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>>4073467
It's a reminder of your 25th birthday. The 2nd day of the Setting Moon, simply the date, without any trappings of pomp, pride or prejudice. No mention of the nights you have spent with the Goddess of Mercy. No criticism of your absence. No threat of retribution, punishment or pain.

Without question, it has been at least four months since you left the Church of Mercy. By your best estimates, you've been worshiping at an altar of ecstasy and agony for the last two days. At the most, you have four days at your disposal. Be it for travel to Calunoth, a proper written reply, or the avoidance of yet another obligation.

There is never enough Time.

A cold sweat is on you. The crimson across the room- the sheets, the curtains, the blood slaking your pallid skin- catches on the last embers of the hearth. A colder reality, than of all your neglect, is hitting hard. Harder than the presence of your sunken abdomen, the utter lack of bulk on your frame, or even the frigid stone beneath your feet.

Have I not been attending to Father Friedrich's tutelage?

He was eager to address your recovery. Though the man has struck you on two occasions, repeatedly stated that you’re sick, and was even driven to pin you down and gag you in a fit of desperation, he has shown you nothing but devotion. The priest has been utterly diligent with respect for your care. Not only has he opened the halls of his home, penned the tenets of his God for your study, and taught you with every moment he could spare, he has housed multiple clergy members at your discretion, and fought along your side without fail.

It has been less than a week, your Time in the Church of Flesh, and already you have saved countless lives.Through prayer, invocation, healing and protection, even when on bent knee, you have been unwavering in your devotion.

Has all of my devotion amounted to this? Would He believe what I have endured? Should I even try? In how many ways have I been compared to a demon? Could anyone fault me for taking so much cruelty to heart? Am I so sick?

You have struggled night and day to heal yourself. Prisoner, priest, masochist; beaten bloody, flayed, bruised and broken, you have not climbed back from the depths of the world for nothing. You have followed the teachings of your host, your allies, and the tenets of your own patron. There is nothing you would not give, no oath you have refused, in the name of catharsis. Healing. Compassion.

Mercy.

She has given you so much. Not in return for your devotion, and not in respect to your piety, but as a display of mutual love.

The blood streaked across your frame does not lie on fresh wounds. Though you’re covered with scars, the skin is hale. Taut, over wasted muscle and bone, but littered with signs of Her worship. There is a band of metal at the base of your ring finger. A constant, immaculate reminder of a promise.

A vow.

(2/3)

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>>4073472
You are a healer, a protector, and a preacher. Holding onto yourself in the darkness, and in desperation.

Have I ever felt better?

Bearing down on your thin wrists and trembling fingers is a weight, far greater than the material objects in hand.

It is not a glistening seal of royalty, or a vessel for the Gods. It is the weight of leadership. As the head of a church, the absent Father of Compassion, you are a decidedly unhinged and unwaveringly pious young man.

It might have taken more than a minute of silent reflection, to reach your third revelation.

This is a monumental decision.

The will of your King is worth a pause.

>A] Commit to your recovery. Only a madman would refuse a letter from a King. Fortunately, you have clergy at your disposal who are acutely aware of your condition. Implore...
>1] Father Friedrich to write on your behalf, to not accept the summons. It's been difficult enough to attend to your physical training from the Church of Flesh itself.
>2] Sister Cardew, who knows better than anyone how much you've been through. Her word would surely mean more, regarding your mental well-being.
>3] Both of your attendants. If nothing else, they can at least see eye-to-eye on your health.

>B] Answer the summons. The Church of Flesh is not going anywhere, and you need to address this in a Timely fashion.
>1] Ask Sister Cardew if she will accompany you, to continue your work while you travel.
>2] Ask Father Friedrich if Brother Trebbeck can accompany you, for his protection.
>3] Ask Cyril if he'll go with you, as a friend, for the company and to show your appreciation for how much he's helped you.

>C] Write-in

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>>4073475
Archive: http://suptg.thisisnotatrueending.com/qstarchive.html?tags=Catalyst%20Quest
Discord: (Update notifications, fanart, music playlists, fan projects, etc.): https://discord.gg/t7F4yJH
Father Anscham’s Journal: (Your tenets, inventory, observations/ability through prayer, demons faced, and much more. Updated regularly.): https://drive.google.com/open?id=1r-yFdCSj0VJi63LsD3Vl9T0DWw4us6wn

(We will be running sessions Friday-Sunday, beginning in the afternoon, EST. Minimum of one post per day from Monday-Thursday!)

>>4073475
>A3

>>4073475
>3] Both of your attendants. If nothing else, they can at least see eye-to-eye on your health.
dab on king

>>4073487
>>4073495
(Locking the vote here to get this show on the road. Writing now!)

>>4073508
The trembling in your hands eases, as the weight of the letter is left on a table beside you. Kindling the hearth, you stiffly stretch, looking about to ensure that there is actually no one else in the room.

The bed is mussed, cold, and vacant.

Moving to a washbasin, with a quick "good morning," to Ray, your spine straightens further. The frigid water is far from ideal, but removing the blood and blessings off of your Flesh is critical.

The very sight of it, the reminder of bruises, cuts, flays and burns is enough to set you on fire.

It only takes a few moments, of ice and herbs, to scrub off the last of two days worth of devotion. No evidence remains of a single wound. Only vague recollections. Disjointed blessings.

Have I not accumulated more reasons to discard a summons, than cause to recognize them?

The prospect of running is fantastic. Enough so that you don't quite mind your reflection. Wide eyes, the deep bags nestled beneath them, the visible tremor running through your frame, and the countless scars marring your chronically emaciated body are not a concern.

They are a gift.

He will have to understand. They all will.

It's a short matter to dry off, toss on your robes, and try to eat something substantial. There is no pain, no need to avoid a further attempt at compensation. Not only for days of exertion without rest, but years of neglect and invocation.

It feels as if you haven't slept in two days. Hunger has not plagued you for over three years.

It is only four days until your birthday.

The letter is sweeped back along with your belongings, uneventfully, as you pick at some dried fruit with the opposite digits. Your journal remains out, as you call over to Ray.

The mastiff is utterly revolted by the prospect of the fruit, but nestles himself happily beside you. It takes only a moment to fit a thoroughly cleaned harness around Ray. A few licks on your hand from the hulking mastiff is the only interruption in placing your journal safely within a pouch on his gear, scratching his ears, and finishing attending to your own needs.

The flask of a demon, the tools of a healer, a scholar and a priest are all slipped into a satchel gifted to you by an unholy ally. It's lined with gold, dark as night, light as a feather, and terribly easy to forget about.

Your memory is impeccable, but there are so many causes for denying your King.

Looking back to your reflection, the hollows of your cheeks, and the absence of a bruise along your jaw, you confirm that there is no evidence of your last meeting with your host.

It feels as if I am compared to a demon more with each passing day.

Sister Cardew knows what I have endured, without omission or exaggeration. A priestess of Spirit would never balk at a fractured mind— yet there is no question she could scarcely keep her composure when we last spoke.

What of Father Friedrich?

How much would he even be willing to listen to?

(Options in next post)

>>4073565
>A] You'll make your issues clear, without getting into obscenities. The last thing you want is to be forcibly made to move. Ask Father Friedrich to stress...
>1] That you are a threat to your own safety. You sincerely could not control yourself only two nights past, and don't know how much worse things could have become.
>2] Your health is more important than anything, for the continued safety of the Church of Mercy. You pushed yourself to your upper limits for three weeks prior to arriving in Beorward, and have yet to see anything in the way of results.
>3] You are still grieving, after receiving correspondence from Father Edmund and rekindling old wounds from Mother Bethaea.

>B] Indulge your desire for oversharing. You'll confess to Father Friedrich that you've endured a number of tortures and breaks at the hands of demons. Stress that you require the care of Sister Cardew without any distractions.

>C] Let your caretaker, the military commander and the Father of Flesh vouch for your mental condition based on his own judgement. You'll swallow your pride, and accept whatever he has to say. This is your priority, and you'll accept whatever help he's willing to give.

>D] You sincerely are too unhinged for strategizing and planning. Two days with a Goddess still has your head in the clouds and your body on fire. Spend a few extra minutes reflecting and trying to collect yourself.

>E] Write-in.

>>4073567
>>C] Let your caretaker, the military commander and the Father of Flesh vouch for your mental condition based on his own judgement. You'll swallow your pride, and accept whatever he has to say. This is your priority, and you'll accept whatever help he's willing to give.

>>4073567
>>B] Indulge your desire for oversharing. You'll confess to Father Friedrich that you've endured a number of tortures and breaks at the hands of demons. Stress that you require the care of Sister Cardew without any distractions.

Let a brother chill out for a second.

>>4073572
>>4073574
(Can definitely work in both of these. Vote is locked, writing now.)

>>4073600
There are more concerns on your mind than you can track.

A Church of Agriculture, indebted to you, in shambles. Suicide after suicide.
A Church of Spirit, led by a man intent on healing you. Hurting you. Spreading rumors and slander. Pitted against you, staffing the woman sworn to aid you.
A Church of Storm, on the other side of the country. Visits from a God that has threatened to kill you. Gifted with visions of a deity you have never served. Awaiting messages that are months overdue.
A Church of Time, poised on a mountaintop, led by a woman who withheld word of your mentor's passing. Silent, respectfully absent from your life. Implored to answer.
A Church of Dream, pulled from its Father thanks to your need.
A Church of Mercy, the duty you've postponed once again.
Lies. Blasphemy. Rumor.
Dismissal of your position, those who would call you evidence of the Gods.
A congregation in the capital, waiting.
Your King, demanding.
The court, neglected.
War.
A country beset by demons from within.

My demons.

My body.

You sit down, trying to calm yourself. You take off the satchel. The weight eases off of your shoulders, if ever so slightly.

My mind.

Breathe.

You have been told many times that you are unbreakable.

Deep breaths.

I am not broken.

The room is frigid. Kindling the hearth has yet to do a thing for the furthest reaches of your bedroom. The myriad boxes of herbs and remedies rest on the edges of the walls. Piles of supplies and bandages are neatly stacked, arranged to your liking, neglected.

Your bed remains unkempt, unmade, and forgotten.

You move from the furthest reaches of the room.

Across the bearskin rug, your shoes sinking slightly into the jet-black fur.

Sitting down next to the flame, you permit a little more tinder to catch on the light.

The scent of scorched wood, smoke, and reprieve wafts up. A current, cold and unforgiving, opens out into the ceiling above. Closed curtains billow gently, promising the start of a new season.

Worship.

Hovering your hands over the fire for just a few moments, palms splayed outwards, you try to keep breathing.

Am I to blame for the state I am in?

How avoidable was all of the abuse?

Could I have ran from everything?

The start of a panic attack has you pause, to try to relax. Ray picks himself up from the opposite end of the room, trotting over to sit right alongside you. He drops his head beside where you sit, inviting you to scratch him. The contact is enormously reassuring, grounding, as you try to comfort yourself.

I can ask Father Friedrich to speak on my behalf. I can request that Sister Cardew send her reports.

It feels like your heart is in your throat.

To what end, though?

What do I really want?

(Options in next post.)

>>4073645
>A] A break. From everything. You're taking the day off, and no one is stopping you. Not even Cyril, who's company is growing on you, at least.
>1] Ask him to take you somewhere relaxing. You trust his judgement.
>2] Ask him to go with you to a good pub. You want a drink, and some normalcy.
>3] Ask him to simply keep you company in the Church of Flesh, for the day. He may only be tasked with guarding you, but you need some sane conversation.

>B] You want some privacy. Real privacy. Keep Ray in your room, make sure he's fed and has water, and sneak out.
>1] Just to the outskirts of the keep. Back to the guard tower. Spend some time sight seeing and reflecting.
>2] To the city. Stay disguised, ignore the slander, and try to get some fresh air.
>3] To the river. You are going fishing. Normal, relaxing, uninterrupted. Fishing.

>C] You want to pray. Not to call upon the Gods, but to simply ask for Their...
>1] Guidance, from Spirit.
>2] Compassion, from Mercy.
>3] Strength, from Flesh.
>4] Rest, from Dream.

>D] This is the last straw. You can't handle one more stressor. A solid breakdown seems prudent. Maybe a little self-injury, crying, overeating, whatever strikes you to take the edge off. (Write-in.)

>E] Write-in.

>>4073650
>>C] You want to pray. Not to call upon the Gods, but to simply ask for Their...
>>1] Guidance, from Spirit.
>>2] Compassion, from Mercy.
>>3] Strength, from Flesh.
>>4] Rest, from Dream.

We should learn how to properly use the gods.

>>4073650
>C] You want to pray. Not to call upon the Gods, but to simply ask for Their...
>4] Rest, from Dream.

If only one then Dream , we need the rest.
if more than one I'd say Spirit is the next most prudent to pray to in this moment.

>>4073653
+1

>>4073653
>>4073659
>>4073660
(Got the vote change, locking here and writing now.)

>>4073720
The bed is streaked with blood. Though its crimson is hardly visible against the sheets, all in the same hue, you stride over. Leaning beneath the opulent canopy, stripping off the fabric, everything is neatly folded aside. For all of your height, you make quick work of finding a fresh change of cloth, draping it over the mattress. Clean, inviting, and as praiseworthy as you could hope for, you try to calm down.

The simple motions help.

Still fully dressed, you lay back down. It takes several minutes, to unwind your anxiety, to roll back your shoulders, to sink into the bed.

The heat of the hearth has spread significantly. It licks at the edges of your robes, creeping up the mattress. The only sound to be heard is the steady crackle of wood under flame, and a light breeze against the curtains.

You command Ray, gently, to get some rest. He obliges with impeccable manners, staying off the bed and laying down beside the frame.

Closing your eyes, willingly, is so foreign to you that it takes several minutes to stop fidgeting.

A few more minutes pass.

The fire is still crackling.

Your hands clasp together, laying them steadily against your chest. The beat of your heart.

A blessing.

"Dream."

Wanting not for desire of vision, memory or invocation, letting your exhaustion sink into the feather and cloth beneath you, you drift off, to sleep.

No one visits you, in the darkness.

-----

The steady beat against your hands, the thrum of your heart, picks up. Your eyes remain closed, though there is another rhythm.

A pulse, in the back of your mind. A gift, of slumber without interruption. Devoid of pain or pleasure, you sink a little deeper into the sheets. The movement of your arms is relaxed, clothed in linen and wool. Pulling on your robes slightly, wrapping your arms about you, you're blanketed in comfort. Devoted, grateful beyond measure, a few more words of prayer escape you.

"Blessed be the night."

-----

A faint whistling picks up, on the edges of your mind. It's quiet enough to have escaped your notice in sleep.

The sage and gold in your vision drifts open. Rather than a panic, you're rested, hale, and alert for all the right reasons.

The hearth has gone out. You've surely been asleep for several hours.

Ray is happily nestled at the foot of the bed, taking up altogether too much room. He looks up to you, sheepishly, for permission to stay.

You sit upright, properly pulling him into a hug. Scratching his sides, yawning, you want for a proper greeting.

Glancing to the window, and are granted with afternoon light. Tucked behind the edges of your curtains, the amber and gold faintly casts a beam across the floor of your room. Hoping you were only asleep for a few hours, you murmur, "good afternoon, boy. Thank you for the company. Go on, now. It is— I am just fine."

A pat on the head, and your mastiff lumbers off, back to the bearskin rug.

(1/2)

>>4073836
There is no chill on you. Rather, there is an absence of agony. No trace of weariness, no webs of nightmares or lingering fatigue to speak of.

A slight smile creeps across your face. Your eyes are open, and a current is running up your spine, for how much better you feel.

Staying seated for another moment, purely out of respect, you cast down your eyes. Dropping your voice to a whisper, the least you can do is to conclude the prayer.

"Your works eclipse the nightmares of this world. I have walked in the darkness. Long have I been obscured from Your vision."

Shifting from your seated position, back onto your knees, you clasp your hands, resting them along the edge of the bed's frame. "Permit me to worship You. I have witnessed Your gifts. Neither terror nor madness can stay Your might. A gift, greater than prophecy."

Fervor takes hold of your voice, for how much relief you have, bowing your head further still. "Permit me to fall before You, in abject devotion.

You lift your head, murmuring, "Thank you. For Your rest. Your respite. Your reprieve. Blessed be the Dream."

Holding your arms about you, leaning into the relief, something picks back up across your rested mind.

The whistling is not abating, soft as it is.

You recognize the tune, tilting, melancholy. It's likely coming from the other outsider to the Church of Flesh, your guard, who was strictly instructed to not disturb you under any conditions.

>A] Commit to your prayer, to Spirit, Mercy and Flesh.
>1] Politely ask Cyril to keep his voice down, without opening the door.
>2] Go say hello, and try to get him to wait a few minutes.

>B] It's been two and a half days, at least, since you last left your room. You want help, and really don't know how to ask for it.
>1] Go make some normal conversation, or as best as you can manage. (Write-in anything you might want to ask or say.)
>2] Leave your quarters, and hope that the priest picks up on what's going on. Getting some sleep seems to have done you wonders, but it's no invocation.

>C] There is very Time-sensitive business you need to attend to, and everything else really needs to wait.
>1] Go see to Sister Cardew first. She might have some advice regarding the letter from King Magnus.
>2] Go to Father Friedrich's office, to get the ordeal over with.

>D] Write-in.

>>4073838
>>A] Commit to your prayer, to Spirit, Mercy and Flesh.
>2] Go say hello, and try to get him to wait a few minutes.

We are praising the gods over here cmon.

>>4073838
>C1 then C2

>>4073838
>B2

>>4073838
>C] There is very Time-sensitive business you need to attend to, and everything else really needs to wait.
>1] Go see to Sister Cardew first. She might have some advice regarding the letter from King Magnus.

>>4073842
>>4073847

Prayer very obviously helps us, why not pray to everyone before we go about our business? We aren't going to talk to the king in person and we are waiting for a bunch of replies, we can afford to pray for our health for once.

>>4073838
>A] Commit to your prayer, to Spirit, Mercy and Flesh.
>2] Go say hello, and try to get him to wait a few minutes.

>>4073842
>>4073851
>>4073860
(Pray before going about business)

>>4073847
(Directly opposed by majority vote BUT getting the hell out of the room makes sense)

>>4073850
(C1)

>>4073844
(Then C2.

Wew. Almost every prompt. I have to go take a break to go make some food and take care of a few things, but I will be back and writing ASAP.

Vote is locked.)

>>4073887
(Thanks for your patience guys, back for the evening. Writing now!)

>>4074038
Articulate and soft-spoken enough to mask the thickness of your old and rustic accent, you call out, "good afternoon, Cyril."

The crass reply makes you wince. "Good? It's been three fucking days! I'm not hearing it! C'mon, Father—!"

Striding across the room, you open the banded wooden door and iron abruptly. Frowning, repeating yourself. "Good afternoon, Brother Trebbeck."

This is not circular. I am not obsessive. This man has no respect for the Church.

Clad in the exact same attire you last saw him in, ratty red robes, shorn sleeves, an overgrown ponytail, and enough strength to easily push open the door behind you, your frown is punctuate by a muffled gasp. You're nearly knocked back, as Cyril props the door open effortlessly.

With enough restraint to stay expertly on your feet, the frown returns at full.

The priest's perpetual smirk becomes a smile. You're punched very lightly on your shoulder, while he drawls, "Faaather Anschaaam."

Ignoring the tap, already backing up, you murmur, "I am in prayer, Cyril. Please wait. I will only be a few more minutes."

It seems prudent to slip further back, behind the door.

Cyril leans his head in, grinning ear to ear. "Need anything?"

"A few more minutes—" he is making me repeat myself, "and please, keep your voice down." You're attempting to close the door, not necessarily fighting arms that are easily twice as large as your own. The token effort is supported verbally, with another murmur. "I will be right out."

Loosely tied bangs and bright blue eyes disobediently leer into the room. Glinting. Mischievous.

You put a foot behind the wood, straighten your shoulders further, and properly leaning into the door with the edge of your robes.

Priests of Flesh are notorious for listening better to body language. Right?

"Brother Trebbeck."

"Alright— alright! Fine."

Releasing his grip on the planks and metal, you're nearly pulled forward with the sudden absence of tension. Staying upright, you stagger back. It's only possible to complete right yourself in the interior of your room.

Straightening your robes, you whip your head around. The door is firmly shut, with a thud. Glancing back to the interior of your quarters, you see that Ray is back on the bed, looking to you quizzically. With a frown, you mutter, "do not give me that look."

He relaxes, stretching himself out, yawning while you get back to the flame.

Wanting for a holy symbol, you cross back over the floor, drop down beside the heat, the hearth, and turn away from prying eyes.

Away from scrutiny. Away from anyone of this world. Waving a hand to Ray, to command your boy to stay where he is.

Ignoring the presence of a guardian at your door, closing your own eyes, you take to a knee.

White dances on the interior of your vision.

Immaterial, in threads all along your eyes.

With a deep breath, you almost immediately relax.

(1/4)

>>4074323
https://youtu.be/flMl5iocfcQ

There's no pain. No agony. No break, no scratch in the back of your mind, or a want for anything more than to understand.

The prayer is low. Words to be known only between you, and a Goddess of Wisdom.

"Spirit," you start, trying to keep your voice level, "I beg you for your guidance. My mind has unraveled, yet—"

You pause.

Hesitation is replaced in full, with conviction. "I know where to begin searching. For answers. For knowledge. For the strands of Your insight. The immaterial must be known."

"Goddess of Experience," you whisper, "I have known You. Hundreds of years shared, in sight and in devotion. I seek a path, now, through the valley of my own life. A road, through the most perilous landscape I could ever hope to face. Your domain lies not in the land, or in this body."

The whisper is a breath, to an unseen figure beside you. Close enough to know She is listening. "I ask You to aid my mind. Help me. Please."

Knitting your brow, clutching your hands together as tightly as you're able, there's a faint pressure. A pull, and the slightest embrace around the band upon your ring finger. The yellow-gold is immaculate, and you bring it to your chest, holding the gift as near to your heart as you can. Beside your Relic, kept apart from your skin by a few mere layers of cloth, you can still feel all of Her heat.

There is no need for words. Not between you and your patron, partner, and Goddess.

Purely for the love of Her name, "Mercy," leaves your lips.

Though you're certain of the days you've spent together, the hours in Her care, the lifetime of service and devotion that rivals your own, She takes you aback. An embrace is on your soul, tightly enough to take the air from your lungs, to bring your hands to your lips. You breathe, to implore the Goddess, "please."

Several long minutes pass, wrapped in a caress. Every scar littering your frame is pressed and adored.

"You are my grace. You are my kindness. Mercy, I wish only to share in You. Your day, Your light, Your compassion—"

There is no question in your mind that you are loved unconditionally.

Many minutes likely pass, before you stop reeling.

At some point, you unclasped your hands.

They're still and steady. Held together by a force greater than any affliction of your vessel.

Through your own restraint, and desire to share Her love, you keep yourself together.

It seems like a good a Time as any, to serve the Gods in every way you can. To work towards your own betterment. To address your flaws, and implore a deity who you allegedly have yet to disappoint.

Who you are certain has forsaken you.

(2/4)

>>4074326

Taking to a single knee, you clasp your hands back together. Resting your wrists on the side of the hearth, looking to the flame, you permit the crimson and smoke to catch in your vision. The light plays off of your sacrilege, the wasted skin and bone.

The prayer starts as desperately as one would suspect.

"Help me. Help me to be better. Flesh of my Flesh, I—"

You're colder than you should be.

Embraced by the Goddess of Light, you lean closer to the flame.

Conviction picks up your murmur.

Deeper, "I wish to conquer my failures."

Emboldened, "To battle my weakness."

Determined.

"You, above all others, feel this form. I will sculpt this vessel. Not through suffering, abuse or despair. Through devotion. Through prudence. Through faith. I will ask for Your strength, when it is rightfully earned."

Taking a deep breath, letting the flame soak into you, it comes as no surprise that the fire persists in your figure.

As you get back to your feet, it lingers. Even after you've snuffed out the last of the tinder, grab your things, and move to open the door.

It's equally unsurprising that Cyril is standing in precisely the same spot you left him in.

Ray smoothly exits behind you.

Closing the door, wanting for a key, you hope it doesn't hurt to linger for an extra moment. Looking to Cyril. Fidgeting.

Why is there never enough Time? Could he have not waited another day? Another week?

"Hey. Richard."

"Yes—?"

You're rapped on the shoulder again. "I know you're busy and all, but I'll be around."

Fidgeting, more nervously than before. The links of gold that your Relic hangs from would likely be tarnished for how much you toy with it. It's a constant reminder, of everything worth suffering for. A reminder to show yourself compassion.

There is still so much work to do.

You murmur, "thank you for letting me know," before setting to walk back down the hall.

Cyril skips up next to you, briefly. "By around, I meant right here."

"I understood you—"

"Not going anywhere."

"Yes, thank you, Cyril—"

Another, lighter tap still. "Rub and Grub Pub." The enunciation is ridiculous, far more dramatic than a pub should command.

He is oblivious.

"I have not forgotten. You know I will keep my word."

"Good. You okay with me cleaning up?" A generic wave, back towards the closed doors, down the hall, and not far away enough.

"That— yes, that is fine." Walking a little faster, Ray is completely content to place himself between you and the blonde.

Giving you a wider berth, Cyril stops the knocks on your shoulder. His slouch is severe enough that you constantly forget he's almost your height. Regardless of the ease he should have in matching your pace, he hangs back. Seizing the opportunity, you put more distance between you both. He doesn't holler again, in an odd display of respect, and simply mock-salutes as you turn the corner.

(3/4)

>>4074330
Bless him, he is trying.

The halls of the Church of Flesh's exterior ward, as usual, are devoid of any revelry. To your pleasant surprise, a few priests and priestesses seem to be attending to the corridors. Infinitely more than what you previously encountered, and all appear to be fairly busy. You keep your head down. A few polite clergymen acknowledge you with a, "good afternoon," or "hello, Father Anscham," but seem to have the decency to not pay you any heed.

Turning a few more halls, you stride up to Sister Cardew's door while deftly avoiding any further scrutiny.

There are several more notes tacked onto her front door. The writing seems to have been impressed more deeply into the page with each subsequent note, and you have to wonder for the woman's own sanity as you glance over the pages.

"Do not enter for cleaning."
"Not a patient, attending priestess."
"Door is to remain locked."
"Inquiries regarding the Church of Spirit are to be directed through proper channels."
"Inquiries regarding any other affairs are to be made in writing. Correspondence will be made in the order in which they are received."
"Inquiries regarding liquor are to be directed to the Church of Agriculture. (It was not funny the first time.)"

In the center is the old note, slightly wrinkled, evidently having been torn down and replaced at least twice.
"Keep out. Don't knock. I don't care if the building is literally on fire (again)."

She appreciated a note well enough the last time I came to her room, but she is ultimately here for my care.

>A] Don't waste any more Time. It's apparently been three solid days since you've dealt with a mortal affair.
>1] Knock, politely announce yourself, and stay discreet. The last thing you want is a fuss.
>2] Knock, plainly announce yourself, and stress that the matter is urgent. You have no need for pride.

>B] Quietly pen a note, stressing that the matter is urgent and needs to be discussed privately.
>1] Knock before sliding the note under the door.
>2] Trust the priestess of Spirit to know that you're lingering.

>C] You can take a little extra Time for this. Write a note, and wait as long as it takes to get a sane reply.

>D] Write-in.

>>4074334
>B] Quietly pen a note, stressing that the matter is urgent and needs to be discussed privately.
>2] Trust the priestess of Spirit to know that you're lingering.

>>4074334
>B2

>>4074346
>>4074530
(Locking the vote here for one more update of the night. Writing now.)

>>4074568
Ripping off a small piece of parchment from your possessions— the cleanest one you can find— and scratching out a note takes a matter of seconds.

"Urgent matter, needs to be addressed discreetly. I am waiting right outside with Ray. — Father Anscham"

Sliding the note beneath Sister Cardew's door, and glancing around the hallway, you try to smoothly stand back upright.

Absolutely no one pays you any heed.

Several minutes pass.

Ray demands a little attention, which you happily oblige. He seems proud of his harness, and you try to not fuss with it.

A few more minutes pass.

Is she out working?

"Father," rings out, over a jingle. The lock behind the door seems to have multiplied, for the impatience in Harriet's voice. "Just a moment."

Taking a broad step backwards, looking down, you do your best to not fidget too frequently. Another minute or so goes by, with "papercuts and dogears," and a few, "by all the Gods, this shouldn't be necessary."

Sister Cardew finishes unbolting the entrance to her room, looking up to you with a weary smile. She glances down, and back to you. "He's well behaved, as always." Your slip of parchment is in the brunette's hand, snapped between two fingers. She points it to you, briefly, glancing repeatedly down both ends of the hallway. "You are a sight for sore eyes. I was beginning to wonder if I'd ever see you again."

Your frown is immediate.

"A joke." She's as straight-faced as you are, and possibly sterner.

Could have fooled me.

Good intent and a welcome nod of her head beckons into the room, contrary to how harsh her tone is. "Don't just stand out there. Come in."

As quickly as you're able, ducking inside, you usher Ray behind you.

He immediately looks as if he wants to explore. Your eyes go wider, glancing at a collection of white flowers and cloth on almost every surface of the small chamber. Sister Cardew takes a step ahead of you, nodding towards two chairs set opposite each other. They're right near the door, but to your relief she requests, "help me move these further back."

Getting situated near a far wall, you glance around again. It's unusual for you to be so alert, having rested properly. The air smells of white lilies and lavender. A number of bolts of fabric are draped across half of the room, obscuring what you strongly suspect to be Harriet's actual living quarters. The rest of the open area— a hearth, stacks of parchment, a small collection of books, and the chairs you're occupying, are all shoved as far from the door as possible. You catch a few names along the spines of each book, pertaining to different clergy within the Church of Flesh. Though your eyesight is excellent, Harriet's room does not have a window, and the entire chamber is lit poorly. Beeswax candles intermingle with the sweet smelling air.

(1/4)

>>4074697
The hearth is out, and she politely explains, "you caught me at a good Time. I just got in." Another wave of the note, a frown. "What's all of this about?"

There is literally nothing I could tell this priestess that would shock her. Not after everything she has heard.

"King Magnus— He— there was a letter. He has personally addressed me—"

The thin lips across from you get visibly tighter.

Restlessly, your hands twitch back to the metal around your neck and collarbones. Fixing your gaze down, avoiding the gaze pointed at you, you settle your eyes on the frayed white shawls draped over both chairs. "There has been— it is nearly thirty pages, Sister Cardew."

"Let me take a look."

You produce the gilded vellum immediately, to the horror of the woman sitting across from you. She flips through the pages, wide-eyed. "He's supposed to be Merciful. This is outrageous. You can't."

With a nod, keeping your eyes averted, you murmur, "I know."

The letter is handed back, in full, after what feels like only a few seconds. You can hear her smile, pained as it is. "This complicates things, doesn't it?"

"Yes. I was hoping— if it is not too much to ask—" you pause, expecting to be interrupted.

There's no interjection, as the priestess patiently waits for you to continue. Glancing back to her, you nearly draw back.

Her brow is furrowed, a hand to her temple, visibly distressed. She still doesn't say a word, though it looks as though several dozen curses are on the tip of her tongue.

Trying to sit upright, you implore, "Sister Cardew, I— I was hoping, if you had any thoughts on the matter— I cannot possibly travel to Calunoth. Not now. Not like—"

She finally interjects, curtly, "no. Absolutely not. It's out of the question."

"If— I understand what a difficult position you must be in, but— I— I need your aid. Your word. You understand— better— absolutely more than anyone. What I have—"

The hand at Sister Cardew's temple goes to the bridge of her nose, adjusting the over-sized lenses. Smiling tightly back to you. It's disarming, enough for her to interject again. "Father Anscham."

"Yes?"

"I know it's difficult, but please, try to look at me. Just for a moment."

You do. She looks as if she's been hurt physically. You're grimacing hard enough that your face hurts, too, but she keeps smiling. It reminds you of Father Wilhelm, and it's hard to not hate it.

She folds her hands neatly, on her lap, and drops the smile. "Are you aware of what this means for you? What refusing Him may entail?"

It's entirely too difficult to keep her gaze. Ray drops himself at your feet, on top of your shoes, clearly bothered by how upsetting the conversation is.

You don't bother scratching him, for how much you're fidgeting, and murmur, "Father Sullivan's accusations— I am certain— would never fall under question. Not now. Not— not if—"

(2/4)

>>4074699
"Richard."

It's inappropriate for her to address you as such, and hurts a lot more to hear the absence of your title than it rightfully should. Especially for everything that follows.

"You might not have a place to go home to. Not as you should. Not for everything you have endured. Certainly not for everything you've earned."

She squeezes a handful of her skirts and shawls so tightly, it's audible. You glance up, to see something terrible.

The priestess looks furious. "You deserve a lot more than a few weeks to yourself. It's not right. He knows what he's doing." She's standing, moving, to get parchment and pens. "They don't know the half of it. They wouldn't doubt you for a second if they did. It's not right—"

A quick glance over her shoulder, and a flurry of fabric, is pointed directly at you. "You know I will help you, to the best of my ability."

"Y-yes."

"Let's prove them wrong. What did I promise you?"

"Transparency."

Grabbing enough parchment to fill another book, the priestess drops unceremoniously back down in her chair, and looks to you earnestly. "That's right. You tell me what you need. No one else is hurting you under our watch. Got it?"

"I— Sister Cardew?"

"Yes?"

"I sincerely need your advice."

The pen is set back down, firmly. "I see."

"No one knows of what I have endured— not— not the full extent of it." Keeping your composure, maintaining your restraint, has the tremor back in your hands in full. Knitting them, trying to keep your voice level, you manage, "I am overwhelmed. I need help. I understand that this is madness. I— I am not well. Father Friedrich knows it. Everyone— I imagine most people—"

"There's no need for that."

"There is. What can I do? The last thing I want is for any harm to befall you, or anyone else tasked with— with aiding me." Glancing to the white curtains, and all attempts to stave off a headache are proving futile. "I need to rest. To recover. To heal. Properly. Father Wilhelm did everything he could simply to get me here. I cannot fathom shouldering one more complaint, Sister—"

A hand goes to your knee. It squeezes, very gently. "It's alright. Take a minute."

"There is never—"

"Really. You want my advice, right?"

"Yes—"

"Breathe. Just for a few seconds. Let me gather my thoughts. I'm getting carried away, too."

The hand comes off, gently, while you try to slow your pulse.

A few deep breaths are not so bad. There's lavender, and white lilies.

It vaguely reminds you of dry-heaving in a valley of death, with a demon of Spirit intruding on your mind.

Ray tucks his head under your arm, whining, doing his best to remind you that he's there.

Sister Cardew clears her throat, doing the same. "Richard."

"Y-yes—"

"It's the flowers, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"I'll take care of them. Can you stay with me?"

A pause. You take another deep breath, aware that your pulse is in your chest, your throat.

(3/4)

>>4074702
You open your eyes. The hand is back on your knee, squeezing very softly. Choking down the nausea, you manage, "yes."

"Good." The squeeze persists. "You're an honest man. I think you should use that to your advantage. There is no shame in anything you have endured. Mercy set you on your mission for good reason, right?"

There's no need to reply, for how sternly you look back at Sister Cardew. Your response is for more than the sake of anyone sitting in the room with you, clear and convicted. "There could not be a more righteous calling. To live is to serve, Sister."

She smiles, sincerely, back at you. "That's what I thought. You need to let the world know, Father. I can vouch for you. Repeating," she waggles the end of her pen, "the word of the Father of the Church of Mercy is nothing to hide. Nothing worth reprimand. A report, in regards to locating a divine Relic. One that was entrusted to you by the Goddess Herself. A little recovery, mandated by Father Friedrich—" she smirks, "who can easily vouch for attending to the state you're in. Possibly, due to the mistreatment of a certain Brother or two?"

Her eyebrows are raised.

You're frowning.

"Might be too far?"

(Options in next post)

>>4074719
>A] This seems as good of a plan as any. Relay your findings in brief from the ruins, but keep the focus on your need for recovery and rest. Buy as much Time as you can.

>B] You want to go further. Stress your divine right to lead the Church of Mercy, and everything you've accomplished in Her name.

>C] Implicating Brother Morris and Brother Stace seems long overdue. It was years ago, but you're still living with the consequences of their actions today.
>1] Keep it vague, just enough to raise eyebrows and put them under scrutiny.
>2] You want to put a fire under them. Don't leave it to question. Not everyone will take kindly to your candidness, but you're willing to make the trade-off.
>3] Ask Sister Cardew how far she's willing to extend herself. See if she'll report Father Sullivan's neglect, too.

>D] This is entirely too far. You want to stress that Father Sullivan is right. Father Friedrich and Father Wilhelm are, too. You're unwell. You need this Time. You will fight your own battles, when you're ready, and simply need testimony that you're unfit to travel.
>1] Keep it as tasteful as possible. Stress that you just came out of the ruins. You're already called a demon, what's "madman" on top of the pile?
>2] Keep it honest, and get into the specifics. Your reputation is tarnished, and a little more fuel for the fire will not stop you from making matters right. The Church of Mercy is, ultimately, your home. Nothing can change that.

>E] Write-in.

>(Some of these prompts are mutually exclusive. Majority will decide in the event of directly conflicting options. Thank you for the phenomenal start to the thread everyone!)

>>4074727
>>C] Implicating Brother Morris and Brother Stace seems long overdue. It was years ago, but you're still living with the consequences of their actions today.
>3] Ask Sister Cardew how far she's willing to extend herself. See if she'll report Father Sullivan's neglect, too.

We got fucked at every turn since we first entered the clergy and even so we came back with a relic and a congregation of people. We have earned to chill out a bit.

>B] You want to go further. Stress your divine right to lead the Church of Mercy, and everything you've accomplished in Her name.

Stress to Sister Cardew to not make it sound like boasting, just simply display all the good work we have done. People like us have no use for pride.

>E] Write-in.

"I have a duty to all the gods and their churches, not just that of Mercy. I would like to tackle their every issue when I am at my utmost strength, anything less would be a disgrace to the gods."

>>4074727
Let's do this >>4074727

>>4074829
+1

>>4074829
>>4075363
>>4075395
(Awesome, locking the vote here. Writing now.)

>>4075455
The grimace painting your face intensifies. "No. Far from it." It's all you can do to keep the tremor out of your voice. "It is— Sister Cardew, this is so long overdue, I hardly know where to begin. They— this," you gesture towards the parchment, "they have destroyed my life. My body. My home. I cannot fathom a more appropriate retribution. Not— not to speak of Vengeance so candidly— but this is the right thing to do."

Your grimace is reflected right back at you. "I couldn't agree more." The hand on your knee squeezes a little more tightly.

"Will you pen this for me? The— an implication."

"Of course."

It was her idea, but Mercy, is this reassuring.

"What of the rest?"

You are an honest man. Fervent, devoted, and unafraid. "They were not the only ones at fault."

Her grimace tightens, as does the hold on her pen. "I know."

"Would you— I would never wish to jeopardize your position in the Church of Spirit—"

The hand on your knee releases, as the priestess across from you pulls back. She stands up, looking down on you. Every inch of her reads that she wants to take you into another hug, but there's clearly something staying the motion.

"I would have," her voice cracks, "even if you hadn't asked."

It feels like you're tearing a daughter from her home. Trying to explain further is useless. She's heard everything, but still, you murmur, "Father Sullivan— I know he's meant well—"

"It's not right. None of it is. He had no right."

"Some of it is—" you scramble to correct her, "my work would never have been possible without being taken in. My worship— Mercy. I— I don't wish to boast, or brag..."

Trailing off, with a deep sigh, you try to glance up. Ray is wrestling himself beneath your arm in full, dropping his head on your lap, and demanding that you use your hands for something other than fidgeting or clutching at metal tightly enough to hurt yourself.

You scratch behind his ears, his sides, and place your hands together.

"My work— it— I have done so much good, Sister Cardew. You know, possibly better than anyone. It extends so much further than the halls of the Church of Flesh. Receiving Idonea's Relic— my Relic, Her mission, my congregation— Mercy, I deserve a break."

She sits back down, slowly, keeping her eyes on you all the while. "I would never hope for less from you." Her grimace lifts, if only slightly. The priestess is still waiting to write, but her pen is poised. "I'll paint the best picture I can. No exaggerations, alright? The truth is unbelievable enough as it is."

(1/2)

>>4075654
"I— I know— but thank you. I— I have no use for pride, Sister. My duty— to all of the Gods— it extends to their Churches, as well. Now, more than ever. Not just that of Mercy. All of Them. I will serve Them, and aid Them, beyond the best of my current ability. I wish to combat each and every issue my family is facing."

The grimace across from you seems to have broken back into a small smile. There's no interruption.

"I need to build my strength. There is nothing I can do to help others if I lack faith in myself. Anything less— it would be a disgrace. Not— not only to myself, but to all of the Gods."

The smile is weary, but earnest. Devoted. A little light comes back into Harriet's voice. "You don't hear this often enough, I'm sure, but you're a good man."

You aren't sure how to respond, and let her continue.

"I understand, completely. I'll finish this before the afternoon is out. Safely. Discreetly. No one will interfere with correspondence from the Church of Spirit." Her voice drops, "nor a royal message."

"I cannot begin to tell you how much I appreciate it."

The smile persists, with a tilt of her head. Pin-straight hair hangs slightly under all of her shawls, as Harriet reminds you, "to know is to serve. Thank you." She sets aside the parchment, if only for a moment. "Gaining a better understanding your situation has been a blessing. I understand that you're pressed for Time, so I won't keep you." Leaning forward in her chair, hands clasped together, your caretaker asks, "but can you let me know how you've been?"

Back to fidgeting.

"It's been three and a half days. I don't want to stress you, but we've been worried. You deserve the break, but, well. There's no need to disclose anything. I simply want you to know that I'm here."

>A] You've been at your wits end, each and every time you've had a moment away from prayer. You're scared you're losing yourself, and don't know how to stay grounded. You really aren't fine, at all, and would appreciate some more reassurance.

>B] You're a nervous wreck, but having so much support has been helpful. You're taking the day off, and intend to do something with it. (Write-in how you'd like to spend your day off, alone.)

>C] There's so much on your mind, you would rather keep moving, drop the subject, and get to seeing Father Friedrich.
>1] Ask Sister Cardew if she'll come with you, for moral support, and to reassure him that this matter will not compromise your stay in the Church of Flesh.
>2] Thank the priestess, but get moving without her. She's likely busy as well.

>D] Your last evening out with Harriet was phenomenal. Ask if she'd accompany you for the afternoon, while you get some reprieve.
>1] Go out for some tea. You can talk over something more pleasant.
>2] Ask if you can stay here, after seeing Father Friedrich, just for the quiet and conversation.

>E] Write-in.

>>4075656
>D2

>>4075656
>>D] Your last evening out with Harriet was phenomenal. Ask if she'd accompany you for the afternoon, while you get some reprieve.
>2] Ask if you can stay here, after seeing Father Friedrich, just for the quiet and conversation.

We are waiting to hear back from a bunch of people anyway, it may be an opportunity to get some juicy insider info on the church of Spirit while we are at it.

>>4075656
>D2

>>4075657
>>4075661
>>4075761
(Alright, unanimous, going to lock the vote here. Writing now.)

>>4075775
"Is there any way we could resume this discussion," you try to not tense or tremble, "some peace, and quiet— if I could possibly stay here, for the afternoon? After I see to Father Friedrich?"

"Of course."

A sigh of relief escapes you. "Thank you so much. I— there is a good deal of news I am waiting for, as well. It may be prudent to stay closer to the Church. To my own quarters."

"It's alright, Father. Really."

Moving to stand, you pry Ray off with a murmur. "Thank you, again. I will— hopefully this will not take too long."

"I'll be right here." She's writing quickly, filling a page in a matter of moments. "Don't you worry about a thing. Get yourself something to eat before you come back, alright?"

With a nod, you move to cross the room. It's abundantly clear that several more locks have been added to the woman's door since you last visited her. You count four, at a glance, before she promptly stands.

A rush of cloth whisks across the room, as the priestess moves past you, and gets the door open in moments. It was unlocked, but she seems to make a point of letting you out. "Take your Time." She smiles, "I know you can handle yourself."

Another nod, gratefully, as you gesture for Ray to follow you out.

Down the corridor of the exterior ward, you are not greeted again by the bustling healers attending to the myriad rooms. It sounds as if sleet is still pelting on the roof, as you keep to the innermost passages. Winding through a number of hallways, arches, and unlocked doors, you emerge out into the interior ward within minutes.

The center of the keep is bustling. A great number of priests are engaged in sparring in one of the larger hallways, in an impromptu fight. More are cleaning, scrubbing down old blood, the last remnants of the recent outbreak. More still are running, heading off to other engagements.

Very few heads turn towards you and Ray, while you proceed towards Father Friedrich's office, but the ones that do seem surprised. Most take a moment to stop, to offer a little respect before carrying on with their duty.

A priestess, running past with easily as much speed as you've demonstrated in recent days, hollers, "Father Anscham—!"
"Good to see you," A priest, his attention completely focused on prayer, manages to glance up for a moment as you walk by, "Father."
"'afternoon, sir—!" from a series of bustling skirts, a maid carrying buckets full of bubbling soap and water.

Carving a path through the commotion, you silently try to keep your head down, to nod to whoever addresses you. It gets significantly quieter, as you approach the door at the center of the keep.

Knocking, you attempt to announce yourself. "Father Friedrich! It's Father Anscham—"

The door is pulled open, abruptly.

(1/3)

>>4075856
The office is nearly empty. Multiple maps are spread out over the table just past your host. Father Friedrich's wide frame is blocking most of the entrance, as he props open the door. The gray streaking his white beard bristles, looking up to you. He smirks, "you're up!"

"Yes. May I—?"

"Come in, come in— you brought Ray." A frown, a wave for you to come inside. "Of course."

You oblige the invitation, calling your boy inside the office. Commanding him to "sit" and "stay," takes only a moment.

There are no chairs, no evidence of any recent meetings. Alongside the many maps are stacks of ledgers, and a great many letters. You marvel for a moment, at all of the paper, while Father Friedrich closes the door to his office once again.

He strides over to you, firmly patting on your shoulder, and smirking all the while. "You look anxious. More than usual. What's going on? Didn't you get any sleep?"

Trying to focus on the task at hand, you murmur, "prayer appears to be the only thing that will aid my health, Father." Fishing for the letter from your King, you continue, "thank you, again, for the advice. I was able to rest, but was rudely awoken—"

The moment that the gilded parchment comes into view, the priest is all fire. "I heard."

"Pardon?" You hold out the letter in full, permitting the man to inspect the documents.

"Messenger came asking for you specifically." His frown is intensifying by the second as he briefly flips through the gold. "Summons. Demands. Bullshit!"

"You did not— did you even read—"

The paper is handed back to you. "Seen enough of this shit to know better. Waste of my Time. When do you need to leave?"

Standing still has you wanting to pace. Fortunately, the man at your side pats your back again, leading you to walk along the edges of the expansive room. Trying to elaborate, you murmur, "I cannot possibly deal with this— not— not right now."

The frown at your side intensifies further. "He'll sack you."

"He will not." You stop, looking down to your mentor. "You know I trust your judgement, Father. I would never wish to disrespect you, or your guidance—"

The corners of his lips and the edges of his beard twitch, meeting your gaze, and staring you down. "Get on with it."

"You have said yourself— that I am unwell."

"Am I wrong?"

"No," you immediately mutter, running a hand along the back of your neck, trailing along the metal, trying to keep a hold of yourself, "you are— you could not be any more correct. I have— I was—"

Brow knitted, trying to keep your eyes averted, you confess, "I only wish to recover. Here, under yours and Sister Cardew's care. Without any further interruptions, or distractions. To heal."

Silence weighs between you both.

"Well?"

"I was tortured in the ruins, at the hands of demons."

(2/3)

>>4075857
Glancing up from the stone beneath your feet, trying to gauge a response, you see that his arms are crossed. Looking intently to you, scrutinizing you in turn.

Desperately, you try to elaborate, to indulge the need to share before there's another interjection. "It— it was— numerous breaks—"

"Breaks?"

"—and ordeals that I know you do not wish to hear— but, ultimately, I— I need your aid. Here, and now, in any manner you see fit. I—" you pause, trying to keep your voice from cracking.

A hand goes to your shoulder. "Richard."

"Y-yes?"

"Sit down."

It's awkward, but you drop down to the stone, and sit alongside Father Friedrich on the floor. He keeps his hand on your shoulder, all the while.

"Listen."

You try to glance over, to hold the piercing, red stare.

The veteran's eyes seem heavy with exhaustion, the white in his hair stark against the afternoon rays of light. He does something a little strange, and leans back, fully. Laying down, the crimson in the priest's eyes flicks over to you. "I can tell Him to piss off. That's not an issue."

A deep and ragged sigh escapes you. "Thank you—"

Holding up a finger, he continues, "don't thank me just yet."

"What—"

The finger goes down. Father Friedrich sits back upright, quickly and with perfect form. Turning to face you, he frowns. "We'll make a case for you, alright?"

You try to encourage him, "Sister Cardew and I are also attending to a report."

"Good. Good. Listen— Richard."

"Yes?"

"Really."

"I am listening."

"Look at me."

He's frowning. The lines around his eyes almost seem deeper than when you last saw him.

"What the fuck did they do to you? Breaks? How much was—" he gestures to his holy symbol, your Relic, "Them, and how much was those bastards?"

>A] You have no idea where the division lies between invocation, abuse, or your Relic's uses. You'd rather hear his thoughts on the matter, based on his own experiences.

>B] Keep the explanation pertaining to Flesh, as best as you can describe what occurred. The Father of Flesh would know better than anyone how to get back in his patron's good graces.

>C] You want to understand what transpired, and learn to live with it, not undo the effects of your time in the ruins. It's not that you're a demon— you simply want to learn to live with your experiences.

>D] You think that the line between your divinity and your Catalyst might not be so clear-cut. (Write-in your speculation.)

>>4075859
>>B] Keep the explanation pertaining to Flesh, as best as you can describe what occurred. The Father of Flesh would know better than anyone how to get back in his patron's good graces.

>>4075859
>>A] You have no idea where the division lies between invocation, abuse, or your Relic's uses. You'd rather hear his thoughts on the matter, based on his own experiences.

I don't know man we just killed shit ok?

(Getting some sleep extra early tonight, vote is open. See you guys tomorrow!)

>>4075859
>A] You have no idea where the division lies between invocation, abuse, or your Relic's uses. You'd rather hear his thoughts on the matter, based on his own experiences.

>>4075863
>>4076471
>>4075861
(Woke up for no good reason, gonna knock out an update. Locking the vote here while the tie is broken, writing now!)

>>4076559
The straightest face you can muster is so stern, Father Friedrich lets out a laugh.

"Mercy, Richard, forgive me— but you don't need to look so," a wave of his hands, as he gestures vaguely to his own face.

A little tension drops from your shoulders, at how sincerely apologetic he looks.

A few moments pass, while you both get a full handle on your composure.

It falls to you to break the silence.

https://youtu.be/11Wi4KQQzkc

"I did little else but kill."

Your fellow priest doesn't judge. "I see."

Exasperated, you mutter, "I sincerely have no idea how to answer your question." Looking down, imploring him with wide eyes, "I would rather hear your thoughts on the matter. Your own experiences. My accounts—"

A hand goes up, stopping you.

Father Friedrich scoots over, sitting himself beside you, wrapping an arm around your shoulder. Although he's nearly half a foot shorter than you, he manages to make the movement appear effortless.

The man's free hand goes to the strand of red silk, the thread around his neck. He lifts up his holy symbol, a crimson needle, and manipulates the object between his hands. "I know my patron." It dances for a moment around his fingers, before he takes it in hand, and points the object towards you. "You don't."

"Excuse me?"

"Not Mercy. I'm not that much of an ass. Flesh, Richard. You don't know Him. Plain and simple."

You're frowning so hard, it may be permanent.

The priest shifts slightly, elaborating, "Flesh would never permit someone so devout to die. Not you. Not in battle. No one— never— in self-defense. But you put yourself in those ruins, didn't you?"

"Yes."

The arm around your shoulder is on fire, hot enough to feel through the thin fabric clinging to muscle and sinew. It tenses, slightly, as you're pulled in closer. It's not quite a hug, but the man is obviously trying. "You got yourself out, too. I know it couldn't have been all thanks to Them."

Somehow, you manage to sit further upright. "Absolutely."

"Flesh is not fickle. He would want what's best for you. So do I." The embrace around your shoulders loosens, just enough for the man at your side to put his holy symbol back about his neck. "Now, you know just as well as I do—"

"Everyone has their own interpretations, yes."

Pulling at his beard for a moment, Father Friedrich seems to need to take a rare moment to think before he speaks.

"I've been through some shit," the priest points to the only scar you know he possesses.

You cough.

The deep gash that cuts across his left eye wrinkles, as he smiles broadly enough to make his eyes squint. "First day I invoked Him. Lost my first wife. She lost a lot more. Catalyst of regret. Unbelievable, right?"

(1/3)

>>4076759
Though he's smiling, the juxtaposition between his face and his tone is deeply uncomfortable. Nervous. You keep a straight face, as the man continues, dropping his expression significantly. "She gave me three of our boys. Seemed dead-set on taking them away. I put myself in the line of fire—" a wince, of only the left eye, "and asked for more strength than I had in me. I couldn't do it."

The smile is back, but melancholy, and sincere. "He gave me more than I could have asked for. He was there for me, Richard. And this," he points again, to the dark and reddened Flesh, "has never let me forget."

"I am terribly sorry."

He seems unwilling to acknowledge the sentiment for a few long minutes.

"Don't be." Father Friedrich shifts a little, sitting further upright. "I've never called upon Him without good fucking reason. Never— not even once, has He ever hurt me in the way you've described." He looks deeply disturbed, more so at the use of his God than the question that follows.

"You said you were tortured?"

"It— if I am to be honest, Father—"

Another hand goes up, with a grimace. "I figured as much."

"I did not ask for—" you're flushing, frustrated, trying to articulate weeks of the nightmare and failing utterly, "it is more complicated than— not all of it was welcome—"

"Really. Don't. I get it."

Frowning, you try to listen, praying for compassion.

"I can't imagine any God taking kindly to you throwing yourself in harm's way."

Exasperated, you want to interject, but you're disarmed.

"But Flesh? I mean— just look at you—"

Casting your eyes aside again, sneering, you shift your back to Father Friedrich as discreetly as you can. The sensation of your protruding spine against linen and wool is no harsher a reminder than the pull of old, mottled scars, or the way your robes hang loosely from your ribs. It's not so much self-deprecation as legitimate honesty, as you murmur, "I would rather not."

"Don't give me that shit. You've had years as the Father of Mercy. More than enough Time to fix yourself up."

"I have— you do not understand."

"I understand perfectly. You've been hurt," a hand goes to your shoulder again, squeezing, "and have been hurting yourself worse still."

Out of the corner of your eye, you catch a wave, to your Relic. "I think it's nothing that can't be undone. Mercy sure as shit believes in you. You bet your bony ass I do, too. You been doing any of the exercises I showed to you?"

Copper litters your face, while you mutter, "I have been attending to exercise."

"Right." The smirk is audible, and gone as soon as it came. "I suspect you didn't eat anything, either?"

"I did," a pause, a clarification, "today—"

"It's been three and a half since I last saw you. You get any sleep?"

"...yesterday, or the day before. It is difficult to say—"

(2/3)

>>4076764
""You've been busy. I get it." The hand on your shoulder squeezes a lot more tightly. "I know She would never want to hurt you." There's a strong desire to open your mouth, to clarify, but you're not given the chance. The priest trips over himself, to correct, "nothing that you both wouldn't both want, right?"

"R-right—"

"Mercy's will. Her needs— they might not align with Flesh's. I am not calling your devotion into question, or anything between you two— she wants what's best for you! She is Merciful, but They all are, Richard. Do you understand me?"

"I believe so."

"Really. Don't even get me started yet on your Relic. Do you get me?"

I am a man of all of the Gods.

"I can only hope to serve Them all— if— if I am capable of serving myself."

"That's fucking refreshing." A broad smile, another squeeze. "It's a better start than what you're working with now, right?"

It takes a lifetime of devotion for anyone to call upon a God. Some will never be capable of withstanding it. Men have perished over less.

This seems impossible.

"We're all here to help you, Richard. It's going to be alright. If you make me pin you down again, I'm going to fucking lose it, though."

"I cannot begin to tell you— I am as horrified as you are, Father—"

"Save it. I know you didn't mean anything by it. I'm not having that shit again, though, you get me?"

"Yes."

"You're serious about pissing off old Merciful Magnus?"

The look you give to Father Friedrich could not be any more severe.

He runs a hand down his beard again, sighing. "I'll take care of it. We need to take care of you, though. I'm pissed enough as it is that you've been through so much under my watch."

(Options in next post.)

>>4076772
>A] Tackle one thing at a Time. (All prompts under A are mutually exclusive.)
>1] Father Wilhelm was adamant about you getting enough rest. You feel substantially better today for it. Continue taking the advice of the Father of Dream, even if you sleep like the dead.
>2] Feeling your spine and ribs with so much ease is more tiresome than any lack of sleep. You seem to have found a method of circumventing the worst consequences of your first invocation to Agriculture. Make the most of it, no matter what distractions arise, and try to put on some weight.
>3] Mercy and Flesh have granted you relief from your pain. Set to enduring more exercise, privately, without any risk of upsetting anyone by your behavior. Ask Father Friedrich if he has any suggestions for keeping yourself under control.

>B] Recovery is your full-time job for the foreseeable future. Now that you've postponed any and all accountability to King Magnus, be accountable to your host. (Any prompt under B can be selected IN ADDITION to any option from A.)
>1] You'll hold off on your work in the exterior ward. It seems to be staffed much more thoroughly.
>2] Ask if Cyril can have a schedule or some other system set up, to avoid any unwanted interruptions. You don't want to reprimand him, but sneaking out in the middle of the night to fish and drink cannot be good for your health.
>3] You'll hold off on any further correspondence with other members of the clergy, at least outside of the Church of Flesh. You're waiting on so much mail, it's already going to be difficult to relax.

>C] You can handle this. All of it. (Write-in any more ambitious plans you may have. It is safe to assume Father Friedrich will not condone the same intensity of a regimen that you've previously undertaken unless you make a strong case for it.)

>>4076778
>>C] You can handle this. All of it.

Proper combat training, unarmed and with our mace and shield. I'd like to rely on Flesh as little as possible and for that we need to know what we are doing. Maybe ask for a crash course into some other weapons too while we are at it.

"I made a lot of promises to the king in that letter and I intend to keep all of them, I am no liar."

>>4076816
+1

>>4076816
>>4076820
(Back for the afternoon/evening, hope you guys are doing well. Locking the vote here, writing now!)

>>4077335
https://youtu.be/XxthmuqWF1Q

"It has been nowhere near enough, Father."

A disbelieving glance is given to you, beneath raised eyebrows. "Right."

You frown in return, leaning forward just enough to back his doubt down. "Sister Cardew's report was penned under my instruction. You know I am no liar. I intend to keep every promise I have made. Not just to our King," a sterner stare, still, "but to you, as well."

Arms crossed, smirking, you're asked, "well?"

"I intend to resume my training. My devotion, and dedication, to Dream, Agriculture, Flesh and Mercy. To make up for lost Time. I'll rest. I'll get back to our regimen. More than the exercise, or diet, but something sustainable. Healthy."

"No more late-night benders?"

"Cyril needs to be spoken to."

"I'll handle it, but you know he's no excuse—"

"I know. Please— be kind to him. He means well. I only have myself to blame—" you glance aside, "the overwork, and all of my correspondence— I can place it on hold. This work, here— this is my focus."

Glancing back, your mentor doesn't verbally respond. Keeping his arms crossed, his mustache turned down, you hold your gaze, and try to make your best case.

"I need to rely on my own Flesh. I have been walking blindly, Father, and I am tired of the dark." Raising your voice from its murmur, as firmly as you can muster, you continue, "I am tired of enduring. I want to fight. Properly. In combat, with more than mace and shield." Looking down, to your hands, you unclasp them from the gold.

Clenching your outstretched palms into fists, you look up, eyes wide. Convicted, and hopeful.. "I know I can do so much more. The first thing you sought to teach me was that we are weapons. I want to learn. I need to know. Will you still teach me?"

A proud smirk is cast back at you. "You're going to be the death of me." He can't help himself. The smirk breaks out into a broad smile, a laugh, and a pat on your back. He seems to have forgotten his strength for a moment, enough that you nearly fall forward.

"Sorry about that." You're pulled back, as he continues to chuckle.

"Th-thank you."

"Alright! Alright. We'll get back to it."

"Thank you." Getting the wind back in your lungs, fists clenched, you make another promise. "I will not let you down."

"You never have. You're going to be just fine. Get this report of yours by my office tonight. I'll sort out this whole mess for you, but you need to sort your head out, alright?"

"I intended to take the day off."

Complete disbelief hits the priest across from you, enough to drop his jaw.

You glance down to him, straight-faced. "Do you think I would joke—?"

He's laughing all over again, patting you on the back with a more reasonable measure of strength. "No. Good. Gives me a little Time to think. You must be worn right out."

"I—" you choke out, between pats, "have honestly— not felt so rested in ages—"

(1/2)

>>4077455
"Good! Good. Keep it up, then."

He backs off, scooting a little ways away, and sitting further upright. If you weren't mistaken, you'd say he's trying to match your height, but it could be your imagination.

With a broad grin, he declares, "we'll get back to it tomorrow. Keep your damn word, and I'll see what I can manage. You got any preferences?"

This is all terribly familiar. You can't help but ask, "preferences?"

"Weapons. Combat." He leans forward, grinning with religious fervor. "A mace is a poor choice for you— no offense—"

"None taken.

"I know everyone likes what they like. I'd pin you more for a spear, what with all the shields," a shrug, "but we can cover whatever you prefer." A slight knock, on your shoulder. Even though he's holding back, there's so little between your skin and bone that it stings in all the right ways. "It might take some Time for you to put any weight behind it, is all."

Avoiding the urge to rub your shoulder, you murmur, "you have put more thought into this than you let on."

"Father Wilhelm wouldn't shut up about you. I've put in the work." He moves to stand, but seems to think twice of it. "It's up to you to follow through with it."

Musing, you wonder aloud, "some Time?"

"By Our standards? Two years. Maybe three, with all the work I know you're getting tied up in."

"Mercy."

"I know, it's not much—"

You're frowning so firmly, he's back to laughing.

"I'm fucking with you. Really. I think a few months is all you need. A few years to do Flesh proud, sure, but not so long to make use of a decent weapon."

"I have a church of my own to get back to."

"This won't have to wait. You bet I'm making sure you take anything you learn with you."

"I— I understand."

"You still haven't answered my question, Richard. Our armory would put your demon friend to fucking shame."

"I seriously doubt it," you start, frowning harder.

Both hands wave, shushing you, feigning insult. "Don't you dare!" He's grinning, leaning forward a bit. "Really. Name it. We'll make this work."

>(It's safe to assume that the fewer weapons you select, the more specialized training you will receive. Please specify the order of importance you place on each kind of training, if multiple prompts are selected.)

>A] Yech gifted you your mace and shield, and by all the Gods, you are going to find a way to make good use of it.

>B] Use your shield, but for now, take up the offer to try a spear.

>C] A pole arm would be excellent, but a part of you has always longed to take up a sword.

>D] Spears are fine, but halberds are better.

>E] More than anything, you want to get your hands dirty. Ask for more specialized training in unarmed combat than what will supplement any further weapons training.

>F] Write-in.

>>4077458
>A
then
>E

>>4077458
>>A] Yech gifted you your mace and shield, and by all the Gods, you are going to find a way to make good use of it.
>E] More than anything, you want to get your hands dirty. Ask for more specialized training in unarmed combat than what will supplement any further weapons training.

>F] Write-in.
Throwing weapons, between getting pelted by them in the ruins and the priests dealing with the outbreak I think they are pretty useful.

>>4077461
>>4077468
(Got it, can definitely incorporate these. Locking the vote here, writing now!)

>>4077615
Clutching your fists tighter, you set to making your greatest ally proud. "I have every weapon I need. Yech's gifts— my mace and shield— I want to learn how to better wield them. I know I can make better use of them."

A raised eyebrow, a shrug. "If you're sure. My offer stands."

"I would like to take full advantage of it."

"Oh?"

"More than anything—" you may be hurting yourself, for how tightly you're knitting your fingers, "I would like to make use of my own Flesh. For every projectile I have deflected, it feels as if a hundred more have rained on me, Father—"

A frown. "Daggers, huh?"

"For imps and rogues—"

The laugh fired back at you is harsh, earnest and understanding. "I meant in you," you cringe, trying to keep the heat in your face down as he continues, "not fit for you. We'll do you much better."

"Thank you." There's an edge in your voice. The band about your ring finger is slick, biting into your skin from the tension. Grasping even harder, relishing what is likely only a drop or two of blood, you mutter, "I want to get my hands dirty."

A hand goes to your shoulder, shaking you very slightly. "I'll work it out of you. Hey."

Lifting your eyes to a concerned priest, you loosen your fists. They're wider than usual, and you try to relax, if only enough to stop drawing out any further pain.

"It's going to take more than a night or two to loosen you up, but—" a quick nod, of his head, towards the door. "I can go run to the armory. If you want. Doesn't have to replace anything tomorrow."

(Options in next post.)

>>4077802
>A] You have an engagement with Sister Cardew.
>1] Go briefly explain to her that something else has come up, and ask if you can meet up later this evening.
>2] You're keeping it. Reassure Father Friedrich that you'll be alright, and you'll properly meet up with him tomorrow morning.

>B] You had a few more concerns, before anyone goes running off. The last few nights have been suspiciously positive.
>1] Why did Father Friedrich leave you alone in your quarters, when he last saw you in such an unstable condition?
>2] Mercy's visit to you was unprecedented. It may be overstepping your boundaries to ask, but has Flesh ever come to him in the same way?
>3] He was quick to drop the subject of your Relic. Is he uncomfortable? Is something wrong?

>C] There is never enough Time for anything.
>1] Ask him to stay a minute, just to try and talk. Even a few words of normalcy would make you feel better. The weather is particularly awful lately?
>2] Ask him to stay more than a minute. You'd really like to get to know someone in your life who doesn't have any ulterior motives.
>3] He doesn't have any ulterior motives, right? Wasn't he supposed to be undermining Father Sullivan with you?
>4] What about the outbreak in Beorward? Whatever happened to Jonathan? Wasn't there a funeral service being planned? How much have you missed?
>5] What of the exterior ward? Where did all of this staff come from? What of your patients, and all the rumors allegedly spreading through the city of your work?

>D] This is supposed to be a day off for you. (Write-in anything else you might want to address while you have Father Friedrich's undivided attention.)

>>4077806
>>A] You have an engagement with Sister Cardew.
>>1] Go briefly explain to her that something else has come up, and ask if you can meet up later this evening.

>>4077806
>A] You have an engagement with Sister Cardew.
>2] You're keeping it. Reassure Father Friedrich that you'll be alright, and you'll properly meet up with him tomorrow morning.

>>4077806
>A2

>>4078028
>>4078048
>>4078626
(Aweeesome, going to lock the vote here while the tie is broken for A2. Writing now. )

>>4078680
"No," you start, and rise to your feet. The priest beside you is up in an instant. Shaking your head, you try and offer the most reassuring glance you can muster back to him. "I appreciate the offer, but no, thank you. I will be just fine."

The blood slaking the side of your ring feels more than fine.

"I have an engagement to attend to, with Sister Cardew. Here, Ray—"

"I suppose you consider her to be good hands." Shrugging, Father Friedrich walks with you and your dog back towards the door. "Suit yourself."

Patting Ray's side, offering him a few words of encouragement for being so well behaved, you only look up once you're at the exit. "Tomorrow morning, then?"

"You remember how to get to the storage room?"

"It is more of a training hall—"

"We'll get to it." A smirk seems to be creeping rapidly back onto the man's face. "You know the fucking place."

"I remember. Yes."

"I'll see you there." As you head out to the hallway, your host lingers a few moments. Calling out to you, "Cyril will get you up if you can't manage it yourself—"

"Thank you, Father—"

The smirk is getting broader, audible even as you turn your back and head down the hallway. "Don't forget to eat!"

"Yes, thank you—"

He's trying not to laugh, making a spectacle as there is no one else down the corridor ahead. "That fourth exercise I showed you needs to be warmed up to beforehand!"

"I have not forgotten—!"

"Get some damn rest!"

"I will, thank you—!"

His voice fades, as you pull around the corner. Wiping the blood off, away from your ring, you try to loosen your hands. Keeping a steady pace, navigating back through the keep, and guiding Ray by your side is sufficient distraction.

You're fidgeting, toying with the band, the heat, and before long you find you have navigated back to Sister Cardew's room. Her stern tone greets you, as she unbolts her door.

"You can stop leaving the parchment. I know it's you. You're the only man in the building polite enough to bother."

"I did not wish to disturb you—"

"We had an appointment," she smiles, wrenching open the last lock, and peeking out into the hallway, "and you are both," she nods to Ray, and back up to you, "welcome any Time. Come on in."

Stepping back into the Sister of Spirit's room, you find that the entire chamber is absent of flowers. She doesn't address the adjustment, leading you back over to the shawl-draped chairs at the far end of the room. The hearth has been lit, and a number of beeswax candles have been put up around a colossal stack of loose-leaf parchment. Based on the markings on their side, the low lighting suggests she set to writing as soon as you left.

Ray drops himself right next to the heat and light of the hearth, looking across the room to you earnestly. You sit across from Sister Cardew's chair, though it remains vacant while she fetches herself some tea. Smiling weakly at you, she calls, "I would offer you something, but, well."

(1/3)

>>4078777
A nod is the best you manage, while she comes back over with a piping hot, wooden cup. It looks worn, and at least a decade old. She sets it down for the liquid to cool temporarily, fussing with the stacks of papers and setting your mutual business physically aside.

It gives you an extra moment to appreciate the warmth of all the flame, and the steady pounding of sleet on the Storm shutters. The gentle billowing of white curtains is only a few feet away, almost within arm's reach. Plumes of building smoke filtering out from above, further beyond, though the chamber remains smaller than your own spacious quarters. The last remnants of the scent of lilies, worked over with sweet wax, old books, and fresh herbs, drifts through and around you, while you sink deeper into your cushioned chair, and try to relax.

There's still a current running up your spine, and far more verve than you're accustomed to.

Just how exhausted have I been?

"It really is wonderful to see you up."

Blinking once, twice, you honestly reply, "it is good to be up."

"Never a dull moment, hmm?" She's sipping on the tea. It's black, and you suspect Sister Cardew finds the fact terribly funny. She's trying to not snicker at her cup.

"May I ask what is so amusing—?"

"You can't catch a break. Even on vacation. Not even holed up in a sick ward. It's unbearable." She's struggling to suppress her amusement, though it's pained, and she's clearly sympathizing. "I am so sorry. You don't want to hear this." Nestling the steaming cup within her hands, looking up to you behind fogged lenses, she asks, "is there anything you wanted to discuss?"

"It is— I sincerely have wanted for nothing more than intellectual conversation."

Harriet straightens up, tight-lipped, and nods her head. "The feeling is mutual."

Looking about the room, to all of the white thread, you try to ask as politely as you're able, "did all of this come from the Church of Spirit?"

Her voice gets a good deal quieter. "Yes. I brought as much as I could with me. It's helped make the place feel more like home."

"Is all of the Church of Spirit, so...?" you trail off, legitimately curious.

A thoughtful pause. Sister Cardew adjusts her glasses, looking up to you with surprise. "You really want to know?"

"Of course."

"You said the doors to the Church of Spirit used to be nonexistent. Isn't that right?"

Over 700 years of knowledge is difficult to parse, but some of Beltoro's memory came to you more clearly than others. "I could not be more certain."

"They're locked." She says it like this is normal. "All of them. I brought these from home," she nods, towards the door, outfitted with a total of five, "along with the cloth."

A little dread creeps onto you. "That does not— why, exactly—?"

(2/3)

>>4078779
"Everyone has their own interpretation."

"To know is to serve. The halls of the Church of Spirit— no matter who occupies them—"

A smirk breaks out, across the disdain. "I suppose you think you know better than Father Sullivan?"

So much secrecy borders on blasphemy. "This is his idea of devotion, then?"

"Not everyone is as concerned with their neighbor's welfare as the Father of Mercy," she frowns, leaning forward, "though I strongly suspect they should be."

You remain silent, looking to her, brow furrowed, trying to not make too many accusations.

She's clearly enjoying divulging any information regarding the situation at home. "You know what locks make a girl particularly good at?"

Remaining silent seems as safe a bet as any.

"Lock picking, Father. I didn't ruin my eyes running around outside." She adjusts her glasses again, smiling more pensively still. "The library within the Church of Spirit could easily encompass this entire keep."

A long pause rests between you both. You're still trying to fathom a library not in possession of King or a demon that could be so impressive. Literacy is a rarity in Corcaea, for anyone outside of the Church. Books are a rare commodity still. The very thought of so much parchment in one place has your head spinning, and you notice Sister Cardew adjusts her glasses again.

"I gave your offer a good deal of consideration."

The jolt up your spine seems to intensify. "You know She would see fit to bless you. Your vision—"

"I would like to refuse."

"I— I see."

"I mean no disrespect."

Remaining more silent still, you let her elaborate.

"I like myself— my eyes— just as they are. My glasses aren't doing me any harm. I'm not in any pain. It's just as much a part of me as anything else. I hope you can understand. If this makes any sense," she leans in a bit further, shyly stating, "it's a kind of battle scar. In a way."

>A] You understand completely. You won't make the offer again. Drop it, and change the subject back. Ask the priestess if she can elaborate further...
>1] On the security and layout of the Church of Spirit, and her experience navigating it.
>2] On what she's read within such a monstrous library, especially given the scarcity of books in Corcaea.
>3] On the other clergy, and Father Sullivan.

>B] This really doesn't sit right with you. Insist to Sister Cardew that you would still be happy to heal her eyesight. Scars are a sore point for you, and you would never want someone to go without your aid, if it can be helped.

>C] Write-in.

>>4078782
>A2,A3

>>4078782
>>A] You understand completely. You won't make the offer again. Drop it, and change the subject back. Ask the priestess if she can elaborate further...
>1] On the security and layout of the Church of Spirit, and her experience navigating it.
>2] On what she's read within such a monstrous library, especially given the scarcity of books in Corcaea.
>3] On the other clergy, and Father Sullivan.

>>4079064
>>4079290
(Finally home from work. Vote is locked, writing now!)

>>4080175
(Guys I'm so sorry but I'm way too tired to write anything tonight, going to get some sleep early and knock out an update first thing in the morning. Be back soon!)

>>4078782
>A2

>>4079064
>>4079290
>>4080360
(Thanks for your patience dudes, back up and ready to rock. Writing now.)

>>4080815
https://youtu.be/lsoLYWTzqSY

Clasping your own scars together, pointing your hands gingerly towards Sister Cardew, you murmur, "I understand completely."

She smiles sweetly back, burying her face again in the steaming cup before her. "Thank you."

"I would be lying," you can't help but to lean forward slightly, "if I said I was not curious."

"Oh?" Sister Cardew drinks so silently you wonder if she's even touching her tea.

"In regards to what you have read. My own Father could have never hoped to teach me anything in the way of literacy, and for all of her worship, my Mother could not have done much better. I would have never expected to see a book, let alone pen one, prior to coming into the clergy. You are speaking of hundreds of tomes— thousands?" Your enthusiasm is difficult to contain. "Enough to have left a lasting impression on you. I do not wish to lie to you, Sister Cardew. I am very curious."

The smirk is back on her, creeping around the sides of the cup in her hands. "You wouldn't believe me."

She pulls back, wiping some of the steam from her lenses, and grins.

Repressing the urge to raise an eyebrow, or to lean further in, you simply remind the priestess, "you forget who you are speaking with."

You're beckoned a little closer. The priestess of Spirit drops her voice below a whisper.

"Your field of study is the Catalyst, isn't it?"

Leaning forward in your chair is insufficient. "Yes," you stutter, while scooting the entire piece of furniture closer.

"It's my specialty as well, Father: the Catalyst— demons." There's a glint in her eye, and it's not coming from her glasses.

She's looking right at you.

"What, precisely—?"

The whisper persists, as if Sister Cardew is afraid of being overheard. The crackle of the hearth is louder than she is, and for how much more rapidly she speaks, you have to lean in even closer to pick up every precious word. "Boundaries, testing." Dread sinks into you as she continues, "yes, there are a few dozen miles of shelves. Yes, you could easily fill this keep with every ledger and tax document. There may be countless tomes on our history, and plenty more through the last age—"

She has to take a breath, looking up to you fervently. "There may be catacombs beneath the lowest levels, and an entrance back into the ruins, right under the very heart of the Church of Spirit— but its mind has been my study."

Another breath. She's fervent. "Our possession. Our curse."

She stops completely.

Something is halting the procession of information, and you're desperate.

"Please."

She really can't help herself from divulging more, but she shifts away, hard. "Father Sullivan is entirely aware of my study."

You aren't surprised, and try to quell your frustration. "His duty is to know, is it not?"

Both of you frown.

(1/2)

>>4080914
"He always has led me to believe that he cares," she tries.

"Even if he locks you away from such critical information—"

"He wants to protect us. All of us."

You're fidgeting, hard, wanting to get back to the subject you sincerely care about. "All of you...?"

"The Church of Spirit houses appears to hold one hundred, maybe two hundred staff at any time. We're mostly family, and no one is permanently staffed without seniority or pertinent cause for research."

The nervous habit is coming out full force, as you try to listen, fiddling with the gold, praying for focus.

"The rest are scattered throughout Corcaea. From what I've heard, it may appear as deserted as the Church of Mercy."

You scowl.

She frowns back, "but there is always someone watching."

Your patience is at its limit, but you try, "how did you manage—?"

"It's a small matter when you know where to look. Who to maneuver around. Friends from foes from folly—" she rattles this all off, as if it was a tenet.

There is only so much restraint a man is capable of exhibiting. "There is no conceivable way to acquire information on the Catalyst with such ease. Not if Father Sullivan wished to protect it."

"He was eager to enable my research." She says it plainly, as if this is normal, "it's why I was tasked with this assignment, Father Anscham. With you."

You have to pause a moment.

"Pardon me?"

"You heard me. I disagree with his methods—"

"You are— excuse me?"

"I find transparency to be infinitely more productive."

"What exactly are you implying?"

"Father Sullivan has speculated— for a number of years— that you turned, back in the Church of Mercy." She sneers, "there is a good deal written in regards to your care."

Trying not to squirm is difficult.

The priestess looks to you, devoutly, apologetically. "His speculation seems unfounded. The documentation is thorough, but having met you, I can't say I agree in the slightest." Her sneer cuts across compassion. "I'd be more inclined to call anyone responsible a demon. Long before pointing any accusations at you. Then again, after discussing your care with Father Friedrich, and having learned of your experiences in the ruins, I do have my concerns."

>A] You have a flask. Use it, for a stiff drink. You're going to need it. Ask Sister Cardew if she can elaborate on her thoughts, in full.

>B] There's no way you're listening to this. You're not a demon, you're not digging up any more trauma, and you're leaving.
>1] Thank Harriet for her honesty, but you're going to go enjoy the rest of your day off without her.
>2] You're ending this business right now. The priestess of Spirit is relieved of her position in the Church of Flesh, if you have anything to say about it.

>C] You have had your own doubts regarding this matter for some Time. Voice them. (Write-in.)

>>4080915
>>A] You have a flask. Use it, for a stiff drink. You're going to need it. Ask Sister Cardew if she can elaborate on her thoughts, in full.

>>4080915
>>A] You have a flask. Use it, for a stiff drink. You're going to need it. Ask Sister Cardew if she can elaborate on her thoughts, in full.
Don't actually drink, restraint and all.

After she elaborates we should bring up the things that we have learned from Beltoro, and everything we have personally discovered about the catalyst while we were in the ruins. Also voting to keep her around in the church of Mercy after we leave the church of Flesh and jointly research the catalyst, we do the field work and she does the skulking around libraries.

Ask her plain as day what she thinks of Father Sullivan, I'd like to keep her as an ally but if she is loyal to Sullivan we should be careful how much we trust her.

Those catacombs, has anyone been there? Could anyone, say, sneak in and explore if someone was to let them in and show them the way? wink wink

Go into detail about our invocations to Spirit and plainly ask how we could better serve her. Perhaps she could write the tenets of Spirit just like Fred did?

>>4080928
second I suppose

>>4080915
>C

It is curious how I'm so adept at fighting despite having such a wasted body.

>>4080917
>>4080928
>>4080943
>>4080944
(Awesome guys, can make all of this work. Going to lock the vote here and try to update again before work. I'll keep you posted in the event I get cut short, but with any luck it'll be alright. Writing now!)

>>4080928
(As always, I made note of all of these points, but some are not fully addressed or brought up in the next post for organic flow and whatnot. I haven't forgotten! They'll be addressed. Just a head's up.)

>>4080977
Looking back down to your scarred hands, the unbearably thin wrists and prominent bone, you glance back up. Away from your sunken stomach, the way your robes hang from your high collar, the drape that poorly conceals just how thin your life of restraint and prayer has left you. Brow furrowed with your own concerns, you murmur, "how could I possibly be so adept like this?"

"You can invoke—"

"I can fight," you immediately correct her, "and I can run. I survived for weeks— months— years on so little that I cannot help but voice my own concerns. I am curious, Sister Cardew— I have been, for a very long Time. What have you found? What— what is this conjecture?"

"He doesn't have the full picture. You're right. It's speculation. Purely speculation."

She glances to the several dozen sheets of parchment beside her, written to your King, statements likely detailing how ill-suited you are to visiting him.

We spent nearly the entire day going over every last detail I could remember, did we not?

Magnified eyes glance over your sleeves, the belt that doesn't quite sit right, and back up to your face. Resisting every urge to go for a drink, you endure the scrutiny, and let the answers finally come.

"He thinks you're a demon. A demon of Mercy, with a Catalyst of faith. One with enough fractures in your vessel to channel all of the Gods. Based on his records, the theory seemed sound. I imagine— having seen first hand what you were subjected to— that it was the only way he could justify the mistreatment—"

The mug and steam between Sister Cardew's hands is shaking. She steadies her anger, setting the cup on the table beside her, and folding her hands on her lap. Looking back up to you, she scrutinizes your form a little further. "I'm sorry. I know you must be uncomfortable."

Stilling your own tremor as best as you're able, you endure the last of her observation. With a hand to her chin, leaning forward a little more closely, Harriet mutters, "a number of the men and women you saved were in far worse condition. Upon their return from the ruins, even they haven't come under so much fire." Her hands fold back on her lap. "Humans are more resilient than anyone gives us credit for. I don't doubt that you need additional care to mend your body," a glance, back to your face, "but my primary concern has been of your mind, Father."

The moment she pauses, you lean in, imploring her, "please. I need to know."

"That's exactly what I'm concerned about," she responds, "especially in regards to your use of Spirit."

Less than an hour ago, Father Friedrich was voicing the same concern about my use of Flesh—

(1/3)

>>4081097
"The retribution you experience when calling upon any deity— and if I understand correctly, your unprecedented connection to Mercy— is unusual. Very unusual. You're renown for voicing Her word. You speak of almost nothing but Them. It makes no sense. You shouldn't be able to. I may be enabling a good deal of it—"

Your grimace is so intense it cuts her off. She leans back, trying to look apologetic. "You wanted my honesty."

"You said yourself that I am nothing short of pious."

"Yes. I stand by it."

"How could you call me a demon in the same breath?"

"That's the trouble. I'm not convinced. It makes no sense. I have heard you, for hours at a Time. It's not sorcerery. You are no liar. You're a man of the Gods."

"You disagree with Father Sullivan?"

"Not—" she's clearly struggling to voice the dissent, "not necessarily. I trust his judgement."

"What might— what exactly would that be?"

"That your health should come before your duty. That your service within the Church of Mercy has hurt you. That your devotion has been your undoing. Yet— to sully your— I refuse to accept these sorts of accusations without further evidence. He may have found a way to justify you— well," she looks to the window, frowning, "not seeing the light of day. I won't be so easily placated." A glance back to you, fervent, determined, "we have far more information now, than ever before."

The woman's reluctance to speak clearly is alarming. You want to interject, and she's all over another change in subject.

"You overcame your loss of restraint, didn't you?"

"Beyond any doubt—" you start.

"You've managed to reconcile a complete loss of connection to Mercy, isn't that right?"

Clutching your left hand more tightly still, there could not be any more pride in your voice as you simply state, "yes."

The hand is still trembling.

This is no way to show Spirit any respect.

"Let me be perfectly clear," she stops looking you over, meeting your eyes fully again. Her brown irises are catching on the candles beside you, wincing with apology, "I do not think you are a demon. If you are, it would invalidate everything I have ever studied. Were your Catalyst to have taken effect— what, thirteen years ago—"

"A little less than twelve, by my best estimates—"

"Right. And in that Time, you have never inflicted any harm on another—"

"I have personally met several that would not hurt a soul—"

"Yes, but you look fairly—" she pauses, looking for a kinder way to phrase it, "normal—"

"Please." I would rather have her interrupting me than insulting me—

"Honestly. Anyone would be concerned, but you are still unarguably human."

You both pause.

"Unarguably—?" you try.

"Father Sullivan's primary argument is for your mental state. Your absence of Spirit."

Grimacing seems very appropriate.

Sister Cardew adjusts her glasses, smiling sincerely. "But we both know that's a farce, isn't it?"

(2/3)

>>4081099
"Of course it is." I have invoked Spirit and endured Her will more than almost any other. She knows my respect. My righteous devotion. She permitted me to endure the minds of more than humanity. She knows of my worship.

"You're completely capable of doing more than calling upon the Gods. You know full well how to serve them, more than most. It's almost innate, isn't it?"

There's a compulsion to fill your entire journal with tenets, that you squash down for the moment. "Not— not necessarily—"

"I think that your devotion is uncanny, Father. It's commendable, at the very least. If being a pious man is demonic, well," she smirks, "you might as well add me to your hierarchy."

Fidgeting, shifting, you are entirely dissatisfied.

A research partner would make my job significantly easier.

I want to trust her.

"This flies in the face of almost everything I know, Sister."

She leans in, more curious than ever. "Oh?"

"I— you know better than anyone, what I've experienced—"

"We filled an entire book, and I've easily penned half of another in the last few days. Yes."

"How? I still cannot understand— how is this— how am I meant to—"

"Reconcile— I am interrupting you again. I'm sorry."

So she is aware of it.

"It— it is fine."

"Go on."

"How am I meant to show my devotion to Spirit, or to any of the Gods, when I have such little understanding of Them?"

Sister Cardew leans back, looking to you earnestly. "That's an excellent question. Why don't you tell me? How do you think you've managed it?"

>A] You don't want mind games, you don't want any flippant disregard for your sanity, and you don't want to interpret pleasantries. Pride is utterly beneath you. You want answers. This is business, and Sister Cardew answers to you. Demand that she spell out her meaning, without any further interruption or delay.

>B] This is ultimately a priestess of Spirit. It seems she's been raised to serve the Goddess through unraveling secrets, social navigation, and using her mind. (Put yours to use.)
>1] Write-in what conflicts with Sister Cardew's judgement. You agree with Father Sullivan on a lot of points, and have even more to back-up the theory that you're a demon of faith.
>2] Write-in what conflicts with Father Sullivan's accusations. Sister Cardew is right. This doesn't add up.

>>4081103
>>A] You don't want mind games, you don't want any flippant disregard for your sanity, and you don't want to interpret pleasantries. Pride is utterly beneath you. You want answers. This is business, and Sister Cardew answers to you. Demand that she spell out her meaning, without any further interruption or delay.
Just want to hear her hypothesis first before Richard responds

>>4081103
>B] This is ultimately a priestess of Spirit. It seems she's been raised to serve the Goddess through unraveling secrets, social navigation, and using her mind. (Put yours to use.)
>>2] Write-in what conflicts with Father Sullivan's accusations. Sister Cardew is right. This doesn't add up.

Nothing of what he says adds up, maybe he's afraid? Maybe he regrets what he has done? Maybe I'm just an experiment that got out of control. No matter what these smears are obviously bearing ill will, I'm sure you thought about this too. I do not trust Sullivan, I am not the only one he has acted against and all of this secrecy you speak of raises plenty of questions. I think he either has a secret he must keep at all costs, or is scheming something. Certainly the most qualified man in the country to do so.

My worship of the gods has been imperfect, that's why I suffer from their blessings. I can only hope that if I manage to remedy this their gifts will come with less pain, even if that doesn't happen I will not shy away from serving them properly.

>>4081103
>B] This is ultimately a priestess of Spirit. It seems she's been raised to serve the Goddess through unraveling secrets, social navigation, and using her mind. (Put yours to use.)
>2] Write-in what conflicts with Father Sullivan's accusations. Sister Cardew is right. This doesn't add up.

>>4081129
(Can work this in, got it!)
>>4081638
(Prompt was to write-in, hope your post didn't get cut off but I'll take this as backing for the write-in posted by)
>>4081139
(Vote is locked! Writing now.)

>>4082755
"He could be afraid, or regret what he has done. I could very well just be an experiment that left their control. No matter how diligently I wish to serve Them, Sister, I— I cannot trust him."

"Good."

"Excuse me?"

"You want to hear what I have to say, don't you?"

"Yes—"

"You know just how much thought I've put into this."

"I can only imagine."

She left Murgate in the middle of a conflict just to attend to my call, did she not?

"That's right. You know why that is?" The priestess leans forward, and though she has to stretch to do so, she manages to tap the side of your forehead with the end of her pen.

Twitching slightly, pulling back, you ask, "what was that for—"

"You're still in a cell."

She may have a point.

"I don't think you're a demon. I've said it three times in just a few minutes, just not as clearly." She folds her hands again, on her lap, concealing the pen from view. "Let me make myself clear. Communication is a skill, isn't that right?"

"Y-yes—"

Leaning back again, the priestess glances to the closed window, the white curtains. "I'm here willingly. I accepted this assignment. I would have gone out of my way to come here, under any other circumstances. Father Sullivan seems to sincerely care for your well-being, and I strongly suspect he is one of the only people in this country who does."

"That is ridiculous."

"Do you think our war strategist and host wants you in fighting shape out of the kindness of his heart?"

"I asked him to train me. I traveled halfway across the country to do so—"

"On Father Wilhelm's urging."

It's hard to not sneer. "He is a good man. They both are."

"Who accepts word from other church leaders without hesitation. For the slightest opportunity to call upon their patrons." She's frowning. It looks painful. "Familiar, isn't it?"

You frown back.

She continues, "you can't sit still. You say you want to rest, but you can't help yourself. It would do you some good to take a proper vacation. Father Friedrich would have me put to a stockade for saying it—" She glances around, almost comically, "but it would do your health much better to take it easy while you still can." There's a glance to the colossal stack of papers, clearly an elaborate list of reasons to put off seeing your King. "You won't be able to hide from the world forever."

"I am not hiding."

"You're right." She's scowling, for how much difficulty she has in spitting out, "you're running."

Firing right back, "can you blame me," it gives you a moment.

You pause.

"Has it made you happy?" Sister Cardew looks like she could hit you, but her voice is wavering.

"Excuse me?"

"Only listening when it's convenient? Running whenever you can?"

"I have overextended myself— and ran into—"

(1/2)

>>4082801
"Ran into whatever trouble has fallen in your lap. While avoiding every other obligation that would actually appreciate your attention. You need to hear this."

She picks up her chin, looking at you as earnestly and apologetically as possible. "I need to know that I can actually help you."

Sitting a little further upright, you try to swallow your pride, or what little of it you don't care for. "Say it, then."

There's no hesitation. "Have you never considered how much everyone is using you?"

"I fail to see how such a horrific accusation—"

"There is no conceivable way that those heathens you met in the ruins kept your company for any other reason. They wanted your protection, at bare minimum."

Drawing back as if you have been lanced through your chest seems prudent. "They followed me."

"To what end? Father Friedrich has every right to question it. If it's a matter of our country's security. That they took so much interest in accompanying you. Especially given what you put them through."

"This is business, Sister Cardew. Mind yourself."

"They weren't the only ones, were they? Didn't Remigius drop her hostility the moment you were mended? The moment you were hale enough to do her any harm? Isn't our host suspiciously accommodating? Isn't he a little too eager to house you while knowing full well of treason, or madness? Why do you think no one speaks to you candidly—"

>A] She is entirely too far over the line. You're crushing this disrespect right here, right now, and not tolerating another word.

>B] She might have a point. Repeat to Sister Cardew to be tactful when addressing a superior, but let her continue.

>C] She definitely has a point. Your position might compromise your ability to form normal relationships, but this is a start.

>D] Write-in.

>>4082803
>>C] She definitely has a point. Your position might compromise your ability to form normal relationships, but that's fine.
>D] We did not expect to form long-lasting friendships in the ruins, and neither will we expect anything from people up here. Expectations lead to disappointment, or unfair demands of others.

While we need to be more wise in our assessment of others, we're not doing this to make friends and influence people, we're called to a higher purpose. As long as they do not come to cross purposes or stop our holy mission, they are welcome to think what they will. All we can do is try to be better, we can't change other people's perception of us.

This includes the "dear" Sister herself.

>>4082827
gonna second this

>>4082827
Sure. Though at this Richard really isn't going to be able to trust anyone.

>>4082843
No, we can still trust people to do the right thing, trust them to act in their best interests. As the primary representative of the Gods on Aerth in a demon crisis, we are the singularly most important person to have on someone's side.

We can recover from trust issues and PTSD after we've killed six billion demons.

>>4082827
>>4082836
>>4082843
>>4082846
(Alright guys, making note of all this discussion and write-ins. Locking the vote here, writing now!)

>>4082852
https://youtu.be/xdiK4yghM2M

"Sister Cardew." You're sitting perfectly straight, unbent, and entirely unphased.

She stops the procession of the obvious.

"Please," you lower your voice, and look to her earnestly, "do not disservice Spirit to such an extreme degree. You are speaking to the Father of the Church of Mercy— and you are insulting my intelligence."

She remains silent, looking to you, and it doesn't escape your notice that she's still holding onto her pen.

Not to write with. Clutched in one hand, placed delicately beneath the opposite. It could very well be an instrument of defense.

She was scared to even say so much, wasn't she?

You stare, straight at her hands, "my position may compromise my ability to form normal relationships. That is fine," back up to Sister Cardew's face.

She looks extremely apologetic, and opens her lips to speak again, but you cut her off.

"I never expected to form long-lasting friendships in the ruins. Neither will I expect anything from people on the surface."

"Father, I—"

"Do not interrupt me again."

She complies, long enough for you to actually speak your mind.

"Expectations lead to disappointment. Unfair demands of others. I have never been a nobleman. I have no intention of influencing anyone. I may have my share of issues, but let others think what they will. I can only strive to be better."

You look down your nose to the woman sitting silently before you.

"To answer a higher calling. I cannot change other people's perception of myself— present company included— my dear Sister."

She looks up, frowning hard enough to put a wrinkle on the bottom of her glasses. "I told you that you'd be alright."

"Not every expectation leads to disappointment? Is that what you want to tell me?"

"No. I may have been wrong. Time will tell. Or, in your case, all of the Gods, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"I've overstepped myself plenty since my arrival. I strongly suspect Father Friedrich will make my stay remarkably worse, if I complicate matters further."

"You have yet to tell me anything I do not already know."

With a sneer, she drawls, "fine. They'll kill them, you know."

"Who—?"

A glance, to the stack of papers to your King. Sister Cardew shakes her head. "You can't keep track of it all. I can only imagine how many hands you had at the Church of Mercy. Had."

"I will not ask you again to show me due respect, Sister—"

"I digress, then. Your work here, Father Anscham. The demon of fear, and the patient that was being held captive? The former is too dangerous to be kept alive, and the latter should have already arrived in Murgate. Where we've had an external outbreak, and could not obtain proper reinforcements against for weeks."

Trying to ignore the jab at your inability to send any aid to Murgate while you were in the ruins, you murmur, "where is Jonathan Friedrich being kept?"

(1/2)

>>4082893
"The same guard tower Father Wilhelm was occupying. To the best of my knowledge, he was keeping it," you frown at the pronoun, "at rest during his stay. Seemed a bit distant, didn't he?"

Sneering, "yes," you are moving to stand. "What of these catacombs, in Murgate, then?"

"For the dead. The Church of Spirit would never house a demon in our walls," she mutters, "utter stupidity—"

You interject, "then where?"

"An external ward. Quarantine. Under guard by a few allies of the Church of Vengeance." Another mutter, resentful, "when they can spare a hand." She looks back to you, fully, sincerely. "Largely our own clergy. A few civilian hands. You have slept four days away out of this week, Father. He may already be dead."

A strong temptation to curse is on your tongue. Minding your tenets, you stifle the urge, and try to stay seated a moment longer. Eyeing the stack of papers that Sister Cardew has painstakingly penned upon your request, you try to reconcile the gesture. It's possibly slandering the Father of her own church, defying a royal order, and all on your request.

>A] You're leaving right now, and cleaning house. Go to the guard tower, and see if there's still Time to spare a demon of fear. You can get the letter to Father Friedrich tonight.

>B] You didn't ask for any of this. Tell Sister Cardew to handle the letter. You knew how many issues you left unattended. You knew you were ignoring every single duty when you got out of bed this morning and saw the letter from the King. You're committing to yourself, to your recovery.
>1] At least until tomorrow morning. You have combat training with Father Friedrich, and you are not missing his tutelage for the world.
>2] Until your birthday. You'll do something nice for yourself, one way or another.
>3] For as long as you're able. You never asked for any of this.

>C] You're staying for a moment. Insist that Sister Cardew continue her research with you, purely for your mutual business with the Catalyst.
>1] Because her knowledge of the Church of Spirit is too valuable to pass up. You want her eyes on the ground, for research and to go where you likely cannot.
>2] Because she has infinitely too much dirt on you to make an enemy out of. Keep your friends close, and...

>D] Write-in.

>>4082896

>D] We're being altogether too spiteful and indulging of Vengeance at the moment, calm down before we do ANYTHING.

Append this to whatever vote people choose.

>>4082896
>>C] You're staying for a moment. Insist that Sister Cardew continue her research with you, purely for your mutual business with the Catalyst.
>1] Because her knowledge of the Church of Spirit is too valuable to pass up. You want her eyes on the ground, for research and to go where you likely cannot.

Got to get down in those ruins yo.

>A] You're leaving right now, and cleaning house. Go to the guard tower, and see if there's still Time to spare a demon of fear. You can get the letter to Father Friedrich tonight.

If no one else is willing to house him request that he be transferred to the Church of Mercy.

>>4082907
+1

>>4082907
Sure

(Hey guys, just a head's up, I might not be able to update until later tonight or until Saturday morning between the new job and Valentine's day tomorrow. I'll let you know what's up by later this evening!)

>>4082901
>>4082907
>>4083136
>>4083783
(Thanks so much for your patience guys. Got time for an update tonight. Vote is locked, writing now!)

>>4086438
For all of my devotion to Vengeance, I need to calm down.

Sister Cardew remains silent, sitting patiently across from you. Hands folded, pen at rest, opposite more parchment than you know what to do with.

After several deep breaths, you call Ray over. The mastiff is more than happy to sit alongside you, to permit you to pet him. His harness is dashing, his loyalty unwavering, his manners impeccable. His subservience is even more deserving of praise. You pat his head, scratching behind his ears, and give yourself a full minute to compose yourself.

Levelly, you look up from your dog, to the priestess across from you. For how disrespectful she's been, she looks utterly unphased. You gather all of your patience, and state the obvious. "I know you will not stay in the Church of Flesh indefinitely."

"I doubt you'll be able to sit still for much longer."

Pulling your hands back, restraining the urge to fidget, you stress every last syllable instead of your body. "You know precisely how it feels."

"You still want my help, don't you?"

Leaning forward, you mutter, "more than ever."

She smirks. "Not how I'd prefer to help you, then?"

You straighten back upright in an instant. "Do you wish to continue your research?"

"I would like to continue studying you, Father Anscham." The statement is made with so little emotion it makes you wonder for the priestess' own humanity, if only for a moment.

Pausing, checking yourself, you reply, "work with me, then. I will not rest when countless demons plague our home. I will not stop now. Aid me, for our mutual research— for the Catalyst."

You extend the symbol of the Church of Mercy, an open hand. Sister Cardew takes it, into her own frigid fingers. The slim digits are so delicate that your palm almost entirely encompasses her hand.

You both keep the contact for a long moment.

Harriet tenses, looking up to you with straight lips. "We'll come back to this."

Pulling back, it's easy enough to resist the temptation to shake more heat into your skin. Warmth returns in a matter of seconds, with a grimace, as you move to stand. "I will return no later than this evening. Father Friedrich wished to see our report. If you wish to make any revisions," crossing the room, gesturing for Ray to come to your side, you don't bother looking back.

"You should have Time to spare."

At the door to the priestess' room, you let yourself out.

She calls after you, not as an afterthought, but as a warning.

"It's not a man!"

The door shuts.

You do what you do best.

You run.

(1/2)

>>4086548
It only takes a matter of minutes to sprint back to the courtyard. Every golden flower has been plucked. The last of the sapphire and ruby has been stripped away. You know the evidence of your holy alliance is still in the hands and hearts of countless citizens, as you break across the stone, and are hailed by an ally.

The sun is high, catching off of spears and shields. The last of the afternoon rays are rising above the Church of Flesh. Every guard seems to have their head turned to you, and two call out. One is extremely broad shouldered, attentive, beard bristling at the sight of you. The other, Brother Duval, as hale as you've ever seen him, loosens the grip on his spear as you come fully into view.

"Father Anscham! What's the problem—" the brunette's face falls, clearly at your visible distress.

"Step aside," you huff, glancing up to the guard tower. Its stone is silent, innocuous, and there is no indication of a demon lying within.

The guard opposite of your brother in arms continues to bristle. He's young, with a full head of jet-black hair and a beard to match. He's nearly as built as Brother Trebbeck, and every exposed muscle behind his torn robes seems to be intent on blocking the door to the keep.

Both priests look to each other. Brother Duval quickly mutters, "excuse me, Father," to you, before turning and spitting at the priest beside him, "what's your fucking problem—"

A sarcastic smile is directed at you, through the greased beard. "Father," and back to his companion. "I don't give a shit."

"You owe him your ass—"

"You don't know what I owe."

"I owe him my ass. You do too. Move."

The audacious priest manages to literally flex at his compatriot. Teeth and spite, he huffs, "make me."

"Don't be dense."

"Don't be a kiss ass." The priest whips his head to you, smiling again. "With due respect, Father, this tower is under the protection of the Church of Flesh. I can't let you through."

Brother Duval tenses, keeping his hand on his spear. He clearly wants to shoulder-check the other man, and is restraining himself for your sake.

>A] Firmly command the priest before you to step aside. If he won't answer to your authority, remind him that you are fully capable of getting Father Friedrich to remove him from his post.

>B] Ask Brother Duval to help you forcibly remove the pertinent priest. You aren't physically capable of strong-arming a member of the Church of Flesh, but you probably could with the aid of another.

>C] Command Ray to put this priest in his place. Non-lethally, but enough to scare him.

>D] Remind the priest before you why no one has the audacity to directly confront you. You've intimidated demons. Another man is nothing.

>E] Write-in.

(Happy Valentine's Day, everyone! I have plans today so the vote will remain open until Saturday morning, EST. In the meantime, if anyone cares to take a look, the Google Drive with Father Anscham's Journal has been updated with the calendar and adjustments to the country-level map.)

>>4086549
>>A] Firmly command the priest before you to step aside. If he won't answer to your authority, remind him that you are fully capable of getting Father Friedrich to remove him from his post.

>>4086549
>A] Firmly command the priest before you to step aside. If he won't answer to your authority, remind him that you are fully capable of getting Father Friedrich to remove him from his post.

>>4086549
>>D] Remind the priest before you why no one has the audacity to directly confront you. You've intimidated demons. Another man is nothing.

>>4086549
>>B] Ask Brother Duval to help you forcibly remove the pertinent priest. You aren't physically capable of strong-arming a member of the Church of Flesh, but you probably could with the aid of another.

>>4086696
>>4087039
>>4087159
>>4087167
(Free as a bird for the rest of the day! Locking the vote here, surprisingly can make this all work. Writing now.)

>>4088953
"How fortunate. As the Father of the Church of Mercy, protecting others is my top priority." Leaning forward slightly, looking down to the bearded priest, you mutter, "do you require a demonstration?"

Obstinately, but without verbal reply, the man stays put. Brother Duval shoulder checks him, as you take a few steps forward. You keep Ray at your side, while your ally barks, "move your fucking ass, then."

Restraint and wasted muscle does little to aid your movement, as you move with Brother Duval to shoulder-check the opposite priest. Your combined efforts get him to stagger, but he keeps a firm grasp on his spear, staying on his feet.

You move to stride past him, and are grabbed, hard, by your upper arm. The grip is crushing, and easily encompasses the entirety of the emaciated limb.

The man pulls back, looking to you with a furrowed brow and more judgement than he has any right to display.

Whipping your head around, letting the gold in your eyes hit the light, you snap, "test my patience again. Find out why my weakness alone was fit to be blessed by Flesh. Brother Duval—"

Without further prompting, the man shoves his companion fully aside. "Move your shit."

A broad key ring, packed with iron and copper, makes quick work of a lock. The interior of the tower is as dark as you last saw it, its winding stair vanishing up into the top of the tower.

A darkened beard twitches, firing back, "you're insane. It's a threat. You're endangering all of us, not protecting anyone—"

Turning fully to the man before you, gesturing for Ray to move past, it's difficult to not smile. "I suppose you know Her?"

"No, but—"

The grin gets broader. "I think you do. You think you have some semblance of understanding. You think me naive, while claiming others know nothing of you. What do you think you know of me?"

"I at least know you're a fucking—"

"A demon? A blasphemer? A madman?" You take a step forward, hands clasped, shifting right back into a grimace. "Do you want to continue to test my patience? It is one of the few vows I have not taken, Brother." In a whisper, you lean forward a little more, scowling. "For everything you may wish to call me, I am not a liar. Do you truly wish to find out how much validity is behind each one of these accusations? Would you like to know— exactly— how a man of all the Gods can tame a demon—"

The obstinate man happily shoves Brother Duval, who is right up against his shoulder. Spitting, "you're sick. You're fucking sick. See if I care. You'll need all the Gods to do a damn thing." He makes a show of rubbing the hand that grabbed you on the side of his robes, sneering, "well? Go on. Let Father Friedrich know you helped one of his men sin while you're at it. He'll be so happy to hear that you're fucking with his orders."

You're already heading up the stair. The man outside is literally beneath you.

(1/2)

>>4089141
An irate voice calls back after you, "and his command, and his men—!"

There's a thud, likely of Brother Duval pushing the man against the wall.

Hurried steps come back after you. The brunette, the man who's life you saved half a dozen times in a single fight, nearly crashes into you on the stair for how quickly he's moving.

He has the ring of keys in his hand, and thrusts the entire collection into your palm. Smiling weakly, Brother Duval murmurs, "there's a door under the rug. Take the ladder to the fifth level. These are for the first through the fourth. The smallest copper key is for the door at the top of the stair. Probably don't need to worry about the rest. You're looking for the demon you—"

"Saved, yes."

"I don't know where exactly they're keeping him. I shouldn't leave my post, even for this, but— you should probably hurry."

>A] Take the man's advice, follow his directions, and descend below the Church of Flesh as quickly as possible. Leaving such a disobedient priest outside, unattended, might complicate things. Command Ray to stay put, and trust your boy to behave himself.

>B] Ask Brother Duval to keep an eye on Ray, at the top of the ladder. Your dog can't climb five stories of rungs, and is far too heavy for either of you to carry down.

>C] You need an extra hand far more than peace of mind. Command Ray to guard the priest outside, and ask Brother Duval to accompany you.
>1] This entire situation may have never occurred if you hadn't saved his life, and invoked Mercy on the field of battle. Call on the favor.
>2] Implore the man to aid you out of the kindness of his heart. His compassion and restraint are needed, the respect to your tenets, and deference to the leader of the Church of Mercy.

>D] Write-in.

>>4089145
>>B] Ask Brother Duval to keep an eye on Ray, at the top of the ladder. Your dog can't climb five stories of rungs, and is far too heavy for either of you to carry down.

>>4089145
>C] You need an extra hand far more than peace of mind. Command Ray to guard the priest outside, and ask Brother Duval to accompany you.
>1] This entire situation may have never occurred if you hadn't saved his life, and invoked Mercy on the field of battle. Call on the favor.

>>4089145
>>A] Take the man's advice, follow his directions, and descend below the Church of Flesh as quickly as possible. Leaving such a disobedient priest outside, unattended, might complicate things. Command Ray to stay put, and trust your boy to behave himself.

>>4089145
>B] Ask Brother Duval to keep an eye on Ray, at the top of the ladder. Your dog can't climb five stories of rungs, and is far too heavy for either of you to carry down.

Gotta protec the good boy.

>>4089178
>>4089204
(Appreciate you guys, these are pretty directly conflicting though.)

>>4089170
>>4089272
(Going with majority on this one, writing now!)

>>4089339
At the word 'ladder,' you glance to Ray. Your boy is blissfully unaware of his inability to follow you. He's looking between you and Brother Duval, without complaint or a single care beyond your safety.

Putting both hands on the priest's shoulders before you, he draws back slightly, raising his eyebrows. You hold the contact, imploring him, "please. I cannot ask you to abandon your duty, but Ray— will you keep an eye on him, and the door?"

Relaxing, he shrugs, "is that all? I'd feel better being the one up there, anyways." As you sigh in relief, his weak smile broadens. "If anyone asks, I bet I could say you wouldn't take no for an answer."

A quick pat on the man's shoulders, and you're not even listening, heading up the stair as quickly as ever. The massive key ring is nearly impossible to keep quite under the tremor in your hands, but you manage, clasping it in full. You make quick work of opening the lock at the top of the stair, stashing the trinketry in your satchel before opening the heavy banded wood.

All of Father Wilhelm's things have been removed from the small post. His note on the door, the smoke, the blue, and all hope of respite are gone. The room is unfurnished, utterly bare save for the thick rug in the center of the tower and a little sunlight filtering in through slits in the walls.

You sweep off the rug, and are greeted by a large network of defense. Multiple rows of wood are interlocked in a pattern, flush to the floor, but recessed deeply into the trap door itself.

"Just a sec—" Brother Duval hurries past you, propping his spear against a far wall.

You take a moment to usher a few commands to Ray: to bring no harm to the priest next to you, to give him a wide berth, to sit, to rest. Said priest curses a number of times, muttering about a combination, and elicits a strange sound from the door.

It clicks.

https://youtu.be/5Kqy3-nZKyE

There's a grating, a drag, while the priest of Flesh heaves the top most band of the door open. The entire device works itself apart, opening inwards. The scent of mildew, candle wax, and old blood hits you. A soft light is emanating from below. It's visible only as you take a firm step forward, and look down.

A network of ladders descend below, propped against an impossibly steep decline. Dug into grooves for support, it appears as if the descent is secure for passage alone. Dozens if not hundreds of candles are spaced down, deep, into a broadening pit that seems to end a good fifty feet below.

You immediately move to climb. "Ray, stay. Good boy. Thank you for your kindness, Brother Duval. I will be right back."

Brother Duval is shaking his head. "Yeah. Don't get yourself hurt."

Not wanting to make any promises you can't keep, you put what little weight you have on the first few rungs. There's no complaint, no additional movement, as you climb down.

(1/2)

>>4089511
The recesses in the walls continue, deep, and dark. Candles are placed periodically in wax-coated nooks, likely never cleaned. Piles of the substance cling to the walls with dense mold and streaks of faded crimson. A few smears of blood and gore are so thick, they appear sticky, even as the walls widen out and fade from the illuminated view.

Dropping to the base of the first ladder, glancing around wildly, you see four doors stretching about the ledge you stand on. For how narrow it is, you strongly suspect that this entrance is strictly used for emergency access. Guiding a dog into this passage would be nearly impossible, let alone a demon comprised of Flesh.

Carefully maneuvering to another ladder, you continue to climb down.

The second floor seems to house twice as many passages.

The third has twice as many more.

The fourth is so broad, it takes a full moment to cross to the final ladder. You look up, at least four dozen feet above.

Brother Duval's head is peering down. A flurry of motion, obscuring the entrance, seems to indicate him waving.

He doesn't dare to call out.

I should not be down here.

Swallowing hard, you move as quickly as you can to the last ladder.

Descending to the fifth floor, you cling hard to the ladder. There is a singular door, directly next to the rungs you're clinging onto. Its heavy wooden defense is protected by a vast number of extremely heavy iron locks, weighing against a wooden barricade.

Ten more are on the same level. Down passages of stone.

Is this merely a re-purposed ruin? Or—

You can hear voices crying out in the distance. They're inaudible, muffled by the defense of the Church of Flesh. Thick stone encapsulates what you estimate to be no fewer than five different cries. It may be for help, or blood, or death. It's impossible to say. Candles illuminate small pockmarks in the stone, but a great amount of shadow lies between. You're so accustomed to moving in the dark, to picking up on the shift between trickling water in stone or an unexpected footstep, that every sound feels horrifically amplified.

You hear someone coming before they can possibly see you. Not just someone. There are multiple steps, out of rhythm. It's at least two people.

The door at the top of the passage is still open.

(Options in next post.)

>>4089512
>A] Wave to Brother Duval to close the entrance, and step plainly out towards whoever is coming. You've always been an honest man. Ask whoever is coming, plainly, where they're keeping Jonathan Friedrich. Not all demons need to be treated with fear, and you'll need help getting him out.

>B] Run up to the guards, and demand to know where they're keeping the demon of fear. You don't have the Time to sway the hearts of anyone. Stress that this is a matter of life and death. It may be misleading, but you're willing to scorn Mercy's word this once in the name of serving Her children.

>C] Slip as quickly as you can into the shadow. You don't have Time for this. (Write-in how an honest priest would make use of his environment, without any experience in subterfuge or stealth.)

>D] You do have experience running. Move as quickly as you can back to the fourth level. Hide, use your keys to enter a level you have access to, and try to find another way down. Time is precious, but even when lives are at stake, you'd rather avoid conflict.

>E] Write-in.

>>4089514
>C] Slip as quickly as you can into the shadow. You don't have Time for this. (Write-in how an honest priest would make use of his environment, without any experience in subterfuge or stealth.)
just sit down in a corner and pretend to be a corpse lmao

>>4089514
>C] Slip as quickly as you can into the shadow. You don't have Time for this. (Write-in how an honest priest would make use of his environment, without any experience in subterfuge or stealth.)
Try to recall whatever ofelia did in the ruins, surely we picked up a thing or two considering we also used the relic to coordinate her movements.

>>4089536
>>4089579
(Locking the vote here for one more update tonight. Writing now!)

>>4090317
https://youtu.be/Kfq4H6Ouqdc

Pulling your hands off the rung of the ladder, away from the chain that holds your Relic, you think back to the movement of an ally. One who worked alongside a demon, as a heathen, a thief, and a killer.

Dropping your weight instinctively, toe to heel, you restrain every urge to run. It only take a few steps with your long legs to cross away from the ladder, and entirely into shadow. You're as thin as a corpse, and equally silent. Leaning back against the cold stone, as flush as you can get your shallow chest and stomach, you can feel the touch of death. It's frigid, this far below the surface, and utterly unlike the ruins you've traversed before.

Moisture clings onto the rock, seeping against the back of your robes, as the footsteps come closer. The compulsion to move, to hitch your breath, is muffled by your own movement. Placing both hands over your nose and mouth, you press further back still, praying that you'll go unnoticed. As an extra precaution, fearing for the gold in your hair and eyes catching on the light, you throw up your hood at the last possible second.

Two guards walk by. They're priests, outfitted in crimson robes and aprons. The cloth they wear is not tattered, but tightly fitted. Every inch of them is covered. Gloves, aprons, and even cloth about their faces obscures almost all of their skin from view in an uncharacteristic display for the Church of Flesh.

More alarming still is that the cloth is stained not with dye, but with viscera. Even through your hands, again the scent of herbs and metal, you catch the waft of blood.

It doesn't escape you that the sound of yells, screams and something that's possibly a plea have incessantly punctuated the air since you descended.

Both priests are utterly silent, looking around intently. The closer they draw, the more readily you notice that they are both around your age, maybe a little older. Their clean-shaven faces and heads, and their cultivated strength is indicative of years of devotion. Despite being significantly shorter than you, they're imposing, and incredibly attentive.

One glances upwards, towards the ladder. It's the slimmer of the two, which isn't saying much, as he crosses his tightly sleeved arms. "You said you heard voices?" There's a smirk, towards his companion.

"Don't," the broader priest frowns, "I heard what I heard." He follows the priest's eyes, upwards, and so do you.

Not a speck of light is cast down from the peak of the tower. Brother Duval seems to have closed the trap door. You don't dare to breathe a sigh of relief, as both men turn back around, looking intently into the shadow and light.

"Sure you do. Bastards and butchers, is that right?"

(1/3)

>>4090520
"Shut the fuck up."

"I'm really—"

"Seriously. Shut up."

Both men completely stop walking. The larger of the two priests leans his ear against the door directly behind the ladder. He pulls back after a moment, shaking his head. Another particularly horrific scream lances the air, though he doesn't jump. "Maybe it was my imagination."

"Your head's going soft. I'll be taking you to Sister Cardoooo at this rate—"

A groan, before both men in unison laugh, "don't!"

Turning, the guards head back the way they came. One passes so close to the wall that you nearly take a breath in. Resisting the urge with every fiber of your being, you remain motionless, listening intently as they proceed back down, beneath the rest of the Church of Flesh.

"Hasn't said a word in days, right? The bastard?"

"Worse. You're surprised?"

"After how much the new arrival is running his fucking mouth—"

The man's voice is dropping, both in tone and in volume. "Won't for long."

Straining, you're rapidly losing the trail of conversation. It's getting harder to pick up over the shouts. Easing your burning lungs, taking a shallow breath behind your hands, you get enough relief to gather your thoughts.

It grants you more than enough to press on. You stick to the shadows, moving as steadily as you can. Your height and light weight makes the motion laughably easy, to flit between the steep breaks in the stone, and to avoid the light.

Cautiously, you peek around the corner of the wing, keeping your face concealed behind the edge of your hood.

You pull back as covertly and quickly as you can, struggling again to not take a deep breath in.

It was only the briefest of glances, but no fewer than fifteen priests of Flesh are all stationed throughout the corridor. The wing you're in is indicative of every other. Each door you've heard cries from branches out from a singular hallway. Each room is isolated, and guarded by at least a single holy man. There's no fewer than a dozen bodies visible in plain sight, among the stone and barred, locked doors.

It's horrifically familiar, and reminds you of your first years in the Church of Mercy.

Quelling every urge to turn and run, you try to sear the glance into your memory. Every single guard is twice as broad as you are, and armed to the teeth. The majority are wielding spears and shields, and a few are adorned with helmets. You thought you spotted one even possessing leg guards, though it's difficult to say. Gathered together in the center of the hallway, the men are either intent on discovering your location, or are bored out of their minds.

Eavesdropping is a welcome respite from the tortured moans and pleas that are now increasingly audible.

"Any luck?"

"Gil's going soft."

"You'd be the first to know, wouldn't you—"

"Shut it. Any of you hear anything?"

"Let me move—!"
"FLAY ME AGAIN, HARDER! SEE WHAT GOOD IT DOES!"
"Help—"

"Not over the fucking commotion."

"How long?"

(2/3)

>>4090523
There's a rustling, the sound of something glass-like being tapped on.

Multiple sighs of relief follow.

"Unchangeable my ass."

"Ralf, you're a heathen and an idiot—"

"What? I've been praying to get out of here since dawn—"

"KILL ME!"
"Save me!"
"STOP the fucking NOISE!"

The last voice threatens to make your legs give out.

It's Jonathan Friedrich's, hoarse, but unmistakable.

"—and a genius, and a blessing—"

"Get a room—"

"All taken, I'm afraid. Even the sick ward's packed to the brim."

"Can't believe the demons are getting better treatment than we are—"

"Trade places with me, handsome—"
"I'll chew my arms off again if I can't get moved—"
"STOP TALKING—" there's a crack, and a sob.

"I'm more than ready to call it, this is some shit."

"I've had worse."

"Relief isn't coming 'til sunset, hold your fucking horses."

A collective groan.

"You all sure you didn't hear anything?"

The mutual exasperation seems to reach a fever pitch, exploding at Gil.

"No."
"I will if you keep saying it—"
"Cut it out."
"Seriously, of all the stupid shit—"
"Nah."
"Do you need me to hold your skirts and go check with you again, Sister?"

"Shut the fuck up. No." The particularly paranoid priest makes a hushing sound.

"You're wasting your Time," Ralf happily teases, to everyone's audible horror.

"Shut up, you fucking lunatic."

There's a long pause, while the sound of metal and weapons restlessly move. All of the demons within the building appear to have stopped begging, or talking.

"I told you, it fucking hates the noise—"

There's only a low sobbing, coming from one of the rooms. It's deep into the hallway, so faint you can barely catch it, though it seems to be rising from the right.

Someone is walking towards that direction, likely the man who heard you descend.

>A] Wait a little longer. It was the late afternoon when you climbed down, so you should easily have several more minutes before a change in guard.

>B] There is absolutely no shame in recognizing your limits. Get out of here. Leave as quietly and discreetly as you came. No demon is worth another cell in the dark, be it one you occupy, one that houses a demon, or the one you're afraid of filling if you stay a moment longer.

>C] You are catastrophically in over your head and came in without any information or plans. Fortunately, this is your default state. You are a master of faith, conviction, and maneuvering impossible odds. (Write-in how you make something of this situation.)

>>4090526
>C] You are catastrophically in over your head and came in without any information or plans. Fortunately, this is your default state. You are a master of faith, conviction, and maneuvering impossible odds. (Write-in how you make something of this situation.)
Can we pray to Dream to make us as unforgettable as that songs name that keeps getting stuck on ones tongue, to hide paint out sound and sight of us, while we swiftly walk after the man we heard descend?

>>4090526
>>A] Wait a little longer. It was the late afternoon when you climbed down, so you should easily have several more minutes before a change in guard.

>>4090687
>>4090719
(We can definitely get this to work, locking the vote here! Got to run to the store but I'll write as soon as I'm back.)

>>4091090
(Back, writing now.)

>>4091232
Knowing full well that you have minutes to spare, listening intently to the room ahead, you wait.

There's a clinking, of keys on a chain. In low voices, several of the guards begin complaining to one another in turn.

I need a distraction.

May all the Gods forgive me.

You are not merely a pious man. Though you are incredibly intelligent, resourceful, and able to adapt to impossible odds, none of your survival could have been possible without one thing: your creativity.

You close your eyes.

The invocation is tilting, more of a lullaby than a whisper.

"God of the Night. The sun is setting. Come unto me. Bless me. Shroud their sight. We will interpret the moon, the stars. Take my vessel. Let the darkness come. I want only for Dream—"

The sound of something dripping cuts the invocation short. You open your eyes, and they go wide, wider than they possibly could.

https://youtu.be/m5H-YlcMSbc

The edges of your eyes continue to unravel. From the periphery of your vision goes the walls, the floor, the figures in the room beyond. Your gaze unfurls, out of the realm of the material, the immaterial, and everything in between.

Dripping, shrouded in paint, the last of your prayer and the start of a scream is completely silenced. Your lips are like liquid. The lids of your eyes seem to have disappeared.

You can see a clear path, winding, through a group of entirely distracted priests ahead. One is taking his time with the door to a cell.

Staggering against the wall beside you, desperate for something to grab onto, there's nothing to hold onto. Your fingers splash up against the stone. Blue oils and pigments congeal from the edges of a vision, around your form, and into what you touch. The walls and your hands merge, pooling together for a moment.

The urge to scream is inescapable, but you can't make a sound. Pull back, out, watching as your arm takes a solid form again, you look down at a network of cracked paint left in its wake.

There are cracks, running up into your mind, in swirls of divinity.

Grasping from the edge of the wall, clutching at your head, you try to still the agony.

You feel something else.

Another hand reaches back, grabbing hard onto your wrist.

It's impossible to scream.

Paint is dripping, pooling along the edges of your broadened vision, catching on every scar along your face, and coursing into your soul.

The hand on your wrist is dragging you into a nightmare.

It's getting darker.

>A] Pull back, as hard as you can, against whatever it is that's holding onto you. Come what may.

>B] Lean into the darkness, and go deeper into the nightmare.
>1] Hold onto the hand grasping you, and keep it with you.
>2] Wrench away the second you get a chance. Try to escape from whatever it is.

>C] Write-in.

>B] Lean into the darkness, and go deeper into the nightmare.
>1] Hold onto the hand grasping you, and keep it with you.

>>4091320
>A] Pull back, as hard as you can, against whatever it is that's holding onto you. Come what may.

>>4091581
+1

>>4091999
(Checked. Really, though, appreciate the vote)
>>4091581
>>4092219
(Have to go with majority here since these are directly conflicting. Vote is locked, writing now!)

>>4092902
The fingers around your wrist tighten, so firmly it feels as if your skin has intertwined.

You grab back.

It's impossible to tell if your eyes are gone, or if they were never open to begin with.

You're running.

Holding desperately onto the hand of a figure beside you, you feel the ground give out beneath your feet. For how quickly you're both moving, the world around you seems to be a blur. Blue streaks past your sight, in shades of cerulean, turquoise and azure. The human at your side is your height, dressed all in black, horrifically emaciated and twitches at every unexpected sound. It's unnerving to an extreme, for it seems both of your lives are in danger.

Streaking past your heads, as you tear across a field of stone, leaving behind countless misshapen buildings, are spears. The projectiles seem to barely graze you both, for how deftly you move. Jumping periodically, you manage to avoid tripping over dead bodies littering the floor as you sprint.

There's screams in the distance, behind you. Your pursuers. You're both leaving behind cries for blood, but the figure at your side doesn't care for the carnage.

It's seeking escape.

Your captive turns hard around several corners, winding deeper into narrow corridors, littered with writing on every inch of the dilapidated rock and stone. You couldn't hope to ever read every word, not in a lifetime.

There isn't any Time granted to you.

It's getting harder to breathe, for how quickly you're running. As the stranger skids to a stop, you don't dare to pull away, for he's ripping open a square, metal door before you both.

You're pulled inside.

The door slams shut.

You want to drop to your knees, and are granted the rest you seek almost instantly.

The figure beside you slams his back against the door, collapsing to the ground, clutching at his head as he looks to the small room before you.

The windows are boarded. There's no light, only a faint glow from blue paint. It drips from the walls, it pools on the floor, and it is coursing from your skin.

The hand clutching onto yours is laced with scars, buried deeply into your skin and veins.

Through the darkness, crimson catches on your vision.

You want to vomit, but nothing comes. Your lips are sealed shut with oils and canvas.

The figure next to you is slaked with blood.

There are corpses in the room before you.

(1/2)

File: Eyes.png (232 KB, 500x425)

232 KB PNG

>>4092984
A pair of eyes watches you. They're the only thing illuminated in the darkness. It seems to be backed against a pair of moth wings, and follows every last twitch in you and your companion's forms.

The eyes are on Mother Bethaea's face. Her corpse is draped over a couch. A noose is tightly fitted around her neck, gray and decaying. The body is years old, though the stench of death hits you as if she had only killed herself a few days before.

The smell lingers, hanging in the air, on every other body regardless of its state of decay.

The eyes are there, on the body of a red-haired man. He's perched, posed, sitting upright on a pile of the dead. Every pair of lips beneath him, and his own, have been stitched shut. They're all in robes of yellow-gold. The mound of carnage is also posed, laying prostrate before you. They're littered with signs of battle. Marred with arrows, slashed with swords, pierced with spears and crushed beneath the weight of some unknown force. They're wasted, their cheeks and eyes are recessed so deeply into their face that it seems they're decaying before your eyes.

Your congregation is rotting, and you look away.

There's a man's body, in the center of the room.

The figure at your side stands, as if in a trance.

The moth and its wings are on your companion's face, his eyes. You can't make out his face beneath the wings of rot, but you follow them. They are ringed in metal, and move towards Father Edmund's body.

He stops a few feet away from the corpse. It's fresh in your mind. He's been flayed. You lean down, to better look at his face, one last time.

A neatly trimmed beard, laced with gold, sits upon a face at rest. Bags sit under his eyes, the wrinkles around his cheeks from smiling so many times before.

It's one of the only expanses of humanity that hasn't been torn to shreds. Every other inch of your mentor has been torn to pieces.

>A] Keep leaning into the nightmare. Fall into your mentor's corpse.

>B] Pull the figure at your side into you.

>C] Fight against the man who's holding onto you.

>D] Look to what you've seen before. Scrutinize Mother Bethaea's body. (Write-in what you're looking for, if anything.)

>E] Look to what you've forgotten. Inspect the congregation. (Write-in what you want to learn, if anything.)

>F] Try to remove the paint that's sealing your lips shut. It might make matters worse, but you want to...
>1] Scream to the figures outside for help.
>2] Try to talk to the figure at your side. (Write-in what you want to say.)

>G] Write-in.

>>4092987
>>B] Pull the figure at your side into you.

>>4092987
>>B] Pull the figure at your side into you.

>>4092991
>>4092994
(Locking the vote here, gonna try and update real quick before work! If I can't make it in time,
I'll give you guys a head's up.)

>>4093152
You ignore everything, but the hauntingly familiar figure at your side. Its rigid posture, the twitch in its movements, its pallor and nerves. Looking more closely, you see the gold in his hair.

There are eyes, staring back at you, impossibly wide and utterly mad. The look is psychotic, one rimmed with deep bags under the eyes, sunken into a face that has worn with care and trauma. Lined with scars, broken and scarcely mended.

You do not draw away. Though any sane man could turn and run, you do not run from your reflection.

With all the force you can muster, you pull the figure into you.

There was a man, stationed at your side. Though you can never hope to repay his kindness in full, he knows you as the Father of Compassion. He has shrouded you in darkness. He walks under Night. The path Father Wilhelm travels has been barricaded, by the efforts of another ally. You have spurned Him, the King of Day. He halts the procession of your congregation, the Church of Mercy, and your impending arrest. All roads pass through Calunoth. It is the only one you have not taken. You are the nightmare. You are the darkness. You obscure your sight, by failing to open your eyes.

Open your eyes.

You open your eyes.

You are sitting on the floor of the Church of Flesh, back against moist stone.

You are shrouded in darkness, paint, and oil.

Flinching back, looking to your hands, it's difficult to track the movement. It seems everywhere you glance, you can't quite recall where you last were.

You're confident that you could pass into the room beyond, undetected. Eyes wide, you hazard another peek into the room beyond.

The guards have returned to their posts, save for the man who's stationed outside of Jonathan Friedrich's door. It's Gil, the guard who was incredibly suspicious of you before. He's opened the door, only a crack, and has obviously been speaking to the demon for at least a few moments.

It's very difficult to hear anything. It's as if cotton is in your ears. It's might be paint, for all you know. It's quite difficult to feel anything, either.

You can't shake the feeling that you're still in Dream.

The guard is moving to enter the cell in the room beyond. You suspect you still have a few more minutes before the guards fully turn over.

(Options in next post.)

>>4093199
>A] Move into the room, fearlessly, and dive into the room behind Gil. Even if you become trapped inside, you need to deal with this situation yourself.

>B] This is insane, and you strongly suspect you lost your mind some time ago. Try to drop your invocation to Dream. (Write-in any additional justification you can think of, otherwise your QM will happily provide the most gracious interpretation of events possible.)
>1] Wait for the change in guard, and try to explain why you're down here when they arrive.
>2] Immediately try to go into the main corridor, and attempt to explain the situation before the guard turns over.

>C] This is your first attempt at invoking Dream, and you're infinitely more obsessed with your use of the Gods than anything else. Test your ability.
>1] See if you can move ahead, and force every guard in your presence to forget you were even there.
>2] Use the paint and oil over your form to take on a different appearance entirely. (Write-in.)
>3] Put the demon in the cell back to rest. Leave it to the men around you to interpret your actions.

>D] Write-in.

>>4093202

>C] This is your first attempt at invoking Dream, and you're infinitely more obsessed with your use of the Gods than anything else. Test your ability.
>1] See if you can move ahead, and force every guard in your presence to forget you were even there.

I would vote for restraint but dream superpowers is too cool to pass.

>>4093202
>>B] This is insane, and you strongly suspect you lost your mind some time ago. Try to drop your invocation to Dream. (Write-in any additional justification you can think of, otherwise your QM will happily provide the most gracious interpretation of events possible.)
>>1] Wait for the change in guard, and try to explain why you're down here when they arrive.

hey remember when we were firmly against invoking? remember when we wanted to do shit and be better? remember all of this stuff we established that we wanted to do?

i wonder where that all went.

we're just meandering at this point, and i think we should change that. seems like all richard does is talk but crumples at the first fucking opportunity, and i cannot explain how annoying it is that we keep going back on shit we've already established. we're acting no better than a drug addict at this point - chasing the god shit, not planning shit, ignoring everyone trying to help around us, all for jack shit nothing because "we're too good, everyone should listen to us even though we aren't doing SHIT to make them have any faith in us."

father of mercy? nah, we're just a dude looking for a hit becase we're too broke to change, i guess. fuck it. shits and giggles, deny everybody, who cares we're god superman mary sue haha

>>4094059
yeah I 100% agree, sadly don't have much else to add

>>4094059
>>4094073
(How about votes, if you guys are this passionate about the direction of your protagonist? I'll take all discussion into consideration, of course, but just throwing the reminder out there.)

>>4094059
>>4094073
Richard is just like a pathetic simpering worm at this point.

Honestly they need to lock him back up in that childhood cell and kick his dog a few times. Or maybe the King will have all 60 of his harem members and 100 of his daughters lash a stockaded Richard in the public square to punish him, that would show him.

Or we could start actually following through on listening to people, I don't know.

>>4094059
Tough words for someone with 1 post in the thread. I don't disagree with you completely, but it is very easy to criticize something and do nothing about it.

Instead of bitching about shit, why don't you try offering a solution?

>>4093202
>B] This is insane, and you strongly suspect you lost your mind some time ago. Try to drop your invocation to Dream. (Write-in any additional justification you can think of, otherwise your QM will happily provide the most gracious interpretation of events possible.)
>1] Wait for the change in guard, and try to explain why you're down here when they arrive.

I guess this , but I'm not quite sure. I've been an advocate for no channeling for a long while but we always go back on that no matter what else happens.

>>4093202
>B] This is insane, and you strongly suspect you lost your mind some time ago. Try to drop your invocation to Dream. (Write-in any additional justification you can think of, otherwise your QM will happily provide the most gracious interpretation of events possible.)
>1] Wait for the change in guard, and try to explain why you're down here when they arrive.

explain that we have an issue, and we need an intervention, or some version of that. this has gone unchecked for far too long, and we need a reality check before we become more insane than we already are.

>>4094084
i believe a solution can be inferred from it, mainly that we stop doing the shit we said we wouldn't? it's like we forget things as soon as cool shit gets dangled on a string in front of us.

also, tough words for someone who voted for the exact thing you just stated you don't disagree with.

>>4094107
yeah, we need to be "forced" to get help
something we can't just vote ourselves out of later :^)

>>4094107
True, but I don't mind if we are insane and deranged or even a demon. I want to see that too. I want to see anything that comes out of this story, not only the good father Richard doing charity. I want to see the Demon Lord Anschan devouring the world too.

>>4094122
sure , but not everyone wants that, doing it just cause you want to see it isn't a very good reason

>>4094127
Isn't that why there are different prompts? Otherwise what is the reason for a story that can go either or any way, if you have to stay on the side of reason all the time?

>>4094122
>demon lord anscham
what? implying we wouldn't be fucking destroyed, especially when we already have people gunning for our heads. we would be snuffed out, and then the quest would end in a glorified pile of ashes. i'd rather have him alive and well than evil and destroyed. if you want that, and everyone is pulling against it, quest may not be the right format for you

>>4094144
sure there are different prompts, but the story has gone either way from day 1. we've actively overrelied on the gods, we have been far away from "the side of reason". we have collectively decided that we want to get better, but that's all apparently been tossed out the window.

>>4094144
well it *is* up to us, as a group, but I don't want to see our protagonist go down a darker path than we already are on.
I want us to pick options in line with our current characterization

>>4094152
I like underdog stories, even when the underdog is the bad guy. Again, if there is a choice for going out of the deep end, don't criticize me for picking it. I would never do such a write-in tho.

>>4094155
Maybe there should be more options in line with out characterization and less options that deviate from it? Or make each more obvious.

>>4094144
>>4094155
Basically this. Sure, we could lean into darkness, but what's the point? At least on my end I don't want things to get worse. I'd like to have allies that we can rely on, rather than going evil Father route!

>>4094161
>Maybe there should be more options in line with out characterization and less options that deviate from it? Or make each more obvious.

Yeah for sure, though as far as I know this could be the truth we could all just be retards kek

>>4094083
>>4094084
>>4094099
>>4094107
>>4094120
>>4094122
>>4094127
>>4094144
>>4094152
>>4094155
>>4094161
>>4094162
>>4094163
(It seems extremely clear to me that I need to make prompts infinitely more transparent.

While I want to remind you guys that there were MANY prompts before this point to talk to Father Friedrich, check on this demon, discuss it with Father Wilhelm, ask Sister Cardew for more information, stop at the guards outside, not descend into this prison, to vote against invoking, to write-in to stop the invocation, or to do literally anything other than majority vote to plug ahead, I digress.

I will make prompts more concise, and more in line with the tone you all are describing. You all HAVE been consistently voicing for a very long time, in between invocation and running from any and all responsibility, that you want to get help.

Let's get you some help.

I would like to leave this vote open for a bit, and ask you all if you have any questions for me?

Such as which prompts may have been indicative of your avoidance of any and all other courses of action? Which prompts clearly spelled out that your behavior was irrational? Which prompts were placed to encourage a change of behavior?

I try to not place "trap" options, but the characterization of our protag has absolutely been akin to a drug addict and someone who's badly unhinged. The erratic behavior is a character flaw, and the temptation to use the Gods is intended, so maybe I can help illustrate where these decisions are made by the majority, too?)

>>4094168
Really? THIS kills the argument?
Ffs
But yeah, just highlight what certain options will mean for Richard, making him more self-aware of his own failings, I think, would make it easier to evaluate.
Knowing yourself is the first step to getting better, yada yada

>>4094235
(I appreciate you anon. I appreciate ALL of you guys, and am inhaling the shit out of all this feedback, but I seriously can't express it enough.

Vote is going to remain open until the morning, but I'll be kicking around tonight and until I post before work tomorrow! Feel free to continue discussing shit or fire some stuff to me, too.)

(Alright, left this open overnight! Taking all the discussion into consideration, I'm going to integrate your guys sentiments and votes as best as I'm able. Feel free to ask me questions or shoot off feedback any time, but for now:)

>>4093580
(Will make note of, but directly opposed by three others lads with)

>>4093607
>>4094099
>>4094107
(a nearly unanimous vote for B1. Vote is locked, writing now!)

>>4094756
https://youtu.be/g7C2it9cCsY

Your eyes are open.

The room ahead is filled with innocent men, stationed at their post, attending to their duties within the Church of Flesh. There is no danger, other than a disaster of your own creation.

An unholy compulsion arises, to boldly go out, and make every single man before you forget that you were ever here.

Even if I have strayed from the side of reason— have I ever minded straying? Have I not wandered for this long through the darkness? Do I not want for their blessing? Am I not consumed by the Night?

A shroud is twisted around your thoughts, snaking through the need to stay with Dream.

I may be insane, or deranged, or even a demon of faith.

Have I not always wanted more? More than a life of restraint and piety? More than a path of righteousness—

There are muffled voices, in the room ahead.

Would they want to kill me, for everything I could do to them? Is everyone truly so afraid of me? I know I have never wanted for enemies. There are countless men who would rather see me dead, than to walk freely. They would have me destroyed.

No sound trickles in from the speech ahead. No meaning, through the intensity of the invocation. Oil and paint swirls, though you have not forgotten a thing.

I have promised so much. So many times, to so many people, that I would help myself. That I would do better. That I will be better.

My parents. Mother Bethaea. Father Edmund. Ofelia. Celegwen. Yech. Idonea. Sister Cardew. Father Wilhelm, Friedrich, Sullivan—

Looking down to your hands, the scars are obscured, through obvious signs of divinity.

You drop the invocation.

Exhaustion slams into you.

You drop to a knee, eyes heavy, limbs weighed down as if you have never slept in your life.

The floor beneath you tilts.

How stupid could I be? Am I no better than a simpering worm— crawling— so desperate for any sort of power or fleeting thrill—

Pulling into yourself, the motion is almost too difficult to manage. You've never felt so exhausted. Your breath is short, shallow, and the warmth in your body is rapidly leaving.

This is wrong. This has always been wrong. I have always told myself that I am nothing without Them. How can I call myself the Father of Mercy? How can I demand the respect of those around me when I refuse to change?

I'm pathetic.

Sister Cardew and Father Friedrich both tried to warn me. King Magnus will be furious. Rightfully so. I should be put to a stockade.

I belonged in that cell.

You pause, struggling to keep your eyes open. Head tilting, you pull up, trying to see.

I've never wanted this.

I can't stand being like this.

I've asked for help so many times.

(1/3)

>>4094878
Staggering, clutching onto the wall at your side, a ragged sigh of relief escapes you. The stone is intact, cold and more than sufficient to get back to your feet.

With all the restraint and discipline you can muster, you straighten your back.

The sound of footsteps comes from down the corridor.

You can clearly hear a number of footsteps, laced over simple conversation, and an enormous amount of relief.

Looking briefly down, to the paint smearing your hands, you wipe the substance off onto the side of your black robes. The evidence of invocation clings to the fabric, azure sticking starkly out against the mundane material.

Grimacing, you wipe the side of your lips with the back of your hand. They're damp with paint, and you scrub off as much as you can from the edges of your eyes, the corners of your mouth, onto the edge of your sleeve.

Entirely unpresentable, you call out. Every word is laced with utter exhaustion, but you keep yourself resolute.

"WAIT. Stay your hands—"

There is immediately an explosion of movement, and absolutely no recognition of your voice or authority.

In a poor attempt to salvage the situation, you continue to call, "It's Father Anscham— do not move from your stations—"

At least twenty priests of the Church of Flesh rush around the corner, weapons drawn. The corridor you're in is broad enough to permit five to surround you, shields and spears out. Those with swords appear to have stayed to the back, and you hear multiple more figures tearing out of the hallway, wordlessly obeying what must be a set protocol for intrusion.

I am certain they're getting Father Friedrich, or reinforcements. Probably both.

One thing at a Time.

The men directly in front of you take a moment to look you up and down. To you leaning against the wall. To the streaks of blue across the floor, the wall, and smeared haphazardly along your robes. A few draw back, visibly repulsed. Two have the composure to press forward with their weapons, though no one speaks for a long moment. There's two spears only inches from your chest.

There likely isn't a precedence for this.

One of the guards, elderly, narrows his wrinkled eyes behind a series of crimson cloths tied about every other inch of his face. He pulls down his mask, shoves aside the two guards with their spears pointed to you, and keeps his own weapon out. It looks to be a sword, clean, and lethally maintained. He doesn't point it at your chest, but rather, gestures to your face, hands, robes, and the floor. "Father Anscham. What's the meaning of this?"

"I wish I had a better explanation." Your legs nearly crumple, but you fight it, back straight, leaning as little as you're able. You try to continue, "I realize that this must look insane. I— I need help—"

(2/3)