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File: Catalyst Quest- Avowed.png (1.77 MB, 1920x866)
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The screams of the dying cut across the cold autumn air. So many lives have been taken, in the holy city of Beorward.

It is the end of autumn. No end is in sight, to the smoke that gathers. It comes from your breath, and in red tendrils on the horizon.

You have not emerged from the depths of the world, traveled halfway across the country, and arrived at the Church of Flesh for nothing.

This is, ultimately, a new beginning.

Distant as the screams are, each echo for relief cannot be ignored. The peals of agony carry across the stone, the wood, and all the way up to the drawbridge before you.

Every thought of running to aid the injured is carved into you. Yet, the urge forms into something so much worse than a recurring, suicidal tendency. It lingers, beyond the forefront of your mind, ahead of the gatehouses, and certainly beyond all of your companions.

Father Wilhelm, of the Church of Dream, has foreseen your path here. Another tendril of smoke, from a dwindling cigar, snakes just ahead of you. Over his tidy beard and mustache, his disheveled robes, the slouch in his shoulders, his ridiculous nightcap.

For everything you have told him, he has not wavered from your side. Not for an instant, and certainly not now.

There is little fear, in any of your hearts. You are men of the Gods.

Ten other priests, your current guides, cut a more striking image than even the carnage littering the courtyard before you. You hold a veteran position, in the Church of Mercy, but you are surrounded by your elders. They are all rippling muscle, heaving with a lifetime of effort with passing step. They carve through the interior of the battlements, towards the barracks, the high walls. Each one of their crimson robes reflect the viscera, intentionally torn and refitted in so many ways. Though you might have mistaken the men for being significantly your senior, the majority of the men make no attempt to hide their age or appearance. Many of their hoods have been torn clean off, along with so many sleeves. The hems are tattered, many are hiked up, and more still are removed completely. Bare chests, necks and sleeves are adorned with more than crimson.

The priests of Flesh care not for concealing their scars of battle.

They are soldiers.

Though you are certainly still in Beorward, it is immediately clear that you have passed through the first defenses of the Church of Flesh. Its spiked foundations, high ramparts and so much water are all streaked with more red, still.

The same hue hits the smoke on the horizon, deeper than before. The billowing plumes, thin as they are, remind you so much of the God of the Material. Flesh.

Someone has called upon Him. The screams are intensifying.

(1/3)
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>>4004914
vote c
>>
>>4004914
FIRST POST LETS GO CATALYST AAAA
>>
>>4004914
You look, wide-eyed, to your companions again. It's difficult, to meet most of their eyes. You are wearing a hood, lined with silks and fur, disguised as a member of nobility. Hidden are your own scars, your pallor and all of your trauma. There is no indication from anyone among you of your position, your rank, or the obvious outbreak of demons beyond. They are all utterly calm, all of their focus bent on reaching the interior of the church's defense. The doors of its main halls.

Past the courtyard, littered with viscera, you cannot appreciate the irrigation built under and into the entirely man-made structure. Neither are you capable of scrutinizing the great number of buildings, restructured from the ruins of ages long past. No thought it paid to the testament to humanity's quest for survival. Not even the stairs ahead can distract your thoughts. It's all you can do, to not trip up to the door that dwarfs even your respectable height.

The distraction, your focus, is not on your imminent meeting with Father Friedrich, leader of the Church of Flesh. Your thoughts do not go to your travel across the country, for all of the weeks it took. Nor do you dwell on your recent reunion with your parents, any of the respite you were granted, or the hundreds of questions brewing in your mind. You do not think of the sacrifices Father Wilhelm surely made, to grant you safe travel and the cover of disguise for so much Time.

The singular thought goes out to a nightmare, that you cannot escape. Not for having conquered the ruins, not for all you have learned, and certainly not for everything you have endured.

It is your obsession.

A weakness.

It lies not only in the clergy and citizenry that are weeping in isolation, crying out for aid. Not for the way that they have surely been dragged and carted away from the rest of the city, held in bondage for fear of what they may do if they turn.

It cannot be quarantined. Such efforts are futile, with so much obvious emotion on display.

The weakness is something that lurks in all of humanity. The thought sits in your mind. It is meaningless.

Your study lies in the soul.

In the Catalyst.

The wounded here no longer fear triggering it. Their restraint has been broken. I can at least recognize that much. What— how much have I missed...? I was in the ruins for no more than two months, at the most. How long have I really been gone for? What transpired here? How many survivors am I actually hearing? Why will no one explain anything?

The evidence of the battle must have been recently fought, and scarcely won, is all around you. It is written in the priest's strain, beside you, their silence, and the active repression of any possible emotion.

Anything that may excite the very thing that has taken their countrymen.

You are no stranger to suffering.

(2/3)
>>
>>4004920
You are Father Richard Anscham, leader of the Church of Mercy. The year is 605, and in your home— the country of Corcaea— the souls of mankind belong to demons.

Though you know the agony and destruction here more intimately than any woman, you do not know what precisely is expected of you in the Church of Flesh. Not of Father Friedrich, and no longer of your station as the Father of Mercy.

Nothing has prepared you for such a meeting.

It was plain to anyone who looked upon you, that you went to the ruins to die. The country, no doubt, has mistaken you for dead. You travel, disguised, in the garb of nobility. The fine furs, your ornate cloak and all the silk conceals a Relic of enormous power. Mercy's gift. Your symbol. An object that you have concealed, along with your face, your intent, and all of the horrors you've endured.

You guided an archemon to power. You've made the unholiest of alliances, and so many more enemies. Most of them are dead, now.

But Father Friedrich guides the bulk of Corcaea's defense. He will want to know everything he can of your travel, your mission, your companions and your absence.

The fact that you have received absolutely no acknowledgement of your identity, no proper greeting, and are being escorted away from the sick and injured into the halls of the church without so much as a word of explanation...

You are an honest man. A healer. You may have been labeled time and time again as far worse, but you are determined to be better. To uphold the tenets of your Goddess, and to lead a life away from the darkness. You have yet to lie to a soul, neither in regards to your journey nor in any other capacity.

As five of the priests of Flesh set to getting the doors to the church open, the colossal defense to the main hall, you continue to hear the screams of the dying. They are much closer. Still kept to exterior defenses, but there they are. Inescapable.

A sick feeling is in your gut. Not for how hard you've been pushing your emaciated body in recent weeks, to look after yourself, and to right the abuse you've suffered in so much Time.

The cries are intensifying by the second. Something is horrifically wrong. Several of the priests beside you seem disturbed, though they don't say a word. Their lack of motion to move, to aid their fellow man, has your heart in your throat.

Those are human screams. Not all of them have turned.

They know who I am. They're placing my life over those of the injured, aren't they?

(Options in next post.)
>>
>>4004924
>A] Your life is not worth more than another's. You need to uphold your oaths, no matter what pains have been taken to keep your survival a secret.
>1] You are sworn to protect. Take up your mace and shield. No matter who follows you, get ready to fight.
>2] You are sworn to heal. Brace yourself for the worst of the carnage.

>B] You may not be capable of exerting much now, but you can try. You are sworn to uphold your restraint. Follow the priests of Flesh inside, to greater safety. Trust Father Friedrich's judgement, and don't insult his leadership by straying from the side of his men right off the bat.

>C] Drop the charade. You are sworn to uphold the truth. Demand answers. There's never a moment to talk, but you're going to start making the Time to do so.

>D] Write-in.
>>
>>4004926
>Catalyst Quest begins a new chapter.
>Catching up to the archive is not necessary, to join us in Avowed, but it is strongly encouraged.
>So much has happened.

>You are Father Richard Anscham, leader of the Church of Mercy. You spent the last three months in the ruins under the Aerth. You ventured to the bottom of the world, guided a newly risen archdemon to power, and obtained a holy Relic. Through it, you have received relief from your pain, and granted relief to so many others.
>Though you have gained and lost many allies, you need more.
>There was no cure to the Catalyst, within the ruins. The Goddess of Mercy told you, explicitly, that the only cure was death.
>Despite Mercy's caution and guidance, you have saved the lives of demon. You are a killer, and have slain so many more.

>Some time has passed, since you last told a demon lord that the world was not ready for him.

>Is the world ready for you?


Archive (First Arc): http://suptg.thisisnotatrueending.com/qstarchive.html?tags=Catalyst%20Quest
Discord (Update notifications, art, music, etc.): https://discord.gg/24cmNWp
Father Anscham's Journal (Guide to invoking the pantheon, Mercy's tenets, maps and more. Updated regularly.): https://drive.google.com/drive/u/0/folders/1r-yFdCSj0VJi63LsD3Vl9T0DWw4us6wn
>>
>>4004926
>>B] You may not be capable of exerting much now, but you can try. You are sworn to uphold your restraint. Follow the priests of Flesh inside, to greater safety. Trust Father Friedrich's judgement, and don't insult his leadership by straying from the side of his men right off the bat.

>Is the world ready for you?

They better fucking be cuz catalyst is back babyyyyyy
>>
>>4004937
seconding
>>
>>4004926
>>B] You may not be capable of exerting much now, but you can try. You are sworn to uphold your restraint. Follow the priests of Flesh inside, to greater safety. Trust Father Friedrich's judgement, and don't insult his leadership by straying from the side of his men right off the bat.

>Is the world ready for you?

Let the legend come back to life.
>>
>>4004926
>>>B] You may not be capable of exerting much now, but you can try. You are sworn to uphold your restraint. Follow the priests of Flesh inside, to greater safety. Trust Father Friedrich's judgement, and don't insult his leadership by straying from the side of his men right off the bat.

>>Is the world ready for you?

Start the theme music
>>
>>4004937
>>4004938
>>4004945
>>4004953
(Unanimous right off the bat, love it. Vote is locked, writing now.)
>>
>>4004984
More screams cut across the courtyard. The five priests ahead manage to wrest open the front door, as you listen to the cacophony. More priests still are inside the building, assisting with the weight of the defense. You strongly suspect that the wood is only additional protection, for the metal that no doubt lies beneath.

It is impossible to take too much precaution, in a land of Gods and demons.

The agony in the distance cannot outweigh your conviction. Though it may seem prudent to go join the fight, every part of you knows how important this meeting is. To uphold your position. To do the right thing. To not blatantly and immediately disrespect the will of the Father of Flesh.

Without protest, you step inside the halls of the church.

https://youtu.be/mz5Ka4AvjQM

So much red greets you. Below the stone, the tall wooden rafters, there are tapestries of bandages. They adorn hundreds of men's wounds.

It is utterly silent, for how many are obviously in the throes of death.

You interject the silence, very briefly, to command Ray to your side. No one argues, though a few heads do turn. You dismiss them by ushering that a clergyman attend to your pack horse. The additional fuss gives you ample time to look around.

It reminds you of home. The Church of Flesh is significantly smaller than your own place of worship, but there are still so many immediate signs of devotion. Not of restraint, or compassion, but in respect to the Flesh. Barracks, winding halls, and what must be the home to even more men than the wounded. They are lying, sitting, resting, preparing to go back out into the thick of it. More still are running by, armed to the teeth. Through the rows of wounded, into snaking corridors beyond, and even a few back out towards the city. It's likely for reinforcements. Swords, shields, spears, halberds and bare fists all go, away, towards the sound of the screams.

More come back, bleeding.

Moments after you venture within eyesight of a single one of the ragged figures inside, there is a priest on every side of you. You stand nearly a head taller than the shortest one. Father Wilhelm shoots you a look, as he is quickly ushered inside, that says everything.

He does not look afraid. The Father of Dream seems terribly proud of you.

Whatever rumors there are about me are unfounded. I know my duty.

The tallest of the men does properly get in front of you. The slouch in the priest's shoulders ensures he maintains a shorter stature. You had nearly forgotten, having gone months without being teased or belittled, that you do paint an imposing figure when necessary. You don't mind the shorter man's presence, as he keeps his hands and any comments to himself. In fact, no one pays any heed to your rapid pace, broad steps, or your obvious eagerness to cut across the floor.

(1/2)
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>>4005056
Its layout is very similar, to the Church of Mercy's. Winding halls and several more corridors take you back. It's not to the expansive halls of your home, but to weeks of wandering in similarly claustrophobic chambers. You pass beyond no windows. There is nothing more than the smallest slits in the defense for spears and molten rock. The steps to the front of the church were steep, but the rear of the building appears to be directly over a sheer cliff.

There's that awful feeling again, in the pit of your stomach. The screams, and the crawl. An itch in the back of your mind beckons, to reach out, to do worse.

You are pulled back to the present moment.

There is a dog at your side, whining politely, and trying to command your attention. You want to gesture to Ray, to insist that you're alright, but a hand is on the side of your cloak.

It's the priest of Flesh. His knuckles are absolutely ravaged with marks of battle, though his exposed arms seem relatively unscathed. He looks to you, kindly, and nods his head towards the end of the hall.

"Father Friedrich has been—"

A sharp scream, from one of the corridors you just passed through, slices through the man's speech. His words sound more rustic than you would expect, for a member of clergy. It's not a surprise, for the poor posture. You try scrutinizing the blonde hair, his obvious poor breeding, but really can't be bothered. He's unphased by the interjection, and continues.

"—know, expecting you. Don't want to keep him waiting, right?"

The hand comes off of your shoulder.

Everyone is looking to you, very earnestly.

Father Wilhelm is visibly sweating.

Mercy, no. He didn't.

"Can you excuse us? For just a moment," he asks, uselessly. Every clergyman beside you seems irritated.

He must have.

He was keeping secrets from more than just me, wasn't he?

An older gentleman, with a neck easily as broad as your thigh, turns down his mustache at the priest of Dream. He even crosses his arms. The muscle puts your father's strength to shame.

So does the sternness of his voice. "No."

>A] Father Wilhelm did everything he could to get you here. Save your questions for later. Fend for yourself. Go in with only Ray.

>B] Flex your position. Insist to the priests that you and Father Wilhelm at least have a moment to speak.

>C] Demand that the clergy respect your wishes, and Father Wilhelm's. Have him join you.
>1] That scream was VERY close. Insist that they go attend to their fellow man.
>2] Emphasize your obvious mental distress. You don't need to lie here. You legitimately could use the support.

>D] Write-in.
>>
>>4005060
>>A] Father Wilhelm did everything he could to get you here. Save your questions for later. Fend for yourself. Go in with only Ray.
>>
>>4005060
>>A] Father Wilhelm did everything he could to get you here. Save your questions for later. Fend for yourself. Go in with only Ray.
>>
>>4005060
>>A] Father Wilhelm did everything he could to get you here. Save your questions for later. Fend for yourself. Go in with only Ray.
>>
>>4005071
>A] Father Wilhelm did everything he could to get you here. Save your questions for later. Fend for yourself. Go in with only Ray.
>>
>>4005060
>>A] Father Wilhelm did everything he could to get you here. Save your questions for later. Fend for yourself. Go in with only Ray.
>>
>>4005071
>>4005073
>>4005081
>>4005084
>>4005093
(Locking vote here. Just a head's up, I don't always and I mean almost never only do just the unanimous vote, so to anyone lurking just be aware that there's always merit in throwing in any comments or other votes, too! Writing now.)
>>
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(Had to switch computers since last thread and had to dig up old character art, managed to get everything! Missed pic of Father Wilhelm in last post, here it is now. Properly writing now.)
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>>4005106
Turning as politely as you can manage from the priests, you murmur to your guide. The man who's done as much for you as anyone could possibly hope for.

"Thank you, Father Wilhelm, but we can speak another time." Offering the blonde clergyman a little reassurance seems prudent. "I would hate to keep Father Friedrich waiting. Is it alright, if I enter unaccompanied...?"

The cracks of blue in Father Wilhelm's skin stand even starker than usual, as pale as he is, but the man offers you no further protest. Wearily, he manages to puff away at his cigar, and to nod back. You call Ray to your side, and press ahead, beyond the last defenses of Flesh.

It's abundantly clear why everyone has been so quiet, the very moment you step through the door at the end of the hall.

"Thank you, Cyril. That will be all." The voice is gruff, ragged, and resonating with a familiar divinity.

"...Father."

The door remains awkwardly open, as the rest of the clergymen remain. Father Wilhelm offers you a disconcerted look, as the blonde— Cyril— and the rest of the priests back away in deference.

A moment passes, in silence, before the entire group leads your companion back out of the corridor. You turn your attention back, towards the divinity.

Dozens of maps litter the otherwise luxuriously decorated room. There are boxes, packages, and so many obvious stacks of gifts neatly placed in piles. They are focused around a colossal table in the center of the chamber. It is utterly devoid of the counsel and company you would expect, for a man of such a lofty position.

One that rivals your own.

The sole figure in the room certainly looks the part. His age, the gray in his impossibly well-trimmed beard, and more muscle than a man should rightfully command all has to look up to you. He's shorter than you expected, but Father Friedrich's red eyes are kind.

There's no trace of tears, of anger, or of anything else that would typically cause blood to flow into the orbs. The red is in his irises. You've only seen the look one other time, in your own reflection.

When Flesh has worked through you.

Smoke is still pooled at the top of the room, sinking into the cracks of the wood, flowing back out into the hallway beyond. The look directed towards you started as a fairly broad smile, but it has decayed rapidly into a grimace.

"Father Anscham. I should act surprised, shouldn't I? Our people dying, on the other side of these walls. Maybe your head went soft, down in the ruins? Will you close the damn door—"

Before you can so much as interject, there is a figure moving across the room. The intensity of every step has your hair on end. He's fitted in black, skin-tight, and unbroken from the top of his thick neck to the soles of his feet. Only a single band of red cloth is tied around the man's tapered waist. It billows behind him, for how much speed he takes in closing the door behind you.

(1/2)
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>>4005195
It occurs to you that there are no chairs, for the entirety of the chamber. Father Friedrich seems more comfortable standing, though not a single hair on his immaculate beard appears to be content.

"Father Friedrich. It— it is an honor, to meet you in person—"

His smile is entirely gone, now that the door is shut. If your instincts aren't mistaken, you'd say that the man would like to punch you.

He's definitely about to.

It's a good thing your nerves are so fried from the last several months of fighting for your life. He's barely telegraphing the swing, but you know what's coming.

>A] Take the hit. You know you want to.
>1] Ask what possible reason he could have for wanting to strike you.
>2] Don't say anything. Let the man get whatever issues he has out of his system. It's abundantly clear that he was just with Flesh. He may still be reeling.

>B] Try to dodge the hit.
>1] Don't return the blow. Demand some explanations as to what is going on outside.
>2] Throw one back. Trying to strike you unprovoked is a pretty miserable way to make a first impression. You'll leave a lasting one on him.

>C] Write-in.
>>
>>4005203
>>B] Try to dodge the hit.
>>1] Don't return the blow. Demand some explanations as to what is going on outside.

No reason to let ourselves get hit or return the blow - also demand is too harsh of a word, asking would probably be better.
>>
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>>4005203
(It's a good thing this isn't a drawquest, forgot the pic again. Father Friedrich, of course.)
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>>4005203
>B] Try to dodge the hit.
>1] Don't return the blow. Demand some explanations as to what is going on outside.
>>
>>4005207
he hot
>>
>>4005203
>C
>dodge and weave, like we dodged our responsibilities the last few months.
>>
>>4005203
>>B] Try to dodge the hit.
>>1] Don't return the blow. Demand some explanations as to what is going on outside.

We can't be getting knocked around this early, and throwing one back wouldn't be Merciful.
>>
>>4005203
>>B] Try to dodge the hit.
>>1] Don't return the blow. Demand some explanations as to what is going on outside.
>>
>>4005203
>>B] Try to dodge the hit.
>>1] Don't return the blow. Demand some explanations as to what is going on outside.
>>
>>4005205
Don't demand
>>4005208
>>4005216
>>4005223
>>4005228
Dodge the hit
>>4005213
Dodge and weave

(Got it. Writing now!)
>>
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>>4005252
You have been training. Through old responsibility, your position at the leader of the Church of Mercy, and its many obligations.

For all of your suffering, training and turmoil, you have learned to do one thing exceedingly well.

You dodge.

With the reactions of a man who has fought nothing but demons for weeks, who has pushed his body to its absolute limit for so much longer, you force your emaciated and travel-weary frame to cooperate. In a desperate fit at showing some modicum of restraint, you only move your head as slightly to the side as you need to. There's a kick of wind past the side of your defined jawline, as a fist completely misses it. You get a good look at the missed opportunity, before the priest's weapon draws back.

Not a single scar adorns the immaculate Flesh.

Ray is immediately on edge, growling viciously. Something stays him from attacking the threat outright, likely the wisdom to know that your life is not in any immediate danger. You firmly command him to stay, to back up, to get to relative safety. Father Friedrich snorts at the gesture, as if it's comedic for you to even bother.

You try launching something better than an attack in return.

The question comes out as a stammer, for how unused you are to behaving sanely. "F-Father Friedrich, please— if you could please let me know what's transpired here? We have only just arrived in Beorward. I know your Time is precious, but—"

He's still grinning, insanely, and trying to punch you again. You can't remember the last time you sincerely asked someone else for quality information. It's all you can do, to cut yourself off, and to step cleanly backwards, away from the blow. So much strength is behind the movement. You practically feel the wind knocked out of you, without any contact. The phantom of the strike has you fidget with the chain barely hidden about your neck, the moment you are certain of your balance.

It's a nervous habit, and you try to immediately repress it, but that's useless as well.

It's very obvious that Father Friedrich is testing you. There is not a single feint, or attempt at anything more than a ham-fisted attempt at keeping you distracted. You stay determined, to avoid every blow you're able.

A leg swings, as the priest moves to sweep your feet out entirely from beneath you. He's smiling ear to ear, practically glowing with religious fervor.

You jump back.

It feels utterly ridiculous, and is harder than it should be, given how much finery you're wearing. You're so much more accustomed to simple robes and trousers.The urge to at least take off the fur cloak is overwhelming, so you do so, the very moment you land.

As you toss it aside, you see that Father Friedrich appears to have jumped back, as well.

(1/2)
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>>4005464
There's no sustained contact between the two of you. The room feels like it's ablaze, for how much heat is in your face, and all of the red that's in the man's eyes before you. There's a stronger urge, still, to keep fidgeting, to put more distance between the priest before you. He's still grinning, wildly.

"What's wrong? Sick of fighting?"

"Certainly not so soon. It would—" you glance down, to your own scarred hands. The skin laced with old burns, lacerations, and so much evidence of fights you've survived. A weapon, of all of the Gods. "I am attempting to be Merciful, Father Friedrich."

You're so used to interruptions in your rustic, thickly accented speech, that you marvel for a moment. The priest is surely being polite, to not comment on it, to grant you the time to speak at length. You make a few more gestures to your boy, to reassure him, to keep his own nerves down. It's abundantly clear that your mastiff is not going to attack. The man standing before you, showing no sign of exertion, simply places his hands behind his back.

It's obvious that he's doing everything he can to listen to you, so you repeat yourself. "What has happened?"

His grin fades, if only slightly. "Since when, Father Anscham? Today? This week? Last I heard, you abandoned your station five months ago? Shouldn't I be the one asking you a few damned questions?"

He's definitely still grinning, and the door is rightfully closed. To the best of your knowledge, this is as safe of a room to speak candidly in as you can hope for.

>A] Today.

>B] This week.

>C] As much as he knows has transpired, since your absence.

>D] He honestly should be the one asking questions.

>E] Write-in.
>>
>>4005468
>>D] He honestly should be the one asking questions.
Buuuuut
>>C] As much as he knows has transpired, since your absence.
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>>4005468
>>C] As much as he knows has transpired, since your absence.
>>
>>4005468
>>C] As much as he knows has transpired, since your absence.

>>D] He honestly should be the one asking questions.

Definitely both of these - maybe a question for a question type of deal? He deserves answers.
>>
>>4005481
>>4005483
>>4005513
(Gonna lock the vote here to keep this ball rolling.)
>>
>>4005551
The urge to bet, to barter, to take in as much information as you're able is irresistible. There's a tilt to your voice, as you murmur in return, "Yes."

"Yes? Yes what? Speak clearly." The jab at your poor breeding isn't malicious. Father Friedrich's grin is persisting, for all of the church leader's obvious impatience.

It may be impossible, but you somehow manage to stand even straighter. "You should be the one asking questions— but I have a few of my own, Father Friedrich."

"Get on with it, then."

"You don't—"

"I really don't have the Time for games right now, Father Anscham."

The walls of the room seem to have muffled any exterior noise, but you're confident that the screams outside couldn't have died down so quickly.

You do manage to properly respond, after so much urging. "Then, please, can you tell me as much as you're able? Of— of what has transpired in my absence."

The man's patience seems to already be at his limit. He doesn't groan, or lose his composure, but you see a small twitch in his mustache. It's likely made in jest, but there is no amusement in any word directed towards you. "I don't want to have to interrogate you to have a proper conversation, Father Anscham. Pretend like we're having a damn sermon if that's what it takes, but speak clearly. No one has heard hide or hair of you in months, save for your..." He searches, for a long minute, for an appropriate word. With satisfaction, the priest continues, "expedition in the ruins."

"Please." You're grimacing, hard. "All I have heard is of the men and women I rescued."

There were fifty that came to you, during your sermon in the ruins of Ostedholm. Only fourteen survivors made it to the Church of Mercy, last you heard.

The smirk is gone entirely. "They kicked up a Storm— don't give me that face, not literally— in the capital."

You're acutely aware that you must look as if someone's personally murdered your children.

They left? Of course they left. I couldn't— how could I have expected them to wait for me?

The grimace remains, as Father Friedrich continues. His hands remain behind his back, as he nods with his head for you to walk with him.

The two of you pointlessly pace across the broad room, just for the sake of moving. Every fried nerve and aching muscle in your devastated body jumps at the chance for more exertion, to move faster, but you're kept in check by the man beside you. It's clear that he recognizes and shares your desire, to burn off the mutual agitation.

"I had always suspected, Father Anscham, that your deference was simply for lack of knowledge. That you would aim to usurp my authority the moment you realized how severe things really have been. Here. In our home."

He comes to a halt, looking to you earnestly. "That's never been the case, has it?"

(1/3)
>>
>>4005829
"I would be lying— if I were to say that I have been in anything but the dark, Father Friedrich." Your face hurts, for how hard you're frowning, "but I have always respected your decisions. Even— even while Father Wilhelm and I traveled here, I have been upholding your word to the letter. As best as I have been able."

An utter lack of information has you fidgeting again. "I simply— I need to know—"

The priest resumes walking, at the first sign of your physical discomfort. You oblige him, as he finally gives you the answers you're seeking.

"Your congregation made it out of the ruins, alright. I haven't been able to get word from Father Sullivan or any of the gentlemen holed up in your church—"

There's a swell of pride and so much mutual respect at the remark, you suspect you might actually let up on your grimace. Father Friedrich continues, still smirking.

"—but I strongly suspect they've been up to the same business as the King."

The weight in your gut drops completely. You almost stop walking, for how light your head becomes.

I was sent to the ruins for His mission, initially. Wasn't I? Wasn't that the whole farce? The only way I could get out—

"None of them seem terribly pleased, Father Anscham. A few words have dropped word to me, of the King's men, of a few vagrants, that have slipped into Beorward. Looking for you. They know you're alive. Everyone that cares to listen does, by now, thanks to your happy little congregation. They've been hard at work in Calunoth, preaching—"

Don't say it. They wouldn't.

"—about you."

"Blasphemy." You say it simply, as if it will excuse the behavior. A frown is directed back at you.

"The truth. You saved their lives, didn't you?"

"Yes, but—"

"There is nothing wrong with looking after your children, Father. Absolutely nothing. I would have done the same thing, if I could."

Every ring of sage must be visible in your own irises, as you stare, wide-eyed, at the priest before you. "They— they can't be. This is— I can't. There must be something that can be done."

"Of course there is. You have to get home, safely, and set things right. The trouble is, the whole fucking country is in disarray, and I need your help. I need you to be honest with me, Father Anscham." The smirk is incessant. "Not that you can help it."

You murmur, attempting to express your discomfort as truthfully as you're able. "There— there must be more. I need to understand, Father Friedrich. Though I do wish to speak with you about all of this—"

"Over a dozen men and women escaping from the ruins? Preaching the return of the Father of the Church of Mercy? All that's not not enough to sate you? Isn't restraint a tenet of Mercy? You a—"

Don't call me a glutton.

"Yes, Father Friedrich, but—"

(2/3)
>>
>>4005836
"Look. Father Anscham." The smirk doesn't threaten to return. The lines in the man's face are indicative of decades of stress, a lifetime of servitude, rightfully earned wisdom and so much more than you know of handling a country's human defenses. "It would be a privilege, to fill you in on our strategy in the Dark Fen, King Magnus' diplomacy and efforts to the west, all of the issues you left in the Church of Agriculture and Mercy, or even Father Wilhelm's obvious absence. We could likely talk all day about any number of petty economic issues I'm scrambling to remedy, our crumbling cities, or the approach of winter— or for that matter, even the damn weather. Everything, everything has been cause for concern. Father Barthalomew hasn't been faring well. But I have demons in my Church, and I need your help. I am doing everything I can to uphold your tenets, Father. If I'm to be perfectly honest, your arrival was very ill-timed."

"I— I see." This is about as terrible as you left the state of affairs. Without any details, it's difficult to say how much your own absence has exacerbated matters.

The priest comes to a halt, awkwardly, before the door. Ray is sitting angrily in front of it, growling at the hulking figure. You immediately urge him to stay down.

"Easy, Ray."

"Is he always like this?"

"No. There was no need for you to attempt to strike me, Father Friedrich. Don't—"

Fearlessly, the priest had gone to move towards the exit. The urgency and command in your tone halted his procession, and any possible attack from Ray. You continue, much more timidly, "please don't get any closer. Back, boy. Stay."

He does hang back, until Ray is safely to the side. "Father Anscham, I have no idea what you've been through, and I won't put you in harm's way if I can help it. It would be prudent for you to stay in hiding, until we can sort this mess out. I can offer you my protection, for a time, but I do have my children to attend to."

There's a wink and another smirk, as Father Friedrich opens the door before him. "I won't stop you. Probably couldn't, if everything I've heard has any truth to it. Would be some skin off my back, even if something happened to you."

The distance between you two grows rapidly. You move to follow, instantly, but the priest gestures for you to stay put. "Either way, my clergy will come back in no more than ten minutes Time."

Father Friedrich's hands aren't folded behind his back, as he fades towards the end of the corridor. He brings his palms to the needle, threaded around his neck.

A symbol of the Flesh he'll soon need to mend. His voice lingers, calling after you. The rooms in the corridor must be empty, for what he says.

"Don't disappoint me."

(Options in next post)
>>
>>4005838
>A] You're not waiting. There won't be any use disguising yourself for much longer. Better to save lives in the process.
>1] Let the Father of Mercy make himself known. Invoke Her.
>2] Sneak into an empty room, and grab a spare robe. Disguise yourself as a priest of Flesh, and invoke Him.

>B] Wait for the other clergymen to return.
>1] Listen to Father Friedrich's counsel, and stay in hiding. Let him attend to the outbreak. You have a lot of business with Father Wilhelm.
>2] It wouldn't sit right with you to lie. Ask if you can borrow a spare set of robes and a weapon from the priests of Flesh, to go aid discreetly in the fight.
>3] You're going in guns blazing. Take up your mace and shield. You've been training for weeks with the gifts from a demon.

>C] Write-in.
>>
>>4005840
>>B] Wait for the other clergymen to return.
>>1] Listen to Father Friedrich's counsel, and stay in hiding. Let him attend to the outbreak. You have a lot of business with Father Wilhelm.

Staying secluded from the others of the clergy isn't lying.
>>
>>4005840
>>B] Wait for the other clergymen to return.
>>1] Listen to Father Friedrich's counsel, and stay in hiding. Let him attend to the outbreak. You have a lot of business with Father Wilhelm.
>>
>>4005854
>>4005906
(Locking this to do what's probably the last update for the night, gotta get some sleep. I'll be back with more tomorrow! Writing now, though.)
>>
>>4005840
>B] Wait for the other clergymen to return.
>1] Listen to Father Friedrich's counsel, and stay in hiding. Let him attend to the outbreak. You have a lot of business with Father Wilhelm.
>>
File: Continent Level Map.png (4.15 MB, 2985x1278)
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>>4005854
>>4005906
>>4006032
The seconds drag on, as Father Friedrich completely fades from sight. A thin trail of red smoke billows from around the corner, evidence of the man's immediate invocation of Flesh. It's a certain sign of how dire the situation must be.

The last time you prayed to Him, it was also to protect the lives of others. To stave off dozens of demons.

You're reminded that it nearly broke your mind. The effects have been evident, ever since.

No matter how much of a blessing my pain may be, I have a duty to uphold. I have to protect myself. I can't let all of Father Wilhelm's efforts go to waste. Not now.

The minutes pass by, as slowly as you could possibly imagine. Though your curiosity is limited, even your most honest inclinations can't ignore the room you've been left in.

Alone, with no one but your dog, you fall into old habits. You read.

There are dozens of packages, littering the room, their labels plainly displaying the names of countless families. Though the vast majority are of nobility, it doesn't escape you that Father Wilhelm's cigar package is among the items closest to the table.

The package is unopened, and there's a very fine layer of dust on it.

With a frown, you turn your gaze away from the boxes of finery and to the many maps littering the table. Most of them are incomplete, hand-written by men who could not possibly be cartographers. The work of Father Friedrich's soldiers are pieced together, painting an inelegant portrait of the countryside, and more outbreaks of demons than you know how to wrap your mind around.

Though there are smatterings of outbreaks to the east, and throughout all of the cities, the bulk of them come from the west. Where you've spent only a fraction of your life, but learned more than any man could possibly fathom.

Corcaea is, first and foremost, a land of demons.

Something catches your eye, beside the patchwork of maps. There is a single, enormous expanse of parchment. It's obviously Father Friedrich's work, for how much more concise it is. While the terrain makes little sense to your trained eye, the craftsmanship is competent enough to bear closer scrutiny.

The names littering it align with your own research, but the ones you are unfamiliar with raise so many questions you scarcely know where to begin. The colossal expanse of mountains to the deep south, and two continents you did not even know the existence of have you reeling so hard, you don't dare to pull away.

The mention of two more oceans than you previously knew of is more alarming, still.

(1/2)
>>
>>4006044
How little do I know?
I'm widely regarded as a scholar, and so much of this is utterly foreign to me. Father Friedrich left this in plain sight, but none of these countries or anything about them is common knowledge. Nothing beyond our own borders, at least.
Is the Church of Spirit hiding even more than this? There's so much empty space here— how little does even Father Friedrich know of the world outside?
How isolated are we?
We have enemies on every side. Could any of us possibly have survived an excursion alone, outside of Corcaea? To even venture into the ruins in our own land can destroy the strongest of men. I know what my excursion did to me.

Are there other human civilizations, beyond our borders?

There is a deep itch, in the back of your mind, to copy down the map in full. You do the next best thing, and spend the rest of the ten minutes committing every last coastline and ridge to your excellent memory.

Footsteps come from down the hall. You make no attempt to hide your scrutiny, to do anything more than to inhale as much information as you possibly can. You're acutely aware that this may be the last time you are truly alone, for a very long time.

Father Wilhelm returns. Cyril comes into view first, his long and thin ponytail scarcely moving as he rapidly approaches. The man's steps are as smooth as his colleagues, all control and discipline over their forms. The priest behind them, for all of the cracks of blue in his skin, seems decidedly less divine.

There's more blood on all of them. For your expertise in healing, you can instantly tell that none of them are injured. Father Wilhelm is a blessing, and tries to reassure you, regardless. He calls down the hall, "Father Anscham! We're alright, no need to worry. I see you've been busy, too!"

With a flinch, you try to gauge if anyone approaching room pays any heed to your name. Every one of the priests of Flesh doesn't seem alarmed. Either a lifetime of repressing outbursts has trained them to temper their response, or they legitimately don't care.

The more elderly of the priests of Flesh do, at least, look irritated. Three of them wait by the door. There seems to be only four in the entourage of Flesh, now.

Cyril, as laid back as he is, has obviously been assigned to speak primarily to you. You can't help but wonder if he's being tested in some capacity, or if his equally ill-fitting station in the church is meant to make you feel more at ease. His laid-back mannerisms at least stave off the majority of your insecurity, as he raps on the door.

"Knock, knock."

"What—" you start, glancing up properly from the spread on the table before you.

(2/3)
>>
>>4006047
Every man opposite you has a weapon of some sort. A sword and shield, a spear, an odd stretch of metal over two pairs of knuckles. Father Wilhelm and Cyril are almost bare-handed, but their holy symbols are evident. A simple crescent moon on a strand of silk is about the neck of the former. A wooden needle on a silver chain adorns the shoulders of the latter, who is also holding your mace and shield.

"Time's a wasting," the blonde shrugs. "You coming to help, or what?"

"You— you couldn't have been fighting— the wounded?"

Father Wilhelm offers you a weary smile. "Yes. It seems like a wasted effort, for how many more are coming in. Our efforts may be necessary. Are you— would you be alright?"

The look in his face says something along the lines of you look like death warmed over at best, and I'm deeply concerned one more fight is going to break you completely. Give me literally any excuse and I'll get these priests off your back.

The complex smile persists, strained as it is. Everyone's agitation is equally evident. Either these men need your aid desperately enough to not care to conceal you, or they're simply trying to be polite. It's very hard to tell.

>A] Ask plainly what Father Wilhelm thinks would be best. You're altogether too ravaged from your own battles to face another without any guidance.

>B] Take up your mace and shield. Serve the Church of Flesh with your own body.
>1] Go in disguise. Don't take any additional risks.
>2] You might not be fooling anyone. Go as you are.

>C] Two weeks of training is not enough to contend with demons, for how physically weak you still are.
>1] Invoke Mercy.
>2] Invoke Flesh.

>D] You are not fighting again so soon. Not after everything you've endured, not when you're given the chance to have some well-earned rest. Ask, as normally as you're able, if there's anywhere you can get some time and safety to yourself. You are not a coward. You simply know your limits.

>E] Write-in.
>>
(I'll be back in no more than 12 hours, with our usual schedule! At least one update a day for the remainder of the thread, hopefully more. Thanks again everyone.)
>>
>>4006051
>B] Take up your mace and shield. Serve the Church of Flesh with your own body.
>1] Go in disguise. Don't take any additional risks.
>>
>>4006051
>>B] Take up your mace and shield. Serve the Church of Flesh with your own body.
>2] You might not be fooling anyone. Go as you are.

THE CHURCH DIDNT RAISE A COWARD
>>
>>4006051
>>B] Take up your mace and shield. Serve the Church of Flesh with your own body.
>>1] Go in disguise. Don't take any additional risks.
>>
>>4006051
>>B] Take up your mace and shield. Serve the Church of Flesh with your own body.
>1] Go in disguise. Don't take any additional risks.

Gotta be cautious in our current situation.
>>
>>4006057
>>4006075
>>4006079
>>4006265
(Back and ready to write. Vote is locked.)
>>
>>4006278
Utter determination paints your grimace. The door has remained open, and the cries in the distance are unmistakable. Your murmur drops completely, so that you may better be heard. The statement is meant for Father Wilhelm, but you mean to reassure every man in your presence.

"The Church of Mercy did not raise a coward."

A few strained glances are directed at you, as repressed as they can manage.

"It would still be prudent for me to not be a distraction." You cross the room, take up your mace and shield, and ask as politely as you're able, "if it is at all possible, may I borrow a spare set of robes?"

Father Wilhelm seems amused, but the priests beside you take the request with utmost seriousness.

"Yes, Father Anscham," the elderly priest near the door immediately replies. He speaks in such a deep voice, it takes a moment to register his meaning. "That would be wise. Just a moment."

The man's black hair, shortly trimmed and streaked with gray, doesn't shift as you're looked up and down. It's hard to not cringe at the inspection, even though it's abundantly clear he's merely trying to deduce your size. He breaks into a run, down the hall, and reappears moments later with linen undergarments and three sets of crimson robes. There's also a length of rope. He beckons for you to follow him, to a spare room, and you make the quickest work possible of following him.

There's no measure of prayer that can stave off your discomfort, as the veteran clergyman makes a point of helping you put on the best disguise you're able. You keep your back turned to him the entire time, a hand to Your Relic, praying that he doesn't recognize how unusual the item is. The linen goes on as quickly as you're able, though it's all far too loose for practicality. There is no comment, no complaint, nothing but silent respect for your modesty.

It seems he intentionally picked a far larger size of vestments to better conceal your emaciation. In moments, there are knots of rope around your sleeves and waist. The majority is used over the robes, the second they're draped over your trousers and shirt. It creates something of an illusion of bulk, for all the fabric in between.

Though the priest doesn't say a word, there's eventually disdain written all over his face. It's impossible to ignore that he could fit his hand around your upper arm with ease. That for the few weeks you've been pushing yourself to your absolute limit, it will likely be months before you resemble anything in the way of normalcy.

Flesh has forsaken me, for how badly I've neglected and abused myself.

By the time you're done, you're as red-faced as the garments you're wearing. Pulling up the extremely lengthy hood, draping your pallid face in shadow,you thank the man profusely for his help. He gives you a strange look, as you take up your mace and shield.

"How...?"

"How— how what?" you balk, as your weapon and defense are being intensely scrutinized.

(1/3)
>>
>>4006340
The priest seems to remember himself, though he's still looking to your wasted muscle with utter disbelief. "Nothing, Father. We had better get moving."

He can't believe that I can even carry Yech's gifts. The man may not recognize sorcery when he sees it, but there is no reason for this. For so much blasphemy. I will find a way to make amends. I will not disgrace Flesh's works any further.

As you both rejoin the collection of priests, they seem itching to move. You usher Ray to your side, and Father Wilhelm pulls up the rear as you all wordlessly set out.

The priests of Flesh do not interfere, as the Father of Dream comes close enough to speak. In a very low voice, almost a whisper, he manages to convey a fraction of what he surely wants to say to you. "I apologize. You should have had fairer warning. Father Friedrich never received word that we were coming. I thought—"

Your blood is already pumping hard, as you all pick up your pace. "He seemed quite alright with our presence here, Father Wilhelm."

The movement is emboldening you. The prospect of doing what you truly do best. The timidness is rapidly leaving your voice, at the promise of putting your work to use. Your study. Your passion. "You have done more than enough to grant me rest. We have business to attend to. We will see to it."

The priests ahead break into a run, robbing you of any further speech. It's an enormous relief to be wearing typical linen and wool again. The heat is coming from your anticipation for battle, rather than heavy furs and so much silk. Yet, your mace and shield weigh heavy in your hands. The priest's observation was fair, and the items are still infinitely lighter than they should be. An untrained eye couldn't have been able to tell, but Yech's enchantments on the items have persisted long after you've left his side.

The screams are not going anywhere. It's drowning out the best of your thoughts, with the knowledge that the sound is coming from the interior of the Church of Flesh.

Though the cries were muffled by the thick stone and countless beams of wood around you, they cannot be ignored as you all break into the main hall.

"Get them out!"

There are dozens of men lying on the floor, sitting, crawling, trying to recover and unable to get themselves out of the line of fire. There is literally fire, and a form in the courtyard. A demon is screeching and billowing black smoke.

"Please, God, I can't move my legs— someone, anyone—"

The wounded are plentiful, but the threat to them lies in more than their injuries.

"They're breaking through the courtyard!"

There is not one demon you can make out, through the narrow slits in the walls. There are many. It's very difficult to place a precise number, from your poor vantage point, so you run as best as you're able to a window.

(2/3)
>>
>>4006341
You immediately regret it. Plumes of toxic ash are flooding towards exterior of the building, from a colossal demon in the center of the field. About it are at least eight imps, hulking, immune to the foul air. Several unformed demons are pooling around the corpses of fallen priests, threatening more of an attack. Around and past all of the enemy are a multitude of priests, trying to shield their faces from the assault. One of them is obviously invoking the God of the Material, to spare their lungs, but you cannot imagine the man surviving with so little aid.

Another voice bellows from behind you. "Where the FUCK is Father Friedrich?!"

You whip your head around. There is no sight of a single Church leader in the building. Either Father Friedrich located a greater threat, or doesn't realize how severe the situation has become.

"YOU ALL, THERE, CAN WE GET A HAND?!"

A priest, his face and hands caked in blood, seems to not be carrying a single weapon. He has the body of a screaming man draped over his shoulders, who runs up to the four priests of Flesh, and your dog. Ray is snarling, his fur on end from the chaos. You command him to stay put, running back to the group as quickly as you're able. The blonde standing at the head of your squad immediately shoulders the wounded, and turns to make his way deeper, back into the church.

He calls out, "I'll be back for the rest!" and breaks into a nearly inhuman run.

The three other priests of Flesh do not dare to give you a command or any word. The elderly gentleman, who helped you with your disguise, tears out the front door with his spear and shield at the ready. The two other men drop their weapons, entirely, to better help get the wounded to safety.

Father Wilhelm looks to you, very earnestly.

"I am right behind you."

>A] Protect yourself as best as you're able. Charge outside, into the thick of it.
>1] Take hold of Your Relic.
>2] Invoke Mercy.
>3] Invoke Flesh.
>4] Use your own hands, your cloth, your mace and your shield. You can take it.

>B] Lock down the Church of Flesh. Invoke Agriculture.

>C] The situation here is dire, but Father Friedrich is missing. Search for him.

>D] You are the Father of the Church of Mercy. Take charge of the situation. Write-in a better strategy.
>>
>>4006342
>>A] Protect yourself as best as you're able. Charge outside, into the thick of it.
>4] Use your own hands, your cloth, your mace and your shield. You can take it.
Deliverance begins when hypocrisy ends. Invoking Flesh would be to further disgrace Him.
>>
>>4006342
>E)
Hold the line with our body, shield and mace, so the priests may get as many as possible into safety from the demons clutches.
>>
>>4006342

>>D] You are the Father of the Church of Mercy. Take charge of the situation. Write-in a better strategy.

Tell Willhelm to arm himself with the weapons the other priests dropped and kill the demons that are forming, we cant afford dealing with more demons.

Us and Ray charge ahead with the older priest without invoking the gods. Also tell him we should try to bait the demons away from the injured so the smoke doesn't kill them and the rescuers have an easier time. We can't kill everything here by ourselves without invoking and I suspect Friedrich went to gather the cavalry so all we need to do is stall for time and minimize casualties.
>>
>>4006345
>>4006346
>>4006359
(Going to lock the vote here! Writing now.)
>>
>>4006371
Your command is simple, as you tighten the grip on your mace and shield.

"Arm yourself."

The Father of Dream offers you an unhinged smile, his hands around the holy symbol hanging from his neck.

"I already have."

There is a surge of blue, and a haze at the edges of the man's skin. Every crack and tear courses with divinity. It isn't blinding, not to you, but several men in the vicinity shield their eyes from the start of the invocation.

He does something strange, as he speaks. A strip of blue cloth is produced. He ties it around his eyes.

"Grant me your sight. Grant me your vision. I enter the night! Enter me, now! Let Us Dream."

You imagine that he is seeing through another's eyes, for the daze that's instantly upon him. It's practically blinding, for how much paint and vision is swirling in the exposed cracks adorning his Flesh.

It's very encouraging. A number of fallen clergymen look up to the figure, squinting, emboldened.

The rescue effort redoubles. A great number of priests seem to pick up their pace, and literally pick up and drag so many more figures away from the entrance of the building.

Father Wilhelm's words are laced with the voice of the Gods, but they are directed entirely towards you. "I am right behind you. See to the fight. I will see to the vision. Their rest. Their respite. Permit me attend to the Dream."

It's all you can do, to share in the religious fervor. A brief nod and an equally unhinged smile is all he needs in reply, but you can't resist something more. It's not towards the mortal man beside you.

You're reverent, as you speak to Flesh. Not as an invocation, but out of immaculate respect.

"Our hypocrisy ends. Deliverance begins."

So much devotion is coursing through you both, as you both break out, into a run. After the older man who charged fearlessly to certain death. You rip off a length of your robes, as quickly as you're able, and fasten it around your mouth and nose.

Tearing away, from the wounded, the dying, you emerge into the courtyard. The field of battle. Several priests immediately cry out, recognizing the holiness of the man behind you. It's very difficult to see through the smoke, and a cough instantly forms in the back of your throat. It matters little, as you charge into the fray.

Voices carry over the chaos, even over the screams behind you.

A man, wielding a sword and shield, doesn't dare to take his eyes off the imp that he's solely combating. "FINALLY!"

"HELP, FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THE GODS—" screams another, before an imp crushes his head between its bare hands.

You reel, for only a moment.

(1/2)
>>
>>4006396
The crack of the man's skull is loud enough to skip your heart, to make your run come to a halt in the midst of the fight. The spray of viscera and blood is redirected, weaponized by the imp that crushed bone as if it were the shell of a nut. You immediately swing up your shield, to deflect a barrage of molten crimson. Brain matter and demonic influence courses the barrage, but the matte black of your shield entirely soaks up the spray. The sorcery is plain to any who may look upon it.

Two priests near the front of the church dive behind you, the second they recognize your protection. One of them has the remnants of a shattered shield in his hands. The other appears to be badly wounded.

With a cry, you hold the defense, and command as best as you're able. "Father— see to the newly formed! I'll hold off everything I can!"

Father Wilhelm does not hesitate, to run out with more sight than any of you can hope for. The smoke cloaks him in an instant.

It seems irrational, but he carves a path impossibly close to the the demon at the center of it all. Streaks of blue pierce through the smoke, the flame, and the shadow of something resembling an old wound. The pustule and scabbed over Flesh does not contain any rot. It is filled with smoke, and fire.

A disturbing thought lances your mind, in the heat of battle. As you're deflecting another barrage of blood, steadfastly moving forward, protecting the men behind you.

I learned recently of demons with names. Who could feel, and know, and grieve. Who gifted me with the very weapons and shield I use now. They are not all insane—

The Father of Dream cuts around the out pour of flame, weaving between a surge of heat and fire, to the fallen men in the field beyond.

You see why, a moment too late. It interrupts your reverie completely.

There are more coming. They're coming from around the side of the church. It's the same direction the cries were coming from earlier in the day.

You are not afraid.

To the men behind you, you bellow, "BEHIND ME! We're getting as many to safety as we're able! MOVE!"

The smoke and flame whips past you in streaks, as you run. The heat is increasing by the second. Sweat soaks into the cloth around your nose and throat, depriving you of the oxygen you desperately need. For the fallen figures on the field of battle, you think little of your burning lungs.

You slide to a stop, hard, before one of them to better shield the priests behind you. They're screaming something, coughing hard, but you don't hear what they say.

There's another scream and a surge of color, from across the courtyard.

Through the smoke, you see that the newly formed demon beside Father Wilhelm is utterly inert. It's pooling into a puddle of deep blue. At rest.

Dream, in a more tangible form.

(Slightly over, 2/3)
>>
>>4006397
He's breaking away. Father Wilhelm is running again. The source of the screams behind you are made evident, before you can respond to the priest's display. There are two imps charging, jumping through the smoke straight at you.

The fully formed demon seems to be doing something as well. It's convulsing and contracting.

You aren't certain if your body can withstand the assault, but you know you have to try.

>A] Take the blow from both imps. Protect the men behind you at all costs.
>1] Trust in yourself.
>2] Invoke Flesh.

>B] Command the men behind you to get out of the way, and dodge. The wounded might take the blow, but you'll save two more lives in the process.

>C] Scream to Father Wilhelm to do anything he can to the larger demon. Accept that there will be casualties.

>D] You have to do something about the smoke. There's no way anyone can see or communicate with so much of it. (Write-in.)

>E] Write-in.
>>
>>4006400
>>A] Take the blow from both imps. Protect the men behind you at all costs.
>>1] Trust in yourself.
Flesh helps those who help themselves. Plus, we have a big fuckoff shield.
>>
>>4006400

>E] Write-in.

Form a line with us at the front, everyone that can stand is going to push with us as we counter charge the two imps. It's better than staying put and we are also taking attention off those who can't move.
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>>4006400
Also, could we use the relic like we did back in the ruins with Yech and Ofelia to coordinate everyone through the smoke? Im not voting we do it just making sure we have the option.
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>>4006412
conga line of memetics +1
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>>4006428
(Absolutely. To use it to unite the efforts of the priests behind you would absolutely be within your capabilities, so yes, that is always an option. Just as a reminder, your relic has multiple functions.

1. Merely holding it grants immediate relief from pain. You are uncertain if this applies to others, but Mercy's words heavily implied as much.

2. One face, the bent swords, enable change from mindless violence to compassion. It embodies restraint, and all of the tenets of Mercy.

3. The other face, the clasped hands, were formed to unite the hearts of humankind. You were able to use it in union for yourself, a demon, and a halfling woman thus far. It's uses obviously extend to anyone who you wish.

4. On the interior is a mirror. A combination of both sides. You have yet to open the locket and use it in such a way.

Invoking Mercy while wielding the Relic enabled you to melt a vast number of demons into gold without effort. The effect did rob one of your companions of her sight, for how radiant it was, but needless to say its effects are substantial.

I didn't present its use as a prompt at this point due to the statement about ending hypocrisy, using your own Flesh, etc. but appreciate the opportunity to expand on it.)
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>>4006438
(Had a few things come up IRL. Definitely will be able to update tomorrow, but may have to postpone anything further tonight. Possibly one more update later. Either way, here's a sketch of your relic as a consolation prize. I'll be back!)
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>>4006405
>>4006412
>>4006430
(Alright, gonna make this work! Got time for an update before bed. Writing now.)
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>>4007100
Pic courtesy of one of our voters.
https://youtu.be/kA614N3IHD4

Through the smoke and flame, the drenched cloth about your mouth and growing panic, you shout to the men behind you. Their obvious strength is something you know you can trust in.

"Line up! Behind me! NOW!"

Without hesitation, the man with the shield throws himself behind his ally. With a heave, their full weight lays into you. It isn't a second too soon.

Two demons rain their punishment on your defense. A blast of darkness rings out from your shield, the instant they make contact. One of the imps, with Flesh like molten lead, seeps smoke out of every orifice. He collides first.

Along the darkness and Yech's blessing comes a splash of acidic pus. A number of sores all along its body burst instantly, as the creature slumps to the floor.

There's no scream. You lean into it, heat rising to your face, for all of the acid littering your sleeve. The fabric is dissolved in an instant. No fewer than three layers of skin follow. There's a cold sensation, something hot, something numb, searing, burning, perfect.

It's a Mercy. To suffer. To feel the Gods through your very Flesh.

You love it. You love them.

You lose yourself, for a moment, to the bliss.

Its ally hits a second later, standing nearly as tall as you are. Its knitted muscle, absence of eyes and gaping mouth leers, hitting hard against the wounded limb. You do cry out, likely obscenely, for more.

It drags itself up, along your shield, clinging onto your defense.

The demon moves to strike.

Inches from your face, the movement and all of the smoke collapses to the floor before you can even properly respond. A sword, from behind, cuts the demon down. A splash of blood streaks across your face, threatening to suffocate you, for how much liquid is covering the fabric about your mouth and nose.

One of the priests of Flesh, crying out, pulls back his weapon and bellows to you.

"Keep moving!"

It feels like every demon's head swings towards you, as you eagerly oblige. Though the smoke is entirely too thick to tell the sheer number of enemies on the field of battle, you know without a doubt that three more are headed straight towards you.

Keeping only one hand to your shield, you let the priests behind you lean in. The line is unbreakable. A broken shield comes to your side, closing off enough protection to take in the assault from another barrage of blood. The splash of caustic liquid sears onto the arm of the man beside you.

He does not cry out in pain.

He's screaming, for fear of death, bellowing orders to the wounded man behind him to stay back. Said ally drives his own weapon into another attacker. Though he's clutching onto the gaping sores about his lungs, the priest fearlessly impales the enemy, covering your own exposed side.

(1/3)
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>>4007170
You all cut across the field of battle, covering each other, moving away from away from the wounded. Father Wilhelm's works are immediately evident, as you move further away from the Church, to drive off as much of the attack as possible. To buy everyone inside a little more Time.

The demon at the center of the courtyard, writhing, contracting, lets loose a sound so horrific that you nearly drop your weapon.

It's exactly like a female human.

Sobbing.

Another imp lunges forward, straight at you. It's made entirely of veins, contracting and coursing with toxin. You bash it with your shield, deflecting the blow with as much strength as you can muster.

You pivot, hard, into the bash. Your should and arm are screaming in flawless relief, and so much agony you can barely see.

The force of your turn carries through your mace, swings through the air, and catches on a mist of blood from your own crimson sleeves.

With a cry, you drive the weapon into the demon before you. The sharpened, flanged mace cuts deeply into what should be the face of veins. The impact hits you, carries through your hand, into your wrist, up your arm and along your entire frame with as much force as a break.

The demon feels like it was made of metal. There is a colossal wound, from the sharpened edges, the blunt trauma. It sits under your hand for a blessed moment.

Part of you enjoys violence. It makes you scared each and every time. You don't want to lose yourself.

The demon bleeds. Black viscera sticks to your mace, as you wrench it free of the enemy, and whip your gaze to the monstrosity on the horizon. The noise it commanded has stopped.

It's not sobbing, anymore. The pustule, the scab, is writhing harder, utterly intent on its purpose.

The plumes of smoke congeal, drawing back into the demon. It gathers, and is taken from the air completely.

You desperately want to rip off the mask about your face, but something stays your hand, keeping your lungs screaming for more oxygen.

The absence of the smoke reveals dozens of wounded and dying men. The courtyard must be a hundred feet across at its narrowest. Blood streaks almost every inch of the dirt and stone. Though you and your allies have struck down four imps in a matter of moments, there are so many more that have arrived.

You count no fewer than 10 imps, that are pouring in from a distant building.

Red smoke is rising from it.

Father Friedrich's work.

The works of Father Wilhelm cover the courtyard in between. Around the entire field are puddles of paint. The Father of Dream has halted the rising of no fewer than twenty demons, and you see him, facing down the gargantuan beast in the center of it all.

The monster is emitting a thick, firey substance. It oozes, from breaks in the giant wound, coating every inch of dirt and stone beneath it. The sheer amount of heat coming off of the material seems to melt the very rocks and Flesh contained within it.

(2/3)
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>>4007172
What is this sorcery—?!

Two priests, standing close to the demon, immediately scream in agony as they catch fire from the liquid nightmare. The plasma, the heat, licks up and along their robes, consuming them, melting their skin off of their very bones.

Their screams and the melted Flesh stick to the inside of your skull. The men behind you are not backing up, but looking to you and your defense. It is abundantly clear that they want to fight, to protect the hundreds of priests and civilians that will fall if the monster is not contained.

The Father of Dream sprints to the side of the fallen priests, keeping a wide berth from the flame. He destroys their form in an instant. You see the invocation, the hard use of a God. Cracks are splitting down the man's body, up and along his arms, piercing through his robes as paint pools. It flows out, from around his eyes and veins, deep into the figures.

They rest.

He spins his sweat and blood-streaked hair towards you, though he is still blindfolded, and calls out. Though his words resonate across the field, his tone is level. Distant.

"Find Father Friedrich."

You're instantly and horrifically reminded of your last fight with Father Edmund. Your last mentor.

He died, attempting to take on such a colossal demon alone.

You have learned so much, since then.

>A] The source of the attack and Father Friedrich can wait. Join Father Wilhelm in the fight. (Write-in how you aid him.)

>B] Trust in Father Wilhelm's ability, the priests that are still all around you, and the men in the Church of Flesh. Find Father Friedrich.

>C] Write-in.
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>>4007173
>>B] Trust in Father Wilhelm's ability, the priests that are still all around you, and the men in the Church of Flesh. Find Father Friedrich.

Father Wilhelm has much more experience than us on a multitude of levels - if he's telling us to go, then we should listen. Trust in those around us to get the job done.

As well as that, add a conscious effort to quiet the pleasure derived from pain. Might not work, but trying is better than not.
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>>4007173
>>B] Trust in Father Wilhelm's ability, the priests that are still all around you, and the men in the Church of Flesh. Find Father Friedrich.
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>>4007173
>>B] Trust in Father Wilhelm's ability, the priests that are still all around you, and the men in the Church of Flesh. Find Father Friedrich.
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>>4007173
>>B] Trust in Father Wilhelm's ability, the priests that are still all around you, and the men in the Church of Flesh. Find Father Friedrich.
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>>4007173

>B] Trust in Father Wilhelm's ability, the priests that are still all around you, and the men in the Church of Flesh. Find Father Friedrich.

This man killed like 20 demons so far I'm sure he can handle himself.
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>>4007198
>B] Trust in Father Wilhelm's ability, the priests that are still all around you, and the men in the Church of Flesh. Find Father Friedrich.
o7 rest well blueballs
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>>4007198
>>4007253
>>4007282
>>4007346
>>4007545
>>4007578
(Awesome, locking the vote here. Writing now!)
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>>4007776
You've learned to trust in your allies.

"I'll find him! COVER ME!"

The two men behind you answer without hesitation, as you call back to Father Wilhelm.

"Around the back— he should be with the survivors—"

"Look out!"

For all of the blood slaked across your face, the gore sticking to Ray's teeth as he keeps close beside your legs, the remnants of viscera stuck to your mace and the wave of new enemies approaching, you see little red.

There's heat, and smoke, so intense that you only see yellow and gold.

The magma, spreading from underneath the demon, threatens to creep up to your defense. You turn, barking commands to your dog and your allies, to stick together and to pull away from the threat.

There's a very concerted attempt, for all of your orders, to remain decent. The flame that threatens to lick up and around you all scarcely matches the heat in your scalded arm, the fire in your lungs, the absence of enough oxygen, and so much relief.

You all persevere.

Father Wilhelm faces down the colossal, wound of a demon. He speaks with divinity, to a number of men who are fearlessly holding their ground against the same enemy.

"You heard the man. Let us grant them reprieve. Give the demon its rest."

A single spear streaks through the air. It impales the demon's soft hide. An out pour of smoke, a cry of victory, and another horrendous scream lingers behind you.

You're sprinting, as hard as you can, trying and failing to keep your eyes on the threat.

The last of the scene you dare to glimpse is of the Father of Dream, his frame entirely relaxed, granting the monster release from its nightmare. A swirl of blue and paint starts to encapsulate the monster. More weapons sail towards it.

A number of civilians seem to be coming over, from the edge of the courtyard, running as quickly as they're able. There's a number of them that pause, entirely unwilling to enter a scene of Gods and demons. More still fearlessly throw spears, javelins, even knives, doing everything they can to aid in the defense.

The two men that have fought so valiantly beside you keep your formation, staying to a line. It is unbroken, your weapons and defense at the ready, while you all run.

The courtyard is massive. It takes much longer than you're comfortable, to pull away from the spread of fire, the screams of the dying.

More are ahead.

The Church of Flesh is red.

Imps are decorating the sides of the building, smeared against the walls, the floor. Their corpses are plentiful, pierced with swords and spears. Some look as if they had been beaten to death, for all of the unnaturally bent limbs, crushed faces and broken skulls.

You have little fear in your heart.

The only cure is death.

As surely as you know that the demons will not rise again, you know where your target lies.

(1/2)
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>>4007960
A trail of red smoke is rising. There is clearly a number of structures, set away from the bulk of the Church of Flesh, that are under further attack. One of the men beside you, the one who's been fending off demons with nothing but a broken shield and humble sword, tightens his grip. The might of his forearm and bicep, for his shorn off sleeves, cannot match the intensity of his grimace.

"It's going to be suicide."

The wounded priest, still trailing behind you both, calls out with immediate panic. Ray's growling nearly cuts over it. Intense pain is lacing his voice, as he upholds his duty to bring up the rear.

You suspect he doesn't have much time left.

"The bastards—! Behind us!"

Two imps appear to have recognized your squad's attempt to pull away. They're wounded as well. Acidic blood smokes the instant it drips to the dirt, beneath their muscular appendages. A trail leads behind them, mimicking the flame rising from the demon they serve. They are not bipedal, but seem to have half a dozen limbs attached to their torsos, to better mobilize. The form looks terrible for properly fighting, but excellent for movement.

I could kill them both with relative ease.

Were they seeking safety as well?

>A] Put the imps out of their misery.
>1] Command Ray to aid you in the assault.
>2] Work in tandem with the priest who has the sword and shield. Leave Ray to guard the wounded priest.

>B] Attend to the wounded man beside you.
>1] Invoke Mercy. Have the priest with the sword and shield attend to the imps.
>2] Use Your Relic, to at least grant him relief from his pain. Fight off the imps with everyone who is able.
>3] Send him with the other priest to whatever safety they can find.

>C] Run. Men are dying. There is no safety here, and no Time to waste.

>D] Write-in.
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>>4007961
>A] Put the imps out of their misery.
>2] Work in tandem with the priest who has the sword and shield. Leave Ray to guard the wounded priest.
SHIELD BROS
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>>4007961
>>A] Put the imps out of their misery.
>2] Work in tandem with the priest who has the sword and shield. Leave Ray to guard the wounded priest.
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>>4007961

"Come on boy! We have been through worse haven't we?"

Send the priests away to find Fred, stay with Ray and kill the demons.
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>>4007985
+1
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>>4007961
>>A] Put the imps out of their misery.
>2] Work in tandem with the priest who has the sword and shield. Leave Ray to guard the wounded priest.
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>>4007985
Supporting
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>>4008033
>>4007988
fuck, forgot that already voted
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>>4007988
>>4008033
>>4008034
(So based dude, thank you for voting.)
>>4007985
(Appreciate it guys, but due to the totally different outcomes going to have to go with the majority here.)
>>4007965
>>4007971
>>4008027
(Vote is locked! Writing now.)
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>>4008036
"Ray, stay BACK! Guard!"

You whip your head around, from your loyal mastiff. He obeys the order and your gestures without question. All 200lbs of his war-torn, muscular frame moves between the imps, and your gesture. The swing of your mace, towards the wounded man, streaks a few chunks of viscera into the air. The priest of Flesh doesn't mind in the slightest. Clutching onto the gaping crevasse in his robes, a weary but very thankful smile looks towards you.

I can return his thanks another Time.

Despite how fast you turn to the other priest beside you, your hair still sticks to the back of your neck. It clings to your forehead, and much of the concealed Flesh below your hood. Sweat and blood threatens to suffocate you completely, clinging to the cloth about your nose and mouth. Unable to stand it any longer, you rip off the mask about your face, and toss it uselessly to the floor.

The intention is for you to be heard more clearly. A sinking dread settles in, for how hard the priest's grimace intensifies.

I'm still hooded, aren't I?

The grimace doesn't last for long. It's clearly directed towards the imps, now rushing straight at you both. It fades completely, for the man definitely takes heart from your resolution, and the two words you offer him before gallantly rushing forward.

"Shields up."

https://youtu.be/HadWBMDZmAg

Neither of you need to invoke a God to strike with absolute righteousness. Rushing forward, right into reach of a dozen arms and legs, you keep up your shield.

There's an opening, through the cursed limbs.

Using all of your momentum, you swing what little weight is in you, and every ounce of metal in your hands. The traction builds with your enthusiasm, the surge of devotion, and your proclamation.

"The Gods are MERCIFUL!"

The man besides you strikes, simultaneously. His sword cleaves into the demon adjacent, pulling away its focus. He rends the demon just before your own blow.

Two horrific scream lances the air. You don't look to the other enemy.

Your mace digs deep into the demon before you.

Its tender Flesh is nothing like the veined demon. The foe before you writhes, as you keep down the weight of the bladed edge. Digging, scraping, you peel back the metal. With it peels back countless layers of sinew.

Your arm and shoulders burn not only with acid, but with the exertion.

Your lungs are aflame. Your very soul is on fire. It's all for your worship, of the God of the Material.

You swing again.

It hits harder, promising the death of your adversary. The burn is so intense in your limbs that you almost can't retrieve your weapon. To cry out with the swing, to wrench free your weapon after the contact, to repress the moan that wants to work its way into your outcry takes all of your focus.

A thought occurs to you, through your internal battle at propriety.

Mercy. The demon may have already been dead from the first strike.

(1/2)
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>>4008159
It matters little. The priest beside you clearly has less experience with the creatures.

His target hasn't died. He didn't realize what he was getting himself into.

Not everyone has spent their life fighting demons.

He's screaming, you realize, as two hands have wrapped around his sword to stop his attack. Another is slamming into the man's shield, trying to drive him back. The imp has all but climbed on top of him.

"GET IT OFF OF ME! GET IT OFF—"

Without hesitation, for how exhausted your wasted muscle feels, you drop your shield, to take up your mace with both hands.

No half-measures.

There's a grin, plastered over your face. No God works through you, as you take an extra minute, to close the distance, and to bring the weight of all your suffering down on another.

There isn't even a death rattle. The heave and blow slams into the top of the imp's form. The smell of putrefaction hits you, hot and fast, now that your mask has gone. You dig into it. Every blade turns, as you twist the handle of your weapon, drawing out countless spurt of crimson.

The movement shreds any hope of recovery or regeneration. Through the gristle and bone, dripping into several puddles on the floor, there is still weight. The demon's corpse compromises your position, your own light frame, stuck as it is to your attack.

You're jerked forward, and manage to keep your dignity. It's taking all of your focus, to do so, but you are making the effort.

Wrench your mace free, you manage to look wildly around, ensuring nothing else is threatening your allies.

The priest, clinging onto his broken shield, looks to you with absolute reverence. He offers you a hand, to get to your feet.

You take it. Every inch of you is searing, from all of the exertion, but the two of you sprint. Back, beside the wounded priest, who is not beside Ray.

Your boy is growling, viciously, at more imps in the distance. He's a good twenty yards ahead, trained to put distance between his object of protection and himself, when necessary.

There's something worse, than even the way your dog is acting.

The red smoke seems to have stopped. There are very few screams, now, on the horizon. They are still coming from behind, from the courtyard.

Yet, ahead, where you know Father Friedrich had to have been invoking Flesh, there is no further sign of his divinity.

Something is very wrong.

>A] Leave the two priests behind.
>1] Command Ray to guard them, and send everyone back to safety.
>2] Take your boy with you. Tell your allies to get back to the Church interior as quickly as they can.

>B] You'll need all the help you can get.
>1] Heal the wounded man beside you, with Mercy's blessing.
>2] Use Your Relic to relieve the priest's pain, and your own.
>3] Press on. Your conviction is without equal.

>C] Write-in.
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>>4008163
>>A] Leave the two priests behind.
>>1] Command Ray to guard them, and send everyone back to safety.
Daddy vs Daddy.
>>
>>4008163


>B] You'll need all the help you can get.
>1] Heal the wounded man beside you, with Mercy's blessing.

We aren't going to charge like a madman anymore, we need to take care of our allies, as temporary as they may be. This isn't abusing Her, this is using Her gifts exactly as intended.
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>>4008163
>B] You'll need all the help you can get.
>1] Heal the wounded man beside you, with Mercy's blessing.
>>
>>4008182

Anon we said we would stop the suicide charging, we need to stop abusing the gods and take care of our allies. We trusted Fred and Will to do their duties so far, we need to do ours as well.
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>>4008192
It's not a suicide charge, I just want to save as many priests as possible.
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>>4008196

If things get bad we can send the 2 priests we have with us to carry off the wounded hence saving more lives. We still don't know what we are facing and id like to keep all assets close until we can determine what the situation is.
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>>4008182
(Sincerely appreciate the discussion!)
>>4008185
>>4008190
(We're going to go with the majority here again, but I'll bear wanting keep em protected in mind, of course. Vote is locked. Writing now.)
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>>4008284
The cessation of smoke on the horizon has you fearing the worst.

You turn to your allies. The unhinged smile, plastered across your scarred face, has already faded. While you struggle with the urge to grab onto the wound across your own arm, you do everything in your power to focus. To exercise restraint. To uphold Mercy's tenets.

You need Her. To lend yourself, Her gifts, to the injuries of another.

I will not charge in blindly, to certain danger.

There is so much in this world worth living for. Worth protecting. Defending.

Ray's fur is on end, for how alert he is. His growls are directed off, towards where you're certain Father Friedrich was fighting. Behind you is the sound of so much battle.

There is never enough Time.

It occurs to you that to invoke the Goddess, in front of such trained eyes, will give away your position in an instant. That the King's men have been searching for you. That saving this man's life might compromise many things.

You don't care. There is more at stake here than your comfort.

No amount of respite is worth the life of another.

>A] Take hold of Your Relic, as if it were a normal holy symbol. You have no idea of its full uses and effects, yet, but you may at least be mistaken for a typical clergyman, if you do. Invoke the Goddess, to heal the man and relieve his pain.

>B] You have been embraced by Mercy. There is no need to pray or wield a symbol to invoke Her. Let the Goddess work through you, to heal, and make no effort to conceal your identity. Every passing moment is too precious to waste on more discretion.

>C] Write-in.
>>
>>4008321
>>A] Take hold of Your Relic, as if it were a normal holy symbol. You have no idea of its full uses and effects, yet, but you may at least be mistaken for a typical clergyman, if you do. Invoke the Goddess, to heal the man and relieve his pain.
>>
>>4008321
>Take hold of Your Relic, as if it were a normal holy symbol. You have no idea of its full uses and effects, yet, but you may at least be mistaken for a typical clergyman, if you do. Invoke the Goddess, to heal the man and relieve his pain.
>>
>>4008321
>A] Take hold of Your Relic, as if it were a normal holy symbol. You have no idea of its full uses and effects, yet, but you may at least be mistaken for a typical clergyman, if you do. Invoke the Goddess, to heal the man and relieve his pain.
>>
>>4008326
>>4008332
>>4008403
(Locking the vote, writing now!)
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>>4008529
The shield that has brought you so much protection remains on the floor. A number of mutilated digits go from the hilt of your mace, to the gold around your neck.

Standing beside you are two holy men. One is on the brink of death, his eyes hazy. The other looks to you with extreme concern. "What do you think you're doing?"

There is so much gold, in your hands, in your eyes, in your soul. The long fingers conceal and extract Your Relic from the confines of your robes. The locket fits tightly between your scarred palms.

All of the misery and bliss coursing through your wounds is replaced with a different kind of relief. A flood of heat and light takes you, for the first time in weeks.

Mercy.

She ensures that there is immediate relief from your pain.

The way you stand as straightly as you can, the absence of any exhaustion, the slow healing and your obvious change in demeanor should be enough of an answer, for the priest beside you.

Properly acknowledging the question seems appropriate. You are Merciful.

"Saving as many lives as I can." You murmur, to the wounded priest beside you, "please, permit Us to heal you."

Wide-eyed, looking to the gold chain about your neck as if he's seeing it for the first time, you receive no objection. There's an immediate hand to your shoulder, and a hiss from the exertion. "Hurry."

He's looking, frantically, to the imps in the distance. More are coming.

The Goddess knows of your urgency. There is no need for words between you both. Before a single word of the prayer leaves your lips, Her embrace is on you, around you. A heat that rivals the very sun possesses you.

"M-Mercy, Goddess of Compassion—"

The hitch in your breath is unavoidable. She loves you. You have spent so much time, endured so much, in devotion to Her. There have been countless nights, in the darkness, seeing nothing but Her light.

Your hands are trembling. Divine ecstasy courses through the wound in your arm, the exhaustion in your limbs, and every last inch that She can embrace.

Your intention and Her blessing works through the blessed vessel. Before your eyes, before you have even asked anything of Her, you can see the priest's wounds mending.

You make a point, to continue the prayer. To demonstrate to the dying man before you that Your works are for his benefit. He's speechless, clutching so hard onto your shoulder that you fear it may break.

There is no injury, no break. No pain can come between you and Mercy.

"C-come unto Us. Pure are Our hands. Pure is Her blessing. Pure is the blood— w-when—"

There is no blood. The wound is already mended in full, faster than any priest of Mercy should be capable of granting relief.

Save for one.

She wants him to know.

It's too difficult to stop yourself. To stop Her.

You are ardent. She is amorous. You want for Her. She is on you, in you.

You need each other.

(1/4)
>>
>>4008800
We are Merciful.

Exercising all of the restraint you're able, you level your voice, and still your breath.

The words and all of Your blessing are that of the Gods.

"...when held, in everlasting compassion. Closed are Your wounds. Open is Our heart, guided by Mercy.

Both of the priests before you are utterly speechless. Flecks of gold dance in your vision, as you scrutinize the healing.

You see that all of the man's wounds before you are not just mended in full. There is gold in his eyes. He's smiling, very softly. The hand on your shoulder pulls back, as he grabs you into a tight embrace.

It only lasts a second, as he murmurs, "thank you, Father."

The man pulls back. The gold is gone, the moment you part. He's hale, as much as a mortal man in the heat of battle could be. His soft smile melts into a grimace.

There are demons, rapidly approaching you all. Five, at least, off in the distance of the courtyard.

The other priest, for his broken shield and sword, the wounds littering his arms and his obvious reverence, says nothing. He's sternly staring, one more time, as you put Your Relic back, below crimson concealment.

Wordlessly, you all break into a run.

There is no exhaustion, or the slightest indication of a burn as you sprint. A gentle pressure is in you. The soft edges of the Goddess, Her form and Her faith. She's reverent, immaculate, and it's clear that your shortness of breath is not coming from the exertion.

It has been weeks, since you were last together.

Without any pain, you and the priest you healed pull ahead. It leaves Ray and your valiant companion only a few feet behind.

There's an enormous barricade erected on the building in front of you. A number of wooden beams and rocks have been put up, blocking the door from opening outwards. The structure may have once been a stable, but you hear human voices, on the other side.

The two priests of Flesh beside you rush forward, without hesitation, and start tearing away the makeshift barrier. You would like to help, and command Ray to seize a number of wooden planks as well.

You're seized with compassion, too much to immediately aid your allies.

The speech is familiar.

Father Friedrich's voice hits you, first, through the thick and barricaded door. Though his words are stern, and you can only imagine the severity of the command, he sounds heart-broken.

"That is a direct order. Not from Flesh. From your Father. You gone soft on me, boy? Do we need to do this the—"

An entirely broken interjection follows.

"Stop. Stop— stop. I'm going to stop Them. I'm trying to help—! Oh, Gods—"

You rush forward, unable to listen any further. Tearing down the barricade would likely be excruciating, were it not for Mercy.

Gold blooms in the corners of your mind, vision and soul with the exertion. There is relief, from your pain. There is a slow mending, in your tortured muscle and bone.

(2/4)
>>
>>4008808
The combined efforts of three holy men and a trained mastiff makes quick work of the wood and stone. The man you healed knocks back his hood, rolls up his only sleeve, and sets about heaving the colossal door before you single-handedly.

His partner bravely brings up his shield. He dives behind you, catching a projectile seconds before contact.

It's coagulated blood. The source of the attack, a singular imp, leers at you both. It reminds you of gelatin. Though the shape is humanoid, the creature is nothing but a solid mass of blood and clots.

Both priests beside you lose all of the color in their face. Their recognition of your association with the Church of Mercy immediately becomes evident, as they seem bent on protecting you.

"Get inside!"
"MOVE!"

You slip inside, being thin enough to get into the building first. Streaks of blood and more cries trail behind you. The man you healed continues to open the door, permitting Ray to barrel inside. The man with his sword and shield obviously offers another defense, before both priests stumble in, staving off as much of the attack that they can.

The door thunderously crashes behind you all, announcing your entrance to every figure inside. The building is a traditional stable. Its inhabitants are anything but.

There are no living animals here, save for your dog. Several horses lay on the floor in tatters, their entrails strewn about haphazardly. Several more corpses litter the scene, of human men, women, and children. Blood streaks the walls, the dirty hay. The smell of decay, of bodies that have been lying about for at least a day, hits you with the same intensity as the demons just outside. Banging on the door. The odor intermingles with the sweat, the filth, and more repressed fear than you've witnessed in a very long Time.

No fewer than three dozen men and women are tied down, in and around the carnage. A number of makeshift restraints are loosely keeping them from getting out, were they to turn. It is entirely unnecessary, at the present. They clearly are huddled together out of terror, but command enough control over themselves to have not turned in what has likely been days.

The human suffering, the rope and chains, hit you. The impact is harder and faster than most blows you have been dealt.

It is a grotesque reminder of your own position in the Church of Mercy. The years spent in silent devotion. Training.

Again.

No chill moves down your spine, no cold sweat. No reminder of the dark. There is no tremor or any indication of the creeping horror.

It's the end of the season, and though mist gathers before the breath of many of the figures around you, you are filled with heat. There's warmth, and comfort, in your very soul. Mercy.

There is nothing to be afraid of. There is light, here.

There are no windows. This— I can't—

(3/4)
>>
>>4008830
You are a gift. You are the light. They will look up to You. You are Merciful.

The isolated citizens, clergymen and holy women all raise their eyes, huddled as they are. It's to your entrance. For all the fear, there is hope in their eyes.

Your eyes are gold, and the Goddess of Compassion is with you.

Father Friedrich is standing at the back of the stable, without any divinity coursing through him.

He is desperately trying to negotiate with a priest, who is not in any bonds. Three other priests are beside the Father of Flesh, all badly wounded. At a glance, you can recognize that two of them are on the brink of death.

You have never seen the man who's voice you recognized before, but he looks vaguely familiar. His brown hair, neatly trimmed beard and all of the blood on his hands and face leads you to believe you may have fought alongside him, in years past.

There is no recognition in his face, as he screams, wide-eyed, at you and your companion's entrance.

"DON'T COME ANY CLOSER!"

Panic drenches you.

The outburst is sufficient, as he tightens the grip on the weapon in hand.

It's a dagger.

The priest intends to kill himself.

To withstand so much anguish— to endure so much emotion— to be a man of the Gods and stray so far—

Father Friedrich commands the man, one last time. The pity in the singular word is unbearable. He looks utterly exhausted. You strongly suspect that he had to release his connection to Flesh out of necessity, not for lack of needing His blessing.

"Don't."

There are never outbreaks this severe in the Church of Mercy. Not under my watch.

There's a flurry of movement, as the man moves to impale his own abdomen. An unaerthly sound rises from his throat, before he even strikes. Father Friedrich and all three priests flinch, moving to act. The two men and your dog beside you are looking to you, earnestly, for protection.

He's already a demon of fear.

>A] Use Mercy's blessing to grant as much protection as you can.
>1] Over Father Friedrich, alone. Focusing all of your might on a single target will be far easier to sustain.
>2] Over Father Friedrich, and his men.
>3] Over as many people in the stables as you can. Try to anticipate where you're needed most.

>B] Command the priests behind you to help you free the men and women in the stables. The more people you can have fending for themselves, the better.

>C] Grant restraint, through Mercy.
>1] Over the suicidal man. You've done so to a major demon before. You might be able to do so to someone undergoing the Catalyst.
>2] Over the trapped civilians, to prevent more lives from being lost.
>3] Over every person in the stables, up to and including yourself. This has escalated far enough.

>D] Try to release your connection to Mercy, and charge forward with your allies. This man is a lost cause, and many lives may be as well. Your own soul is worth saving, more than anything.

>E] Write-in.
>>
>>4008833
>>C] Grant restraint, through Mercy.
>>1] Over the suicidal man. You've done so to a major demon before. You might be able to do so to someone undergoing the Catalyst.
>>
>>4008833
>>C] Grant restraint, through Mercy.
>3] Over every person in the stables, up to and including yourself. This has escalated far enough.
>>
>>4008833
>C3
>>
>>4008833
>>C] Grant restraint, through Mercy.
>>3] Over every person in the stables, up to and including yourself. This has escalated far enough.
>>
>>4008858
>>4008935
>>4009554
>>4009632
(Great, locking the vote here. Writing now!)
>>
>>4009647
Peril coats the walls. It's stifling, choking, thicker than the filth and decay. The rising fear in every living soul here is placing them at imminent risk, of losing themselves to the Catalyst.

There's no Time to think about anything more than repressing the outbreak.

Sparks of yellow gold bloom and melt across the edges of your mind. Her reach is ultimate. You hold out your hands, to the men and women before you.

The will of the Goddess and Her Father stills Father Friedrich's assault on the suicidal man. He did launch himself, fearlessly, before the dagger made contact. His men did leap to his aid, for all their wounds. The supremacy of Your devotion instantly disciplines the violence. It drops every one of the priests in the room to the ground.

Your hands close, knitted together in prayer. Every interlocking finger is wet. The liquid is scalding. Flawless.

There is so much Mercy in you. Your vessel is cracked. Though you don't look to confirm it, you feel Her, within Your hands.

The tightness of your grip exceeds any chain or rope before you. Nothing will dissuade your conviction. The hands, the gold, comes to your chest, as you wrap your arms around yourself.

The motion, the metal and heat, holds against your own form for a blessed moment.

Temper me. Hold me. I gave it freely to another. Love me. Grant me restraint.

Calm and control drenches you. You release your arms from your own frame. The Goddess's gift persists, drips off of your palms, and rises towards the figures ahead.

Golden eyes look out to Your congregation.

The men and women in the stable are relaxed, their shoulders slack, their gaze looking up to you with light and divinity.

You have shown Your works to hundreds of men and women, in your service. Thousands, even. This is a trifle, for everything you have endured. There is no need to look behind you, to ensure that You are working over the priests at the door. Your allies.

You feel them.

You feel the Goddess of compassion.

You take a few steps forward, heat coursing through you, as you embrace the lost soul at the back of the stables. The suicidal man is lying on the floor. He is inert for only a moment.

The priest, who's name you never learned, will not be the first demon you've given restraint.

But not in such a way. You are with Her.

You are Merciful.

You close the distance, as the fallen form contorts. The demon, the remnants of the man, is sobbing hysterically. You've never heard any sound so disturbing come from someone undergoing the change. It's excruciating, as if the priest could feel his vessel breaking.

(1/2)
>>
>>4009677
There is a sickening crack of bone, an unstoppable event. The muscle around the nightmare decays almost instantly. Through the putrefying tissue comes an outbreak, of white bone. It's all slaked with red and black. The protruding ivory, enormous out pour of blood, and the Flesh all around it smokes and bubbles. The scent does not hit you, for it rises into the air, and congeals around the desperate form.

The man of the Gods is undergoing something far worse than death.

Fearlessly, you stride up to the figure. The priests on the floor beside you are wordless, subdued into utter submission.

No one else here will turn. Not under my watch.

With light in your heart, you want to place a hand to where the demon's head should be.

It has been lost. The demon of fear, of Flesh, is rapidly turning into something incorporeal. The man's connection to the God was severed. He is nearly nothing but smoke. The plumes writhe and contract, as tendrils of Flesh spool and twist before your halted gaze.

There's an intense desire to pour everything You have into him, but the demon's Catalyst is in full swing.

There's a small break, in the back of your mind. Mercy granted you restraint. She stays your hand, if only for a moment.

>A] Bless the demon a more tangible form of Mercy. Kill it, now. It is unorthodox, but death is the only cure. You are most concerned with saving as many lives as possible, and this demon is a threat to nearly four dozen.

>B] Endure the contact, the Catalyst. You have suffered it thirty times before. Suffer it again, if you must. Stay with the demon. Instill in as much restraint as you can stand. Command everyone here who is able to do what they must to the creature.

>C] Take hold of Your Relic. You have learned so little of the Gods, and so much of demons. Grant this one relief from its pain.

>D] Write-in.
>>
>>4009678

Could you elaborate on what the third prompt means? Is it like what we did with Beltoro?
>>
>>4009690
(You guys aren't 100% on the uses of the relic. It's implied to be similar. With Beltoro, he was lacking restraint, and in healing his pain, you straight up gave him that quality. You gave him restraint. Not from the Relic, but from yourself.

This particular demon is a product of fear. You would likely assume that healing its pain would require giving it respite from said fear. Giving it courage, healing its body, mending its soul, or something along those lines.

Sorry if that was way too vague, and thanks for asking! Feel free to write-in anything you think would be more appropriate, as well.)
>>
>>4009678

>>A] Bless the demon a more tangible form of Mercy. Kill it, now. It is unorthodox, but death is the only cure. You are most concerned with saving as many lives as possible, and this demon is a threat to nearly four dozen.

Honestly this demon isn't worth any sacrifice from our part and if I remember correctly Yech said we tortured the paint demon when we held him with Mercy.
>>
>>4009678
>>C] Take hold of Your Relic. You have learned so little of the Gods, and so much of demons. Grant this one relief from its pain.
>>
>>4009678
>C] Take hold of Your Relic. You have learned so little of the Gods, and so much of demons. Grant this one relief from its pain.
Heresy train taking off!
>>
>>4009678
>C] Take hold of Your Relic. You have learned so little of the Gods, and so much of demons. Grant this one relief from its pain.

Let's see what happens this time
>>
>>4009678
>Take hold of Your Relic. You have learned so little of the Gods, and so much of demons. Grant this one relief from its pain.
>>
>>4009701
(Very valid points.)

>>4009728
>>4009797
>>4009976
>>4009983
(We're going to go with the overwhelming majority here, but duly noting everyone's suggestions.

Vote is locked. Writing now.)
>>
>>4009994
https://youtu.be/TwmFcu6QAqI

The words of a mentor, from darkness and bondage, resonates through every fiber of your being.

All of your years of training, restraint, suffering and discipline has instilled in you an unwavering obsession.

Again.

You need to know.

It is heretical.

You have been called a demon yourself, many times before.

Like a man possessed, you take hold of Your Relic. The hand around the locket is drained, its gold pouring, pooling into the item. The other instrument of the Gods, your free hand, reaches out. It plunges into the smoke and terror.

Not even the piercing cold and darkness can penetrate the tie between you and the Goddess. Your voice is steady, coursing with divinity.

"I know you are afraid. There will be relief. We will ease your pain. There is nothing to fear."

Gilt pours out, through the cracks in your palms, the countless scars. Its radiance pierces the shade, visible even through the demon's bent form.

Your own vessel is shattered, but it has been mended by something greater than Flesh.

Mercy makes you whole.

A scream wants to rise, from the back of your throat. There's still sobbing, terrible and incessant. The tortured figure, its Flesh, and Your hands of Mercy writhe against one another.

It's the unholiest display you've ever seen. The smoke and gold intertwine, in a grotesque dance, pooling in the air before you. It congeals, and separates again.

This demon is not worth so much sacrifice. So much pain.

Over.

And over.

The Goddess attempts and fails to do more than pull apart the demon from its terror.

Again.

She needs you. Mercy granted you restraint. She leans into you, all of Her blessing and heat.

Mercy is restraint in the face of the undeserving.

Relic in hand, You continue to reach out, to give.

She wants you to stop. Though there is an intense love of violence, of suffering, of mending the broken, She doesn't want to lose you.

In Your moment of hesitation, a voice rises, from behind you.

It's Father Friedrich. He's looking up to you, with reddened gold swimming in his vision.

The priest has clearly attempted to invoke Flesh, to fight through Your restraint. Smoke is pooling, from his burning muscle, the flex of his broad shoulders, the torn fabric.

You look at him, as if for the first time, as his voice steals your focus. Gruff and distant, the divinity is interlacing something utterly heart-broken.

"Don't."

His neatly trimmed beard mirrors that of the man that has just turned into a demon.

"The fight is outside, isn't it? Leave him. Leave me to my boy."

His son.

(1/2)
>>
>>4010079
The tight black fabric adorning the priest's body has been shredded in countless places. Each inch of exposed tissue is unscarred. He is all bulk, smoke and fire. Blood litters his frame, the black of demons surely slaughtered.

"You've done enough."

You remember, for a moment, the stream of dead demons littering the walls and floor, all along the way from the courtyard. The countless weapons protruding from their corpses.

There was a barricade, to wall something in.

To keep something out.

A defense. For several dozen men and women, incapable of defending themselves.

"We can stop. You can stop. It's alright."

You are a man of action, not of questions. You have so little knowledge, so little understanding of the people you surround yourself with as a result.

You practically know more about demons than other people.

It's a blessing, that you have been granted restraint. That you are effortlessly able to hold down the demon before you, to better focus on the words of the man beside you. The gaze of nearly four dozen other people matters very little.

Father Friedrich looks exhausted. If he truly wished to stop you, there is no question in your mind that he wouldn't last.

Though you have been capable of channeling Mercy for hours before, the effort nearly killed you. You know, even now, that every passing moment is wearing harder on your body and mind. It certainly is wearing on the other Father's, as well.

>A] Commit to aiding the demon. THIS is your life's work, and Mercy cannot do anything to a man taken by the Catalyst.
>1] Risk so many people seeing Your Relic. Place it in the form of the demon, to aid its pain without sacrificing anything yourself.
>2] Present the face with bent swords. Turn the demon's mindless suffering towards compassion, towards itself.
>3] Give the demon courage. Fight its Catalyst. Mercy is restraining you, to a degree, and you have so much to give.

>B] Listen to Father Friedrich. You are still a man of action, and very few questions.
>1] Drop your hold only on the Father of Flesh, and enable him to do whatever he wishes to the demon. Keep everyone else restrained.
>2] Release your hold on every priest, but keep the citizens and demon restrained. Trust them to finish their work, to control the demon or kill it outright.

>C] You have restraint, but you are still struggling to understand anything. Demand that Father Friedrich explain why the situation in the Church of Flesh is so dire, before his clergy and people. It may wear you out, but everything else can wait.

>D] Write-in.
>>
>>4010082
>>B] Listen to Father Friedrich. Questions can come later.
Actions and questions are both important in equal measure. But TRUST is, while not a tenet, a measure of compassion and Mercy between two people.
>>
>C i dont know but need explination.
>>
>>4010082
>A2]
I believe
>>
>>4010082
>A2
>>
>>4010084
>>4010171
>>4010173
>>4010185
(Can integrate all of this to some degree. Vote is locked, writing now.)
>>
>>4010247
The demon before you is utterly silent. Its sobs subside, the moment a single word leaves Your lips.

"Father Friedrich."

The man you address snaps his gaze to you. It seems clear that he intended to physically drag you away from the demon. Yet, for all of his strength, there's more than an external fight to move. He stops struggling. There's something in his eyes, and it's not just saffron.

He's conflicted, bristling, grieving. "What?"

You've shown him more than one of Her tenets. There is hope, in the red and gold.

At his words, your quarry goes back to writhing. It's far more intense than before. Your hold can't possibly persist without giving the demon your undivided attention. You want to listen, to aid the Father of Flesh, but you know what needs to be done.

Your hands are occupied with a holy Relic and the interior of a demon. A few words of reassurance are the best tool at your disposal.

"You have witnessed more than Our tenets before. I have done everything in my power to share it with you. A measure of compassion, and Mercy. My trust."

A shift occurs in your tone. It's disembodied, reverent, brimming with so much devotion and Mercy that you don't recognize your own words. "I hope you can trust in Him, too. He wants to trust in you."

I do.

The devotion and love You hold is not just for the item in your hands.

There's no need for reassurance, for an answer.

You believe in yourself.

With your back turned to the congregation of innocents, under the subdued and compassionate gaze of clergy and kin, you present a symbol. It could be mistaken for many things. At least, from a distance. The bent blades may look to be a heart, or even a skull.

The demon before you knows what it represents.

Your will is impressed onto the gold, and into the monster.

A flare of light coalesces from the locket, around your target's form, and deep inside of the void that once kept its soul. From the demon's maddened Flesh, the luster, comes a searing heat.

Every ounce of restraint you have been granted goes to suppressing the gasp and moan that wants to follow. There is something worse than a flame, encompassing half of your arm and all of your hand.

Mercy gives Herself to you.

You extract your hand from the demon, as quickly as you're able. For the scent of seared Flesh, and all the desire to keep yourself there, you retrieve your limb, and keep your fist closed.

The burns do not stop you. The heat never has. You press forward, with your entire body. The object of Your devotion drives the demon down, away, back far and fast enough to grant you both space.

It curls into itself.

(1/3)
>>
>>4010430
Orbs congealed from the immaterial smoke all about it, into something tangible, workable. A mass of gilded viscera looks up to you, with reddened eyes. It's almost as if the demon has assumed a material form solely for your benefit. The mound is much larger than the man's form should have controlled in life.

You know that hesitation here will be certain death for many.

A distant voice, nightmarish and surreal, rises from the smoldering form. It wafts over the cold air of the stable, hitting every single human around you.

"Who can claim the right to rule the hearts of humankind?"

No one about you can interject, for want or ability.

Father Friedrich remains utterly silent, unmoving, watching your administrations.

The demon continues, "the answer to your fear, and so much salvation lies with this man."

A tendril of smoke is curling up from the body of the beast. It moves, pointing, accusing, entirely towards you.

Father Friedrich looks utterly horrified. It's not at the implications of the demon's speech, the monster's form, or even the use of Your Relic.

"I've heard enough."

It's abundantly clear that he's trying to spare what little might remain of your reputation.

The demon before you is speaking clearly, coherently, and appears to take no issue with writhing silently. It remains, stable, between you and the priests that are restrained under your control.

The moment you're aware that the demon has been placated, you stash Your relic beneath the disguise about you, and whip your head around to Father Friedrich. You are compassionate. Your voice remains low, for all the divinity, quiet enough that only he should be able to hear.

"Please. I need an explanation. Why? How could you have let this happen?"

Exhaustion is gnawing at the edges of your mind, and is clearly within the Father of Flesh as well. "The Church of Mercy hasn't answered a single call to action in weeks. Many of our men— with the Church of Spirit— left days before the outbreak began. I have been doing everything in my power to protect the city, to attend to our affairs on our borders, our defense in the wild."

There's obviously a lot that he's not expanding on, for how tired he appears. It seems that even as much as Father Friedrich has confessed to is too much, for his tastes. "It's no excuse."

The last vestiges of crimson part from the man's frame, as he releases Flesh. It clear that the immediacy of Your work, and the lack of further threat from the demon before you is disturbing, to an extreme degree. Father Friedrich looks to the slight movements of the mass with a strange glint in his eye.

(2/3)
>>
>>4010433
It appears to be quietly sitting, and refusing to do so much as slander the men who were about to kill it. Either the demon is so content with Your works that it has nothing further to say, or it is actually being polite enough to let you both speak freely.

The church leader discreetly glances back, to the countless men and women behind you all, and to the clergymen beside you both.

He murmurs, very quietly to you, "where is Father Wilhelm?"

There's a lot of heat in your face. It's not from his comment. There's simply so much of the Goddess in you that it's rapidly becoming impossible to think or speak clearly.

She is so proud of you.

"M-Mercy—"

Replying decently, keeping your voice and breath level, and maintaining Your hold on the humans about you is rapidly becoming unmanageable. You try to take a deep breath. They are clear, for all of the smoke you surely inhaled earlier.

She loves you.

Another deep breath. An extremely concerned look is directed towards you, though the Father of Flesh doesn't dare to tell you how to handle your Goddess.

No one else that can interrupt does, and you're given enough Time to properly respond.

"The outbreak carried into the courtyard. He stayed behind, to fend off the worst of the assault. There is an evacuation taking place within the Church of Flesh, for the wounded."

"We still have Time, then. Let my men see to Johnath—"

There's a streak of pain so sharp across Father Friedrich's face that he has to pause.

You finish the sentence for him. "To the demon."

Said demon, Jonathan, does not bother to correct either of you. Its hideous amalgamation of Flesh, gold and ultimate relief merely looks up to you. You, alone, with visible gratitude somehow painted across its grotesque parody of a face.

In a rasp, the monstrosity murmurs, "thank you, for this final gift."

The jerk on your heart, your lungs, your soul, threatens to steal out the world from under you.

The demon is demonstrating compassion towards more than itself.

Wide-eyed, fearing the worst, you look back.

The Goddess of Compassion is still working through you.

The congregation behind you, repressed as their emotions may be, could still turn to the Catalyst. The priests around you, restrained as their bodies may be, could lash out the second you release them.

There is no telling how long the effects of Your gifts will last.

Especially on a demon.

(Options in next post)
>>
>>4010438
(Please choose ONE prompt from A. Then choose AT LEAST one prompt from B-D.)

>A] (A1 and A2 are mutually exclusive.)
>1] Release Mercy. The strain on your mind and soul is bordering on abuse. No matter the risk to the people around you, you have to think of yourself.
>2] You've endured much worse than this. Stay with Mercy, for now. It would be a tragedy if something were to undo all of your efforts.

>(The following, B-D, are not necessarily mutually exclusive.)

>B] You want to trust the clergy, but you can't. No one is killing this demon, and you aren't going anywhere until its safety is ensured.
>1] Permit Father Friedrich to go look for and aid Father Wilhelm.
>2] Release the clergymen around you, as well, under the condition that they swear to not harm the demon.

>C] You have really overstepped your boundaries.
>1] Discreetly ask Father Friedrich if anything can be done about the demon.
>2] Aid him in finding Father Wilhelm. There is a lot of memory here that could be erased.
>3] Make the most compelling speech you can muster, to try and convince everyone present that you are doing the right thing.
>3] Permit the Father of Flesh to do whatever he sees fit. Better for the demon to die, now, having had relief. It cannot possibly have a life in the world in its current form.

>D] Write-in.
>>
>>4010441
>>A] (A1 and A2 are mutually exclusive.)
>2] You've endured much worse than this. Stay with Mercy, for now. It would be a tragedy if something were to undo all of your efforts.
Apologize for the abuse. Of both Her and us.
>C] You have really overstepped your boundaries.
but
>You want to trust the clergy, but you can't. No one is killing this demon, until every other option is explored.
1] Discreetly ask Father Friedrich if anything can be done about the demon.
>2] Aid him in finding Father Wilhelm. There is a lot of memory here that could be erased.
>3] Make the most compelling speech you can muster, to try and convince everyone present that you are doing the right thing
>4] Permit the Father of Flesh to do whatever he sees fit. (After we do all we can.)
>>
>>4010441
>>A] (A1 and A2 are mutually exclusive.)
>2] You've endured much worse than this. Stay with Mercy, for now. It would be a tragedy if something were to undo all of your efforts.
Apologize for the abuse. Of both Her and us.
>C] You have really overstepped your boundaries.
but
>You want to trust the clergy, but you can't. No one is killing this demon, until every other option is explored.
1] Discreetly ask Father Friedrich if anything can be done about the demon.
>2] Aid him in finding Father Wilhelm. There is a lot of memory here that could be erased.
>3] Make the most compelling speech you can muster, to try and convince everyone present that you are doing the right thing
>4] Permit the Father of Flesh to do whatever he sees fit. (After we do all we can.)
>>
>>4010441
>A] (A1 and A2 are mutually exclusive.)
>2] You've endured much worse than this. Stay with Mercy, for now. It would be a tragedy if something were to undo all of your efforts.
>Apologize for the abuse. Of both Her and us.
>C] You have really overstepped your boundaries.
but
>You want to trust the clergy, but you can't. No one is killing this demon, until every other option is explored.
>1] Discreetly ask Father Friedrich if anything can be done about the demon.
>2] Aid him in finding Father Wilhelm. There is a lot of memory here that could be erased.
>3] Make the most compelling speech you can muster, to try and convince everyone present that you are doing the right thing
>4] Permit the Father of Flesh to do whatever he sees fit. (After we do all we can.)
>>
>>4010512

seconding
>>
>>4010512
>>4010565
>>4011053
>>4011225
(Got my work cut out for me lol, calling the vote here! Writing now.)
>>
>>4011347
For all the restraint that the Goddess has granted you, there's still the unavoidable need to stay with Her.

"I— I am sorry. I am so sorry," you murmur. It's certainly not to the demon, who thanks to your works, is blissfully reclining. The spread of eyes and congealed Flesh is more obscene than any hitch in your breath.

The sincerity in your tone and all of the honest is not only to Mercy. It does not go out to just your congregation, or the men kneeling beside you.

You genuinely want to apologize to yourself. For the abuse.

Pools of molten blessing spill from your outstretched hands. The attempt to beckon Father Friedrich closer is cut short for a moment, while utter relief courses through you. The surge of respite from your pain, from the worries of the material, stops the movement in its tracks. She is divine. She can't keep herself off of You.

She is so content with your works.

It's not enough.

You redouble your efforts at composure. Father Friedrich takes the moment you use to clench your fists, to muffle the surge of gilt. The Father of Flesh glances between the disfigured remains of his fallen son and your plain divinity several times.

He finally seems to recognize your efforts, as you stifle any noise that surely wants to rise to your lips. She's on them, too, in every inch of you.

Crossing the distance between you both, the man whispers, curtly.

"There's nothing to apologize for."

You aren't positive if he's only referring to the apology you made. All of the pain in his face indicates he has much to atone for as well.

He continues, "self-pity can wait. If everything you've said is true— and I'm sure it is— we are wasting Time."

The heat coursing through every crack of your overworked body wears on you. It simultaneously keeps you on your feet, for how badly you want to kneel and pray. There is little doubt in your mind that the blessing will only intensify. Your reverence is perfect, and so is She.

You keep your voice level, righteous and utterly convicted. No amount of devotion will keep you from serving Her. It will never stop you from defending Your actions.

"I do not pity myself for invoking Her. There is Time for this. I have always made the Time for what needs to be done."

No one accuses the statement for any of the blasphemy it may invoke. You respect Time, more than anything.

There is no further indication of an interruption. Not even from the monstrosity near your feet.

You murmur back, to Father Friedrich, as patiently as you're able. "What can be done— about the demon?"

A miserable grimace answers first. Something entirely unsatisfying follows. "We have no precedent for this. I would strongly advise to not make an immediate decision, if he's no longer an immediate threat."

"This may not last, Father Friedrich."

(1/4)
>>
>>4011571
Your answer was as apologetic as you were able. If only for a second, the Father's anger and frustration threatens to overtake his reason. "That would be too fucking convenient, wouldn't it?"

The grief is back in his eyes, and his grimace persists. "I don't suppose keeping it restrained separately will do a damn thing, either."

"That may be our best option," you offer, looking around with gold in your eyes. "There is much that should be forgotten, here."

Nearly four dozen men and women look up to you. They meet the yellow in your gaze with similar divinity. It's taking everything you have to actively keep Your sway over so many, for so long, but you are determined.

A hand goes very firmly to your shoulder, unafraid. "There is no shame in loving Her— but you can't keep this up forever."

Anything less would be a tragedy.

"I want nothing more than to serve Her. To grant relief from Our children's pain. To do all that We can."

Another precious moment passes, with an embrace. She holds onto you, so tightly that you can hardly see.

Through the flecks of gold dancing in your vision, there are so many people, still, who need Your gifts.

Settling the metal and light on the mortal man before You, there's an utterance. "Will you still permit Him to aid you?"

Father Friedrich nods, firmly, and rises to his feet. Despite the fatigue that must be plaguing him, the priest makes no indication of any pain or hesitation. The holy symbol about his neck, the needle, is slick with blood. It goes back to the man's hand in an instant.

"Make it quick. We have more lives to save."

Your correction rings out, effortlessly. No indication of your mortal weakness can be found in your speech. Not a single stutter or any trace of timidness crops up, despite rising from the body of a farmer's son. You are, above all other things, the Father of Mercy.

You speak of the Goddess, and She speaks through you.

"We will not permit the loss of any more souls here."

Releasing a modicum of the restraint on the people about you, so that they may better look and listen, takes so much strain off of your form that you can properly breathe again.

"Not while We still draw breath."

Not a soul interrupts. Your speech is directed to all of them.

"You all have lingered in the darkness, separated from Her light. You have all strayed."

The edges of your mind are as soft as molten gold. So are your words.

"It's alright. We are only human. It is human to stray. We all have done so."

(2/4)
>>
>>4011579
You confess, without shame, "even I am no exception. Despite having wandered, having strayed, the Goddess has always answered my prayers. I have been blessed by the light of Mercy. She has enabled me to see, beyond the darkness. She has blessed me with purpose, where none could be found. She has answered me, without fail."

The mortal coil, your hand, rises. The palm is overflowing with liquid gold. You can't help but close the offering, to draw the focus of so many men and women around you who are utterly incapable of speech. They are listening.

"She will always listen. Mercy's forgiveness is endless. She is neither judgement nor deliverance. She is ultimate understanding, and She is always with you. Do you see Her works?"

The proof of the Goddess spills from the scars lacing your hands, the burns that are healing before the eyes of anyone who cares to look upon them.

"We know you do.Your eyes have have been opened."

There are nearly four dozen people looking, with eyes of gold. You know Time is precious, but the message of your Goddess needs to be heard in full.

"Though it is human to stray, it is human to seek compassion, as well. We need not cower in the darkness. Even now, you all hold onto one another. Hold onto Our message. Take what has been given. Cherish Our blessing. Grant yourselves the same Mercy. Offer it freely, to your fellow man. You always have the choice, to show restraint in the face of the undeserving. The choice to take heart in the Goddess, and all of Her works."

Each word projects across the congregation, though you now looking to the demon beside you. There is one member of the congregation that needs Your help above all others.

"There is no need for fear, when the Gods are Merciful."

Not a soul protests, moves to attack, or does anything more than look upon you with absolute reverence. The speech ends, and the connection you keep between Mercy is evident to anyone that looks upon you. Light and immaculacy hangs in the air several long moments after your speech ends.

To the priests beside you, who are clearly too stunned to immediately assault anyone, you utter a final command. You are really overstepping your boundaries, to order the children of another Father, but there's no helping it. You can't trust them to not follow a lifetime of training and struggle, against a force none of you truly comprehend.

Still, you are utterly convicted. You still call out, looking pointedly to the men of the cloth. "No one is killing this demon. Not until We have exhausted every other possible option. Have We made Our message clear?"

(3/4)
>>
>>4011584
There is no protest.

The men still themselves, by choice. For all of their tension, the hulking muscle, blood lacing their forms and their obvious strength, they choose to obey Your command.

A warm embrace is all over you, and in you, the instant you grant the Goddess a safe opportunity. It sinks into you, so deeply, so perfectly that you can scarcely breathe. There's heat, and wax, and She can't keep Herself off of you—

"Father. Father Anscham."

There is no use trying to conceal your identity, for the way you've made yourself so known to the men and women around you all. For what you imagine is at least the fourth time today, Father Friedrich has called upon his God. The church leader's hand is clutching onto your shoulder, and jerks hard on the wasted muscle. It rouses you back into the material world.

He's likely unaware of what a blessing such a rough movement produces in you.

Smoke pools before the gold in Your eyes, as you look upon his broader shoulders, the fire rising from his muscle.

"We need you to move."

It occurs to you that the priests under Father Friedrich's command are not moving to touch the demon behind you, until you've stepped aside.

"They'll see to the demon. You've seen to your children." There's a slight smirk. "Let's get going. Father Wilhelm would surely benefit from our aid."

The edges of your mind are soft, the continuous blessing of a Goddess keeping you on your feat, hale and whole.

You do so much more.

At the front of the stables, bracing hard against the door opposite, are two priests and your faithful mastiff. There must have been something rattling against the barricaded wood all this time, for what little heed you paid to anything other than Gods and demons.

The defenders, your allies, are all looking to you with utter reverence. You stride up to them alongside the Father of Flesh.

You stand taller than any of them.

>A] Protect your allies at all costs. Support Father Friedrich, the priests who have fought alongside you, and Ray.
>1] Command your dog to stay in the stables, to comfort and look after the civilians. There is still a demon among them.
>2] Command Ray and both priests of Flesh to stay behind. Leave the fight to leaders of the Church.
>3] Take everyone who's able and willing.

>B] Any and all hope of concealing your identity is certainly lost. Your reputation might be ruined. Don't lose anything else in this fight.
>1] Heal as many as you're able, through Mercy.
>2] Heal as many as you're able, through Your Relic.
>3] Ask Father Friedrich if he would permit you to ally your mutual strength, through Your Relic.

>C] Drop your connection to Mercy, if you can. Your mental integrity is more important than any other fight.
>1] Attempt to invoke Flesh. He might at least keep you on your feet.
>2] Leave the fight to your allies. You've done more than enough.

>D] Write-in.
>>
>>4011592
>>A] Protect your allies at all costs. Support Father Friedrich, the priests who have fought alongside you, and Ray.
>>1] Command your dog to stay in the stables, to comfort and look after the civilians. There is still a demon among them.

Letting it be known that I'm soft voting for this, and that my opinion can be swayed. Ray's a good boy and should comfort the civilians while the people who know what they're doing take care of things...also we need to make a conscious effort to tone down the masochism, which I'll restate.
>>
>>4011654
(Going to leave this open until morning, we'll proceed with one vote then if there's no further votes!)
>>
>>4011654
+1 cuddly murder slab
>>
>>4012591
(Hell yeah. Got dragged away tonight, but I will update first thing in the morning. Vote is open until then.)
>>
>>4011592
>>B] Any and all hope of concealing your identity is certainly lost. Your reputation might be ruined. Don't lose anything else in this fight.
>>1] Heal as many as you're able, through Mercy.

While we are healing them also try to calm them down so they don't freak out about the demon. Tell them the light of Mercy can cow even the foulest demons.
>>
>>4011654
>>4012591
>>4013189
(Alright, back and ready for action. If we get the votes coming in today I should be able to do quite a few updates in. Locking the vote here and writing now!)
>>
>>4013204
The hinges of the stable door groan against the force of your allies. The two priests that have been keeping the defense at bay all this Time look to you for permission, to release their restraint. To open the gates. To unleash the battle.

There are cries, moans, and the scent of sulfur pouring from the other side of the door.

A little motivation seems prudent. You are not normally a soft-spoken man.

You are all conviction, devotion and love when you speak of the Gods.

"The light of Mercy will guide even the foulest of demons! Take heart!"

You kneel, for a moment. Gold explodes in your vision from the motion, for how exhausted you surely are. With all of the strength you can muster, you merely grimace, lips tight.

The blessing of your Goddess needs to remain a private affair, for how intimately She's working through you.

Mercy.

In a low voice and a simple series of gestures, you command your loyal dog. You have to protect as many lives as you can.

"I love you, boy, but you need to stay behind. Don't give me that face. It's alright. Look after them, for Us. Stay safe. You're such a good boy, Ray."

The hound obeys without any hesitation. All of his muscle, scars and fur don't dare to lap at your hands, but looks to you lovingly. It only takes him a moment to gingerly approach the congregation, keeping enough distance to make them as comfortable as he can.

His watch begins.

He's such a good boy. They'll be alright.

Your head whips around, from his dutiful form.

The stable doors burst open. Both priests at the forefront stagger backwards, practically launching themselves behind you.

The Father of Mercy is known for granting protection.

An out pour of molten blood threatens to course into the defense and onto so many others. Six imps, made of hideous amalgamations of muscle, bone, veins and sinew all fire the deadly barrage.

You uphold your vows.

https://youtu.be/-k3XXGmu-dw

Gold flies through the air in arcs from your hands as you swing them upwards. In a surge of divine radiance, ultimate ecstasy and a blast of light, a shield drops from the very sky. It comes between the attack, the blood and nearly four dozen innocent lives. The door is remade, for an instant, glistening against the reddened gold.

The heat of Your works is so intense that the men in between cry out in shock. You feel the heat as well, in your very soul.

"MERCY!"

The men behind you remain unscathed. You drop the defense as quickly as it came, still on a knee, trembling from the intensity of Her invocation.

(1/4)
>>
>>4013303
Father Friedrich runs past you, leaping into the air, and screams at the top of his lungs. He's wielding nothing but his fists and the might of his devotion. The hulking muscle, his broadened form, a blessing, a prayer, and a behemoth charges past the instant you grant him access to the enemy ahead.

"FLESH of my Flesh!"

The Father of Flesh, with inhuman speed, breaks his run to leap clear over your heads and right into harm's way. The man you healed previously, looking to be at the height of human performance, has to duck at the last moment out of the way. He lets out a cry, eclipsed by the trailing fire and heat. It is an afterimage, of a church leader who fearlessly lands among his prey.

A priest, wielding nothing but a broken shield and sword, offers you a hand once again. You take it, through the haze of divinity, and rise to your feet.

You leave behind the stables, the demon you saved, and several dozen humans who's lives have certainly been changed forever.

You and three priests of Flesh charge, together, into the fray.

Father Friedrich's hands, unscarred and awe-inspiring in their conviction, lunge first. His entire form soars through the air, having already crushed a demon's body into a pulp with his bare fists. He tackles another imp straight, to the ground, for all of its wiry sinew and blood. His speed is utterly inhuman. The might with which he wrenches the beast's head clean off of its shoulders could only come from a God.

An explosion of blood courses over his form, though there is no need for healing. He moves out of the way, faster than the liquid can fall on his frame. His gaze is crimson, settling not on you, but on another target.

There's little time to appreciate his works. The beast of a fighter shifts his weight, and with a cry, hurls the corpse of the demon at one of its living allies.

Your own experience in combat, the heat coursing through your veins, flares again. With an outstretched palm, you keep slightly behind the two priests of Flesh who cannot call upon the divine. They use as much restraint as they are able, no doubt in extreme respect to all of the protection your presence gives them.

The priest, with his broken sword and shield, cries out. His weapon slashes, deeply, into the torso of a demon consisting of only teeth. The humanoid form explodes, in a shower of bone. You need not run, or to use your material shield. The motion and blessing, an immaculate defense, pulses from the beat of your heart. It's so rapid, that for every further strike you bring forth another wave of defense.

There is a flash, of bone on light.

You all remain unscathed. Your heart is pounding, and with another throb, another pulse, you bring up defense after defense. The men at the door press on, forward, drawing the attackers away from the innocents inside.

They are not screaming, calling out or doing more than surely looking to you all with reverence.

(2/4)
>>
>>4013304
I will save as many lives as possible.

Father Friedrich stomps another head into the dirt, grinning back at you with red in his eyes. The same hue is utterly covering the rest of his unscarred body.

You reflect his gaze, his smile, the religious fervor, and another strike.

Mercy will not permit any more harm to befall you. Not on this day.

The last imp valiantly streaks through the air, crashing uselessly against your shield of yellow gold. The gilded blessing melts, like so many others before it, into puddles at all of your feet.

The dirt is covered in it. It slicks against your worn shoes, in specks along all of your robes. Father Friedrich tackles the beast before him, so quickly and forcefully that the very impact of it can be heard from your distance. A crack of bone, the wet crunch, a splash into the gold and dirt guarantees the instant kill.

The Father of Flesh rises, covered in smoke and gold.

He moves.

There is no hesitation, as you all follow behind him. Charging away from the corpses of six imps, every man in your company remains utterly unscathed.

There are no screams behind you.

There is heat on the horizon, waving. The closer you approach, the clearer it becomes.

There are many more shouts of battle. Heat, and flame.

It's like a Dream.

Father Wilhelm.

Sprinting as fast as you're able robs you of an ability to speak. The Goddess is in you, loving you so intensely. She keeps you on your feet, through the utter exhaustion, your burning and overworked muscle.

She heals you, as best as she's able. It's a blessing, to be with Her.

There are so many more that need your aid.

From the heat on the horizon, down to the courtyard rapidly approaching your view, there is fire. The congealed heat consists of plasma, rock, smoke, and more death than even you can take in. The corpses of at least a dozen men and women, charred beyond recognition. Their bones, bitterly scorched skin and protruding weapon litter the coolest edges of the nightmare. It's obvious that many more must have been consumed by the heat, further in.

In the center of the courtyard, there is more than flame. There is a behemoth, a pustule. It is still alive, writhing, and screaming. Skewered with multiple weapons, gaping, it seems to be refitting and healing itself continuously.

It is locked in battle between Father Wilhlem, who is removed from the magma by only a small ring of blue. The paint and broken glass littering the floor beneath him is smoking. The edges of his robes are practically ablaze, singed from the sheer heat about him, but the man himself appears unscathed. His eyes are blindfolded, his hands outstretched, contorting with the sheer force he is trying to subdue the demon before him with. Single-handedly.

The Father of Dream looks exhausted. He is surrounded by enemies, though there remain a few allies, on the field of battle.

(3/4)
>>
>>4013309
A blonde priest— Cyril— fights with his bare and utterly scarred hands, against four imps on the horizon. The cracks and slick administrations of the God are evident, for the corpses lying about his feet. There is heat and fire in his body, smoke trailing from the priest, and a smirk plastered across his face.

The Gods need not work through only one vessel.

An elderly gentleman is beside him. Though he wields only a spear and shield, the combat veteran whips his gray-streaked hair around towards your approach. The moment of hesitation in his attack comes only as he drives his weapon into two imps, simultaneously. No joy is on him.

They are all fighting for their lives.

Thirty more imps must be littering the courtyard, battling with civilians, the flame, and trying to work their way towards Father Wilhelm.

Father Friedrich charges in without hesitation. It grants unseen support, likely civilians, an opportunity to fire from hiding. A cry rises from their direction, a cheer, and an enormous amount of panic.

It doesn't halt the attack.

Several spears streak out from the opposite end of the courtyard, though only one hits their target. The demon it lashed into twists in a macabre display of dexterity, leaping across the magma back towards innocent lives.

You press your hands outwards, suppressing the cry that wants to follow with all of your might.

You have done so much, already, and continue to give everything You have.

A shield, Your blessing, flares forth between the demon and the undefended. It halts the demon in his tracks.

Thirty imps, a behemoth of pus and rot, magma and the Father of Dream all whip their heads towards you.

Your works call attention to the greatest threat on the field of battle.

You.

>A] Continue the defense. You are unbearably strong as a supporter and defender.
>1] Heal when you can, but focus on protection.
>2] Focus everything you have on protecting Father Friedrich and Father Wilhelm.
>3] Lend all of your aid to the priests who cannot invoke the Gods.

>B] Charge towards the civilians.
>1] Ensure that they receive any healing you can offer. Don't lose any more lives here than necessary.
>2] Grant them as much protection as you can.

>C] Write-in a different strategy, an invocation, a prayer, or anything else more befitting of the Father of Mercy.
>>
>>4013310
>B] Charge towards the civilians.
>1] Ensure that they receive any healing you can offer. Don't lose any more lives here than necessary.
The other clergy would understand. Tell them where we are going.
>C] Call the other Fathers over to us, maybe meet them halfway?
But we still cannot let them fall.
>>
>>4013310

Defend Father Wilhelm and the priests who cant invoke, ask them to charge forward and get the attention of the demons so the civilians can run. Fred can hold his own as his god is focused on battle, this is quite literally his stomping ground, he doesn't need us as much as the rest. Heal only the ones with life threatening injuries, if they aren't going to die in the next few minutes leave them. Triage them as best as we are able so that the least people die, even if they are going to have to sit on the ground bleeding for a bit.
>>
>>4013315
Mama Mercy, takes a secondong
>>
>>4013331

Supporting - but also remember to tone down on masochism things. We need to contain that shit. I'm not saying it's in this vote, but I'm saying in general. I'll keep hammering that shit in until it kills me.
>>
>>4013315
>>4013331
>>4013334
>>4013348
(I can make all of this work for sure. Locking the vote here, writing now.)
>>
>>4013377
The ground beneath your feet might as well not exist, for how quickly you flit around the edges of the magma. Divinity and gold flows from your hands. Another shield, of radiant light, flares forth. It shines before the civilians across the courtyard. You head as quickly as you can towards them, sparing a precious moment to pull back your hood, to make your identity and presence known to any who may question your authority.

This is a matter of life and death. The King of Corcaea has been chosen by Mercy, and you are Their hands.

No holy man can question Your authority.

"Aid your Fathers! MOVE, away from the civilians! LEAD THE CHARGE! NOW!"

As you sprint, closing the gap between the end of the courtyard and your fully exposed identity, there is a moment of recognition and hesitation. Several priests glance towards you, in between strikes, lances, spears and swords. Several cry out.

"As soon as we're able, there's just—"

"Where have you been—?!"

"YES, FATHER, RIGHT AWAY—!"

Their cries, protests and obvious disbelief are all cut short. Another surge of fire and plasma surges from the demon at the center of the courtyard, threatening to consume them all.

Sliding to a stop before the priests, you raise another defense. A barrier, to redirect the assault.

Your white-hot divinity matches the intensity of the lava. It flows in you, out of you. Mercy floods the attack. The barrier, for its strange form, rises from your hands, along the dirt. It instantly winds back towards the demon within the center of the courtyard.

The monsters, with a female voice, screams out. Its cry is not of any pain. The magma floods back into its body, granting it more bulk. The pustule, for all of its wounds, leaks and writhes.

The unholy noise its emitting is one of lethal intent.

Father Friedrich leaps from the courtyard. His form gallantly plunges, from an unnatural height, down, straight at the demon. His scream is of righteous ecstasy.

As he sails through the air, granted no reprieve from any attack, every man in your presence works to defend him.

Countless spears soar from behind you, amidst the sobs and cries for relief. Father Wilhelm, for the sweat pouring from his brow, clutches his fists all the tighter. The demon bows down, seeming to forget for a moment where its attacker is coming from.

The Father of Flesh lands. He and Father Wilhelm do not need to call out to one another. The former is tearing, viciously, into the beast of flame with his bare hands. The latter anticipates every strike, redirecting the monster's attention, pulling it down. It's clearly horrifically disoriented, as if it can't recall where the Father of Flesh has last attacked after each and every strike.

Everyone's efforts on the field of battle redouble, pressing forward, crying out.

"It's about Time!"

"FINALLY!'

"MERCY!"

(1/4)
>>
>>4013471
"Well wouldn't this have been great, a whole fucking day ago? Nice hair, by the way," Cyril smirks.

You bring a hand, baffled, to a few strands of gold. They stick to your scalp, lacing the mortal and shortly trimmed mop about your head. It's unlike the flecks of metal littering your robes, that fall to the floor with the slightest motion.

The divinity persists, and you steel yourself, grimacing. Before you can coherently respond, the priest presses on. Thin trails of smoke and heat linger behind him, as he breaks into a run, without further comment or thanks for saving his life.

There's no time to deliberate, or even to call after him, for the pain that's threatening to rain down around you all. With a cry, your hand already to your temple, you raise the opposite palm. Gold floods from the free digits, coursing out, blocking another barrage of molten crimson. The two forces of heat, of blasphemy and divinity, collide mid-air. You drop the defense as quickly as you can, utterly drained, but you can't stop now.

The two priests that have allied alongside you catch up to their Brothers. A broken shield is utterly discarded, trusting in you and the other church leaders present fully. They know you all will grant as much protection, respite, and strength as you're able.

Every holy man on the field is fighting for their life. You trust in them, as you turn, and run, to the edges of the interior defense.

https://youtu.be/ag7ECEJ1dAo

Pulling around the edge of the courtyard, just on the other side of the battlements, is carnage. There is a line of at least one hundred men, women, and children. They were obviously pulled from the festival. They likely were the only ones brave enough to come to the city's defense.

Ribbons litter the hair of the girls. Stains of beer and revelry adorn the men. Most of them are covered in some form of blood. Many more are softly crying, attempting with all their might to not lose themselves. To not add to the horror. To not activate the Catalyst.

Not a single priest remains among them. All have been pulled into the field of battle, the Church.

Reactionary. Priests of Flesh.

You are a master of prevention. Of medicine.

You are the Father of Mercy.

You scan the crowd, frantically. Dirty faces, many laced still with hunger, look up to you. A few immediately recognize you. Not for the crimson robes you wear, but for all of the light and gold. The obvious divinity. There is a silent cry, and countless murmurs.

Borderline panic follows. Humanity cries out in pain.

They are all Your children.

"PLEASE—!"

"My husband! You HAVE to help!"

"There isn't anything they could do—"

"SAVE MY CHILD! BY ALL THE GODS, PLEASE!"

"I can't feel anything. I can't feel anything. Mercy, Father? Why aren't they answering?"

"MERCY! FATHER—!"

(2/4)
>>
>>4013474
Your trained eye can't scrutinize such a huge mass with absolute certainty, not as quickly as you need. You drop, to your knees, before the first dying man you see, shaking off the hale woman clinging to your robes without injury.

The figure before you is silent. The screams around you persist, as much as the pain written over his face. For the intense burns lacing his body, you know he likely only has moments left.

Placing a hand just above the expanse of burns, the fabric singed into his legs, you need not utter a prayer. There is no need for words, between you and the Goddess of Healing.

In a flood of light and gold, you apply the beginning of your administrations. It drops all pretense of disguise.

Multiple men and women around you break out sobbing with relief, literally dragging the dying and wounded towards you.

There is no need for restraint, not when your allies are fighting with everything they have. While you heal, slower than any of these people have Time for, you call out, with compassion.

"The Fathers of Flesh and Dream are valiantly fighting on your behalf! The men of the Gods are here, for your protection! You all are fighting, valiantly! Be it within yourselves or on the field of battle, PERSEVERE! Continue to grant yourselves restraint! I am the Father of Mercy, and I have heard your prayers! I come to you, with all of the blessing of the Goddess! Permit Us to grant you Our aid! Please, show me your dying— ONLY the dying! Permit me to heal them! EVERYONE ELSE WHO IS ABLE, RUN! SEEK SHELTER! THE CHURCH OF MERCY WILL PROTECT YOU!"

There is a horrific screech, from the courtyard. A number of men and women about you look up to you with so much reverence and hope in their hearts that yours wants to break.

Frantically, no fewer than three dozen people hurl their final assault into the courtyard beyond. Wounded men, still hale enough to fight, stagger behind with a secondary barrage. You have to pull away, from the dying man. A single hand stays over his form.

The other raises to the sky, as you look to the field beyond.

You bring a shield over as many as you are able.

The demon, facing Father Friedrich and Father Wilhelm, has expelled another wave of magma. It's infringing on the edges of the courtyard, pushing towards so many that cannot defend themselves. The priests remaining in the courtyard are fighting, as valiantly as they can, against overwhelming odds.

You have to pull back, from the man at your feet. His skin is healed in full, and light is in his eyes.

He looks to you with as if you were a God.

The sweep of your arm, to drag a curtain of gold down before the wounded and dying grants them enough protection to bark another order at them all.

""RUN!"

(3/4)
>>
>>4013478
While the fighting force and countless children are picked up, carried and dragged away, your attention goes back to those who cannot obey your command. Those who cannot even stand.

Shaking, for all of the support of the Goddess, you tense your arm.

A sweep, of the entire limb, shatters the metal before you. Every fragment pools, rises, and reforms. A colossal wall stands, between the demons and the dying.

At least twenty women and a few men seem to have stayed behind. Though they are certainly able to flee, they run straight to your side.

In a fit of devotion, of conviction, and love, you release your tenuous hold on the barrier. There is enough intimacy, of Mercy's blessing, coursing through your veins that Your blessing persists. The wall stays, tangible, evidence of the Goddess. The magma all about the barrier flows, around the temporary structure, granting you all safety for another blessed moment.

Your mind strains, from the Goddess, from the heat, the gold. Your every thought races.

Not for repressing the groan, of so much relief and release. You have spent your life restraining yourself. It's coming back to you.

Your temples ache, for how difficult it is. For all your training and experience, you need to prioritize who needs to be seen to first.

"Father, please, my husband!"

"I can heal, Father! I can help—! Just tell me where to go, I'll do everything I can—"

"This man's burns need immediate aid!"

"My wife, sir— Father— her arm, it's gone—"

"My baby! My poor baby girl, PLEASE, she's been stabbed, oh GODS—"

>A] Work methodically, consistently, on each individual. Know your limits. Leave the fight to your allies. Trust in your ability. Command every civilian at your disposal to aid in the effort.
>(PLEASE SPECIFY IN WHICH ORDER YOU WOULD LIKE TO ATTEND TO THE DYING, e.g. 2 > 1 > 3 > 4)
>1] The children, regardless of their wounds.
>2] The burned.
>3] Those missing limbs.
>4] Those who have loved ones begging for their aid, in the order they reached you.

>B] Grant enough restraint to the crowd to return to the fight. There WILL be casualties, but it will guarantee for a time that no else here turns. You hope that preventing the further loss of much life may be better than ensuring the survival of the men, women and children here.

>C] Write-in.
>>
>>4013487

>3] Those missing limbs
>2] The burned.
>1] The children, regardless of their wounds.
>4] Those who have loved ones begging for their aid, in the order they reached you.

The man who said he can heal should help deal with the most distraught people, those who are closest to falling to the catalyst, while we work on the people with actual bad damage. Just having someone there is going to give those people hope and its what they really need right now.
>>
>>4013496
oy vey +1
>>
>>4013496
Supporting.

mandatory restraint post
>>
>>4013496
yeah this seems like the proper order to do this. so +1
>>
>>4013496
>>4013500
>>4013502
>>4013549
(Awesome, let's keep this rolling! Vote is locked, writing now.)
>>
>>4013565
You rise from the wounded at your feet, ignoring every cry around you for a moment. Light blooms and bursts before your vision from the slightest motion. The yellow flowers, the light of day, and a Goddess looks out from your eyes of gold. It disguises a gaping wound, a protruding bone, a child's face knitted in pain, a man begging for death, more burnt Flesh than you can stand—

You focus.

https://youtu.be/LhIS4FdS7co

Quelling every wave of relief, for all your intent to heal, you rush to the worst of the injured. Those who need your aid the most, alongside the first amputee you can find.

The man, middle-aged, worn with heat and flame, is catatonic. In a pool of blood, the entirety of his right leg has melted away. A substance akin to meat, from a grinder or worse, hangs onto the soil beneath his still frame. His breath is so irregular and soft that you almost mistook him for dead.

There are many more like him, all about, but someone calls you straight to his side. There's a woman, kneeling, who knits her hands together the moment you approach his form.

She rises, quickly, as you point over to another man. The healer. Without hesitation, she parts from who you strongly suspect is her husband. The immediacy of her obedience is terrifying.

The cries of the dying all around you are heartbreaking, and the real looming terror.

She surely must be afraid for more than her husband's life.

You command the gentleman who spoke out before, as you begin your work. Your hands raise, palms turned skyward.

"Attend to everyone you see is at risk. Give them your support. Grant them healing, comfort, hope. Mercy. Go. Take as many as can aid you. We will see to the dying."

"Right away."
"Y-yes, Father."

The two figures reply almost instantly, grabbing and rallying the remaining survivors who can bear to part from the injured. You hear your name, many times, and so many cries for Mercy. They intermingle with the rising chaos and panic, of a fight raging just a few hundred yards away.

There are screams, from the field of battle, rising from countless demons.

"GAZE UPON OUR WORKS! OUR STRENGTH!"

"Give 'em everything you've got, sir—!"

"HE'S GOT ME FUCKING LEG—"

"GET TO FATHER WILHELM!"

"WATCH THE FUCKING FIRE!"

"Look not upon the day. You will see only the Night."

"To my side! NOW!"

The scent of sulfur and flame is hot in the air.

You have to focus on a different heat.

Focus.

With raised hands, you close your eyes.

Embraced by the Goddess, you reach out to the victim before you. Mercy cannot restore his broken Flesh.

She grants relief. Compassion.

From within the exposed bone, broken veins and trickling of blood is a surge of warmth, and life. The patient's eyes remain closed.

She is Merciful. The bleeding ceases.

(1/4)
>>
>>4013866
The Flesh weaves back over, with interlocking bands of yellow gold.

You've never seen Her work in such a way before.

In the wake of the light, without sparing another moment, you trust in the Goddess. In Time. Eventually, They will mend the rest of the man's wounds.

Your own work is needed elsewhere.

The crimson sticks to the inside of your mind, dripping along with the gold. There are so many you cannot save. Your initial estimates of how many civilians survived was clearly a mistake. Despite how quickly you're working, there are many more that are dead, or beyond all aid.

A number of them look up to you, with fear in their eyes. Several die at your feet. More do further beyond, in the dirt.

More still wind up clinging to your robes, embracing you, screaming against your robes in utter agony while you mend their wounds.

Men that have forsaken entire pieces of themselves, in the name of protecting their kin.

You are rapidly remembering why demons are universally reviled.

I've saved so many.

There's a Goddess, in you, on you—

A woman, missing her arm clean at the shoulder, sobs hysterically as you save her life. The strands of meat move with the shake of her shoulders, though she is exhibiting an unholy amount of self control. Her breath is as level as her words, for all of her trembling, your healing and your mutual light.

Thanks falls from her lips like the gold dripping from Your hands. "It's a miracle. The Father. The Mother. Thank you. Thank you. Mercy. Thank you."

Her relief is so immense, for your devotion and love, that she trails behind you, until you command her to go aid the rest of the wounded.

Something is surging, coursing through the cracks in your mind and body. It's growing, with each and every blessing. Every unspoken prayer.

No fewer than five others, missing limbs or enormous swathes of Flesh, are seen to by Your hand.

You're rapidly losing count of how many lives you've saved today.

It wouldn't be the first time.

You've done worse things, than to stay with the Goddess for so long.

It is not a sin to heal so many.

You are a blessing.

The praise and screams swell, as you move, wordlessly. As quickly as you're able, dropping to your knees, you come upon a spread of at least fifteen utterly charred bodies. Several are still moving. While some are only capable of rasping out in pain, others still are disturbingly alert. Two of the men are beside the healer you spoke to earlier. They all were commanded to attend to those at worst risk of activating the Catalyst. They are all kneeling in the dirt and blood, looking utterly disturbed, but keeping themselves as composed as one could hope for.

(2/4)
>>
>>4013874
"He's coming. It will be over soon. Please." One is unraveling a number of bandages, attending to a significantly less burned man.

"GODS—!"

Another calls over his shoulder, pinning down another body while the healer tightly binds a limb that needs to be removed. "Keep it together. We're here. You aren't alone."

"HELP ME! WHERE ARE THEY?!"

"Father, please— you have to do something," one of the men murmurs. The grief lacing his face is too severe for him to scream out in turn. His eyes are dry, but you feel the cracks in his soul.

You drop down, beside him, placing a hand on the man's shoulder. He had a severe wound in his side, not lethal, but bound to turn foul in time. Devotion and so much thanks is directed towards you in an instant, for how ravaged your own frame must surely look.

It isn't weariness that has you trembling. It's a Goddess—

It's all you can do, to jerk your head aside, to ignore the blossoming relief and command both men to leave your presence.

They refuse to leave your side.

One goes to the side of the man before you, gingerly placing a hand to his shoulder while you work.

He's screaming. He's been screaming, this entire time, and the soft gold has been Mercifully keeping the worst of the cries at bay.

Mercy, he won't stop screaming.

Wet, bloodied, open, raw.

Row, after row.

Clinging into bitterly charred fabric. Sticking into the inside of the wounds.

Protruding organs.

There is another life lost, further down the row.

The pallor. Blackened skin, flaking into the air. The scent, on the inside of your nose, sticking to the back of your throat.

You don't retch.

You are compassionate. Your strength lies in Your restraint.

There is simply not enough Time for everyone. This is a task that could have benefited from every clergyman at your disposal.

The man beside you and so many more have the worst of their pain mended, through the utmost of Your works and devotion. You ease their pain. You heal them, taking off as much of the burnt and lost Flesh as you're able.

You have to stop.

Focus.

There's more cries, demanding your immediate attention. You're running

There is a boy, no older than ten. Far too young to be of any use in a fight, but brave enough to have come to his family's aid. His lungs are devastated, for how much he's coughing. His foot, charred and decayed from the work of a demon, is evidence of a narrow escape from the start of the outbreak.

He was a first responder.

There's an itch, at the back of your mind. A reminder.

There's more, brought together by three women, all being dutifully attended to. You recognize that the youngest of the children must have already turned over.

To the Catalyst.

Imps.

(3/4)
>>
>>4013878
There's a turn, again, in your stomach, as you keep your fists tight.

Looking with divinity to the brave and devastatingly young figures gathered together, wounded and bleeding, you murmur.

"We're here to help."

The two women about you nearly collapse, having not even recognized your approach. Relief drenches them, in waves.

"Thank all of the Gods."

"Mercy." The statement is not a correction. It's a promise.

You remain standing, extending a single hand, and gently lift it to a small figure laying on the dirt. Her tousled hair is tied with red ribbons. Crimson laces the enormous wound in her side. Impossibly, her slight figure has endured a horrific injury, of a dagger, made solely of congealed blood.

With your outstretched hand, the blade falls, harmlessly, to the ground beside her. You remove the poison from her wound, the smoke from her lungs.

Your face is unreadable, utterly bent on your work, on saving as many lives as you can.

The little hero curls in on herself, coughing reflexively, though you know she does not have anything in her body to expel. She looks up to you, with a mortal light in her eyes.

Her expression is utterly serious. She is clearly too stunned to even be alive, let alone to speak.

It matters little. You hang back, permitting the women to aid you in assisting the worst of the dying. The young, and undefended. All of them have so much smoke in their lungs.

You wonder for the health of all of the civilians who poured back into Beorward, seeking shelter.

As you extract the last of the viscera and agony, placing a hand to one of the women beside you, you try to focus.

The screams are becoming a haze, against the nonexistent edges of your mind.

There are voices, still. They are not your own.

"Take the children. Take them to the city. Seek as much aid as you are able. Send word to the King. Let Him know what has happened here. He will understand. WE are Merciful."

Father. We have more work to do.

There is no question in your mind that

There is no question in your mind.

(Options in next post)
>>
>>4013881
>A] The rest of the dead and dying will have to wait. You are seriously hurting yourself. Try to release Mercy. You are surrounded by people who want to protect you. Trust in them.
>1] Don't wait another minute longer than you have to.
>2] Implore one of the civilians that's still able to get you to safety, in the event you collapse.
>2] Sprint back to the stable, your congregation, and Ray. Do everything you can along the way.
>3] Get back to the interior of the Church of Flesh.

>B] Stay with the Goddess just long enough to heal as many more as you can recognize to be on the brink of death, and let come what may.

>C] You have stayed with Mercy for longer, though never after working so much through your vessel. Get back, to Father Wilhelm and Father Friedrich. The battle is still raging, and they need your protection, no matter the cost.

>D] Write-in
>>
>>4013885
>>C] You have stayed with Mercy for longer, though never after working so much through your vessel. Get back, to Father Wilhelm and Father Friedrich. The battle is still raging, and they need your protection, no matter the cost.

We can't stop as long as we have people to protect. We need to reign in our thoughts, show our restraint, and soldier on to make sure we protect as many as we can. Like she said, we have more work to do - we are the Father of Mercy.
>>
>>4013885
>>C] You have stayed with Mercy for longer, though never after working so much through your vessel. Get back, to Father Wilhelm and Father Friedrich. The battle is still raging, and they need your protection, no matter the cost.
>>
>>4013960
>>4014105
(Going to lock here to get out one more update tonight. Writing now!)
>>
>>4013885
We can't stop. Not as long as We have people to protect. We need to

show our restraint and soldier on. To make sure We protect as many as We can.


It's too difficult to speak out. Something perfect is working through you. The heat in your face and all the rest of your body rivals the very Sun. Yet, for all the weariness in your limbs, you manage to tear away from the last of the wounded. There is trust, here, in those who can still heal.

Your aid is needed elsewhere.

Sprinting as fast as you're able is relatively easy. Compared to keeping your breath level, your voice from rising out of you like a man possessed, each agonizing movement is effortless. You welcome it. Every surge of torn muscle, a curse, a caress.

Your vision is swimming, for the heat rising in and before it.

Lava coats the entire courtyard.

There are fewer priests than you last laid eyes upon, past the battlements. Five seem to have fallen, at least. It's difficult to make out any forms with absolute clarity. Obstructing a third of the field is a large demon, comprised entirely of spears. All of its focus is bent on Cyril. The blonde's fists are dripping with blood, but his smirk persists. He fires, from atop the battlements, along six other priests. He's tossing a ludicrous volume of spears alongside them, using the corpse of an imp as a barrier.

Smoke no longer rises from his body. His eyes must be a fair shade of blue, as he down up to the creature fearlessly, and without divinity.

Invoking a God, more often than not, is enough to destroy a common man.

To stay with one for as long as You have is a gift, a miracle, a blessing—

Beside Cyril, you only recognize two of the other priests. The man you healed, and the figure with his now-broken sword are weary. Every priest, from their elevated position, seems unable to recognize your approach.

We have more work to do.

Aside from the fifteen imps that still remain among the magma, all eyes are fixed on a monstrosity.

It has moved to infringe on the Church of Flesh. The demon's colossal form seems weakened, for how much mass it has been ripped clean away from its body.

The imps eyes are all fixed on you.

Like a man possessed, Father Friedrich is riding atop the demon in the center of the courtyard. He is punching, clean into the demon. Every strike is punctuated with another syllable, for how quickly he's moving. His body is aflame, with plumes of heat and divinity coursing off of him.

There is little fear in your heart, as you charge, across the molten flame and rock before you. Across the courtyard.

It parts under your feet, the magma and the rock.

Searing divinity is left in your wake.

(1/3)
>>
>>4014618
You weave, through a barrage of blood, thickened into solid projectiles. The attack surges, plummeting into the flame behind you. The assault that you cannot withstand with your own body is shielded, in full, with another wave of your hand. A clenched fist. A surge of divinity, through every last fiber of your being.

It feels like nothing can touch you.

I am the Father of Mercy.

Over your rapid approach, you can hear a cry. The punctuation of sickening wet tears and rips in the demon's Flesh carries across the field, but not over Father Friedrich's voice.

"Do you feel Our works? For everything you have lost? Everything you've taken?! We're going to kill you, you miserable wretch, if I have to tear you down to the last muscle! Have you found it? OUR GIFTS?!"

Father Wilhelm is nowhere in sight. Several spears hurl through the air, granting you cover, for how much distance you've been granted in so little time.

You do hear his reply. "Fall into the nightmare. Permit Him to enter You. Dream."

A wave of paint and viscera overtakes the demon, surging past you and straight into the creature. Its body pools and swirls, leaking, spilling. The paint spreads, in broad strokes below Father Friedrich's feet. He cries out, too enraptured by his own God to have realized what was coming.

He is only a moment away from literally falling into the demon.

Sliding to a stop, your radiance halts within a heat that cannot hope to rival the Goddess. For all of the swirling devotion about you, there is gold in your hands. It flares up, spreading without ever making contact. You decisively reach out, mending the wound within the nightmare in an instant.

You protect the Father of Flesh.

An expanse stretches, within the maw of the creature before you.

It is at least thirty feet tall, but you don't need to look to its peak.

You've healed the opening a dreamer created, moments before Father Friedrich plummeted to his death.

There is no wave, or call for thanks. Not yet.

The demon is writhing, convulsing, and there is a horrific cry coming from every imp in the courtyard.

Four of the priests cry out, almost simultaneously.

"Get back!"
"MOVE!"
"SHIT—!"
"RUN!"

An insane grin is directed towards you, from across the courtyard. Father Wilhelm is visible, adjacent to the front door of the church. He's guarding it with his body and life, though an aura of divinity is about him. He does not speak, to you, murmuring a prayer you cannot hear. With outstretched fingers, he drags a hand down. The work moves, across the front of the pustule.

(2/3)
>>
>>4014626
It forgets, upon awakening from his Dream.

The attack halts.

From atop the demon, there is another cry, as Father Friedrich clings on for dear life. The effort, for his strength, seems to wear on him.

It's clear that he can't outpace the creature's regeneration. Neither can Father Wilhelm.

A horrific crack splinters and cracks in the front of Fathers Wilhelm's face. The paint and Dream coursing through the man shows no indication of pain. He's euphoric, his words distant, and his form with that of his God.

"Let's put this demon to rest. Will you lend Us a hand?"

>A] Create a barrier for Father Wilhelm and Father Friedrich to move on, over the lava, and around the demon while they strike it down. Grant them all the protection you're able.

>B] Focus all of your efforts on guarding the door to the Church of Flesh. Leave the fight to those who are sound of body.

>C] Invoke both Flesh and Mercy, before everyone in the courtyard. The last time it did so, it nearly destroyed your mind— but you aren't entirely sound of mind now, either.

>D] Fight alongside them. Use Your Relic. Continue to make history.
>1] Join forces with Father Wilhelm.
>2] Join forces with Father Friedrich.

>D] Write-in.
>>
>>4014628
>>B] Focus all of your efforts on guarding the door to the Church of Flesh. Leave the fight to those who are sound of body.
>>
>>4014628
>>A] Create a barrier for Father Wilhelm and Father Friedrich to move on, over the lava, and around the demon while they strike it down. Grant them all the protection you're able.
>>
>>4014628

>>D] Fight alongside them. Use Your Relic. Continue to make history.

>>1] Join forces with Father Wilhelm.
>>2] Join forces with Father Friedrich.

Use it like we did in the ruins with Yech and Ofelia, we are going to need amazing coordination to outpace the demons healing with damage. I also hope that after everyone sees how powerful it is in our hands they aren't going to try and take it from us and that the two Fathers who we are helping will have our back in front of the King.
>>
>>4014628
>>B] Focus all of your efforts on guarding the door to the Church of Flesh. Leave the fight to those who are sound of body.
>>
>>4014965
+1
>>
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94 KB PNG
>>4014893
+1
>>
>>4014747
>>4015428
(Appreciate the vote as always, but this is directly counter to the other options.)

>>4014893
>>4015486
(Would be tied but)

>>4014965
>>4015438
(This can be done at the same time, technically. Locking the vote, writing ASAP!)
>>
>>4015512

late but mandatory restraint post, gotta keep the god shit mentally under control so we can function and think hope it still applies even though vote is locked
>>
>>4015538
(Duly noted mate, no worries. Thanks as always for the contribution!)
>>
>>4015544
With a single, swift pull, the chain from around your neck is cleanly separated.

It remains in your clutches, as you sprint towards the end of the courtyard. The line of attack from every imp heading your way brings no fear to your heart. With a free hand, you cast a shield behind you, in an out pour of a light.

It is so piercing, nothing can hope to safely gaze upon it.

You are my light.

Father Friedrich's cries can be heard atop the demon in the center of the courtyard, rallying his men, and fighting the good fight.

"How about some cover?! FIRE!"

For how rapidly every demon turns its focus towards you, there is a rain of spears, and of support. Several yells ring out from the walls of the courtyard, for all of the priests fighting down the attack, and aiding you as best as they can.

There is only one thing you know of, that can truly bring all of your strength together.

Skidding to a stop before the doors of the Church of Flesh, you hear no cries or pleas for Mercy on the opposite side of the door.

There's no Time to deliberate over the silence.

We are needed here.

Father Wilhelm beams at you, for all of his works, and the intensity in which he is invoking his own God. Sweat is clinging to the cloth about his eyes, sticking to his long hair. It's slick along the collar of his sleeping jacket and ridiculous nightcap, for how singed and frayed the cloth has become.

He still seems relatively unharmed, for all of the exhaustion clearly adorning his body.

You don't judge his appearance, nor do you concern yourself with a single projectile flying by. Neither do you worry about the men screaming beyond the courtyard, or the demons threatening to approach.

One palm is extended, outwards, towards the attack. A shield, of molten gold, staves off certain death. No fewer than five projectiles sink into your display, melting on impact. You wince, your knees threatening to buckle, for all of the works of a Goddess in you.

Your lips stay tight, your devotion without equal. As quickly as you're able, your free hand is held aloft.

You extend Your Relic.

Mercy's gift is utterly blinding. There is nothing you would rather turn your sight towards, but you still lower your eyes. Were it not for how badly you wish to look upon the gold, they would close entirely.

The motion is still made in deference to the priest before you.

No matter how intensely Mercy wishes to work through you, the answer given to Father Wilhelm is entirely your own.

"We can do so much more. Join Us."

The man before you is blindfolded, in a daze. He looks upon the object between you both with more than mortal eyes.

The Father of Dream takes your hand without any hesitation.

"We can only imagine what this will mean. For all of Us."

Dropping the shield behind you, you clasp all of your hands together.

(1/2)
>>
>>4015967
"A Mercy."

Cracks of blue sink into the deepest recesses of your mind, body, and soul.

"A Dream."

https://youtu.be/pBR3Vki6HPM

There is a weight, in the very sky. Darkness, deeper than any you have ever endured, sinks into your sight. There's a building terror, of a force so tremendous you cannot begin to comprehend it. Wild imaginings, of a lifetime beyond the clouds, the moon, and of form stretching between hits you. The reverie flies, beyond your sight, in broader and broader strokes.

You pass in and around the shade. There is light. Not from the stars, and not from the day still shining about your mortal form.

No darkness can conceal your Goddess.

You rise, through all memory of the night.

There is a swirl of paint, of oil, of heat and of gold.

The two forces do not need to compete.

There is a union.

It pours out, from your hands, into your Relic, wrapping in the present around an immaculate ally.

A number of cracks rend the very ground beneath you. They break out, deep into the courtyard. From each and every retreaded memory flares forth sapphire and liquid gold.

It is a precious union.

No mortal looking upon Your works may question who is to be revered.

There is something more. A vision. Something that has yet to transpire and may never will, but it is there

It is forgotten, in an instant, as your eyes lift.

You look upon Father Wilhelm. His eyes are covered, behind a cloth of blue, but there is gold and light visible beneath. The cracks in his skin are littered with metal and gemstone. The highest concentration rises from his hands, though it is coursing, swirling between you two.

There are specks of gems littering your hands, dripping with paint, creeping along your skin.

Though it courses, back towards the field of battle, it keeps you together. The work has been wrought by the hands of Your alliance.

There is no further strain on the edges of your mind, as your hands part. Between you two is an impression, in the back of your mind, of something that has already been seen before.

The Relic you fasten back around your neck is Your vessel.

"You remember, don't you," Father Wilhelm says, his voice immediate.

It is realer than anything you have ever heard.

Together you walk, through the night, through compassion, and a holy alliance. Though you look upon the demons charging towards you, they seem intangible.

You imagine they could even be something different.

Of course we remember.

"We are in the night. We know what it is to Dream."

(Options in next post)
>>
>>4015974
>A] Trust in Father Wilhelm can attend to the demons and clergy. Charge to Father Friedrich. Make this unity complete, as quickly as possible.

>B] Advise Father Wilhelm on how to best be Merciful. (Write-in anything you wish to say.)

>C] For all of your restraint, you can't resist working through another priest, let alone Dream. Don't overextend yourself, but try to...
>1] Remember how these imps should appear.
>2] Envision what these imps could be. (Write-in your wildest imaginings.)
>3] Let the larger of the demons slip into the reverie. Rob them of their connection to the waking world.
>4] Force the colossal demon beneath Father Friedrich to forget the moment.

>D] Write-in.
>>
>>4015977
>>A] Trust in Father Wilhelm can attend to the demons and clergy. Charge to Father Friedrich. Make this unity complete, as quickly as possible.

Trust our compatriot and complete this alliance so we can end this calamity. We can do this...with restraint as always. Have to be on the top of our game, after all!
>>
>>4015977

>>A] Trust in Father Wilhelm can attend to the demons and clergy. Charge to Father Friedrich. Make this unity complete, as quickly as possible.

DADDIES ASSEMBLE
>>
>>4015977
>A] Trust in Father Wilhelm can attend to the demons and clergy. Charge to Father Friedrich. Make this unity complete, as quickly as possible.
Papa Freddy Not!Mercury, Sing me a song!
>>
>>4015994
>>4016003
>>4016012
(Let's do this shit. Vote is locked, writing now!)
>>
>>4016055
In a flare of cerulean and night, gold and enough heat to melt every weapon launched between you, you raise nothing but your eyes.

You have a fantasy, working through your very soul.

It feels like you've experienced something so similar before, as you cut across the field of battle. The walk becomes a run, alongside a man who has sacrificed everything he can. He has aided you, at every turn. He parts from your side after a moment, granted Your divine protection. Your trust. Your union.

This is no demon, though his generosity rivals that of one. Father Wilhelm clearly trusts entirely in your works.

He demonstrates so much Mercy towards the demons before you. With a wave of His hands, Five imps collapse. They fall in a fit of slumber, before they can completely cross the courtyard towards you both.

Another line, headed straight your way, hesitates for only an instant. It costs their own allies dearly. Their weapons collide into the bodies of their fallen foes, granting them eternal rest in an instant.

You witness the only cure.

Again.

It's enough, for you to approach the side of the monstrous demon at the center of the courtyard. Its discharge, for all of the flame and heat on the ground below, is not a threat.

Its ability is. The instant you get within reach of the creature's might, you can see the rate at which it is repairing. It's working frantically to undo Father Friedrich's administrations. Swirls of paint no longer spin inside of the beast's body, for how quickly it has mended. Still, countless tears, rips and wounds litter the enormous scab, leaking out gallons of pus from beneath.

Father Friedrich is bent entirely on wearing it down, unphased by the grotesque. Keeping the nightmare's focus off of any of his allies is what he has been born and bred to do.

The men atop the walls are culling the remainder of the imps, directing their focus towards the demon lanced with spears.

Their Father is clinging, perched to the side of the beast, his muscle visibly aflame with every strike and tear against the demon. He's not calling out, but is in a visible fit of ecstasy. So much force is applied through his Flesh, to the creature beneath, it cannot hope to match his might. Every strike is another cry, of bliss and religious fervor.

You cry out, to the Father of Flesh.

"Give US your hand!"

A wide-eyed, crimson look is frantically whipped around to you. The man is grinning wildly, utterly incapable of understanding what you're asking of him. He neither has visions of the future, nor understanding of the mind. He does not know of the passage of Time, the blessing of the night or the knowledge of the immaterial.

He is a man of the corporeal. Looking down to the sapphire littering your frame, the cracks about the battlefield, and Father Wilhelm's unwavering conviction, he seems to understand a fraction of what you ask.

(1/3)
>>
>>4016337
"Protect them all, dammit—! Stay back—!"

Beneath the priest and his outcry is another convulsion. The force with which the demon writhes must be impossible to tell at a glance.

The priest above you begins to plummet.

With a shout, a surge of flame, and an extreme display of dexterity, the man's hands dig back into the demon.

Through the wounds he creates, there is a flood.

You look upon it, unable to stop the works in your haze.

It has not transpired yet.

With stroke of the Gods, and a motion of your hands, you create a series of platforms. They're of solid gold, cascading from the side of the demon to the ground beneath you both.

"GET DOWN!"

Father Friedrich jumps back, not a second too late.

A surge of toxin and another cloud of smoke billows, from all of the rising heat within the demon.

You cry out. The heat and protection of the Goddess surges, in a wave of light, encompassing everyone within Your vision. Whipping your head to the opposite end of the courtyard, you realize you do not need to see the figures littering the smoke and sulfur. There's an impression, in the back of your mind, of an ally holding his own across the field of battle.

He's charging towards you both, fearlessly, winding a path that You both can see.

No attack will befall him. Not in your wildest imaginings.

You take hold of the locket around your neck, as your free hand drips with paint and gold. The digits grasp, as firmly as you can, onto the Father of Flesh. Before he can tear away, before you can cry out. Your grip tightens, embracing the agony.

His skin sears with a fire that rivals the very sun.

There is no need for you to rival him.

"Will you trust in Us?"

There is a twitch, under the muscle. Involuntary. The reply that follows is decidedly not Father Friedrich's, as well.

"You have yet to disappoint Him."

https://youtu.be/7RzA_Oomra8

Flesh has seen Your works. He has heard your prayers. He has witnessed your devotion.

"Reform this altar of sin."

Another deity wishes to share in Your works.

"Rescind this blasphemous form. Hypocrisy ends. Our deliverance begins."

With the might of the Gods, the Father of Flesh and Mercy grasp hands. Together, your arms tense, flexing your strength, your compassion, and unparalleled devotion. Though your limb is wasted and scarred, every fiber surges with strength.

Between your grasp is an out pour of heat and flame. The intensity of the fire, of the crimson and gold, robs the cracks in the field of everything but your mutual reverence. There is no Time, nor any other God or demon.

The very magma beneath your feet cannot withstand Your might.

(2/3)
>>
>>4016364
The hardened plasma, the solid rock, spreads between every crack of sapphire that has formed along the field of battle.

You are harder. You are unbearably strong, together.

A man who has conditioned and trained his entire life to master the material continues his grip, his power, the flame and all of the passion he holds.

It is not a work of imagination. You share His works, in the physical.

You grasp tightens for one more blessed moment, before wrenching away. You know you are grinning wildly, back to Father Friedrich.

He has streaks of gold, intertwining in the plumes of smoke rising from his body. There is a swirl, of paint and oil, keeping the flame ablaze. The smoke climbs, from the demon, from your respective bodies, stoked by the Dream of what is to come.

A man is on the field of battle, behind you both, interpreting your unparalleled unity as best as he's able.

There is no need for words between you, or anyone else in your alliance.

This is the will of the Gods.

A monstrosity leers overhead, having repaired itself as quickly as it was able. Plumes of smoke drift along the field of battle, but there is no burn in your lungs. Not for how quickly you have to sprint aside, not for the inescapable dodge, or all of your protection from another incoming attack.

Not even a streak of more spears, misplaced, threaten your sanity. They do not strike you, as you move with impossible speed and agility. They do not threaten your ally, as he catches one clean out of the air, and happily drives it straight into the demon before you. He extends an arm to you, the veins coursing with gold, and unshakable devotion across his face.

>A] Pummel this demon to death alongside Father Friedrich, faster than it can heal. Leave the imps and smaller demon to the remaining priests.

>B] Scale the demon with a network of healed Flesh. Work with all of your allies to wear it down, and command them from above.

>C] Call Father Wilhelm to your side, to subdue the demon utterly. Work with him in tandem, while Father Friedrich lays waste to the creature.

>D] Write-in.
>>
(Thank you for bearing with me for the formatting, please refresh the page if you're using the auto-update to see the correct posts.)
>>
>>4016371

>>C] Call Father Wilhelm to your side, to subdue the demon utterly. Work with him in tandem, while Father Friedrich lays waste to the creature.

The holy daddy trinity should focus on the big bastard while the rest of the priests keep the smaller demons from interfering.
>>
>>4016371
>A] Pummel this demon to death alongside Father Friedrich, faster than it can heal. Leave the imps and smaller demon to the remaining priests.
FISTO ENTERS THE RING
>>
>>4016371
>>A] Pummel this demon to death alongside Father Friedrich, faster than it can heal. Leave the imps and smaller demon to the remaining priests.

Time to B-B-B-BUST A MOVE!
>>
>>4016380
>>4016371

I have changed my mind. I want to beat this thing into the dirt with golden fists.

>A] Pummel this demon to death alongside Father Friedrich, faster than it can heal. Leave the imps and smaller demon to the remaining priests.
>>
>>4016382
>>4016387
>>4016403
(Hell yes, let's goooooooo! Vote is locked, writing!)
>>
>>4016427
https://youtu.be/bMfvZmhqW0A

Unable to suppress an unhinged laugh, the sheer love of the fight, the movement, or any of the Gods who are working through you, you brace yourself.

You back up, just enough to break into a sprint. The ground between you and Father Friedrich closes in second. Leaping, as you've practiced for weeks, you land on his outstretched hands. He matches your laughter with a shout, using the momentum and your mutual strength to launch you clean through the toxic air.

Breaking over the top of the billowing plumes, you land, cleanly, atop the horrific creature. There is still wind in your lungs, a fire in your Flesh, a Dream littering the field of battle, and a Goddess who is eager to protect it all.

There is gold, pouring from your hands. Mania dances in your eyes, as you let the blessing coat your hands, and form them around the more tangible weapon.

A number of spears streak across the field, as Cyril is screaming in the distance to his Father. You can't make out their coordination, over the screams of imps and more civilians in the distance. You do see it, for the network of weaponry that's headed straight towards you.

A ladder, reaching up to the nightmare.

The first of the weapons plummet into the side of the demon, causing it to spasm. A huge flood of pus and a scream rises from the monster.

You exacerbate the cacophony. Breaking into a run along the top of its form, you dig your molten fingers into the creature's hide. It creates and seals a wound in a second, cauterized over by your heat as fast as you dig in. Blood and heat rises from the creature, and in trails behind you. As you claw deeper, you're forced to slide to a halt, almost on hands and knees. The edge of the demon looms.

You drag yourself alongside it, using all of your Flesh and Mercy to hold on for dear life.

With nothing but your gilded hands, you plunge your arm straight into the creature.

It bucks, as no fewer than ten spears impact the opposite side. From underneath the top layer of its scab, for all of the pus and smoke beneath, you can feel it mending. In a horrific mockery of the God of the Material, it is working over itself, trying to encapsulate you entirely. You are an intrusion on its body for only a second, pulling the limb out as quickly as you're able.

Father Friedrich scales the side of the demon as you do, leaping from the last spear to crash alongside the spray of pus and blood.

He sees you, breathing hard, your golden hands and arm slick with rot.

"She's always been more devoted to her own body, than to Flesh."

He smiles in an equally insane way, obviously speaking of the demon. In his own hands are two weapons. One is tossed to you, which you catch effortlessly between your gold and sapphire. Its handle is bladed, nearly to the hilt, and you know his intent.

(1/3)
>>
>>4016639
You, and several other voices, are eager to reply. To offer Your word.

"We will show this demon the meaning of devotion."

Nothing further needs to, or can be said, for how hard the next pulse comes. The demon beneath your feet, in a sob and a scream, wrenches forth an explosion of crimson and decay. You let loose another wide grin, a cry, and launch yourself alongside Father Friedrich off the side of the demon.

Both of you swing your weapons into the side of the beast, careening back towards the ground. Dragging the blade with all of your might, you hardly hear the rest of the battle raging.

A great number of cries still carry over the chaos, as you descend, digging into the carnage as deeply as you can.

"DO YOU SEE THEM?! The FUCK—"

"What was that?!"

"Keep to the walls. Trust in your Fathers."

"ANOTHER VOLLEY—"

You both only make less than halfway down the demon before her bulk forces you off entirely. Though it's a fall of nearly 20 feet, there is no injury that cannot be healed between the blessing of Mercy and Flesh.

It's a Dream, as you collide with the stone, the hardened rock, and immediately force your body to break back into a run.

Father Friedrich is obviously impressed by your will to persevere. Rather than part from your side, the warrior pulls just slightly ahead, leaping again to rain a barrage of punishment on the demon.

You follow suit, laying strike after strike. The flurry of blows between you, the Gods, and the Father of Flesh go without interruption, as Father Wilhelm commands the troops in the distance. Dodging and weaving between a hail of spears from the imps beyond becomes child's play. Compared to the redoubled efforts of the demon under your hands, you wish it was all you had to worry about.

The monster begins to tear itself apart, in a final attempt at winning the fight. All hopes of self-preservation seem to be lost, with your combined efforts.

You scream in return, reacting as quickly as you're able. Every God within you and Your vessel work in tandem to hold the defense. You dive in front of Father Friedrich, between the shards. An explosion of light and gold flares forth between you, the priest at your side, and thousands of congealed daggers. Made of pus and rot, they melt instantly before Your shield.

A radius of soot leaves an after-image, charred, and deadly. It's at least three dozen feet across.

The man you are dutifully protecting, awe-struck, has the restraint to not move. You tense, every motion searing, your muscles burning, your soul aflame.

You drop the shield, and nearly drop to your knees. The man beside you slams a hand on your back, enough to knock the wind and all of your sense out of you.

"Thanks. Now get up. Let's go finish this bastard."

(2/3)
>>
>>4016644
There's a horrific grimace, as you fight against the blessing of three deities and the relief coursing along every inch of your frame.

Together, you fight.

Together, you charge.

Leaping into the fray, you witness that the creature has expelled the entirety of its interior contents. Its Flesh is in tatters in countless places from the outburst.

Good.

You draw back a fist, and pummel the beast. Each strike lays deeper than the last, revealing a void. In her desperation to strike you down, the demon enabled its own undoing.

You guarantee it.

Running alongside the creature, allowing your soul and mortal form to shatter through its defenses, you coat your fists in more than gold. There is blood. Each quake of the stone beneath your feet, the heat in your lungs, the force behind your blows and the dying cries in the distance sink into you. Harder than the Gods, harder than your muscle, harder than even the man of the Gods beside you.

He is laughing, his body similarly coated in viscera, for how hard you have pressed your attack.

>A] Let Father Friedrich land the killing blow.

>B] Ask Father Wilhelm to put the beast to rest with you both, together.

>C] Write-in how you would like to kill the demon.
>>
>>4016647
Fill it with gold and paint where the pus and rot once was
>>
>>4016647
>>B] Ask Father Wilhelm to put the beast to rest with you both, together.

Time to finish this. This fight started with all three of us, so we're all going to end it together.

With mental restraint, of course! Can't lose ourselves at this climatic moment.
>>
>>4016647
>>B] Ask Father Wilhelm to put the beast to rest with you both, together.
>>
>>4016647
>B] Ask Father Wilhelm to put the beast to rest with you both, together.
>>
>>4016674
>>4016676
>>4016858
>>4017005
(You guys can totally do all of this. Locking the vote here, writing now!)
>>
>>4017048
https://youtu.be/OLBTIUzPpEQ

Granting yourself a singular moment of reprieve, dodging under another barrage of spears from the few imps remaining, You cry out. Across the hardened lava, cooling rapidly for want of any further heat from the demon, over to the priests beyond. One of them is radiant, for all of the gold and gems within the cracks of his frame.

"Father Wilhelm! Let Us put this demon to rest."

His blindfolded eyes snap to you, and back to the demon. You glance over your own shoulder just in time, to swing up another shield.

The creature is unfolding, creating a number of appendages out of its torn scabs. One of the decaying wounds, at least twenty feet in length, threatens to slam down on you, in full.

A behemoth leaps to your aid.

Father Friedrich dives, grasping onto the tremendous piece of decay in mid-air. As he lands, practically crushed under its weight, you rush forth. Together, muscles screaming from the strain, you cry out and hold the appendage straight above both of your heads.

There isn't any room to spare, for error or a moment of weakness.

You drag a shield from the gold in your hands, crying out. From across the field is the smaller demon of spears, charging, writhing, threatening to unleash an assault on you both.

"HOLD! We need cover!"

The movement of your free hand coats the opening to your side, between the freed demon and your ally. It doesn't come a second too late.

The demon unleashes every spear within its body.

They litter the field of battle, sticking into stone, into dirt, the corpses still protruding from the magma, and every inch of your shield.

It holds. Your conviction stays firm, more so than any mortal weapon.

Father Wilhelm makes his way across the field, having clearly waited for the attack to subside.

You take full hold of the wound above your head, alongside the strain of Father Friedrich. Smoke and flame is coursing off of him in such huge plumes that you can scarcely see with your mortal eyes.

It's a good thing you don't need them.

You heave.

"NOW!'

The Father of Dream, a hand outstretched, closes the last of the distance between your holy trinity.

Paint and respite courses along the field, into the limb. From his reach comes ultimate relief, removing the weight of the creature and drenching you utterly in oil.

Your flame rises. Your body may as well be on fire, for how much heat is in You.

You lead the charge.

More limbs, pulled apart from the screaming demon, swirl and coalesce into another assault.

The Father of Flesh lets loose a yell, using nothing but his bare hands to punch back and wrestle the swarm of unholy limbs into utter submission.

You trust him completely.

Alongside the Father of Dream, you close your eyes.

With the rise of gold and pigment, you raise your hands.

(1/3)
>>
>>4017306
From them comes a blessing.

Your eyes open, reflecting a building pool of devastation in the enemy before you.

Father Friedrich takes hold, of the largest limb that threatens to swing down on his allies. You use a single wave of your hand to grant him relief, from his pain, as the skin along his shoulders threatens to break under the strain. The weight of the demon presses down, on him, on your sanity, in a final effort at self-preservation.

The Father of Dream steps forward, throwing aside his blindfold to look upon the last of His works with his own eyes. Where there should be white is an ultimate darkness. The irises are obscured by paint and gold, pooling indefinitely.

He casts the divinity down, into a prayer

You forget his words the moment they leave the night. It was a Dream.

The demon's form relaxes utterly.

You are tense, every nerve of fire, as you call out to the nightmare.

"Too long have you suffered. We give you not the cure to the Catalyst, but the cure to your pain! Rest, now, with Our blessing! Rest, through Our symbol!"

It screams in reply, utterly incoherent, too lost to pain and insanity to be saved.

With a clasped hand, fixed tightly about the locket around your neck, you permit the Gods and Goddess to flow through you.

Dream and Mercy intertwine, from your tortured Flesh, in an instant current. It flashes across the battlefield, pooling and spilling up, inside of the demon.

It's melting, building, from inside of the paint and gold. There is a fire, raging, a last effort at wiping out the Church of Flesh.

In the throes of death, subdued by your allies, it does not scream.

A demon is granted relief, from its pain, like so many others.

You hold, tightly, onto the respite, strength, and all of Your compassion.

With as much restraint as you're able, you quell the surge of heat and fire that threatens to explode across the entire field of battle.

There's a number of cries, from every direction. Priests along the walls fell the last of the imps and the demon of spears, bent with all of their might on your mutual protection. A crowd of civilians, mended and leaning on one another for support, are awe-struck by your display. They have clearly been gathering during the fight, though you were too distracted with your allies survival to notice them. Many of them are crying out in reverence, calling for more aid, cheering you on, or too amazed to even speak.

"TO THE WALLS!"
"Get back!"
"MERCY!"
"Where have they been—?!"
"Sweet Father of Mercy—"
"What in the name of—"
"KEEP UP THE ASSAULT!"
"By all the Gods!"
"Get to cover!!"

(2/3)
>>
>>4017311
Sweat and gold is dripping off of you, as the men at your side ensure the demon's death throes do not consume you utterly. Father Friedrich is punching, swinging, wrestling a monster down as best as he's able. It writhes, against Father Wilhelm's subdued might, for all that he has made it forget.

You keep them all safe.

There are three Gods working through you, as you bring your hands together. Clasped in prayer, you intertwine your fingers.

The paint and gold follows the motion. It pools, congealing, dragging together the last of the demon's Flesh in a miasma of divinity.

You splay your palms to the ground.

With a downwards surge, the liquid spills.

Melting the demon's form, beyond all recognition.

It covers the hardened magma.

Decaying.

Dissolving.

Spreading.

Painting.

Ultimately, it leaves nothing but light in its wake.

You are the light.

With eyes of gold, you look upon Your works.

A swirl of radiance and devotion is pooling from every corpse littering the field of battle. Countless charred bodies are rapidly consumed, the spears breaking off and clattering to the floor. Dozens of daggers, swords, halberds and shields are taken in, pooling into the gold, the crimson, the sapphire.

From the radiance comes a light. In a matter of moments, the gems sprout forth.

There is a field of golden flowers. They are tinged, with red and blue.

More than a fantasy. Proof of Their strength. Evidence of Your union.

The dozens of civilians gathered across the courtyard drop entirely to their knees. Many more still hesitate, taking a few steps back, unwilling to infringe on the work of holy men.

The priests along the walls begin to run, to the stairs, to the side of the battlements, to descend back out. They're calling to each other, coordinating, to ensure that you and the other Fathers of the Church are safe. That the battle is won.

The men of the Gods have so much work to do.

"Mercy."

"Her works are a sight to behold, Father."

"We're not done, here."

Father Friedrich's words make your eyes go even wider than they already are, for all of the light that's in them. He places a hand very firmly to your shoulder, and to Father Wilhelm's in turn. The priest's murmur is surely low enough that no one else can hear.

"There is another demon for us to attend to. It may be prudent to let Father Wilhelm take over, from here— if that's alright with you, Father Anscham."

The exhaustion ravaging your body is evident, even through the works of three Gods.

You need to rest.

Your devotion is Our strength.

You have accomplished so much, but there is more to be done.

(Options in next post)
>>
>>4017323
(Had some formatting mistakes, please refresh your browser if you need to, to see the correct prompt numbers.)

>A] Release the hold of Your Relic on Father Wilhelm and Father Friedrich.
>1] Immediately drop your connection to Mercy, knowing full well that you'll collapse the moment you do so. You're in good hands.
>2] Ask if you can be safely escorted somewhere to release Mercy, to rest safely and out of sight from the crowd. You can have their thanks later.
>3] Allow yourself to maintain your invocation of Mercy for long enough to get back to the stables. To Ray, to the congregation you saved, and to check on the demon.

>B] Maintain your connection to Mercy as long as you're able. You still need Her blessing. Leave it to the Fathers of Dream and Flesh if they wish to accompany you.
>1] Inspect the flowers in the field, before you do anything else.
>2] Check on the civilians in the distance. Many still look wounded, dismayed, and are looking to you for guidance.
>3] Ensure that the priests who fought so valiantly alongside you are alright.
>4] Look to the interior of the Church of Flesh. It has been eerily quiet.

>C] Write-in.
>>
>>4017348
>A] Release the hold of Your Relic on Father Wilhelm and Father Friedrich.

>2] Ask if you can be safely escorted somewhere to release Mercy, to rest safely and out of sight from the crowd. You can have their thanks later.
>>
>>4017348

>>B] Maintain your connection to Mercy as long as you're able. You still need Her blessing. Leave it to the Fathers of Dream and Flesh if they wish to accompany you.
>>1] Inspect the flowers in the field, before you do anything else.
>2] Check on the civilians in the distance. Many still look wounded, dismayed, and are looking to you for guidance

And then

>A] Release the hold of Your Relic on Father Wilhelm and Father Friedrich.
>3] Allow yourself to maintain your invocation of Mercy for long enough to get back to the stables. To Ray, to the congregation you saved, and to check on the demon.
>>
>>4017348
>>A] Release the hold of Your Relic on Father Wilhelm and Father Friedrich.
>2] Ask if you can be safely escorted somewhere to release Mercy, to rest safely and out of sight from the crowd. You can have their thanks later.
We still have to be an example, after all. Though it might not help in getting other people to see us as human, just like them.
>>
>>4017857
>>4019055
>>4018603
(Awesome guys, locking the vote here while we have a tie breaker. Going to be a little bit before I can write, but I'll get to it ASAP.)
>>
>>4019059
(Back with some coffee and ready to write.)
>>
>>4019077
Before any civilians gather their courage, to venture into the courtyard, you gather your strength. The men and women ahead have more than you to thank for their survival. It pains you, but you know you need to part from your companions.

There's a little hesitation. Only a pause, as you look out, over the field of golden flowers. Your pulse is still firing a mile a minute, sweat slick against your robes. Blood is in your hair, pus adorning your arms, and gold flowing freely from your hands.

The gemstones littering the field are precious, worth more to you than all the riches of the world. They are obviously not fixtures of Agriculture, as the blossom is entirely unnatural. No soil is beneath the out pour. There is a swirl, of paint, and gold, intermingled with crimson and cooled magma.

There's a fire in your soul, even as you end the holy alliance.

With the drop of your hand comes another weight. It's so extreme that it's as if the entire world was pressing down on your shoulders. The fall of the Dream, of Flesh, is defined by a collapse.

You drop to one knee, struggling with the might of all the Gods to maintain your composure.

Nothing but Mercy is in you. For yourself.

No one could ever be disappointed with You. You are a miracle. You are a blessing. You are the Father, and the Mother is here. She would never Dream of leaving Your side. She would never forsake You, and never Your Flesh. She loves You—

Both of your allies come to your side. They recognize what's happening without you needing to say a word.

Hundreds of thousands of prayers could fall from your lips, for all of your devotion to Her, but you keep your lips tight, grimacing, fighting to even remain on a knee.

Father Friedrich kneels down beside you. It's just enough to swing your free arm around his shoulders.

The motion sends a burst of heat and gold across your vision, and into every recess of your body.

You're lifted to your feet, and walk alongside him, trying to not groan for every exquisitely agonizing step.

Patient, exhausted, the church leaders guide you away from the courtyard, back towards the Church of Flesh.

You haven't hear a word that fell from either man until now. The way that Father Wilhelm is looking back to the courtyard leads you to believe he's communicated something, or understood some meaning from the priests stationed in the field beyond.

It really doesn't matter. The grin directed back towards you is cheeky, playful, and nowhere near as respectful as you'd prefer. It's easy to forget the man's age, for how juvenile he can be.

"I suspect you'll need a room?"

You want to groan, for multiple reasons.

A snort is produced by the priest supporting you. Father Friedrich fires back, on your behalf. "Maybe a stiff drink and a smoke,"

"I can see to at least half of that—"

"After getting some rest."

(1/3)
>>
>>4019214
With a chuckle, Father Wilhelm tries and fails to find an unbroken cigar on his person. As he walks alongside you and Father Friedrich, he must pull out and shove away ten bundles of dried spices and herbs. You don't care to observe his fidgeting, or attempts at further aid, for the tremor that's threatening to run through your own body.

You cast a glance, sidelong, back to the courtyard. Longing to continue Your work.

The priests who fought alongside you are attending to the mass of civilians at the gate. Without any fuss, they are negotiating and managing the effort. Cleaning up the rest of the carnage, seeing to the wounded, and serving all of the Gods as best as they're able.

You can't ignore another wave of relief.

More, still, crashes into you. Father Wilhelm and Father Friedrich work together to get open the front door to the church. You are granted almost immediately with the sight of an utterly evacuated interior hall. The high stone walls, winding stairs streaked with blood, simplistic archways and ornate foundations all grant you even further reassurance.

Your legs are threatening to give way from under you.

Father Friedrich is all compassion and empathy, for your ecstasy and Her heat. There are blisters, forming along the torn patches of skin about his shoulders, where your wrist brushes across for an instant.

He doesn't wince or pull away. Instead, he grasps onto your arm all the more tightly, pressing on into a corridor. "Don't give me any shit, now. You fight like a demon. Keep fighting. Just a little further."

Tossing aside another cigar absent-mindedly, Father Wilhelm jogs ahead of you both. With a grand gesture, he opens a door. You do not see its contents, though he frowns, and closes it again. "Pantry?"

"The next door over, Father."

"...armory?"

"No, the other door— don't grin at me like that. You've seen exactly which one I mean."

A mocking bow bends Father Wilhelm at the waist, as he plays at servicing you and Father Friedrich. He opens a broad, wooden door without so much as knocking first.

Staggering forward, brimming with gold, you hardly look at the room before you. It's clearly intended as servant's quarters, but is utterly vacant. There are no windows, no slits for arrows. A number of folded blankets are lined up, covered in dust. There are a few chests for clothing and personal items, but little else of interest. It is terribly quiet, a curse, as the door closes behind you.

Biting down, trying to muffle the groan that is begging to escape from you, at the promise of even more relief, you can't quite maintain your composure. "M-Mercy—"

(2/3)
>>
>>4019215
You're gingerly set down on one of the humble straw mattresses lining the floor. Before you even fully settle onto it, you're given something to bite into.

"I insist," Father Friedrich murmurs, glancing to the door. "He'll be alright, won't he?"

You take the band of leather without question, practically unable to see or hear. The radiance in your heart and soul is blinding.

He has always been perfect. Blessed, by all of the Gods.

The heat in your face and the rest of your exhausted limbs is too much to endure. You try to lay back, to avoid any injury in the event you pass out. There's no question in your mind that you've overextended yourself and can still do so much more.

"He'll be just fine." Father Wilhelm's smile must be audible, for you're utterly incapable of looking at him. "Father Anscham, please, do try to rest. It's quite alright. We'll give you some privacy. I'll come back to check in on you."

He's rambling, obviously too pleased with himself to not linger an extra moment. "You won't get much sleep after everything We've accomplished—"

"Show the man some fucking Mercy," Father Friedrich ushers, rising from the mattress and pushing Father Wilhelm back out the door. "We have business. He's done more than we could ask for. Come on. Out."

There's gold and light, searing, coursing through you. The door shuts, as you wordlessly writhe.

There will be time for thanks, to demonstrate your sanity, to be looked upon as an ordinary human later.

You saved them. You have shown immaculate compassion. Your conviction. You have never swayed from your duty. You are sworn to Us.

"M-Mercy— Mercy."

You restrain as much as you're able. It ensures that the release of a Goddess stays between only you and Her.

-----

At some point, you must have fallen asleep. There is a Dream.
>>
>>4019219
(The following collaborative project, with Bathic's Drowned Quest, segues into the next post of Catalyst Quest.)

>Richard's perspective can be found in the following pastebin: https://pastebin.com/iyG6BK2L
>Bathic's protagonist, Charlotte, has her perspective written here: https://pastebin.com/2ULrYCzX

If you haven't checked out Drowned Quest, you don't need to be caught up for either pastebin. In fact, you can discard this as a Dream wholesale. If that's how you wish to interpret the events that transpire, of course.

I will be back later today with the remainder of this update!)
>>
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>>4019219
>>4019227
The room is filling, quickly, with so much water. You're sinking. Deeper, darker, beyond the faces obscured in shadow.

It takes you away from the screams, the nightmare in the back of your mind. You love the current, the sea. Memories of misunderstanding, of abuse, of demons all fade.

Within the depths, of the darkness, the void, a vessel, is the promise of divinity.

You want to love, to share, with the form that appears before you. It shows itself to you before any other, crackling. The flame and flow can't hope to give itself over to you. It's been badly broken.

Something is wrong.

Through the water comes smoke, rising, obscuring your sight even further. Only the sinew along your bare hands is visible, as it unwinds, unraveling into strands of white thread.

A scream has been building, in the back of your throat. The thread snakes its way along your body. It is familiar, though it has never truly known you. The white and immaterial form creeps along your eyes, devastating in all of its good intent.

The thread burrows, deeply, into your eyes.

It lifts your eyes, to an hourglass on the horizon. Temptation looms at the edge of the world. Each grain of sand that crashes to the base of the glass creates another star, another burst of light.

You've never been so terrified.

There are men at your side, their faces shrouded in black. They are envious, because of your suffering. There are thirty of them, looking up to you, as you persevere.

A corpse floats by, smelling heavily of liquor. The grotesque form passes just within your grasp. You want to reach out. You want to extend yourself, but the shroud is over his eyes, his hands. The struggle, to swim towards the lost form, takes you to a tree. It spreads from the base of the sea, up, to the horizon. The base is hale, but the uppermost branches have rotted. You reach out, as far as you can.

As you extend your hands, you see with perfect clarity. There is no thread in your eyes, no sinew. There is gold. It is the only trace of the metal, in the entire world.

At the peak of the sky, you see it. Between your outstretched hands, the gold, your skin and bones, are the moon and the stars.

You have reached out, to Dream.


The God dwarfs the planet itself. His night swirls in a great expanse, beyond His robes, His scepter. Visions of what could be, in past, present, and future, matter little. There is no matter, no Time, no comprehension of anything but the night.

There is an impression, of something soaring beyond the realm of your comprehension. Above the sea, above the Storm, above your hands of Mercy is a gift. A blessing, that you do not fully comprehend.

More than anything, you wish to interpret what you've looked upon. With absolute clarity, though His face is obscured from your vision, you see a shadow. An abyss. Locked away from so many.

He looks upon you, with love and devotion.

You are the key.

-----
>>
>>4020386
You wake up, drenched.

It's in sweat, and several other things. Old blood, sticky, turning brown, litters the robes still adorning you. You're atop the thin sheets, practically bare, covered in remnants of battle and a Goddess.

You jerk upright, eyes wide, horror slaking you as you hope beyond hope that you're actually alone.

The room is blessedly empty. The few servant's beds beside you are vacant, neatly made. A plain black robe, more clean clothes, a few sheets of blank parchment, a pen and a note are placed atop the mattress directly across from you. A wash basin is beside it, the water gone cold.

With a groan, you manage to rise. An intense pain is lancing your temples, but no exhaustion clings to your body.

Mercy appears to have mended your torn muscle, your overextended body, and every possible wound you suffered in full.

"Thank you," you murmur, along with a number of other praises and methods of devotion.

"Mercy—"

The prayer is cut short, as you feel around your own robes.

You had not taken Father Wilhelm's advice, to never let your journal leave your person. Panic hits you, again.

Longing for parchment and text, you swipe up the note on the clean clothes. Your hands are still caked in demon's blood and pus, remnants of gold and divinity. The digits are trembling, like usual. For all of your conviction, your frown is even more determined, as you recognize Father Wilhelm's writing.

Blue ink? Does he know nothing of restraint?

You read the note in your head, making quick work of the man's elegant writing. His words are almost as gracious.

Father Anscham,

I've ensured you'll be left to rest for as long as you need. Thank you, for all of your efforts! Try to not concern yourself with any other matters until you've had some proper sleep. To Dream is a blessing, and the Gods are Merciful.

Hope the paper helps. Call for another pen if you need it. Ray and I will will be staying in the guard tower to the southwest. There's been a great deal of business to attend to!

Come and find me when you're ready.

— Father Wilhelm


I'm sure I'll get better answers if I speak to him in person, but this can't wait.

With a shaking hand, before ever touching the water beside you, you take up the pen and paper.

The ink is blue, as you record the visit from a God.

>A] Try to interpret the meaning of the Dream yourself. To live is to serve, and to interpret is to best serve Him. (Write-in any speculation you may have.)

>B] Make yourself presentable as quickly as possible, and find Father Wilhelm. Your earlier discussion was postponed, and you have even more to go over now.

>C] Take your time to clean yourself up.
>1] Check out the room you're in.
>2] Try to explore the Church of Flesh.
>3] Go see to the courtyard, and as much of the keep as you can.
>4] You just want to be as presentable as possible before going straight to Father Wilhelm.
>5] Go find Father Friedrich first.

>D] Write-in.
>>
>>4020412
>>C] Take your time to clean yourself up.
We nasty

while
>A] Try to interpret the meaning of the Dream yourself. To live is to serve, and to interpret is to best serve Him.
It had something to do with Mercy, and Dream telling us what she wants, or what they both want us to do.
>>
>>4020522
supporting
>>
>>C] Take your time to clean yourself up.
while we are at it
>1] Check out the room you're in.
cant clean without first finding the soap
>>
>>4020522
>>4020738
>>4020742
(Can work this together no problem, vote is locked. Writing now.)
>>
>>4020846
The quickening of your pulse, the shortness of your breath, and the panic of a nightmare begins to fade.

There is no scream, in the back of your mind.

There was a Dream.

https://youtu.be/w87dLLp0egE?t=8

You look over the recording, letting the ink dry for a few minutes before glancing to the room around you. It's quiet. A soft bustle of movement can be heard from the church beyond, though no one comes to pester you with any further business.

The legitimate privacy, the first space you've had alone in weeks, finally eases your nerves. It's difficult to believe the space and respect is real, compared to the constant pressure of the Church of Mercy.

Looking around, you confirm that this is definitely still a church building. Faint candlelight dwindles on the edges of the room, likely having been lit less than an hour before. You move towards the tallow, paying no mind to the scent of animal fat. It's familiar, comforting, as you set to putting up even more light.

There's gold, in your vision, and all along you.

Searching for anything resembling soap is your top priority. Moving to the supply chests around the room, you hesitate, letting your filth-caked hands hover for only a moment. The wash basin is more inviting, at least before you dig through the items of another church.

The scent of thyme, sage and clove intermingles with the candles around the room. For all of your experience with herbs, medicine, cleanliness and appearances, you instantly recognize the aroma.

Scrubbing the bulk of the filth out from under your nails and out of the deepest of your scars is not an issue. Every station in the church, be they humble servants or divine leaders, attend to their vessels.

The problem is with your hands. It's not so much a problem, as a question, that becomes more and more apparent. The harder you scrub, as the majority of the pus, blood and decay parts from you, you can see the question in full. You pull back from the water, alarmed beyond all reason.

The worst of your burns, the deepest of the mended wounds, are entirely gone. It's as if they were never there. Turning your thin wrists and long fingers over several times, you struggle to believe your eyes.

"Mercy—"

You grab a candle, in utter disbelief, and go back to the water.

It's no trick of the light. The majority of the scars along your hands are completely gone. The skin is healthy. Pale, still scarred in places, but healed.

You are immaculate.

(1/2)
>>
>>4021101
There is gold. It's in your reflection, catching against the light and your scrutiny. It's not only from the Relic that you have yet to remove.

The metallic strands you felt in your hair, in the heat of battle, have persisted. Far fewer crevasses and pockmarks litter the hollows of your cheeks, for how much healing has worked through you. Your nose may be bent, the bags under your eyes plain to see, the hollows under your prominent cheekbones clear to any who may look upon them—

You have endured so much.

You put a hand through your hair, pulling very slightly, utterly baffled by your appearance. The threads of luster are as tangible as the rest of your hair. Scruffy as it is, you can't help but to get a little water into the mop, to better confirm Her works.

There's unquestionably the mark of a Goddess on you. Placing a damp palm against your cheek, in utter disbelief, you only feel heat against the cold and cleanliness. Multiple pockmarks and rough patches of scar tissue have been mended, in full.

You're speechless. Though you take your hand away, the heat of your skin persists.

There's something more.

It's delicate, compassionate. In appreciation of everything that you've done. Everything that you are.

Every thought you could possibly have is focused entirely on Mercy.

There's a pause, as you look to the wash basin. It's already clouded.

You feel more than a little unclean, as your robes continue to stick to you.

Without any urgency, you return to looking for something to properly clean yourself off with. Drying off your hands, you set to fishing about the rest of the room. You go through a number of wooden chests, drawers, and even look under the mattresses. There is an ample supply of dusty towels and old robes, all in crimson. A handful of rotten candles, sewing supplies, and further cleaning equipment fills the storage. There are a few personal items, all symbols of worship. No written text greets you. There are carvings, weights, measures of devotion that need no written language to comprehend. A wooden needle or two is even among the sewing equipment, along with a box containing a stack of holy vestments.

Eventually, a small box of soft soap passes under your gaze.

"May all the Gods be praised."

You blow off the dust from the item, permitting flecks of gold to dance before your eyes. They persist in your reflection, as you go back to scrubbing.

The scented water is frigid, for how long it's been sitting out for. A chill trickles down your spine, but you are diligent, patiently working over your haggard skin and bone. Though the ridges of your spine stands starkly against your skeletal back, you are consoled.

Not for the weeks of dedication you've paid to Flesh. Not for your training, the knowledge that you will recover in Time, or even for how many battles you've won.

(Underestimated, 2/3)
>>
>>4021110
There's a familiar sensation, running back up your spine. It works up, slowly, with the same care you're paying to yourself. Trailing from the nape of your neck, up, into your gilded hair, the caress is followed by enormous relief. It replaces the dull remnants of your headache with a soft, golden light. There's heat in you, on you.

For all of the cold water, one thought commands your full attention.

"Mercy."

This Dream was no mere coincidence. They are all trying to show me something that I have never fully understood.

"I know exactly what You want."

You need compassion.

Though your shoulders are broad, your waist is still alarmingly thin, and your limbs are substantially longer than most, it seems to have made little difference in having your needs met.

The trousers, shirt and robes provided for you are all are suspiciously well-fitted. It takes a good deal of Time to finish cleaning yourself off, but you manage, inspecting the garments with a good deal of heat in your face. They're all in black, which, for how much dye must have been used, could not have been an easy commodity to obtain on such short notice.

I can only pray this was only Father Wilhelm's doing.

You try not to deliberate for too long on who else may have visited you, while you slept.

The recording you made, of the visit from Dream, is neatly folded and placed in your pocket.

There's no desire to fuss with your hair, to worry about your appearance, beyond one item. There's still a holy symbol around your neck. The gift of a Goddess, and a demon.

You have to take a few deep breaths, to regain your composure.

There's going to be a lot of questions, and you aren't certain how many you want to deal with just yet.

>A] Keep quiet, and ignore as much prying as possible. Take advantage of the space you've been given.
>1] Keep Your Relic under your shirt, out of sight, and see if you can slip out to the courtyard undetected. Dodge any questions you can. Curiosity has the better of you.
>3] Spend a little more time to yourself. This is an unbelievably rare opportunity. (Write-in anything you might wish to reflect on or do.)

>B] You are an honest, accomplished and pious man. Wear Your Relic plainly.
>1] Go find Father Wilhelm straight away, and pick up Ray from his company. You have a Dream to interpret.
>2] Make sure that the situation in the Church of Flesh has been resolved. Boldly go and inspect the situation before attending to your own interests.
>3] Go straight to Father Friedrich, and seek his counsel or command. Though he does ultimately answer to you, you are within the walls of his home and church.

>C] Write-in.
>>
>>4021123
>>A] Keep quiet, and ignore as much prying as possible. Take advantage of the space you've been given.
>3] Spend a little more time to yourself. This is an unbelievably rare opportunity. (Write-in anything you might wish to reflect on or do.)
Find a river. You know why.

Barring this an orchard, or a field of some kind. Trust in the other fathers, for Mercy's sake.
>>
>>4021141
+1
>>
>>4021141
Supporting
>>
>>4021141
>Supporting
>>
>>4021141
>>4021262
>>4021443
>>4021897
(Got it. Vote is locked, writing now.)
>>
>>4021932
Opening the door as cautiously as you can to your room, you're greeted with a divine sight.

The hall is almost entirely empty.

A few priests are up and about for an evening guard, no more than three in your own corridor. They are talking quietly among each other, though their voices are too low to hear the context of their conversation. Each guard, clad in haphazard pieces of armor, is all bulk and muscle. The priests of Flesh, best suited to using their bodies as weapons, seem infinitely more at ease than any of the men you fought alongside during the battle. Surely enough, you don't recognize any of them.

No light of day shines through the few slits in the stone walls on either side of the hallway. Only faint candlelight illuminates the men before you, and the lanterns that they are carrying. The smell of burning oil and animal fat is hot in the corridor, for how much more light is emanating from the main hall further down the way.

You decide, wholeheartedly, that you would like to avoid as many men and as many questions as humanly possible.

As you creep through the door to your room, closing it as silently as you're able, you're intensely reminded of evenings long past. Of slipping out of the Church of Mercy, in the dead of night, for want of a little extra time to yourself.

The bags under your eyes are not just from the stress of battle or abuse.

You likely have only slept a few hours, for all of the blood that is still streaking the floor of the main hall. A number of female priests are on hand and knee, scrubbing the stone dutifully. Their hair is tied back neatly, with the same diligence they've paid to the rest of their forms. It's heart-warming to see a few civilians among them, having come to their church's aid even after the battle was won.

You do recognize one of the civilians, who's life you saved on the field of battle. She looks to be in the peak of health, red in her face, for how hard she's working to clean up the last evidence of lives lost.

There's no hesitation in your mind, that you want to press on. That you can dodge as many questions directed towards you as need be.

You pause, glancing to the stars and moonlight faintly visible from a window beyond. It reminds you of just how deep into Beorward's defenses you are.

You recall that the Morinburn river flows behind and below the Church of Flesh. The building is built straight above the water, at least a 100ft rise. While the city benefits from its close proximity to the Morinburn, it is connected in full to the Eventide river, to the east. It took you half a day to cross into the Church of Flesh, with an escort and no small measure of bribery. Past countless barricades, fortresses, bulwarks, bridges, and an entire city.

The defense of each holy city serves another function. They excel at keeping threats in, as well.

(1/2)
>>
>>4022004
The gold in your eyes is likely unhinged, catching again on the few windows to the distance.

There is a sheer, unguarded cliff just outside.

Under the cover of night, you know that your movement would surely be easier to go undetected no matter where you go. It's an equal certainty that getting any measure of privacy outside of the church is going to be difficult.

I've earned the respite. A little solitude is not too much to ask for. Mercy, I need a break, even if it kills me.

>A] Settle on finding a quiet place nearby to watch over the river.
>1] Search for an unmanned window.
>2] Scale one of the exterior walls, to sit and relax without leaving the church.

>B] You might be under-equipped for this. Borrow a crimson robe from your room, and go in disguise.
>1] Try to find your possessions without alerting anyone. You'll need some coin and are concerned about who's seen your journal.
>2] Looking like a priest of Flesh rather than the Father of Mercy is sufficient.

>C] You are a master of dodging responsibility, positions and guards. Sneak out of the Church of Flesh.
>1] Don't go any further than an exterior field or orchard.
>2] Try to make it outside of the city entirely, to the river. Your determination is without equal.

>D] Slip out of a window near the cliff face, and scale down it as carefully as you can. You'll figure out how to get back later.

>E] Write-in.
>>
>>4022007
>A2
>>
>>4022007
>>A] Settle on finding a quiet place nearby to watch over the river.
>2] Scale one of the exterior walls, to sit and relax without leaving the church.
>>
>>4022007

>>A] Settle on finding a quiet place nearby to watch over the river
>2] Scale one of the exterior walls, to sit and relax without leaving the church.

Try to interpret the Dream we had. After we are done talking our break search for our fucking journal.
>>
>>4022012
>>4022015
>>4022016
>provide 7 prompts for short post
>unanimous decision in 3 minutes
(I fucking love you guys so much. Vote is locked, writing now!)
>>
>>4022016
+1
>>
>>4022015
>>4022012
>>4022030

Fellow voters, this is the second time we have lost our journal, the thing that could very likely get us locked up for heresy. I think we can all agree that an object containing such delicate information should be kept very, very, VERY safe. To that end i propose the Pooch Pouch ©℗®™, a device that we can attach to best boi Ray and place our journal in. the simple fact that Ray is fuckhuge and terrifying should be deterrent enough for anyone that tries to steal it, if they are particularly brave or stupid we can always train ray to not let anyone besides us touch the pouch, we could keep his food and snacks in it so that he learns it's important and people shouldn't touch it.

While I personally think that Wilhelm is taking care of our things alongside Ray this might not always be the case. People already look at Richard like he is a demon, learning that he allied an actual archdemon and that he abused the gods in the way he did is going to cause them to lose their shit, something which would suck major balls considering we are working really hard on looking more human.

This is a vote to proceed with the creation of and subsequent equipment of Ray with the Pooch Pouch©℗®™ the first chance we get, at the discretion of the QM ofc.
>>
>>4022028
>>4022030
Your thin frame goes to the closest wall. You're clad all in black, but your pallor would surely be a dead giveaway against the night. You toss up your hood, and start slinking along the edges of the corridor.

Avoiding any scrutiny from the infinitely more sociable guard proves fairly simple, for how occupied they are with each other. You skirt past the edges of the main hall, and immediately pull away from the stone.

It would be a waste to get any more blood or decay on me.

It's not that you're a prude, but after the lengths you went to carry the scent of clove and thyme, you'd rather not be clung onto by any more death or demons.

The women attending to the floor and walls of the church are entirely too focused on their work and themselves to bother another priest, even if your identity may be apparent.

It's hard to not glance over a few times to the woman who's life you saved. Her wavy, brown hair is hanging in a few loose tendrils over her shoulder, peeking through a messy bun. The strands keep parting from the yellow pin she's obtained. For how much effort she's putting into serving Flesh and Mercy, her shoulders are tense, every inch of her committed to devotion.

You glance away, reminding yourself to pray for her at another time. For all of the women and men hard at work, inside and out of the Church of Flesh.

You find a side door in minutes. A quick "Mercy," escapes you, as the heavy wooden defense, banded with iron, seems to be unlocked.

A rush of incredibly cold air greets you. It is the end of November, and the start of a new season is rapidly approaching. It is the end of night, but nearly the beginning of winter. It feels as though the snow should already be upon you, for all of the rolling clouds overhead.

The gathering Storm seems to have been a massive deterrent to the men that should be occupying the courtyard. The expanse of golden flowers, tinged with red and blue, are utterly devoid of trespass. It seems almost everyone is seeking shelter from the cold, the wind, the start of a frigid shower.

A few guards, bristling with strength, clad in heavy furs, are fearlessly standing watch at the guard tower at the opposite end of the courtyard. They care not for the weather, the divinity covering their church's grounds.

They also fail to notice your lithe and fully shrouded body, as it peels around the edge of the building. You make your way, out, away from the interior defense. You test no fewer than four doors before finding another that's unlocked. With more caution and prudence, you make your way past a number of further guards, your steps already slick against the stone floor.

You've walked silently for weeks on end, and years before. It's no trouble to get past them unheeded, and to ultimately arrive back outside.

(1/? This is going to be a little wild.)
>>
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>>4022270
On the outermost walls, you find your purchase. An unmanned ladder, tested briefly for integrity, is a welcome sight. You scale it in a matter of moments, two rungs at a time for all of your height.

At the peak of the Church of Flesh. you knock back your hood, and can't help but utter your thanks.

"May all the Gods be praised."

You're so stunned, you linger for a moment, at the top of the ladder, simply taking everything in.

You can see for miles.

https://youtu.be/yXPB90A-aZo

Streaks of oil and blue seem to intermingle in the night sky, in every direction. It's a blessing, to look upon the Dream, to see evidence of His works. They stretch beyond your mortal sight, beyond the peaks of the Folorast mountains. The moon is full, and shining with divinity. Countless specks of light are further illuminating everything that may fall under your vantage point. Though you are terribly high above the Morinburn and Eventide, you can even see the clear water below.

"Blessed be the Night."

Winding in twin snakes, far beyond the reaches of human civilization, the rivers guard almost every reach of Corcaea. This close to the center of the country, the wide current of Morinburn is relatively still. At least, compared to how quickly the water ran where you had first forded the Eventide, it seems to be lazily winding.

You follow the water with your eyes, away, into the rest of the land. Through the Storm, the frigid and light shower, the night, the countless works of Agriculture remain unmistakable. Hundreds of plots of farmland, guarded by brick and wood, are littering the furthest reaches of Beorward. Around the walls, the little districts for trade and worship, are still so many other human settlements. The lack of immediate protection is no deterrent, for the peaks of Calunoth beckon in the reaches beyond. You, and every other citizen know that there are still so many other holy cities in the land beyond your immediate sight.

If you squint, it feels like you might almost be able to see Wearmoor. Your parent's home.

Eadric lies even further beyond.

It's a long road back to The Church of Mercy.

Thousands of trees, many of which will be felled in Time, cover the myriad roads, the comings and goings of the last of humanity.

It all feels very surreal. You steady yourself against the slick stone, and fish out your own Dream.

The parchment is immediately threatened by the light shower of rain. You hold the precious item close, blocking the worst of the mist with an outstretched sleeve. The black linen provides enough protection, but you make a mental note to retrieve your journal as soon as you're able. Its leather bindings protected your notes even at the bottom of the world, but you desperately want to protect its pages, too.

Through the shadow cast over the page before you, you try to work out its meaning as best as you're able. Your brow is furrowed, for how many ways you could construe its meaning.
>>
>>4022276
To interpret is to serve. I need to stretch my imagination. I will make sense of this Dream.

>Select ONE prompt for each segment of the Dream.
>Each segment will be numbered. Each numbered prompt will correspond to a letter.
>e.g. your vote may look like "1A, 2C, 3B, 4A"

>Majority vote may not take precedent! These are not mutually exclusive, but every vote is valid here.
>Please quote both posts when voting.

1. The room is filling, quickly, with so much water. You're sinking. Deeper, darker, beyond the faces obscured in shadow. It takes you away from the screams, the nightmare in the back of your mind. You love the current, the sea. Memories of misunderstanding, of abuse, of demons all fade.
>A] Someone or something involving Dream will make you forget the horrors you've faced.
>B] Relief will be granted to you by the Church of Storm.
>C] Time will aid you in coping with everything you've endured.
>D] Write-in.

2. Within the depths, of the darkness, the void, a vessel, is the promise of divinity.
>A] This must be a reference to Your Relic.
>B] This is a reference to the sea. Something must be in it, related to the Gods.
>C] This has to be you.
>D] Write-in.

3. You want to love, to share, with the form that appears before you. It shows itself to you before any other, crackling. The flame and flow can't hope to give itself over to you. It's been badly broken.
>A] Father Friedrich, a priest of Flesh, is all flame and smoke. You might have trouble getting him to trust you, for everything he's endured.
>B] Storm showed Himself to you before any other God, even Mercy. Father Barthalomew, of the Church of Storm, may be in need of your help.
>C] This is a literal warning about the land. The terrible weather. Father Friedrich's statement about one of the many issues plaguing the country.
>D] Write-in.

4. Through the water comes smoke, rising, obscuring your sight even further. Only the sinew along your bare hands is visible, as it unwinds, unraveling into strands of white thread. A scream has been building, in the back of your throat. The thread snakes its way along your body. It is familiar, though it has never truly known you. The white and immaterial form creeps along your eyes, devastating in all of its good intent. The thread burrows, deeply, into your eyes.
>A] This is another reference to the Church of Flesh. It will be your body's undoing, and obscure your sight from what you need to accomplish.
>B] The Church of Flesh and Spirit are tied to one another, in sewing together the threads of the world. Material and immaterial need each other. They must both be a threat to you.
>C] The white thread indicates the Church of Spirit alone. Father Sullivan has known you before, and has always been a man of good intent. He's also always hurt you.
>D] Write-in.

(1/2, please hold your votes until the remaining prompts have been presented.)
>>
>>4022285
5. It lifts your eyes, to an hourglass on the horizon. Temptation looms at the edge of the world. Each grain of sand that crashes to the base of the glass creates another star, another burst of light. You've never been so terrified.
>A] Nothing scares you more than Time. You aren't touching this.
>B] The caution is obviously regarding Mother Aimar. You know nothing about her, or her church, but this all may be in regards to the heads of the holy cities.
>C] The Dream is definitely about the Mother and Fathers of each church, but you simply don't have enough information for this.
>D] Write-in.

6. There are men at your side, their faces shrouded in black. They are envious, because of your suffering. There are thirty of them, looking up to you, as you persevere. A corpse floats by, smelling heavily of liquor. The grotesque form passes just within your grasp. You want to reach out. You want to extend yourself, but the shroud is over his eyes, his hands.
>A] You've lost more lives than you can count. You've killed even more, as you allied with an archdemon. Something has happened to Yech.
>B] Thirty is a very significant number to you. The number of times you've activated the Catalyst, invoking Vengeance. Father Pevrel is in danger, but his men don't want your help.
>C] Father Pevrel is not in danger, and neither are his men. They are out of your reach, dissatisfied, your inferior.
>D] Write-in.

7. The base is hale, but the uppermost branches have rotted. You reach out, as far as you can.
>A] The cure to the famine was your doing. The head of the Church of Agriculture was never replaced, and the remaining veterans there must have remained corrupt.
>B] Your first invocation to Agriculture was a failure. The country repaired itself, and does not have you to thank. You should not take credit for the work of thousands.
>C] Mother Bethaea killed herself, like so many leaders of the Church of Agriculture before her. You need to find out why.
>D] Write-in.

8. As you extend your hands, you see with perfect clarity. There is no thread in your eyes, no sinew. There is gold. It is the only trace of the metal, in the entire world.
>A] Mercy works only through you. ONLY you.
>B] There is a shortage of metal in the country. You know now that, at great personal cost, you can create it.
>C] Compassion is a rarity among men. You need to find a way to see it, to reach out to it, even when it feels like you're the only Merciful man left alive.
>D] Write-in.

9. You have reached out, to Dream. You are the key.
>A] This vision is a blessing from the God of Reverie. Only you can interpret it.
>B] This is about more than the Dream. This is a warning of everything that is to come.
>C] This isn't just about your future. It's about an item you hold, that has carried every answer you've ever asked for. This is all about Your Relic.
>D] Write-in.

(VOTE IS OPEN. THIS WILL REMAIN UP UNTIL WE HAVE A MINIMUM OF THREE UNIQUE IPS CAST THEIR VOTE.)
>>
>>4022285
>1 B
>2 C
>3 D) Mercy
>4 D) Knowledge on our divine ability to channel all the gods without harm
>5. Time, every grain cascading an event closer to the end of humanity
>6. A
>7. D) the king and the court is corrupt and slowly rotting the rest of the land
>8. D) Mercy loves us, we are her key
>9. QM is being lazy and dropping this list of prompts to further string together the upcoming storyline.
>>
>>4022288
1B
2A
3B
4D Like Beltoro has taught us knowledge can be blinding, even if very powerful.
5D Every moment is sacred, and Time is running out for humanity.
6D The people are envious bc we defied the catalyst so many times and they have failed to shatter our vessel, the more of them gather the stronger they get.
7C
8C
9D You are an important piece of the puzzle, the gods work through many vessels and you bust bring them all together.
>>
>>4022312
I will mostly second this

Except
7:C seems really interesting
and 9:B kek
>>
>>4022312
>>4022346
>>4022357
>34 prompts, music and image editing
>lazy QM
(Love you too anons, got my work cut out for me lol. Vote is locked here, writing now!)
>>
>>4022444
You read to yourself, but can't help murmuring your notes aloud. There is no one atop the battlements, not for your height and the encroaching Storm. Amidst the light shower, the faint blue cast of the moon, you slip into the Dream.

The room is filling, quickly... away from the screams, the nightmare... of demons all fade.

"Relief. It— surely, would be granted to me by the Church of Storm."

...darkness, a void, a vessel... divinity.

"My Relic."

You take the item in hand, from the chain rather than along the locket itself. You ensured that the blood and gore was cleaned off, but you are a man of temptation. A black sleeve wraps around your wrist, to buff the surface to a sheen.

You look to your thin wrists, still littered faintly with scars. "It's also about me, isn't it?"

The item goes back, under your robes, concealed from view. You want so badly for more privacy.

I want to love... the flame and flow... it's been badly broken.

"Mercy. I— She— there must be more to it than this. I know She accepts me, just— just as I am—"

You search your immaculate memory, doubt plaguing you. Your thoughts are infinitely more refined than your bent nose, the wounds still scarring most of your body, or the countless scars under the skin. Your emotional turmoil, the mental breaks you've suffered...

The light rain on your sleeves, the gathering clouds overhead, remind you of a man who's rumored to be crippled. "Storm showed Himself to me before any other God. Even Mercy."

You've never met him in person, but he's written to you occasionally. Respectful, level-headed. A man who you've needed to contact since one of your first days in the ruins.

"Father Barthalomew—"

You're reading with more urgency, pouring over the blue text. The end of night comes over the horizon, and there is ample light cast over your Dream. Between night and day, before the sunrise, is a little more darkness.

...white thread... a scream has been building... familiar, devastating in all of its good intent...

"Knowledge, like— like Beltoro taught Us. Blinding. Powerful. My ability— my divinity, to channel all of the Gods..."

You can't help but pause. There's hope, in your heart. For everything you've learned, everything you've suffered through. It may only be a fantasy, but you are a man of faith, belief, divinity and all of the Gods.

"Without harm."

It lifts my eyes... to an hourglass on the horizon. Each grain of sand... creates another star... another burst of light.

You read the remaining sentence aloud.

"I've never been so terrified."

You look out, to the sunrise. To the little winding roads, obscured by the wilderness and constantly under repair. To the heavy fortifications of Beorward. To the re-purposed stone, the ruins of countless civilizations fallen.

(1/3)
>>
>>4022784
"Time. Every grain, every moment, each one more sacred than the last." There's a looming dread, in the back of your mind. The fear of a Goddess is in you. "Cascading towards the event— another age— closer, inevitable."

You know that Her will is unchangeable.

"Time is running out. For us. For humanity."

Feverishly, you work through the text before you. All promise of respite makes way for your work.

There are men at my side, their faces shrouded in black... envious, because of my suffering. There are thirty of them... a corpse, smelling heavily of liquor... the shroud is over his eyes, his hands...

"I've lost so much. More lives than I can count."

There's something very misplaced in your voice. A love of the night, of the dark, of a God of Vengeance. More than your service to Him, you're reverent.

There is only one cure.

"I've killed even more. Ultimately, so many of those lives— the demons I killed, they were for an alliance. Weren't they? In the end? To aid Yech. To aid a new archdemon."

You risk getting a few drops of rain on the parchment, as you fish out your flask. You absolutely have made certain to never let it leave your person, even in your sleep. Looking to the underside, to the thirty check marks engraved in the gold, you murmur, "I've defied the Catalyst so many times. No matter how far I've been pushed— no matter how badly I've abused myself— it's failed to shatter my vessel."

You look from the markings in the gold to the markings on your own skin. The wounds that even Mercy has yet to heal. Lacerations from the invocation of other deities. Outpourings of blood and bile. Marks of devotion, burns from flame you voluntarily entered, scars that you could have avoided but accepted eagerly.

"The more that gather— the more that I suffer— the frequency, the abuse— the stronger They get."

You keep the flask out, longing for a drink.

"The people are envious, for how much we can endure." You are not a braggart. It's a fact. "Even my brothers in the Church of Mercy— especially in the Church of Mercy. They know that I won't break."

A horrific thought occurs to you. Your paranoia hasn't subsided in full. For all the rest you've had from your expedition into the ruins, it was still a suicide mission. You still were desperate, for an escape, for relief from your pain.

The thought of a corpse, of liquor, of envy and of a man who has remained concealed from you for weeks has your nerves on fire.

You might be unhinged from everything you've endured. It feels like, maybe, saying the suspicion out loud will ease your nerves. "Something has happened to Yech."

Your hands remain tight on the flask. You keep it in hand, purely for the comfort, the reminder of a friend. The reminder of so many sacrifices.

More than anything, it's something to fidget against, as you finish your interpretation.

(2/3)
>>
>>4022798
The base is hale, but the uppermost branches have rotted. I reach out, as far as I can.

Another suspicion plagues your mind. Though you've never met the King and scarcely know your own people, you're seeking the best interpretation of the information before you as you can.

"The King and the court is corrupt. Their fruit, their peaks... they're slowly rotting the rest of the land."

With a grimace, you think to the rotten land. To an enormous sacrifice you made, that no other priest of Agriculture could surmount. To a woman who lost herself, in a way that no God could repair. A mentor. A guide. Another Church leader.

"Mother Bethaea killed herself, like so many leaders of the Church of Agriculture before her.

Your ignorance is stifling. It feels like you're drowning in it. You have asked so few questions of others, and you're sick of it.

"I need to find out why."

You keep reading, desperate for more answers.

As I extend my hands, I see... there is gold. It is the only trace of the metal, in the entire world.

"Compassion is a rarity among men." You are not a liar. It's a fact. "I need to find a way to see it, to reach out to it." A nightmare plagues the back of your mind, of nothing but belittlement and cruelty. "Even when it feels like I'm the only Merciful man left alive."

Another truth comes your lips. "Mercy loves me."

You put away the flask, comforted beyond all belief by the reminder. The other gift you possess, Your Relic, may as well be on fire. It is Your gift. She is Your Goddess.

"I am Her key."

I have reached out, to Dream. I am the key.

"This is about more than the Dream. I am an important piece of this puzzle— but I am only a piece, aren't I? The Gods work through so many vessels."

The heat in your chest, working through the item resting upon it, is unmistakable. There's a fire in you. You want to do so much, for everything you've been given, and everyone you have yet to help.

There are so many alliances I can still make.

"I must bring them all together."

It won't be easy.

"This is a warning, of everything that is to come."

(Options in next post)
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>>4022814
(The following prompts are NOT exclusive. The number of votes cast for each option will determine the importance Richard places on each concern, UNLESS OTHERWISE SPECIFIED. Feel free to select multiple prompts, but CLEARLY SPECIFY the importance/order you place on each!

This vote will remain open until tomorrow morning, EST, to give everyone ample Time to discuss and decide!)

>A] You have business with Father Barthalomew, of the Church of Storm.
>1] Write to him, regarding the Dream. Keep it vague, but make it clear that you wish to visit with him as soon as you're able. You've always shown him the utmost respect. Don't demand a response.
>2] Risk a letter being intercepted, sent as safely as you're able, and be clear. Tell Father Barthalomew you were visited TWICE by Storm Himself. Implore him to reply.
>3] Your top priority lies in Rimilde, on the coast of Corcaea. This is too important to not address in person. It's a very long trip from Beorward, but nearly 200 miles of travel will be worth it.

>B] You need to learn how to invoke the Gods without destroying yourself in the process. It's not normal, and you're rapidly becoming well-acquainted with two church leaders who intimately know their own patron deities.
>1] Ask Father Friedrich for some guidance. You've already been devoting yourself to Flesh under his counsel. Make the most of your Time in his church.
>2] Ask Father Wilhelm to properly instruct you in how to serve Dream. He knows a lot about you. He'll want to know of this visit from his God, as well.

>C] The suspicions you have about the King, court, clergy and the citizens of Corcaea has your paranoia peaked.
>1] Spend some time in the city of Beorward today. Keep your ear to the ground for rumors. Do as much prying as you're comfortable with. Leave no dingy bar or town square unturned.
>2] See what information you can gather from the clergy of the Church of Flesh, regarding your actions or any goings on from the ruins.
>3] Speak with Father Friedrich, if he has the Time to properly catch you up on current events. Get as much information as you can, now that his church isn't on fire.

>D] The Church of Agriculture has been in disarray your entire life. It's likely been in more political turmoil than even the Church of Mercy for the last three YEARS.
>1] Start investigating from the ground up. Go speak with some farmers today. Keep things discreet, but try to gauge your works. The end of a famine is hard to miss.
>2] Dig near the roots. Head back to Wearmoor as soon as you're able. Now that your parents live there, you have ample excuse to be in such close proximity to their Church.
>3] Go straight to the source. You're paying a visit to the Church of Agriculture itself. (Specify with or without guard. It would be prudent to choose the former, but may help your case to choose the latter.)

>E] Write-in.
>>
>>4022821

AAAAA WHY DO WE HAVE SO MANY RESPONSIBILITIES
I feel like every one needs addressed at one point

1 Most Important for us in my opinion, close though
>B] You need to learn how to invoke the Gods without destroying yourself in the process. It's not normal, and you're rapidly becoming well-acquainted with two church leaders who intimately know their own patron deities.
>1] Ask Father Friedrich for some guidance. You've already been devoting yourself to Flesh under his counsel. Make the most of your Time in his church.

2nd most urgent
>A] You have business with Father Barthalomew, of the Church of Storm.
>2] Risk a letter being intercepted, sent as safely as you're able, and be clear. Tell Father Barthalomew you were visited TWICE by Storm Himself. Implore him to reply.
I'd do 1 but we have so much other travelling to do

3rd
>D] The Church of Agriculture has been in disarray your entire life. It's likely been in more political turmoil than even the Church of Mercy for the last three YEARS.
>1] Start investigating from the ground up. Go speak with some farmers today. Keep things discreet, but try to gauge your works. The end of a famine is hard to miss.
Though 2 is an equally as attractive option

and to me this is the least urgent of the 4
>C] The suspicions you have about the King, court, clergy and the citizens of Corcaea has your paranoia peaked.
>3] Speak with Father Friedrich, if he has the Time to properly catch you up on current events. Get as much information as you can, now that his church isn't on fire.
To me this is the least urgent of them
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>>4022048
(ngl this is amazing, noted even if no one else comments on it.)

>>4023257
>AAAAA WHY DO WE HAVE SO MANY RESPONSIBILITIES
(Pic related. :^) )
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>>4023257
+1
>>
>>4022821

First

>>A] You have business with Father Barthalomew, of the Church of Storm.
>2] Risk a letter being intercepted, sent as safely as you're able, and be clear. Tell Father Barthalomew you were visited TWICE by Storm Himself. Implore him to reply.

Although I agree with this >>4023257

We still need to learn as much as possible about all the gods before we can hope to better invoke them, I propose we get all the tenets for all the gods and try to follow those as well, we can use the help of the Fathers that are already here which leads me to:

Second

Write to Father Sullivan, try to apologize for not being able to properly understand his wisdom and do everything in our power to show him we are willing to change. The ruins have thought us a lot of things, maybe he would be willing to hear about some of the knowledge we found at the bottom of the earth, the history of those kings we found in the library of Ostedholm comes to mind as an interesting conversation starter.

For both of these letters we should pay whatever cost to send them in the safest way possible, materialize a huge chunk of gold if we have to.

Third

>B] You need to learn how to invoke the Gods without destroying yourself in the process. It's not normal, and you're rapidly becoming well-acquainted with two church leaders who intimately know their own patron deities.
>1] Ask Father Friedrich for some guidance. You've already been devoting yourself to Flesh under his counsel. Make the most of your Time in his church.
>2] Ask Father Wilhelm to properly instruct you in how to serve Dream. He knows a lot about you. He'll want to know of this visit from his God, as well.

I would like for us to do both of these if its possible at all, splitting the effort 50 50. One thing we should do for sure is ask Wilhelm to interpret the dream we had, so we could hopefully get a bit more guidance. We have earned the respect and dare I say admiration of these two people, we need to ally ourselves properly with all the church heads if we are to bring everyone together in preparation for what is to come. I would like Fred to focus on teaching us combat techniques, he seems pretty keen on using his fists and if the whole fucking ruin arc was a sign of anything so do we, having him teach us some good old wrestling is gonna go a long way when we lose all of our shit again and need to Mercy pummel something into the ground.

We should also talk to Wilhelm about the ice and paint demon we fought in the ruins, which i am 100% sure was a Dream demon, besides that we could also try and learn how to do the memory erase thing. It seems very useful in battle.
>>
>>4023940

Fourth

>C] The suspicions you have about the King, court, clergy and the citizens of Corcaea has your paranoia peaked.
>3] Speak with Father Friedrich, if he has the Time to properly catch you up on current events. Get as much information as you can, now that his church isn't on fire.

I honestly have my doubts about the king and his court being corrupted but getting more information about what has transpired in our absence is always useful.

Fifth

>D] The Church of Agriculture has been in disarray your entire life. It's likely been in more political turmoil than even the Church of Mercy for the last three YEARS.
>1] Start investigating from the ground up. Go speak with some farmers today. Keep things discreet, but try to gauge your works. The end of a famine is hard to miss.
>3] Go straight to the source. You're paying a visit to the Church of Agriculture itself. (Specify with or without guard. It would be prudent to choose the former, but may help your case to choose the latter.) Without a guard, in this order.

I would like visit their church after we get our own in order, and hopefully after we have gained a bit more reputation as a trustworthy person. We need every church to function at peak capacity and having the Church of Agriculture running around like a headless chicken is a huge impediment.

Whenever( I'm not sure when these could be slotted in so I'm just gonna put them here)

I would also like to check out those flowers in the courtyard, maybe get a couple and put them in our journal. The battle was historic and we should do our best to catalog it as soon as we recover our journal, write about all the demons too.

Checking in on the restrained demon, take him back to the church of Mercy if we have to, Friedrich must have known a lot of the demons personally so he is a treasure trove for intel. His now demon son is a great thing to interrogate too, even if it isn't as ancient as Yech it can still give us useful insights.

The goddamn Pooch Pouch©℗®™, see if we can get someone to make it while we take care of all the other stuff, make it match our robes and shield!
>>
>>4023257
>>4023415
>>4023940
>>4023942
(Vote is locked, going to write out clearly how I'm prioritizing these before writing. Just a moment!)
>>
>>4024255
>>4023415
>>4023940
>>4023942
>>4023257

(Well that was interesting to sort through! It's a good thing that your memory is impeccable, so no more parchment needs to be spared.

The following mental list of priorities you've made is absolutely for your personal reference, subject to change, and may or may not reflect what other people have in mind for you. It's a list nonetheless! In order of priority, of course.)

Immediately:
> Inspect the courtyard on the way back inside.
> Find a secure means of writing to Father Barthalomew regarding Storm. Spare NO expense.
> Write to Father Sullivan if there's Time. Treat any information sent to him with the same care.
> Speak to Father Friedrich first, regarding secure mail, further tutelage, and possibly any information he has regarding what has transpired in our absence.
> Speak with Father Wilhelm (at bare minimum) about Dream. See if he can aid us in interpreting the encounter with Menniath, or any further wisdom he can offer.

At some point today:
> Discreetly speak with a few farmers around Beorward, regarding the famine and recovery.
> Check in on Jonathan. This is an unbelievable opportunity for information and insight.

As soon as possible:
> Get the Church of Mercy in order.
> Gain a better reputation. Not only as a trustworthy person, but as a church leader.
> Properly visit the Church of Agriculture for further investigation, without guard. Set things right.
> Make a holster or some other form of protection for our journal. It's going on Ray. See if it can match our robes and shield.

(I'll begin writing the next full post ASAP. I have a job interview today so I may be delayed, but with any luck I'll be done writing before I have to leave. Writing now!)
>>
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>>4024364
You fold up and lovingly place your interpretation of Dream inside your robes, right alongside your flask. As the items are fully concealed, the sun reveals itself at the base of the horizon.

"Mercy."

A very slight smile crosses your face. You indulge yourself for an extra moment, with your Goddess. Enjoying the heat, the light, and a few extra minutes of relief from the promise of winter does not seem like such a sin.

You want to make light, of how much responsibility you're plagued with. There's still a measure of dread in your voice. Of all the duty you've postponed, the people who still need your aid, and a country that clearly is on the brink of destruction.

"There never is enough Time, is there?"

The question hangs on the air, lingering behind you as you leave the gorgeous view behind. The ladder and all the exterior stone are slick with the last light rainfall. You descend back into the keep's exterior hold uneventfully, for almost every door of the Church of Flesh seems to have opened. There's a change of guard, inside and out. They are utterly uninterested in your passing, attending to their duties as the rest of the city begins to rise. You keep your head down, your hood up, and make it outside without event. The complaints of countless men and women starting their day lingers in only a few of the hallways you leave behind, but for the most part, it seems uncannily silent.

Back outside of the interior walls, right at the courtyard, the cold air doesn't hit you as hard as the garden of your creation.

A few guards lift their gaze to you, infinitely more alert than their partners, but not a soul dares to interfere as you approach the field beyond. You put your hood back, lifting the gold and green in your eyes to the sunrise. It's peeking through the high walls of the blood and gore streaked battlements, casting a glow over all the mist about the courtyard. It reflects the gilt in your hair, the metal and all of the gemstone littering the ground ahead.

Kneeling down beside evidence of the Gods, you place a hand beneath one of the stems. The petals are dusted with golden and crimson, bursting out from an immaculate soil. Sapphire, garnet and gold all intermingle, reminding you so much of the magma you fought over that you nearly draw back in surprise.

One of the flowers snaps off in your hand. The golden fiber keeping it in place seemed to have been extremely thin and fragile, enough to break against the slightest touch.

You're probably frowning, for want of making a self-deprecating comment, but you restrain yourself.

I need to show myself compassion, too.

You awkwardly stand with the flower in hand, only for a moment, before realizing you have no better place to put it. As if to ease your own nerves, for all your cultivated interest in things that grow, you identify the item's meaning as best as you're able.

(1/2)
>>
>>4025413
"Faith, honesty, loyalty— neglected affection. Mourning. Passion. Love. Chrysanthemums. They are appropriate, aren't they?"

The flower remains in your palm, its coarse gold leaf and smattering of gems a welcome distraction from the likely muttering of the guards at their posts. You resolve to go straight to Father Friedrich. He's been more than an ally.

This is his home, his church, and you need his mentorship now, more than ever.

The front door to the church is wide open as the sunrise climbs. The main hall is airing out, to compensate for how much cleaning transpired over the night. The aroma of some grain being stewed in enormous quantities hits you before you even step properly inside. There's a little old blood in a current underneath, and you must look absolutely sick, for the looks directed at you when you enter the building.

A few women actually have the audacity to gawk. Two stop their scrubbing, completely, to murmur with one another. They're largely gathered before a rearranged dining hall, to the rear of the keep. Many more are going about fitting men with armor, servants, not designated members of clergy. There are countless more figures running about, masking the sounds of the gossip. The noise is largely from the priests overflowing from rooms beyond, with several dozen of them already seated. They're bristling with eagerness and devotion, to serve, to fight, to live another day under the sun. A few brush past you, without realizing your identity.

You're baffled. Only moments ago, everyone was just waking up.

You safely assume that the exterior wall of the church is used to harbor the sick, dying, and injured. A further quarantine, while the interior services daily life. It seems that the priests of Flesh are early risers, for how much enthusiasm they're going about their activities with.

"Father." A slight nod, from a gentleman with a graying mustache and biceps thicker than your waist. You can tell, as his entire torso is completely bare. They almost knock you aside as he passes, sprinting to the courtyard beyond for some training exercise.

Another man follows, righting you, paying no heed to what sacrilege it may normally be to lay his hands on someone of your position. He's polite enough, though it sounds like he's still waking up. "...Father Anscham. My mistake."

You start inching past a flood of men, obviously heading out for a morning run.

"'cuse me, Father."
"Father Anscham, good morning."
"Up and at 'em, eh, Father? Heard you didn't get a lick of sleep, haha!"

The distaste on your face can't possibly be clearer. It's directed at an increasingly familiar blonde. You grimace, as Cyril's thin ponytail disappears beyond a far wall. You can't be bothered to chase after him, for the speed in which he curls away from the building.

Doing your best to ignore a few chuckles and good-natured pats on your back, you're tempted for a moment to stay.

(Options in next post)
>>
>>4025423
>A] Accept the increasingly large numbers of pats on your back. Spend a few minutes with the priests and servants of the Church of Flesh.
>1] Father Friedrich will appreciate knowing you're upholding his training regimen. Get some breakfast, and take your time having it.
>2] You're catching up to Cyril and giving him the business. Head back after you've said your piece. (Write-in any banter you wish to say. You're normally a preacher, not a comedian.)
>3] You're catching up to Cyril and leading the damn run. This is unacceptable. You'll show him just how much endurance you really have.

>B] As tempting as it is to have some normalcy, you simply have too much responsibility and business to attend to. Getting distracted right away is not an option.
>1] Grab some breakfast and eat what you can, without any socializing or distractions.
>2] Go straight to Father Friedrich.

>C] Write-in.
>>
>>4025423
>A] Accept the increasingly large numbers of pats on your back. Spend a few minutes with the priests and servants of the Church of Flesh.
>1] Father Friedrich will appreciate knowing you're upholding his training regimen. Get some breakfast, and take your time having it.
Return of the Get big regime
>>
>>4025428
>>A] Accept the increasingly large numbers of pats on your back. Spend a few minutes with the priests and servants of the Church of Flesh.
>>1] Father Friedrich will appreciate knowing you're upholding his training regimen. Get some breakfast, and take your time having it.
>>
>>4025428
>>A] Accept the increasingly large numbers of pats on your back. Spend a few minutes with the priests and servants of the Church of Flesh.
>>1] Father Friedrich will appreciate knowing you're upholding his training regimen. Get some breakfast, and take your time having it.
>>
>>4025428
>>A] Accept the increasingly large numbers of pats on your back. Spend a few minutes with the priests and servants of the Church of Flesh.
>>1] Father Friedrich will appreciate knowing you're upholding his training regimen. Get some breakfast, and take your time having it.
>>
>>4025910
>>4026328
>>4026706
>>4026721
(Good afternoon everyone, hope you're having a great day. Knocked out a bunch of chores and have a free schedule this afternoon/evening. Locking the vote here, hope to get at least a couple updates out before tonight! Writing now.)
>>
>>4026778
Seeing to Father Friedrich's training remains your top priority. You resolve to uphold his training regimen, before even paying the man a visit. There's no doubt in your mind that he'll appreciate your devotion to Flesh, and to his counsel. For your burgeoning hatred of grains, the aroma of oatmeal carrying hot across the main hall, your conviction remains unwavering. Every firm pat on your scarred and wasted back furthers your resolve.

Moving ahead as best as you're able has to wait only a few moments. The ability to take a few good-natured blows, and to tolerate the banter from Cyril without losing your cool seems to have garnered a little more respect from the rest of the men heading outside. The pats and reassurance fades into a quick departure from holy men in every direction, giving you enough space to weave entirely past the remaining figures.

Across the main hall, damp from the last of the night watch's cleaning, you peer ahead to no pomp or ceremony. A relieved sigh escapes you, for not having to lead a massive prayer, or to receive so much as a glance of recognition for entering another room. In fact, the few dozen men and women about you seem much more concerned with their own affairs.

As you sweep up an empty bowl from a stack at the front of the room, it's simply impossible to not pick up on a little conversation.

"Barely made it out in time."
"Think you'll be alright this morning...?"
"What the fuck kind of question is that, I'll throw you across the table before I take a rest day—"
"Heathen!"
"Kiss-ass."

"...shoulders the size of a demon! I heard he was throwing them around like it was nothing!"
"My back's still aching from the last time I saw the bastard. How does he keep it up, at his age—"
"Don't let Father Fred hear you talking like that."


No complaints are directed towards you, as you approach a very mousy looking young woman. Her hunched shoulders are over one of the pots at the center of the room. Smoke, rising in great plumes from the fire beneath, is filtering out through a number of holes in the ceiling above. She seems immune to it, or to not care. The scent of oats, vegetables and a few herbs is intense, but nowhere near as much as the conversation taking place at the adjacent tables.

"Gold! It was everywhere!"
"Impossible. I don't believe it."
"You've seen weirder shit, haven't you?"
"Yeah, but—"
"You calling me a fucking liar?"
"Well, he's only human.
"..."
"...isn't he?"


You're definitely grimacing, as the brunette lifts her head to fill your dish. Bits of grain and specks of greenery litter her aprons and linen skirts. There's no hue in her dark eyes, which go incredibly wide upon seeing you.

"F-Father Anscham, g-good morning—"

A trembling hand, substantially smaller than yours, is extended to take your dish. It draws back instantly, for fear of being too brazen. It's ridiculous, and unfounded, but the girl is clearly terrified of offending you.

(1/3)
>>
>>4027048
"Here, sir. I m-mean—! Father, if you p-please—"

She can't be older than sixteen, for the pockmarks littering her face. The majority of the lesions are immediately turned back, away from you. Deference drenches the small figure. She's likely an entire foot shorter than you, and doesn't dare to look up fully to meet your gaze. Her eyes seem fixed, at waist-level.

"Missing the run this morning?"
"If I have to pull one more shift in the sick ward..."
"I'm changing seats. Hey! Give that back—"


Your frown intensifies, but you try to be Merciful as the woman fishes out several more dishes. "It's quite alright. Allow me—"

She isn't taking no for an answer. Her gaze, you realize, is fixed firmly not at your face, but at the robes barely concealing how emaciated you are.

"G-go have a seat, I'll bring everything over to you."

There's no use arguing with her. The bowl is snatched cleanly and quickly out of your hands, filled in seconds, and shoved promptly back at you.

"Go on. I'll be r-right over!"

"Think there's anything left out there?"
"Not a chance. You've got the eyes of an elf—"
"Look, I just haven't been back outside."


The grimace persists, possibly intensifying by the second, as you look for a place away from prying eyes or reminders of past reprimand.

"Come on, the festival might still be running!"
"Are you dense? We'll be lucky if half the city hasn't closed down."
"You didn't hear? Look, over there—"
"...nearly a hundred? You've got to be fucking shitting me—"


There are plenty of empty seats. You try to pick one closest to the back, away from the gossip and bustle. You're fidgeting, with the chain at the edge of your neck, already longing for a little more space.

It's impossible to avoid all of the goings on, or the words of two men that seem to intentionally pass directly behind you. They're headed towards a side door, near the back of the building.

"...not on your fucking life."
"You won't believe it. Come on."
"You're crazy."
"Not as much as they are!"
"Point."
"We can slip out for a few minutes. Hear Freddy has his hands full. Two other big headed—"


The smaller of the two men walking behind you stumbles over his words and nearly over own two legs. Likely because he has nothing to trip on, the tight fitted leggings about his enormous calves and thighs instantly recover. Preventing a number of glasses from falling directly onto you, he tenses, upright, into something resembling formality.

A pair of crimson robes, with long sleeves fastened at the wrist by a number of linen threads, set his dishes aside to confirm the gesture. He moves into an informal bow.

You grimace back at his shaved head, clear brown eyes, and not a single scar littering the man's visage.

He's trying to make himself presentable, or so you'd think. The man's back turns, fishing the remains of his breakfast back up, and obviously struggling not to laugh.

(2/3)
>>
>>4027051
>>4027051 (You)
You remain seated. This is petty. You are not.

"Father Anscham! What a pleasure!" There's a very firm elbow slammed into his companion. His hulking accomplice, for all of his bulk, seems utterly dismayed by his brother's remarks or behavior.

At least to your face.

He nods, bowing his head very slightly to you, and drags the other man away as rapidly as he's able.

It's very difficult to not recognize how much space you're being given by every other figure in the room, for a time. The mousy looking young woman returns after a few minutes, struggling to balance no fewer than six dishes along her arms and hands. You move quickly to aid her, and receive thanks in turn.

Her voice might as well be laced with the same reverence you've directed towards a Goddess. "You really didn't have t-to. Thank you."

With a curtsy, a small shower of grain and bits of vegetation dust out onto the floor, before the girl turns back as quickly as she's able.

You murmur a prayer to Agriculture, utterly thankful for something resembling normalcy. It's not perfect, but this is infinitely closer to what you're used to. The grimace intensifies, as you try to position your back to the rest of the dining hall, and suffer through the meal. Everything smells heavenly, for how simplistic the fare is. It's a shame that the effort is wasted. You haven't felt hunger in the last three years, and certainly don't experience it now.

Nevertheless, you diligently commit to the pain. You're delighted, under the agony, and it's not debauched.

You are simply delighted to realize that having given your restraint to a demon does not seem to have been a permanent affair. The sheer volume of food you've had set aside is there for your own desire to make up for lost time, to serve a God of muscle and sinew.

I will not be a disappointment.

Your mind is wandering, far away from the petty gossip and the humble gathering before you. You're acutely aware of what a higher position you hold from the men and women here, and that it may take them some time to approach you, if they have the courage to do so at all.

You've been through a lot. They likely all know it.

>A] Reflect on the training you underwent with Mother Bethaea. It's difficult to think about her most days, but you're in a far better place mentally than you usually are.

>B] You're thinking hard about your sacrifice. Your first prayer to Agriculture. It hardly felt like a choice, and you still aren't certain how you feel about living with the consequences of the invocation.

>C] You can think another Time. You're in the Church of Flesh, not Spirit.
>1] Force yourself to meet the quantity of food Father Friedrich's regimen outlined for you, before seeing him. You seem to be in a decent place to push yourself.
>2] Stick to what you've been managing while on the road, and ask for his counsel regarding the routine before anything else. It seems impossible to maintain.

>D] Write-in.
>>
>>4027063
>>A] Reflect on the training you underwent with Mother Bethaea. It's difficult to think about her most days, but you're in a far better place mentally than you usually are.
>>
>>4027063
>A] Reflect on the training you underwent with Mother Bethaea. It's difficult to think about her most days, but you're in a far better place mentally than you usually are.
Mental note to eat big to get big
>>
>>4027063
>A] Reflect on the training you underwent with Mother Bethaea. It's difficult to think about her most days, but you're in a far better place mentally than you usually are
>>
>>4027241
>>4027960
>>4028322
(Vote is locked, writing now!)
>>
>>4028421
Father Friedrich's mentorship has already meant the world to you. He may not know how much he's guided your training, but you're determined to make the most of your work under the Church of Flesh. A quick gesture towards the mousy little kitchen maid is all the indication she needs, to understand your intent.

Enough food to sustain three men is unceremoniously brought to you, in short order. It's fast enough that you try to commend the girl's work. She's wide-eyed, clearly impressed, and still too intimidated to give you so much as a name.

"Call for m-me if you need anything else, F-Father."

For all of your discomfort, the disparaging remarks you've been given about being a glutton, and the unbearable weight in you, you can't help but be comforted.

You're reminded, distinctly, of another church leader you studied under. One who's tutelage came just on the cusp of you becoming the Father of Mercy.

It's been a little over three years now, hasn't it?

https://youtu.be/JGQWVVY8Dmk

"Richard! It's a gooood thing you're taller than these beanstalks, or I'd never have found you—"

A sing-song voice, creeping over your work, was nothing like the sterile reprimand you were so used to in the halls of the Church of Mercy.

The beanstalks and every other trellis before you was bare, but Mother Bethaea tried to keep a good sense of humor. You could see her running nearly a mile before she reached you, though she closed the distance rapidly. Her short and stick-like limbs were as twiggy as the strands of gray peeking out from the braids in her hair. The strawberry hue, hidden deeply underneath a wide straw hat, did not meet the sun's rays. It made little difference, for her green robes were hiked up to the elbow.

The dark freckles littering her arms and face were nearly as tan as the rest of her, for a lifetime spent in the field. The hue of her position was no indication of what she saw. Long stretches of barren farmland, in miles around Wearmoor, meant that she was the only sage in sight.

"I don't suppose you're trying to give the crop a little extra sun?"

You almost want to groan.

"Don't give me that face. Just look at how pale you are!"

You reflexively move to throw your robes back on, longing to cover your bare back. Dirt is deep under your nails, for how hard you've been working the field.

A sincere laugh is pointed at your grimace and stiff movements.

"Don't bother! Keep reflecting the Goddess right back onto the world! Come on, mister. There's nothing we can do for these little blessings, but there's a few rows just ahead that I just know you'll want to see."

The deep lines around her eyes squinted at you, through the sun and a smile.

Your training began at the start of summer, at the behest of your brothers in the Church of Mercy.

(1/2)
>>
>>4028432
It only lasted through the end of October.

The same month you decided, three years later, to take a leave of absence from your own church.

She earned the respect.

>A] You bred a new variety of Agriculture together. It was your pride and joy, and can still be found in Corcaea. Its characteristics were uncanny, and all thanks to your combined efforts.
>1] An extraordinarily potent herb.
>2] The hardiest vegetable you've ever encountered.
>3] A flower who's beauty was unrivaled.

>B] You nearly broke your back for how hard you worked over the field. Your very sweat and blood was in your devotion, for how badly you wanted to prove yourself. You were delighted to learn that Mother Bethaea was equally reverent of her own Goddess.

>C] The work went quickly, for what pleasant company you kept those few months. You came to know Mother Bethaea's wisdom first-hand, thanks to your elevated position within the Church of Mercy. She was more than a mentor. She was a friend.

>D] Mother Bethaea's tutelage was tough, but without compare. She taught you everything you could possibly wish to know about the Church of Agriculture. Never once did she criticize your desire to overindulge, be it at a table or with the work of the Gods.
>>
>>4028434
>>A] You bred a new variety of Agriculture together. It was your pride and joy, and can still be found in Corcaea. Its characteristics were uncanny, and all thanks to your combined efforts.
>1] An extraordinarily potent herb

We always thought of Mercy.

>C] The work went quickly, for what pleasant company you kept those few months. You came to know Mother Bethaea's wisdom first-hand, thanks to your elevated position within the Church of Mercy. She was more than a mentor. She was a friend.

We always looked up to our elders.
>>
>>4028437
we always +1'd.
>>
>>4028437
Supporting
>>
>>4028437
>>4028440
>>4028467
(Nice, locking the vote here. Might have a slight delay with some IRL business but otherwise writing now!)
>>
I have finally caught back up to this quest and its god damn 7 post updates
>>
>>4028984
(Great to have you with us anon, thanks for catching up! I'm always interested in feedback, is the post length prohibitive in any way? I can always place prompts sooner and strive for more conciseness.)
>>
>>4029034
It does seem like you get excessively wordy a lot. People never just look at us, they always look at us with "absolute hope" or "the pinnacle of trust" or "more admiration in their eyes than you thought human beings were capable of feeling". Like every time. I don't know if it's a way to show how weird Richard views the world and other people, that they seem to always be experiencing the greatest possible amount of current emotion, but for me personally such repetition loses impact, clogs up posts, and tanks my immersion.
>>
>>4029059
(I really appreciate the feedback dude. Richard does have an interesting world-view and perspective, but it shouldn't come at the expense of immersion by any means. If you have any other constructive criticism, or hell anyone else in the thread does, definitely let me know!

Vote was locked so the next post might have a bit of what you mentioned, but I'll certainly bear this in mind moving forward.)
>>
>>4028911
Mother Bethaea insisted that you run alongside her, for all her eagerness to attend to her Goddess.

"Life! Death! It's an endless cycle, Father Anscham. In all of the fields of the world, between every man, woman and child. More than in the fields, or the green! You know full well that Agriculture must take away Her bounty, but She has so much to give, too! Here we are—"

A humid, hot and utterly dark building stood before you. The urge to back away, to balk and to refuse entry must have been written clean across your face. "What could possibly grow in here...?"

"I know it looks a little strange now. It's alright. You're going to love this. Come on inside! I have a few candles. Mind the floor, I left a few pots out."

The soft candlelight flared forth, casting a golden glow over a very small room. There was an instinct at the time, to turn and run. A white, immaculate smile shone through the darkness, from your mentor. It was more than enough reassurance to stay your urge.

"The land may be foul, but the people, Richard! People like me and you are more than just the soil or the sky. We're going to make a little light, even in all of this darkness. Come on. I have a few cuttings over here..."

A small box, damp to the touch, was promptly shown to you.

"What is this?"

"They're terribly delicate, do be careful. Came straight from a ruin."

"You couldn't have—"

"Oh, of course I could have. It's not cursed, don't worry that scruffy mop on your head."

Inside appeared to be a luminescent moss. It cast just enough light to be seen when Mother Bethaea covered the candlelight in hand.

"Sorcerery?"

"A blessing. It thrives where no life rightfully should. We're going to make something incredible with it."

"Light."

"That's the Spirit!"

You get a little bolder, trying hard to not smile. Your own Goddess has always been in your thoughts.

"No, Mother Bethaea— Mercy. We can do more, can't we? Something that—"

You've always been bold, when you speak of the things you love. "That could heal."

A small knife was produced, from the woman beside you. She gathered a piece of the precious moss, led you across the small room, to a huge assortment of terribly pale and dying herbs.

You've always been honest. "These look terrible."

She was always quick to laugh. "Best We could do. This is where you come in, Father Anscham!"

You helped her in every way you could. The next few weeks seemed to fly by.

Your first attempts at Agriculture were an abysmal failure. Countless hours were spent in the dark. Countless more were in the field. So many were spent among the clergy, in the humble halls of Wearmoor's failing halls. It was always very quiet, in the building itself. There was a famine, and meals were short affairs. Working the field, and helping your mentor always came first. It was not only more pleasant.

(1/3)
>>
>>4029113
You knew how badly they needed your help.

"I can tend to the vines, please— there is no need for you to—"

The small and spindly woman was eagerly extracting a weed, with nothing but her gloved hands and a predictably low amount of strength.

"For the last time, Richard— I appreciate all of the help, but I need to do this myself—!"

"I— I won't argue, Mother Bethaea, but please, do be careful—"

"Phyllis!"

"Bless you—"

"No, you goofball. My name. You're wound up more tightly than these vines, dammit ALL—!"

A triumphant shout, and a complete extraction of the weed followed. Straight down to the root, the entire menace surfaced. Phyllis staggered backwards, but you made a point to step back, to permit the woman to stay on her own feet without your interference.

"HA-ha! Take that! Feisty little demons, aren't they?"

"You fought them valiantly, Mother Beth— Mercy. Are you sure it's alright? It doesn't feel right."

"It's alright, Richard! You're nothing like any of these pests. Call me whatever you please, alright?"

"...yes, ma'am."

"We're going to get you to relax if it kills me. You know, I've been working on a new kind of brew, and I think this batch of barley is perfectly palatable..."

You found out time and time again that it wasn't.

"Richard. Are you alright?"

"N-not necessarily. Mercy, do we have any water...?"

"Plenty, just a moment. I am so sorry— here you are—!"

Nothing could possibly get rid of the taste.

"You look like you're dying. Take a minute."

You do. It might as well have killed you, for how spoiled the crops clearly were.

"It's... Mercy, thank you—"

"You've always been straight with me, Richard. What could be better? Go on! I can take it!"

"It's buttery. Rancid. S-sorry. Something in the yeast was off, Mother Bethaea." You're coughing, longing for something to get the taste of out your mouth. There's nothing else to spare, so you endure. Your palate isn't refined, for how little food and drink you've had in your twenty years.

You've been something of a guinea pig for Phyllis's experiments nonetheless.

"I see. You know I appreciate your honesty, truly, but... oh, bother. This won't do at all. Come help me with the keg when your cough calms down."

Rolling the entire item to the back of the church was a short affair. Everything went into a patch of unbearably dry soil.

"At least She might appreciate it!"

"I might be sick—"

"Don't you dare. You're skinny enough as it is."

"Look who's talking—"

"I would know better than anyone, then, wouldn't I!"

Her melancholy smile seemed to grow with the passing weeks, for all of your hard work.

The first of the herbs came about around September. They grew with an uncanny speed under your guidance.

(2/3)
>>
>>4029117
"Beautiful, isn't it?" Phyllis was more than happy to let you cover the candlelight yourself, to better see the small leaves cast a light of their own. "They're— it looks like gold, doesn't it?" You're beaming. "Even without the light?"

"It's a good thing they're so delicate. I imagine anyone finding these in the field might want to try to barter with them! Ha-ha!"

"I can't fathom this ever sprouting in Corcaea on its own—"

"Maybe in a ruin? It's certainly damp enough down there."

Your mutual looks are equally unhinged. Mother Bethaea tries to ground you both, as she always does. "You think this would go better in a tea, or...?"

"Mercy, no, Mother Bethaea. It would be a waste."

"Smells like honey. You sure?"

"It is— I mean, it is pleasant enough—"

"I'm starving. I know you are too. Come on. We'll try a little. There's plenty to spare, for once!"

A part of you doesn't want to leave the memory, as bittersweet as it was. Back in the Church of Flesh, overlooking a few empty bowls, you are struggling. It's three years later, in a land of plenty and flowers.

>A] It's hard to finish eating, remembering how severe the famine was. You're going to make sure that no matter what, you uphold Father Friedrich's training, and get yourself back in good health.

>B] It's hard to not drink. Take out your flask, discreetly.
>1] Even though it's morning, you want something strong.
>2] Keep it light. You have business to attend to, but you really do need to relax.
>3] Ask for the same tea you had with Mother Bethaea. Try not to cry.

>C] You miss Phyllis.
>1] You're struggling to not remember the last few days you spent together.
>2] You're struggling to not wallow in the last few happy memories. Of the success of your work together.
>3] You're struggling to not dwell on how desperate you were to help. Your invocation. The culmination of your combined efforts.

>D] Write-in.
>>
>>4029124
>>A] It's hard to finish eating, remembering how severe the famine was. You're going to make sure that no matter what, you uphold Father Friedrich's training, and get yourself back in good health.
>>B] It's hard to not drink. Take out your flask, discreetly.
>>3] Ask for the same tea you had with Mother Bethaea. Try not to cry.
>>
>>4029124
>C3

Geez she sucked at Agriculture. How'd she get made head of the church for it?

>>4029109
I can only nitpick at one thing at a time. I'll need to read through another 7.5 threads before coming up with something else.
>>
>>4029124
>A] It's hard to finish eating, remembering how severe the famine was. You're going to make sure that no matter what, you uphold Father Friedrich's training, and get yourself back in good health.
>>
>>4029132
>>4029127
>>4029153
>I can only nitpick at one thing at a time. I'll need to read through another 7.5 threads before coming up with something else.

(You are so damn sweet anon, thank you. Let's keep this ball rolling all the way through thread 14.5 lol. Can definitely incorporate all of these votes. Locked, writing now!)
>>
>>4029247
A growth of melancholy rivals even the swell in your gut. Though you're certain Father Friedrich isn't actually trying to kill you, it feels like he might as well be. You're struggling to force down even a single more dish of cereals and vegetables.

Through the pain, you're thinking ahead.

This is nothing. I will endure. I will uphold more than my vows. I owe it to myself, to heal. To all of my mentors. To make something of myself. To exercise everything that they have taught me.

There is a flask on your person. A gift, from a demon of Agriculture. A dear friend. You take out the item, choke down the last of the food before you, and think to the past.

It's very hard to not cry. Fighting back the mist that wants to gather in your eyes, you manage to murmur two words.

"Our tea."

Warmth floods the interior of the flask. You can feel the heat through its unassuming exterior. Twisting off the gold cap, steam rises from the endless liquid within. You're greeted by a familiar aroma. It smells lightly of honey and lemon, of medicine and an utterly unique herb.

You sip it, already stuffed beyond capacity. The drink helps. Its medicinal properties are literally a work of the Gods. A healing regent so potent, that the Church of Agriculture has sent supplies of your creation to the Church of Mercy to this very day. It can ease a man's body, provide light in the darkest of conditions, and is capable of curing almost any poison.

It does not ease the poison in your mind.

I've asked so few questions. I may be soft-spoken, but there was so much Time, to talk, to learn. I never even asked how Mother Bethaea earned her position. Why? How could she have served her Goddess? How could she have let things become so dire?

How could I have possibly known what she was going through? She was such a kind woman. She never wanted for help, from anyone.

I thought I was doing the right thing.

I did, didn't I?

The Gods are meant to be Merciful. Aren't they?


The fields were barren. You were the last man working, late into the sunset, trying to make the most of Mercy's blessing. The light of day, for how intensely it beat on you, felt as if it was never enough.

The harvest would not come. Not as it should. Another season of toil, of ever dwindling yields. A single crop for every hundred seeds planted. Men and women would starve in their homes, in the streets. Your home, the country of Corcaea, seemed to shrink by the day. For how much water, sun, toil and devotion was given, it felt as though the Goddess of Bounty gave so little in return.

Hunger gnawed at the edges of your mind for as long as you could remember. Your parents, the farm, had all suffered through your earliest years. The same desperation you felt as a little boy had persisted, long after you left home.

(1/2)
>>
>>4029364
In the church, serving alongside a Mother who could not bear any fruit, you clutched hard onto the scythe in hand. Callouses coated the palms of your hands, against the rough wood and linen wrapped around the base.

The symbol of the Goddess was so simplistic that even a peasant could recognize it.

You were no longer a peasant. You are of low birth, but had been taken into the Church of Mercy. In a few years, you were elevated to priesthood.

It was only a few months since you had become a Father.

You looked to the dirt, to the barren fields. Your wrists were thin, every muscle along your forearms carved as if they were made of the Aerth themselves.

Your devotion to the land was without compare.

You knew She would listen.

>A] You asked Agriculture to save the land and its people, without knowing the full extent of the invocation. You were young, naive, and desperate. You're lucky to still be alive. It may be a blessing, to have been kept in the dark all this time.

>B] You specifically asked Agriculture to bless the land for five harvests. Willing to live with the consequences, you needed to buy more Time. The only thing that could scare you more than starving to death was the prospect of invoking another Goddess. This was a compromise you were always willing to make.

>C] Knowing full well that you would suffer on your people's behalf, you were willing to sacrifice everything. You asked for the curse on the land to be lifted, in full. It's more than a Mercy that you've endured so little, when you asked for so much in return. You learned more from the Church of Agriculture in a few months than the Church of Mercy had taught you for most of your life.

>D] Write-in.
>>
>>4029368
>>C] Knowing full well that you would suffer on your people's behalf, you were willing to sacrifice everything. You asked for the curse on the land to be lifted, in full. It's more than a Mercy that you've endured so little, when you asked for so much in return. You learned more from the Church of Agriculture in a few months than the Church of Mercy had taught you for most of your life.
>>
>>4029368
>C] Knowing full well that you would suffer on your people's behalf, you were willing to sacrifice everything. You asked for the curse on the land to be lifted, in full. It's more than a Mercy that you've endured so little, when you asked for so much in return. You learned more from the Church of Agriculture in a few months than the Church of Mercy had taught you for most of your life.
>>
>>4029368
>A
>>
>>4029373
>>4029388
>>4029403
(Locking the vote here, going to go with the majority but I can incorporate bits of everything. Writing now.)
>>
>>4029578
https://youtu.be/EZLlQnI_pJE
Desperation dropped you to your knees. Naivete wrapped your trembling hands around the scythe before you. Your youth came out in every word.

Each syllable of devotion was seeded with knowledge. With wisdom. With understanding of exactly what you were asking for.

You prayed.

"Goddess of Bounty: of death, of life and everything that comes between! I beg of you. Hear my plea. Hear our cries. Hear the land, and all of its people. We are dying. Our bodies fall, we return to Your bosom, but nothing takes us in turn. We do not feel Your embrace. No flowers climb from our graves. Our prayers have gone unanswered."

There is a tear. Not in your eyes, or your hands, but somewhere deep in your throat.

It feels like you're suffocating. As if a mound of dirt has been packed into your very lungs.

You're full. Painfully full.

You know you're still starving, bent over the scythe before you.

Nothing can sway your devotion. You know exactly what you've asked for.

"Goddess of Harvest! Let your gifts overflow. Work through me. Your vessel is eager, empty, willing—!"

The blood in your throat cuts you off. There's something in the dirt, worming its way into the walls of your throat, from the back of your tongue into the pit of your stomach.

It's too much. You never want to eat again. You keel over, and vomit.

An out-pour of blood, tinted with green, and littered with seeds comes in its wake.

It's so revolting that you immediately retch again, looking on in abject horror. The sensation is only getting worse, each and every time you expel the work of the Goddess.

The blessing sink immediately into the cursed ground.

The scythe drops, while you clutch onto your sides and throat. It's impossible to say where the pain is more intense, but you fear you'll never be able to swallow anything again.

Through the agony, you know you have been heard. You choke down the torment, bury the last of your pride, and tend to the prayer.

"Take me. Take this vessel. Grant me everything You have. Save us. Save Our people, Our land. Bestow upon Your children everything that you have to offer. Goddess of Generosity. Goddess of Plenty. Agriculture—!"

A scream threatens to rip itself out of your throat, as another out-pour of blood follows. You are no longer vomiting. There's simply so much in you, to give, to share, that it can't be contained.

"MERCY—"

You bite down against a knuckle on your hand, wanting for something to restrain yourself with. The liquid that flows from your lips has no temperature, as if it was removed from the Aerth itself.

It's eager to return to it.

(1/2)
>>
>>4029787
The verdant bile and blood flowed, rapidly, away from your Flesh, away from your cries for Mercy. You watched, back to retching, in a nightmare of divinity. There was green in your eyes, in the vines of your own making, coursing away from your mouth and wrists.

There was more. Leaves, that felt as if they were blooming in the deepest reaches of your gut.

No hunger plagued you.

No thirst took you.

There was a Goddess. Angered. Neglected. Cast away. You couldn't understand the full extent of Her wrath, Her fury.

Through the prayer, your plea, you dug your hands into the soil before you and begged.

The out-pour was ceaseless.

Mercy was always in your thoughts. Agriculture was in your very soul, giving you everything you asked for. You felt it, in the very ground beneath your knees. Full of divinity, of bounty, of life.

It felt as if you might as well have died.

"GODDESS, You have been scorned, You have been cursed! You have shown us Your works in turn! We recognize your wrath, Your righteous fury, and we beg of you, please—!"

Your eyes lifted, littered with sage. The field ahead began to bloom.

"Do not forsake us. Sow your gifts across Our land. Our home. Permit Our worship."

Something was buried in you. A plot of hunger and despair, filled to the brim. The Goddess of Generosity did not want you to ask again for Her blessing. There was an answer, spreading, among miles of fields. Across an entire country. Your home. Her church.

"You have heard Our prayer."

She gave you more than you asked for.

"The Gods are Merciful.""

You collapsed, slaked with blood. The pain in your throat, deep into your soul, would mend in time.

The land healed. No one could believe it was you.

No one, except for your mentor.

Mother Bethaea respected you. Trusted you. Thanked you with everything she had. She ensured that you were brought back to health.

She couldn't comprehend why her Goddess would hurt you in such a way.

She understood that you had made a sacrifice she never could. She made another.

Mother Bethaea killed herself, a month later.

It's been a little over three years since then. You're sitting, alone, at a table in the halls of the Church of Flesh. Most of the dining hall has cleared out. You've been there for some Time, and the sun is shining through a few thin slits in the far stone wall.

A young woman, with straw-like hair, has come over to your table. She's eager to clean up the exorbitant number of plates and bowls you've emptied, through the pain and devotion to the Gods. Her skirts and filthy apron bustle about, respectful, unquestioning of how much you've clearly forced yourself to eat.

Her eyes remain downcast, only flitting to you every so often while she cleans.

(Options in next post)
>>
>>4029793
>A] You are making every effort to maintain your restraint. You've ignored these memories for years. You can deal with them another time. You have business to attend to. Go see Father Friedrich, as you originally intended.

>B] You're still drinking, hoping it will ease the poison in your mind. You need professional help, for everything you've been through.
>1] You're working off all of this food and grief with Father Friedrich. A healthy body will surely guide you towards having a healthier mind.
>2] Writing to Father Sullivan remains a top priority. Not only are you sparing no expense to contact him, you want to ask him to help you through your issues, as well.

>C] You're still struggling to not cry. The meeting with Father Friedrich is going to have to wait.
>1] You need closure. Spend the morning out in the fields, and speak with the farmhands of Beorward. Learn as much as you can.
>2] You need your damn journal, and some more time to yourself. There's another mentor you lost, and so much you need to reflect on you can't stand it.

>D] Write-in.
>>
>>4029796
>C] You're still struggling to not cry. The meeting with Father Friedrich is going to have to wait.
>2] You need your damn journal, and some more time to yourself. There's another mentor you lost, and so much you need to reflect on you can't stand it.
>>
>>4029796
>>B] You're still drinking, hoping it will ease the poison in your mind. You need professional help, for everything you've been through.
>>1] You're working off all of this food and grief with Father Friedrich. A healthy body will surely guide you towards having a healthier mind.
>>
>>4029796
>C1

Sounds like we need to worship Agriculture more.
>>
>>4029796
>B] You're still drinking, hoping it will ease the poison in your mind. You need professional help, for everything you've been through.
>1] You're working off all of this food and grief with Father Friedrich. A healthy body will surely guide you towards having a healthier mind.
>>
>>4029796
>>B] You're still drinking, hoping it will ease the poison in your mind. You need professional help, for everything you've been through.
>>1] You're working off all of this food and grief with Father Friedrich. A healthy body will surely guide you towards having a healthier mind.
>>2] Writing to Father Sullivan remains a top priority. Not only are you sparing no expense to contact him, you want to ask him to help you through your issues, as well.
Both, in this order
>>
>>4029821
>>4030267
>>4030439
>>4030500
>>4030860
(Locking the vote here while the tie is broken, writing now!)
>>
>>4030881
There's a prayer at the back of your throat, with the sensation of broken glass. It's choked down, with more tea, and the hope that the woman beside you has yet to notice how hard you're still struggling.

She doesn't say a word, leaving your side and you fight with yourself. You keep your back turned to her, faced towards your flask. The tea is not helping. The steam and moisture isn't doing much, for the mist in your eyes, the way that the room feels like it gave out from under you for the better part of an hour.

Not even the strongest medicine in Corcaea could fix this. I've spent most of my life quietly reflecting, keeping to myself. It hasn't changed. The only thing that's ever helped is looking to others, for support, for guidance. Mother Bethaea never found it in her to ask for anything.

She's still teaching me, isn't she?

I know I need help.


You stand from the table abruptly, putting aside your flask and heading straight back out the hall.

A few courteous nods are given to you, by the remaining men seated near the door. You keep your eyes downcast, without recognition, but it's alright.

You are the Father of Mercy, and have business to attend to. No one would dare to criticize your appearance, your behavior, or the way you've been constantly fidgeting with the chain around your neck. Not for the loftiness of your position, and certainly not for the office you're heading straight towards.

Father Friedrich and I will be able to work this out. I'll write to Father Sullivan, as soon as I'm able. I'll see to my health. Not only my body, but my mind's as well. They will know what to do.

They have to.


You knock, abruptly, on the door to Father Friedrich's office. There's only one voice that responds from the other side. It's gruff, and seems a little off-kilter.

"I'm busy."

"It's Father Anscha—"

You're cut off, as the voice's urgency picks up.

"Close the door behind you this time."

The extreme weight in your stomach feels like it's going to bottom out. You open the door, to see a small collection of items. The packages and gifts that were littering the hall of strategy has been set aside, save for a box of cigars.

The maps have been cleared off of the table before Father Friedrich.

There is practically no furniture, save for a very large and old wooden table at the center of the room.

Your bloodied mace and shield, your bag, a very old holy symbol, and your journal are all set in the center of it all. Your old bag, caked with old soot, blood, remnants of battle and terror, is beside it all. There's no indication of anything being tampered with. Not the myriad writing supplies, or humble possessions you've been entrusted with by Father Wilhelm.

(1/2)
>>
>>4031129
There is exactly one chair in your field of view. It's placed opposite of Father Friedrich, who is standing. He's drinking whiskey, although it can't be more than an hour past sunrise. The box of cigars is open, on the table, and seems to have been forgotten.

"Sit." He gestures to the chair, raising his glass, his lips tight.

The glass tilts, points to the gold about your neck, to the journal, the shield, the mace, and then back to himself. "I don't want to make a single assumption. I know you're an honest man. You have yet to disappoint me. We all know you were gone. Father Wilhelm won't say a word. I need to know what's happened. Explain."

>A] Confess to the leader of your country's national security that you allied with an archdemon, betrayed the trust of an elf, badly damaged a halfling, and fought an orc nearly to the death.
>1] Defend yourself and your friends, no matter what. You knew the risks. You knew the price you would pay for your actions. Own up to it.
>2] Admit that you had almost no idea what you were doing or where you were going the entire time you were in the ruins. It's a miracle you made it out alive. You have diplomacy, friendship, trust and your unwavering honesty to thank for it.
>3] Shirk the responsibility. It was a suicide mission going in. You're not in any state mentally, even now, to be faced with criticism for doing nothing wrong. The dynamic between humans and demons is clearly a horrific misunderstanding. You need guidance, but EVERYONE does.

>B] You aren't explaining anything until you know what you're getting yourself into.
>1] Demand that your things be returned to you, and reprimand Father Friedrich for not simply asking you for this information himself. This is an extreme violation of your privacy.
>2] Plainly ask what Father Friedrich has assumed, and what he intends to do with what he's learned.

>C] Write-in.
>>
>>4031135
>>A] Confess to the leader of your country's national security that you allied with an archdemon, betrayed the trust of an elf, badly damaged a halfling, and fought an orc nearly to the death.
>>2] Admit that you had almost no idea what you were doing or where you were going the entire time you were in the ruins. It's a miracle you made it out alive. You have diplomacy, friendship, trust and your unwavering honesty to thank for it.
>>
>>4031135
>A] Confess to the leader of your country's national security that you allied with an archdemon, betrayed the trust of an elf, badly damaged a halfling, and fought an orc nearly to the death.
>2] Admit that you had almost no idea what you were doing or where you were going the entire time you were in the ruins. It's a miracle you made it out alive. You have diplomacy, friendship, trust and your unwavering honesty to thank for it.
but that we also have a ways to go still, and wounds to heal, at least I think so
>>
>>4031135
>B)
>2)
This isn't WIlhelm, Friedrich has showcased a much more relentlessly aggressive nature, so I'd advice we approach this cautiously
>>
>>4031135
>A3

Explains why we spared his son
>>
>>4031141
>>4031145
>>4031146
>>4031150
(Can work most of this together, oddly enough, so let's do that! Vote is locked, writing now.)
>>
>>4031162
Between the scrutiny directed at you, the lightness of your head and the huge meal weighing you down, you at least accept the chair. "Thank you."

Nothing is said in reply.

This is a man of the material, of Flesh. I have to be more prudent. Father Wilhelm was cautioned by the very God of visions and nightmares about my absence, and even he was disturbed by what he learned.

Abstaining from the truth for even a few moments laces your speech with awkwardness. "I will explain, Father Friedrich. It would be— I would sincerely appreciate it if you could tell me what you have assumed. What you intend to do, with everything you have learned."

The frown directed back at you is through the bottom of a glass of whiskey. Father Friedrich doesn't respond at first, taking a long moment to decide how to best articulate himself. You recognize the look in his eyes, though.

"Did I not just say I don't want to make any assumptions?"

"Yes, but—"

"My information is only valuable if it's accurate. This information is valuable, only so long as it's accurate. I know you penned it. I know you're no liar. It's incomplete, and I need the rest of the picture, Father Anscham. I need to know how much shit is going to rain on our borders. How many more enemies we have to face. How much damage you've done."

Father Friedrich sets down his glass and looks straight at you.

"Explain."

He doesn't have to say what he intends to do. The look is of a man who's staying his hand. His shoulders are tense, as if he's going to jump up and pin you to the floor himself the moment you turn to run. You're still hesitating, fidgeting, and avoiding the stare being directed at you at all costs.

Responsibility has always been a tough subject for you.

A figure comes alongside you, squatting down effortlessly. A hand, devoid of any scars, is placed very slowly on the armrest you're not using. Your hands are wrapped around gold, wanting for Mercy.

She makes Herself known through the man at your side, for only a moment. "Don't misunderstand me. I need to know how much damage they did to you, too."

The whites of your eyes are probably fully exposed. You look, wide and in disbelief, to the Father of Flesh. He sits down on the floor beside you, obviously uncomfortable as he nurses the whiskey in hand.

"We're stronger together. Can't fight anyone if we rot from the inside out— don't you dare fucking laugh, I meant more than usual."

You're not laughing, at all. Your lips are tight, your grimace all-encompassing.

"Don't make me pull a confession out of you." There's some grumbling into the glass that you don't catch. Something about "cleared out his whole day," and "Atticus and his stupid fucking hat."

You aren't entirely certain. You haven't been, for a very long time.

"I was lost, Father Friedrich. Terribly lost. For most of the time I was in the ruins, but long before then—"

(1/3)
>>
>>4031393
"I need you to be clear, Father Anscham. Don't go all fucking flowery on me."

"I was suicidal."

Another, larger drink from the glass.

"I fully intended to find my death in those ruins. I found the demons you saw, there," you point, to the journal on the table. You aren't trying to be condescending, only as clear as possible.

"I kept my word to the King and clergy. I recorded my findings. I tracked every single one of them that I faced, and as much as I could in between. There were very few survivors. It was abundantly clear why. I was literally lost, for most of my time in the ruins, and I only made it out alive because of the alliances I made. The men and women who I trusted. Not— not literally."

You aren't being interrupted, but you felt like there was need for more clarification. The tight lips are still grimacing at you, but not a single interjection seems to be made. You continue, "the only other humans in the ruins were the ones I saved. Yes, I may have terrified an orc chieftain. I did attack him on sight, but only to defend myself. He was— well, suspiciously kind, but we left on the best terms I could hope for. Yes, I agreed to travel with an elf and a halfling, but I told them nothing of our affairs. Nothing of our defense. Nothing of my ability, saved for what I used to save their lives. They helped me, as I helped them in turn. We parted ways as soon as we could. It was..."

You grimace. The pain must be written all over you, of unasked questions, of answers you might never get.

"It was nothing more than a business partnership, at best."

"There's more in here on demons than of the people you traveled with, Father Anscham."

The glare you fire back could kill. Even though Father Friedrich is clearly trying to be tactful, you've been too hurt to not be brutally honest in return. "I was treated with more respect by a demon than by any living man. They earned my time and study, Father Friedrich. They earned my respect. An archdemon. Her children. Her successor..."

The man beside you moves to stand, but you stay the motion, gripping onto an armrest, ready to move yourself. "Fighting for my life for weeks on end, without the wind, the sun, food or water— without hope of ever seeing home again— beset by enemies on all sides— to come back home knowing I would face nothing but scrutiny—! I don't regret anything, Father Friedrich, but do you think I sincerely understood where my actions would take me? That I wasn't ill? That I still don't—"

You slump back, the wind knocked out of your sails.

(2/3)
>>
>>4031395
"I'm still wounded. Badly. I came to you for help. I traveled halfway across Corcaea, mostly under the dead of night. I crossed our rivers, I forsake what little time I could have spent healing in privacy. Father Wilhelm made so many sacrifices for me. I never wanted to bring more trouble to your doorstep, Father. I hid the blessing of Mercy, my Relic, for weeks. To make it here without further grief. I need help, Father Friedrich."

A slow movement beside you is made, by a man clearly attempting to not set your nerves any further aflame. The priest gets back to his feet, looking down on you for the first time.

"None of this is any excuse."

"...what?"

"We're already fighting a war we can't win. There's going to be turmoil you can't possibly comprehend, because of your actions—"

"You don't have the faintest idea of what my actions have been."

"I've read enough."

"You have no concept of what I've been through."

"You've abused the Gods, and encountered demons alone that would kill half my forces. If this is any indication—"

"It's not. The torture alone would cover the same number of pages—"

"I said I didn't need a confession, Father Anscham. You said it yourself, you aren't well—"

"How does that discount the validity of what I'm saying?"

You move to stand, and a hand firmly goes to your shoulder, to keep you seated.

Every hair on you stands on end, bristling. You look up, to a man easily twice as wide as you. His grip on your shoulder is almost as crushing as Remigius'.

"Stay down. We're going to get you all the help you need. I have enough problems at hand, without—"

"Have I not aided you from the moment I arrived at your church? Have I not listened to your guidance, before we even met? We stopped the outbreak, Father Friedrich. We saved your church. We put an end to the insanity."

Your voice drops, laced with compassion and pity.

"I spared your son."

A punch swings so hard and fast across your jaw that you couldn't possibly see it coming. You feel the brush of wind and the force of a grieving Father an instant before the impact.

It's like being slammed with a block of stone. Specks of gold flash across your vision for a moment, in the black. You don't feel the punch at first, though within seconds of regaining your sight, there's a build-up. Across the side of your jaw, from what will likely be a blemish for days, is a throb of fire and instant gratification.

Your groan is restrained, as you fight with every fiber of your being to remain decent. "Mercy—"

If it wasn't immediately clear that you overstepped yourself, the immediate drop of your title makes it clear beyond all reason.

"I shouldn't have done that. You're ill, Richard. Not even the Gods—"

(Slightly over, 3/4)
>>
>>4031403
You can usually take criticism about your mental state when it's directed towards your race as a whole. A personal attack from a demon is another thing. Nightmares, no matter how realistic, are another.

But this is a human man, a church leader, as real as the throb in your skin and bone.

One who seems incapable of tolerating your presence for more than a few minutes without physically assaulting you. You aren't sure how much more abuse you can take.

>A] Cut off Father Friedrich.
>1] Punch him back. You aren't standing for one more blow. You don't want to beat the man to death, you simply need to assert yourself.
>2] Defend yourself, verbally. You will not stand for another church leader criticizing the way you work with the Gods.
>3] Demand that if Father Friedrich is so convinced you're ill, that he help you himself.

>B] Listen to him.
>1] Only enough to hear his honest thoughts. Defend yourself, knowing full well what another priest thinks of your relationship with the Gods.
>2] Take the abuse, and listen in full. You need to hear an unfiltered response to all of this, in as safe a place as you could hope for.

>C] Write-in.
>>
>>4031408
>B1
>>
>>4031408
>>B] Listen to him.
>>2] Take the abuse, and listen in full. You need to hear an unfiltered response to all of this, in as safe a place as you could hope for.

He's older, wiser, and will give it to us straight. We need to put up with it - he's trying to help us,
>>
>>4031408
>>B] Listen to him.
>>2] Take the abuse, and listen in full. You need to hear an unfiltered response to all of this, in as safe a place as you could hope for.
>>
>>4031435
>>4031446
>>4031473
(Can definitely work with this. Vote is locked! Writing now.)
>>
>>4031500
"Give it to me straight, Father Friedrich."

I need to put up with this. He's older, wiser, and simply trying to help me.

Despite asking for the man's honesty, he hesitates to speak his mind. "The blessings you've been given are—"

"Father." Speaking decently is rapidly becoming impossible, for the mounting pain in your face. You make the effort to keep your voice level, but it perverts your meaning. "Please."

The answers you're looking for come rapidly, angrily. "I know you're fighting it, even now. It's obscene. You're a damn glutton, Richard, and I know you can't help yourself. Not even the Gods could save you from blaspheming. They've blessed you? You've asked for more than any man ever should, and you keep on taking."

Red eyes are bearing down, on the growing bruise along your jaw, and the way you're struggling to keep your breath steady. "Mercy may have stayed Flesh's blessing from breaking you completely, but I see His works in you—"

The gaze softens slightly. "Nothing will break you. You wanted to die, and were given the will to live, weren't you?"

"Yes, Father."

"You've saved all of our lives. Not only yesterday. If your records are any indication of the army you staved off, you curtailed an even greater threat without a single word of thanks."

A hand gestures to your journal.

"This is nothing to be ashamed of. I want to help you, more than anything, but there is only so much I can do. You work with all of the Gods, Father Anscham, and you seem broken beyond repair."

There's a twinge of abject disgust. "Not by Them. Not by Their blessing. By your abuse. It's clear to anyone looking at you. How much you enjoy it."

More anger is lacing the man's speech. "I won't tolerate a perversion of Flesh in these halls. I said I shouldn't have struck you. You will not train with my clergy. Flesh and Mercy have seen fit to help you with your pain—"

A fist forms, frustrated, and utterly convicted. "I am determined to help you with your vessel, because of how you've abused it. I told you we would get you the help you need. I meant every word. I will not tolerate the head of the Church of Mercy to be so ill-suited to his station. We will not have a—"

Men like you have no use for pride. "Go on. Say it."

"No. No. I'm not giving you the abuse you want. You—" A deep sigh. "Fuck it. You're a masochist, through and through, Richard, and it's disgusting. You need to learn to show yourself some fucking respect. I'm going to beat it into you, if I have to."

The Father of Flesh is smirking, unable to help himself from laughing lightly. "You'd probably enjoy that, too. Fuck it. I need your help too badly to care."

A second glass is produced, and Father Friedrich fills both to the brim with an incredibly rich looking whiskey. He walks back over to you, smoothly, and extends the glass.

"You've quieted down since I started berating you."

(1/2)
>>
>>4031652
"There was very little to argue with." You take the glass, raising it to Father Friedrich. "You are terribly wrong about at least one thing."

"What might that be?"

You wait to drink. "I've received plenty of thanks. Idonea gave me her Relic. Yech saved my life countless times. Ofelia and Celegwen stayed by my side for weeks without complaint. Even Orgoth swore to stay his hand against Ray and I."

Father Friedrich nearly spills his drink.

"He what?"

"On his first wife, every one of his sons, and every one of their tribes— I was skewered with a javelin at the time. I may have faded after the eighth or ninth—"

"Richard— Father Anscham." The glass of whiskey is still raised to you. "I have a proposition."

"I am listening."

"I'll aid you. We'll see to it that you get the help you need. I can offer you as much refuge here in the Church of Flesh as you need. I promise you, I'll look after you, alongside Flesh, as best as I'm able. Regardless of what you say, we're getting your body back together."

"Thank you."

"You saved us all. I owe you my honesty, to uphold Your tenets. In return, you need to uphold Ours."

"It is terribly difficult to get out of the Church of Mercy most days, Father Friedrich—"

"They didn't teach you shit, did they?"

You know it's a rhetorical question. You've learned a lot, in the time you spent outside of the gilded halls. You don't reply.

"Of course they didn't. It's alright, but I don't need to know the details."

"No."

The priest launches into his proposal. "Promise me that you will not pervert Flesh under my roof, while under my protection. You will not train with my men. You will travel in Beorward under supervision, if you choose to leave our halls. You will train, under my supervision. We will give you respect for the material. Your weakness is not His strength. Your devotion is. You require diligence."

The smirk is growing. "You already know that it is to persevere. You need to show your body the respect it deserves." The smirk is short-lived. "Under NO circumstances am I to see you taking injury or pleasure in any sort of pain."

You're cringing, at how candid the priest is being, but Father Friedrich is all fire and devotion. You recognize the fervor in his voice, the desire to share his God with another.

"We'll teach each other. Promise me. Either way, I'll see to it that your possessions are returned. The only thing I'm keeping is what I've learned. Between the two of us. We'll find a more secure means of protecting this information. I'd prefer to burn your journal entirely, but I assume the King will want to know of your experiences."

The glass is still raised. A toast, an offer, extended and waiting.

"What do you say?"

(Options in next post.)
>>
>>4031660
>(A and B are mutually exclusive. Majority vote will decide the outcome.)

>A] You are not training under a man who thinks you're a glutton, a pervert, a masochist and doesn't want you near his children. This is insulting to an extreme and no matter how badly you need his aid, you will not work with Father Friedrich. Respectfully decline.

>B] You deeply appreciate the man's honesty. For all of his candidness, you know he could have you turned over for treason, yet is still extending his home and wisdom. Accept the drink, the proposal, and endure the tutelage of the Father of Flesh.
>1] Explicitly ask for help with conditioning your body. You're determined to prove everyone wrong. No matter what may be said about you, you're righteous, and a man of all of the Gods.
>2] Focus on the subjects, tenets and wisdom of his experience. Listen to the man's teachings as they are given, without complaint. You don't want to lose another mentor.

>C] Write-in.
>>
>>4031666
>B] You deeply appreciate the man's honesty. For all of his candidness, you know he could have you turned over for treason, yet is still extending his home and wisdom. Accept the drink, the proposal, and endure the tutelage of the Father of Flesh.
>2] Focus on the subjects, tenets and wisdom of his experience. Listen to the man's teachings as they are given, without complaint. You don't want to lose another mentor.
He's not wrong. Richard is sick. You people are sick.
>>
>>4031666
>>B] You deeply appreciate the man's honesty. For all of his candidness, you know he could have you turned over for treason, yet is still extending his home and wisdom. Accept the drink, the proposal, and endure the tutelage of the Father of Flesh.
>2] Focus on the subjects, tenets and wisdom of his experience. Listen to the man's teachings as they are given, without complaint. You don't want to lose another mentor.

Anything he has to teach, we'll be happy to learn. I assume training our body will come along with that in some regard...also, be sure to show restraint.

restraint posting hours will never die. NEVER
>>
>>4031666
>>B] You deeply appreciate the man's honesty. For all of his candidness, you know he could have you turned over for treason, yet is still extending his home and wisdom. Accept the drink, the proposal, and endure the tutelage of the Father of Flesh.
>>2] Focus on the subjects, tenets and wisdom of his experience. Listen to the man's teachings as they are given, without complaint. You don't want to lose another mentor.
>>
>>4031725
>>4031738
>>4032100
(Unanimous vote, taking all these comments into consideration for sure. Vote is locked, writing now!)
>>
>>4031666

>B
>2
>>
>>4032148
>>4032180
You raise your glass, devoid of any and all arrogance. "You're not wrong."

Both glasses of whiskey go back, reflected against equal grimaces.

"You're full of surprises, Father Anscham."

It feels like you're full of way too much. The whiskey is not sitting well with what a huge breakfast you had. The burn is hot, smooth, and finer than almost anything you've ever drank. It easily rivals the quality of Yech's best work, yet your grimace doesn't lift.

There's still a frown across from you, as well. "You can say no. Shit, you can hit me back, if you really want to."

"No, Father Friedrich— I— you're absolutely right. I am sick."

"Didn't I say I was going to beat that self-harm out of you? That's no way to talk about yourself."

"You said it yourself."

"I shouldn't be putting thoughts like that in your head, either."

"Your honesty means everything to me, Father. I know this can't be easy for you—"

"No, but I've had worse students. You're no demon, Richard. No matter what anyone says—"

"Mercy, if I hear this one more Time—"

"Sorry."

"No. It— it is—" You're exasperated, fidgeting awkwardly with the glass in your hands. There's very little desire to finish it, for the hour of day and all of your discomfort.

The ability to show any restraint is so reassuring, it gives you the strength to address the most obvious concern on both of your minds. "The concern is well founded. I suspect a lot has been said about me. In the capital. In the Church of Mercy. This—"

You gesture to the journal, the myriad gifts spread over a table of strategy from an arch demon. Imbued with sorcerery. Unquestionable evidence of your alliance. "This all must look terrible. You could have me put to a stockade, to a chopping block. It's a miracle that I've gone even this long with so little as a beating—"

"Richard. Please."

"Anything you wish to teach me, Father, I will be more than happy to learn. Your tenets. Your subjects. Your wisdom. Flesh. There— Mercy, there is so much I still don't understand."

You look to the glass before you, longing to set it down. The man beside you seems to respect your restraint to an extreme, taking the glass from your hands after only a moment.

"Don't let anything I've said get you down." His grimace lifts, enough to show the start of a smirk. "You still haven't disappointed me."

The taste of peat and smoke is in your throat, with no pain to speak of. "I don't want to make any assumptions—"

"No, go ahead. You don't have to watch yourself so damn closely around me, alright?"

"I don't suppose there is anything worse you could think of me, is there—"

"Don't make me kick your ass, Richard." The smirk is a lot broader. "What were you going on about?"

(1/3)
>>
>>4032197
"I sincerely know nothing of the Church of Flesh. I received your letter, from Father Wilhelm, regarding a training regimen. I have some other business to attend to but— this, this is the full extent of it. I feel so ignorant. Of everything. I want to learn. I want to do more than simply feel— and I'm curious what this training might entail. How much of it will pertain to my vessel. My body."

The Father of the Church of Flesh gives you an entirely unhinged grin.

"All of it."

https://youtu.be/sdi5qrOGIPE

In short order, you were shown back to the stables. Cleared out of the congregation you saved the lives of, removed of any and all demons, you penned a letter to Father Barthalomew and Father Sullivan. In the light of day, filtering over the old straw, stamped with Father Friedrich's seal, you asked for more guidance. Implored two more leaders, two more men, for their aid and their wisdom.

You want, more than anything, to make more alliances.

The sealed envelopes were sent via horse-back, by two messengers sworn to service Father Friedrich. They were paid exorbitantly for their service, and left with the sun still high on the horizon. You promised both men literal gold for their safe return. They left with the protection of Mercy, and the Father of Her Church.

It would allegedly take less than a day for the first letter, to reach Murgate. To be received by Father Sullivan. With the man pushing his horse to its absolute limit, you could expect a reply within three days, at the very latest.

The second man was a sailor, born and raised along the riverbanks. He claimed to be able to travel without rest, due to the safety along the north passages of Morinburn and Eventide. Though the trip would take nearly two weeks by land, the messenger swore to your very Goddess that he would reach Rimilde before four days passed.

The return journey would take substantially longer. It would likely be within 10 days total, for for you to get a response. Only if Storm was fair, and only if Father Barthalomew replied instantly.

You prayed for his safe travel, and left the business of Spirit and Storm to the Gods.

With the morning sun climbing high, you were brought to a sparse training room within the outer halls of the Church of Flesh. Its stone floors were littered with straw mats. A number of wooden barricades were scattered throughout the large hall, for lunging and training in jumping. Its walls were high, and a number of holes in the ceiling led you to question just how much privacy you were truly being afforded. The wooden rafters had no birds to speak of, and the entire chamber was large enough to lead to a slight echo of every word uttered between you and Father Friedrich.

He is trying to explain why you have no weapons.

(2/3)
>>
>>4032201
"We ARE a weapon. We're going to do this the old-fashioned way. This is your first lesson! A proper study in Flesh! With and without God of the Material! To live is to serve, Father Anscham! You had a decent breakfast? Get enough sleep?"

"Too much and too little."

You feel sluggish, and horrifically under-prepared. Spending the early hours of the morning tending to Dream and the bulk of the morning thinking of Agriculture seems a little ill-timed, but you don't regret anything.

"Lesson number one! Everything in moderation. You are a man of excess, Father Anscham, and it's been your undoing. We're going to correct that."

"I thought—"

"Think on your feet, boy!"

Before you can properly reply, there is at least 250lbs of solid muscle laughing and running straight towards you. He's readying to leap, and no doubt is about to throw a kick straight at your torso.

>(Please choose one option from BOTH A and B. These may not be mutually exclusive.)

>A] You thought...
>1] That your unfailing devotion to the Gods was the only way to correctly serve them. Is he sincerely preaching for you to not give Them your all?
>2] That you need to serve every God with equal fervency and respect. That you have a unique relationship with Them.
>3] That you were just following the routine laid out for you. Forget the higher implications of the statement, you are barely keeping up with the present moment.
>4] Write-in.

>B] You feel...
>1] Like this might be a feint. Dodge the kick, and be ready to avoid another strike.
>2] Like getting even. Dodge the kick, and throw a punch back, as fast as you're able. Go for the jaw.
>3] Like this is a great opportunity to burn off that excess. Sprint towards the obstacles on the far end of the room, and see if Father Friedrich can keep up.
>4] Write-in.
>>
>>4032204
>A)
>2)

>B)
>3)
>>
>>4032204
>>A] You thought...
>2] That you need to serve every God with equal fervency and respect. That you have a unique relationship with Them.

Mercy is queen but a parent can't play favorites.

>B] You feel...
>3] Like this is a great opportunity to burn off that excess. Sprint towards the obstacles on the far end of the room, and see if Father Friedrich can keep up.

We applied this hit and run tactic before in the last battle of the ruins, let's keep him guessing and strike when We feel like it. Besides, we still need to show some restraint
>>
>>4032211
>>4032212
(Going to proceed with two votes since it's unanimous. Writing now!)
>>
>>4032218
The laughter is cut short. By your best estimates, you weigh at least half as much as Father Friedrich, even after a huge meal. It's no surprise that you can move with ridiculously more speed. You call over your shoulder, running to the far end of the room.

It's hard to not smile. "I do still need to show restraint, Father Friedrich!"

"You're living up to your name, Richard—!"

That's not funny.

"Get back here—!"

Leaping onto one of the wooden platforms at the far end of the room, you look down to see the priest barreling towards you, still laughing.

"Think you can outpace me? You've got another thing coming—"

Your reply waits, as you smirk, and leap down behind the barricades.

For all of your height, you have to crouch, to weave behind the numerous planks and stakes of wood. You feel bold enough to shout out, to give away your position. "I thought that I need to serve every God with the same diligence and respect!"

"You think you know anything of Flesh, boy? Easing up on your own Goddess, no less?! What, is the Father of Mercy going soft?"

Sliding between another gap in the defenses around you, you're intensely reminded of an old battle you fought. You know he's teasing, but it's hard to not boast. "I am anything but, Father Friedrich! You know—"

A roar drops down from the pillars looming above. Your shout is cut short, as you sprint as hard as you can forward. You had folded and set aside your robes to move unhindered. The back of your shirt and trousers are nearly pinned, for how little space is between you and Father Friedrich when he lands.

It affords you a blessed moment, to skid to a halt, to spin back around, and to fire a grin. "You know exactly how it feels to serve a single God, don't you?"

The man's eyes are ablaze with devotion, as he moves to swing again. He doesn't need to answer you verbally, as every blow is laced with ardor for Flesh.

You weave behind a strike to your torso.

There's a shout, as you narrowly step back from the opposite hand.

The punch doesn't even graze your face, but doesn't give you an inch to spare.

You have to duck beneath a kick swung above your head.

Your pulse is up, the wind in your hair from the speed in which you crouch back, and sprint away once again.

Your unwillingness to fight directly has Father Friedrich's blood boiling, but he's being good-natured about it. "Get BACK here—!"

The significantly larger man isn't having any trouble keeping up with you, not yet. He's right behind you.

"I can't play favorites, Father Friedrich! Can you blame me?"

You close the distance between the far wall again, near a number of fake horses. The wooden objects provide just enough cover to weave between and behind.

"You think you're terribly special, don't you?! Second lesson—!"

There's another roar, as Father Friedrich picks up one of the obstacles entirely.

"Mercy."

(1/2)
>>
>>4032248
The item sails through the air, with more than enough strength to make you question if the man is already channeling a God.

Dodging the first one makes you question the man's sanity. You have to leap entirely away, rolling as you land to not take injury. It hits the stone faster and harder than you'd expect. The impact is deafening. A number of splinters sail into the air, and as you bring up a sleeve to protect your eyes, you gasp again.

There's another soaring towards you, faster than the first.

"Know your STRENGTHS, Father Anscham!"

>A] Run. Keep more than enough distance away from Father Friedrich. It'll either force him to wear himself down, or to chase after you. Better to practice as much restraint as you're able.

>B] Face him head-on. Make sure you don't take any cheap shots, but get a few hits in where you can. You want to test yourself, even if it might be crazy to run closer to the onslaught.

>C] Demonstrate your dexterity. You've never shied away from close quarters. Sweep Father Friedrich's legs out from under him. You aren't totally unhinged, but you want to show off.

>D] You are definitely unhinged. Give the priest of Flesh an opportunity to showcase his skill first-hand. Run into the line of fire, and tackle him, while he has his guard down.
>>
>>4032250
>A] Run. Keep more than enough distance away from Father Friedrich. It'll either force him to wear himself down, or to chase after you. Better to practice as much restraint as you're able.
Restraiiiint
>>
>>4032250
>>A] Run. Keep more than enough distance away from Father Friedrich. It'll either force him to wear himself down, or to chase after you. Better to practice as much restraint as you're able.

He may be strong as fuck but there is no chance in hell he is going to land a hit with one of those horses on us, we are much too thin and nimble. Keep tiring him out and try to keep an eye out for any opening to strike, he isn't going to gas himself out that easily but we still need to try.
>>
>>4032259
>>4032260
(Let's keep this rolling, vote is locked. Writing!)
>>
>>4032262
Your reminder, response and plea all wrap into one. "Mercy, Father Friedrich—!"

The second horse collides with the stone. In the back of your mind, you're aware that there's no conceivable way everyone in the church hasn't heard the commotion. You try to focus, to reign in your thoughts, as Father Friedrich runs forward to grab yet another weight.

"Bullshit, you know I'm not letting up!"

He's sweating, grinning wildly, and utterly unrelenting in the attack. You sprint away again, trying not to laugh. Another groan of frustration is at your back.

"Will you stop that?!"

"Restraint, Father Friedrich! It's as I said! I know my strengths! My devotion! Her blessing is why I'm still here, is it not?"

A third weight shatters to the ground behind you. Splinters kick up at your heels, for how quickly you've sprinted to the back wall. Heat is in your face, from the exertion and devotion. You're on fire, spinning back around, looking for an opening.

There's a number of wooden rafters littering the walls. You definitely see a large number of silhouettes against the narrow slits in the wall, at the far end of the room, watching the fight with as much restraint as they can muster.

There's a number of calls in the hallway, from the walls behind you.

"Did you hear?!"
"Come around the back, I think you can see from the far wall—"
"The bastards would try to keep it to themselves!"


There's simply no way that Father Friedrich can toss the colossal training equipment from such a distance. He's charging towards you, sleeves rolled back, fists tight.

"That corpse couldn't lift a halfling!"
"I hear he's a demon in a fight—"
"My bet's on Father Friedrich—"


"It's thanks to more than just Her! You are more than the Gods, Richard!"

He closes the distance between you two with inhuman speed, leaping forward with his hand drawn back. The voices in the hallway fade, between the collective shout in the room you're occupying.

You dodge not a second too late. The wooden beam at your back splinters under Father Friedrich's fist. The impact rains fragments of wood along the back of your sweat-soaked shirt.

You stand back upright as fast as you can, weaving in between another barrage of blows. Your endurance is also inhuman, for everything you've suffered. It shows, in the self-deprecation lacing your voice.

"Am I not worse than a demon? I— I'm nothing without them—"

"That's a load of shit, and you know it! Third lesson: know your weaknesses!"

You see an opening. A strike to your face. You're more than an expert at recognizing them. Father Friedrich appears to have left the upper half of his right side just open enough to get in a blow. Maybe a few, if you're lucky.

(Options in next post)
>>
>>4032273
>A] Strike with a single punch. Keep it clean. This is more of a show of your combative prowess and speed, not brute strength.

>B] Get in a few blows, and back off. You want him to feel something, after the hit he landed on you earlier. Don't get too greedy, but make him remember the fight.

>C] Tackle him. There's an audience, and you have a lot to prove.

>D] Write-in.
>>
>>4032276
>D] Write-in.
Run away again
>>
>>4032276

Use the entire weight and force of our Flesh to hit him in his liver, then back off and start running again. The hit is going to make it harder for him to recover and we can spot more openings then
>>
>>4032280

We can't run again straight away, we need something to give us the Time to put some distance between us
>>
>>4032282
Yes
>>
>>4032280
>>4032281
>>4032282
>>4032285
(OK

Just kidding. This is essentially not conflicting at all so we're going to run with it. Vote is locked, writing now.)
>>
>>4032288
https://youtu.be/eCR2FuoSZYg

With all the speed and force you can muster, you swing. From the base of your turned heel, through every tightened muscle in your wiry frame, you pivot and strike straight into Father Friedrich's side.

It's as if you punched solid stone. Where there should be a little give, a tender organ, you're greeted with a current of intense pain through your knuckles, up your wrist, into your arm and shoulder.

You draw back as quickly as you're able, stunned beyond all belief. You want to swear, or thank all of the Gods. It's perfect.

Father Friedrich whip his head towards you, his beard bristling, and fire in his eyes. He's utterly unphased.

You remember yourself, and turn again.

You run.

"What's the matter, Father Anscham?!"

"M-Mercy, there is no way I am facing you down like this, Father Friedrich—!"

You sprint, pushing yourself as hard as you can. Curving away from the splinters adorning the floor of the room, you glance back with abject horror. There's no relief in sight, for all that you're feeling.

Father Friedrich is not trying to catch up.

He's grabbing a number of the large, wooden pieces of shrapnel up, up off of the floor.

"Let's see you enjoy this!"

"You're insane!"

He's laughing, as he starts to hurl the objects through the air as if they were javelins.

"You're learning!"

You have to duck, to miss the first object as it soars just overhead. There's a cry from the openings at the far wall, from the priests spectating. The wood shatters against the stone, though none cut through the narrow windows.

They land just as two more items head your way. There's no time for distractions. Your very life seems to be in danger.

The sprint becomes a slide, a roll, and a very disheveled collapse back under the platforms at the far end of the room. You call out, your breath ragged, your lungs on fire.

"What? No more lessons?"

"One more for today, Father Anscham!"

There is a crash, directly overhead, as Father Friedrich punches straight through the wooden platform you're under. Your hands go straight over your head, instinctively, at the explosive sound. Fragments of the structure give way to a roar, an a fist breaking through once again.

"KNOW YOUR LIMITS!"

There's an absurd commotion, as the Father of Flesh tears up a huge plank of wood, and tosses it aside. The light of day filters in above you, and you move to sprint back again, to buy yourself another opening.

Father Friedrich drops down, into the makeshift arena he's created within the underside of the platform. You both have to crouch, and it's not doing you any favors. Your height is counting for nothing in such a small space, and your light weight has absolutely no hold over such a broader frame opposite of you.

Blocking the exit.

There's the opening overhead, splintered and dangerous.

"You can't keep this up forever! FIGHT ME! Haven't you ran from enough?!"

(Options in next post)
>>
>>4032322
(Choose one option from BOTH A and B.)

>A] Commenting on your absence from the Church of Mercy is a low blow. It may also be a blessing in disguise, for how many people are listening.
>1] Point out that leaving the Church of Mercy brought you here, and how many lives you've saved in less than a day.
>2] Remind Father Friedrich that your work in the ruins granted you Mercy's blessing. You've never had a greater connection to your Church.
>3] Don't acknowledge the comment verbally. You have more than enough to handle with Flesh right now.
>4] Write-in.

>B] He has a point. You can't keep this up forever.
>1] You can still try! Try to slip past Father Friedrich. Go for the opening overhead.
>2] No time like the present to commit. Lunge at Father Friedrich while you're talking, and catch him while his guard is down.
>3] Your reputation is tarnished enough. See if you can do something about it. Take the Father of Flesh head-on.
>4] Write-in.
>>
>>4032325
>>A] Commenting on your absence from the Church of Mercy is a low blow. It may also be a blessing in disguise, for how many people are listening.
>1] Point out that leaving the Church of Mercy brought you here, and how many lives you've saved in less than a day.

>B] He has a point. You can't keep this up forever.
>2] No time like the present to commit. Lunge at Father Friedrich while you're talking, and catch him while his guard is down.

Fucking bullshit steel man shit. We fucking lost lads, we can't win.
>>
>>4032331
+1
>>
>>4032331
>>4032338
(It's not over yet lads, locking the vote here though. Writing now!)
>>
>>4032344
"I may have run, Father Friedrich— but my absence took me to where I was needed most!"

The statement actually seems to catch the man across from you off-guard. He pauses. You see clearly that he is far from out of breath, and that his physical endurance greatly out-classes your own.

It pales in comparison to the feats you've recently accomplished. "I ran to your home, on the brink of destruction! Leaving the Church of Mercy took me to your doorstep, and how many lives have I saved in the process? In less than a day—!"

Cutting yourself off, you lunge in the small space, using as much momentum as you possibly can. You go for the man's lower body. Praying that hitting a joint and sweeping his knees will help, you use all of your forward momentum to compromise his poor posture.

"What in the name of—?!"

The two of you seem suspended in the air for a singular moment, for all of the force you collide into the Father of Flesh with. His cry persists above you both, as you twist, using your lithe frame to gain better traction.

With a devastating crash, you both fall to the floor. Father Friedrich is unbelievably capable of controlling himself, rolling smoothly on an outstretched arm to absorb the brunt of the impact.

He stays beneath you, his other arm pinned for only a second. You twist again, digging an elbow down deep into the softest purchase you can find on the outstretched limb.

The priest grits his teeth, frustrated and fighting. "You won't quit, will you?!"

"You're made of something worse than steel, Father." Your skin, bone and wasted muscle is resting poorly against a man that feels like he's carved out of marble. "I know this is a fight I can't win—"

There's a twist, as Father Friedrich moves to wrest his arms out from under you. He's actually having to use some leverage, and you know you need to press your advantage.

>A] A single body shot didn't do much, but maybe a second one will. Or a third. This may be the leader of the Church of Flesh, but he's still only human.
>1] A single shot will suffice. You're having a hard enough time keeping yourself together after the last blow.
>2] Reprimands be damned, you're winning this fight. Lay into the same spot, and hit him as hard as you can, as many times as you can.

>B] Roll aside, and try to get back on your feet. For all of the bar fights you've been in, you're terrible in a brawl, and need to work to your strengths. Climb up and out, to regain some open ground.

>C] No amount of muscle can count against your endurance and tolerance for pain.
>1] Pin down Father Friedrich with the best hold you can muster. Focus on his arms.
>2] Take the risk, and use your legs as well.
>3] Fight dirty. Go for the neck, while you're at it.

>D] Write-in.
>>
>>4032373
>C
>2
>>
>>4032373
>>B] Roll aside, and try to get back on your feet. For all of the bar fights you've been in, you're terrible in a brawl, and need to work to your strengths. Climb up and out, to regain some open ground.

We can't compete with him like this, we need to know our limits and play to our strengths.
>>
>>4032375
Remember that a full force punch didn't do anything to him, we can't win a strength off with this man, right now he has us exactly where he wants us. Let's get out of his trap and plan our next move
>>
>>4032379
how about we trick him into thinking we are going for a leg lock on his arms just to pivot past him and break into a sprint away?
>>
>>4032385

Smart, if QM allows it ill second this plan
>>
>>4032375
>>4032376
>>4032379
>>4032385
>>4032386
(Based as fuck, let's do it. Vote is locked, writing now.)
>>
>>4032387
Planting your feet as carefully as you can, you make every effort to telegraph a pin. You tense your arms, trying to indicate that you're moving to get better purchase on the hold.

Father Friedrich takes the bait entirely. He wrenches his arms as hard away from your grasp as humanly possible. "You have got to be kidding me—!"

In the same instant, kicking off from the stone and splinters, you break away from the priest. He lets out a shout, but you're already off of him, running.

A few feet behind the opening, you lunge, and jump with every ounce of strength left in your weary legs.

The edge of the platform is fractured, with extremely rough edges protruding in every which way. You don't waste a second, pulling yourself out, your wasted upper body searing with the exertion as you triumphantly reemerge into the light.

There's a figure, moving with freakish speed back onto his feet beneath you. "I SWEAR, ON ALL OF THE GODS, IF YOU RUN ONE MORE FUCKING TIME—"

The grin plastering your face must be unmistakable. You pay no heed as a huge splinter of wood that shreds the side of your linen shirt. You scarcely let a hiss escape you, for the slight cut that it leaves on the skin beneath.

You run, laughing like a madman, as you leap off of the platform ahead and land effortlessly on your feet.

Putting a great deal of distance between yourself and the pursuit you strongly suspect is behind you, you glance around. There's a disaster strewn across the room, of destroyed training material, absolutely no blood, and a few priests shamelessly leering in from the singular door to the room. At least two dozen more are watching from the slits in the windows.

No fewer than ten of them cheer as you make it evident you emerged from the death trap unscathed. The majority of the crowd manages to groan, to jeer, and to complain. They're making no effort to conceal themselves now.

"I told you he fights like a demon—!"
"Barely even looks out of breath!"
"Just you wait until Father Friedrich gets out—"
"Sure, if he can catch him!"

Father Friedrich doesn't seem to be anything like you, as he literally bursts out from under the arena. A fist punches clean through the shrapnel. He rises, back onto the platform, looking down to you.

There's the faintest traces of exhaustion written across his face.

A massive gasp rises from a number of the priests on the outskirts of the training hall. Their Father beams, and bellows to every single figure in the room.

"Father Anscham seems to have taught us all a valuable lesson!"

There's a massive groan, from every single priest around you all. Several deflate so thoroughly that you suspect something is wrong.

As he walks briskly towards you, your nerves are all aflame, ready to run at a second's notice.

(1/2)
>>
>>4032408
Father Friedrich sweeps up a particularly large plank of wood off of the floor. You flinch, but he hurls it towards the door of the arena. There's a shriek from a priestess, who has to dodge out of the way without a second to spare. Three other priests behind her quickly shout in tandem, dodging the attack as well.

"Not every fight can be won through brute force alone, can they?!"

There's a chorus of, "no sir," and "that's a load of shit if I've ever heard it," alongside many chimes of "yes, Father Friedrich."

In the choir, you catch something spectacular. "Yes, Father Anscham," is briefly muttered by a handful of the onlookers as well.

In a much lower voice, Father Friedrich murmurs to you. "I don't particularly care to beat you half to death in front of my clergy."

He raises his voice, calling out to every man and woman staring at you both. "IT SEEMS THEY ALL HAVE FORGOTTEN TO ATTEND TO THEIR OTHER DUTIES!"

Several rapid footsteps can be heard, scattering, as several of the churchgoers at the windows flee.

The yell drops back down to practically a whisper. "Mind doing me a favor?"

"P-please elaborate." You're out of breath, your hand is on fire, and you're still struggling to stay decent. On only a few hours of sleep, you at least feel like you've burned off breakfast, but it's increasingly difficult to stay on your feet.

"Go get yourself cleaned up, and take it easy for the rest of the afternoon. We'll resume our lessons this evening. There's more to worshiping Flesh than brute force. I appreciate you giving me the opportunity to demonstrate it, but we still have a lot of work to do. Don't we?"

>A] Insist that you both make a public display of finishing the fight. (Write-in how you intend to wear out or beat down the Father of Flesh.)

>B] Graciously accept Father Friedrich's acknowledgement of your combative skill.
>1] Insist that you continue the rest of the lesson in private. The rest of your business can wait.
>2] Ask what he meant earlier about you traveling in Beorward under supervision. There are quite a few things you still need to do in the city today.
>3] You're sincerely enjoying all of the praise. Save your questions for later, take the advice, and enjoy the rest of the morning in the Church of Flesh.

>C] Write-in.
>>
>>4032412
>C)
Run away one last time
>>
>>4032412
B2
>>
>>4032412
>B2

Isn't our masochism caused by excessive invocation? Can we stop? If so, can we also stop being allergic to food?
>>
>>4032416
>>4032432
>>4032444
(Locking the vote here while the vote is tied.

The masochism was caused by invoking Flesh and Mercy simultaneously, during your venture into the ruins. It's mentioned in the journal listed in the OP, and covered in detail in earlier threads, but it is something that no one has really questioned up until now. You DEFINITELY could explore how to stop it.

The invocation you made to Agriculture is another beast entirely, but also something literally no one has questioned until very recently. Really good questions that I'll try addressing in the next post.)
>>
>>4032449
(While the vote is not tied*)
>>
>>4032449
>>4032450
Looking to the lingering priests around the periphery of the room, you still have a strong instinct to turn and run.

Father Friedrich has been staying his hand because he doesn't want to make a scene. I'm sure of it. He knows that there's something wrong with me. It was easy enough to ignore when I had no one but demons, elves and halflings to answer to. Easy enough to dismiss. To be tolerated.

Even Idonea was disgusted by me, wasn't she? When she saw what's been done to me?


The urge to run is replaced with an overwhelming need to be better. To live up to a mentor's teachings.

I made it home. I am not beset by demons. I am not wandering in the darkness. There is no need to look for death. Not here. Not ever again.

I need to get my head set straight. None of this... is right.


There's a fire in your jaw, a bruise that's been blossoming for the better portion of an hour. There's something exquisite, flowering through your knuckles, up your arm, and into your shoulder. Your lungs are burning, and your muscles are on fire. You're burning, with devotion and more abuse than a man should be able to take.

Mercy, it feels right.

It's agonizing. A blessing.

You healed yourself from the brink of death, and saved the lives of two women thanks to the invocation. You endured an assault that should have killed you four times over. The wounds left in you, a rain of broken glass, of blades and of agony, have never fully healed.

You can't help but wonder what could heal them now.

There has to be a way to stop this.

You're still breathing hard, and your pulse isn't calming down. The thought of further scrutiny is driving you mad.

"Th-thank you, Father Friedrich. I appreciate the gesture. Truly. I do have a great deal of work to do. I— I have to wonder—"

At your candid speech, soft-spoken as you usually are, the priests on the outskirts of the room seem to have gotten the message. As they're clearing out, grumbling at the abrupt end to the fight, you lower your voice, desperate for a little more privacy. "What exactly did you mean, when you spoke of me being supervised? I have a great deal of business in the city to attend to."

An apologetic smile bristles through Father Friedrich's beard. "I hate to say it, but I'm not comfortable with you going off alone. Fuck. Richard. Please don't give me that face—"

You probably look like someone's killed Ray, for how miserable you feel.

"It's nothing like that," Father Friedrich continues. "The King's men have been looking for you. The Church of Mercy has been asking for news of your whereabouts for months. There is going to be a lot of talk about your return. A lot of people are very interested in finding you. Do you understand me?"

(1/2)
>>
>>4032505
I'm going to be dragged back to the Church of Mercy if Brother Morris and Brother Stace can help it. My absence needs to be answered for. Will be answered for. The King will want to know of My Relic. My entire expedition into the ruins is a mystery, to everyone but Father Wilhelm and now Father Friedrich. There's a war on our borders. I may have exacerbated it.

There's so much worry plaguing your thoughts. Through your ragged breath and no small measure of restraint, you only murmur, "yes. It will be like— as if I never left home."

The distance between the two of you closes fully, as Father Friedrich walks beside you. You flinch, hard, as he puts a hand to your shoulder.

"It's alright. I don't think I need to know what you've been through, Richard, but you can try to relax. Cyril's a good lad. If he can't get you to loosen up—"

You want to groan. The thought of the stupid blonde ponytail teasing you again seems insufferable. You're so tense, trying to not make a sound, that you merely listen.

"—I don't know what else will."

Deep breath.

Restraint.

Show myself compassion.


"Father Friedrich. Please. There must be some other way. I need to see to the farmland. I have research to conduct. Father Wilhelm and I likely need to address a few matters as well—"

"Atticus."

"What?"

"His name. It's strange, to hear you addressing him so formally. You're not giving a sermon. We're all a family, aren't we?"

"I— I suppose so."

"Richard."

"Yes, Father Friedrich—"

"It's Galterius."

"Pardon?"

"Did I stutter?"

"N-no, sir."

"Galterius."

"You are— this is improper."

"You can't tell me it doesn't help."

"Nothing seems to be helping, Father Friedrich." The habit is hard to break.

"You can't tell me you don't feel a little better? After fighting it out."

"I—"

"Richard."

"Yes?"

"Don't lie to me."

>A] You do feel a little better. You could use more fights without life or death stakes. Sparring in a healthy way might be what you need to get your head in a better place.

>B] It's hard to say. Toeing the line with your mental issues for any period is too taxing to be of much benefit. Ask Father Friedrich if he has any suggestions on a way for you to spar that doesn't have to risk setting you off.

>C] You really don't feel any better. You want to fight for stakes, for blood, for conclusive victories and all the pain you can handle. Ask for a REAL fight the next time Father Friedrich wants to teach you a lesson.

>D] You spent the dawn ruminating over the end of humanity, the morning stuffing yourself, the rest of the meal grieving over a lost mentor, and the better part of your training trying not to be indecent. You have so many issues to deal with, you don't even know where to start.

>E] Write-in.
>>
>>4032510
>A] You do feel a little better. You could use more fights without life or death stakes. Sparring in a healthy way might be what you need to get your head in a better place.

It allowed us to get some of the stress out in a way that was healthy - of course it helped a little bit, me thinks.
>>
>>4032522
+1
>>
>>4032510
>>A] You do feel a little better. You could use more fights without life or death stakes. Sparring in a healthy way might be what you need to get your head in a better place
>>
>>4032510
>>A] You do feel a little better. You could use more fights without life or death stakes. Sparring in a healthy way might be what you need to get your head in a better place.

It's more fun without the threat of death.
>>
>>4032522
>>4032525
>>4032526
>>4032538
(Awesome, totally unanimous! Let's lock the vote here, writing now.)
>>
>>4032543
"I am not lying to you. You know I never would."

"Good."

"I do feel better, after getting a little stress out. Not having to fight for my life for once— without any threats..."

You're nearly drawn back, into another reverie, but you're snapped out of it abruptly.

"Feels great, doesn't it?"

There's still a fire burning in your limbs, and your heart is only just beginning to calm down.

"Of course it does. I think it helped. It— it is helping. Thank you, again."

"Look. I know this is the last thing you want to hear right now," Father Galterius Friedrich helps push your shoulder along.

Leading you back towards the door out of the arena, he murmurs, "but I think the company will do you some good. Some healthy, human company. Listen to Cyril. He's got a good head on his shoulders. Let me know if he steps out of line. Don't be afraid to put your foot down if he does, too."

At the door, back out to the halls of the church, the hand comes off of your shoulder. In a significantly louder voice, a smile is directed back to you. "You're still the Father of the Church of Mercy."

Your flash back a smile that could not be any more genuine. "Thank you, Fathe—"

There's a pause, while you debate correcting yourself.

"Forget it. Call me whatever makes you comfortable."

"Father Friedrich." You almost want to breathe a sigh of relief, for having one less thing to worry about. "I will— rather, would you prefer to find me, for anything further? This evening...?"

"I'll send for you. If you aren't back for whatever reason, meet me in the training hall again tomorrow morning. Don't forget to eat. Atticus gave you my letters?"

"All three of them."

"He's got his head up in the damn clouds, wasting my time like that. Not enough cigars in the world to make up for so much bullshit. Should have taken you straight here. Just look at you. It's a disgrace."

He's smiling, still, but your frown is back in full force.

"I've been following your routine to the letter, Father Friedrich."

"It was meant for a soldier! A man of the Gods! I know you're more than fit for the name, but there's hardly anything to you. You're going to need a lot more work."

"...I have no idea what to say, Father. I have been doing everything I can, for weeks."

"And how much longer have you been neglecting yourself for?"

"There was a famine, Father Friedrich."

"It ended. Three years ago. We'll fix you right up, Richard. Don't you worry about a thing. Don't bother with only the mess hall, either, alright? You need all the help you can get. I'll come up with something a lot easier to stomach. You aren't going to suffer under this roof." The hand goes back to your shoulder, squeezing very slightly. "You like books, don't you? Do you read me?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good. Go enjoy the rest of your morning. Tell Atticus to get himself a new hat for me. If you see him. His old one is disgusting. Alright?"

(1/2)
>>
>>4032573
This is an extremely bizarre request. "I can't make any promises I don't intend to keep, Father."

"Fair." The subject is changed instantly, as you're walked back down the hall. "Is the servant's room too shoddy for you? Now that everyone knows you're here, we should make the most of it."

"A room with a window would be—" you try to quell your intense desire to be somewhere more spacious, out of the dark, away from the stone. "Appreciated."

"Done. Anything else?"

"You know I love to read, Father. I would enjoy penning one myself, but a copy of the training regimen you intend to share with me— for reference—"

"We'll go over it, and the tenets of Flesh, just as soon as we meet again. Promise. Anything else? Anything at all. I'm not going to call you a glutton again. We need to make sure you're looked after."

>A] As embarrassing as it is, you need some coin if you're going to go out into the city today. There's no use offering the coffers of the Church of Mercy when you've been absent for months.

>B] Some clothes that aren't covered in sweat or torn from fighting. Now might be a good time to discuss any items you need for Ray, as well. (Write-in any preferences you might have for color, fit, etc.)

>C] Specify the kind of room.
>1] A private suite, anywhere you can get it. You REALLY need some time to yourself.
>2] A quiet room in the exterior ward. Tending to the sick and dying is your primary duty as the Father of Mercy, and your skill may be sorely needed here.
>3] A shared room in the interior ward, maybe with Cyril. You have never had the opportunity to get to know your fellow clergymen.

>D] Write-in.
>>
>>4032575
>B] Some clothes that aren't covered in sweat or torn from fighting. Now might be a good time to discuss any items you need for Ray, as well. (Write-in any preferences you might have for color, fit, etc.)
A backpack/carry saddle for Ray
>>
>>4032578
Supporting. Along with some well fitting clothes, ofc.
>>
>>4032575
>>B] Some clothes that aren't covered in sweat or torn from fighting. Now might be a good time to discuss any items you need for Ray, as well. (Write-in any preferences you might have for color, fit, etc.)

POOCH POUCH FUCK YEAH

>C] Specify the kind of room.
>2] A quiet room in the exterior ward. Tending to the sick and dying is your primary duty as the Father of Mercy, and your skill may be sorely needed here.

We still need to do our duty as the Father of the church of Mercy
>>
>>4032578
>>4032624
>>4032625
{Awesome, locking the vote here and writing!)
>>
>>4032644
You're a man of very few needs. It's ironic, how little you care for material things. You can literally produce gold, but it feels as if even a few humble requests are overstepping your boundaries. "If it is not— I don't want to ask for too much—"

"Don't be ridiculous. Go on."

"A room in the exterior ward would be preferable."

"Are you sure? You won't get nearly as much rest."

"I have my own tenets to uphold, Father Friedrich. I cannot turn a blind eye or a deaf ear to those that need Our aid."

The hand on your shoulder squeezes a lot more firmly. "Good. Glad to hear it. I've got something good in mind, with a nice big window. Anything else?"

"A change of clothes. Anything that fits well would be fine. I know my size is a bit difficult—"

"The robes were fine?"

"Yes."

"More robes, then. I'll get you a new shirt or two while we're at it."

"One last thing, Father."

"Sure."

"It is— I know you would prefer for me to keep my journal under watch, or even have it destroyed, but I— it already has a guardian."

"What the fuck are you talking about, Richard?"

"Do you think there might be a way for us to make a harness, or a carrier, for Ray?"

"...the dog?"

"He has a name."

"Ray."

"Yes."

"You want a harness, for your journal, for your dog."

"Yes."

"You're insane."

"If it is too much to ask for—"

"No, it— I just can't fathom a seamstress working with the beast, is all. It's more than a little unusual. Would it even be safe?"

"The journal? Of course it would be—"

"The dog."

"Do not insult him. I trained him myself. He would never harm anyone unless he was explicitly commanded to, or my life was in danger." You murmur, genuinely hurt. "He is a very good dog."

"Richard. I never meant any offense. I'll see what I can do."

You're gradually being led away from the main halls, out of the interior wards, and back towards the unbelievably quiet exterior passages of the Church of Flesh.

It smells vaguely of herbs, and blood. The smell is so familiar, you almost feel back at home. Brought before a very spacious set of double doors, Father Friedrich finally takes his hand off of your shoulder. He has to use both palms, even with his immense strength, to open the chamber.

"Won't have anyone disturbing you back here."

Your jaw nearly drops. The room is resting above the edge of the keep, with a view over the Morinburn river. A series of retaining walls, crumbling, likely have been repaired hundreds of times to afford such an exquisite position.

A spacious mattress and bed frame are set off to the side. Crimson curtains and sheets, a thick fur rug, and a number of wooden chests adorn the rest of the space. There is a small hearth and a wash basin, both devoid of flame or flood. A stack of firewood and a number of empty buckets promise further hospitality, but for the most part, the room has no unusual commodities.

(1/3)
>>
>>4032804
Something catches your eye, that makes all of the green and gold reflect the light of morning.

A small chest, atop one of the tables, is beside stacks of clean bandages. You know there must be ample stores of medicine, your tools of worship, inside.

"There's plenty of room to move around. Get some exercise. Pray. I'll bring your things back, and have Cyril take care of the rest. Keep your journal on you until we get Ray situated."

"Yes, sir. Thank you. This, this over here," you can't help but gesture towards the herbs and linens, "would it be alright if I...?"

"Are you kidding me? Take anything you need. Call for more, if you like. Our stores won't rival the Church of Mercy's, but we do what we can. You do what you can. If you like. I know you still have business to attend to."

There's a nod, as Father Friedrich rapidly excuses himself, and leaves you to the room.

You're left alone, again. The luxury of your suite does not rival the privilege you feel to have another moment of reprieve.

You go straight to the bandages, the box of medicine. To your dismay, most of the herbs have turned, wilted, or are dried beyond use. You wonder if the Church of Agriculture or Mercy have been to these halls in months. Fortunately, the bandages are clean, there is an ample supply of water. A few of the more potent tonics bottled on the counter are even unspoiled. You make a mental inventory of everything at your disposal, and look to the rest of the room.

It's been recently swept clean. The rug on the stone floor seems to be the pelt of a bear, for its size and richness of the black fur. It contrasts pleasantly with the crimson curtains you open fully, the deep burgundy bed sheets you turn over.

You find a note placed underneath one of the pillows. It's written in blue ink, obviously from Father Wilhelm.

This is over the line. Did he Dream of me? Of my coming here? Just how much has he envisioned?

Your stomach sinks, for want of more information. It seems the parchment was intentionally kept vague, no doubt for fear of being read by the wrong hands.

"Close out your business for the Day. Look for me in the Night."

He's probably still holed up in the guard tower with Ray. At least my boy is being kept safe.

An abrupt knock is already at your door. It sounds a little strange, like someone using their shoulder rather than their hands.

"Yes?"

It's Father Friedrich's gruff voice. "Got your shit. Arms are full. Not going to beat down the door with the sick trying to sleep. Open up."

You run to the heavy wooden doors, pulling them open with moderate difficulty. Your arms and legs are searing from the morning's training exercise, but you manage. The burn is healthy, and you're delighted by what you see.

(2/3)
>>
>>4032806
A collection of items greets you before Father Friedrich's muscle does. Your shield, mace, satchel, a pile of clothes, bolts of cloth, a gigantic stack of bandages, and several unlabeled cartons are all carefully balanced.

"Do you— do you need a hand—"

"Just a table. Close the damn door."

You comply, while all of your things are laid out. Your mace and shield have been cleaned. Your satchel is fastened back together. All of your own medicine, your candles, your calligraphy supplies, Mercy's holy symbol, the gold ring, and even your journal were secured safely inside. Curious, you look over the bolts of fabric. They're all in black, obviously quite valuable, and have a fine layer of dust clinging to them. It's no doubt for Ray, matching nicely with the multiple robes in a similar hew laid out next to them. The holy vestments are quite dark, and long enough that you should be able to wear them comfortably. Some undershirts and trousers are beside them, but you're bothered.

They all seem a little too large.

An explanation produces itself immediately, as Father Friedrich has busied himself with opening all of the crates. Each one is a few feet across, and just as deep. You would marvel at how Father Friedrich brought everything to you in one trip, if you weren't so distracted by the contents.

"What is that?"

"A few gifts. They've been collecting dust, but nothing seems to be spoiled. Cheese—"

"THAT is cheese?"

"No, this is sugar. Marzipan."

"What?"

"Honey, nuts— you'll see. That is cheese, and this as well. That carton over there is only beer— good beer, mind you—"

"I am supposed to be exercising restraint, Father Friedrich."

"I've got you here for a few days, maybe a few weeks at the most. I'm not spoiling my men with this shit and it's not going to the sick. I'm working on something else for the long-term. Let me do you a few favors. Let me thank you for helping us out. You do want my help, don't you?"

"Yes, but—"

"Do you want my help?"

(Options in next post)
>>
>>4032808
>A] This is the Church of Flesh, not the halls of Mercy. Permit yourself to be spoiled while you're here. This is not a habit, and you've earned a few luxuries for everything you've endured. You know you need the help.
>1] You've never even seen half of these items. They're obviously very exotic, valuable, and being shared with you as a token of good will. Try everything.
>2] You'll comply with Father Friedrich's hospitality, but avoid indulging too much. Only take what you're offered.

>B] This doesn't sit right with you. Ask Father Friedrich if you can take all of this plenty with you to the city today, to give as much as you can. You hope this is the last time you'll be asked to do anything strange in the name of improving your body.
>1] Only have a little yourself.
>2] Don't have anything at all.

>C] This REALLY doesn't sit right with you, and you don't want to put Father Friedrich in a compromising position. Politely decline the offer, and insist on waiting for a more austere way to build yourself back up. You're willing to make slower progress.

>D] Write-in.
>>
>>4032811
>>A] This is the Church of Flesh, not the halls of Mercy. Permit yourself to be spoiled while you're here. This is not a habit, and you've earned a few luxuries for everything you've endured. You know you need the help.
>>1] You've never even seen half of these items. They're obviously very exotic, valuable, and being shared with you as a token of good will. Try everything.

Everything in moderation, including moderation.
>>
>>4032812
+1
>>
>>4032812
Supporting. Gotta work at restraint as usual!
>>
>>4032811
>A1
>>
>>4032812
+1
>>
>>4032812
>>4032819
>>4032821
>>4032823
>>4032836
(Back, awake, and ready to write! I'll be online again for most of the early morning and afternoon. Vote is locked.)
>>
>>4034496
"Well— I suppose it would be fine." The items before you— the ones you can recognize— look absolutely sublime. You pull up a chair alongside Father Friedrich, and can't help but smirk. "Everything in moderation, including moderation. Right?"

There's a hearty laugh, and a firm pat on your back. "Couldn't have said it better myself! I can't stay all day, but I'd be lying if I said I wasn't curious. Let's see..."

A small knife is produced, to start cutting off and serving you a few wedges of oddly colored cheese. Father Friedrich looks alarmed by how tough it is. The cheese itself is white, but looks to be speckled with pieces of fruit in various jeweled shades of orange.

You're both looking to each other apprehensively. It's difficult, to not worry for your mutual health. Especially given the current circumstances.

Your anxiety wins out first. "Where did this all come from?"

The military commander beside you shrugs, "mostly? King Magnus. He's killing himself, for all his work to the east. Look—" On the end of his knife, the particularly hard cheese is waved around slightly. "Allegedly a gift from Aelham, and this—"

Another box is slid over to you, filled to the brim with glistening candy. Everything looks to be covered in honey. "Straight from Spira."

Beside the wedges of cheese, a number of dried fruits are set aside. One is pitch black, cracked much like the magma you fought over yesterday afternoon. "A commodity from Barastir."

You're more baffled by what you're hearing than what's in front of you. "How have I never heard of any of this?"

A number of small cakes are being set out, each one topped with a green fruit. The cake and the fruit are all covered in spikes. "There's a lot most of us simply don't need to know about, Richard. These were from Father Barthalomew. Came from the north. Never even been myself."

You're dissatisfied with the explanation, and try poking at the fruit. The edges aren't sharp in the slightest.

A smirk is directed at you.

You frown. "Don't."

He can't resist. "You would."

Just to spite Father Friedrich, you leave the strange spiked cake, and try one of the wedges of hard cheese instead. You're trying to not show how much you're enjoying yourself, for how much heat is in the item. It reminds you of cracked pepper, without any of the texture.

Wanting for a drink, you already have a flagon of a malt brown beer poured in front of you. You raise your glass, to Father Friedrich. A little melancholy laces your voice. "Thank you."

"You sure you're feeling better?"

"Substantially. I— just— I was thinking of an old mentor."

"To them, then."

"To her. To Mother Bethaea— and to Agriculture."

There's a pause.

"May they both be praised."

(1/2)
>>
>>4034536
Your respective glasses are knocked back. Thick foam laces through rich caramels, and threads of honey. Despite how rich the brew is, it's terribly easy to drink. Not a single note of bitterness or astringency hits you, even though you're certain it was brewed with some sort of whiskey. You finish the entire beer before even setting it back down.

Something occurs to you, as your glass is being refilled with an entirely different, light yellow beverage.

Wide-eyed, you try one of the boxes of honey cakes. The pastries are crispy, sweeter than anything you've ever had in Corcaea. They're adorned with little swirls of sugar in the shape of bees, something you rarely see at home.

The thought persists.

The little spiked cakes, with their strange fruit, are decidedly perfect. The texture is spongy, throughout the tart topping and equally sour interior. There's a filling inside, of jellied counterparts to the fruit on top. It's so sour you go straight for the other beer. You're greeted with another phenomenal blend, something new. It's like freshly picked apples, light and bubbly.

You absolutely can't believe it.

"Father Friedrich."

"Eh?"

"You said none of these items were from Corcaea?"

"Not that I'm aware of. Nothing tastes off, does it? I had everything checked—"

"No. No, it's phenomenal." You pick at one of the samples of dried fruit, from Barastir. The black exterior shatters.

Both you and the veteran at your side jump.

There's a soft, bright yellow center to the fruit. It's smoking. Father Friedrich skewers his knife through it, without hesitation.

He chuckles, lifting the item clean out of the black fragments on the table. Nothing happens, and the smoking stops promptly. He takes a bite. It looks incredibly chewy, but he seems to be enjoying himself thoroughly.

The knife is handed to you, which you accept, too curious to refuse. The texture is unbelievably strange. The chewy, soft flesh of the fruit is sweet and sour. You're reminded of lemon and strawberries, but it's much more tart. Handing the knife back, you're certain.

None of this food or drink is causing me any pain.

(Options in next post.)
>>
>>4034538
>A] Share this information with Father Friedrich, and ask him if he can help you acquire any more imported goods. You are desperate for some relief from your near constant pain.

>B] This won't last forever. Ask Father Friedrich for his thoughts on the Church of Agriculture, after letting him know about your findings. Maybe he can help you with this in some other way.

>C] Keep this information to yourself. Figure out which of these items is most preserved, and take it with you to the Church of Agriculture at the first opportunity. You have some research to conduct with them, and this will come first.

>D] You are absolutely fine with living with the consequences of your prayer to Agriculture. More importantly, you simply want to enjoy your time here in the Church of Flesh. Keep your realization to yourself, and simply keep note of this for future reference.

>E] Write-in.
>>
>>4034538
>A] Share this information with Father Friedrich, and ask him if he can help you acquire any more imported goods. You are desperate for some relief from your near constant pain.
>>
>>4034539
>>A] Share this information with Father Friedrich, and ask him if he can help you acquire any more imported goods. You are desperate for some relief from your near constant pain.
>>
>>4034544
>>4034583
(Locking the vote, here, writing now!)
>>
>>4034539
>A

Honestly if eating felt like swallowing shards of glass I wouldn't last a month let alone 3 years
>>
>>4034590
(Oh shit senpai, missed you. I'll keep this in with the other votes.)
>>
>>4034588
There's definitely desperation lacing your voice, as you look earnestly to Father Friedrich. "There is no pain."

"What?"

"None of this is causing me any pain. It is— this is unbelievable."

An incredibly worried look is turning down Father Friedrich's beard. "You're not alright. I'll go fetch for someone—"

You put a hand to his shoulder. "No. That is precisely it, Father Friedrich. I am alright. This is— listen. Mother Bethaea did not end the famine. I did. I have been living with the consequences. It— how do I put this...?"

An incredibly disturbed look is being directed towards you. "I know you're no liar, Richard."

"I know it is difficult to believe."

"What the fuck are you getting at?"

"Prayer is— it is difficult for me, Father. The Gods see fit to bless me. All of them."

"I know." There's a current of something ugly, maybe jealousy, lacing the clipped reply.

"It is— I would never wish to sound ungrateful—"

"I seriously don't have all day, Richard. Spit it out."

"It hurts me, Father Friedrich. To invoke them. Every time. Some worse than others. She— Agriculture—"

Deep breath. It is actually, finally going to be alright.

"Eating is like swallowing broken glass."

"What?"

"Drinking is a lot more tolerable— but it hurts, Father Friedrich. It has for a very long time. The invocation. For saving the land. For lifting a curse. For my prayer—"

"You're shitting me."

"I am not a liar."

"I can't imagine anyone going through this. I—" The priest actually has to have more beer, and to take a full minute to sort his thoughts out. "Let's take this one thing at a time. How long has it been?"

"Three years, Father Friedrich."

"Mercy—"

"Don't take Her name in vain in front of me."

"Sorry."

"You said it yourself, didn't you? Three years." For once, you aren't frowning. "This is a miracle. Truly. Some relief. Is there any conceivable way you could help me with this—"

Father Friedrich is already moving to stand, running a hand through his beard, thinking hard. "Absolutely. Of course. This explains a lot. Shit. All you had to do was ask, Richard."

The priest, the Father of Flesh, kneels back down beside you. He's obviously distressed. His brow is knitted with concern. "Why haven't you come here sooner? To anyone?"

"I— I had no idea. I thought— this seemed like something I would have to live with. I have had... many other concerns, Father Friedrich. A lot has happened." The urgency that seems to be wired through the church leader beside you is unmistakable. "I am certain that you understand, better than anyone, how it feels. We have more to deal with than anyone. It— it is terribly easy to forget to care— for— for myself. You understand, don't you?"

(1/2)
>>
>>4034639
A hand goes to your shoulder, squeezing gently. "I'll remind you as often as you need to hear it. It's going to be alright." He stands, and lets you go. "Don't bother at all with anything in the mess hall. I don't want you suffering under my fucking watch, you got me?"

"Yes, sir." Your voice drops completely to a murmur. "Thank you."

"We'll find something you can handle. This is a start! Don't make yourself sick, but have as much as you can stand, alright? We're getting you back in shape if it kills me." He's already nearly out the door, and drops his voice as soon as it's open. "I'll tell Cyril not to touch any of your shit. He'll be by soon, alright?"

You're too relieved to really care. "Of course. Yes. Thank you, Father Friedrich, again."

"You're welcome. I'll see you."

The door closes firmly behind the Father of Flesh. There's easily enough food beside you to last a week. The sun is still low on the horizon, as the last of morning whiles away.

It feels like Agriculture and Time themselves have blessed you, without asking for anything in return.

>A] Leave a note on the door for Cyril telling him, as politely as possible, to leave you alone.
>1] You're binging on the pain-free stockpile of food and drink that's been left for you. Maybe writing in your journal. Definitely getting some more Time to yourself. Everything else can wait.
>2] Go see to the sick ward. Daylight is wasting, but you don't want anyone else to go without care if you can help it. The farmland will absolutely still be there this afternoon, and the food isn't going anywhere.
>3] Try to sneak out, before Cyril notices you. Caution be damned, you are not going to have any chains on you if you can help it. (Write-in how, and where you'd like to go.)

>B] Accept that you're going to have to deal with the abrasive blonde.
>1] Go to the farmland on the exterior of Beorward, and attend to your original plan. It's a long walk there, but you're all business.
>2] As a measure of good-will, see if Cyril will show you around the city first. You can get to know him better while getting some fresh air.
>3] Invite Cyril to your room, and try to talk to the priest before going out. Father Friedrich's caution is absolutely cause for concern, and you'd like to know what the man thinks of this arrangement.

>C] Write-in.
>>
>>4034641
>A] Leave a note on the door for Cyril telling him, as politely as possible, to leave you alone.
>1] You're binging on the pain-free stockpile of food and drink that's been left for you. Maybe writing in your journal. Definitely getting some more Time to yourself. Everything else can wait.
Eat big to get big: painless edition
>>
>>4034641
>B] Accept that you're going to have to deal with the abrasive blonde.
>3] Invite Cyril to your room, and try to talk to the priest before going out. Father Friedrich's caution is absolutely cause for concern, and you'd like to know what the man thinks of this arrangement.

Might as well get to know him - if we ignore him, Friedrich might get upset, since it's his call on having him around. Also this way we can indulge in the tasty snacks...with restraint.
>>
>>4034641
>>B] Accept that you're going to have to deal with the abrasive blonde.
>2] Go see to the sick ward. Daylight is wasting, but you don't want anyone else to go without care if you can help it. The farmland will absolutely still be there this afternoon, and the food isn't going anywhere.

Let's show him that we can break and also put him back together if he steps out of line.
>>
>>4034650
>>4034652
>>4034653
(Three-way tie? Guess it's time to call the vote. Locking here, writing now!)
>>
>>4034658
You find a number of items in one of the cartons wrapped in paper. It appears to be an exotic meat, dried and carefully packaged. After tearing off a piece of the paper, you decide to work through the entire piece. It's tender, smokey, and nowhere near as rich as the rest of the food you've had with Father Friedrich. You're delighted, and more than happy to use it to offset the large volume of sweets and other desserts you're determined to consume before any other work gets done today.

What good is my ability if I can't even heal myself?

Your pens are right beside you. Though the tremor in your hand is usually visible, you've practiced for years to produce steady lines. Each one clearly spells out, "Please do not disturb."

Tacking the note to the front of the door, you slip back inside, flip open your journal, and start taking literal inventory of your things once again. Frowning slightly at the pages adjacent, of prayer and of pain, you try to not think for too long on anything other than the items at hand.

There's a little bee on the side of the candy next to you.

You try to not frown too hard at it, eating the entire piece. It's full of jellied raspberries and is absolutely delicious.

The work is simple enough. Confirming beyond all doubt that no one tampered with your inventory, you're certain that the healing supplies now at your disposal are fit for use as well. There isn't nearly enough room on your current sheet of parchment for the full list, so you set to penning a new one. Working down the lines of herbs, tonics, tools and bandages is a little tedious. You don't mind. Writing with your ornate script is almost as cathartic as being able to eat without any pain.

Picking at more of the dried meat seems almost like a waste, so you turn to the rest of the assorted goods that have been gifted to you. Rather than open anything new, you set to the box of the honeyed candies and pastries from Spira. The marzipan cake seems to have a number of nuts blended into the mixture, but it's sweet enough to almost hurt your teeth. There's an odd, dark, and bitter substance coating a package of honeycomb that contrasts well with it.

You've finished your ornate script, the rest of the medical inventory, and a small bag of candied nougat by the time you hear a knock at the door.

The journal is quickly and immediately closed, shoved in your satchel, and put back on your person. "Yes?"

"Father Anscham?"

"...Cyril?"

"Yeah."

You get up, immediately regret how much you've eaten, and call out, "just a minute."

Fishing for the new robes, larger shirts and trousers, you quickly change into an entirely black set of holy vestments. There's no more pull at your shirt, and you feel entirely more presentable as you go to open the doors to your room.

(1/3)
>>
>>4034808
A very long and thin ponytail is facing you. Cyril has his back to the door, looking around the hallway as if he's about to be in trouble. He spins around to see you, and gives you an unbelievably smug smile. "Father Anscham. Kept the hair?"

"That is not how this works, Brother...?"

"Trebbeck. Just Cyril is fine."

"Brother Trebbeck—"

Mercy, that is awful.

"Cyril. Cyril, please get out of the hallway."

"What's wrong with—"

"Keep your voice down. There are patients attempting to rest. I will not keep you for long," you gesture, starting to struggle with the weight of the door, "if you could give me a hand—"

Effortlessly, the priest of Flesh sticks a hand out, pushes the door aside, and comes into the room without further prompting. He does, at least, show enough respect for his fellow citizens to wait until the door is closed to be more of a nuisance.

As soon as the door is shut, you whip your gold-laced hair around to glare at the priest who is whistling and leering at your things. You walk briskly over to him. "Cyril."

"Yeah?"

"Father Friedrich has told me very little about you."

"Good!"

"I am— I am concerned about our arrangement."

"Should I be?"

You're so taken aback you can't reply for a solid moment.

"Is this beer...?"

Your frown absolutely stops the blonde's hands in his tracks. "Yes." You pick up the glass, and make a point of pouring yourself some. "Cyril. I am curious what your thoughts are regarding this situation." It's the cider you had earlier, and good enough to warrant drinking a second glass. Right in front of Cyril. "Regarding you accompanying me to the city. Could you please share your thoughts with me?"

"I mean, it's fine. I don't mind roughing up anyone that might give you a hard time, but from what I saw yesterday you don't need me for shit, do ya'?"

You're stunned, again, and really not sure how to respond.

The beer really is excellent.

"Don't look so fucking shocked, I'm just trying to, you know. The whole Mercy thing. Figure I should try to be respectful, right?"

"I— thank you, Cyril, but—"

In a horrifically sing-song voice, you hear, "my word is my bond," followed by a very normal, "but fuck if I won't say whatever you need me to, to get us out of here for the day. Right?"

Three glasses is a hard mental cut-off. You have outpaced a demon of generosity, and know you can handle the liquor. For everything else you have to do today, you need to stay sharp.

"We have more business to attend to here, first—"

"Fuck—"

"—in this ward—"

"Dammit—"

"Cyril."

"Yeah?"

You can't help but smile, setting your empty glass down. "Come with me."

The bandages all go to Cyril, who seems delighted to be tasked with simply carrying cloth.

"You sure this is all you need?"

"Keep your voice down. Yes. For now."

(2/3)
>>
>>4034815
You're both walking, cautiously, down the halls of the Church of Flesh. A priestess with a dirty apron seems to be at the end of a nearby corridor. She's tending to a table full of bloodied bandages, wringing out one of them into a bin brimming with hot water. You approach her as quietly as you can, speaking up to not startle her.

"Excuse me, sister—"

She whips her head up, eyes red and bleary. It looks like she hasn't slept in days.

Cyril coughs to the side, muttering something you don't quite catch. Assuming it's rude, you try to disregard him. "Sister, if I may."

"Of course."

"Father Anscham, of the Church of Mercy."

The bandages are almost dropped. She's obviously struggling to restrain herself, as the woman across from you silently lets you continue.

"Father Friedrich has extended his hospitality to me, so that I may help you all in any way that I can—"

The sister of Flesh is practically crying. Her shoulders are shaking, as she starts wringing out the towels before her a little more intensely. She doesn't interrupt, but it's enough to make you pause.

You try to continue, "if you could please direct me to anyone responsible for the care of your sick and wounded—"

The reddened eyes flit to Cyril, back to you, and back to Cyril again. She does interrupt. "He didn't bother telling you?"

Cyril points to himself, his mouth hanging open stupidly, but obviously knows exactly what the woman is talking about. You frown at both of them intensely. "I have absolutely no Time for this—"

Desperation laces a weary voice, that stops you from moving to find someone else to speak to. "I'm all that's left, Father. I heard you were there. I heard how many you saved." There's something choking at the exhaustion. "No one came back. No one that could help. I don't know why. I've been working."

You restrain an intense urge to reprimand Cyril in front of the exhausted healer, and try to soften your frown. "I am here, now, and I am here to help."

The filthy rags drop. A pair of wet hands wring themselves together, in reverence. "Thank you, Father."

"You must be exhausted. I am terribly sorry that no one has come sooner. The Church of Mercy should be here. Can you please show me to anyone you have yet to see? Anyone in need of my aid?"

The woman beside you looks incredibly overwhelmed by the request. Enough to look blearily up and down the hall.

The exterior of the Church of Flesh is easily several hundred feet long on each side. It's a perfect square, surrounding the interior of the keep, and you estimate that you've passed by no fewer than several dozen rooms just on your way back to your own quarters.

"I'm going to be honest with you, Father. I don't know how much you can do. I don't want anyone else's life on my hands. I've been trying to see to the dying as best as I can..."

"Sister—"

"Enart."

(Slightly over, 3/4 with options in next post)
>>
>>4034818
"Sister Enart. How long have you been seeing to this ward for?"

She's choking up. She's very young. No more than 18 or 19, if you had to guess. The utter absence of fine lines on her tan skin, the darkness of her jet black hair, and her complete inexperience seems enough of an indication. "I just started, Father Anscham. Maybe a month? Two, at the most?"

>A] You're taking charge of this ward, right now. Your business with the Church of Agriculture is going to have to wait. The Church of Mercy is needed, right now. You're going to have words with Father Friedrich about this, too.

>B] You'll aid as many people as you can, but your personal affairs are equally important. Spend the afternoon attending to the sick, and make the time to still leave the church today.

>C] You can't take over the Church of Flesh's affairs. See to anyone that immediately needs your aid, but you have so many other things on your plate that this is going to have to be a side project, at best. At bare minimum, have Brother Trebbeck and Sister Enart find as many spare hands as they're able for relief.

>D] Write-in.
>>
>>4034821
>>B] You'll aid as many people as you can, but your personal affairs are equally important. Spend the afternoon attending to the sick, and make the time to still leave the church today.
>>
>>4034821
>>B] You'll aid as many people as you can, but your personal affairs are equally important. Spend the afternoon attending to the sick, and make the time to still leave the church today.
>>
>>4034822
+1
>>
>>4034821
>>A] You're taking charge of this ward, right now. Your business with the Church of Agriculture is going to have to wait. The Church of Mercy is needed, right now. You're going to have words with Father Friedrich about this, too.

The fields can wait, these people need us right now and there is literally no one else, we need to do our duty first.
>>
>>4034822
>>4034826
>>4034827
>>4034830
(These are pretty mutually exclusive, but I'll incorporate what I can! Vote is locked, writing now.)
>>
>>4034844
"I will have words with Father Friedrich, Sister. We will get you the relief you need. I can personally stay through the afternoon, if you would have me."

Cyril is coughing stupidly again into his shoulder, something along the lines of "me, too."

"Thank you, Father. I at least received enough instruction to keep the most seriously injured to the furthest reaches of the keep..."

The sound of moans and cries for Mercy increase the further away you get from your own quarters. It occurs to you that Father Friedrich likely knows exactly what's going on in his church, as you approach the precise opposite end of the ward.

The smell of rot, filth and blood is hot in the air. You're so used to it that it doesn't phase you, but both Sister Enart and Brother Trebbeck make a point of covering their noses and mouths.

Through a cloth, Sister Enart murmurs, "I really don't know where to begin, Father."

"Start from the first door, Sister."

"The man to the southernmost room has been here since before the outbreak. Lost a leg in the city during a construction project. The gentleman next door to him has had some illness I can't make heads or tails of, but he's been covered in sores that won't cauter. These seven were all from the outbreak. Not sure if they'll make it through tomorrow night."

"Can you please be more specific?"

"To be honest, I haven't had the time to check on them all as thoroughly as I'd like—"

Something between urgency and panic laces your voice. "Which ones have you not seen to?"

"Those three. All men. They've been sleeping. Burns on all of them."

"And the rest?"

"Very deep wounds on two of them, from you-know-what's. Smoke got in the lungs of the rest, the ones you hear coughing. I've done everything I could—"

You gesture to two more doors, that weren't mentioned. There's sobbing coming from one, and absolute silence from the other. "What of these?"

There's a dark laugh. "That's a storage room," the woman murmurs, to the silent door. You're immediately relieved, and then horrified beyond belief. "The other is from the stable."

You're trying not to vomit. "I thought—"

A scream lances your nausea. It's from the door you just pointed to.

Mercy. It's already nearly noon. I can't possibly have Time to see to everyone here.

(Options in next post.)
>>
>>4034929
>(Please select ONLY ONE OPTION from BOTH A and B. These are mutually exclusive, so the majority vote will decide)
>(Then select from C, in the order from MOST urgent to LEAST urgent, which of the dying you will attend to.)
>(e.g. A1, B1, C 1>2>3>4>5>6)

>A] You possess the Relic of Mercy. It is a gift through which you can heal the pain of others.
>1] Though you are uncertain of how its effects work in their entirety, use Your Relic to ease the pain of everyone in this ward prior to healing anyone. Many of these men and women may not make it through the night. This is the least you can do for them.
>2] You are not using Your Relic here, under any circumstances. You do not know its full effects and you are not about to experiment on people who can't fully consent.

>B] You are the Father of the Church of Mercy.
>1] You will only use the herbs, bandages, tonics, and medicinal training you have. Tourniquets, cauterization, and every other technique that is employed in the year 605 is at your full disposal. You have two extra sets of hands, and a lifetime of training. Stick to what you, and your patients know.
>2] You will only invoke Mercy if there's no other way to save a patient. If that's the case, you'll do so without question.
>3] There's no Time here, not to see to everyone. Invoke Mercy, now, and ensure that you save as many lives here as possible. Human lives are worth more than any gold, or any personal cost.

>C] There are lives on the line, and they are in your hands. You can safely assume anyone you do not have time to see to will not be treated to your standard of care in a timely fashion.
>1] The man who lost his leg, in the southernmost room.
>2] The gentleman covered in sores that can't be broken.
>3] The three burn victims who haven't been examined thoroughly.
>4] The two victims of the demons with spears.
>5] The two smoke inhalation victims. They likely have burns as well.
>6] The member of your congregation, from the stable, that has been screaming.
>>
>>4034931
>A1
>B2
>C6>4>2>3>5>1
>>
>>4034931
>>A] You possess the Relic of Mercy. It is a gift through which you can heal the pain of others.
>>1] Though you are uncertain of how its effects work in their entirety, use Your Relic to ease the pain of everyone in this ward prior to healing anyone. Many of these men and women may not make it through the night. This is the least you can do for them.

Its literally what we got it for, this is the way we are supposed to use it.

>B] You are the Father of the Church of Mercy.
>3] There's no Time here, not to see to everyone. Invoke Mercy, now, and ensure that you save as many lives here as possible. Human lives are worth more than any gold, or any personal cost.

We didn't give these people all of our time so this seems like the only way to save all of them.

>C] There are lives on the line, and they are in your hands. You can safely assume anyone you do not have time to see to will not be treated to your standard of care in a timely fashion.
>3] The three burn victims who haven't been examined thoroughly.
>4] The two victims of the demons with spears.
>6] The member of your congregation, from the stable, that has been screaming.
>5] The two smoke inhalation victims. They likely have burns as well.
>2] The gentleman covered in sores that can't be broken.
>1] The man who lost his leg, in the southernmost room.
>>
>>4034950
supporting
>>
>>4034950
+1
>>
>>4034941
(Really appreciate the vote but this was majority, going to go with the general consensus here.)

>>4034950
>>4034964
>>4034965
(Vote is locked, writing now!)
>>
>>4035020
"I don't have Time to see everyone here."

"Father...?" The priestess beside you takes a step back, fully, as you take the chain at your neck in hand. "Father, I— I don't wish to overstep myself—"

Cyril obviously does. "Let the man mind his own business, huh?"

You raise your eyebrows in surprise to the blonde. "Thank you, Cyril. Sister Enart, please, go get some rest. I will attend to the rest of this ward personally. Cyril, if you could see if anyone in the room ahead is lucid enough to speak, I would sincerely appreciate it."

"Need a translator, huh? I know we're—"

"Cyril."

"Yes, sir! Right away, sir!"

A very stupid blonde, arms full of bandages, makes his way to the room ahead. Sister Enart lingers a moment.

"Aren't the hands supposed to be outstretched?"

"This is not the symbol of Mercy, Sister."

A confused look is directed to you for only a moment. The gold in your hair is probably catching on the light, for the way that you're being looked at. "I see. Thank you, Father Anscham."

"It is the least I could do, Sister. If you will excuse me."

"Of course."

She doesn't move.

"Sister Enart."

"I'm sorry, Father, I—"

She wants to watch?

Cyril peeks his head out of the room, shaking his ponytail and frustratingly unscarred face at you. "Nothing, boss. Want me to try the next one?"

"Yes, please. Keep the doors open as well. This shouldn't take more than another moment."

The bloodied hands beside you are wringing themselves together against an old rag. "You know we can't heal. Not like the Church of Mercy can. It's so frustrating, Father. I was hoping—"

You are the Father of Compassion. "It— it is quite alright, Sister. I sincerely do not have Time for any explanations, but you can see to the work, if you wish."

A small smile hits you like a beam of sunlight.

You take Your Relic fully in hand. The lingering soreness in your jaw was such a constant you had nearly forgotten it. The mild pain in your stomach, from overindulging on so much plenty, was nagging at you. The ache in your muscle, from all of the exertion this morning, was an even greater nuisance.

It all fades. There's nothing left in its wake, as you take a few steps forward, lighter than light itself.

The smell of death is hot and heavy, beside the beds of three men who have been placed on simple straw mattresses. You cringe at their obvious neglect, the lack of care given to old bandages and the rot lacing a number of their wounds.

You kneel down at their side, a hand suspended in the air before them all. There's no time for prayer.

The Goddess of Mercy has always been in your thoughts. She has always been by your side, in the darkness.

She is my light.

(1/3)
>>
>>4035182
There's a surge, of heat and of devotion, that courses from the depths of your very soul and into the last fiber of your being. The out-pour is all-encompassing. For its intensity, there might as well be a woman around you, embracing you, holding you flush.

You pull yourself back, staggering, for a split second.

You're still alone, or as much as you can be. Three men are beside your feet, ravaged with pain.

They are not sleeping. These men are on the brink of death, in too much pain to speak. Their breath has not slowed in rest. Their lungs are full of soot, and they are struggling.

There is so much light in your eyes, it feels as if you're looking upon the sun itself. Not to charred Flesh, not to exposed bone. With a hand aloft, Your Relic clasped in the other, You extend a blessing.

The inert forms at your feet all look as though they could cry. Their eyes are charred, but they look up to you with so much relief it breaks your heart.

The prayer is wordless. There's no need for speech, between you and Mercy.

She listens. She's heard you. She knows that Your children are suffering.

There's a gasp, at the door, from the young priestess who's been hanging back. She doesn't care about the blood on her hands, as she puts both palms over her mouth, to muffle her outburst.

Your eyes are all on the men at your feet. You kneel down beside them, as one immediately tries to sit upright.

"Stay down."

Your touch immediately drops every flake of blackened skin on the man's body that isn't bandaged over.

Healthy tissue is underneath.

A moment passes.

He wraps his arms around you, sobbing hysterically. His voice croaks out, parched, but with no trace of a cough.

"Thank you. Thank you. Mercy, thank you— Father—"

You pat him on the back a few times, and wordlessly go to the other men. They're too shocked to say anything. One is crying, harder than the first.

A few words you've read, by an old priestess of your Church, seem prudent to say here. "Pure are Our hands. Pure is Our blessing. Pure is made blood spilled, when held by Mercy."

Every eye in the room is on you, as you turn to leave.

"You will all heal. The Gods are Merciful."

There's a pressing urgency, at the back of your mind.

This is far worse than I expected.

You break into a run. Cyril must be in one of the other rooms, as you don't see any figures in the hall.

Bursting into the next wing, you look down on four more mattresses. You immediately realize why two are empty, for the intense odor of rot on the air. Without any disgust, you wrap the chain in hand around all of the unscarred digits—

There will be Time to think about this later.

(2/3)
>>
>>4035186
The palm of your hand stays firmly around Your Relic, as you hold it aloft. Taking a few steps forward, you look, to confirm that both men lying on the floor are still alive and have responded to Your works.

One has been dead for hours. It looks to have been a young priest, taken in the prime of his life.

You try to not swear, kneeling down beside the figure to confirm that he is completely cold to the touch.

As quickly as you're able, making sure that there's no blood on you, you place a hand to the figure on the bed across from them. She's unconscious, but breathing. Warm. Her breath is shallow.

You marvel for a moment, horrified beyond all reason. The young woman's spine has been pierced, by a barb. She's been holding onto life, despite likely knowing she should never be able to walk again.

There's a fire that rivals the very sun in you. You get on both knees. The chain around your hands goes back around your neck. You place a free hand beside the base of the woman's spine, and unwind her bandages.

The wound is festering. It looks as though it's never been properly cleaned, and the end of a blade is protruding from her back. It looks to be made of coagulated blood, and clearly has seeped into her blood. The surrounding skin is green, rotting.

There's Time for this.

You place a hand a few inches behind the blade, and focus.

Your devotion is unparalleled.

There's a sensation, coursing through your hands, of a Goddess. One who would do anything to demonstrate Her love for You. There's a feeling of gold, slipping over the tops of your palms, intertwining with your fingers. She guides the motion, aiding you, working with you. Together, You save yet another life.

The blade comes out, in full. There is absolutely no wound left in its wake. The skin around the site of injury is rapidly mending itself, in the wake of light.

There is so much light in your eyes.

The woman before you curls in on herself, the moment that the blade is gone.

She's utterly silent.

You walk around, to the other side of her, and sit on the mattress opposite.

She looks furious.

You look to the door, to see Sister Enart. She's utterly speechless as well.

"Sister. Will you please clear the body out of the room?"

The woman on the bed practically lunges forward, grabbing onto your wrist before you can walk away. Her voice is terribly strong. More than the hand gripping onto yours. More than muscle you've saved from wasting in her back and legs, more than the fire in her brown eyes.

She hisses in, sharply, pulling away from you as if she's burned herself.

You look in alarm, to see that there's blisters on the palm of her hands.

"Wait." The heat in her voice is still there, despite having scalded herself on the liquid gold along you.

(Just over, 3/4)
>>
>>4035205
"Who the fuck are you?"

"Father Anscham— of the Church of Mercy." It doesn't escape you that merely standing in your proximity has healed the blisters along her hands. She obviously has been in no pain, and only pulled away in shock.

The woman is shaking, and moves to sit upright. "What the fuck is this? Where the fuck were you yesterday—"

"I am terribly sorry."

"I prayed— I prayed to all of the Gods, and you're the only—" Her shoulders are shaking very hard. She's trying not to cry. "You're the only one who listened. No one listened, not for him—" she's looking to the corpse on the bed right next to her, "not for any of us—"

>A] You legitimately don't have Time. Pull away from the woman. Run to the next room, as fast as you're able. There's still screams in the hall.

>B] You can listen to this, but only for a moment. Ask the woman for her name, at least, and promise you'll be back.

>C] Sit for a minute or two, and tell Sister Enart to stay here when you're done. Be respectful, but don't linger.

>D] Write-in.
>>
>>4035212
>>A] You legitimately don't have Time. Pull away from the woman. Run to the next room, as fast as you're able. There's still screams in the hall.

"There are others, let me answer their prayers"
>>
>>4035212
>>A] You legitimately don't have Time. Pull away from the woman. Run to the next room, as fast as you're able. There's still screams in the hall.
>>
>>4035212
>A] You legitimately don't have Time. Pull away from the woman. Run to the next room, as fast as you're able. There's still screams in the hall.
>>
>>4035216
>>4035254
>>4035634
(Locking the vote, writing now.)
>>
>>4035791
"There are others praying," you stress the next syllable, pulling away as you do so, "here, who need my help now. The Gods are Merciful, sister."

You fire such an intense look at the priestess standing in the door that she immediately obeys your earlier request, rushing in to clear the corpse. With the doorway open, you leave both women behind you, and break into a run.

There's not a second to waste. Cyril is back in the hall, and lets out a shout, as he sees you sprinting. "Father?!"

You don't bother replying, turning hard into the room that all of the commotion has been coming from.

There's a man, strapped to the bed. You recognize him immediately as one of the civilians that was in the stables yesterday afternoon. He's filthy, obviously having been moved from one set of restraints to another. A gag has been pushed out of his mouth. You could tell why, long before even entering the room.

He's screaming incoherently. You approach slowly, hands in front of you. Your Relic is aloft in one palm. The other has its fingers splayed, in a gesture of goodwill.

"I am coming into the room. I know you can't see me from there. It is alright. We are here to help—"

The man's screaming stops so suddenly it sends a cold sweat down your back. Given that a Goddess of heat and light is working through you, you have to wonder just how hard your nerves are on end.

Taking a few more steps forward, you close the distance towards the singular mattress. The thrashing and noise slows down. There's been a number of heavy metal bars with chains strapped down to the floor. The man's clothing is humble, likely that of a farmer. The elbows are covered in grass stains, the knees dirty.

His wrists and knees are bound to the opposite ends of the chains, in heavy manacles, rubbed raw and bloody. As you approach, gazing upon the man through the eyes of divinity, you can see his Flesh working itself back over from your very proximity.

It stops completely, as you stand only a few feet away.

"I know you are afraid. Everything is going to be fine. The Gods are Merciful."

The man's head whips around so hard towards you, you're certain he's hurt himself. The prisoner shows no indication of pain, thanks to Your Relic.

A disjointed and utterly inhuman voice croaks out of the body before you. You take a step back, horrified beyond all reason, and realize that this is no demon. The man has simply lost his mind. For reasons unknown, he hasn't turned to the Catalyst. Not in a way you can tell.

"There's no Gods here. What do you think the fucking restraints are for, Father. I'm not here for my health, you know."

Horror is soaking into you. You've heard of this. You've felt it, first-hand, in the mind of a demon.

A demon, a killer, a scholar, and a prior priest of the Church of Spirit.

(1/2)
>>
>>4036004
Beltoro studied men like this, hoping to better understand the Catalyst. Studied their corpses. Tried to learn from them, what exactly defined the transformation.

You've never read about it yourself, and the sudden recollection shocks you.

There's an itch, in the back of your mind, and Mercy is in it, around it, keeping it off of you like acid from a limb.

Someone grabs hard onto your shoulders, pulling you literally back and away from the bed. It's Cyril. You're aware he's been talking for some time.

"Father. Father Anscham! Hey, can you HEAR me?!"

"Stop shaking Us"

"What the fuck?!"

The priest lets go of you very quickly.

You move, to pull back, but Cyril seems to have nerves of steel. Despite his outburst, he grips you firmly by the shoulder, and tries to lead you out of the room. "Let's get you out of here. That's not fucking normal, even for guys like you. Come on."

>A] You're not going anywhere.
>1] Keep up your invocation to Mercy, and channel Spirit. You're saving this man's mind even if it breaks yours.
>2] Drop the invocation to Mercy, and invoke Spirit. See if there's anything you can do, and if there isn't, you've already contacted Father Sullivan. There SHOULD be someone coming to the Church for aid soon.
>3] Drop the invocation to Mercy, and see what you can recall from your time in Beltoro's mind NOW.
>4] This man is too dangerous to live. Show him a more tangible form of Mercy. Every second that passes, he could turn, and kill every single defenseless patient in this ward. It's a miracle nothing happened sooner.

>B] This is way more than you bargained for. You're getting back to the other patients you know you can heal.
>1] Send Sister Enart to get Father Friedrich before you do anything else, though.
>2] Send Sister Enart to get a messenger, to the Church of Spirit, immediately. Send Cyril to get Father Friedrich.
>3] There's likely still people dying, and this is not your call to make. Address this with Father Friedrich later tonight. You'll deal with your memory later.

>C] You're more than disturbed by how seeing this man affected you. Use Your Relic to relieve the remaining patients of their pain, but release your invocation to Mercy. You're trying to take care of yourself.

>D] Write-in.
>>
>>4036009
>B2
>>
>>4036009
>>B] This is way more than you bargained for. You're getting back to the other patients you know you can heal.
>2] Send Sister Enart to get a messenger, to the Church of Spirit, immediately. Send Cyril to get Father Friedrich.

This is out of our area of expertise. Send Sister Enart to get Fred and also a messenger, Cyril is guarding this man to make sure he doesn't turn into a demon or hurt the other patients if he does.
>>
>>4036009
> A3

We traded our restraint for this, may as well use it
>>
>>4036510
+1
>>
>>4036632
(These are very mutually exclusive, thank you for the vote and reply but I'm going to be going with the majority here)

>>4036501
>>4036510
>>4036837
(Locking the vote here, writing now!)
>>
>>4037205
You wrench firmly away from Cyril. "We will attend to the rest of the ward, but you are staying right here."

"I already have my orders."

"Your orders are delaying Our work." You drop your voice. "Just how quickly do you think We could mend you back together, Cyril?"

"Very quickly, sir."

"Do you think a break would be faster than Mercy's blessing?"

"Certainly not, sir!"

"Sprains take much longer to heal, but We could make the Time, Cyril."

"Understood, sir!" He gets it, taking a step towards the prisoner ahead of you, making a mock salute. It's with two fingers, terribly stupid, but the blonde seems to understand.

You call over your shoulder, as you break into a run. "Do not make me show you Our tenets!"

"I know you're no liar, sir!"

Sister Enart is back down the hall, having placed the corpse from the prior room on a sheet. Its carefully wrapped, being dragged out per your earlier request.

Your grimace intensifies. Skidding to a stop, you help her to move it aside, out of the center of the hall. "Sister. I am terribly sorry, but we have an immediate concern.

"Father Anscham, I mean no disrespect, but Father Friedrich is entirely aware—"

You cut her off, but your tone remains soft. Melancholy. A reminder. "Father Friedrich's neglect has already cost lives. Our duty is to save them."

She's completely unable to argue.

"Run as fast as you are able. Go to Father Friedrich. If you must, tell him that I personally demanded you disobey his instruction. You are not forsaking your duties, Sister."

"Yes, Father Anscham—"

She already is turning to run, but you stop the woman in her tracks merely by speaking again. "After you have seen to your Father, send a messenger to the Church of Spirit. The fastest you can find. We need their aid. This is not my field of expertise, and there will be another outbreak if this is not handled appropriately. Do you understand?"

"Y-yes, Father. Right away." Sister Enart doesn't even wipe the blood off of her hands before turning to run. You can tell at a glance that no amount of exhaustion will hinder the woman's devotion to her cause. The priestess of Flesh is gone in a matter of seconds.

The sound of screams seems to have subsided, for now.

Cyril has a good head on his shoulders. He may be an idiot, but he will be alright.

Trusting in the men and women of the cloth, you run, back to what you suspect is the worst of the injured.
>>
>>4037461
Persistent coughing is one of the last sounds you can heard in the sick ward. You almost slide a foot past the next door. Pivoting hard, you tear into the next room. The door was open, but you're certain these men could not speak. A small pile of used handkerchiefs is next to both of them. Their burns are significantly milder than the men you saw to before, but they're wheezing, coughing, and struggling hard for air. Their breath is ragged, their bodies weak from so much strain.

At least, they are before you enter the room. You rip the chain from your neck, unclasping it in a second, and press the closed locket forward.

As you take a few methodical steps inside, both figures permit their shoulders to relax, to let their coughing slow. They're granted immediate relief from their pain, but Mercy has yet to work through you.

The man sitting closest to you seems to have suffered the more severe attack. His entire right side is bandaged. From around his torso, all the way down his entire arm, he shows absolutely no indication of pain for all of his burns. His wheezing is already improved, but not even the relief from certain pain can mend the likely internal damage.

You sit on the bed beside him, and place a hand very gently above his back. Keeping your distance from what is likely very tender Flesh, you splay your fingers. A ray of light is cast from each one.

Through the heat and radiance, the surge creates a fracture. You look on, to see a crack wind itself along the top of your hands.

This has happened so many times before, in the dark.

You are all light. You have spent your life in service to a Goddess of healing, and can easily look upon Her efforts.

Between the bandages before you, every gap seems to surge with divinity. You can feel ragged lungs, seared muscle, the scorched and decaying flecks of skin. They're mending, under Your hands.

There are hairline fractures, winding, dancing up and along the backs of your palms. In between the cracks, around your skin, there's an embrace. The scars fade as quickly as they came, climbing, working through your vessel.

She wants to make you whole.

The wounds along the man before you heal in full. It can't take longer than a minute, as his coughing subsides entirely.

He takes in a deep breath. It comes out ragged, with so much relief that he is utterly incapable of speech. Several more follow, almost panicked.

"Restraint, Brother. Show Us your devotion.

There's no time to waste on further explanation, but the man obeys your instruction to the best of his ability. His hands go to his chest, unwinding bandages in sheer disbelief. Flakes of dead skin are laced with gold, which all comes off cleanly. Only completely healed skin lies beneath.

(2/4)
>>
>>4037468
You don't bother with sitting beside the other patient. Blood-soaked linen is adorning his face, and only his face. He likely was wearing heavier protection than his Brother beside him.

"Father?"

"Mercy."

You place a hand gently to the man's forehead. He does not draw back, but leans in, very slightly.

The cloth dressing drops from his face, with stands of gold left in their wake.

You are having trouble seeing, for all of the light that's in your eyes.

It took less than an instant, but the priest before you is clearly mended in full. He placed a hand to his face, the skin as hale as you could ever hope for it to be.

"Not even Flesh should be able to do so much, so quickly—"
"Where are you going? What—"
"Thank you, Father—!"
"..."

You leave both figures behind.

The Goddess of Compassion would never impose more on you than She knows you could stand.

You so wanted. So needed.

You want to take a knee, to allow the love and devotion to course through you unfettered.

You fight through it, with as much restraint as a man could hope for.

There's heat in your hands. It wraps through and around your palms, your fingers. The caress is along your wrist, up your arms and back. It courses around you, keeping you in a tender embrace, as you are determined beyond all compare to finish what you've started.

There are so many prayers that need to be answered.

Silence once again takes the halls of the sick ward. As you approach the second to last hall, the smell of rot is thick and heavy on the air. It reminds you more of the lair of a demon than a man.

There is unmistakably a human lying on the bed before you. He looks up, smiling weakly. His beard is untrimmed, clearly in an attempt to not disturb the worst of his disease.

The sheer tenacity of the figure before you is baffling. His body is laced with craters. It's abundantly clear why his sores could not be cauterized. They sink into his body, revealing glistening and raw muscle in the worst of places. You assume that they are horrifically painful to the touch, for almost none of them are bandaged. The few that are dressed are obviously rotten, but in places too delicate to bear being cut away. Over his chest, beside his eyes, along his legs and on nearly every visible inch is a landscape of oozing, weeping pain.

You immediately recognize how he's endured.

His hands, for all of their injury, are knitted together. No holy symbol lies between them.

This man has been seeking the aid of all of the Gods.

You step forward, relic aloft. "We have heard your prayers."

His hands stay together, but his voice wavers, weak from disuse. "Mercy, Father."

There's a look in his eye that you place immediately. It's not recognition of your station, or relief.

He wants to die.

(3/4)
>>
>>4037473
You want to help, in any way you can. "We have sought an answer to Our children's pain."

"Thank you, Father," the man coughs, hard. He's starting to find his voice, as he murmurs, "but I've suffered enough."

"To live is to serve."

"I haven't been doing a whole lot of living or serving."

"We know you have been faithful. Permit Us to serve you."

"What could you even hope to do? I'm a goner, Father. They've all stopped coming, everyone know it. You're still just a priest of Mercy. There's nothing left for me. If you can't help me, just go. Go like the rest of them."

You are more than a priest of Mercy. You always have been.

>A] You are the FATHER of Mercy. Ask the man if you can heal his wounds in full, knowing it will leave a lasting mark. Offer him a few reassuring words, while you're at it.

>B] You wield YOUR Relic. Offer the man permanent relief from his pain. If he accepts, he can seek his own end without suffering any further.

>C] You are a priest of ALL of the Gods. Maintain your connection to Mercy, and...
>1] Invoke Agriculture. Death nor poison will take this man's health away from him. Root it out, and drop the invocation the moment you can. It will no doubt take a heavy toll on your own body, but this is worth it.
>2] Invoke Flesh. There is NOTHING He cannot heal in tandem with Mercy. Mend the Flesh as best as you're able, and drop the invocation the moment you can. An invocation so potent nearly destroyed your connection to your mind before, but this is worth it.

>D] You are Richard Anscham, a citizen of Corcaea, and still ultimately a human man. You are compassionate, and kind. A healer. You see suffering on a daily basis, and want to end it wherever you can. Help the man beside you to take his life. Spend a few minutes with him, before showing him one final act of Mercy.

>E] Write-in.
>>
>>4037482
>>A] You are the FATHER of Mercy. Ask the man if you can heal his wounds in full, knowing it will leave a lasting mark. Offer him a few reassuring words, while you're at it.
>>
>>4037482
>>A] You are the FATHER of Mercy. Ask the man if you can heal his wounds in full, knowing it will leave a lasting mark. Offer him a few reassuring words, while you're at it.
>>
>>4037482
>C2

Yea boi go hard
>>
>>4037488
>>4037498
>>4037525
(You guys are the best, going with majority again here. Writing now.)
>>
>>4037574
https://youtu.be/JcZ6cjKcZKc

"I can do more than hope. I can do more than to slowly heal. I have heard your prayers. I am the Father of the Church of Mercy. We are extending Our hands. We have extended Our light, and all of Our blessing. We extend it to you."

The locket is back about your neck, that you might better demonstrate the symbol of Your church. You are literally outstretching your hands, your light, and your healing towards the man who is in need of Your help.

"Will you accept Our aid?"

Brown eyes look up to you, unmarred by demons or divinity. There's hope in them. "I won't stop you from trying."

"We can do so much more. No sickness of the Flesh can withstand Our might, brother."

You clasp your hands together, taking a knee beside Simon.

"What is your name?"

"No need to call me brother. I haven't served Flesh in a long time. Simon is fine."

There is so much Mercy in your vessel, it can't be contained. Pulling apart your palms, threads of gold lie between each and every digit.

Simon snaps his gaze to the metal, concern written all over his face. "What the fuck is that?"

You don't answer immediately, stretching the weave further. It's beginning to resemble a dressing to a wound, thanks to the density of the metal. A light is coursing through the fibers of gold. The radiance runs along your hands, but also through you. Each and every remaining scar on your body seems to be flooded with Her blessing.

The heat of a Goddess is in you, as desperate to help as you are.

You love Your work.

You love each other.

Tensing, winding the bandages as firmly as you can, you finally answer. "A gift. This will leave a lasting impression, Simon, but We intend to heal you. In full. No pain. No injury. Mercy."

"That's impossible."

Through the intensity of a Goddess, you can't help but to force your grimace back into a smile.

"Please do not insult Us."

"I mean—"

"We have granted Our protection to more of your kin— through this vessel— than you can possibly comprehend."

You have a binding, dripping with strands of molten gold.

"The Goddess of Compassion has seen to relieving the pain of so many more. So many, and they were far less deserving than you. We have healed wounds more severe, more dire, more plentiful."

So much heat is coming from the material in your hands, that the very air around you is radiant.

"She has even worked alongside Flesh Himself. Through this vessel. She has pulled me back from the very brink of death, Time and Time again."

(1/4)
>>
>>4037727
The heat is blistering, but your skin does not burn. It is healed, in full. Every splinter in your vessel feels as if it's being bound together. You're embraced by your lover, the Mother.

"Her works are that of the impossible."

"Mercy."

"Yes."

"This looks like it's going to hurt."

"Do you feel any pain?"

"No."

"Do you trust Us?"

A quick nod. A very deep breath in. "I can't possibly get any worse."

"We will not let any further harm befall you. Uphold Our tenets. Grant yourself enough restraint as you can. This will only take a moment."

The priest before you grips as tightly as his ulcerated fingers can manage, onto the bloodied sheets beneath him. You place a single hand, unwavering, to the worst of his open wounds. The skin immediately begins to bubble and boil, from how much heat is in your touch.

Though your patient looks terrified, he shows absolutely no indication of feeling a thing. He remains as still as he can, while you carefully tend to removing the bandages directly over his heart.

A raw and gaping sore greets you, blackened and foul. A pool of decay is nestled in the center. You can see the glistening rot tremble with his shallow breath. Though you've granted him relief from his pain, he is dying, without question.

Unflinching, you stretch the weave of gold and light over his skin.

Relief washes over the man's face in an instant. You can feel his shoulders relax, his breath level out.

The rot is taken in full. It soaks, up, into Your blessing. You make a motion with your hands, as if to lift the item, though it does not meet your grasp. The gauze lifts, and from it comes no remnant of poison.

A shower of light trails behind the metal band. Flecks of gold rain out. They all cast over his body. Not only over the lighter wounds adorning the man's torso, but over every inch of the disease.

The yellow-gold sinks into the deepest recesses, pooling forth with more of Mercy's blessing. Before long, the metal is leaking, winding in trails, pooling. It works from lesion to lesion, winding more rapidly by the second.

You place a hand, firmly, to Simon's shoulder. He's panicking.

"Are you in pain?"

"N-no— but the fuck—"

"Stay still. You are not in any danger. Permit Us heal you."

Terror is seizing him, as the gold continues to wind along and into his body. The man beneath you grabs firmly onto one of your hands, the second there's a moment's pause in your work. His grip is crushing, terrified.

"You'd better know what the fuck you're doing."

You need neither your hands nor prayer to share in Mercy's gifts.

"I know you are afraid. You will be alright. There is nothing to fear. Our skill is without compare, and the Gods are Merciful."

Your vessel belongs to Mercy, in full.

(2/4)
>>
>>4037731
With your free hand, you splay your fingers. The golden wire lacing the man's body lifts in an instant.

He lets out a shout. The grip on your hand is crushing.

Beneath the gold is a thick trail. The blood, the decay, the rot, and a lifetime of poison hovers for the briefest of seconds.

"Are you alright?"

"Y-yes—"

All of the color has left Simon's face. He's practically reflecting the radiance all around him. The strands of gold begin to fade, shimmering across the last of the material world. Light is left in its wake, for a blessed moment.

The man's Flesh is no longer littered with holes, with gold or the Goddess.

There's healthy skin, and fully formed muscle. Every old wound is speckled with flakes of gold, catching slightly on the light as the man moves.

He releases your hand, brushing at the metal in disbelief.

"What the—"

The flakes fall harmlessly fall to the bed. A few seem to persist, but the priest obviously doesn't mind. He's looking to you, stunned beyond words.

You move to stand, and nearly collapse from the effort. Your vision explodes into a flash of light, and the rest of you feels as if it might as well have burst. Ecstasy drenches you, in waves, robbing you of any hold on reality for a few blessed moments.

You have done so much good. You have been so devout. You have saved countless lives. You have protected the weak, sheltered the weary, healed the injured, upheld every one of your vows! You have never faltered in your conviction.

"M-Mercy—"

"Father— Father, are you okay?"

Staggering, teeth gritted, you attempt to right yourself again. The heat in you is like nothing you've ever felt before. More intense than the blessing of Flesh, hotter than a flame, there's a fire in you that could rival the very sun. It's in your soul, working through your veins, your scars, the light in your eyes and everything in between. Something that can't keep itself— Herself— away for another instant.

"Mercy— yes, Simon, I am— I am perfectly fine—"

You take a few very deep breaths, and blindly find a wall to hold onto. Forcing yourself upright, through another embrace, another wave of immaculacy and fervor, you look back towards the hall.

There's still no one coming for aid.

It's very quiet.

Our work is not done.

Speaking is rapidly becoming impossible.

You are flawless.

You are divine.

You are Merciful.


You are aware that there is still one more patient to attend to, in this portion of the exterior ward. An amputee, who's limb you could not possibly hope to

You can do more than hope. You can heal. You are the Father of Mercy. The Mother wants to work through you. She wants to be with you, to serve your vessel.

You are a miracle.


(Overestimated, options in next post.)
>>
>>4037738
>A] Release Mercy. As devoted as you are to the Goddess, you are attempting to serve the Church of Flesh as well. You need to know your limits.
>1] Get back to Cyril. Ask him to help you back to your room. There's simply no way you'll be able to stand after everything you've accomplished.
>2] Ask Cyril to have Father Friedrich meet you in your quarters.
>3] Stay in the sick ward, even if you're too weak to stand.

>B] Maintain the invocation.
>1] You're going to try to mend an amputated limb.
>2] You're going to tend to the patient's needs as best as you're able, but do everything in your power to not overextend yourself.
>3] You're not going to heal anyone else. You're simply too worried about collapsing to release Mercy before Father Friedrich arrives.

>C] Write-in.
>>
>>4037745
>B] Maintain the invocation.
>1] You're going to try to mend an amputated limb.
yolo
>>
>>4037745
>>B] Maintain the invocation.
>>1] You're going to try to mend an amputated limb.

no kill like overkill, but the literal opposite kek
>>
>>4037745
>>B] Maintain the invocation.
>>1] You're going to try to mend an amputated limb.
>>
>>4037843
>>4037893
>>4037923
(No heal like overheal, GOT IT! Let's do this. Vote is locked, writing now.)
>>
>>4037946
Clutching hard to the stone wall before you, steeling yourself, you resolve to continue doing the impossible. With several deep breaths, you wrench yourself away from the stone, and walk out of Simon's room.

"Remember Our tenets. To live is to serve, Brother."

"Thank you. Thank you, Father."

There's utter silence in the corridor. It likely only took you a few minutes to bring a dying and diseased man from the brink of death. Back to the peak of health.

You are back to the last door, at the end of the hall. It's closed. Cyril never made it to the last patient.

You will.

Swinging open the door before you, Relic in hand, you look upon a middle-aged worker. He is not resting. Shaved, still bristling with energy, yet to lose any muscle for how recent his injury must have been, he looks up. His dark eyes are alert, mildly alarmed.

"'scuse you, but mind knockin'—"

There is a Goddess in your mind, and it is very difficult to behave in line with typical mortal affairs. You try to ground yourself. You focus on the accent of the rustic man. One who hasn't had his speech conditioned out of him by the church. A man who is not used to speaking through the Gods. A farmhand, who must have been aiding in reconstructing the city after one of many outbreaks.

There are so many who need Your aid.

"Please excuse the intrusion. WeI am Father Anscham, leader of the Church of Mercy. We are here on behalf of Father Friedrich—"

"Great. More priests! Yer no use here, Father. I've been seen to. I don't mean no offense, but you don't need to waste no Time here."

A bloodied wad of bandages is crassly waved towards you, at the end of an amputated limb. The man is propped up on a humble mattress, but his leg is far higher. The left limb looks hale, but the right has the trousers clipped up to the top of his thigh. Networks of old bandages, packed with dried blood, cover what little remains of the right appendage.

You're utterly unphased, and continue the attempt at normalcy. "None taken. Do you mind if I...?"

Trying to keep yourself level, you don't wait for a reply as you enter the room. Your breath, your gait, the light and gold absolutely searing through every inch of you is unavoidable. Collapsing on the edge of a nearby empty mattress is absolutely necessary as your vision swims. For how disoriented you feel, it's as if the room itself is ablaze.

"See if I can stop ye—"

You feel so much more. There's a caress, trailing up and along your spine, into the back of your neck, leaning your head back. Every mortal urge tells you to keep your eyes down, to not scrutinize, but there is something working through your hair. A phantom, of love and gold, laces in and around your scalp, pulling, to gaze upon the figure across from you.

There is light in your eyes, and a Goddess on every inch of you.

"Are ye a'right?"

(1/4)
>>
>>4038124
The voice that comes out is decidedly not your own.

"He has never been better. Would you like to be healed?"

A pause so long and poignant across from you feels like it might as well take an eternity.

It's a blessing, to have an additional moment with Her.

The heat and light seems to be intensifying by the second. Anticipating something incredible, that only You could experience, together.

You must have been holding your breath, as you're dragged back down to Aerth by the simplest of replies. "Yeah, I mean— there ain't gonna be no catch or nothin'? I'm a God-fearin' man, Father. I don't need no trouble—"

You find yourself, somewhere in the haze of ecstasy.

"Excuse me, sir, I—"

Deep breath.

Another.

Keep breathing.

"What is your name?"

"Dumphrey."

You're caught a little off-guard. "Just— just Dumphrey?"

"I don't 'spose my family name matter fer much, anymore."

You're seized again, by so much fervor and devotion that you can scarcely stand it.

"It matters."

"Hayward."

"Mr. Hayward. The Gods are Merciful. No righteous man has any reason to fear Them."

Liars, blasphemers and heathens have besmirched Your good name. You are unique. You suffer as no one else has, yet you endure. We seek an end to Your suffering.

This is only the beginning.


"We have sought to aid you, and your fellow man, to the full extent of Our ability. I swear to you, by all of the Gods, that no harm will befall you under Our care. No pain. No further injury. No retribution. Not for respecting Them, and never for accepting Our aid.

"Well, yeah. Sure. You the one that's made this," he waves the severed limb again, "feel right as rain, I'm assumin'?"

Proudly, you show the locket in hand to the man before you.

Mercy loves you in so many ways.

"Yes. He possesses a great many gifts."

"Go right on ahead, then."

Without further question, the humble citizen before you leans back a bit further.

"Let me know if you need anythin'."

"Do you know of Our tenets, Mr. Hayward?"

"Yea, yeah. I won't go causin' a fuss. Do whatever it is you need to do, Father. I'm not gettin' any younger."

You take in another deep breath, and close the distance between you both. Kneeling beside the amputated limb, you tear Mercy's gaze off of her child, and to the task at hand.

Focus.

(2/4)
>>
>>4038126
https://youtu.be/ErTbScSd_LM

Removing the packed bandages on the limb as gingerly as you can, you rapidly realize the potency of Your Relic.

This man should be in agony.

Layers of dried blood and decaying linen part, eventually revealing a spoiled wound. Networks of green and black creep in tendrils up his veins, deep under the Flesh. Between his necrotic skin and what little healthy tissue remains, there persists the crushed remnants of bone and muscle. The ivory is cracked, protruding, and splinters of white are still stuck to the interior of the rotten tissue.

The caress that's wrapped itself up, through your scalp, behind the nape of your neck, down your shoulders, and through the very base of your spine forms a singular embrace. Your hands are held, and taken into a band of solid gold.

It compacts, and winds itself in and around your skin. The density, the light, the yellow gold is without compare.

It's on your ring finger. Nestled at the base, its fit is as flawless as the Goddess that created it. Unadorned with gems, unfettered by the trappings of mortals, you know it is the symbol of a perfect union.

There has never been the need for words between you both. There's an impression in your very soul.

This is what devotion and love is meant to look like. You are more precious than all of the gold in the world. You are Our light, you are Our joy. You are beloved and blessed beyond all measure. This is Our promise, to You. There is nothing that can come between Us. When We are together, NOTHING is impossible.

Compassion is drenching you.

You are the very embodiment of light and of gold.

It spills from your hands, as you extend them.

The band around your finger persists.

The metal flowing from your hands parts.

Without making physical contact, you open your hands. The palms outstretch, pressing forward, towards the source of pain and neglect.

The very heat in your soul obliterates every last trace of rot in the wound before you.

The man beneath you brings his hands not to the sight of injury, but to his face. He shouts, utterly incapable of looking upon the work of the Gods with mortal eyes. Steam is rising from his seared Flesh. Instantly cauterized, you gaze upon an absence of blood. Pink, healthy tissue is everywhere around the sheet of metal.

The wound was sealed shut in an instant, with a coating of pure gold. Amber catches on the light emanating from your eyes, your hands, as you reach forward.

You pray.

"Too long have you suffered. Too long have Our children endured. Look not to the works of mortal men. Look not to a land of demons, blasphemers, and sin."

Tensing your hands, you grasp onto Your compassion, Your might, and Your will.

(3/4)
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>>4038127
There is an out pour and a pull. The simultaneous flood comes from the depth of your soul, clashing ahead into the object of your devotion. From the base of the injury, out from the well of your conviction, is a collision so devastating that you nearly collapse from the impact.

Nothing will stop You.

"Look to LOVE—!"

From the base of the wound, you are extracting a new form. It is rippling, flooding, coursing into something familiar and never seen before.

Nothing will stop Your union.

"Look to COMPASSION—!"

You aren't certain if it's sweat or liquid gold dripping from your brow. The sheer intensity of the invocation has you ravaged, on the brink of collapse. Redoubling your efforts, fearing you may lose consciousness before completing the invocation, you clench your right hand.

There's a pull, at the base of your hands. You move, out, and wrap your hands back together again.

"Look to MERCY—!"

From the sweep, in an instant, comes the form and function of an entire limb.

The man beneath your administrations lowers his hands. He drops them, completely, and stares slack-jawed at your movements.

The right hand remains tight, holding the form. Apart from the fist, you spread the opposite palm, sweeping the remaining gold. From several inches away, each motion is fluid, devoted, utterly reverent for the task at hand.

Remaining strands of gold litter the bandages and new limb. Within seconds, they work themselves back together, under the command of a God.

You have spent your life in devotion to a Goddess of Healing, and are intimately familiar with the craft.

A labyrinth winds itself before Your eyes.

A new network of muscle, sinew, fiber and bone forms at the base of the limb. Coursing into it, they restructure from a new foundation. Up, inside of the base, you watch as the remainder of bone, muscle and fiber wind and undulate.

You're almost too exhausted to speak.

"Look to Our works."

A fully formed limb, made of solid gold, is lying on the bed before you. It is seamless, flawless in every conceivable way.

The man at your side is speechless, as he shifts slightly.

His new limb responds as if it was made of his very own Flesh.

You clasp your hands, knitting your fingers together, and conclude the prayer. At the base of your ring finger, a band of solid gold is the last thing you see.

"Rejoice, for the Gods are Merciful."

The world gives out from under you.

(END THREAD.)
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>>4038128
With that, we conclude the first thread of Catalyst Quest: Avowed.

Archive: http://suptg.thisisnotatrueending.com/qstarchive.html?tags=Catalyst%20Quest
Discord (Update notifications, art, music, fan projects, etc.): https://discord.gg/t7F4yJH
Father Anscham's Journal (Your observations in prayer, inventory, demons you've faced and MUCH more. Updated regularly.): https://drive.google.com/open?id=1r-yFdCSj0VJi63LsD3Vl9T0DWw4us6wn

Closing out the thread with a huge drawing I've been working on! Full-size image can be found in the following folder, alongside the group pictures I've made for each thread thus far: https://drive.google.com/open?id=1cC2j2Ob9KSVzrOEVH9qlrbZF9KmAa4gr

Thank you all so much for your votes, participation, and discussion. Please feel free to ask me any questions, provide any additional feedback, or constructive criticism.

We will resume Catalyst Quest: Avowed before the end of the week. If we have fallen off of page 10 before the next thread, as always I will announce via /qtg/ and the Discord when we're going live again next.

Looking forward to resuming the quest with you all again soon!
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>>4038133
Thanks for running
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>>4038346
You are very welcome dude, thanks for reading
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>>4038133
Thanks for running!

I would have voted to leave the amputee for later after we had a chance to recover. Good thing I didn't, that wound sounded pretty nasty.
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>>4038572
It was an absolute pleasure, thanks for participating! It's DEFINITELY a good thing you guys got to him when you did. It's no understatement to say that you saved the lives of every patient you attended to.



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