a reply back."

"Debates!" Walter declares, as if he's had the most brilliant idea of his life. The passion in his exclamation dies down immediately, as more sheepishly, he explains, "clever exchanges, Sister Cardew. I derive enormous gratification from them. Though I suppose any proper argument would suffice..." he trails off, and while looking to the ceiling, politely states, "if I may be so bold, Father Anscham—"

"Go ahead," you mutter.

"Who is the Father of Flesh, to critique a vessel for all of the Gods?"

Harriet could not look more offended, or amused. She closes her mouth, to stare at Walter, as he grins, "heresy— by the theocracy's definition— Sister Cardew. There is your second joy." More seriously, to you, he snips, "you are testing the limits of human endurance on a daily basis. No man should hold himself to your standard. This is presumptuous. An insult." He turns up his nose, crosses his arms, and huffs, "fuck him."

A snort escapes from Sister Cardew, as Walter scoffs, "no apologies, Sister."

"Don't bother," she faux-scoffs back. With a glance to you, smug as can be, Harriet smirks, "he's right, you know. Do you have any ideas, Father Anscham?"

"Many," you frown back, "but they are far from sustainable."

There's been too many Times to count, when you were asked if your cheekbones or elbows were sharper, or more lethal than knives. To say nothing of comparisons to a walking corpse, or derogatory remarks about your resemblance to a demon. There's been brutal training under Cyril and Friedrich, for fear of starvation, or seizure, or heart failure. In recent months, for how rapidly you've put on weight, you might as well still be force-fed. Yet just in the last week, while in possession of more muscle than ever before in your life, you can count on one hand the number of times you've given your body the care it needs to sustain so much mass.

"Richard," Sister Cardew gently plies, pulling your attention to the present. Your frown is deeper still, wondering how much weight you've lost since leaving Arkthros' lair, while the priestess politely suggests, "what of an ideal, then? Just for the joy of it. Something to work towards, no matter your condition."

(Options in next post.)
>>
>>4363185
>A] Speed is your mistress. You want to jog, sprint, and feel the wind in your hair. Regardless of your size or ability, you'd like to get back to running regularly. You'll make the Time for it, and find a safe way to do so, no matter what. If you keep it up for long enough, there's no way anyone will even be able to catch you.

>B] Every incremental increase in strength could not be sweeter. Working out— with weights, and whatever else you can manage— is coming first. With how many lives you have to protect, you will do everything in your power to keep up whatever gains come your way. You said at the start of this month that you'd like to lift the very mountains, and you're going to make it happen.

>C] You sincerely want more balance in your life, and will do your best to not worry about peak performance. Right now, you'll aim to get as much physical activity in wherever you can— just like you intended to, when Father Friedrich last wrote to you. You may not see as tangible or extreme of results physically— but *feeling* better is what you've really been striving for, all this Time.

>D] You honestly want to be able to do so much as like yourself. You'd like to pay your respects to Spirit, Agriculture, Dream, and Mercy, before settling on anything more extreme. Don't neglect yourself, or Flesh. You'll make the Time for exercise whenever you can— but you're not going to worry about this anymore than you need to.
>1] In fact, you'd rather focus more intently on your mental health. Ask Harriet and Walter if THEY have any structured suggestions in mind, FOR your mind.
>2] It's honestly a miracle that Agriculture hasn't killed you. After everything you discussed this morning, you'd like to get back to your roots, and develop a diet plan. One that takes ALL of your lifestyle choices into consideration.
>3] There has to be something that can be done about your sleep. The next chance you get, talk to Brother Wilhelm. See if there's anything you can focus on, to retrain your body, or do to mend your connection with Dream.
>4] You've been walking around with a broken nose for over a day, when you're one of the most competent healers alive. Turning to blood sacrifice, rather than mending the wounds in your soul, is no way to lead. Focus on healing, in the most literal sense of the phrase, until you have at least your own tenets back in hand.

>E] People come in almost every shape and size. You are seriously no exception, and have an entirely different goal in mind. (Write-in any preferences you may want to strive for, in ability, appearance, health, etc.)
>>
>>4363190
>A] Speed is your mistress. You want to jog, sprint, and feel the wind in your hair. Regardless of your size or ability, you'd like to get back to running regularly. You'll make the Time for it, and find a safe way to do so, no matter what. If you keep it up for long enough, there's no way anyone will even be able to catch you.
>D] You honestly want to be able to do so much as like yourself. You'd like to pay your respects to Spirit, Agriculture, Dream, and Mercy, before settling on anything more extreme. Don't neglect yourself, or Flesh. You'll make the Time for exercise whenever you can— but you're not going to worry about this anymore than you need to.
>1] In fact, you'd rather focus more intently on your mental health. Ask Harriet and Walter if THEY have any structured suggestions in mind, FOR your mind.
>2] It's honestly a miracle that Agriculture hasn't killed you. After everything you discussed this morning, you'd like to get back to your roots, and develop a diet plan. One that takes ALL of your lifestyle choices into consideration.
>>
"that was quick" I've heard that before ;-;
>>
>>4363190
>>A] Speed is your mistress. You want to jog, sprint, and feel the wind in your hair. Regardless of your size or ability, you'd like to get back to running regularly. You'll make the Time for it, and find a safe way to do so, no matter what. If you keep it up for long enough, there's no way anyone will even be able to catch you.

>D] You honestly want to be able to do so much as like yourself. You'd like to pay your respects to Spirit, Agriculture, Dream, and Mercy, before settling on anything more extreme. Don't neglect yourself, or Flesh. You'll make the Time for exercise whenever you can— but you're not going to worry about this anymore than you need to.
>4] You've been walking around with a broken nose for over a day, when you're one of the most competent healers alive. Turning to blood sacrifice, rather than mending the wounds in your soul, is no way to lead. Focus on healing, in the most literal sense of the phrase, until you have at least your own tenets back in hand.

We may be a man of all the gods but we are also the Father of the church of Mercy. Vanilla curls has right of way here.
>>
>>4363617
1+
>>
>>4363632
>>4363617
>>4363206
(Beautiful. Locking the vote here for one more update before the end of the night. Writing now!)
>>
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>>4363641
https://youtu.be/8d82SrPn_Ss

With the sentence comes a memory. One of sprinting down the Eventide River, loving every second of the dawn. Watching the world fly past, with life in your long legs, burning through your arms, searing with every level breath, and not caring for anything beyond the next step. The next mile. The next horizon.

"An ideal." Beaming, you declare, "it's not something I need to work towards at all. I— I love something— that I've never had to go looking for. I'm going to run. I will make the Time— as I always have."

Both of your more cerebral friends shift, just a little uncomfortably, until you reassure them both, "I will see to my health, first— in as many capacities as I am capable of." There's just as much fire in your chest as if you ran a marathon. For how stressed you've been— the tears you've shed, over the night and day— it's no wonder you keep forgetting about the break upon your face. Loosely wrapping a few fingers about your Relic, letting the pain immediately subside, there's nearly instant relief from your physical tension.

It was impossible to tell just how severely you've strained yourself. The recurring headache may have been from nerves alone. Allowing your shoulders to drop down further, your breath to deepen, and all the strain throughout the rest of your body to subside, you almost feel better already. It's not for lack of trying. You're certain Mercy would understand.

Sister Cardew and Professor Echo do not need your permission to try and ease your mind. "Solitude," Walter declares, interjecting the silence with a smirk. "There. There's your third."

"Certainly took you long enough," a wholesome priestess replies.

You may be feeling something. It's impossible to tell where the emotional pain, relief upon your face, or agony you've felt in just about every way today begins or ends. Too tired, and confused, and frazzled to care, you lean back, tilt your head to see around your robes and shoes, looking forward to imminent bickering. Your vantage point is odd. Practically flat to the floor, your back is comfortably supported by stacks of pillows, but you nearly have to strain to really get a good look at the two scholars turning their noses up at one another.

They're almost too perfect for each other.

"I don't see you making any effort, whatsoever," Walter continues, somehow more smugly than before. "It is terribly easy to ask a question, Sister Cardew."

"Is it." Harriet sniffs back, "are you asking anyone anything at all, Professor?"

"Oh," Echo is feigning outrage, "oh. I see. Permit me to pose a question."

"Go right ahead." Harriet is inscrutable, as straight-faced as ever.

(1/2)
>>
>>4363790
The tops of your shoes are a safe enough sight, and easy enough to see. They're littered with flecks of dry blood, caked on sand, soil, and a thick coating of pollen. It's far from filthy. You walk so much, so often, that only the very edges and tops of the worn-in leather are truly affected. Your self-image is low enough to avoid looking at yourself most days, but you're certain no one even looks down around you often enough to have noticed this much.

A shockingly polite inquiry escapes from Walter, after prolonged introspection. "How would you have answered your own question?"

"Learning," Harriet fires off without hesitation. "I find a pupil's answers often far surpass that of their master, Professor."

He grins, "I do not presume to hold myself higher than anyone."

It's not that the Father of Flesh has made some startling revelation. He has no place to criticize your devotion. You've worked without rest for practically your entire life. Weeks before meeting him, you toiled over a sadistic routine, and received virtually no support or recognition.

Father Wilhelm certainly noticed, and cared. There's no use fretting over if he foresaw how many changes you'd go through in the last few weeks. To say nothing of his sacrifices, your attempts at normal exercise and diet have not been for nothing. Still, you can't help but feel like this is the third Time you've resolved to make a dramatic change to your regimen, this year alone.

"Of course you don't." The priestess in the room is all manners, and etiquette, as she gracefully curtsies, "which is precisely why exceeding expectations would be my second joy."

The wind is far from knocked out of Walter's sails. He looks her over, and smirks, "I've already got you figured out."

A questioning glance is fired off.

"You're just waiting for permission to give everyone sass, aren't you?"

A fake gasp escapes Sister Cardew.

The two scholars resolve to staring each other down. They're both terribly pleased with themselves.

Having made completely sure you're not imagining things, and after getting a good, long look at yourself, you're sure of it. When you arrived in Calunoth, you were unquestionably at least 50lbs lighter. At the rate you've been going, Father Friedrich was right to advise you to mind your diet. Four proper invocations with Agriculture— in less than twenty days— is not sustainable. Definition from your last invocation to Flesh feels phenomenal, but it's mostly obscured, and you haven't been giving the new muscle the attention it deserves. There's a better way to go about this.

While it's agony to so much as think about eating, you quietly decide to show your devotion to the Goddess of Bounty in perfect ways another Time.

Harriet and Walter have been staring each other down, for quite some Time.

You're a good friend, a pious man, and figure today might not have been so bad, after all.

(Options in next post.)
>>
>>4363791
>A] Buy yourself and Walter a few seconds to talk, while you patch yourself up. Asking Harriet if she'll get Ofelia for drinks, and honeycake, should suffice.
>1] You'd really like to have some more quiet Time to unwind with your friends. They are both extremely supportive, and would want you to be honest if you need their company until morning. You're seriously not ready to tackle anything else right now.
>2] Take Walter up on his offer earlier in the evening, to have a few drinks, and unwind. You do seriously need to draft that letter to Father Pevrel, need all the help you can get, and would like to loosen up a LOT more before the day begins.

>B] Politely ask your friends if you can have the room for the night. You miss Mercy already, and she would hate to see you like this any longer than necessary.

>C] Write-in.
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>>4363796
>>A] Buy yourself and Walter a few seconds to talk, while you patch yourself up. Asking Harriet if she'll get Ofelia for drinks, and honeycake, should suffice.
>2] Take Walter up on his offer earlier in the evening, to have a few drinks, and unwind. You do seriously need to draft that letter to Father Pevrel, need all the help you can get, and would like to loosen up a LOT more before the day begins.
>>
>>4363811
+1
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>>4363811
supporting
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>>4363811
>>4363980
>>4364047
(Unanimous. Comfy. Great. Hope you all are having a good afternoon! Vote is locked, writing now.)
>>
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>>4364289
https://youtu.be/MpmmkgccWD0

"Sister Cardew," you quietly ask. She trails her gaze over to you, remaining silent. It's enough encouragement to not draw away. Feeling a fair bit better than earlier, you at least don't recoil from her gaze, and glance to the floor as you shift back upright. "Would you— would you do me a favor...?"

Any pretense of games drops from the priestess. She earnestly replies, "of course."

"Ofelia's offer is— I wouldn't mind having a few drinks with the both of you. If— if you would— while I see to my injury? The honeycake, as well. I still have something to address, before the day begins, and— and I would appreciate it. I'm going to see what to do about this break, in the meantime."

She's obviously worried, but only gives Walter a disparaging frown before opening the door. "Don't you dare let anything happen to him."

"Why—" he's actually offended, as Sister Cardew promptly leaves in a swirl of white fabric, "why, of all the nerve!"

"You are giving her far too much to work with," you murmur, wanting to smirk, and avoiding every urge. Keeping a few fingers fidgeting about your Relic, it's already necessary to manage the blinding pain that would result otherwise. The packed, blood-caked dressing on your face stays fast, while setting about creating new dressings to apply.

"She's a treat," Walter sarcastically grins. Curious, he leans over to ask, "you need anything?"

"I may." A diabolical idea is brewing, but you aren't positive if it's worth the effort.

"Walk me through it," Walter mutters, fascinated. He promptly sits down next to you. "And just let me know."

Unfurling a massive quantity of bandages, you thoroughly explain the preparation of a salve. "...primarily comprised of turmeric oil, to aid in clotting. I can't smell it, but I'm certain you're aware that it is far more potent..."

He literally takes notes.

"...goldenseal— you are smirking, but the Church of Mercy makes the association for good reason, Walter. Not merely the metal. A powder, or even the leaves..."

There are several small instruments in your bag for positioning bone. The Storm brewing in the back of your mind won't relent, but there's a few more considerations to make.

"...the injury— the injury will heal of its own accord, but preventing the site from going foul is a worthwhile endeavor. Possibly an over-precaution, but I— I will not take any unnecessary risks."

A disbelieving glance is fired at you, throughout further explanation, but Echo keeps any comments beyond, "fascinating," to himself.

Unwinding the bandages, Walter gets a good look at your face for the third Time. You're met with a sharp intake of air, and try to not sigh. Your nose was already out of place, and hadn't healed correctly as a child. The quantity of scars upon your face is almost significant enough to have stopped caring about your appearance, but there's that damned idea.

(Options in next post.)
>>
>>4364335
>(As always, write-ins are welcome to help augment any option voted for. Positive or negative modifiers may be assigned accordingly. Any attempts at healing yourself will have your permanent modifier from your pact with Mercy applied.)

>A] Simply replace the dressing, and let your nose heal naturally. It will take around two weeks to really set, and might be a huge hassle, but this is nothing you haven't been through before. (Write-in if you are okay with letting it heal on its own, or if you'd like to locate Sister Corbon to have her help you with this in the future.)
>1] Rely primarily on your Relic for pain relief. Supplement it with any medicinal material you can spare. You want your wits about you, even if it's cumbersome.
>2] This morning you'll allow yourself to drink a fair bit, and see how you feel later in the day. Keep some tea on standby with pain-relieving properties, even if it might compromise your faculties a little. You could honestly use something to relax you.

>B] You are possibly the most proficient healer in Corcaea. You're fixing your nose over a decade after its first break.
>1] Just enough to ensure you don't lose any sense of smell, or have any disfigurement. It'll probably look about the same as before this injury. Keep hold on your Relic the entire Time. You can literally do this with one hand. (A MODERATE ROLL WILL BE REQUIRED.)
>2] Power through the pain. It won't take long, you've got friends, and whiskey is on the way. (A HIGH ROLL WILL BE REQUIRED.)

>C] You're fixing your nose, as if it was never damaged to begin with. Get out every tool you need, wait for Harriet to come back, and guide her and Walter to assist you.
>1] Keep your Relic in hand, and take your Time. (A VERY HIGH ROLL WILL BE REQUIRED.)
>2] Get yourself set up with some strong tea, trust in your friends, and do everything in your power to stay sharp. You're going to do this with your own two hands. (A LUDICROUSLY HIGH ROLL WILL BE REQUIRED.)

>D] Write-in.
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>>4364339
>>C] You're fixing your nose, as if it was never damaged to begin with. Get out every tool you need, wait for Harriet to come back, and guide her and Walter to assist you.
>>1] Keep your Relic in hand, and take your Time. (A VERY HIGH ROLL WILL BE REQUIRED.)

Let's give Mercy something pretty to look at for next time we invoke. Try to get a mirror or any sort of reflective surface, multiples if they are available. We should prop our back and head against something sturdy to make sure everything stays still, have one of them hold our neck. Pray to Mercy while getting everything set up, apologize for the gruesome display our friends are about to see and proceed.
>>
>>4364339
>B] You are possibly the most proficient healer in Corcaea. You're fixing your nose over a decade after its first break.
>>1] Just enough to ensure you don't lose any sense of smell, or have any disfigurement. It'll probably look about the same as before this injury. Keep hold on your Relic the entire Time. You can literally do this with one hand. (A MODERATE ROLL WILL BE REQUIRED.)
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>>4364440
Support
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>>4364348
(Going to implement most of your write-in, as it's totally applicable!)

>>4364440
>>4364632
(But we're going with the majority here for the action.)

>RESTRAINED RECONSTRUCTION

>Roll 1d100. Best of 3 will be used.
>+10 FAITH OF A GODDESS/(She loves you just the way you are.)
>+15 FATHER OF HEALING/(You've trained for most of your life for this.)
>+5 NATURAL VIRTUE/(Prudence, courage, temperance, and fairness in all things.)
>>
Rolled 39 + 30 (1d100 + 30)

>>4364675
>>
Rolled 30 (1d100)

>>4364675
>>
Rolled 85 (1d100)

>>4364675
>>
>>4364707
>>4364737
>>4364852
(That is a whopping 115/100 after all of your modifiers. Writing now!)
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>>4364862
"Walter, would you please see if Ofelia possesses any mirrors? Any reflective surface you can find would suffice."

An incredibly worried glance is given to you. "What for," he curtly asks.

"To look after myself," you politely reply. "I will happily explain when— when Sister Cardew returns."

He doesn't comply. "I told you," a smirk wins out, over his worry, "you aren't getting rid of me so easily. I'll have her get anything you need."

It's reasonable enough. "This is to heal, Walter. Not to hurt."

Out comes a series of pastes, additional bandages, packs, a few blunt tools, and an ample supply of water. Ample prayer to Mercy is entirely necessary. Harriet arrives in a few minutes, with a tray of whiskey glasses, three bottles of absurdly fine and imported liquor, and at least half of an entire honeycake. It looks fantastic, though you can't smell it, and it's nearly dropped.

Sister Cardew looks to the spread of towels, additional salves, and additional precautionary measures you've taken. Swiftly setting the items in hand down at a nearby table, she whips her head around, veils picking up in the air with a demand for explanation. "Richard."

"I know," you quietly smile to her, "that you will forgive me for seeing to my health, regardless— regardless of the sight of it."

"A mirror," Walter chirps at her, "or any reflective surfaces you can find, would be outstanding, Sister Cardew."

With a deep breath, closing her eyes, Sister Cardew takes a moment to quietly implore Spirit for Her blessing. "I know you are more than capable, Richard, but this—" she sighs, "don't even think about starting until I'm back."

Earnestly grinning, you insist, "I wouldn't Dream of it."

More prayer. Assembling blankets, towels, a large quantity of water, removing the dressing on your face, and setting up several reflective surfaces that were located takes less than ten minutes. Ofelia is nowhere near wealthy enough to be in possession of a mirror, but Klepto had four just on his person.

All of you can't help but take a rare moment to see your reflections clearly.

The bleary, teacup observations yesterday morning were a disservice to your appearance. For how gaunt your face typically is, you're delighted to see it takes in far less shade than the bags beneath your eyes. The plated gold upon both pupils casts an unnatural light, starkly contrasting the divine hues of green surrounding them. The effect is disarming, borderline inhuman, and you can't help but wince at the perpetual glassy cast to your stare. Most of your scars have faded in color and intensity over the years, at least. For their sheer number and severity, the literal gold running through all of your hair, and the Relic within your hand, there is one thought on your mind:

Mercy deserves a fairer view.

(1/2)
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>>4365011
Both of your amused friends are practically monochrome, in comparison to the divinity on you. Walter is practicing a few discerning stares, and smirks, "not bad," at Harriet removing her veils for a rare moment. She's just as smug, but you all get back to business before long.

Against a wall, back straight, neck supported, and stabilizing your face as much as possible, you deliver a series of instructions to Walter on how to be your extra hands. Harriet is tasked with giving you any additional supplies (while looking out for further injury). Salves applied, bandages removed, and face numbed, you get to work— with plenty more than just one hand.

https://youtu.be/5rq0PpFmuAM

The entire bridge of your nose had been smashed in, as a child. The cartilage beneath is not irreparably damaged, but repositioning the lower tissue would require going under the skin. You are not a vain man, and downright miss the bent portion of your face that's been consistent all of these years. Keeping a tight hold on your Relic, you trust completely in Mercy's gift. With the opposite hand, you manipulate a thin, rounded, blunt implement. As delicately as possible, you discern that the right side of your nose is where the break actually lies, slide the entire tool up, in, and against the break.

There's pressure, but no pain. Both of your friends are wincing. They can't hear it, but there's a crackle, with even the slightest motion. At the same Time, Professor Echo follows your instruction. He's a quick learner, and doesn't do so much as blink, while you ensure that there's no further issue.

Both of you simultaneously, meticulously, and firmly press the bone back into place. The dull pressure is accompanied by a crunch, but you're positive that the entire motion was as perfect as possible.

The significant herbal and divine assistance for your pain leaves no further sensation to speak of, as you remove your tools. Sister Cardew swiftly hands off a cleaned and treated pack. Ignoring every urge to rush, wince, or make a single twitch, you masterfully guide the additional support into place. It's exactly broad and soft enough to wedge practically halfway up, inside your face, take in any additional blood, and to support the bone for the next few weeks.

There's no way you can hope to breathe out of your nose, even after Walter takes his hands back. Over many more minutes, guiding string to remove the pack (if, Gods forbid, there's any additional trauma), you set about stabilizing the entire site with additional bandages and splints. Ultimately, there's scarcely any blood, a simple support that you'll have to maintain, a very pleased grin upon your face, and virtually no pain.

Your aids part from supporting you with a single gesture. "The Gods are Merciful," you quietly grin.

Harriet is speechless.

A heathen leans back, grinning, "what are you invoking for, when you can work like that?"

(Options in next post.)
>>
>>4365017
>A] You are always at your best when you're working with others. Insist on making a toast to Harriet and Walter, and let them talk about themselves for a while. You'll take partial credit, at least.

>B] You're absurdly proud of yourself. Graciously thank Walter and Harriet for all of their help. It couldn't hurt to have a few drinks with them, and share a story or two about your own ability to heal.

>C] The Church of Mercy is responsible for your instruction, and the Goddess has granted you with ability that trivializes what you've done. Be humble, and repeat that it is the Gods who are to thank for your work. You won't hear anything to the contrary.

>D] Tactfully thank Walter for his compliment, and try to downplay your ability. You'd like to loosen up, and go over virtually anything other than work.

>E] Write-in.
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>>4365020
>>A] You are always at your best when you're working with others. Insist on making a toast to Harriet and Walter, and let them talk about themselves for a while. You'll take partial credit, at least.
>>
>>4365020
>A] You are always at your best when you're working with others. Insist on making a toast to Harriet and Walter, and let them talk about themselves for a while. You'll take partial credit, at least.
>>
>>4365020
>>A] You are always at your best when you're working with others. Insist on making a toast to Harriet and Walter, and let them talk about themselves for a while. You'll take partial credit, at least.
>>
>>4365022
>>4365032
>>4365182
(Locking the unanimous vote here to write once more before bed! Got work tomorrow but I suspect I can get a couple updates out over the course of the day. Thanks so much for the fantastic sessions this weekend guys. Writing now.)
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>>4365185
https://youtu.be/d2EPSJ_-prw

Not too long ago, you told yourself that you were nothing without the Gods.

Carefully removing the Relic's chain from about your neck, you mimic Father Friedrich's earliest experiments with the item, and wrap the entire length of gold around your hand. With an effortless way to keep hold of the complete relief from your pain, you get to your feet, and insist on pouring a few drinks for your company.

"I couldn't have done a thing, without either of your help."

They immediately start to protest, to which you offer a cautionary frown. "I will take partial credit— but I'd like to thank you both."

It's cumbersome, and silly, but you manage to hand off two unevenly poured glasses of peat and smoke. Even through the congestion and packed bandages, you catch a little of what's likely Ofelia's best stores from back home. A pair of begrudgingly grateful "thank you"'s are given, as you raise your glass, and insist, "a toast. To friends."

A smug glance is exchanged between Harriet and Walter, who don't acknowledge the other. Straight to you, they unwittingly say in unison, "to friends."

Amusement paints a little goofiness on all of your faces, which are promptly masked behind sipped glasses. The drink is warm, silky, and laced with honey. Smoke works through an entirely pleasant burn— one that your Relic doesn't seem to affect— and not a lick of actual pain accompanies the gift from Spira. It's vastly too strong, and luxurious, to do anything other than take your Time with.

Chairs are dragged out, the mirrors are set aside, and you all get terribly comfortable. Situated in a little triangle, practically within arm's reach of one another, a few moments pass by as you all sit and enjoy Ofelia's hospitality. Sinking just a little deeper into a humble, wooden chair, you try to not complain as Sister Cardew pushes some of your host's favorite recipe at you. "She'll kill us if we don't even touch it," is her excuse.

"Somehow," Walter muses, taking a plate from her with an inquisitive glance, "I suspect that you wouldn't go down without a fight." He begins cutting up the delicate pastry into no fewer than twenty perfect squares, stacking them about with the end of his knife, all while Harriet talks.

The priestess is initially too flattered to comment on his behavior. "Yes. Well. It isn't all dog-ears and ink blots, back in Murgate—" she can't help herself, as he's swiftly begun constructing a small house out of his food, "—what are you doing...?"

"Checking for glass," he smirks, as if this is a sane thing to say.

During your Time together in Ostedholm, one of the few things Ofelia trusted you with was this recipe. Taking a cutesy and honey-coated slice from Harriet, you skewer half of the loaf, look Walter dead in the eye, and make a complete show of taking a huge bite.

(1/2)
>>
>>4365225
It's easily the perfect compliment to your drink, made with entirely imported goods, is sweeter than its baker, and melts right along with your heart. You might cry, and swallow the urge to run out of the room, to go give Ofelia a hug. Firmly, you insist, "we are in capable— and— and incredibly skilled hands. Ofelia's home is far and away the safest building in the country, Walter."

Harriet leans over, and topples Walter's house of paranoia with a poke of her knife. "You are being ridiculous."

The professor knocks back the entirety of his drink— coughing immediately, and is probably a lightweight— only to hand off the entire mess he's made to you. "Suit yourself."

You're going on a run today, give no protest, and take the plate. It seems you're the only person present who's wound down already, and happily nurse the imported goods while the two scholars speak.

Frowning hard, Sister Cardew tries to inquire, "what would make you think...?"

"An old game," Walter frowns back, "that my brothers used to play. Right alongside hunting one another, and all the rest."

"I see." Sister Cardew is refastening her lenses, and absolutely stresses, "pun intended."

"No." The scholar opposite her groans. "I'm serious. You can't possibly be this childish."

"Of course I can." She leans forward a little, finishing adjusting the straps about her hair. "Don't worry about the glasses, Walter."

He practically twitches, knowing what's coming. "Why?"

"Because I can still drink from the bottle."

He's legitimately upset. "No."

Triumphantly, the priestess of Spirit leans back, declaring, "you find a way to keep your sanity, in a family of eleven. Word games are far easier play than that of petty lords."

Over-the-top etiquette, pretentiousness, poor self-care, a penchant for literature, and all of Walter's strategizing somehow makes a lot more sense. He sneers, "better to lose one's mind, than to find a way to survive indecent company."

Sister Cardew does not laugh. She is fascinated with the unhinged, and smirks, "tell me about it."

It actually gives Echo a pause. "Honestly?"

"However you please." Her glass is still half full, but without any illusion of delicacy, Sister Cardew leans over to skewer one of the cubes of cake off of one of your plates. It's waved around a moment, before she declares, "I assure you, there it nothing you could say that would surprise me."

(Options in next post.)
>>
>>4365226
>A] Nervously laugh, and hide a little behind the honeycake. Echo is definitely going to try and be obscene, and thanks to your work with Harriet, you suspect she won't be phased in the slightest.

>B] Try to keep a straight face, and get Walter some more to drink. You're reserving your comments, and any judgement, but really would like to know what he has to say for himself. More importantly, if there's anything he could do to actually challenge Sister Cardew's experience.

>C] Finish the rest of your whiskey, and refill Harriet's glass. She's not going to be able to keep up with you, and you seriously want to see how far she'll press Echo.

>D] Make a comment, or get a little more comfortable. (Write-in.)
>>
>>4365229
>C] Finish the rest of your whiskey, and refill Harriet's glass. She's not going to be able to keep up with you, and you seriously want to see how far she'll press Echo.
>>
>>4365229
>>C] Finish the rest of your whiskey, and refill Harriet's glass. She's not going to be able to keep up with you, and you seriously want to see how far she'll press Echo.

Is popcorn a thing yet?
>>
>>4365229
>C] Finish the rest of your whiskey, and refill Harriet's glass. She's not going to be able to keep up with you, and you seriously want to see how far she'll press Echo.

...should we be taking notes
>>
>>4365229
>>C] Finish the rest of your whiskey, and refill Harriet's glass. She's not going to be able to keep up with you, and you seriously want to see how far she'll press Echo.
>>
>>4365230
>>4365232
>>4365243
>>4365247
(Low-key still awake and am gonna try and squeeze in one more update before bed. Vote is locked. Writing now!)
>>
>>4365259
https://youtu.be/L8Gu6-pUmnM

Should I be taking notes?

Casually, you finish your glass, refill Sister Cardew's, and lean back with the honeycake on standby.

"Oh?" Smug doesn't begin to describe it, as Walter leers, "I'm certain your delicate sensibilities would balk, at the things that I've seen—"

With a few sips on her glass— easily hiding as much amusement as you're concealing through a mouthful of cake— Harriet simply raises her eyebrows.

"Do you know where Cathwulf derives its name, Sister?"

You're vaguely familiar with the far-flung tower.

"Of course," she snips. "It's butchered. 'The Castle of the Wolf.' Even for its remote, backwater location—"

"You take that back—"

She impossibly keeps a straight face.

Nose high, Walter declares, "the noble guard of the heart of our country does reside in any backwater location." He practically hisses, "Sister. It's removed enough that the clergy wouldn't so much as scratch their ass with the bones of any one soldier that's died defending it, or the surrounding forest."

"Oh," the clergywoman smirks, through the bottom of her glass. "I thought it was a castle."

As the Father of Restraint, you happily know that even moderation should be taken in moderation. Keeping Harriet's whiskey flowing, Walter grabs the entire second bottle just for himself. "It is. You should see how many demons we've tarred, or boiled alive."

"You mean to tell me you kill them outright?" Even Harriet can't keep her composure, smirking to you, "how mundane."

It takes every ounce of willpower you have to not look mortified. Echo appropriately repeats, "mundane? Mundane. There is nothing mundane about slaughtering man and beast alike."

"Hunting," Sister Cardew leans in, as if she's telling some secret. With a whisper, she can't help but grin, "small game?"

"No. I wouldn't do it myself," Walter sneers. "What would be more worth my while? It is far more satisfying to take the reigns of more simplistic minds. Ones who's work may prove more enlightening."

Smoke might as well be gathering in the air, for the fire in Harriet's eyes. "Not much of a challenge, then, is it?"

With a stammer, Walter tries to start, "I—" to which you gesture to refill Harriet's glass. It's enough of a pause for him to calm down, just before he fires back, "I did not escape from the ruins for this shit."

She's already tipsy. "It sounds as if you had quite a comfortable position, in your outpost. May I ask why you went down there at all?"

His outrage is beyond outrage. "Why should I tell you?"

Swirling her glass, Sister Cardew haughtily smiles, "the immaterial must be known. To know is to serve? Tell me you at least know this much, Professor."

"That's a load of shit, and you know it."

"The title?"

"The tenets!"

"Funny. I thought you wished to be rid of it—"

(1/2)
>>
>>4365309
Walter looks like he's about to get out of his chair. "The creed? Your vows? How much do you think you know about any of us?"

"Not much," she muses, "given that you don't wish to share anything of significance."

A downright sinister smile creeps over Walter. "You really want to know?"

The priestess hands her empty glass off to you, and leans over towards the scholar. "Always."

Professor Echo drops his voice, grinning like a maniac. "I always want to test myself, Sister. It was insufficient, to observe my siblings, servants, or any other fool who thought themselves above our weakness. I needed to know why we turn. I always have! I went to the ruins to learn, in a way that no one had ever dared to before."

Leaning back, Walter takes a long draw straight from the bottle. Wiping his face, looking between Harriet, and you, he declares, "do you know what?"

"What," you both inquire, legitimately fascinated.

"I didn't learn a damn thing," he grins.

You both deflate instantly.

"Do you have any idea," he groans, "how difficult it is to read, when you're surrounded by screaming maniacs?"

"Do I ever," Harriet frowns. You try to not look too guilty, for all the months she spent in the Church of Flesh. It's easy enough, as your attention is instantly stolen away.

"You did me a favor," Walter slightly slurs, waving the bottle at you. "Kept telling myself that it would be worth staying. I wanted to go back. I lied to your face, Father. Been telling myself for so long that I had the guts to do it, I think I started to believe it."

>A] Tactfully give Walter a formal pardon for his sin...
>1] ...along with some more whiskey, and leave your comments at that.
>2] The discrepancies between your congregation's word and Harvey's hasn't bothered you, but you'll seize the opportunity to tease Echo.

>B] Ask Professor Echo how he managed to get so deep in the ruins in the first place.

>C] That comment about his siblings, servants, and other citizens is mildly concerning.
>1] Press it. (Write-in if you have any impressions or preferences right off the bat.)
>2] Trust that Harriet will pounce on it the moment there's a good opportunity to.

>D] It seems it takes a significantly larger volume of liquor than it used to, for you to get even remotely intoxicated. All the food probably is helping. Stay quiet, get a little drunk, and enjoy your circus.

>E] Write-in.
>>
>>4365318
>>B] Ask Professor Echo how he managed to get so deep in the ruins in the first place.
>>
>>4365318
>>D] It seems it takes a significantly larger volume of liquor than it used to, for you to get even remotely intoxicated. All the food probably is helping. Stay quiet, get a little drunk, and enjoy your circus.

This is WAY too fun.
>>
>>4365318
>] It seems it takes a significantly larger volume of liquor than it used to, for you to get even remotely intoxicated. All the food probably is helping. Stay quiet, get a little drunk, and enjoy your circus.
>>
>>4365320
>>4365321
>>4365346
(We can totally do this. Going to do my best to write before work! Vote is locked.)
>>
>>4365795
Wanting to test your tolerance for spirits, you sweep the third and unopened bottle of liquor off of the table. Not only does no one protest, but both of your companions seem positively delighted by your quiet, and uncompromised behavior.

In fact, Harriet is already delighted by just about everything. She tries to hide a grin behind her glass, as you ask Walter, "how did you manage to— to get into the ruins to begin with?"

"Wit," he snaps, "cunning," and something is mumbled into his glass.

Sister Cardew leans over, and whispers, "you'll have to speak up."

"And a guard," he mumbles. "Thirty-something."

"I suspected as much," Harriet nods, as if this isn't horrifying.

"You're joking," Walter drawls. "You're abominable. You wouldn't even bat an eye at human sacrifice—"

Without blinking, behind her broad glasses, Sister Cardew dead-pans, "neither would you, apparently."

The two of them share a disparaging smirk. A smirk, of all things. It might as well be a kiss, for the way they both draw back, a little flushed, and looking better for the wear.

Searching for a less intimate or disturbing view, your gaze falls to the bottle of whiskey you've acquired. The older year is hefty, colored like a deep old oak, and politely admired for a moment before pouring yourself another tall glass. Most of the cake is gone, and you're content to get a little drunk, while your friends provide further entertainment.

The professor before you is not inspecting the ceiling. He merely has his nose so high in the air, as he glances down to Harriet, that it would seem he's sniffing the sky. "What would you know, of mortality, and sin? I suspect you've never breathed anything more loathsome than the dust on your skirts," he stresses her title like it's an insult, "Sister Cardew."

"Deflecting will do you no wonders, Walter." She finishes the rest of her drink, feigning a frown. "It is terribly hypocritical."

"Hmm?"

"Criticizing my experiences. When you have confessed to primarily witnessing the actions of others."

"Observation is no sin," Walter leers, "though I would relish it infinitely more, were that the case."

"You must think yourself to be terribly foul," Harriet almost laughs.

She doesn't fire you any glances. Appreciating it more than you can say, you decide to drink straight from the bottle after all.

Conflict paints a particularly hilarious expression across Walter's face. The heathen— the forsaken noble— has to take a moment to compose himself. He might not know what he'd prefer to be associated with. Ultimately, the member of your blasphemous congregation settles on snipping, "I must be in good company, then. Excluding yourself, Father. Of course."

You try to not snort, have no use for pride, and murmur, "thank you, Walter."

(1/2)
>>
>>4365937
Before you can get dragged further into any mess, Harriet interjects, "that you are." To the professor, "my company certainly fits your criteria." Mischief sparks up through every inch of Echo's body, as he stares down Sister Cardew, and does not dare to interrupt. Turning her nose to the air, Harriet confesses, "I will have you know—" Walter leans in, just a little. "—that long before I ever came to this Gods-forsaken city..."

Her audience has forgotten about the whiskey, and Walter assumes a stoic face. "Yes...?"

"I have had my fair share of tomfoolery."

Neither of you are convinced, as Walter crosses his arms, and leans back. He elbows you— you can't feel it at all, which is delightful— and he's looking smug as can be. "Are you hearing this?"

A nod, to humor him, is entirely necessary. "Yes," you manage to not laugh, hiding your face behind another swig of liquor. It's nearly as good as a demon's best work, and you make a note to compliment Ofelia's selection at the first opportunity that presents itself.

"Really," Sister Cardew asserts. "But unlike you, Professor, I won't part with my experiences so easily." He raises both eyebrows. "If we are to work together, I would like to get off on level ground." Harriet slams her glass on the table adjacent, and declares, "no games."

Neither of you believe her. At your glances, the priestess loses no verve. "Alright. One game."

"I thought so," Walter smirks.

"Paranoia," Harriet grins at Walter, "an appropriate name, is it not?"

He grumbles, but is far too curious to comment.

"The rules are very simple," Sister Cardew promises, which you don't believe for an instant. "We will whisper a question to the person on our right. Anything at all. 'What is your favorite book?' 'How often have you bathed this month?' 'Have you ever kissed a woman?'"

Echo is visibly sweating.

"It can be any question, including the one that was asked to you," Harriet continues, shaking the contents of her bottle. "But. If you would like to know the answer, you MUST drink." With a broad grin, she declares, "at which point, we have one of two options. You may answer the question— or you may drink. Whoever is the last to finish their drink will be the winner."

You've been going pretty hard at your bottle, and can't help but notice you still have a substantial advantage over both of your friends. Sister Cardew's whiskey is nearly finished, while Walter's is easily half-full, and yours is nearly at the top. Given everyone's state of rapid inebriation, this seems like a fair enough proposal.

Grinning viciously, going for the door, Walter declares, "fine, but we're going to need to level the playing field."

"Wait," Harriet laughs, making no attempt to go after him. "Keep your voice down!"

He's already down the hall. "If you're spilling any dirt, I'm getting Harvey and Klepto in on this, too!"

(Options in next post.)
>>
>>4365946
>A] Go after him.
>1] Try to propose that you play with just the three of you.
>2] You're getting Ofelia, too.
>3] Cyril would never forgive you if you didn't get him in a drinking game with Harriet.

>B] You would seriously rather not get drunk at this hour, and might be just a little more prudish than your reputation would lead others to believe. Ask to abstain from the game.
>1] Your friends will definitely understand, if you'd rather wrap up your business with the letter to Father Pevrel, and go get a few hours of sleep.
>2] You still seriously want to watch this.

>C] Write-in.
>>
>>4365946
>A] Go after him.
>1] Try to propose that you play with just the three of you.

I am getting them to fuck even if it kills me.
>>
>>4365980
Peer pressure is still a thing right? This could be more enlightening with more people and someone's gonna need a nudge

>>4365959
>A] Go after him.
>2] You're getting Ofelia, too.
>>
>>4365959
>A] Go after him.
>1] Try to propose that you play with just the three of you.

>C] Write-in
Pour our friends something from our bottle, perhaps something that would promote mature interests
>>
>>4366127
I feel like this has the potential to turn into a real clusterfuck real quick. I would prefer we keep this a brainiac only zone, it's fun to see the mega nerds try to out wit eachother.
>>
>>4365980
>>4366127
>>4366129
>>4366139
>peer pressure
>promote mature interests
>enlightenment through extroversion

(Love you guys. Going with the write-in and A1 primarily but I'll incorporate as much as I can. Vote is locked. Writing now.)
>>
>>4365980
+1

>>4365959
>>
>>4366734
(Good god that timing. I gotchu man, thanks for voting.)
>>
>>4366735
>>4366733
https://youtu.be/n08b1ptdnYM

Practically leaping out of your chair, you tear down the hall after Walter. He doesn't get far. Grabbing him by the shoulder, with a whisper of, "Walter—!" you gently pull him to a stop.

No one else is around. There's a few rooms with closed doors, and more than enough space to not be seen by anyone in the kitchen or sitting room around the corner. Even in the low candlelight, you can't help but notice how flushed Walter is. "You may be terrified of her," you frown, keeping a hand to his slender shoulder, "but I would love nothing more than to keep this evening between the three of us."

The scent of peat all around. A sniff replies, infinitely too proud to admit to your observation, "for the spectacle your priestess is making of herself, an audience is only fitting. Let me go."

Wrapping an arm fully around Walter's shoulders, you glance both ways down the hall. No one seems to have noticed, or cared, about his exclamation. Just to be safe, in a low voice, you swear, "this— this is nothing. You should see her when she's really let her hair down."

"You have my attention." The blasphemer glances down the hall as well. It's not the whiskey, as he looks to the door, flushed. "You don't think...?"

"I think so," you nod to him, revealing every bit of the romantic in you. A slight smile creeps across his face. You grin, leading him back towards the pantry, "if attempting to outwit one another isn't sufficient, I will— even if it kills me, Walter— you know I am more than happy to encourage you both—"

Walter can't help but laugh, "don't insult me," haughtily rambling about the might of his intellect as you both re-enter the room.

Sister Cardew has absolutely been drinking out of Walter's bottle, to try and get him to lose the game faster. It's easily only 1/4 full now, and for once, there's some color in the priestess' face. She gives you both a shit-eating grin, declaring, "a penalty. For keeping me waiting."

You conveniently slide the chairs out of the way, while Echo swipes the bottle out of Harriet's hands, and sits down right next to her. Assuming a comfortable spot against the wall, directly across from both of them, you make a bold and daring proposition. Fishing for Yech's flask, loving every second of the fuzz at the back of your mind, you slightly slur, "may I suggest—" you pause, and wish you could rub your nose, "that is, if either of you trust my judgement on the matter. I would not hold your reservations against you, for a moment, if— if you did not trust me—"

"Don't be ridiculous," Walter spits.
"Of course not," Harriet scowls.

"Well," you smirk at both of them, "this entire situation is entirely unfair. At this rate, I'll sweep the floor with both of you."

(1/2)
>>
>>4366805
Your nearly full bottle of whiskey glares at you all. Menacingly. Hauntingly, as the entire small, whiskey-scented room feels progressively warmer. It's probable that the liquor is finally hitting you, and not a second too soon. The singular free hand you have at your disposal obtains the enchanted flask from your coat pocket. Only to the item, in such a soft tone no one else could possibly hope to hear, you whisper into it, "something to promote mature interests."

The gold-capped container fills instantaneously, with an endless supply of your intent. Steam rises from the top of the container, as you get every empty glass. There's no tremor to speak of in your hands, as you pour out enough of the drink for Walter and Harriet to match the volume of liquid still in your liquor bottle. "To make things fair," you insist. "Truly. We should all be on level ground."

"Hmph," Walter frowns. "The fuck is this?"

The drink is burnt umber in color, with a texture almost akin to thin custard, or cream. Flecks of some exotic spice, and petals in a light yellow hue swim in each glass. It's beautiful, and something you've never seen before. Even through the pack and congestion in your nose, it smells a little bitter, and is certainly sweet enough to appeal to both of your friends.

Sister Cardew certainly isn't about to argue, and leans slightly towards you and Walter, sweeping her glasses closer on the floor. "We don't have enough people to play this correctly," is a fair observation, as the three of you shift into slightly more comfortable positions.

"I don't give a shit," Echo sneers, "and I'll go first." He motions for you to lean over, saying plainly to Harriet, "he'll at least be honest with me. Wouldn't matter which one of us asked it, right?"

It's almost flattering that he trusts your word so much. A whisper meets your ear, and puts so much fire in your face, you might as well have invoked Flesh Himself.

"What is your most scandalous memory?"

>A] Remain silent, pass your turn on, and ask a question to Harriet.
>1] The exact same question. Try to not sound too flustered.
>2] Something even spicier. (Write-in.)

>B] Walter is on the exact same wavelength as you, and you absolutely want both of their answers. Take a swig of whiskey, and answer last. It's unlikely they're going to top your experiences. (A ROLL WILL BE REQUIRED. You've been drinking pretty heavily.)
>1] "The Fuck Zone."
>2] Your first night with Mercy.
>3] You hate it, but your encounter with Arkthros was salacious to the point of debilitation.
>4] Come to mention it, your first encounter with an archdemon was downright obscene. Talk a little about Yech.
>5] Write in. (You might act like a prude, but you've had your fair share of experience. QM discretion may apply.)
>>
>>4366808
>B] Walter is on the exact same wavelength as you, and you absolutely want both of their answers. Take a swig of whiskey, and answer last. It's unlikely they're going to top your experiences. (A ROLL WILL BE REQUIRED. You've been drinking pretty heavily.)
>1] "The Fuck Zone."
Let's be real
>>
>>4366808
>>B] Walter is on the exact same wavelength as you, and you absolutely want both of their answers. Take a swig of whiskey, and answer last. It's unlikely they're going to top your experiences. (A ROLL WILL BE REQUIRED. You've been drinking pretty heavily.)
>>1] "The Fuck Zone."
>>
>>4366808
>>B] Walter is on the exact same wavelength as you, and you absolutely want both of their answers. Take a swig of whiskey, and answer last. It's unlikely they're going to top your experiences. (A ROLL WILL BE REQUIRED. You've been drinking pretty heavily.)
>>1] "The Fuck Zone."
>>
>>4366808
>B] Walter is on the exact same wavelength as you, and you absolutely want both of their answers. Take a swig of whiskey, and answer last. It's unlikely they're going to top your experiences. (A ROLL WILL BE REQUIRED. You've been drinking pretty heavily.)
>1] "The Fuck Zone."
>>
>>4366838
>>4366959
>>4366969
>>4367009
(Woke up laughing. Perfect. Can do a mini-session before work if we have a few of you guys roll in! Vote is locked, writing now.)
>>
(Still waking up, shit. My bad. Calling that roll.)
>>4366838
>>4366959
>>4366969
>>4367009
>HOW SCANDALOUS

>Roll 1d100. Best of 3 will be used.
>+5 PROPER PRUDE
>+10 OLD DRINKING BUDDY WITH A DEMON
>>
Rolled 65 (1d100)

>>4367546
>>
Rolled 59 (1d100)

>>4367546

Let's get fuckin'.
>>
Rolled 26 (1d100)

>>4367546
eef speef
>>
>>4367548
>>4367553
>>4367575
(Yech is truly with us this morning. That's an 80/100. Writing now!)
>>
>>4367576
https://youtu.be/30miId7qs8A

There is one, and only one answer to this question. You take another swig of whiskey, and seal your fate. The world is a little warmer, and softer, as you look to your friends, and implore them to answer first, "what is your most scandalous memory?"

Harriet snaps her gaze to Walter. "You didn't."

He has mischief beyond mischief written across his face, leaning in a little further. "You first, Sister."

She's practically pink, but keeps her lips straight, and doesn't let any of her blush leak into the stoicism of her typical tone. "I didn't get out much, back at home."

There's a pause, and something more she wants to say. You and Echo both lean in, just a bit further. "Go on, then," Walter quietly can't help but insist.

It may be good breeding, or not enough liquor, but Harriet goes to take a drink, to pass on the question. It's definitely going to help with the rest of the game, and you figure she needs the encouragement. There's no need to get pushy. Especially not when Walter leans back, and stops her with a single declaration.

"Coward."

She barely frowns, but you know she's outraged. The priestess opens her mouth to speak, closes it, and as the brunette tries several times to interject, or complain, it would seem Sister Cardew may actually be at a loss for words. Professor Echo could not be more pleased with himself, as she sets down the drink. It would seem that she resolves to take the opportunity to prove Walter wrong, firmly stating, "that is precisely why I located Murgate's archive of romantic novels."

You try to not laugh.

Mercy.

A little more color comes into the priestess' face, as Walter swirls one of the glasses you've poured at her. "You don't mean to tell me—"

"—what of it?" Harriet is red as a rose, wistfully insisting, "the passion within those pages was nothing to be ashamed of." Much more quietly, she confesses, "the memory of my Time with them is the answer you your question," she fires an accusing glance at Walter, not daring to give him a moment to comment, "and it is your turn."

"You're a right flower, aren't you," Walter smirks. Harriet absolutely looks like she wished she drank, as he unashamedly confesses, "I once had the misfortune of trying to sleep adjacent to Randy."

Nothing more needs to be said, as horror drenches everyone present. He immediately clarifies, "I did not get involved, in any way, save for permitting my company to stop him at once."

Harriet gives an incredibly accusatory glare. "That can't be all."

You might be sweating a little, at how wholesome both of your cerebral friends are. Walter insists, "debasing my body would surely debase my mind, Sister. I can safely say that is the most reprehensible encounter I have had, of..." he swirls his cup again, obviously wanting to try the drink you poured, "...this nature."

(1/2)
>>
File: Remigius' Lair.png (176 KB, 500x338)
176 KB
176 KB PNG
>>4367691
Both of your friends look to you, knowing full well that you wouldn't even consider not answering a question asked straight at you. You might be sweating. There are three very simple words, from two unforgettable days, at the hands of a single succubus, that you will never forget. Not for as long as you live. There's conflict, and pain, and someone who loves everything about it, as you reluctantly mumble, "I want to be frank, with both of you."

This is nothing Sister Cardew hasn't heard before. She gives you an apologetic glance, as Professor Echo could not look more curious. Resolutely, with no further hesitation, you try not to blush while recalling, "The Fuck Zone."

A demanding glance fires off from Walter, as he struggles to not completely lose his mind. "What did you say?"

"In an attempt to aid an archdemon," you tactfully explain, "I ventured into the domain of an incredibly influential succubus." Walter has a look torn between disgust and amazement, as you sneer, "it was—" you immediately have to try to not get too flustered, "it was somehow— the entire ordeal was somehow more scandalous than you would expect."

Curiosity, and his dismay wins out. "You can't just not tell us."

"You would not want to hear the details," you insist.

"You'll have to drink, if you avoid the question," he retorts.

There's just enough liquor in you to mutter, "hours of torture prior— before a staged fight, with— with public spectacle, before several hundred demons—" you take a deep breath, as Professor Echo's eyes are as wide as can be, "regardless of how it affected me, or my work at the Time— I— I—" he has obviously had his curiosity sated, and is quiet enough for you to lean over to Sister Cardew, to sigh, "I believe it is your turn."

"Yes," she murmurs, close enough to not want to raise her voice. Firing off a glare to Walter, she snips, "you really didn't have to, you know."

"I did," he frowns.

"Yes, well," you flush, having absolutely had enough to drink already, "you know—"

With a slight smile, nudging you with her elbow, the priestess mercifully cuts you off. "Go ahead, then."

You take a deep breath, and resolve to make this count.

There is only one direction this game is heading.

(Options in next post.)
>>
>>4367700
>The following are mutually exclusive, as only one question can be asked.
>The letter is for the question you will ask to Sister Cardew.
>The number is your possible answer, if she chooses to go along with the question.
>Majority vote will decide.

>A] "What do you look for in a partner?"
>1] Remain silent, and drink. (A ROLL WILL BE REQUIRED.)
>2] Stay wholesome— especially after your last comments. Focus on some less sensual topics.
>3] You're really a romantic at heart. Mercy would probably be delighted for you to go on about Her.

>B] "Are you saving yourself for anyone?"
>1] Remain silent, and drink. (A ROLL WILL BE REQUIRED.)
>2] Try not to be too smug, over having chosen a question both of your friends know the answer to already.

>C] "What is something you've always wanted to try in the bedroom?"
>1] Remain silent, and drink. (A ROLL WILL BE REQUIRED.)
>2] Write-in. (QM discretion may be advised, based on our protagonist's history.)

>D] Write-in.
>>
>>4367705
>>B] "Are you saving yourself for anyone?"
>2] Try not to be too smug, over having chosen a question both of your friends know the answer to already.
>>
>>4367717
+1

>>4367705
>>
>>4367717
>>4367731
(Very short voting window here, but with the unanimous vote and how close we're getting to the end of the board, locking here! Writing now.)
>>
>>4367743
https://youtu.be/58NKCwjz6e8

Leaning over to Sister Cardew, you whisper, "are you saving yourself for anyone?"

She practically jolts upright. The crimson on her face deepens, as she draws back, stunned enough to repeat out loud, "am I saving myself for anyone?"

Walter actually laughs, "phenomenal choice, Father."

There's a knock at the door. All three of you whip your heads towards the sound of the noise, as Ofelia cheekily calls out, "I'm not interrupin' anythin', am I?"

"No," Sister Cardew immediately fires off.
"Yes!" Walter barks.

You smugly glance to both of your friends, getting to your feet. "Stay there. You already know my answer," there's a little sway in the world, as you right yourself, and resist the urge to grab onto anything for support, "I will be right back."

Both scholars move to protest, as you cross the room, and quickly open the door out into the hall. Slipping back out from the smell of smoke, innuendo, and the pair's arguing—

"I can't believe this— Richard, do not leave me alone with this hooligan—"
"There is nothing to fear, Sister, beyond how handedly I've outwitted you this evening."
"There was validity to your first impression of me, Walter."
"I knew it."
"—you think I can't hold my own, is that it...?"

Placing yourself to keep the door shut, you fire a terribly cheeky grin down to Ofelia. "Yes?" There's a commotion, from behind the door, and several expletives. They're mostly literary puns.

The halfling must have been shaken out of sleep by something. She's bleary— even with the light in her eyes— but urgently stresses, "there's someone at the door for ya'."

The sound of something falling, inside the room, has you both try to not pay too much attention to the sound of Harriet and Walter going at each other. The killer beside you smirks. "Good fer them."

There's some thanks in order. Tactfully, you mention, "the cake and whiskey were remarkable." So you might be a little drunk. "Thank you so much."

"No problem, Richard." Her smile is a lot less pained than usual. "You, uh—" there's a glance, to your slightly disheveled robes, the new dressing on your face, and the absence of any weapons on you. "You alright?"

It takes a minute to come up with an honest answer. "I am not entirely sure."

"Well." You're gently taken by the hand, and led away from the door. "We'll figure somethin' out. It's not even dawn. These fuckers." Most of the candles in the hall have gone out, and the hearth in the main sitting area is low. "Think a buncha' priests would some sense of decency."

"What."

"...speakin' of which? You've been up all night...?"

(1/2)
>>
>>4367858
"Yes," you reply, brow knitting with concern even through the haze of whiskey. It's dark, and though you can hardly feel the Time, you know no one should be up. Certainly not any of your clergy. "Who would be here for me at this hour? There should be a guard posted, Ofelia, I can't imagine why anyone would bother—"

Taken through the living room, where Cyril, Klepto, and Harvey made an impromptu sleeping arrangement on the floor, you carefully skirt around their blankets and snoring towards the door.

It's open, and no fewer than twenty of the King's guard are standing outside. You resist the urge to instinctively turn and run. Striding straight over to them, into the hall just before the entryway, and praying you sound more sober than you feel, there's scrutiny bearing down in all directions. The worst of it is the veteran at the head of the pack. A middle-aged priest of Mercy, with a neatly-trimmed beard, traditional (hideously gaudy) golden robes, and no mood for games returns your frown.

"What is the meaning of this," you whisper. The group is occupying so much of the front porch, you couldn't walk outside to speak if you wanted to.

"Good evening, Father Anscham," he manages, poorly hiding a disparaging sneer, that moves up and down over you for only one perceptible second. "Apologies for the interruption."

"Piss off," Ofelia snaps at him. Much more mildly, to you, she mentions, "he wouldn't tell me shit, Richard. I was about to run 'em off—"

"—if I may, Father," your clergyman immediately interjects. You give him a warning scowl, as he continues, "the audience you have requested with King Magnus, the Merciful, will be held at dawn."

You are definitely sweating. "Today?"

His frown deepens. "Did you not request for an earlier—"

"I did," you murmur, not caring in the slightest for propriety in the moment.

Father Sullivan must have worked all night for this.

"Please collect anything you need." Losing any and all ability to hide his disdain, the priest manages to curtly stress, "we'll move as quickly as we can."

He thinks I need to sober up. Isn't that just fantastic.

"Watch yer fuckin' mouth," Ofelia jabs, going to close the door. "Sick of this shit already—" she slams the door in his face, viciously smiling, "give us a minute—!"

Making no attempt to stop her, you scowl to door. It must be no more than an hour or two, at the most, until sunrise.

I swore I'd get Walter and Harriet together, even if it killed me.

(Options in next post.)
>>
>>4367867
>Choose AT LEAST ONE option from A.
>Choose ONLY ONE option from B.
>Majority will decide.

>A] You might want to wake up someone, to accompany you on what you hope to be your last royal visit for a very long Time. (Klepto is simply not an option.)
>1] Cyril. He's ludicrously tactful when he needs to be, easily as diplomatic as you are, and his protection is invaluable.
>2] Stardust, and Starlight. You don't want to speak on their behalf, and are sick of wasting so much Time. Get to the bottom of the royal conflict, once and for all.
>3] Brother Wilhelm. His counsel and foresight would make his father proud.
>4] Ask Ofelia if she'll accompany you. She likely won't be let into the royal chamber, but you could use the moral support on the way— in addition to whatever may come after.
>5] See if Ray is doing well enough for a morning run.
>6] This is your business, you want no distractions, it's late as sin, and you know you can handle this. You're going alone. (This is mutually exclusive from 1-5, for obvious reasons.)

>B] With a broken nose, coming out of a day alternating between grief and vomiting from stress, drunk, running on no sleep, and a whole lot of salacious conversation, you do not look or feel up for a royal meeting.
>1] Conjure something VERY sobering from Yech's flask. A sharp mind is far more important to you than appearances. Risk whatever ill effects it may cause, and run to the castle. Maybe your ability to answer King Magnus at the drop of a hat will make a better impression than your looks.
>2] Appearances actually mean a hell of a lot. Try to wash your face, clean up, put on something nice, and do something about the smell of liquor all over you. It might keep the King waiting an extra minute, but you'd rather not show up to the castle looking like you just rolled out of a bar.
>3] Do literally everything in your power to look and feel more presentable. It WILL hurt your leverage in conversation, but you'll at least apologize profusely to King Magnus when you arrive.
>4] Time is not on your side, but you're going to make the most of it. (Write-in any brief measures you would rather take.)
>>
>>4367876
>>A] You might want to wake up someone, to accompany you on what you hope to be your last royal visit for a very long Time. (Klepto is simply not an option.)
>6] This is your business, you want no distractions, it's late as sin, and you know you can handle this. You're going alone. (This is mutually exclusive from 1-5, for obvious reasons.)

Tell Ofelia to try and get the two nerds to fuck as if her life depended on it. Delegate!

>B] With a broken nose, coming out of a day alternating between grief and vomiting from stress, drunk, running on no sleep, and a whole lot of salacious conversation, you do not look or feel up for a royal meeting.
>1] Conjure something VERY sobering from Yech's flask. A sharp mind is far more important to you than appearances. Risk whatever ill effects it may cause, and run to the castle. Maybe your ability to answer King Magnus at the drop of a hat will make a better impression than your looks.

We had a very long day as he is surely going to find out, hopefully he can spare a little Mercy for our looks. If it's good enough for a God it's good enough for him.
>>
>>4367926
Supporting this.
>>
(Hey dudes, just a heads up, work is utterly insane today. Will definitely update when back at home [roughly 6 hours from now]. Vote will remain open until then.)
>>
>>4367876
>>A] You might want to wake up someone, to accompany you on what you hope to be your last royal visit for a very long Time. (Klepto is simply an option.)
>7] Klepto, he doesn't get much time with us and could use to see how a Father of the church of Mercy acts.
>>
>>4367926
+1
>>
>>4367926
>>4368016
>>4368088
>>4368429
(Back at home! Going with majority, as previously stated. Writing now.)
>>
>>4368549
(Thanks for your patience guys, had an interruption but am back to writing.)
>>
>>4368725
https://youtu.be/YSyZIxyPiHY

"Ofelia," you breathe, doing your best to not have a panic attack. "I need you— I need you to do me a favor—"

"Hey." She bops you, lightly, just on the side of your calf. "What's goin' on with you?"

Glancing down the hall, past your friends— you see that Harvey is sleeping in his suit of armor, and completely lose your train of thought. Nervous laughter spills over your lips. Your heart sings for your friends.

Bless him.

Worry is seriously discoloring an unnaturally illuminated face. One of your best friends lost her very eyes, at the bottom of the world, and can recognize when you're in distress almost as well as anyone could hope for. Quietly, Ofelia murmurs, "whatcha' need, big guy?"

Shaking your head, running a hand through your hair, you gesture a little towards the room that Harriet and Walter are occupying. "Get them together. Some way. Some how. They— they deserve each other— and infinitely more—"

A few blonde curls bob, as the halfling frowns, "yer jokin'."

"No," you scowl.

Both of you spend a good, long minute staring down the hall. Quietly, Ofelia murmurs, "I'm guessin' you don't want anyone followin' you to the castle, then."

It's entirely necessary to kneel down, and sit on the ground. Several feet away from the door, at your host's eye-level, you practically sink into the wood and humble rug. Between surgery, an entire night without sleep, an abysmal diet, far too much liquor, vomiting from stress, and the perpetually anxiety that's been on you this week, the stolen moment of respite is sorely needed. It normally would kill your back to slouch, but with your Relic in hand, it's possible to curl a little in on yourself. Slouching isn't normally even an option, but you do, drawing your knees in just slightly, to glance up to your friend. "...no."

Despite the height disparity, Ofelia drops right down beside you, while you set to conjuring "something very sobering," from Yech's flask. It's clear, and a little fizzy. You try not to lose your mind, scowling at the container.

Ofelia laughs, despite herself. "He's still fuckin' with you after all this time, isn't he."

Grimacing doesn't cut it. It's the purest, loveliest, slightly chilled... "water. It's— it's mineral water."

Thinking to the sheer volume of cake you've had tonight, and your large breakfast, it's likely that you'll burn off the worst of your inebriation on the way to the castle. This is honestly the best possible thing you could drink. Despite the pain it causes, you set to putting back as much water as you can, in-between actually answering the question posed to you. "Yesterday was easily— easily was one of the longest days of my life."

A slender arm wraps around you, pulling you into half a hug. "I can tell."

(1/2)
>>
>>4368807
"This entire week has been— it feels as if—" it's terribly hard to breathe, but you're determined to resolve this matter on your own, "I know what I need to do. The trouble is— Ofelia, I— I only know where to begin." Getting to your feet, you assert, "King Magnus will likely appreciate an early arrival. Mercy takes no issue with my appearance, and— and He will need to do the same."

"Yer not—" Ofelia is baffled, "you look fine."

The splints on your face, spots beneath your eyes, deep-set bags, the slight waver to your position, and every other inch of you says otherwise. The sheer severity of your grimace gets her to admit, "okay. Alright. But yer just, goin' out?"

Opening the door, completely ignoring the guard for another minute, you promise, "I will come back the moment we're done speaking. I cannot fathom an audience with His Grace occupying much of His Time. Try— try to not worry yourself."

"Take care of yerself," she frowns. "I'll make sure everyone's safe, but that means you, too, Richard."

"Thank you so much, Ofelia. I— I am going on a run," you murmur. The guards outside shift, as you nod your head, gesturing for them to all get moving. It doesn't matter if your pulse is elevated, if there's already a cold sweat on you, that every inch of your body is screaming at the sight of so much gold, that justified fear for your friend's lives has you still feeling sick, or the hundred other issues plaguing you.

There's a fire in your soul, and the promise of another day. Dawn is just around the corner. You're alive. You have your faith, and you are keeping your promises. Breaking away from The Honey Bee, breaking into a run, and heading towards a royal meeting, you call over your shoulder to the men and women sworn to follow your word.

"Try and keep up."

(END THREAD.)
>>
>>4368812
Archive (Feel free to vote +1 if you liked the thread!): http://suptg.thisisnotatrueending.com/qstarchive.html?tags=Catalyst%20Quest
Discord (Art, a huge music playlist, fan projects and much more): https://discord.gg/24cmNWp
Google Drive (Easy-to-follow timeline that summarizes the quest, official character art, fanart, and an in-character journal with detailed information on everything from the Gods to high-res maps and the demons you've faced): https://drive.google.com/drive/folders/1LkahIC8EcwHBPbrkEODUMH9iwQhxkFvB?usp=sharing
Thread Theme: https://youtu.be/6qiMlcAnurQ

With that, we bring our 17th thread of Catalyst Quest to a close. If anyone has any suggestions, feedback, comments, constructive criticism, or just want to point out anything you enjoyed, please let me know! I'll be lurking well into the next thread, and love questions. I've made a strawpoll for a preferred time to start the next thread. Please cast your vote! It will close on Thursday afternoon, 1PM EST, and which time I'll announce the official date we'll continue. As always, I'll provide updates here (until 404), the /qtg/, and our Discord.

Thank you all for an AMAZING thread. Can't wait to get this crazy show back on the road!
>>
>>4368815
Aforementioned strawpoll that I completely forgot to attach.
https://strawpoll.com/d5jghf21y
>>
>>4368818
The overwhelming majority for the poll wants Friday. With the overlap we can conveniently accommodate 4/5 votes. Our next thread will start on Friday, July 24th at 12pm EST! I'll be sure to link here, in /qtg/, and in the Discord.
>>
>>4373245
>>4373245
>>4373245
Catalyst Quest #18 is live!



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