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/qst/ - Quests


You are Brother Richard Anscham. As an unwitting leader of a blasphemous congregation, the true conqueror of the ruins, an unprecedented diplomat, and a priest of the Church of Mercy, you are (presently) devoid of fear. Having killed a demon of Agriculture last night with nothing but your own strength, your grievous injuries did not stop your travel.

Your faith guides you, and it has been rewarded.

Regardless of your connection to the seven other members of the pantheon, the lifetime of devotion you've spent in service to Them, or your reluctance to call upon Mercy for the last four months, She has come to you without hesitation.

Aside from healing your wounds with Her hands, you're infinitely more concerned with the literal hands that are now clutching at the sweat-stained shirt against your back. The Goddess of Compassion has called you Her lover, and by all appearances, is pressed against you.

Regardless of the slum you're residing in, on the outskirts of the holy city of Calunoth, or the disgusting mattress beneath your battle-stained robes, there is unmistakably beauty beside you.

You have felt Her presence countless times before, and channeled Her through the cracks in your soul, but you have never seen Her like this.

You've never felt Her like this.

"May We speak, before you go?"

Soft wisps of yellow-gold hair press against your shoulder, desperate for more contact. The fabric between you is stiff from your exertion in the fight, over not even a few hours ago. Your breath is the only sound in the room, while the soft speech lingers in an echo for many more moments after.

A light emanates from Her, casting shadows against the bags under your eyes, the flecks of blood and shrapnel still littering your frame.

You embrace the Goddess back. Holding the impossibly soft form against you, there's no need for you to reply.

There's no need for words between you two at all, but She is the very embodiment of grace.

She speaks again.

"You have come such a long way. There is no need for you to ask what you must do. You know."

Six years have passed, since you entered into service of the Church of Mercy.

Four months ago, you swore to never call upon the Gods save for a matter of life and death.

It feels like Time stretches out into an eternity.

Your heart might as well have stopped.

These may be the most important moments of your life.

Archive (Threads 1-5 for the Ruins expedition, 6-10 for Church of Flesh and recovery): http://suptg.thisisnotatrueending.com/qstarchive.html?tags=Catalyst%20Quest
Discord (Update notifications, art, a huge music playlist, etc.): https://discord.gg/8nZwgC2
Brother Anscham's Journal (High-res map, full calendar, your tenets, expanded info on all the Gods, demons you've faced and much more!): https://drive.google.com/open?id=1r-yFdCSj0VJi63LsD3Vl9T0DWw4us6wn

(1/2)
>>
File: What is Catalyst Quest.png (6.4 MB, 1200x2839)
6.4 MB
6.4 MB PNG
>>4159591
https://youtu.be/uEyvjHuMR4E

Pulling back as gently as you can, darting the sage and gilt in your eyes to shrouded shoulders, you trail a few fingers along radiance. You've felt silk many times before, but not even a demon could gift you with a softer touch.

Your own, typically soft speech is reserved for strangers— but you are a man of the Gods. Verve, devotion and love rings out in every precious syllable, as you murmur, "I do."

Mercy leans into your touch, and lays Her head back against your chest.

Remembering how to breathe, breath hitching, you find your purchase. Along the delicate shoulder, down a slender arm, to long fingers and gilded nails, you intertwine your fingers with Her own.

She gives you a smile more radiant than the sun itself. Squeezing back gently, the Goddess whispers just beneath your ear, "I love you. Let us talk, Richard. About anything. Anything at all. I have missed you so."

The speech is so jarringly human you struggle to articulate a single word.

The Goddess can't help Herself, grinning broadly at your dismay. Shifting up, wrapping Her arms around your shoulders, She presses a pair of gilded lips gently to the side of your cheek.

The peck is more precious than all of the gold in the world.

It probably leaves an imprint of the metal against your cheek. You don't care.

You have to say something.

>A] You have countless questions.
>1] About your Relic.
>2] About your mission in the ruins, period.
>3] About the way She worked through the congregation you are now tasked with saving.

>B] You want to try and talk.
>1] But you're terrified that She's going to leave, too.
>2] But you want nothing more than to hear what She has to say.

>C] You really have changed. (Write-in.)
>>
>>4159593
>A] You have countless questions.
>1] About your Relic.
First
>>
>>4159593
>>A] You have countless questions.
>>1] About your Relic.
>>2] About your mission in the ruins, period.
>>3] About the way She worked through the congregation you are now tasked with saving.
>>
>>4159593
>>C] You really have changed. (Write-in.)

How has She been, since we last parted?
>>
>>4159593
>A] You have countless questions.
Why is our relationship with the goddess of mercy complicated ?
>>
>>4159594
>>4159596
>>4159604
>>4159639
>How has She been
>Relic
>Mission in the ruins
>Congregation
>Why is your relationship complicated

(We can definitely do all of this. Vote is locked!

Hope you guys are having a wonderful Friday as well. Writing now.)
>>
>>4159657
>Why is our relationship with the goddess of mercy complicated ?
i'm new here and this point really made me curious
>>
>>4159663
(Welcome! Strap in mate, you're in for a hell of a ride. I'll be sure to address it, every write-in really matters here!)
>>
>>4159665
Finding yourself and your speech, you hold Mercy closer against your side, chest, and the edge of your shoulder. She nestles closer still, listening intently.

"I know it has been months. You have never— there has not been a day that you were not in my thoughts. My prayers. I love you, too. Mercy— are you alright?"

"Our children still suffer. You have suffered. Not in spite of your sacrifices. Because of them. Because of Us."

The delicate arms wrapped around your back tighten, pulling you closer. Her full bosom presses slightly against your own chest, nestling the priceless artifact about your neck between skin, cloth, and divinity.

It's impossible to avoid the subject. "Mother Idonea— she entrusted it to me. I could never have imagined what it would take to obtain it."

"No one is more deserving."

Your heart threatens to break. Nestling your chin against the golden strands of silk and light adorning Mercy's head, closing your eyes, you manage, "thank you. I want nothing more than to understand."

"You always have."

"Please. Is there anything you can tell me about it?"

There's no hesitation. "It is your grace, my love, and endless potential. I cannot tell you how to use it. Your allies will. Let them illuminate your path. I am your light," She pulls back, just enough to free an arm. A finger goes, to tilt your chin, so you can see Her grinning more broadly than before. "Though you are My vessel, it is your chalice. Yours, and any you deem worthy to share it with."

She's on the same wavelength as you. An immaculate brow threatens to furrow, for how earnestly Mercy utters, "even your demons."

A few fractures threaten to split across your mind, hearing a Goddess speak of the weakness in mankind. The questions come pouring out. This is more than your life's work, your passion, and your fire.

It's Her gift.

"Why? Why did you send me into torture and death? Why Yech? Why Idonea? Why did you not urge me to go home, to live a quiet life, to deal with the Church of Mercy? To fight— to do anything else? Why?"

Mercy pulls back a little further. Not to leave your embrace, but to make sure you get a good look at Her. Righteous fury, grief, and a thousand other emotions are painted across the gold before you.

An equal amount of your pain echoes back to you in reply. "You needed to be saved from yourself."

Your composure cracks, pulling the Goddess of Compassion back against you. She returns the embrace and break in full, murmuring, "you do not regret your duty."

"No."

"You will heal."

"Yes."

"It is unbearable, to see you suffer."

"You have never left my side."

"You have never been alone."

"I love you so much."

"I love you, too."

Holding each other for several moments, in silence, there's a building dread.

(1/2)
>>
>>4159703
"There are others, that suffer as you have."

"Our children." You pull back slightly, cringing, "my congregation. What— how did they survive? Some of them looked to have been in the ruins for years. I cannot fathom the depths of their pain— Mercy, to save them again— they— they have been waiting for me, and I have done nothing to earn their devotion—"

A finger presses to your lips.

"You spoke of Our works, and of Our gifts. Do not besmirch Our good name." The digit pulls back. Her arms snake back, under your own, to hold you flush against Her. "They witnessed the works of the Mother and Father. Their faith will be rewarded, as yours always has been. Do not turn from Our children."

Your heart is beating faster than it was under threat of death. "You have my word."

You take a ragged breath, asking, "why does this— why do we need to be complicated? You have assumed this form— you speak to me as a woman— you are my lover, my sunlight, and Mercy—"

The Goddess silences your complaint, leaning up, and kissing you once more. Speckles of gold flash in your eyes, for the intensity of Her devotion. A hand runs through your hair, pressing you closer, as Mercy desperately tries to keep you beside Her.

"I have never questioned your faith."

You pull back, breathless, asking, "please. Please answer me. Please talk to me. I can't stand this. You hear me— I know you do. You will answer my prayers— but can you please just— speak to me?"

The look directed at you is breaking into a thousand pieces. The Goddess murmurs back to you, "I have done something terrible, to make this so. You are a vessel— a man of the Gods. To call upon so many of us has devastated you."

She's withheld a lot from you before, in tandem with the other Gods. You know for a fact that Her blessing spared your life while invoking Spirit, spared your mind and kept your soul from breaking. Her gifts are unparalleled, in terms of protection, but this is different.

>A] "You're the Goddess of Truth. Speak your mind."

>B] "You're the Goddess of Compassion. Why can't our love be unfettered?"

>C] "You're the Goddess of Restraint. What could hold you back?"

>D] "You're the Goddess of Protection. I understand that you want to keep me from harm..."
>1] "and will respect that." Drop it. You do not presume to know more than the Gods.
>2] "but ignorance has hurt me more than it has helped me."

>E] Write-in.
>>
Cool thread how do I sign up to participate?
>>
>>4159708
by blowing me ma'am
>>4159705
>C
>>
>>4159705
>B]
Since she also about restrain, does she plan to marry us eventually ?
>>
>>4159705
>>A] "You're the Goddess of Truth. Speak your mind."
>>
>>4159716
>>4159719
>>4159744
(Three-way tie? Good. Vote is locked. Writing now.)
>>
>>4159753
This is the Goddess of Truth, Compassion, and Restraint.

You pull away completely, and knit your hands together. There is a golden band, on the base of your left ring finger. It's searing with heat, and practically points to Mercy as you look earnestly to Her.

There's nothing you could say that would tell Her how much you feel. How desperately you wish for your love to be unfettered. For your honesty to be reciprocated in full. For your love to be unfettered.

She looks up to you, with gilded eyes, and utters the unthinkable.

"I am only yours."

"What?"

Something between disbelief, overwhelming joy and horror creeps into you. Wide-eyed, you look to the Goddess, who seems equally conflicted.

"Your devotion has been without parallel. Your love is untainted, unlike any other. I am yours. Only yours. I cannot share myself with any other. I do not wish to. I will not. I cannot."

>A] WHAT

>B] What about the rest of the Church of Mercy?!

>C] Is this why your congregation couldn't defend themselves?!

>D] WHAT ABOUT THE KING

>E] Kiss her.
>1] You don't care about anyone else in the world.
>2] This is Her decision, and you'll respect it.
>3] This is so insane that you need Her to stop talking, to gather your thoughts.

>F] This isn't right. Regardless of Her choice, there's a need for Her protection in the world. You can't abide by this.

>G] Write-in.
>>
>>4159764
>>A] WHAT
>B] What about the rest of the Church of Mercy?!
>D] WHAT ABOUT THE KING
>E] Kiss her.
>2] This is Her decision, and you'll respect it.

In that order, please.
>>
>>4159767
+1
>>
>>4159767
+1
>>
>>4159764
>>E] Kiss her.
>>1] You don't care about anyone else in the world.
>>
>>4159773
but we do care about other people, that's our job! :^)
>>
>>4159767
>>4159768
>>4159772
>>4159773
>>4159776
(I think we can definitely work with all of this. Vote is locked. Writing now!)
>>
>>4159781
https://youtu.be/ZuH5WhAdPnc

"What?!"

She nods Her perfect head, full lips spread into hesitant smile.

You pull Mercy back into your arms, too panicked to let Her go. "What about the rest of the Church of Mercy?! Our protection— your healing—"

"Lives have been thrown away over far more insignificant things. Our works are a gift, willingly given to the deserving. You know as well as I that Our children can protect themselves."

Pulse skyrocketing, horror sinking into you, you pull back, unable to restrain your panic. There's far more to your clergy than your fellow priests.

He sent you to the ruins, likely to die.
He wrote to you four months ago, demanding your presence.
He released you from service, as the Father of the Church of Mercy.
You're in His city.
You are supposed to answer to His call.

Hands on Her delicate shoulders, you practically shout, "WHAT ABOUT THE KING?!"

She puts a slender hand to your own, squeezing slightly. "He is Merciful. His might comes from more than Our works. You have not trusted Him, but He will understand. He must."

Overwhelmed, speechless, you wrap your arms back around the Goddess and pull her into a kiss.

Nothing else in the world could matter. This is Her decision, and you respect it.

She loves you. Only you.

-----

Cyril knocks on your door, what feels like an eternity later.

"Don't," you groan. A Goddess is in your arms, and gold litters the sheets around you. A few flakes of the substance dance in your sight, as Mercy smiles to you beneath your embrace.

The priest moves to open the door a crack, and you bark, "LEAVE IT. I will be out momentarily."

"Fine, shit—"

Your partner, your lover, and an unbelievable sacrifice continues to smile perfectly back at you.

No one else in the country is capable of invoking Her.

"You need to be careful."

She's shifting. You know this must have taxed you horribly. Murmuring, "I understand completely," you plant another kiss along Her shoulder.

"I love you."

"I love you, too."

>A] Release your invocation to Mercy, now that you're healed and saddled with an unbelievable piece of knowledge. Once you're alone again...
>1] Find a way to clean up in the room, without Cyril seeing you in such disarray.
>2] Call the priest over, try to explain the situation, and see if he can help.
>3] You have virtually no pride. Get Sister Cardew over here, too.
>4] Write-in.

>B] Stay with the Goddess a moment longer.
>1] There's more that you want to say. (Write-in.)
>2] There's more that you want to do, even though your Time is precious. (Write-in.)
>>
>>4159801
>A] 1]
>>
>>4159801
>B] Stay with the Goddess a moment longer.
>2] There's more that you want to do, even though your Time is precious. (Write-in.)

First, bask in her embrace and share a few parting cuddles and kisses, because she's great.

>A] Release your invocation to Mercy, now that you're healed and saddled with an unbelievable piece of knowledge. Once you're alone again...
>2] Call the priest over, try to explain the situation, and see if he can help.

And then do this.
>>
>>4159801
>>B] Stay with the Goddess a moment longer.
>>1] There's more that you want to say. (Write-in.)

Ask for advice in dealing with the king and our congregation.
>>
>>4159814
>>4159835
>>4159811
(VOTE IS LOCKED. Writing now. Should be able to keep up the pace with a little more speed through the evening if we keep the votes coming!)
>>
>>4159881
For several more moments, you simply bask in the light beside you. Along the small of your back, the Goddess traces a few fingers. Running gently up your spine, leaving comfort and heat in Her wake, She mirrors the motion with Her lips. Pecking along your arm, from your wrist up to your shoulder, She finishes the motion by resting Her head and hands back by your heart.

Placing a few more kisses of your own, along Mercy's shoulders, you follow Her bare skin all the way to painted lips.

The sunrise greets you, golden and divine, in the form of a gentle smile. Her lips part, meeting your own. Nothing could be sweeter, as you hold each other, desperate to not let go.

Parting in any way is agony, but you manage just long enough to get a few more breaths of air.

Looking to Her bright eyes, the shifting hues of yellow and amber, your heart threatens to break. Clutching desperately onto your lover, you choke out, "You said I know what I must do. I have needed Your support all along. I need You. I love You. I love You, Mercy— and I have no idea what lies ahead. How will I deal with King Magnus? How can I possibly hope to find Brother Algrith? What will I say? How—"

Gently, you're taken into another caress. Mercy whispers, "think of me. Think of Our word. Think of Our bond. It is your devotion, and your unfailing dedication, that has brought Us together. You must continue your work."

Pulling back, looking upon you softly, the Goddess asserts, "Magnus is your ally. You must find it in your heart— in your soul— to trust again."

Parting is unbearable for Her, too. She rushes back into your arms, squeezing you tightly. "To heal."

"I want to. More than I can say."

"You will seek Our children, but you are so burdened." Her voice threatens to break, for how much compassion rings through each word. "You have so much strength in you, but it is fettered. Do not misuse Our restraint. Permit yourself to learn. To love."

You choke on your breath, as the Goddess utters words you've only heard an archdemon speak before.

"To grow. To feel. To know. She was right," Mercy pauses, holding you close, letting you lose your composure, "and you have already demonstrated the capacity to do so much more."

"Thank you. You know you are never far from my thoughts. You are always— we are never apart. Isn't that right?"

She holds you tighter than before, working a brighter smile.

She wants you to remember seeing Her at Her best.

"You are never truly alone, Father."

Fighting back a sob, you clutch onto Her, and release the invocation.

(1/2)
>>
>>4159928
She's gone.

You clutch at yourself, desperately holding onto the warmth as it lingers on your skin for a few more precious moments.

There seems to be no conceivable way to clean up the ratty bed, the mattress, your black robe that made for makeshift sheets, a bit of the floor, or the awful rug.

Your devotion is unparalleled. Years of service in the church, on a farm, and at the bottom of the world makes good use of a mere flagon of water, a lot of patience, and altogether too much Time. It's enough to make yourself presentable. Smoothing out your shirt, your hair, buttoning your trousers, getting on your shoes (now absent of mud), and ensuring your Relic is secured comes after the cleaning.

Looking around your room, to the absence of gold, feeling dry and clean enough to see another priest, you move to exit the room.

Something is blocking the door. You opened it, hard, and you can only conceive of one object that could be heavy or sturdy enough to meet your strength.

Cyril is on the other side of the door. He is kneeling, backing up, clutching onto his head.

You open the door fully, having clearly slammed the flimsy wood onto him. The priest glances up to you, wincing, and smiling almost ear to ear.

Through the pain he's nursing, Cyril still manages to mouth, "w-o-w."

>A] You're pissed.

>B] You're relieved. This should save some Time.

>C] You're extremely proud of yourself, and have nothing to hide.

>D] You're extremely embarrassed.
>1] Reprimand Cyril, quietly.
>2] Ask him to come in the room, and try to remain modest.

>E] Write-in.
>>
>>4159930
>>B] You're relieved. This should save some Time.
>>
>>4159930
>C] You're extremely proud of yourself, and have nothing to hide.
Being a peeping Tom is a bad habit you know ?
>>
>>4159930
>>C] You're extremely proud of yourself, and have nothing to hide.

Envy isn't healthy Cyril, are you sure Flesh treats you right?
>>
>>4159939
>>4159946
>>4159965
(Bants and not over-explaining. You guys really have come so far lol. Let's do this. Vote is locked! Writing now.)
>>
>>4159981
A sigh of relief escapes you. Glancing down the hall in both directions, confirming that there is no one else around, you see it is completely dark outside. You were with Mercy for several hours, minimum.

Smirking to the slouching priest, as he stands fully upright, you fire off a little mutual disrespect. "I understand you watched me for three months on end, Cyril, but you have developed an ugly habit."

"Shut up, Richard." He's smirking right back, knocks you on the shoulder, and tries to look inside. "Is She...?"

"What," you innocently leer, "is Flesh not treating you well? Jealousy is uglier, still—"

"Mercy, Dick," he leers back, grinning properly.

Bopping the priest's newly acquired hat off (it's more of a sock than a hat and terribly stupid), you gesture for him to come inside.

The blonde whistles. "Would have never known."

"You are terrible."

The two of you awkwardly stand on the hideous, hairy rug. Ray politely remains sleeping, off to the side of the room, oblivious to what transpired.

"You didn't even—" Cyril begins, but you raise a hand.

"Brother Trebbeck."

"Yes, your grace," he smirks back, somehow slouching in an even more casual fashion.

"Please do not call me that."

"Your royal Di—"

"Cyril. What— how much did you hear?"

"More than the usual prayer, that's for sure."

"Mercy—"

"Right! The fuck?!"

"Yes. Well. The walls are thin in this building, are they not?"

"I mean, I was right at the door."

"I have nothing to hide from you, Cyril, but this is unhealthy. You know I can recognize it when I see it."

"I can't believe I'm hearin' this."

A few moments pass, as you both grin at each other.

It wanes, as reality sets in. You take a few steps back, slumping onto the bed, putting a hand to your hair. "What— what would you do? I—"

There is a lot more gold running through it than before. Cyril hesitates, and decides to sit on the bed next to you. Gingerly, he leans over, and musses your hair. "It's a good look for you."

Shrugging the motion off, he laughs a little as you push him away. "Cyril. This is serious. Incredibly serious."

"I think," he smirks, "you finally found something to be proud about."

It occurs to you that the perpetual grimace on your face is firmly replaced with a smile, as he musses your hair again.

"C'mooon."

"You have a point."

"We need to get you a drink. This is incredible."

"You did not answer my question."

"Yes, I did. If I were you, I'd get me a fucking drink. In good company! Shit! I can't— it's no fucking wonder—"

(1/2)
>>
>>4160021
He's at a loss for words, stands up, and walks a few paces around the room. Collecting himself, the priest whips his head back around, and declares, "we're gettin' you out of this dump as soon as we can. I've got my little dew drop, but— Richard. Shit."

The smile on your face is wavering, for the ice in Cyril's eyes. He takes a few steps over, and places both of his scarred hands on your shoulders.

You've never noticed it before, but his knuckles look raw. The rest of his body is whole, unadorned with signs of battle, but the priest's hands are ruined beyond recognition. They tense, as he mutters to you, "you can't tell anyone about this. You shouldn't write. It— shit. Richard. I don't even know if it's safe here. We should drink. Look for The Pit. Sort this all out."

>A] No, you are writing to Father Friedrich.
>1] You are not a liar, and never have been. Even if it jeopardizes all of your safety, you WILL uphold your vows, your oaths, and your tenets.
>2] This could actually get you all killed. For once in your life, you'll withhold information voluntarily. It is absolutely grounds for breaking your vows, but you swore you would correspond with the priest. This is a lesser evil.

>B] SHIT. Your mother's birthday was yesterday.
>1] You forgot, and need to write to her, too.
>2] SHIT you really shouldn't be writing to anyone. You won't write, to her or to Father Friedrich, but you could anonymously send something!
>3] WAS it yesterday? What day is it?

>C] You need to talk to Sister Cardew before making any choices. Her advice has always been sound.

>D] You really want that drink, and a little celebration.
>1] Let Cyril pick the place. He probably knows what he's doing in the city.
>2] Money is so tight, you'll take whatever you can get.
>3] Okay, a lot of celebration. Ask Sister Cardew if she can pool her coin with you all, just for one night out. (Specify if you want to tell her why or not.)

>E] Write-in.
>>
>>4160025
>C]
>>
>>4160025
>E] Write-in.

Look for The Pit, pretend we are out for drinks but try to get as much information as we can. Will told us there would be something for us there and I think we should trust him. Also, what happens in Calunoth stays in Calunoth. No writing to anyone, as far as we are concerned our only allies are the people with us. Leave Ray with Cardew to make sure she doesn't get raped or anything.

Sidenote, maybe we could try to convince Mercy that the devotion of our congregation is similar to our own so that they can also invoke? If we had the only people that could invoke Mercy on our side it should give us some extra protection from politics bullshit. Maybe we could aim for a complete overhaul of the church of Mercy, with us as Father and our congregation as Brothers and Sisters. If we have the favor of the gods themselves, allies in the church of Dream and Flesh and the option to reveal that not even the king himself can invoke Mercy let alone his church we have a lot of weight to throw around. Maybe we could sort of imply this when we meet the king. "We know your mercy cock is limp" type deal, get him a bit on edge to even the playing field.
>>
>>4160068
>>4160049
(Wow, nice. Really want to give this a proper response, going to leave this vote open for a bit while I get some dinner. Feel free guys to make any rebuttals, disagreements or discussion! I'll be back.)
>>
>>4160097
>I get some dinner
Remember to properly fry the bat before making the soup. Waiting warmly
>>
>>4160068
I second the first half of that write-in, as for the sidenote...I feel that that is a big step to take at this stage, especially where we are, but maybe ...maybe
>>
>>4160025
>>C] You need to talk to Sister Cardew before making any choices. Her advice has always been sound.
>>
>>4160068
Agree with the first bit, and absolutely not the sidenote.
>>
(Sorry for taking so long dudes, had some serious tax-related news come up after eating and only just now got back. Fine, but boy did that sidetrack the evening.)

>>4160049
>>4160111
>>4160201
>>4160211
>>4160217
(Thanks lads, duly noting these comments. Going to lock the vote with the C majority and the first half of the write-in.)

>>4160068
(Seriously appreciate you, man. Since you guys did just say you were going to respect Mercy's wishes, and She did just say that She wants you to trust the King and be the only one to invoke Her, would kind of be a dick move to go that route.

It was a long road just to get to Calunoth, though. Ambition is your middle name, and I know you guys want your title back. Who knows what could happen! You've got a LOT of power to throw around, after all!

Vote is locked. Writing now!)
>>
>>4160322
"You are absolutely correct," you reply, gritting your teeth, placing your hands firmly on Cyril's shoulders.

"Yeah!"

"This will not leave your confidence."

"You can count on me."

"What happens here in Calunoth— will stay in Calunoth."

He smirks. "Look at you. Yeah!"

"Father Friedrich does not need to know what will transpire here, either."

"You did promise to write—"

"So far as I am concerned, Cyril, my allies are who is in my company here— and now."

Sheepishly, the blonde looks over his shoulder.

His eyes go wide in realization, frowning as you pat him on the shoulder and move to stand. "Which is precisely why I am consulting with Sister Cardew, before we decide on anything."

"Richard." He trails after you. Ray is awake in a heartbeat, placing himself helpfully in the door behind you.

"Good boy," you call over your shoulder, and realize you have no idea where Harriet is at. "Which room, Cyril—"

"Keep your fuckin' voice down," he whispers, jokingly.

Your tone is so soft, it's already practically inaudible. You frown, making a point of murmuring, "will you please fetch her?"

"What?"

"You heard me."

Several minutes later, the priest and priestess are in your room. Everyone is standing awkwardly around the hideous rug.

"You did what—?!"

The priestess is flushed, and is closest to the door.

Farthest from the bed.

You are also beet red, and plainly gesture to your hair, the scars littering your face, and the gold in your eyes. "I need your counsel."

Cyril actually offers the woman a hand. She looks weak in the knees, and despite her hesitation, goes and sits down on the mattress. Ray helpfully drops himself on the floor beside her, giving the woman some support. She doesn't pet him, staring hard at you, and your Relic.

Several long moments pass, as the priestess thinks. She's growing paler, and you think she might actually faint, until she speaks in a low voice.

"He'll kill you."

"Pardon me," you politely ask, trying to ignore the cold sweat on the back of your neck.

"They all will. The Church of Mercy tortured you— I'm sorry Richard, I hate it as much as you do— but you are dealing with monsters. Not demons you can punch into the dirt. Men— and women— who— fuck," she blanches, apologizing under her breath, "sorry, Richard, again— Cyril, can you get me some water?"

Taking a few more minutes to compose herself, after drinking and looking at you harder still, Sister Cardew stands up. She's not wavering, the color is back in her face, but she is clearly terrified. "We aren't safe here. We aren't safe anywhere in the country. You've severed the life's work of dozens of clergy. There was grounds before to have you executed— ample grounds— but this—"

Lips tight, the priestess does something odd. Gesturing to your head, she mutters, "this is insane. Richard— no, Cyril, I will not call him royalty or anything so stupid—"

(1/2)
>>
>>4160402
You ignore the urge to remind Harriet that she referred to you as "Father" just two days ago, and frown at Cyril regardless.

"King Richard has a nice ring to it," the blonde smirks, almost sounding sincere.

"This is stupid. This is so stupid—"

There's a long pause between you all, as the brunette adjusts her glasses. She lights up, scrutinizing you harder still. Muttering, "Richard. You have solved our dilemma."

"Excuse me?"

"It's gold, isn't it?"

Cyril frowns. "Pure so far as I can tell. Wouldn't melt under any fire we could—"

"Practical, as always," you mutter, running a hand through the locks, and looking hard at the priest of Flesh.

Sister Cardew is grinning insanely, and failing to keep herself together.

She is definitely staying inside.

>(Please pick EITHER A1 or A2.)

>A] It IS pure gold.
>1] But you are not literally pulling out your hair to cover room, board, clothes, drinks, or any other form of security. You all will manage.
>2] A few strands wouldn't hurt, to get you all to safer (cleaner) lodgings and into some more discreet clothes.

>(The following may not be mutually exclusive. IN ADDITION to A1 or A2, please select from the following prompts.)

>B] Surely your life isn't in immediate danger. King Magnus had to have known about this issue even when He pardoned your behavior in the Church of Flesh.
>1] Wait. Why would He have done that?
>2] You have your own suspicions. (Write-in.)

>C] Your life is probably in immediately danger, and everyone in your company by association.
>1] This makes your work all the more important. Continue taking every precaution, and reassure Sister Cardew.
>2] You're going to be more careful than ever. Put your Relic out of sight.
>3] This is too important to not take seriously. Swear to not invoke Mercy publicly, no matter what. (IF THIS IS VOTED UPON, FUTURE VOTES TO THE CONTRARY WILL REQUIRE OVERWHELMING CONSENSUS OR A UNANIMOUS VOTE.)

>D] Write-in.
>>
>>4160409
>A] It IS pure gold.
>1] But you are not literally pulling out your hair to cover room, board, clothes, drinks, or any other form of security. You all will manage.
Wait, our hair is really made of gold ? Damn
>B] Surely your life isn't in immediate danger. King Magnus had to have known about this issue even when He pardoned your behavior in the Church of Flesh.
>1] Wait. Why would He have done that?
>>
>>4160430
(Don't have any sketches handy and you guys haven't seen your reflection in a hot minute, but it seems as though well over half of your hair is now strands of gold. Actual, real, pure gold.)
>>
>>4160430
Supporting. As clever of an idea as it is, we really shouldn't be pulling our hair out for room and board.

As well as that,

>C] Your life is probably in immediately danger, and everyone in your company by association.
>2] You're going to be more careful than ever. Put your Relic out of sight.

Safety is key. Let's be cautious.
>>
>>4160430
>>4160437
(Going to lock here, writing now.)
>>
>>4160477
The gilded strands atop your head catch off of the low candlelight, reflecting back poorly from Sister Cardew's glasses. Yellow-gold reflects back towards you, though it's hard to see from a distance. Almost compulsively, you run a hand against your scalp, pulling lightly and feeling the unmistakable metal. It feels as if it runs through over half of your hair. To your delight, though it is only interlaced through the brunette strands, there's enough that it feels significantly easier to tame.

With a frown, you firmly state, "I am not literally pulling out my hair to cover our room and board."

The priestess frowns, "Richard."

You're not hearing it, unfastening the topmost buttons on your shirt. The collar is so high, it's entirely necessary to disguise the artifact from sight. "I will take every possible precaution," the item vanishes from sight, sitting neatly over your heart as you close the fabric, "but I will not sell evidence of Her blessing. You would never do the same for any blessing from Spirit, would you?"

The priestess visibly recoils. "You're right. Please forget I asked."

Finishing closing off the garment on you, badly wanting for your robes, you take some comfort. For the bloodstains and tears along the hem, there's still more muscle and bulk under your command than ever before. Eating is more of a chore than a nightmarish struggle, as accustomed to the pain as you are. There is no doubt that the rest and exercise has been well worth it.

It was all only possible thanks to the daily monitoring and labor of the Father of Flesh.

The cold sweat is on you again, realizing no one is talking. Glancing up from your reverie, it's clear that Cyril and Harriet are both distressed.

They've lost a lot, in the four months that you've gained so much. You break the silence, unable to resist voicing the question on everyone's mind:

"How could He have permitted me to live?"

Cyril looks like he wants to joke, but darts his eyes to the side, sneering. The man is separate from his daughter, once again, and now has obviously placed his life in danger.

Sister Cardew immediately mutters, "He needs you."

Your grimace is back.

"What," she drawls, "you would prefer to have been a failed experiment?"

Your grimace is not only back in full, but you feel sick. "That was completely uncalled for."

"You need the reminder," she mutters, also looking ill, "of just how dire this is. I am trying to bring you back to Aerth. Shelter is the least of our concerns. Imagine the logistics of food and shelter for your congregation."

Trying to not think of how your needs have been met without fail since exiting the ruins, you remain silent.

"You should have been killed," the priestess continues, "but there is obviously good reason for keeping you alive. You are clearly more valuable to—" The priestess slows her words, eyes going even wider than usual. "to the King— than every other priest of the Church of Mercy."

(1/2)
>>
>>4160561
"Why, would He ever think that?"

Cyril actually slaps the back of your head. "Idiot— ah, shit. Fuck."

The sting is wonderful.

The blonde mutters a few things incoherently while you regain your composure.

"...fucking insatiable, you'd think two days woulda' been enough—"

"Two—" fidgeting with your ring, straightening your posture, you mutter, "two days?"

"A day and a half," Sister Cardew corrects, "though you shouldn't act so surprised."

You don't feel like you've gone so long without sleep. The last Time you rested was the night before your last prayer, to all of the Gods.

"Dream looks kindly upon you, Richard. ...so does the King. You know why."

She's called me a weapon before. I'm sure she hasn't changed her mind.

Another long silence hangs in the air between you all.

Cyril makes a huge show of yawning, winking to you as he does so. "Boy. Harriet, I bet you're worn out from all that reading—"

The priestess frowns to you both intensely. "I would not accompany you into the city right now if you asked, Brother Trebbeck."

He winks to her, much more obnoxiously, and tips his hat to her backside. "Shall I escort you to your quarters, m'lady?"

The priestess is already up, and leaves the room. Over her shoulder, she calls, "don't use your names."

Kneeling down to Ray, you give him a hug, and make sure he's alright. It seems he was worn to the bone from your last fight, but licks the side of your face happily, well-rested and bright-eyed. You get him situated down the hall, with an ample supply of water and food, right outside of Harriet's door.

"No one will bother her," Cyril reassures you, as you're both slipping out of your room.

"It seems terribly dangerous," you murmur, looking back over your shoulder to the end of the hallway. The Hangman's Hangout seems vacant at all hours of the day, and you can't help but mutter, "though I would trust Ray to guard anyone without fail."

It is the dead of night, though the sky is clear and most of the windows are open. Crickets chirp in the distance, and a few gnats swarm around what little light is ahead. The tables have no candles to speak of, and a lantern is posted at the end of the bar. The morbid mural still leers back at you, behind a raging hearth, and a giant pot of some noxious-smelling stew. You avert your eyes, mutter a prayer to Mercy and Dream, and try to avoid the scrutiny of the barkeep.

The barkeep is staring.

"Shit." The blonde looks you over. Your black garments are unconventional, at best, and a dead giveaway of your identity at worst. Cyril smacks his forehead. "Shit."

(Just over, 2/3)
>>
>>4160569
Not panic, but a little pang of grief strikes you, thinking back to the simple shirt your mother made for you. It wasn't as flattering as the nobleman's attire, Father Wilhelm's gift, that complimented even your pallor. You do long for the fantastic hat, and the excellent cloak. Even the gaudy yellow robes of the Church of Mercy would be acceptable. Father Friedrich went to such pains to gather the uniform of your station, now torn to shreds somewhere in the forest.

Your stomach drops, realizing that Yech's cane is gone.

"This is bullshit," the blonde mutters, a hand to his forehead as he tries to think. You're pulled, hard, back down the hallway.

The clothes on your back are worn with battle, stiff, eccentric, and completely unfitting of a man of your position.

>A] Good. Start your search at a dive bar. Let anyone TRY and give you a hard Time. You are TECHNICALLY a priest of Vengeance.
>1] You won't lie about it if asked, but you aren't going to introduce yourself to anyone, either.
>2] You won't correct anyone if they make the assumption. It's going to get harder and harder to be honest about your identity, and you don't want to make problems right off the bat.

>B] Something less conspicuous would be a good start. See if you can barter for something here.
>1] The man behind the counter is a massive threat to your safety. You need to address this here and now.
>2] Trust that Cyril has the arrangement here covered, and simply try to get some clothes and be on your way.

>C] Ask Cyril to go into town and get you something. The hour is already late, but he seems extremely savvy.
>1] Make an explicit request. (Write-in.)
>2] Trust his judgement.
>>
>>4160570
>B] Something less conspicuous would be a good start. See if you can barter for something here.
>2] Trust that Cyril has the arrangement here covered, and simply try to get some clothes and be on your way.
>>
>>4160587
+1
>>
(Thanks for the awesome session guys, it is getting pretty late and I am beat. Going to come back in the afternoon, EST. Vote will be open until then!)
>>
>>4160583
18 naked +1's waiting to be (you)'d
>>
>>4160587
>+1
>>
>>4160587
>>4160598
>>4160831
>>4161190
(Aaaaalright, locking the vote here! Back and ready to rock and roll. Hope you all are having a great day. Writing now.)
>>
>>4161206
"Honestly, Cyril, anything would be fine—"

"Yeah fuckin' right."

"Truly. You— do I look as if I could barter to save my life?"

The blonde smirks, slamming your back as he doubles back towards the bar. "Leave it to me."

Before long you're entrusted with a beige, woolen tunic. Almost equally coarse linen hose accompanies it. They're both a surprisingly good fit, though too short in the legs. Tossing on a sleeveless coat over it— masking even the highest edges of the chain holding your Relic— you step back out of your room. "Thank you, Cyril—"

Cyril tosses up the hood on the back of the coat, over your hair, and practically down to the top of your brow. He's grinning ear to ear. "Better! Convincing, at least."

The blonde is adorned in equally rustic cloth, though he's clearly opted for a tunic without sleeves. It seems he couldn't acquire a better hat, and went for a hooded cloak as well. You frown at him, as he gleams, "your scars have scars— no one's should give you a hard Time! Just keep the hood up. Can't see your hair at all."

"Can we just— I would like to get out of here."

"Sure thing," he chuckles, patting you on the back.

https://youtu.be/B89WXWPQaKg

The sky is clear above the city of Calunoth, stars twinkling in hundreds of shades of blue. Faint light casts from the expanses of homes ahead, despite the late hour. Stretching across your entire field of view, towering off in the horizon and infringing on the sky is more life than you've ever seen. It seems that Calunoth has grown since your last visit, easily eclipsing the most bustling areas of Eadric or Beorward. Even this far out in the slums, as you both briskly walk out into the night, you can hear humanity making itself known.

Babies crying. Children laughing. Men and women fighting, making love, and speaking in low voices past the many countless homes. Most windows are open, many of the homes clearly too poor to put up more than ratty curtains. Not a single odd glance is cast in either of your direction, by the few men still out at this hour.

Cyril seems to know exactly where he's going, taking broad strides that you match effortlessly. Winding along the narrow dirt streets, obviously heading further into the city, you try to make a few things abundantly clear.

"I know that we are out tonight for celebration."

"What stupid excuse do ya' got? Go on," he lecherously grins, "lay it on me."

Frowning is always appropriate. "You are being indecent. You know that my work has been delayed for long enough—"

"You're hopeless," he smirks, seeing how serious you are, and not interrupting again.

"Father Wilhelm entrusted me with a message. I could never hope to understand Dream in the way that he does— but I am no fool, Cyril. We must seek The Pit. Drink and make merry all you wish, but I am out tonight on business."

(1/2)
>>
>>4161265
"You're not drinking?" Brother Trebbeck's ponytail sags, with a deeper slouch, and a pout.

"I never have to want for liquor, Cyril." You pull out Yech's flask for a moment, waggling the item to Cyril.

"Do you have fuckin' anythin' that isn't covered in gold? Don't take that out while we're out tonight."

Frowning, stashing the item, you murmur, "as I— as I was saying: our need for information is significantly greater."

On the furthest edge of the slum, nestled beside the broadest road yet, is the beginning of stone walls and proper structures. More movement picks up along the streets, speckled with merchants. A few priests of Flesh are visible far down the road, in crimson robes. They're talking with multiple men— the King's men— in haphazard collections of armor. Likely scavenged, by their ramshackle appearance, you strongly suspect that anyone stationed this far out is a volunteer force or a peasant put to the station.

You pull your hood down further, glancing to the building Cyril is making a bee-line for.

The exterior is painted with scenes of movement. Carts, horses and dozens of exotic travelers adorn the exterior in faded pigments. It's a short building, though much broader than the Hangman's Hangout. It seems to stretch back for several hundred feet, and revelry is audible from the interior. The scent of cooking and sweat filters out of the expansive, open, wooden doors at the head. A large sign is posted outside the building, on a sheet of thin wood. It's also painted, in several tacky, clashing colors:

THE LOST SOUL

Cyril slows his pace, as you both come up by the front door. He elbows you, and helpfully tries to suggest, "if you're going to do some talking, you should speak up."

>A] He probably doesn't need to know that your accent was literally beaten out of you. You're not always soft-spoken, anyways. You can handle yourself.

>B] Plainly tell Cyril anyways, and ask him to not make the suggestion again. There is nothing wrong with your speech, especially when it comes to matters of business. Tell the blonde to lay off.

>C] The suggestion was clearly made with good intent. Try to speak up, and see if it helps. He probably wants you to keep your identity as obscured as possible.

>D] Write-in.
>>
>>4161269
>C] The suggestion was clearly made with good intent. Try to speak up, and see if it helps. He probably wants you to keep your identity as obscured as possible.
>>
>>4161269
>] The suggestion was clearly made with good intent. Try to speak up, and see if it helps. He probably wants you to keep your identity as obscured as possible.
>>
>>4161269
>>C] The suggestion was clearly made with good intent. Try to speak up, and see if it helps. He probably wants you to keep your identity as obscured as possible.
>>
>>4161277
>>4161283
>>4161306
(Unanimous, locking here! Writing now.)
>>
>>4161321
"No one's goin' to buy the getup if you sound like a clergyman."

Grimacing, beating back instinct, allowing yourself to stress the o's and l's, you manage to clearly state, "Oi know you mean well."

The blonde wraps an arm around your shoulders, leaning in, and muttering to you as a group of men exits The Lost Soul in drunken celebration. "If you aren't drinkin', it'll help. Really."

"Are you certain—? Mercy—"

One of the men in the group ahead practically collapses, while his company laughs uproariously.

"Yes," Cyril mutters beneath the noise. Practically dragging you through the front door, a grin plasters his face. "Come on!"

https://youtu.be/ZN17x2P3ctM

The expansive interior of The Lost Soul greets you with an uncomfortable amount of heat. Several bodies standing right near the entrance are brushed roughly aside as Cyril finally lives up to his title as your bodyguard. He keeps an arm fimly wrapped around your shoulder, guiding you deeper into the building. The soil underfoot is littered with wooden planks in places, propping up dozens of tables that stretch into the rear of the low, flat room. Candles litter every table, filling the heady scented space with the smoke of animal fat. The plumes drift up through holes in the ceiling, mixing in with more leaf from men smoking in every direction. The smoke is amplified by several hearths, and a colossal pot of stew brewing at the center of the scene.

Along the tables are seated plenty of travelers, workers and men from nearby fields. Almost everyone has a flagon or mug of some sort, a few have a bowl of stew, and everyone is talking. The details are mostly drowned out, as a man situated near the cooking pot is loudly singing. He's dressed ridiculously, in a brightly colored tunic, and wears a bleached hat atop his head with a golden yellow feather.

Gnawing dread eats away at you, as Cyril winds you both between the crowd.

"Busted m'ass, think we could get something better to drink?"
"There's a festival going on somewhere!"

"...these are the signs of a traitor in war—
Wealth from no visible source,"


"Cheers!"
"Guards posted outside, any idea what's goin' on?"

"Shunning old comrades he welcomed before,
Holding not steady course,


"If Oi hear one more bloody mess—"
"Hasn't been an outbreak in these parts fer months."

"If you uncover the one who’d betray,
Heed not his words nor his pen,"


"I can drink to that!"
"Barkeep!"

"Give him no second chance – drive him away–
False once will prove false again..."


Your heart sinks, over the revelry, as Cyril leads you to a relatively empty spot at a table. Leaning in, he still has to practically shout to you to be heard over the commotion. "I'm getting us some drinks! Stay put!"

(1/2)
>>
>>4161428
Two lower-class citizens— a young couple— are devouring each other directly across from your seat at the long table. Everyone is keeping a wide berth from their display of affection, and the lovers absolutely do not seem to notice your presence. Averting your eyes, certain you're avoiding all scrutiny, you look further down the wall to your back. Greeted by torches and cheap furs, n more than another ten feet away is a gathering of men. They're playing some sort of game with knives and mugs on the floor.

The men let loose a collective shout, betting on something, several having lost just as Cyril returns.

It feels like the priest only just left your side, but he's holding two enormous mugs of frothing beer. He puts back the first half of one in a single motion, wipes off his face, and slides it to you. "At least will look like you touched it this way!"

>A] Business is business, but it's been months since you had anything resembling normalcy. You're remaining abstinent, and might have to purely try your luck gathering some information. (A ROLL WILL BE REQUIRED.)

>B] Get away from the couple at the table, and go approach the gathering to the side. You have a penchant for gambling, and really can't resist.

>C] Cyril did say that he wanted to talk. Have a little beer, try and enjoy the atmosphere, and keep your ears open. The singer near the hearth has your nerves on end.

>D] Write-in.
>>
>>4161432
>C] Cyril did say that he wanted to talk. Have a little beer, try and enjoy the atmosphere, and keep your ears open. The singer near the hearth has your nerves on end.
well, he already drank half of it, let's drink this at least
>>
>>4161432
>>C] Cyril did say that he wanted to talk. Have a little beer, try and enjoy the atmosphere, and keep your ears open. The singer near the hearth has your nerves on end.

Listen to the singer and the guy talking about guards, emphasis on the singer.
>>
>>4161443
>>4161464
(Going to lock this here with the unanimous vote, gonna try and keep up the pace today! Vote is locked, writing now.)
>>
>>4161488
Raising your mug to Cyril, you make a point to clearly say, "a drink, surely, could not hurt."

He laughs, "that's more like it!" Raising his own mug to you, you both drink in turn.

The mug is poorly crafted, and the beer is somehow worse. Bitter, astringent, and extremely watered down— you take a little comfort in knowing you won't get drunk off of it from merely half the mug. Drinking slowly, you keep your ears out.

"Still can't believe you. Unbelievable," Cyril grins, nudging your free arm, "but you're not exactly one to talk, are ya'?"

The singer is still quite a ways off, but his voice resonates through the room. To your absolute horror, you catch on the next few lyrics, and hear a few people singing along to the tune:

"These are the signs of the treacherous priest—
Pleasure in anyone’s pain,
Abused or degrading of man or of beast,
Duty as second to gain,"


"Hey, are you alright there?" Cyril knocks you on the arm again, sliding his mug over to you. "You're kinda pale— I mean, paler than usual—"

The gentleman discussing the guard outside, through a scratchy-looking beard, has to shout to his companions to be heard over the din as well. "Sick o' this shit! No point lettin' up on the curfew if we can't have any fun!"

By his side, a few men grumble in agreement.
"Aye," from a worker still wearing a leather apron.
Still wearing a fine smock, a merchant beside him mutters, "worse the further in you are."
"Odd seeing them so near to the wood," grumbles another lower-class man, scratching his mustache.
The gentleman so concerned with everyone's safety furrows his overgrown brow, plainly asking, "you don't think something's happened?"

Thinking back to your abrupt departure from the Church of Flesh, Father Friedrich's absence, the alleged death of two members of your congregation, the destroyed forest, the demon of Agriculture you slayed, and the countless guards that had immediately gone to clean up your mess, you pull your hood up much farther.

"Preaching belief but with none of his own,
Twisting all that he controls
Fear him and never face him alone,
He corrupts innocent souls."


Burying your face in the mug, trying to finish the drink, you nearly spit out the beverage.

It keeps getting worse. A nightmare of a chorus breaks out, as a few more people toss some coin to the singer with his feathered hat. With a broad smile, revealing a missing tooth, he bellows,

These are the signs of the priest honor-broke–
Pride coming last over all,
Treading the backs and the necks of his folk,
That he alone might stand tall!


Cyril is looking, horrified, over to the performance as the din reaches a fever-pitch.

(Barely over, 1/2)
>>
>>4161555
"Giving himself to desire that are base,
Tyrannous, cunning and cruel
Bring him down – set someone else in his place,
SUCH MEN ARE NOT FIT TO RULE!


Uproarious applause and laughter breaks out from around the singer. He takes a deep bow, sweeping off his hat and catching a volume of coin into it.

It occurs to you that Cyril's hands are in fists, and he's stopped drinking. The blonde leans in, hissing to you, "you say the fuckin' word and I will roll this guy's head. You don't need to hear this shit."

>(A ROLL MAY BE REQUIRED for all of the following prompts. Write-ins will make a BIG difference in execution, or may forgo the need for rolling entirely.)

>A] You're not listening to another word of slander, even if everyone else seems to want to. You're taking your business, and your luck, elsewhere. Maybe you can talk to Cyril about this during a BAR CRAWL.

>B] You really do. As a priest of MERCY, and the former Father of Compassion, you're level-headed enough to persuade him into joining you at your table.

>C] You really do. VENGEANCE is going to be delivered. The moment you're able, you're going to intimidate this guy into joining you out back.
>1] To talk, away from listening ears.
>2] To punch his face in. This is bullshit.

>D] Write-in.
>>
>>4161560
>C] You really do. VENGEANCE is going to be delivered. The moment you're able, you're going to intimidate this guy into joining you out back.
>1] To talk, away from listening ears.
No need to start a fight here when we have business to do. We'll talk with the singer later, away from prying eyes, if he believes what he's sang about or if he did it for the money
>>
>>4161560
Keep our cool. Maybe get him to sing another song about us to see what *exactly* the slander against us is. Then

>B] You really do. As a priest of MERCY, and the former Father of Compassion, you're level-headed enough to persuade him into joining you at your table.

To get more info then
>1] To talk, away from listening ears

While around other people we shouldn't let our mask slip too much.
>>
>>4161560
>>C] You really do. VENGEANCE is going to be delivered. The moment you're able, you're going to intimidate this guy into joining you out back.
>>1] To talk, away from listening ears.
>>2] To punch his face in. This is bullshit.
>>
>>4161570
>>4161587
>>4161623
(Majority explicitly doesn't want to fight, so going to omit C2.
Social skills are not exactly your forte, and as you're disguising your greatest leverage (your position):)

>GATHER SOME INTEL
>WHY DON'T YOU HAVE A SEAT
>NEED TO GO OUT BACK

>Roll 1d100. Best of 3 will be used.
>-10 COMPLETELY OUT OF YOUR ELEMENT
>+10 STILL REALLY INTIMIDATING
>+5 SPECIFIC QUESTIONS
>>
>>4161623
If we do that anon we would just be proving the song right. Save your rage for the people that orchestrated all of this, Vengeance should be proportional.
>>
Rolled 1 (1d100)

>>4161668
>>
Rolled 96 (1d100)

>>4161668
MERCY HELP US!
>>
>>4161672
Damn bro
>>4161623
>>4161669
Time to roll guys, please
>>
Rolled 13 (1d100)

>>4161668
Hasta la vista Luck
>>
>>4161676
I GOTCHU BROTHER MERCY IS WITH US
>>
>>4161672
>>4161673
>>4161677
(THE LEGEND NEVER DIES. Seriously that is some shit. Good thing we're doing best of 3. Vote is locked, writing now!)
>>
>>4161673
>>4161681
Yeah https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F8oqZ7SJN_8
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>>4161681
Itching to loosen another one of the bard's teeth, you take a deep breath, and coolly slide back your chair. "Our Vengeance will be proportionate."

"...what?" Cyril stays close behind you, as you stand.

Weaving through the crowd, you plainly inform him over your shoulder, "Oi will not prove this minstrel roight. Not here. Not now."

You easily stand a head taller than most of the individuals among you, and carve a path through the crowd expertly. It's infinitely less difficult than dodging furniture thrown by Father Friedrich, spears from imps, or all the responsibility you've shirked for the last several months.

"Watch it." A man you nudge with your broad shoulders turns around in outrage.

He actually steps aside when he turns. Seeing the shadow leering, over the countless scars under your hood, you murmur "excuse me," in reply.

Brushing past him, darting shrouded eyes over from the peasant, to your target, you close the last of the distance between you two. Offering an unhinged smile to the singer seems appropriate. "Some performance."

The minstrel lifts his head from counting the coin thrown to him, and fires his yellow, broken teeth back. A thin mustache is smeared across his upper lip, in a light shade of brown. Replacing the white hat atop his head, straightening the frills around his collar, the man sneers, "didn' like it?"

"Long-winded," you critique, to the singer's visible dismay. "Felt loike it went on and on. Got anything to the point? The subject was ahmusing enough."

With a grimace, bending the hideous mustache, the singer clears his throat a few times. "Doesn' know what 'es talkin' about. A'right! Listen up!"

Several heads turn to the entertainer, already amused. You take a few steps back, arms crossed, trying to remain as discreet as possible.

Your precaution is entirely unnecessary, as a baudy, debased and utterly inappropriate tune rings out within seconds. The first line has your pulse up, and a few people gasp in dismay.

"Oh say, Goddess Mercy, may I be your lover,
Condemn him no longer to moan and to weep,
Struck down like a dog, he cried wounded and bleeding,
'Oh let down your drawbridge, I'll enter your keep'—"


Cyril spits out his drink. You try to not punch the man in the face, for the second time.

It goes on, for several minutes, and devolves at some point into another tune.

You're so red-faced and mortified that you can barely make out the melody. It devolves into some raunchy ballad, regarding how ill-suited the prior Father of Mercy was to be around children, or dogs, or women of any sort.

There's more in the medley, regarding chastity belts, locksmiths, self-enthrallment, endangerment of others, the phrase masochistic delight at least 14 times...

You completely shut out the debasement. You are calm, and cool, and collected. You need to hear this, but the details are unimportant.

(1/2)
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>>4161845
I have heard all of this before. ...everything worth listening to, that is.

It seems that the singer has stopped, grinning to a number of nearby men clapping and laughing. Crossing back over, you keep your arms crossed, and manage, "you have ah way with words." The minstrel takes off his hat, which you do not place any coin in. "Oi imagine you're in need of ah drink?"

Placing his hat back on his head, obliviously smiling back, the minstrel retorts, "y'ere a brigh'er lad than most!"

Cyril wordlessly strides off, visibly furious, to get more drinks.

You cross over to the furthest end of the nearest table. The entertainer has to deal with several men complimenting his performance, while you sit, and patiently wait. After the commotion has died down, the blonde is neatly seated behind you, and puts away his entire beer in a single swing.

Watching the blonde's temper, you stare in amusement as he produces another mug from behind him. It looks like he's carried over eight tankards, and slides two in front of the bard. Sweeping one of the mugs up for yourself, you raise it to the singer, and wordlessly nod.

He returns the gesture, and immediately can't resist making use of his voice. It's nasally when he's not singing, you hate it, and listen patiently. "Place is a rea' dump, innit? Gotta earn yer keep somehow," he sneers, obviously at the bitter aftertaste, "but idnit a shame?"

Setting your own drink down, you grimace back, "the beer is terrible." A laugh greets you in reply, and you continue, "you could not possibly be doing this— for the love of the crahft, then?"

"No," the man smirks back, "but i' helps."

Setting down your drink, which is already empty, you lean in. It's just enough for your height to impose on the significantly shorter, wiry frame next to you. It's just enough that the shadow over your face isn't obscuring the pockmarks from old shrapnel, the bags under your eyes, or the utterly unhinged smile plastered over your otherwise collected demeanor.

"Would be ah shame," you murmur, glancing over your shoulder past Cyril, "if there was anyone in the building. Who would threaten thaht."

The blonde gets it, and frowns intensely back. Standing upright, leaning in just long enough to murmur, "I hear you loud and clear, boss."

He's gone in a flash, with as much urgency as you're used to.

You stand upright, looking down to the minstrel, murmuring, "there has been ah lot of talk tonoight. Increased security. There are guards just dohwn the road— but if you would accompany me, Oi would be more than happy to discuss this outsoide."

Immediately, visibly stressed, the man stands from his seat. Taking a mug of beer with him, looking over his shoulder, he murmurs, "righ'. 'Course. Go on, lead the way."

(Underestimated 2/3)
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>>4161852
No one seems to notice your path, or the absence of the entertainment, for all the commotion going on inside. You wind through the crowd, glancing over your shoulder constantly to confirm that the bard is right behind you. He seems entirely too nervous to get more than a few feet away.

You arrive back outside, and nod your head to the back of the building. The man behind you nervously glances over his shoulder once again, nodding in return.

Taking advantage of your broad strides, you pull ahead of the minstrel easily to the rear of The Lost Soul. He huffs, red-faced, trailing a bit behind you.

You turn around the corner of the building. Cyril is standing, arms crossed, still looking his part for the bare muscle he's tensing. "Good," he perks up, seeing you approaching. The blonde tenses harder, looking past you for the bard.

You give him such a cutting stare that he backs down, uncrossing his arms as he winces, "shit, okay."

Coming around the corner, the minstrel is holding onto his hat, out of breath and looking downright terrified. "Alrigh'! Wha's all this about, then?"

>A] You have questions! Questions that need answering!
>1] Who are you working for?
>2] How much are they paying you?
>3] How long has this been going on for?
>4] Why are you going along with this slander?

>B] Fuck it, punch him.
>1] Pick him right back up, and threaten to do it again if he doesn't talk.
>2] You're pretty upset. Leave him on the ground, and let your presence do the talking.

>C] You're REALLY upset.
>1] Let Cyril punch him. It's going to leave a mark.
>2] Pin this guy against the wall and make it clear that you are not fucking around.

>D] Write-in.
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>>4161696
(Just gonna casuuuuaaaallly drop that on the big playlist. Good shit.

Didn't make this apparent with the options, but holding onto that roll for the discussion.)
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>>4161857
>A] You have questions! Questions that need answering!
>3] How long has this been going on for?
>4] Why are you going along with this slander?
There’s a reason for him to be singing that and I bet it wasn’t at random
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>>4161917
Good ol’ lord of the rings
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>>4161977
(Classic stuff.

Gonna leave this vote open for one more hour. Pretty beefy post and gives me an opportunity to get some dinner. If there are no other votes at that time I'll plug right on ahead with yours mate.)
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>>4161857
>>A] You have questions! Questions that need answering!
>>1] Who are you working for?
>>2] How much are they paying you?
>>3] How long has this been going on for?

>D] Write-in.
Where did you get the hat?
Are there any other minstrels like yourself singing the same songs?
Do any of the people actually believe what the songs say?
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>>4161933
>>4162020
(Hoo wee. Locking the vote here! Writing now.)
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>>4162089
In a low voice, you utter, "you must speak quickly. Time is of the essence. Is there anyone else you are working with, under your employ? You all are in extreme danger."

Heat fading from the minstrel's face in an instant, he looks up to your hood, obviously trying to scrutinize you. You pull back on the fabric, just enough to show the streaks of old battle, broken glass, implements of torture and botched invocations. Grimacing intensely, putting the hood back over the pockets beneath your eyes, you mutter, "well?"

The singer is visibly sweating, clearly having not recognized you as he mutters, "'ow the fuck shoul' I know?"

Before he can pepper you with any questions of his own, you nod to the bleached, fine fabric adorning his head. "That is no fashion statement, sir."

Sweeping the item off of his scalp, showing a receding hairline, the man fires back, "i' was a gift. Wha's your point?"

Dropping all pretense of any rustic association, you implore him, "you are being extremely defensive. I meant no offense to whomever it was from."

Scrutinizing you harder, the man utters, "I don't wan' any trouble. I' you're looking to threa'en me, I don' have a wife. No children. This is jus' business."

"I mean you no harm. I am only concerned with who you are working for."

"'ake it up with the church, then."

The next few syllables practically come out as a growl, for how much your tone has dropped, "I am going to need you to be much more specific." Taking a step forward, looming over the man, you shift the edges of your lips up. "You will have to excuse me. I am so used to stuttering. Do I need to repeat myself?"

"No. Nosir. Brother Nibley of the Church of Spiri' gave me the hat—" you don't recognize the name at all, "and Brother," he winces, making sure he's pronouncing the name correctly, "Dalton, of the Church of Mercy, gave me the feather."

It's like someone's punched you in the gut. You remember Dalton's portly, clean-shaven face. Both of his sons served alongside you, during one of your last sermons as the Father of Mercy. His extreme outrage is more memorable still, at you taking on the post at such a young age. He never said it to your face, but you remember the invocation to Spirit. The truth of the matter. His honest thoughts, knowing full well what poor shape you were in before you even came into the clergy...

"A priest?! I'll die before I have to work with that lunatic— scaring the people half to death. I have half a mind to transfer now—"

Cyril nudges the side of your shoulder. The blonde helpfully tilts his head, towards the man standing before you.

He's silent, looking to you as if you're going to strike him down with every blink. You do blink, several times, before dead-panning, "how much are they paying you."

(1/2)
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>>4162192
"No' much. I told you, I'm doing this for my own sake." A little more verve comes into the performer's voice, as he proudly declares, "for all our sake."

"Why?"

The man looks to you like you have two heads. "Innit obvious? We can't have someone like that leading our country. Things are bad 'nuff already! An' I though' it was worse before, running the Church of Mercy— but he wen' running off! Cracked, too! Putting lives in danger! The way 'e came back! Would 'ave been a Mercy for the King to put him down, if you ask me—"

"I did not. How long have you been doing this work for?"

"A few months," he pauses, seemingly incapable of respecting Time, "maybe more, maybe less."

"And your colleagues?"

"I tol' you, I 'ave no idea. I'm sure as shi' not the first, though. Won' be the last. Guy had i' coming, so far as I'm concerned."

"What do you mean?"

"Abou'—"

"All of it. You are trying my patience."

"A-as far as I know, they've been putting out word like thi' for months. Years, even? Not as plain, but you'd hear stories. I kept my ear to the ground. A' least. You didn' need to."

"Years...?"

"Guy's go' enemies in high places."

"What could possibly warrant...?"

"Didn' you hear? 'E pinned Brother Morri' and Brother Stace. Father Sullivan, too. Couple months back. Said they'd done him wrong, and not like those ballads I was singing in there—"

The stacks of parchment Sister Cardew penned in your favor leer in your memory. The excuses to not answer to the King. The damning accusations of years of abuse, and absolutely no concern for the political turmoil that might rain down on your head.

"You said you were hired by the Church of Spirit and Mercy. Is that right, then?"

"If you want to put it that way. I've dealt with a few other hands. Get tipped by a lot more!"

This man has earned his living slandering my name.

The people love it.

Father Wilhelm and Father Friedrich have worked themselves to the bone for months to help me— but there are men who have wanted me out of the Church for nearly a decade.


>A] You need to go sit down somewhere and try not to vomit. You'd been warned many times about the severity of the slander in Calunoth, but this surpasses your expectations.

>B] You're going straight back to the Hangman's Hangout, and discussing this with Sister Cardew.

>C] You're not done here. (Write-in anything further you wish to ask the minstrel.)

>D] You're not giving up this easily. You came out tonight for information regarding your congregation, and no matter how severe the situation is, you are pressing on.
>1] Without much in the way of funds, you're really limited to the slums. Ask Cyril if he knows of any other places you can check out, to keep investigating.
>2] You legitimately need a drink, somewhere quieter to sit, and a place devoid of music.

>E] Write-in.
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>>4162195
>B] You're going straight back to the Hangman's Hangout, and discussing this with Sister Cardew.
After hearing this, I can’t really blame the bard because the slander was going on even before he got some pay from those traitors and he believed it. We’re gonna need help on how to deal with things and later we’ll look for info
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>>4162195
>D] You're not giving up this easily. You came out tonight for information regarding your congregation, and no matter how severe the situation is, you are pressing on.
>1] Without much in the way of funds, you're really limited to the slums. Ask Cyril if he knows of any other places you can check out, to keep investigating.
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>>4162268
>>4162351
(Hey guys, going to leave this vote open for the rest of the night since I'm getting some shut-eye a little earlier than usual. I'll be back for our last session of the weekend tomorrow afternoon, same EST time, same Catalyst channel. Hope you have a great night!)
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>>4162195
>>D] You're not giving up this easily. You came out tonight for information regarding your congregation, and no matter how severe the situation is, you are pressing on.
>>1] Without much in the way of funds, you're really limited to the slums. Ask Cyril if he knows of any other places you can check out, to keep investigating.
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>>4162195
>D] You're not giving up this easily. You came out tonight for information regarding your congregation, and no matter how severe the situation is, you are pressing on.
>1] Without much in the way of funds, you're really limited to the slums. Ask Cyril if he knows of any other places you can check out, to keep investigating.
>>
(Back and ready for action! As usual this will be our last session of the weekend. Updates at least once a day Monday-Thursday, full sessions resuming next Friday!)

>>4163223
>>4162351
>>4162268
(Let's do this thing. Vote is locked, writing now!)
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>>4163239
(4chan being a shit, got you too bro.)
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>>4163240
>>4163242
"Don't keep your audience waiting any longer, then," you murmur, nodding back towards the tavern.

Cyril stands almost upright from his slouch, arms crossed, and snarls to the minstrel, "you had a little too much to drink, and a few strangers helped you out."

Putting his hat firmly back atop his head, the bard hesitates to leave.

The priest at your side finishes, "those mugs might still be on the table. You'd better hurry."

All skepticism vanishes from the minstrel, who turns and practically runs back to the interior of The Lost Soul.

The moment he's out of sight, Cyril explodes, "why would you listen to all of that shit?!"

"We are out tonight to gather information," you coolly reply, and are immediately interrupted.

"They've been tellin' you for months how bad shit is here."

The frown across your face is starting to feel better than anything else that's wounded you this evening. Trying to assume a more neutral expression, you murmur, "I needed to hear this from the people themselves, Cyril. I— I needed to know that someone could be so misled. So convicted—"

The side of your arm is punched very slightly. "Fuck you."

Frowning is unavoidable. "You know I despise it, Cyril."

"Sure, you—"

"If you call me a glutton one more Time— you know full well that I have heard enough debasement this evening."

"Sorry. You hate to see it, though. No one deserves all that."

Silence hangs between you both, though the revelry within The Lost Soul can be heard through the walls. An owl hoots off in the distance. You feel a little nauseous, recalling an imp with a similar tone as the animal, someone who cut you far more deeply with words, and you're being gently nudged.

"Hey. You alright?"

"I will speak with Sister Cardew when we return."

"Good— wait. When?"

Your hands are in fists. "No matter how dire the situation here is, I set out this evening on a mission, Cyril. We are not returning empty-handed."

The hand on your shoulder pats a few times. "That's what I like to hear."

"How much did that beer cost you—"

"You can literally make gold, Richard. I'm really not worried about it."

"I am. Our search is extremely limited."

"I heard a few things at the bar," the blonde smiles, with more mischief than you've possibly ever seen.

"You— why are you giving me that look—"

"I'm not just a pretty face, you know," he leers.

"You're right. You are licentious—"

"Flowers, Richard! You shouldn't have!"

"Thank you for saving your abuse until after we were done with our line of questioning, Cyril."

"That's no way to talk to someone who's got us a lead."

"Tell me they ban minstrels on sight."

"Better than that. You'll see, come on."

(1/2)
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>>4163326
An extended walk takes you away from the edge of the more developed portions of the slums, adjacent to the broad road, past a district that perpetually smells like horses, beyond a runoff of extremely filthy water, and into the start of developed district covered in hideous murals. The paintings adorning every building in sight show off...

"Is this—"

"I know you're not that much of a prude."

It's clearly a district dedicated to the worship of Flesh.

A sign leers over you, reading, "The Battered Maid," as Cyril does not come to a stop. He takes several broad steps ahead, towards a colossal man standing outside of the outrageous building. It's painted bright red, and there are ample names scrawled on the exterior. In a horrible parody of devotion, you recognize in woman's handwriting Faith, Chastity, and plenty of equally ill-fitting monikers. They surely belong to the female forms in every position conceivable on the exterior, and to the voices you hear.

They're coming from inside the structure. It's loud enough to be heard through the walls, out on the streets.

"Great advertising," Cyril helpfully calls over his shoulder.

You try very hard to not focus on the noise, and glance back to the entrance. The door is banded with metal, obviously locked tight, and directly behind a guard. He's dressed in trousers. Just trousers. No shoes, no shirt, and clearly is proud of his form. Almost as broad shouldered as Father Friedrich, bristling with strength, he's significantly taller than your mentor (and about as tall as you). Clean-shaven and bald, he bristles a mustache and beard up into a smile upon seeing you both.

>A] No. No. NO. Drag Cyril away from the building before he can try and get you inside. This is not worth any more fuss, let alone a lead.
>1] You're not a prude, this just seems like a TERRIBLE idea.
>2] You actually are uncomfortable. You're a taken man, and a priest. Cyril can come back here without you, if necessary.

>B] Surely this couldn't hurt. You are a devout and pious man. You can keep to yourself. This is business. You're taken, but that shouldn't stop you from research.

>C] Write-in.
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>>4163330
>B] Surely this couldn't hurt. You are a devout and pious man. You can keep to yourself. This is business. You're taken, but that shouldn't stop you from research.
This isn't the worst we have to deal today, but tell Cyril that we'll go straight to the point here
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>>4163330
>B] Surely this couldn't hurt. You are a devout and pious man. You can keep to yourself. This is business. You're taken, but that shouldn't stop you from research.
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>>4163347
>>4163365
(Had to run to the store unexpectedly, back now. Vote is locked! Will write in just a moment.)
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>>4163500
(Writing now!)
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>>4163523
Firing you a sincerely apologetic glance, Cyril mouths, "I know you have more class than this."

You try to put on a stoic face, nodding to the guard.

The man looks between you both expectantly.

Cyril whips his head around, looking up and down the streets, and smiles back to the guard. "'Evening."

"Out late," the behemoth smirks, with a much higher voice than you'd expect.

"Yep," the blonde leans in, stressing, "The Rub and Grub Pub stays open for longer than most."

The guard can't help but broaden his smile, fishing a key out from the ring on his belt. As he moves to open the door, looking to you, and back to Cyril, he asks, "you're vouching for him, then?"

With a snort, Cyril wraps an arm around your shoulders. "He's restraint on legs, mate."

Waving your left hand, letting the metal adorning it catch on the moonlight, you frown, "I will be more than happy to keep to myself."

Unlocking the entrance to the building, with his back turned, you look away from the guard to Cyril. Even more quietly than usual, you murmur, "we need to get to the point here. Needless to say, I do not want to linger."

"Don't worry about a thing."

"Do not ask me to make a promise I cannot keep."

"Very funny."

The man at the door is still unfastening locks.

Why are there so many?

You lean in, to Cyril, who is patiently standing and watching the guard. It occurs to you that there are no candles lit on the exterior, to denote that this is a place of open business. Nor is the sign plainly visible on the road.

"What, precisely, was this lead you were given?"

"Got tipped off to someone that can get us to The Pit. Pray at the altar or some shit. Just needed to mention the ol' pub."

Your frown could not be any more extreme. You are not a liar.

The door is open just a crack. Before you can protest, the guard waves a hand, propping the incredibly heavy-looking entrance ajar with his foot.

Cyril practically drags you forward, as you enter The Battered Maid.

The entire interior of the narrow, cramped corridor is painted red. A closed door is at the opposite end of the hall. In a small window, just to the right of the entrance, is a woman. She is sitting behind the wall, her separate room only visible through a small slot at eye level.

This is not funny.

It's a parody of a confessional. Cyril looks amused. The door slams shut, hard, behind you all, and the guard immediately sets to locking it again.

The woman is elderly, though her eyes and lips are painted in a disgustingly bright blue hue. They're stark against her loose hair, the lines around her eyes, and a toothy smile that asks, "what can I do for you boys?"

"Chastity for the one," the guard unhelpfully chimes in.

"No," you fire back, and give Cyril a pleading look.

(1/2)
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>>4163662
The blonde releases the vice around your shoulders, approaches the window, and leans in to mutter a few words. The woman behind the screen laughs, high and false, before closing the window entirely.

A door at the end of the hall opens from an unseen servant, revealing the interior of the brothel. You're greeted with the scent of sweat, smoke, far too many bodies in one place, and ignore the urge to cover your nose.

"Come on," Cyril drags.

You take a few steps forward, into a rather narrow hall. Flanked with doors on every side, the source of the sounds you heard outside are amplified tenfold. It seems that the vast majority of the rooms are occupied. The center of the passage is sparse. Though there are plenty of tables, chairs, and flickering candles, only a handful of men are present. Each is being attended to by no fewer than two women.

Your heart sinks.

The ladies at work are universally in some sort of disarray. Flitting your eyes from black eyes, to tousled hair, to a particularly emaciated frame, away from a woman staring vacantly over to you, you realize you're just standing there.

Staring at the dirt floor, streaked in places with blood and other fluid you don't want to linger on.

Staring at the way that several of the men are desperately clinging, and making use of the figures around them.

The customers all look very well off. One is clearly a priest of the Church of Flesh, with well trimmed hair and a build that rivals Cyril's. Another has a set of particularly fine clothes, befitting of a lord, set aside by him. He's otherwise unadorned, save for the three women attending to his requests.

At the farthest end of the hall is not a door, but a small and vacant stage. A small gathering of men— no more than six— are all lounging in wooden chairs. They are smoking, drinking, and talking among themselves while clearly waiting for a performance.

A pang of deja-vu hits you, enough that you reel, and try to stop staring.

Cyril looks to you apologetically, wrapping an arm back around your shoulder. "She said we could take a room. Didn't have any idea what I was talking about."

>A] Get out of this den of debauchery and to a room.
>1] Allow yourself to mull over how disgustingly similar this is to Remigius' lair.
>2] Try to focus on the task at hand. This is fine.

>B] Go sit among the men at the far end of the hallway, and eavesdrop. This is FINE.

>C] Double back to the entrance.
>1] Grill the woman at the window. (Write-in what you might try to ask.)
>2] Make a specific request of the woman of the house. (Write-in what angle you approach her with.)

>D] Write-in.
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>>4163667
>A] Get out of this den of debauchery and to a room.
>1] Allow yourself to mull over how disgustingly similar this is to Remigius' lair.
We need to find a proper room quickly. ask Cyril what he can do about it.
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>>4163667
>D] Write-in.

>go talk to the guys drinking, ask where we could get a drink
>hang out with them a bit and try to get some info on our lads by asking about "the high security" as a conversation starter, inquire about this altar at some point
>after we get what we need leave cyril in our place and go to the other fleshfag and offer him a drink when there is a lull in the fucking
>"must be thirsty ey"
>milk the dude for information as well, inquire about his outfit
>finally search for this altar thing, considering this building is a mockery of a church we might know where the "altar" could be?

>>4163696
We are flying blind right now, we don't have any sort of information. We should use this opportunity and do as much as we can, getting a room seems like a waste of time right now.
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>>4163712
I agree with the write in but boy golly gee do I want to spend only the bare minimum time here necessary
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>>4163742

The fuckzone was way worse than this anon, this is nothing compared to Remi and we have the luxury of not having to fight for our lives. Time spent here is gonna save the lives of our congregation, isn't that worth a little bit of discomfort?
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>>4163753
and I didn't like that place any better lel , I'm not saying I don't want us to do this, I just would rather we do it quickly...for both the lives of our congregation...and our sanity.
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>>4163757
Fair, I can agree to getting out of dodge quick as long as we get everything we can from here.
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>>4163696
>>4163712
>>4163742
>>4163753
>>4163757
>>4163821
(Pretty sure I can take this all into consideration and give you guys something cool in the process. ;^) Vote is locked! Writing now.)
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>>4163959
(Accidentally dropped pic, please refresh f5! Post will be out in a second.)
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File: Remigius Journal Entry.png (5 MB, 2000x1412)
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>>4163959
There's a dull pulse.

https://youtu.be/-4CBMt71yY8

It's not coming from music, or from pounding. It's not the thrashing of demons against the walls of a lair made entirely of re-purposed meat. It's not dancing, or love-making, or torment and thrashing for hours on end.

"Look, it's not a big deal," Cyril mutters, pulling away, oblivious.

He doesn't know anything about your experiences. Not with debauchery and hedonism.

You realize that the throbbing in your head is coming from your heart. Every inch of you is screaming to turn and run away from the bare skin, of men and women losing themselves in public debasement. To at least get a quiet room, to gather yourself, to not have to think about her.

You have to think about her.

"This is nothing," you mutter, striding fearlessly ahead.

Celegwen was on the ground, screaming for help, surrounded by demons that—

"Excuse me," you murmur, dropping down in one of the wooden chairs near the stage.

The last time you saw one, it was lined with golden petals. Cloth, and the form of Mercy.

Remigius.

She tried, and succeeded, in making a public spectacle of you.

With a straight face, your voice comes out dry, and utterly convincing. "Is there nowhere to get a drink around here?"

My memory is usually wonderful.

There were so many drugs forced into you that night, you can't even remember the name of the imp that tried to spare you from torment and death.

A woman without a blouse helpfully bounces over towards you.

Cyril has, apparently, been sitting next to you.

He takes the drinks, offers some coin, and leans in close. You accept the mug of beer, not touching it for a moment, as the blonde leans in closer. "Buddy. Hey. We can get out of here. It's fine."

You fire back a look that could kill.

You've intimidated demons before.

You've beaten them bloody, too.

He stands down, while you lean over to the group of men. They seem completely unphased by your attempt to meet their eyes, until you put back your entire mug in a single swing.

You don't need to come up for air.

She didn't let me. This is nothing.

"There's been more security out on the street," you choke out, looking to the empty mug before you with an enormous amount of discomfort. It feels like there's glass in your throat, even though the beverage was clearly safe.

A man with a pointed mustache immediately frowns, "what?"
The lord sitting beside him adjusts his bright green collar, shifting uncomfortably. "Nonsense," he murmurs, looking back to the rest of the hall.

The door still looks to be locked.

The red door.

"Can't go a few steps past the runoff without some priest or guard leering," you continue, to the collective dismay of everyone around you.

One man actually stands up, immediately turning to leave. "Thank you," he murmurs, before taking his hat and briskly walking away.

The remaining men are clearly uncomfortable.

(1/2)
>>
>>4164130
"Not worth staying around, is it," a merchant laments, looking to the stage, and finishing his own drink.

Right beside him, a stockier merchant glances up, obviously not wanting to move. "Did you say they were in the area?"

You move to stand, grimacing, "close enough. There isn't a nearby altar any of you know of?"

"You'll be needing her," one of the nobles sneers. "Probably busy." He gestures to the priest of Flesh, further down the hall.

A woman is kneeling before him, you look away, and grit out, "thank you."

A nod, to Cyril, to stay seated.

The blonde is significantly more comfortable than he should be, sinks down into his chair, and offers you his entire drink. With a quick gesture of his hands, to his eyes, and back to you, he makes it abundantly clear that you've got backup.

Or that he's terribly worried.

It's probably the latter, as you excuse yourself.

A few women get up, onto the stage, as you walk over towards the noble at the other end of the building.

No music kicks up.

There's a beat, stuck in your head, in your chest, and a tightness above your heart that you can't quite shake.

Passing briskly by the noble, you slow just enough to comment, "nice hat."

Lifting his head from the bosom of the two women before him, the man actually has the decency to reply, "thank you. It was a gift."

The cloth is white.

Your stomach turns, just a little. It occurs to you that you didn't even taste the entire beer, as you arrive to the side of the priest of Flesh.

The Altar wipes her lips, getting back to her feet, as her customer parts his hand from the back of her head. Her strands of hair are dyed in every imaginable hue, long enough to hand past her shoulders. Though her cheeks are pink, her skin is tanned, and every curve is exposed. "You'll have to wait," she huffs, from painted red lips.

With a light laugh, the priest standing across from you offers a hazy smile. He has the audacity to have kept his holy symbol on. Atop his right index finger is a band of red thread, holding a small needle flush against his skin. It shifts, as he pulls a set of plain clothes from the back of his chair, and starts to get redressed.

The pulse is still in your head, though you are far from drunk, or tied down, or forced to imbibe any measure of food or drink or drugs...

The beverage in your hands could not be any more revolting. Sliding the mug in your hands across the table behind the priest, looking to his neatly cropped hair, the stubble and absence of scars about his face, you realize he's around your age.

"Thanks," he smirks, sweeping up the mug, possibly more oblivious than Brother Trebbeck. "Must be in a fuckin' hurry. Don't worry, she's got plenty left in her!"

(Options in next post.)
>>
>>4164136
>A] You can do this. You are not crazy, and you do not need to worry about your behavior around women. You're fine. Really. Ask the Altar, DISCREETLY, if she can speak with you privately. No pretenses.

>B] You're not so naive as to think that this harlot will just speak with you. Say that you're helping out your friend. It's not a lie! Maybe she would agree to go with Cyril!
>1] You just want to get out of this horrible place as fast as possible, and trust he can do the talking with more ease.
>2] See if she'll agree to go into a room with both of you.

>C] You know your limits. Let Cyril know where she is, and dip out. Get some fresh air. Collect yourself.

>D] Write-in.
>>
>>4164143
>B] You're not so naive as to think that this harlot will just speak with you. Say that you're helping out your friend. It's not a lie! Maybe she would agree to go with Cyril!
>1] You just want to get out of this horrible place as fast as possible, and trust he can do the talking with more ease.
Guy is looking like he'll explode, let's get Cyril to convince the priest to inform us
>>
>>4164163
Support.
>>
>>4164163
>>4164175
(Alright let's gooo. Locking here with the unanimous vote. Might even have time for one more update after this, we'll see. Writing now!)
>>
>>4164205
"It's nothing," you mutter, "and I am not here for her."

Gesturing over your shoulder, towards the stage. Cyril's ponytail is more animated than usual, as he talks with the customers who remained seated beside him.

"What a gentleman," The Altar drawls, in a high and hazy voice. "Helping out your friend sure is nice. But what about you, tall, dark and...?"

She leans in.

You lean back, ignore the urge to go burn your clothes, and glance to the priest. He's finished getting dressed, and slips a pair of gloves over his holy symbol to your extreme dismay.

The pulse in your ears and chest is loud enough that you could mistake it for music. "Excuse me," you choke out, further suppressing the urge to go for the door, "I know you must be in a hurry as well—"

"Nah, mate. Everything alright?" He's drinking the beer, eyeing you up and down. "You alright?"

"Absolutely. I— excuse me for just a moment."

It takes seconds to cross back over to Cyril, the stage, the dancing, and you drop down in a chair next to the blonde. "She is over there."

"She?"

"The Altar. They— I suppose she finds it funny to be called an object—"

"Hey." A hand is on your shoulder. "What do you need?"

"She's with a priest. Can you please—"

"Yeah. Sit tight."

Putting a hand to your head, trying to still the throbbing, the imminent headache, you try to sit back. It's less comfortable than the refined armchairs in the domain of Flesh. It's infinitely better than being shackled to the floor, pushed down, suffocating—

Brother Trebbeck is back, and pats you gently on the back. "I got you. Let's get out of here."

The nobles and merchants sitting around the stage mutter a little to themselves as you leave.

The hulking guard seems miffed that you haven't seen any of the women, but Cyril mutters something about the late hour and his friend not feeling well.

Back outside, under the night sky, is a blue moon. The stars are twinkling, and you can feel the lateness of the hour. The cries and moans of men and women within the interior of the building are unmistakable, now that there is no other sound or sweat or smoke to muffle it.

It's hot.

Your head is killing you.

The red door is firmly out of sight.

You can still feel it.

>A] Walk far enough away to not hear or smell anything.

>B] Vomit.

>C] Get a little more distance and sit down.

>D] YOU ARE OKAY. REALLY. (A ROLL WILL BE REQUIRED.)
>>
>>4164248
>C] Get a little more distance and sit down.
Damn this is taking a toll on us. Let’s keep it together and finish our mission
>>
>>4164271
Supporting. Let's take a step back and focus on anything else for a bit, just until we're better.
>>
>>4164248
>C] Get a little more distance and sit down.
>>
>>4164271
>>4164285
>>4164296
(Gonna lock the vote here, flying tonight with the votes. Can't stay up too late but might even get one or two more updates out. We'll see! Writing now!)
>>
>>4164304
The blonde at your side raises virtually no complaint as you aimlessly walk down the road. It's not enough distance to fully escape from the sounds emanating from the Battered Maid, but with the crippling intensity of your increasing headache, it's enough.

You sit down.

Deep breaths.

Cyril politely sits alongside you, giving you more space than usual. It's the dead of night. A little breeze picks up, cooling the sweat sticking to your back and the nape of your neck.

Keep it together.

You're clutching harder on your temple than you really should. In a practiced motion, you relax your hands, tense them, and relax them again.

Take a step back.

"It's been half a year," you mutter.

Cyril quietly asks, "yeah?"

Focus on anything else. Stay grounded.

"I assume I have missed out on a lot."

"Oh," the blonde smirks, looking skywards, "let me see." Scratching a little peach fuzz on his chin, Cyril perks up. "I taught Elena how to cook," he starts.

"You don't say."

"She's gotten better," he blanches. Muttering, "doesn't get it from me," the priest shifts, and politely asks, "you don't cook, do ya'?"

"I know a little," you offer.

"No shit."

"Really."

"Baking?"

"Only my mother's recipes."

"Like what?"

"You— you actually may be familiar with them. How near is your hometown to Pontos?"

"Bryning's a skip away."

"It is not."

"Close enough. What do you got?"

You regale the priest with a short list of instructions on how to make a fish casserole, without having to use more than a single dish. He's visibly impressed, and leans back a good bit.

He's clearly on edge, and looks up with a frown to the sky. Making a point of not staring at you, the priest tries to ask, "anything I can do to help?"

Your pulse is down. The throbbing in your temple is a lot less intense, but it's still there. The heat is off of you, and the night is actually chilly enough to warrant the cloak around your shoulders and face.

Fidgeting with the ring on your left hand, you murmur, "I would sincerely like to make something of the evening, still."

"Mhm. And what makes you think I'm goin' to let you get off that easy?"

"Excuse me?"

"Car-don't is goin' to kill me."

"You have done nothing wrong."

"I've got orders, Dick."

"Richard."

"Your highness."

He has no hat to knock off.

There's no smirk plastered across the blonde's typically smug face.

His brow is furrowed, under the hood of his cloak, and for once, Cyril actually looks fairly concerned.

There is no precedent for this much obstruction of your duty. For almost your entire life, anyone that's pretended to be your friend or ally went right along with your demands.

It dawns on you that this priest might actually care about your well-being, regardless of your status or history.

(Options in next post.)
>>
>>4164345
(Accidentally dropped my trip, my bad.)

>A] You've been working with Sister Cardew for months, and it's made a huge impact. Promise that you'll speak with her as soon as you get back, but that you need to press on this evening. You'll be alright.

>B] You legitimately feel better. Just getting out of such a stressful environment is sufficient. Politely try to remind Cyril that you'd like him to be mindful of your experiences, and avoid going to places like the Battered Maid in the future at all costs.

>C] Thank the priest for helping you ground yourself. You're not alright, but let him know that his support makes a big difference. You know this can't be easy for him, either, but he's still making the effort.

>D] Write-in.
>>
>>4164346
>>C] Thank the priest for helping you ground yourself. You're not alright, but let him know that his support makes a big difference. You know this can't be easy for him, either, but he's still making the effort.
>>
>>4164346
>C] Thank the priest for helping you ground yourself. You're not alright, but let him know that his support makes a big difference. You know this can't be easy for him, either, but he's still making the effort.
>>
>>4164347
>>4164352
(Fuck yes I think we can do one more post tonight then. Vote is locked here, writing now!)
>>
>>4164364
"Cyril."

"...what?"

"You are absolutely right."

"You really did get messed up back there, didn't you?"

"No. I mean— yes. I—" you fidget a little more intensely, "I know I am not alright. But you— you never needed to do any of this."

"Yep."

"You— you did not even need to come out tonight—"

"Nope." He's looking out, towards the sky. "It's funny."

The stars are gorgeous. Fewer are visible than from Beorward's high walls, or Eadric's broad gardens, but the sky is still littered with blue diamonds. You take another deep breath, and lean back too. Propping yourself up on your elbows and forearms as you recline, it seems inappropriate to interrupt.

You both pass a few more minutes in silence.

"I don't think any of us know what we're doing," Cyril explains.

A nervous laugh escapes you. It's awful, but your heart is in it, as you choke out, "does it matter?"

Shifting back up, you take off your hood, and stare hard at the priest beside you.

He looks miserable, and returns your earnest gaze with a frown. "Of course it does."

You punch him firmly on the side of his shoulder, knowing he'll appreciate the gesture, "thank you. I know this cannot be easy for you."

"It's not," he rubs at the spot jokingly, before firing back a light tap on your own arm. "You're probably worth it, though. Probably."

"You— it makes a difference, Cyril. Really. Thank you."

Both of you move to stand, but the blonde is back to smirking. His gaze is back to the ground, to you, and he can't help but wrap an arm back around your shoulder. "You should see this."

You put your hood back up, as you're dragged off. "What th—"

Veering away from the road, you both briskly move towards the runoff. Further down, past the buildings and homes peppering the indecent district, there is a bit more clear water.

"Don't get the wrong idea when I say this."

"Do not ask me to make a promise—"

"Shut the fuck up Richard. Just look."

The priest glances a few more times in every direction, making sure no one is watching you all, and gestures for you to knock back your hood. You do so, and look over to the stream cutting through the city.

"She really is Merciful. Did you a favor, I mean. Thought it might cheer you up."

(1/3)
>>
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>>4164422
Your reflection catches off of the water. The green in your eyes, despite being plated with gold, is little more sane than usual. Your broader shoulders, and the rest of the bulk you've worked so hard to maintain, is still visible behind the terrible clothing. There's still the pallor, the bags under your eyes, the broken nose, all of your scars, and the terrible clothing, but you almost manage to smile.

Your hair is fantastic. It's unusual, would be recognizable in an instant, and clearly has actual gold running through it. Like your pupils, the metal borders on radiant, but it's a welcome change. The locks are significantly tamer. Rather than giving off the impression of a madman or a rogue...

"You're almost presentable."

You do manage to properly smile to Cyril, and his comment.

"Knew it would help," he smirks back.

You sheepishly deflect, "what did the priest inside have to say?"

The blonde's attitude returns in full, as he smirks, "glutton."

"Lecher."

"I didn't touch the strumpet, if that's what you're implying."

"I am not a sinner for wanting to attend to business."

"We've got some walkin' to do!"

"Lead the way."

A hand pats you on the back, steering both of you away from the water. "It's pretty late. You know I'm jokin'. You'd better eat somethin' when we get back."

You don't feel the hour, and haven't felt hunger in three years. Teasing, "only if you promise to tell me what we're in for," you are not disappointed.

As you and Brother Trebbeck wind through the edges of the brothels, homes and streams, you head back into the worst of the slums. Both of your hoods have been up for some Time, and you're repeatedly cautioned to stay by the blonde's side. He's got his hands in fists, and actually mentions that he wishes Ray was with you through further caution regarding the district, its residents, and the late hour.

You aren't accosted once, despite his warning, and he manages to broach the subject of your concern just as the man's energy seems to wear out. Yawning, he confesses, "I have no idea how we're getting you in."

"Why would that be an issue?"

"It's— well, I got the location. It's hidden. Underground. Literally."

"In the ruins?"

"Yeah."

"Mercy."

"None of that where we're going. It's— I really don't think it's a good idea, but Atticus knows his shit—"

"What is it, then?"

"Something like a bar. For fighting. Not for Flesh, mind you," he patiently explains, broadly stepping over a hole in the road, "but the sport of it. Said we'd have a hard Time getting in."

"Fighting is not an issue—"

"It is, though, isn't it?" Cyril is frowning at you, and pokes your forehead under your hood.

"Please do not do that."

"You got a problem, Dick. I need to make sure you don't go blowin' this. It's been a long night."

(2/3)
>>
>>4164425
You're still walking through the slums, but seem to be slowing down. Cyril nods his head towards a pile of rubble. One of the buildings adjacent has a small depiction of a circle, drawn almost perfectly. Several more circles surround it, creating the illusion of depth.

You marvel at the image for a few moments, used to extremely flat sketches at best. Making note of the technique, Cyril huffs to you, "give me a hand with this."

He shoves aside a few planks of the wood, which you rush over to help him move aside. The effort isn't significant, but he's watching you closely.

"What," you mutter, dusting your hands off.

"Nothing was in your drinks tonight," he asks, as more of a statement than anything else.

"No."

"You sure you're okay?"

"Significantly better, thank you."

"I don't think anyone's recognized you. How the fuck are we going to do this?"

"Why are you so worried?"

The priest has his brow furrowed, and pauses, reluctant to confess. Keeping your hood drawn tight, you look down, into the opening that the priest has revealed. There is a winding stone staircase, descending beneath the city. No sound emanates from the distance that The Pit likely resides in.

"Dream scares the shit out of me, Richard. I barely sleep enough as it is. Not goin' to go ignoring this shit now."

"I still do not understand what your concern is."

"The entry fee, Richard. The fuckin'—" he looks around, lowering his voice, and mutters, "look. I know you've been bustin' your ass, but there is no way they're letting you in."

"Excuse me—"

Your abdomen is poked, and you snatch Cyril's arm as he finishes the motion. "Do not make me ask you to keep your hands to yourself."

The blonde frowns, and says, "I was tryin' to make a point. Heh."

"This is not funny."

"You're not soft, but they're gonna think you are."

"What are you talking about—"

"The fee, Richard. I can wrestle a bear, if it comes down to it— but you're a different kinda' tough. They're gonna ask. We—"

"You have to buy into The Pit with an anecdote?"

"Or somethin' better. The guy wasn't very clear. Couldn't blame him, all things considered—"

(Options in next post.)
>>
>>4164427
>A ROLL MAY BE REQUIRED FOR ANY OF THE FOLLOWING. PLAUSIBILITY WILL GO A LONG WAY.

>A] Of course! No one here would know the details of your venture into the ruins.
>1] You punched clean through the carapace of a centipede-like demon (they don't need to know her name) and still have the scars to show for it!
>2] You endured flame, blood and boiling water (they don't need to know it was self-inflicted) and still have the scars to show for it!
>3] You were STABBED in the back FOUR times and boy HOWDY do you still have the scars to show for it!
>4] There's a LOT of unbelievable feats you accomplished within the ruins. (Write-in.)

>B] You've done a LOT in your short life, but, shit, it's almost universally from your service in the church, AND word really seems to have gotten around.
>1] This is actually grounds for stretching the truth. You have a ridiculous reputation and lives are on the line. (Write-in a feat of strength, plausible or otherwise.)
>2] This is actually grounds for some creativity. Show your devotion to Dream, stretch your imagination, and come up with a better idea. (Write-in some way you can demonstrate your strength, with or without Cyril's help.)
>>
(Calling the sessions for the weekend here guys, we will be back tomorrow! I'm still working despite all the craziness going on but will have a minimum of an update a day out for you all. Sessions will resume this coming Friday. Hope you all have a fantastic night.)
>>
>>4164428
>2] You endured flame, blood and boiling water (they don't need to know it was self-inflicted) and still have the scars to show for it!
This makes me go through the archives of this quest, but I never end up looking into it because of laziness
>>
>>4164434
see you later OP !
>>
>>4164428
>>A] Of course! No one here would know the details of your venture into the ruins.
>3] You were STABBED in the back FOUR times and boy HOWDY do you still have the scars to show for it!

This is probably the best option as we don't have to show our face. Tbf the flight from Ostedholm is the the most badass shit ever but its gonna give us away.
>>
>>4164428
>A3
>>
>>4164441
(Back in action!)

>>4164436
(Hope you liked it. This is my first quest so the pacing is rough in a few places, but I think we're hitting a better stride! Always love to hear anyone's thoughts on it too.

Got your vote,)

>>4164613
>>4164828
(and I think we can incorporate this all no problem. Vote is locked, off of work, and with any luck can do a few updates tonight. Writing now!)
>>
>>4165744
A rush of nostalgia carries through your voice, the verve, and each step down the stone. "I know you are afraid— but you forget who you are with, Cyril."

The scent of dank moss, and the rush of water behind the walls is around you in the darkness. The entire path is more of a tunnel, with a sharp descent down. Fearlessly, you keep a hand to the wall, feeling ahead and taking your Time.

This is truly your element.

Cyril is directly behind you, mimicking your motions, and not daring to utter a word. A sharp turn eventually greets you, as your fingers slip around the wall, grasping at air.

Turning the corner, you see faint specks of light in the distance. Down a long and winding passage you walk, following the narrow stone steps, watching as the light grows closer with every motion.

Deeper into the underbelly of the city, what you estimate must be fifty or a hundred feet below the surface, you begin to hear a new noise. There is shouting, the clanging of metal, laughter and screams. The marriage of battle and revelry is of no concern, compared to the figures you see at the end of the passage.

An elderly man is right outside of a large metal door, sitting on a stool, and is whittling something with a wickedly sharp knife. He's dressed like a lord, though his clothes are all in black, and his head is unadorned with hat or hair.

Beside him is a young woman, with metal lancing her nose and lower lip. Her hair is tied up with bands of leather, and more of the fabric clings indecently to far too little of her body. She seems to have just exited from the door, left it unlocked, and calls out to you long before it's necessary to hail you, "OI, MIND 'URRYIN IT UP?!"

Cyril makes a point of nudging your back, muttering, "let's go."

Your broad strides fearlessly cross the last of the distance. Even from several feet away, the man has the scent of blood and leather all over him, and the woman smells more sickly still. A heady medley of sweat, decay and more blood is reeking out from behind the door.

The couple immediately begins to scrutinize you and Cyril. "'E's alright," the woman nods, arms crossed, staring up at the priest's exposed arms, the horrific damage that's plainly visible across his knuckles, and his plain attire.

With a grunt, the Brother Trebbeck barely acknowledges her comment, and waits to move in.

"I 'aven't got all fuckin' day," the old man drags, leaning forward from his stool. He's sitting in a ridiculous fashion, knees bent, legs spread, and his feet practically underneath him. You're reminded of a frog, while his partner licks her lips, and drags a hand over your shoulder.

You grab hold of the gesture, making sure that the guards get a good look at your own hands. "You are lacking," you mutter, reveling in the absence of proper light, and the offense that follows.

(1/2)
>>
>>4165864
The man leans forward, bristling, "the fuck did you just say to me?"
Your captive pauses, unflinching. "Oi." Amused, she darts a pair of jet-black eyes to your hands. "Just a— what's all this?"

You keep the grip, and mutter, "it is the product of actual judgement." Releasing the grip, you continue while you flex the digits a few times, and begin to elaborate. "Flame." Mondost's children were set to kill. "Blood." Tsilorm did more than congeal it into blades. "Boiling water—"

"Yeah. Sure," the man drawls, unimpressed.

You knit your hands into fists, dropping the guard's arm. She doesn't make any motion to respond, while the man continues, "look a real fuckin' mess, you do. Tryin' to make a fool out of me? Of us? Get the fuck out of here."

Grimacing is always appropriate. "No."

The woman gets out a knife from between her breasts. It's impossible to fathom how she concealed such a long blade with so little fabric covering her, but there it is, and you laugh in her face.

"Excuse me," you manage, "but that— this is the funniest thing—"

She looks appalled, glancing to Cyril, "what's wrong with this guy—"

As you shrug off the side of your cloak, taking pains to keep your face concealed, you continue, "this is a joke. You are absolutely right. What is boiling water, or enduring flame?"

Both of the guards lean in, as you pull back on the edge of your shirt.

The stab wounds adorning your back were healed in an instant by the compassion of Mercy, by the heat and flame of the God of Flesh, and nearly broke your mind. The scar tissue is severe enough to easily be felt through your shirt, and you can only imagine how severe the other lacerations and evidence of torture are around the remaining skin.

"You are insulting me," you plainly state. "There is no need to put the blade away. Go ahead. See what good it does you."

The woman's voice takes on a tone you're entirely uncomfortable with. "Wicked. Yer a real demon, eh?"
"He's in," the man plainly states, gesturing to the door, "but I need the story."

>A roll will be required for all of the following, excluding possible write-ins. Write-ins in conjunction with prompts may make a BIG difference.

>A] SAY NOTHING, and try to get in through sheer intimidation alone.

>B] LIE. This will be in direct affront to Mercy's tenets, but your life and many others may depend on it.
>1] Say that the wounds were all from humans.
>2] Only mention that the knife wounds were from demons, and give no details.

>C] Be HONEST. No one is known to have emerged from the ruins unscathed, and you are obviously unhinged. Give the full story.
>1] But make no connection to the women you were protecting, Ray, or anyone else that was in your company.
>2] But mislead the people here into thinking you may be a member of your congregation.

>D] Write-in.
>>
>>4165867
>C] Be HONEST. No one is known to have emerged from the ruins unscathed, and you are obviously unhinged. Give the full story.
>1] But make no connection to the women you were protecting, Ray, or anyone else that was in your company.
>>
>>4165867
>C] Be HONEST. No one is known to have emerged from the ruins unscathed, and you are obviously unhinged. Give the full story.
>1] But make no connection to the women you were protecting, Ray, or anyone else that was in your company.
>>
>>4165894
>>4165904
>when you reflexively lock the vote without calling for dice

(Soul leaving my body a little bit right now, sorry about that lol. ALRIGHT.)

>Roll 1d100. Best of 3 will be used.
>+15 HONESTY IS THE BEST POLICY
>-5 NOT NECESSARILY LYING BY OMISSION BUT, MERCY, WE'RE CUTTING IT CLOSE HERE
>>
Rolled 79 + 10 (1d100 + 10)

>>4165932
been a long while since I rolled so I am only 85% sure I did it right
>>
Rolled 3 (1d100)

>>4165932
let\s get it (for real this time)
>>
Rolled 71 + 10 (1d100 + 10)

>>4165932
>>
>>4165939
>>4165940
>>4165970
(Best of three [sweating over that 3 fuck] makes that 89 a definite success. Locking here, writing now!)
>>
>>4165981
"The only demon— sorry, demons— was over a dozen imps. Over broken glass. The sheer number of daggers—"

Cyril politely sets a hand on your shoulder, interjecting, "he's seen some shit."

"Keep on lookin'," the jet-black eyes bore into the shadow under your hood, over a lascivious smile. With a gesture towards the door, the woman drawls, "I'll be lookin' forward ta seein' what you can show us."

The elderly man is frowning between you and the spiked figure at your side, and shoves her to get the door open. "Alrigh', alrigh. Get the fuck outta my sight."

The two exchange several rude gestures, while the woman abruptly moves to the entrance.

"Let's see what else you can throw into The Pit."

Cyril's eyes light up, as you both enter the banded metal door. "This is more like it!"

https://youtu.be/au_8hDDifvM

A chair soars through the air, colliding into the wall adjacent to the entrance. The woman leading you in doesn't so much as flinch, spitting on the dozens of splinters littering the floor. Brushes a few off her shoulders, you watch as they clatter to the ground. Stone adorns the broad expanse stretching out, away from the entrance, and towards the eponymous pit. Stretching down, hundreds of feet more, is a winding hole. It is only ten feet or so across, but impossibly deep, and punctured on all sides of the interior with various holds. Swords, shields, knives, and rope create a treacherous descent, so deep that you can't begin to see the bottom from your vantage point.

The Pit is in the center of a giant, circular chamber. Its walls stretch up, towards the underside of Calunoth. At least twenty feet above your head are rows of seats, tables and chairs. Most are in some state of disarray, adorned with men and women shouting, brawling, and intently looking to the scene below.

Within the pit are screams, and the scent of hot blood.

Another chair crashes against the wall next to you, stealing your attention away as you step to the side.

"WATCH IT," the woman hollers, picking up a leg of the destroyed furniture. With an insane laugh, she immediately leaves your company, and runs towards the offender.

It seems you're on the main level, as the walkway is packed with patrons. Dressed in a number of different fashions, most of which you've never seen before, paints no clear indication of anyone's status. The guard has to shove aside several of them, to run towards the offending group.

It occurs to you that everyone here does not want to be recognized. The majority of the men hollering at the guard have their faces covered, muffling their indecent cries.

"Lover lover, here to give me a little wood?!" one particularly muscular offender manages, while fending off a swing from the guard. She lets loose a number of cries, with increasing intensity, trying to obviously kill the man outright.

(Barely over, 1/2)
>>
>>4166060
Cyril glances to you, nudging your arm, and grinning ear to ear. He nods towards the right, where a large collection of men are engaged in an arm-wrestling competition. To the left, where the woman is now being wrestled to the ground, his face drops.

There's no music in the building, but there's enough noise to rival the lair of a demon.

Over the din, dodging another thrown chair, your companion shouts, "ARE WE REALLY GOING TO BOTHER?!"

>(ALL OF THE FOLLOWING WILL REQUIRE A ROLL.)

>A] Go defend the woman who is absolutely about to be violated.
>1] Just enough to distract the men around her.
>2] Fuck it, you're going all in. Maybe she'll owe you one.

>B] This is personal. That is three chairs thrown at you! Three too many!
>1] Try to target the source.
>2] Rush the entire group.

>C] You're not about to get yourself killed. Go to that arm-wrestling contest.
>1] See if Cyril can put his money where his mouth is. You need funds, badly.
>2] You're going to try your luck, too.

>D] Looking for a drink in this place might get you killed, too. Good! Your night has been rough enough!

>E] CAREFULLY take a better look at The Pit.

>F] Write-in.
>>
>>4166063
>A] Go defend the woman who is absolutely about to be violated.
>2] Fuck it, you're going all in. Maybe she'll owe you one.
>>
>>4166063
>>C] You're not about to get yourself killed. Go to that arm-wrestling contest.
>>1] See if Cyril can put his money where his mouth is. You need funds, badly.

It's easier to get information watching a wrestling competition rather than brawling.
>>
>>4166063
>A2
>>
>>4166428
>>4166107

Considering this woman decided she wanted to fight those guys it is more likely she will perceive our intervention as insulting rather than helpful.
>>
>>4166107
>>4166366
>>4166428
>>4166433
>BRAWL
>NO OFFENSE MA'AM
>MAYBE GET SOME INFO

(let's do this)

>Roll 1d100. Best of 3 will be used.
>+5 PROTECTION IS A TENET OF MERCY
>+10 THIS ISN'T YOUR FIRST RODEO
>-5 IT'S BEEN A LONG NIGHT
>>
Rolled 19 + 10 (1d100 + 10)

>>4166705
Let's do this
>>
Rolled 74 + 10 (1d100 + 10)

>>4166705
>>
Rolled 45 + 10 (1d100 + 10)

>>4166705
>>
>>4166716
>>4166807
>>4166928
(Alright lads, nice. Locking here with that 84 as the bo3. Still have about 4 hours left of work but I'll be writing just as soon as I'm home!)
>>
>>4166931
(Back home, writing now!)
>>
>>4167439
Fists at your side, grimacing to the woman being pinned to the floor, you grit out, "let's do this."

Cyril is already behind you, as you break into a run. Behind you is a cry of, "wait! Shit—!"

https://youtu.be/vMxo_3oHULE

Bumping through the crowd, you brush up against at least five other patrons of The Pit. Leather, harnesses and myriad other forms of debauchery turn, to shout, to try and throw a punch, to grab onto you.

This is far from your first tavern brawl. Weaving past groping hands, cries for blood, and pressing ahead towards the guard's distress, you shout, "HEY!"

Three men and a woman whip their heads towards you. Five are standing behind them, cheering on the indecency. There's a clink of metal in the guard's hair on the floor, as she screams, and uses the brief distraction to throw one of the attackers completely aside.

On instinct, you step aside. Not from the scene before you, but the feeling of motion behind you. Shouting, "WATCH IT—!" a chair hurtles behind you.

It soars past your head, then collides with the woman on the floor.

The group of eight leers, shouting, cheering, and move for a moment away from the limp form.

Two have chains in their hand. There's no Time to react to them all. The furniture launcher makes themselves known, running up behind you, screaming incoherently.

You have to launch yourself aside, to avoid a sharpened piece of wood from stabbing you in the back. Deftly throwing an arm out, rolling, you let out a cry and skip right back to your feet.

Fists up.

Dodging a blow, you can't return the motion, as several hands reach out to assault you. Instinct kicks in hard, weaving past a number of hits, taking a step back, and another. Your pulse is up in an instant, the heat and noise in the room is hotter and louder than ever, and it hyper focuses into a single CRUNCH.

There's a sickening, wet, devastating noise that keeps dragging.

You glance frantically around, and smile.

Cyril's fist keeps contact with the rogue that attempted to shank you. The scars on the priest's knuckles are glued to his target's face for a precious moment.

Blood speckles against your face in a fine spray, and you watch as a tooth soars across the air, and clatters to the floor. The clink is actually audible, as the group around you pauses.

The hit was so deafening that Time itself seems to have slowed.

The perpetrator crashes to the floor.

No one makes any motion to pick him up, for the metal-lanced guard you've been attempting to save drags herself back up. "JERK," she spits, coughing out a wad of blood.

"Do not get the wrong idea," you fire back, offering her a hand to get up.

She takes it, darting her eyes around.

Yanking the guard to her feet, you keep your eyes up, sneering, "your issue is with us, is it?!"

(1/2)
>>
>>4167528
The guard throws her back against yours, laughing like a madwoman. The scent of leather, blood and sweat is inescapable.

A few more screams rise from the center of The Pit.

Every single one of the vagrants rushes you, deafening the commotion at the center of the chamber.

The two men with chains in their hand look to be brothers. Their hair is stark black, and their faces are painted with the same hue and blood in streaks.
"IT IS NOW!"
"Piece of shit!"

The woman in the company, unusually tall and full chested, is dressed in a parody of holy vestments. Her robes are slit up the leg, the collar dips down low, and her hair is undone. In her hands is a length of wire, which she tightens, screaming, "GET 'IM!"

The rest of the men— all five of them— have splintered pieces of furniture in hand. Three are directly behind you, but you're fairly confident Cyril can take them.

Cyril lets out a shout, still several feet away, "KEEP YOUR HANDS UP!"

He means my hood.

>A] Run your mouth, and try to squeeze some information out of these hoodlums while your companions fight. They can handle themselves. (THIS WILL REQUIRE A HIGH ROLL.)

>B] Tell the guard to get back out of here, and focus on giving her an out. You'll question the woman when you can slip away. (THIS WILL REQUIRE A MODERATE ROLL.)

>C] This was probably a bad idea, but you've upheld your tenets! Forget gathering information— you need to protect everyone in your company from this mess.
>1] By any means necessary. (THIS WILL REQUIRE A LOW ROLL. No negative modifiers will take effect, at the possible risk of personal harm.)
>2] Go on the offensive. (THIS WILL REQUIRE A MODERATE ROLL.)
>3] Go on the defensive. (THIS WILL REQUIRE A LOW ROLL.)

>D] You're pretty creative. Bar fights are a trifle compared to everything you've endured. (Write-in some other strategy. A ROLL MAY NOT BE REQUIRED.)
>>
>>4167531
>B] Tell the guard to get back out of here, and focus on giving her an out. You'll question the woman when you can slip away. (THIS WILL REQUIRE A MODERATE ROLL.)
We’ll not leave this night empty handed
>>
>>4167531
>B] Tell the guard to get back out of here, and focus on giving her an out. You'll question the woman when you can slip away. (THIS WILL REQUIRE A MODERATE ROLL.)
>>
>>4167547
>>4167549
(Calling here to hopefully get a few updates out tonight!)
>YOU GET OUT OF HERE
>WE'RE NOT LEAVING EMPTY-HANDED

>Roll 1d100. Best of 3 will be used.
>+5 PROTECTION IS A TENET OF MERCY
>+10 THIS ISN'T YOUR FIRST RODEO
>-10 LONG NIGHT AND 3v8
>>
Rolled 45 + 5 (1d100 + 5)

>>4167569
>>
Rolled 29 + 5 (1d100 + 5)

>>4167569
>>
Rolled 48 + 5 (1d100 + 5)

>>4167569
>>
>>4167570
>>4167572
>>4167583
(That 53 is by the skin of your teeth, but that'll do it! Locking here and writing now!)
>>
>>4167588
Before the pierced woman at your back can launch herself away, you put the full extent of your training to the test. A chain lashes overhead, aiming for your throat.

It misses its purchase completely.

You sweep a leg behind you, knocking the guard's feet out from under her. As she cries, "FUCK—" and falls, you turn on your heel, and throw both of you backwards.

There's so much force that carried you back, you fall to the ground a second later than all three of your attackers do.

Turning at the last second to not land on your ward, you fall to face the pile of bodies on the ground. Your ragged breath is mimicked by Cyril, who is laughing hysterically, and throwing himself elbow-first onto the pile of attackers.

They let loose a collective scream. He bludgeons two of them, and immediately begins to wrestle the third into a leg lock.

There's no opportunity to appreciate the spectacle.

"Get out of here—!" you shout, shoving the guard further away, and letting out a cry at the tail end of the motion.

A crowd is gathering. They're shoving you all closer together, and throwing weapons to the men and woman trying to kill you.

A number of sharpened, wooden implements streak towards you

"Not on yer fuckin' life!" the woman behind you huffs, moving to get up.

You pull her up abruptly, shouting, "THEN TALK—!"

The rain of attackers come to meet you, as you both are wide eyed, and look to each other. She screams, "THE FUCK ARE YOU ON ABOUT—?!" while you both dive ahead.

Landing elbow fist, arms scuffed from the blood-slick stone at everyone's feet, you laugh as you impact the side of an attacker's knee. Shouting, "A DRINK," the man buckles, screaming.

You shift at the last possible second to avoid him crashing into you.

The guard kicks the attacker while he's down, offering you a hand back up to your feet. "What?!"

Cyril practically flies past you both, a vagrant wrapped into a choke-hold. Dropping them both to the floor, while he still has the chain-wielding woman clinging to his back, he chokes out, "how about a hand—?!"

The color drops from your face. Dodging another blow, which barely grazes your chin, you repeat, "GO! WHERE CAN WE GET A DRINK?!"

A haze of black hair, metal and leather slips back, through the crowd, firing off, "you're fucking nuts! Fine! Behind you—"

You can't linger, and make a complete spectacle of getting to Cyril.

Behind you calls, "Third level! ASK FOR AN ENEMY!"

Another chair sails through the air, grazing the top of your hood. You clutch onto the fabric, fighting instinct, and a streak of the splinters and nails carve against your sleeve and skin.

Hissing in, dropping down, you dodge an untrained punch. The punk to your right nearly falls over for how firmly he hit, so you use the motion, dropping your full weight on his back. The two of you crash to the floor, avoiding another swing at your head.

(Barely over 1/2)
>>
>>4167654
The weight of the impact nearly snaps your teeth together. They're gritted, as you breath hard, dragging yourself back up, and charge towards Brother Trebbeck. He's red-faced, the chain tight against his throat, as the woman ahead is using three other companions to hold down your friend.

You're almost to him— and your legs are swept out from you.

Crashing to the floor, landing hard, breath hitching, you try to ignore the sting. It's in your chest, your arm that you fell badly on, and most of your right side.

Pulling yourself forward, back to your feet, you're confident that the guard is not going to wait for you for long.

Neither are the remaining attackers.

>A and B are mutually exclusive. Majority vote will decide. Any active opposition to a vote and/or discussion will be taken into consideration.

>A] Lean into the pain. This is your element. (All negative modifiers will be ignored, with the risk of accruing further injury.)
>1] Tackle the woman off of Cyril. (THIS WILL REQUIRE A LOW ROLL)
>2] Make a break for it. (THIS WILL REQUIRE A MODERATE ROLL)
>3] Stay and finish the fight. (THIS WILL REQUIRE A HIGH ROLL)
>4] Write-in.

>B] You're better than this. Fight through the pain. (All modifiers will still take effect.)
>1] Tackle the woman off of Cyril. (THIS WILL REQUIRE A LOW ROLL)
>2] Make a break for it. (THIS WILL REQUIRE A MODERATE ROLL)
>3] Stay and finish the fight. (THIS WILL REQUIRE A HIGH ROLL)
>4] Write-in.
>>
>>4167659
>B] You're better than this. Fight through the pain. (All modifiers will still take effect.)
>1] Tackle the woman off of Cyril. (THIS WILL REQUIRE A LOW ROLL)
>>
>>4167659
A3
>>
>>4167659
>B] You're better than this. Fight through the pain. (All modifiers will still take effect.)
>1] Tackle the woman off of Cyril. (THIS WILL REQUIRE A LOW ROLL)
>>
>>4167760
+1
>>
>>4167659
>>B] You're better than this. Fight through the pain. (All modifiers will still take effect.)
>>1] Tackle the woman off of Cyril. (THIS WILL REQUIRE A LOW ROLL)
>>
>>4167760
>>4167920
(Thank you guys but going to go with majority vote, as previously stated.)

>>4167689
>>4167919
>>4167938
>TACKLE HER

>Roll 1d100+5. Best of 3 will be used.

>Breakdown:
>+5 PROTECTION IS YOUR VOW
>+5 STAY NOT YOUR HAND
>+10 YOUR MENTOR IS A MASTER OF COMBAT
>-5 IT'S BEEN A LONG NIGHT
>-10 MASOCHISM TANGO
>>
Rolled 89 + 5 (1d100 + 5)

>>4167941
>>
Rolled 8 + 5 (1d100 + 5)

>>4167941
>>
>>4167951
why are my rolls so bad in this quest what the fuck
>>
Rolled 34 + 5 (1d100 + 5)

>>4167941
>>4167946
nice work bro
>>
>>4167953
(I appreciate you bro.)

>>4167946
>>4167951
>>4167956
(Nice work guys, lol. That is a 94, writing now!)
>>
>>4167961
forgot your trip dude
>>
>>4167988
(4chan has an April Fool's event going on, it's messing with tripcodes and names. My ID should still enable me to use formatting, but we're about to find out.)
>>
>>4167961
You are a gentleman, but there are no ladies in The Pit.

The psychopath that has a chain wrapped up against Cyril's throat is grinning down at her victim. Her hair is falling over her face, masking a shark like grin. Three men in varying bloodied states are trying to pin the blonde down, as the strength is clearly fading from his form. Two are on his arms, one is struggling to pin his waist, and even a priest of Flesh is incapable of fighting off four homicidal attackers at once.

Letting loose a cry, you dive straight at the pile.

The crowd lets loose a cheer, as you sail through the air.

One of the men actually notices your approach over the noise, heat, smoke and chaos. His eyes go wide, clearly recognizing that you are not playing around.

Colliding with the mound of violence, you throw your shoulder first into the woman who's got her grip on Brother Trebbeck. A knee goes into the man closest, who's eyes close, he screams in agony, and you're nearly deafened.

Everyone falls, sideways, backwards, and Cyril uses every inch of give to slip his neck safely away from the attacker.

You are still moving, ears ringing, the chaos of the impact impossible to sort out.

The woman tumbles with you for a moment, clearly unused to fighting, and inelegantly splays out on the floor. You expertly land beside her, ignoring the ache in your shoulder. Paying no attention to the blood on your lip, fighting through the relief in your limbs, and the beat of your heart, you stand without so much as a second glance towards the sadist.

Two bodies are on the floor, pummeled down by Cyril, behind the last of the mob. The crowd around you all is screaming, absolutely beside themselves. The last leather-clad attacker, face shrouded, his own screams muffled, and devoid of a weapon, charges towards you.

The attack never comes.

He moves straight past your body, to kick at the woman behind you while she's down. You only hear a sickening POP as something gets moved out of place. She's crying incoherent obscenities, over a renewed and deafening surge of entertainment around you all.

Cyril rushes over to you, his face still red, rubbing at his throat. Hoarse, he coughs out, "what was that about a drink?"

Giving the priest a shoulder to lean on, you lead him over the inert body of several of your collective attackers. Several people try patting you on the back as you walk away, but you bark at a number of them to keep their hands to themselves.

No one seems to notice or care about the fight, within minutes of walking away. More screams are rising from the center of the chamber by the second.

(1/2)
>>
>>4168046
Winding through the densely packed gathering, towards a winding stair at the furthest end of the chamber, Cyril's weight barely sits against your shoulder. He seems to appreciate the closer proximity, if only to throw the occasional punch or rude gesture to anyone that tries to get too close to either of you. The scent of blood is hot on the air, and by the Time you get to anything resembling a way up, he's able to walk on his own.

"What were you thinking?!"

Your brow is furrowed, you're sweating, the hood around your face is awful, and you can't help but reply, "I am NOT leaving here tonight empty-handed."

You both make your way to the third floor, battling through an increasingly dense crowd. Even the stair is packed with people.

At the top of the landing, in every direction, there are figures dancing, to music you cannot hear.

Your blood runs cold.

https://youtu.be/_FuP5Dh003U

You can hear it.

They are all wearing white masks.

Many are huddled near the edge of the lip of the level, looking out, towards The Pit below. From the height you're standing at, not only in the chamber, but in comparison to most other forms, you can see over their heads with ease.

Deep within the recesses of the ruins are three men fighting, obviously to the death. Clinging onto the various holds within The Pit, they're bloodied, frantically screaming, clamoring around the edges, throwing everything in their disposal at one another, and one collapses from exhaustion just as you peer down.

The drop must be hundreds of feet. Thousands. Your stomach turns, your vision swims, and you catch the briefest glimpse of one more figure. Blacker than the depths of the ruins, with blades for arms and legs, is a demon. Recently turned, for how humanoid it still appears.

You strongly suspect that its Catalyst was violence.

No one in the building seems to care. In fact, they're all drinking the same, transparent beverage, and clearly enjoying themselves. The mood is lighter, no one is screaming, and you can clearly make out a recess in the furthest wall. It is packed with kegs, bottles of wine, and there is an individual standing behind the bar. They're also wearing a plain white mask, though theirs even from a distant appears to be made of glass. It's grotesquely distorting their appearance, you realize you're just standing there staring, and Cyril is obviously too uncomfortable to move, too.

The guard is nowhere to be seen.

The skin on your arm is raw from dragging across the bloodied stone, your shoulder was practically knocked out of place, every limb is burning, you're thirsty, still not tired, and it feels great.

(Options in next post.)
>>
>>4168051
>A] Get Cyril a stiff drink, but nothing for yourself. You need to stay sharp, even if it's uncomfortable— and this place is making you VERY uncomfortable.

>B] Something (write-in any preferences) for yourself, just to take the edge off. Linger a moment. Check out The Pit, and the crowd.

>C] You are not spending a second longer in this place than you need to. Order "An Enemy."

>D] Write-in.
>>
>>4168051
>B] Something (mild) for yourself, just to take the edge off. Linger a moment. Check out The Pit, and the crowd.
>>
>>4168052
>>B] Something (barely alcoholic ) for yourself, just to take the edge off. Linger a moment. Check out The Pit, and the crowd.
>>
>>4168052
>>C] You are not spending a second longer in this place than you need to. Order "An Enemy."

Pissing against the wind but oh well. Weird that we didn't hang around the brothel to gather information but we have time to drink in a place were we could very likely get killed or badly injured.
>>
>>4168338
>Weird that we didn't hang around the brothel to gather information but we have time to drink in a place were we could very likely get killed or badly injured.
Well our head was about to explode there and we still sent Cyril to talk with them
>>
>>4168052
>>B] Something (barely alcoholic) for yourself, just to take the edge off. Linger a moment. Check out The Pit, and the crowd.
>>
(Stuck at work but will be home in about 4 hours. Love you guys, vote will remain open until I'm back at my desk.)
>>
>>4168052
>D] Write-in.
Comment to Brother Trebbeck that all this Cardio must surely have a toll on his musculature.
>>
>>4168080
>>4168087
>>4168533
>>4168645
>something mild and barely alcoholic to drink, chill out

>>4168338
>don't linger longer than we need to

>>4169077
>banter

(Oh yeah we can definitely do all this. Locking the vote here, writing now!)
>>
>>4169516
Pulse racing, sticky with blood and sweat from the fight, you push your way through the crowd alongside Brother Trebbeck. Every motion is another rush of relief, and by the time you reach the bar, there's so much heat in your face that you can barely speak.

"Something— something mild—"

"Small beer for him," Cyril interjects, shoving some coin across the counter, "and whatever this'll cover for me. Make it fast, will ya'?"

The metal counter beneath your hands is delightfully cold. The man standing behind it is equally frigid. Slowly and silently, he moves to fill your order, from one of the many casks behind him. The figure is dressed all in black, so that his face almost seems suspended in thin air. The entire level is terribly dark, barely lit with torches on the far walls.

You lean a little harder against the surface before you, gladly accepting a large mug (despite the name). Cyril is given a single shot glass, of some strange black substance.

"Thank you," you murmur, taking the mug. It's made of clear crystal, far nicer than what the coinage should have warranted, and already feels like a relief in your palms.

They're shaking so badly you have to use both hands to keep the liquid steady.

Cyril raises an eyebrow to you, and his glass. "Proud of you, mate."

Raising your own mug in confusion, you manage to ask, "wh—what?"

The priest knocks back his drink, choking for a moment on something that must have been utterly revolting. Face contorting in disgust, he smiles, and coughs, "go on and drink! You earned it! Really— fuck that was strong—"

Trying to ignore the pounding in your chest, the tremor in your hands, the growing pain in your shoulder and the buzz in the back of your head, you slake your thirst. The beer is foamy, speckled with bits of wheat, and practically cuts into the back of your throat for how substantial it is. Certain that it's barely got any alcohol to it, you make quick work of the drink.

Coming up for air, wincing at how full you already feel, there's only one thing on your mind.

"Flesh would be dissatisfied, Cyril."

"Oh?" The blonde can't help himself, and is dancing slightly. He seems to make a point to move away from the strange bartender. The crowd around and behind you both is moving incessantly, and parts in places to give you both an opening. He, at least, doesn't look ridiculous. Despite how much he's had to drink— or perhaps because of it— he clearly has complete command over his movements. "I think yer full of shit!"

You remain standing stoically, and knock Brother Trebbeck on his shoulder, which has several open gashes. The motion sends a shock through your own arm, which really isn't feeling any better. "You misunderstand. I mean to say that all of this running around is going to wreak havoc on your devotion."

(1/2)
>>
>>4169614
"Talk about hopeless!" He smirks back, though he's clearly worried, "got your mind on the body! Body on the mind! I shouldn't tease you. We should get you back. Or some more beer! Been two days since you ate anything, right? Little liquid bread couldn't hurt!"

It has been two days. Why was I even thirsty? Is this some sort of trick? Or sorcerery?

The crowd around you is moving, pulsing, throbbing against one another as they leer towards the edge of The Pit. Another horrific scream rises from the descent, and the motion about you intensifies tenfold.

For how much I have endured—

The music is coming from no visible source.

For everything I have sacrificed—

The companion at your side seems utterly unphased. He's spent his entire life in service to Flesh, without ever experiencing the pain you've been so

intimately familiar with

"Didn't think to even call on Him, didja'," Cyril drawls, leaning in, smirking more broadly. He makes a point of not jostling you, likely aware of how beat up you are from the fight. "You did great! I knew you had it in ya'."

"Thank you. It's been months, hasn't it?"

Four and a half months

"I mean, excluding—"

"Don't go getting stuck in yer head. You want to get outta here? We can always come back."

Glancing around, wide-eyed, trying to relax the nervous smile working across your face, you're certain of it.

There's must be an enchantment over the entire level you're standing on. The music is coming from no discernible source, and the dryness in your throat is back as soon as it came. It's likely very weak, bound to wear off when you leave.

You're hyper focused, looking about to the figures around you all, trying to stay in the moment.

It's bound to wear off. These things usually do. They can be dissipated—

The masked figures are all watching intently, eyes shrouded, as another scream and a massive cheer comes from the lower levels of The Pit. You look down, to see that the demon of violence has taken two more victims.

The sole survivor is now battling a monster, while everyone in the chamber seems to be placing bets on if he will live or die.

A sharp pain is in your chest.

The soreness in your limbs is a little softer, and the blood dripping from your arm decidedly easier to ignore. The alcohol is likely kicking in, but it's a lot weaker than what you rightfully need.

Cyril stops dancing, and wraps an arm around your shoulder. It's clearly despite his best judgement, wincing as he makes the motion. It seems the priest is also in a significant amount of distress, but the liquor on his breath and slight slur to his speech makes it harder to tell.

"Hey."

"Yes?"

"We got this."

"I know."

"You don't need to do anythin' I wouldn't do."

"Do not get the wrong idea."

"I'm tryin', remember?"

(Underestimated, 2/3)
>>
>>4169619
Pulling aside from the arm around your shoulder, you have to pause, and give your heart a moment to calm down. The hitch in your breath and pulse in your ears is dwarfed for a moment, by the heat in your shoulder. Phantom pain, coupled with enough relief to nearly buckle your knees, gives the man at your side due cause to pull you back into the hold.

"Hey."

It was fully healed from the last time it was voluntarily broken.

Voice hoarse, throat scratchy, you rasp, "give me just a moment."

No one around you both seems to notice or care about your distress. The hood around your face is a blessing. You take a few ragged breaths, and grimace to Cyril, "I don't want to linger."

"You did great. We'll head out."

"Just one more thing."

"Take it easy, okay?"

"It's from the bar."

"Good."

Keeping an uncomfortably tight hold on your shoulder, you realize that Cyril will not take his eyes off of you. The cutting stare lingers, while you get back to the counter, and make a simple request.

"Excuse me."

The glass-faced man stares at you, silently.

Dropping your voice to an almost inaudible murmur, you mutter, "I would like an enemy."

Moving slowly, without any motion to take payment, the barkeep produces a clear beverage from below the counter. It's the exact same, transparent liquid in a tall, thin glass that everyone else on the third level is drinking.

In a horrifically deep voice, the man with the glass mask informs you, "the victor has been expecting you. You may place your wager now, or wait until he has finished. He will be up momentarily."

>A] What

>B] It's probably in your best interest to ACT like you know what the fuck is going on.

>C] You KNOW exactly what this is about. (Write-in.)

>D] "Excuse us for just a moment."
>1] ASK Cyril why he's eyeing you.
>2] Discreetly TELL the blonde to keep his eyes out for anything suspicious.
>>
>>4169623
>D] "Excuse us for just a moment."
>1] ASK Cyril why he's eyeing you.
que merda. i hope he knows what's up
>>
>>4169623
>D] "Excuse us for just a moment."
>1] ASK Cyril why he's eyeing you.
>>
>>4169690
>>4169699
(It's time. Vote is locked. Writing now,)
>>
>>4169714
More than the mask right in your face, the mysterious drink, or the extremely bizarre statement, there is something demanding your attention. You can feel it, boring into you.

WHY does everyone in my company have to STARE incessantly?

"Excuse us just a moment." You turn your back to the bartender, pulling in Cyril a little closer. Unsure if he can hear the music as well, you risk whispering, "why will you not stop staring at me?"

"Don't take this the wrong way," he immediately tries prefacing.

You scowl.

He gives you a weak, pained smile. "I'm really worried about you."

You pause.

Deep breath.

"I know."

"Then why'd you ask?"

"Is— is that all?"

"Not everythin' has to be some big deal." A little more sincerity comes into his grin. "You kicked some ass down there. All you."

"Th-thank you."

"Didn't need any of Them to do it. That means something."

"I appreciate it."

You both pause, again, until Cyril can't help but ask, "what the fuck is going on?"

"I was hoping you would know."

The bartender clears his throat. "Your drink, sir."

The blonde at your side shakes your shoulder a little, muttering, "might have been worth bringing Cardon't along for the night, eh?"

The thin, tall glass should rightfully hold champagne. You take it with a shaking hand, nodding to the barkeep. Inside the transparent liquid is the faintest scent of lilies.

"He will be up momentarily," the glass mask repeats, before sneering towards the drink, "I suggest you do not insult him."

>A] Wait around, and take a sip of the drink while you do. You know exactly what this is about, and you are not afraid.

>B] You have no idea what you're doing, and you're not taking any chances. Abstain from the drink, and simply find a place to stand that grants you a good vantage point.
>1] Try to explain to Cyril in the meantime that he doesn't need to worry himself. Something is amiss here, but you're going to be alright.
>2] Talk to the priest candidly. It's been a long night, and you both probably need the support.

>C] You don't need anyone to tell you what to do. You got this. (Write-in.)
>>
>>4169763
>B] You have no idea what you're doing, and you're not taking any chances. Abstain from the drink, and simply find a place to stand that grants you a good vantage point.
>2] Talk to the priest candidly. It's been a long night, and you both probably need the support.
>>
>>4169763
>>B] You have no idea what you're doing, and you're not taking any chances. Abstain from the drink, and simply find a place to stand that grants you a good vantage point.
>2] Talk to the priest candidly. It's been a long night, and you both probably need the support.
>>
>>4169763
>A]
why not ? there's not much left for us here anyway ?
>>
(Going to leave this vote open for another half hour or so while I go take a shower, feel free to discuss guys. I'll give a few thoughts otherwise when I get back!)
>>
>>4169774
>>4169783
>>4169788
(Back right on time. Going to lock the vote here and will address these wonderful questions in the update. Writing now!)
>>
>>4169866
Replying to the man in the mask escapes you. Your stomach turns.

It's hot.

Cyril sweeps the glass out of your hands, nods to the barkeep, and absolutely does not drink the beverage.

It smells vaguely of lilies.

Your voice pours out, so thinly that you have to wonder if it's coming from your own body.

"I would like to find a better vantage point."

Away from the bar, Cyril discreetly sets the glass down, away, and completely out of sight.

The smell is gone, you remember how to breathe, and choke out, "thank you."

A hand is back on your shoulder, helping to keep you on your feet. Leaning in, hopefully so that your conversation goes unheard by the moving crowd, the discussion and betting, Brother Trebbeck asks, "what's going on?"

You swallow hard, fighting back the taste of cheap beer and a strong desire to vomit. "Spirit. She's— I always—"

Six months.

These drinks look so much like white bile, I can't stand it—

You keep the contents of your stomach, and manage to utter, "I cannot imagine that there is anything further for us here."

"And to think, I was so excited to stay" Cyril smiles to you, his brow furrowed. "We only just got here, big guy," Did we? "and you were all about not leaving empty-handed. Come on. Just for a minute. I don't want anyone following us back."

You're led to the edge of the wall. Next to a torch, your vision brightens. The gathering of white masked figures are huddling together now, engaged in heated discussion.

More importantly, the stone wall is frigid, and such a welcome relief from the heat on you that you practically sink into it. "Mercy.."

Your bodyguard keeps an arm to your side, glancing around over his shoulder, keeping his eyes peeled through the dancing crowd. "You really need to watch it," he grins, muttering, "but I'm sure She appreciates it. What a fuckin' day, huh?"

Leaning your back flush against the stone, tilting your head slightly back, you try swallowing again. The nausea is fading more rapidly by the second, away from the motion and heat.

The ring at the base of your hand hasn't budged all night. The gold around your neck is hot against your chest, your collarbones and neck, and completely concealed under your clothing. A smile almost creeps across your face.

Glancing back to Cyril, your expression drops. He's frowning right back at you. Scrutinizing your face, and the scars littering them, he starts, "I know you didn't get all these from bar fights."

"No."

More optimistically, he utters, "you don't need to tell me—"

There's something wrong. There's something horribly wrong.

(1/2)
>>
>>4169960
30 Catalysts.
30 invocations to Vengeance.
Blood from wounds unseen.
Black bile from damage unknown.
White bile from knowing too much.
Invocations to Spirit.
Enough to count on


twenty
one
hands


Bent. Broken. Unable to stop a demon of knowledge.
A valley of death at the bottom of the world.
Thousands of gravestones.
Thousands.
Accepting them all with an open mind.
An open heart.
I never needed to go back.
They waited for me.
The smell of lilies.


You're still standing, and choke out, "the glasses, Cyril."

There's something in the back of your throat, searing. You're terribly thirsty.

"Yeah, she's got a great pair on her, doesn't she?"

"I— I am not joking—

Dozens of white masks are gathered. Their dancing has slowed, and in all of their hands is a thin, transparent liquid.

You can smell it. You can taste it.

The hand came up, out of your mouth.

"Hey. Hey."

It's coming out.

He means well. He's really trying.

He can't possibly understand. Not in a night.

It took over seven hundred years to witness everything that Beltoro endured.


Cyril has both hands on your shoulders, and is basically forcing you to keep from keeling over. Too quietly for anyone to possibly hear, he hisses, "Richard. Someone is coming. Keep it together. Come on. You got this."

>A] Don't vomit. Don't cause a scene. It's been six months. They're not here anymore. (A ROLL WILL BE REQUIRED.)

>B] Get it out of your system. You've seen worse substances on the ground since you came in. Get it over with, stand up, and put on a brave face. You can do this.
>>
>>4169964
>A]
https://youtu.be/9oPmiMsh9ZU?t=19 we can do this
>>
>>4169964
>>A] Don't vomit. Don't cause a scene. It's been six months. They're not here anymore. (A ROLL WILL BE REQUIRED.)

We got this.
>>
>>4169988
>>4169994
(LET'S GET IT BOYS)

>Roll 1d100. Best of 2 will be used because your QM contrary to popular belief is not a sadist.
>-15 BELTORO'S WILD RIDE
>-10 THERE'S SOMETHING AMISS
>+10 YOU GOT THIS
>>
>>4169964
>A] Don't vomit. Don't cause a scene. It's been six months. They're not here anymore. (A ROLL WILL BE REQUIRED.)
>>
>>4170010
(I JUMPED THE GUN BUT I STAND BY MY WORDS AND DEEDS. Still only calling for 2 rolls.)
>>
Rolled 12 - 15 (1d100 - 15)

>>4170005
pls be a good one
>>
Rolled 24 + 15 (1d100 + 15)

>>4170005
Can't wait for my omega bad luck to kick in lmao
>>
>>4170032
>>4170033
(That is a 9 out of 100. Life is pain but WE ARE IN THIS TOGETHER. Vote is locked, writing now!)
>>
>>4170005
>Best of 2 will be used because your QM contrary to popular belief is not a sadist.
So a masochist then ?
>>
>>4170062
sado-masochist
>>
>>4170039
>>4170062
>>4170067
I CAN do this. Beltoro is not here.

They are not here.


They didn't need to be then, either. They were in my head, in my mouth

"Excuse me—"

You practically shove Cyril off of you, keel over, and vomit. It's sour, and does not smell anything like lilies. Hands on your knees, your friend at least makes sure your hood stays on. Only a few drinks come up, before you find yourself dry heaving for several long moments. Your stomach was almost completely empty.

There are no hands. It does not smell like lilies.

We are not in their lair.

We are not in the Abyss.


You wipe your mouth, and feel significantly better.

There was something in that beer.

Your head is clear, devoid of alcohol.

There was something in my head.

The music has stopped. The sting in your shoulder is nowhere near as severe as the burn in your throat, or the dread in your gut, as a figure is standing directly beside you. Brother Trebbeck is bristling, his hair practically standing on end. You're reminded of a dog that's caught wind of a cat, as the blonde growls to you, "you alright?"

"Never better," you rasp, throat burning.

The figure that's approached you both also has their face shrouded. A female voice speaks out, delicate, though middle-aged. Her accent is absolutely that of a clergywoman, though she's quite tall, and her form is completely disguised in a tan-colored robe.

"Need a hand," she murmurs, kneeling down beside you.

>A] Force yourself to dry-heave onto the woman. This is bullshit, and she knows it.

>B] Stand up, look down on the priestess of Spirit, and demand an explanation.
>1] NOW.
>2] Somewhere more discreet.

>C] Stand up, take a deep breath, and TRY to be civil.
>1] Politely play the mind game. You get it.
>2] You will not indulge in petty games, sorcerery, or anything else of the sort. Simply ask the woman what she wants.

>D] Write-in.
>>
>>4170085
>B] Stand up, look down on the priestess of Spirit, and demand an explanation.
>2]
>>
>>4170085
>B2
>>
>>4170085
>C] Stand up, take a deep breath, and TRY to be civil.
>1] Politely play the mind game. You get it.
>>
>>4170085
>>C] Stand up, take a deep breath, and TRY to be civil.
>>1] Politely play the mind game. You get it.
>>
(Just two more hours left of work. Vote is still open until I get back.)
>>
>>4170105
>>4170292
>>4170553
>>4170647
(Perfect tie? No problem. Vote is locked.

Just a heads up guys, I have a three day weekend and literally nothing else better to do! That means sessions Friday-Sunday, and probably all night if we get some votes in!

Writing now.)
>>
>>4171636
Levelly, you reply, "no, thank you."

Ignoring the lingering heat and sour aftertaste on your tongue, standing fully upright, you still tower over the priestess. A shadow is cast under her hood, magnified by the nearby torchlight.

There's the faintest outline of a smile, beneath her disguise. You mutter back at it, "this is a poor place for a lady of the cloth."

"I beg to differ."

"Regale me with the details elsewhere."

"Do you have any idea where you even are?"

I do. This entire cavern is clearly ran by the church.

"It does not matter," you sneer, taking a step forward, making sure that the sheer amount of blood and injury on you is readily visible. "You are going to explain yourself."

"Come on." Cyril bristles more intensely. Even in the low light, you can make out the tension in his arms.

"Right this way," the priestess coolly replies, glancing over her shoulder as she immediately turns to leave.

The blonde at your side practically jumps out of his skin, watching her go. Grabbing firmly onto your shoulder, he snarls, "stop."

You pull back, hard, out of his grasp. There's a sear in your shoulder, a fire in your throat, and you rasp back to him, "we are getting out of here. Please trust me."

The priestess is already disappearing into the crowd.

"Please."

"Fine," he barks, grabbing the side of your uninjured arm and dragging you rapidly through the crowd. "Start explaining."

Winding through the crowd, rapidly catching up to your target, you permit Cyril to keep his hold on you. He's upholding his duty, shoving anyone aside that dares to get within arm's reach of either of you.

"This entire evening has been a disaster."

"No shit," he fires back, as you descend quickly back down the stairs. The priestess is walking levelly, gliding down the steps as the crowd seemingly parts before her. It creates a significantly smoother descent.

"The minstrel at The Lost Soul was an operative of the Church of Spirit, employed by the Church of Mercy. He worked for little pay— and was so convicted by existing slander that he thought his work was in service to the people."

All of the revelry and rowdiness on the lower levels of The Pit practically drowns out your speech. You have no fear of being overheard, leaning in, permitting Cyril to do the heavy lifting with the crowd. "Even a brothel was oblivious to our activity in the last few days. News is normally hard to come by."

Cyril promptly punches a vagrant in the face, and sneers back to you, "not that hard! Our Brother knew exactly how to get here."

"Precisely. I had a horrible feeling from the moment we entered The Battered Maid, and— look out—!"

Weaving through the second level of The Pit, and heading towards a strange series of furniture piled up near a back wall, you duck to the side.

(1/2)
>>
>>4171760
Catching the flying glass in his bare hands, Cyril eyes the mug, and takes a drink. There's still enough liquid left in the container for him to busy himself with.

Impressed, you continue, "you are nowhere near as sensitive to these things as I am."

"You're tougher than nails, c'mon."

"That is not what I mean. I should have trusted my instincts."

"You're hopeless," he smirks, obviously trying to not interrupt while you approach the back wall.

"My own experiences aside— there was something wrong with that place."

"You are a prude."

"No— I mean, yes, but that is beside the point—"

You are rapidly approaching a giant pile of chairs. Quickly, you utter, "the women there were in sorry shape. Clergy should not have been able to enter, yet a priest of Flesh had his symbol on display. The Church had to have been involved. Again."

With obvious disgust and more understanding than you'd expect, the blonde at your side sneers, "which one?"

Glancing to the figure ahead, who begins to utter a few words of an incantation, you drop your voice to a murmur.

"The Church of Spirit— though I suspect several more are involved."

The woman drops her hands, her head, and almost goes slack for a few moments. You and Cyril have almost caught up through the crowd. More quietly still, you lean in closer, and explain, "regardless of the potential work here from the Church of Mercy, Flesh, or Vengeance— she was in my head, Cyril."

"She what—"

"The drink was drugged. The floor above was imbued with sorcerery. Every single one of those individuals must have been under the enchantment's sway. She was in my head—"

The priestess in question picks herself back up, straight and unwavering. Steadily, she turns, and faces you both. With a slight gesture of a single hand, she motions to a gap that has appeared in the wall.

Though there is absolutely furniture obscuring the opening ahead, you know that no one else in the building can see what you're gazing at. There is a small and narrow corridor, stretching out. At the end of the passage, several hundred feet down the way, is a small, white room.

The woman looks between you and Cyril. Pulling away from the priest's grasp, you stride right up to the priestess, and utter, "you want to play, do you?"

"This is not a game," she utters, clearly exhausted, "and you have offended him."

The victor was never a fighter in The Pit. The barkeep was referring to another battle entirely. One that I could never have hoped to understand.

Not until it was too late.

Not until I had already lost.


The out pour is unstoppable.

"Where is Father Sullivan?"

"He has a message for you. You may join me, and speak civilly, or I will take my leave."

(Options in next post.)
>>
>>4171766
>A] Enter the white room.
>1] You're not being civil. Fuck this.
>2] Speak civilly. This is infinitely too important to let your emotions get the better of you.

>B] This seems like a horrific idea. It's not that you're frightened...
>1] You've simply been through so much tonight, you can't handle one more thing. There's more to this than what you had Time to tell Cyril, and it wouldn't be a complete waste of the night to cut your losses here.
>2] You just don't trust this woman at all. Try to grill her for information where you stand. (A HIGH ROLL WILL BE REQUIRED.)

>C] Write-in.
>>
>>4171770
>>A] Enter the white room.
>2] Speak civilly. This is infinitely too important to let your emotions get the better of you.

We can't allow baser emotions to get the best of us here - this is a very tricky situation, and it's best to soak up information while keeping our own cards close to the chest...even if we don't have too much footing ourselves.
>>
>>4171770
>A] Enter the white room
>2] Speak civilly. This is infinitely too important to let your emotions get the better of you.
>>
>>4171779
>>4171791
(Locking here with the unanimous vote, comments duly noted. Writing now!)
>>
>>4171820
Turning to Cyril, you plead, "please wait outside if you cannot restrain yourself."

The blonde grits his teeth, crosses his arms, and replies, "good fuckin' luck keepin' me out here. Lead the way."

Looking back to the priestess, you calmly nod towards the passage. "Do we need to enter first?"

"No," she replies, already heading into the opening, "I was merely taking every precaution. Right this way."

With a deep breath, you step forward, beneath the pile of furniture, and into the enchanted corridor. Right behind you is an incredibly nervous priest, who practically bumps into you as the light harshly shifts. "Fuck—"

"Mind your language," you tease, trying to keep his nerves down.

The Pit is completely obscured from sight and sound, the moment that you walk into the passage. The lighting is incredibly bright, and the walls are shifting from stone to painted wood. Everything is opaque, save for the woman at the end of the corridor. She pulls back on her hood, revealing a head of pin-straight, graying hair. Her nose is hooked, her eyes are deeply set, and though she's likely younger than Father Wilhelm, she appears infinitely more wizened.

The walls are unadorned, there is no furniture, and you all arrive in the square, white room at the end of the corridor within moments. The ceiling stretches up higher than it makes sense to, at least thirty feet above your head. There is a strand of white thread hanging from the ceiling— Spirit's holy symbol— and you strongly suspect that it is enabling the priestess before you to create the illusion you're seeing now.

It's hard to not voice your concern. "I know you cannot maintain this indefinitely, and I would like to keep this civil. You have a message for me?"

Thin lips— horrifically similar to Sister Cardew's— frown back at you.

The resemblance is uncanny, save for the nose. Is this one of her sisters?

"I do," her eyes are a dark brown, and you're almost certain of the connection, "but I would like to offer you the explanation you requested, first."

"I am listening."

"I couldn't believe what I had heard. It seemed too outrageous, too cruel— and if I am to be frank, Brother Anscham, like something more akin to jealousy, than anything else."

Fidgeting is always appropriate. You remain silent, fingers occupied with the band around your left hand, conveniently keeping the gold from sight. "You are speaking in the past tense, Sister."

"I needed to know."

"Understandable." To know is to serve.

The priest of Flesh behind you is literally biting his tongue, tensing and looking at the walls as if they could kill you at any moment.

"Calling upon Her," the priestess of Spirit explains, "in order to glean how much of a threat you sincerely are, was a necessary precaution."

The woman standing before you does not look afraid in any capacity, but you remain silent.

(1/3)
>>
>>4171997
"If I had known just how broken your Spirit was, I never would have pushed you. I am terribly sorry for the drink, the illness, and everything else you have endured this evening."

She shows no signs of slowing down. Your nerves are on fire, and rather than misstep, you let the priestess actually speak.

"I cannot, and will not, apologize for any other action. Father Sullivan went to great pains to protect me this evening. I was aware of the risk—" Cyril tenses, but does not validate the priestess' concern. "—and thought it was misplaced from the beginning."

"You are still speaking in the past tense," you politely observe, trying to keep your tone level.

The woman's eyes before you are a little wider. Something creeps into her voice. She starts to smile, broader, and snaps her gaze to you.

You have endured over seven hundred years of Spirit.

The room is deathly silent.

Cyril shifts uncomfortably, having not heard anything, and clearly understanding how disturbed everyone else in the room is.

"Many of us," she elaborates, obviously referring to a demon of Spirit, "would know otherwise. Father Sullivan's concerns are founded. I believe he has done everything in his power for good reason, Brother Anscham, even if it seems misplaced. He cautioned me. I did not believe him. I do now."

The woman standing before you looks serene, completely unphased, and you are extremely relieved to have already vomited. "You had a message for me," you manage, trying to not choke out the words.

Father Sullivan still does not know the extent of my venture into the ruins. It would seem that the Church of Spirit is still in the dark about a few things.

"Of course. My personal actions aside—"

This woman led us into a den of debauchery, to lower our defenses, drug me, and get me at my lowest— for fear of me hurting her? For fear of WHAT—

"I know that you are not well. Please listen."

It's everything you can do to calmly, coolly— ignoring the blood slaking your arm, the throb in your chest and head, the aftertaste of cheap beer and sickness—
incessantly fidgeting—
patiently
after a deep breath, you do listen.

"Please continue."

"Two messages."

"I am listening."

"Father Sullivan wished to extend his condolences to Sister Harriet Cardew. He knows that she is in your company, and that she will likely attempt to kill him." The woman fishes out a letter, in a black envelope, with a white seal.

It's extended to you, but Cyril snaps it up in an instant. "Thanks," he spits, "go on. Don't let me keep you."

Folding her arms back under her robes, the priestess before you continues, "the Father of the Church of Spirit would also like to express his sincere thanks to you, Brother Anscham. In respect to your unwavering devotion to your health, your diligence towards the Church of Mercy, and your uneventful release from the Church of Flesh."

(2/3)
>>
>>4172001
I was not a prisoner.

"He also would like to offer you his support."

"Pardon me?"

"You are still recovering from your absence—"

Please do not get into this.

She even repeats it, "your extended absence from the Church of Mercy, are you not?"

Grimacing is always appropriate.

You're offered a very weary glance in return. "He knew that the ordeal here in Calunoth would be taxing. He feels that it is in the country's best interest to resolve this matter as quickly as possible. Our clergy is here, in the capital, and his reach is vast—"

The priestess lowers her voice. Her brow furrows, and she points her hands together towards you. "Father Sullivan wished to express to you his desire to support your recovery. To continue to aid in your health, from what the Church of Mercy has subjected you to. To aid in pulling out the forces here, in Calunoth, so that you might go on to aid yourself. To aid your Spirit."

There is so much that you have to say, you have to pause for a good, long moment.

>A] There is absolutely nothing you have to say to this woman, or to Father Sullivan. Walk away.

>B] There is a lot you have to say to this woman.
>1] About her abuse of Spirit.
>2] About why her service to Father Sullivan is grotesquely misplaced. (Write-in.)
>3] Is she related to Sister Cardew?
>4] Was that a THREAT?

>C] There is a lot you have to say to Father Sullivan. (Write-in.)

>D] Write-in.

>(Due to the nature of this prompt, discussion and comments will be taken into serious account. The vote will remain open for the next 12 hours, until 11AM EST.)
>>
(As previously stated, leaving the post open for votes until tomorrow morning. I'll be online for a good bit, working on some art stuff and on discord. Please let me know if you guys have any questions! We'll have a full session starting at 11AM EST/tomorrow morning!)
>>
>>4172009
>B] There is a lot you have to say to this woman.
>1] About her abuse of Spirit.
Woman, not only you used dirty tricks on us out of a misplaced fear, you’re not even ashamed of what you did
>>
>>4172009
>>D] Write-in.

Laugh.

She shifted any and all blame from themselves onto *us*, trust is a two way street and so far they have done nothing to warrant that from us. While I am sure we will not be able to ever ally with them I do think that this poor attempt at pacifying us can be useful, maybe we could gather some information?

"Sister... I hope you don't mind me calling you that considering you couldn't even give us your name. You expect me to accept help from the very people that made my life miserable for so long? From the people that *slandered my name*? Is that what Sullivan considers thanks for my *diligence*? No, Sister, it will not be that easy. I am willing to give you and your Father a second chance although you will have to earn it. *Remember that I invoked Vengeance before anything else.*" I have many friends, and you do not count among them.
>>
>>4172428
+1
>>
>>4172038
>>4172428
>>4172654
(Good shit guys. Woke up right at 11AM, got me some coffee. Gonna try and keep this as close as possible. Writing now!)
>>
>>4172658
You laugh, in her face. It's a little desperate. Bent in half for nearly a minute, no one dares to interrupt, to place a hand on your shoulder, or to do anything more than stare until you find a way to regain your composure.

Righting yourself, wiping a tear from your eye, there is no humor in your voice.

There is a threat. It's searing, and unquestionable. "You are fully aware that the first deity I invoked was Vengeance."

"Y-yes." She takes a step back, justifiably afraid for her life.

"Sister. You would not dare to even grace me with your name—"

"I was instructed not to."

You laugh again, softly, and through it manage, "trust is a two way street."

The priestess is not replying.

Your composure is back in full, and stays there. "You not only used cheap, vile sorcerery on me— out of misplaced fear— but you clearly are not even ashamed of yourself. Your actions. What you did."

Putting up a finger, to silence the excuses about to rain from woman standing before you, you continue, "you expect me to accept help from the very individuals who have tormented me for so long, Sister. The same individuals," stressing the plural, "who have slandered my name."

Lowering your hand is unnecessary, but you do it regardless. She has nothing to say, so you whisper, "is this what Sullivan considers thanks?" He doesn't rate his title. You did, and growl, "for my due diligence?"

Cyril puts a hand to your shoulder, and you shrug it off.

"No." Leaning in, towards the priestess, you promise, "it will not be that easy."

"I am here to deliver a return message—" she starts, scrambling to reassert control over the conversation.

"I am willing to give you and your Father a second chance—" you drop your voice, growling out the last of the threat, "though you will have to earn it. I have many friends, Sister." The hand on your shoulder squeezes a little more tightly. "Mind yourself. You do not count among them."

She's looking over your shoulder, towards the corridor you entered from, and not even meeting your eyes. A little glossiness passes over her vision, unfocused, until the gaze snaps back to you. The priestess has a slight waver to her tone, as she whispers, "well? What do you want?"

Cyril shifts slightly. The priest of Flesh detests (almost) anything to do with Spirit, and you suspect that he's trying to get comfortable.

There is no conceivable way that Father Sullivan will willingly help me after I've threatened one of his priestesses. This might be more fuel for the fire against me already. This woman has had her fears validated. I need to be careful.

(Options in next post.)
>>
>>4172687
>None of the following options are mutually exclusive. The more information you ask for, and the more complex of a case you present, the greater the possible ramifications may be.
>Conversely, pointed questions, pressing your advantage, etc. may work in your favor.

>A] Tell the priestess that she knows what you want. Double down...
>1] On the intimidation factor, as a priest of Vengeance. This woman has the fear of the Gods in her— but you want her to legitimately fear you. (Definitely more fuel for the fire.)
>2] On the absolute injustice of the situation, as a man who has been tormented by the Church of Spirit for most of his life. Appeal to her humanity. (WRITE-INS may help here. As always, your QM will provide as much justification as possible otherwise.)
>3] Write-in.

>B] Be specific. You need information ONLY regarding...
>1] Any RUMORS regarding ANY member of your congregation.
>2] Any CONFIRMED sightings of ANY member of your congregation.
>3] The KNOWN LOCATION of ANY member of your congregation.
>4] You're a little desperate. Try to glean some info regarding their temporary leader, Brother Algrith.

>C] Write-in.
>>
>>4172688
>C] Write-in
Ask her, How has Sullivan been lately, healthy? We are after all still a priest of Mercy, what is a little concern for a Fathers health. Do not give her any more fuel for any intents that would make our cause any less just in the publie wye.
>>
>>4172688
>>A] Tell the priestess that she knows what you want. Double down...
>3] Write-in.

On what we know best. Mercy.

As a *former* Father of Mercy I can't allow myself to hate, or to hold a grudge. I found it in my heart to forgive demons, and try as you'd like you cannot compare. You are doing what you are told, or what you think best. I am doing the same, we all are. I'm not going to hurt you, Sister. I swear. That is my way of the street, you know I am not a liar. Now for yours...

>B] Be specific. You need information ONLY regarding...
>1] Any RUMORS regarding ANY member of your congregation.
>2] Any CONFIRMED sightings of ANY member of your congregation.
>3] The KNOWN LOCATION of ANY member of your congregation.
>4] You're a little desperate. Try to glean some info regarding their temporary leader, Brother Algrith.

As a woman of Spirit I'm sure she is gonna like sharing information...right?
>>
>>4172706
>>4172716
(Same wavelength bros, very nice. Locking the vote here, writing now!)
>>
>>4172726
The answer is so near and dear to your heart, it drops every trace of bitterness and anger from your voice. Softly, sincerely, you reply, "Mercy."

Both individuals in the white room relax, if only slightly.

You straighten upright, fully, and look down on the priestess before you. "As the former Father of the Church of Mercy, I cannot permit myself to hate. There is justification— ample justification— but I will hold no grudge against you, Sister. Nor towards the rest of your family."

Pausing, letting the weight of your next statement sink in fully, you declare, "I found it in my heart to forgive demons."

The priestess before you draws back, disbelieving, and utterly incapable of interjecting more than, "what...?"

"Try as you might," you continue, "the Church of Spirit cannot compare. I know that you are doing as you are told. I know that you are doing what you think is best."

Slightly, slowly, you lean in just enough to make yourself clear. The woman standing before you takes a sharp breath in, drawing her arms a little closer.

Softening your voice even further, you promise, "I am not going to hurt you, Sister. I swear."

She pulls her arms closer still. Looking up, stunned, the woman seems incapable of replying.

"You know I am not a liar."

She's not budging.

The Church of Spirit loves questions, more than anything. You use all the leverage at your disposal. "What did I just tell you, Sister, about trust?"

"...it is a two-way street."

"I am still in service to grace. I am a brother to compassion. Above all other things, I am still a priest of the Church of Mercy."

The priestess actually relaxes her arms.

"This is my way, along this long and winding road. My direction, to you.. Now," you patiently state, "I ask for your motion. Your guidance. Your way. I will not repeat myself. What information do you have regarding my congregation?"

"They have been in the capital for five months, Brother Anscham."

"Allow me to be more specific."

"Please," the priestess replies, earnestly, and respectfully.

"Rumors?"

"Regarding?"

"Any member of my congregation. Any of them."

"Around this district—"

"Slums," Cyril interjects, practically as a snarl.

"Yes," the priestess sighs, "here on the outskirts of the city— whatever you wish to call it— they largely suspect that it is a band of enslaved demons."

You patiently reply, "that is ridiculous."

"The common speculation is that you yourself are a demon, Brother Anscham," this is ridiculous "and are attempting to unseat the clergy's authority."

"Are these falsehoods the doing of the Church of Spirit?"

"Not entirely."

You take a deep breath. "Go on."

(1/3)
>>
>>4172797
"The tenacity of these individuals has become something of local legend. Their ability to maneuver out of King Magnus' grasp has made them particularly feared deeper within the city. Sightings of demons have become more common, and of course, they are attributed to these individuals."

"I see. Have there been any confirmed sightings of them?"

"Numerous. They have put on a number of public..." she searches for the correct word, "displays—"

"Sermons?"

"Don't be ridiculous," she snaps, and instant recoils at her own behavior. Folding her arms again in front of her, the priestess mutters, "excuse me," this is more befitting behavior of a clergywoman "but no. Not a one of them is of the clergy. They have put on public spectacle a great many times, in service to your word."

"Pardon me?"

"They have been preaching the merit of your work in the ruins, in difficult to reach locations in, around, and under Calunoth."

"Such as...?"

"Places such as this. Ruins, under the city. Our holy capital is vast, but Father Sullivan's reach stretches farther."

He has been invoking Spirit to find my men and women?

"He deduced the location of several members, but we have had extreme difficulty in reaching them in Time. Our last attempt to—" she looks like she wants to say cull, but holds her tongue.

"You killed two of my men," you state plainly, "and did so at the first opportunity."

"Yes. King Magnus himself decreed that merely associating with the order was cause for death."

"Where are they?"

"They were disposed of," your stomach turns, "outside of the city, in unmarked graves."

"This is a disgrace."

"You would have extreme difficulty finding them, but I can and will provide further assistance."

She has absolutely no remorse. This is horrific. How could I have waited this long?

Levelly, calmly, softly, you utter, "the rest?"

"Twelve remain, and their leader. It has been months of searching, Brother Anscham."

"Tell me about him, at least. Anything you can."

"Harvey J. Algrith— I do not know if you brought him in formally, as the Father of the Church of Mercy, Brother Anscham— but King Magnus has a warrant out for his capture, and obviously he is not to be referred to as a member of the clergy."

A cold sweat creeps down your spine. There are no prisoners in Calunoth. There are legends, of what the King does with disobedient subjects, but you wouldn't wish it on anyone.

(2/3)
>>
>>4172800
"He is red of hair, light of skin, scarred, and has the light of Mercy in his eyes. Nowhere near as much as you," the priestess points out, and you're unsure if she means the scars or the light, "but his appearance is unmistakable. The man is said to be cunning, fleet of foot, and willing to kill," she promptly adds, "in order to protect those under his charge. He is dangerous..."

There's a long pause. The priestess looks to you, earnestly, before finishing, "...and devastatingly loyal to his cause. To you. It is frightening. I pray that you can put a stop to this menace before anyone else is hurt."

How has King Magnus not had me killed?

I was still in the ruins of Ostedholm for a month, while Brother Algrith and our following came back to the surface. How could they possibly have survived this long? Under these conditions?

How could I have let this become so dire?


Sincerely, you reply, "I would like to provide you with a return message."

The priestess perks up, "of course. Go on. My memory is excellent. Rest assured, I will return it verbatim."

"As a priest of the Church of Mercy, I am charged with attending to the welfare of our country. I would like to respectfully ask Sullivan how his health is faring. Out of professional concern, please ask him for me: how he has he been, lately?"

The priestess is baffled.

"Is there anything wrong," you politely place your hands together, almost as if in prayer, and point them to her, "Sister?"

"N-no. Nothing. Nothing at all, Brother."

"The location of my fallen Brothers would be prudent," you remind her.

She hesitates. "I am capable of invoking Spirit, and, with your permission, can imbue the location into your thoughts. I can also provide the last sighting we had, of one of your followers. It would typically not cause you any distress," she hesitates further, practically choking out, "though-if-everything-I-h-have-heard-is-correct, you have some difficulty with the Goddess."

>A] It's been a long night, but you've shown Spirit an enormous amount of devotion. You should be fine. Accept the priestess' offer. She held up her end of the bargain.

>B] Request a written account, a map, or some other practical guide. It won't be nearly as reliable, but you don't trust this priestess as far as you can throw her.

>C] There's a lot more you still have to say. (Write-in.)
>>
>>4172803
>A] It's been a long night, but you've shown Spirit an enormous amount of devotion. You should be fine. Accept the priestess' offer. She held up her end of the bargain.
>>
>>4172803
>A) It's been a long night, but you've shown Spirit an enormous amount of devotion. You should be fine. Accept the priestess' offer. She held up her end of the bargain.
>>
>>4172803
>>A] It's been a long night, but you've shown Spirit an enormous amount of devotion. You should be fine. Accept the priestess' offer. She held up her end of the bargain.
>>
>>4172819
>>4172825
>>4172868
(Unanimous, locking the vote here! Writing now.)
>>
>>4172892
"I would sincerely like to cause you no further distress," you calmly reply, "and I appreciate the offer. Please. Is there anything I can do?"

"Would you kneel down? My methods require direct contact, and, well," the priestess looks up to you.

You're nearly a foot taller than her, and take a knee. "Is this alright?"

Cyril is extremely nervous, and takes a full step back. "I'm right here," he mutters, "so don't you dare fuckin' lay a hand—"

"There is nothing to fear," you murmur, as the priestess before you places a hand to your temple.

She's cold. She speaks, though you're certain only you and a Goddess can listen.

"Goddess of the Immaterial, hear me."

A surge of white light nearly blinds you. It originates in the woman's eyes, that flush with an opaque liquid. It immediately streams down her face, into her skin, and pulses through the entire limb extended before you. It's familiar, lukewarm, devoid of any heat or cold.

"Goddess of the Immaterial, see me."

From the edges of your skin, where the invocation seeps, there is something that reaches deep inside of your eyes.

From the edges of your mind, an expanse of insubstantial, pearlescent Spirit stretches out before you.

For one more fleeting moment, you can feel the woman standing beside you.

A strand of her thoughts snakes its way through the invocation. There are words unspoken. Words that need to be said, from a woman who does not understand a fraction of the might you can wield.

"Mercy, please, protect me."

She can feel it, for the briefest of moments. A thread of your thoughts. Something you want to impart, from the deepest recesses of your soul.

Spirit loves you, though the Goddess of the Immaterial has difficulty showing it.

She's trying to show it. She wants your vessel to understand.


>A] Abstain from imparting any wisdom or words onto this priestess. You're content to SEE what she has to show you, and do not want to risk scaring her further.

>B] Grant the priestess of Spirit an inkling of your service to the Goddess of the Immaterial. REASSURE her that you are not a heathen, blasphemer, or demon.

>C] Prove to this woman that you are undoubtedly worthy of leading the Church of Mercy. ANSWER her prayer, as you are the only vessel of Mercy in the entire country.

>D] Write-in.
>>
>>4172924
>C] Prove to this woman that you are undoubtedly worthy of leading the Church of Mercy. ANSWER her prayer, as you are the only vessel of Mercy in the entire country.
>>
>>4172924
>>C] Prove to this woman that you are undoubtedly worthy of leading the Church of Mercy. ANSWER her prayer, as you are the only vessel of Mercy in the entire country.
>>
>>4172924
>B] Grant the priestess of Spirit an inkling of your service to the Goddess of the Immaterial. REASSURE her that you are not a heathen, blasphemer, or demon.
Let’s be careful to not hurt her
>>
>>4172937
>>4172939
>>4172944
(As a man of ALL the Gods, I think you can definitely handle both of these. Vote is locked! Writing now.)
>>
>>4172976
There is nothing to fear.

There was a little boy. Bound and tortured, he still never once called Vengeance upon his captors. He never once attempted to hurt them. Not even a man who refused to fulfill his own duty. One who could have saved him.

I only want to understand.

There was a priest. Confronted by his past, capable of wielding the might of the Storm, he stayed his hand. He saved the lives of hundreds, Time and Time again.

I only wish to serve Them.

There was a Father. On the precipice of death, he sought out Mercy. He demonstrated Her blessing, Her tenets, Her word, at every turn. He proved his worth, though it cost him everything he held dear.

I give myself freely.

There has never been a demon of faith. There is a man, struggling to right all the ways that he has been wronged.

There is no hate in my heart.

He is the Father of the Church of Mercy.

There's several flashes, intense, and almost too rapid to process:
Winding city streets.
A splash of blood on stone floors.
Cries to your Goddess for protection.
No one answered.
A clash of swords.
Fresh soil.
Newly dug graves.

Your vision pulls out, and away. Winding back, from the plots of land outside of Calunoth, away from the graves, away from death.

You know where your fallen servants lie.

One is at your feet, kneeling, utterly incapable of speech. The priestess of Spirit has something leaking from her eyes, and it is not divinity.

Cyril immediately rushes to your side. You're also kneeling, still, though your breath is level.

The invocation had absolutely no effect on me.

"Sister?"

Her face is covered, as she kneels, and keeps her eyes to the floor. The priestess is quiet, and barely chokes out, "Father— Father Anscham. I am so sorry. I— I am so sorry."

>A] Oh no. No no no no no no no this is not what you intended. Correct the priestess, immediately.
>1] You are a Brother of the Church of Mercy.
>2] She does not need to apologize, and you know that she meant well.

>B] Good. Ask her to stand. Thank her for all of the information, and bid the priestess farewell. Leave her to her own devices.

>C] Seize the opportunity to speak at further length with the priestess of Spirit.
>1] She's in extreme distress. Try to comfort her.
>2] She's in extreme distress. Take advantage, and ask a few more questions. (Write-in.)
>3] She's in extreme distress. Take advantage, and ensure that she does not relay anything she's learned to Father Sullivan.

>D] Write-in.
>>
>>4173022
>A]
>2]
>>
>>4173022
>>C] Seize the opportunity to speak at further length with the priestess of Spirit.
>>1] She's in extreme distress. Try to comfort her.
>3] She's in extreme distress. Take advantage, and ensure that she does not relay anything she's learned to Father Sullivan.
>>
>>4173022
>C] Seize the opportunity to speak at further length with the priestess of Spirit.
>1] She's in extreme distress. Try to comfort her.
>>
>>4173041
+1
>>
>>4173033
>>4173039
>>4173041
>>4173054
(Locking here, I think we can incorporate all of this! Going to get a drink and will write shortly.)
>>
>>4173071
Glancing from the extreme distress of the priestess at your feet, back to Cyril, you're given an extremely worried glance.

"Richard, what the fuck—"

"Not now. Please guard the corridor."

He hesitates.

You fire a glare that could kill, and your bodyguard promptly excuses himself.

Sitting completely on the ground, lowering yourself more to the priestess' level, you keep your voice at an even softer tone than usual. "Sister. You— you do not need to apologize."

"I do," she miserably lifts her head, threads of white still swimming in her pupils.

Why is she still with Spirit?

"I do," she repeats, her voice distant and sadder than what should be possible.

You place a hand delicately on her shoulder, lean in, and murmur, "you know that you meant well."

"The path to ruin..."

"The clergy does not pave roads, and neither have you. You were following orders. You never could have known."

The priestess closes her eyes, draws in on herself, and turns away.

You release the contact on her shoulder, and knit your hands together, praying, "please. I know exactly how it feels. Please show Her the same respect that you wish to show me. We are not going anywhere. Neither is She."

With a sharp breath in, the woman before you releases a ragged breath, and drops her invocation.

She practically goes slack with grief, drawing in on herself further, and fires wide eyes back at you. "How have you not killed every last one of us?"

You don't reply, giving her all the response she needs.

"You are Merciful," she's having a hard Time breathing, "and we all are blessed. Undeserving. You—"

"You meant well," you repeat, "and you have been misled. I need you to understand just precarious my position is."

"I understand," the priestess wheezes. "Thank you. Thank you, Father—"

"Why are you thanking me—"

"For opening my eyes. For permitting me to truly see. This— I understand. I understand completely. This is what it means to serve—"

Mercy, no. This is too familiar.

"Sister."

"Yes?"

"She sees fit to bless us with wisdom of the immaterial. I— we must make proper use of it. I know you are under an enormous amount of strain, but please, compose yourself."

"Y-yes. Yes, Father." She takes a few ragged breaths. You suspect she needs a hug, and it's not in your capacity to give one. There's something infinitely more important to address.

"What is your name?"

"M-Marjorie. Marjorie Cardew. Please tell her that I'm alright. Please. She would want to know."

I knew it.

"I need you to swear something to me."

"I need to make this right," she hisses, and you interrupt.

"You cannot speak to Father Sullivan of anything that has transpired here."

The priestess falls silent. Her shoulders tremble. "You don't understand what you're asking," she mutters.

It looks like she's about to cry.

(Options in next post.)
>>
>>4173167
>A] Sister Cardew has cautioned you a few times about the severity of the situation in Murgate and the Church of Spirit, but you really don't know what's going on. Ask the priestess to elaborate.

>B] You don't know, you don't want to know, and it doesn't matter. Double down. This is too important to let this woman's feelings get in the way.

>C] Give her a hug, regardless of how Cyril will likely respond.
>1] Just give her a moment to work this out.
>2] Not to take advantage, but because you're sincerely worried, ask for her to let you know how much she's comfortable concealing from Father Sullivan.

>D] You have a better way of handling this situation. (Write-in.)
>>
>>4173169
>>C] Give her a hug, regardless of how Cyril will likely respond.
>>1] Just give her a moment to work this out.
>>
>>4173169
>A]
also gib hug to help her out. the hole to the nether is always bigger than we thought
>>
>>4173198
>>4173217
(Alright guys, gonna lock here, writing now!)
>>
>>4173321
Arms slightly spread, you gingerly let the priestess see the holy symbol of your church. Both of your hands are open, upturned, and she accepts the invitation for a hug while sniffling horribly. Her trembling is intensifying, like a woman who's still frightened for her life.

A sob breaks out, Cyril storms over, and gives you a look like you are absolutely insane.

"The fuck," he asks.

"Not now."

You point towards the hallway.

He doesn't budge. "What the fuck did you do to her?"

In a low voice, resonating with over seven hundred years of knowledge, you utter, "the path to the Abyss is deeper than you could possibly conceive."

The blonde draws back, glancing to the woman in your arms. Marjorie does not smell of lilies, though the scent of smoke and blood is on her from clearly having spent the evening lingering in The Pit. She's crying, trying to silence herself, and shaking horribly.

"Please," you say in a much softer voice, "give me just a moment, Cyril." Almost in a murmur, you finish, "give her just a moment."

The priest refuses to move, watching you both intently. Sister Cardew— (you will think of her exclusively as Marjorie—) Marjorie, accepts the hug for several long minutes.

She can't stop crying.

You pat her back, very gingerly, and manage, "I know. I know how it is."

"This isn't normal," she utters, choking on her tears.

"Spirit does not take kindly to abuse."

The sobbing redoubles. "I didn't know. I'm so sorry." She pulls back, obviously too disgusted with the situation to touch you. "You— you should go."

"I am extremely concerned," you try to assert, though the priestess is no longer looking at you, is clutching back onto her robes, and has her back turned, "please. I know we cannot linger. Please try to help me understand."

Cyril shoots you a look. It's a mixture of revulsion, confusion, and a significant amount of judgement.

This is not manipulation.

I am not a monster.

I am not insane.

I need to know.

She will be fine.

I was always fine.


Clutching harder onto her shoulders and arms, clearly beside herself, the priestess sobs, "he'll get in my head. He'll find out. He'll know. He knows, Father. Knowledge is his mistress. Information is everything to him. Everything. It's— I may be his family, but Spirit is—"

"I know."

She's crying a lot harder.

(Options in next post.)
>>
>>4173385
>Several of the following are mutually exclusive.

>A] You can't ask this woman to be tortured on your behalf. Tell her that you don't expect her to conceal anything from Father Sullivan. You should go.

>B] This is worrying to an extreme. Ask the priestess if she'll accept your prayers, as often as you can spare them. Simply extending your compassion may help, but you're not budging on your request.
>1] Leave, regardless of her answer.
>2] Stay if she refuses. You're really concerned, and not sure how to handle this.

>C] Offer your protection. You ARE the rightful Father of the Church of Mercy.
>1] You swore to not invoke publicly, Time is of the essence, Cyril is looking at you like a monster, but this area seems private. You don't want to lead anyone else back to the Hangman's Hangout, the Cardew sisters may not be ready to meet, and you are confident that you can handle it. Invoke Mercy here, and NOW. (This may escalate rapidly. Write-ins may make a big difference.)
>2] This is an unbelievably delicate situation, and really could have benefited from Harriet's guidance. Ask Marjorie if she'd be willing to see her sister.

>D] Plainly ask Cyril if he's okay with this situation in any capacity. He's been extremely on edge, and you do not want to destroy his trust all over again.
>1] Respect his wishes.
>2] You just want to give him the opportunity to voice his concerns. He's been unusually respectful of your needs all night.

>E] Write-in.
>>
>>4173388
>>C] Offer your protection. You ARE the rightful Father of the Church of Mercy.
>2] This is an unbelievably delicate situation, and really could have benefited from Harriet's guidance. Ask Marjorie if she'd be willing to see her sister
>>
>>4173388
>B] This is worrying to an extreme. Ask the priestess if she'll accept your prayers, as often as you can spare them. Simply extending your compassion may help, but you're not budging on your request.
>2] Stay if she refuses. You're really concerned, and not sure how to handle this.
>>
>>4173396
>>4173398
(Locking the vote here, still can definitely make this work. Writing now!)
>>
>>4173541
"Marjorie."

The priestess and priest beside you both turn their heads.

She is red-eyed, manages to still her sobs, and manages, "yes?"

He is red-eyed, has his fists clenched, and takes a step forward. "Dick."

"NOT now, Cyril."

With his lips tight, the blonde manages to quell his outrage for a few more moments.

"Sister. I cannot hope to understand what this has been like for you— and I will not keep you. Your assistance this evening has been invaluable. Your Spirit is stronger than many."

She sniffs harder, drying her eyes, and sincerely grits out, "thank you."

"I must stand by my request. I will keep you in my prayers to Mercy, for Her protection, day and night."

White is soaking into Marjorie's skin, in a pallor that rivals even your own.

"He was right," she murmurs.

"About what," Cyril growls, unable to restrain himself any longer.

The woman moves to stand, shoulders still trembling. "That you would find a way to hurt me, even if we took every precaution. I didn't want to believe it."

You feel fairly sick again.

"Sounds like that fuckin' psychopath is the one hurting you, babe," Cyril sneers.

"I am so sorry," she continues, glancing between you two, "but he was absolutely right. He will find out. I will do everything I can to help, and to slow him down," she is panicking, simply anticipating some untold horror, "and though I will not lie to you, Father Anscham—"

"Why are you calling him that," Cyril interjects, and you put up a hand.

"Brother Trebbeck."

"Brother Anscham, we were not supposed to even use our fucking names tonight."

"This is Harriet's sister. I know you are not an idiot, Cyril. She—"

"She nothing. This bitch drugged you, and less than five minutes ago, was more than happy to lead us through this shitheap while we're bleedin' out. I know you've forgotten."

You had. Your shoulder is killing you, there's blood clinging your sleeve to your arm where there's bits of splinters stuck in it, there's a new cut on your cheek (all likely going to be another scar, though at least this one is actually from a bar fight), your chest is aching, and Cyril is still talking.

"No one is seein' us together with her. She's not leaving this room til we're gone."

"Sister Cardew—"

"Yes?"

"No— Harriet, I mean—" you take a deep breath, and levelly, calmly, try and suggest, "I understand she has been absent for months. If you wish—"

A horrified glance is directed at you, by both people in your company.

The priestess speaks first, as Cyril is too mortified to even interrupt.

"Father Anscham, she is insane."

(1/2)
>>
>>4173613
Don't think about her behavior for the last week. Don't think about her comments regarding the Relic, or the way that Mercy has worked through me. Think of the months of counseling. The months of ACTUAL aid. Her friendship. Her support. She has simply been under an enormous amount of pressure. She was dealing with Father Sullivan's abuse, too. This is his fault.

This is his fault.

She is not insane.


"Excuse me," you choke out, trying to swallow the crushing dread.

"She would not respond to Father Sullivan's writings for months. She declined every opportunity to return to Murgate. She has been—"

There's a sudden, hard, unforgiving, soul-crushing pause.

"She has been working on your case."

The priestess is staring at you, like she would at a sorcerer, or a demon.

"You should go," Cyril helpfully suggests.

"I should go," she repeats, drying her eyes, and looking to you with a renewed mixture of horror and extreme sympathy. "I am so sorry. For everything. I meant every word— but please—"

No. Don't. Please. Not again.

"Please do not come after me."

>A] Go back to the Hangman's Hangout. This is a lost cause, but you gained a huge volume of information tonight, and may have spared yourself an enemy. Let Sister Marjorie Cardew go, and try to salvage your budding friendship with Brother Trebbeck.
>1] Try your best to talk to Cyril along the way back. Attempt to explain.
>2] Let the blonde talk. Listen.
>3] Try to have an actual conversation. It's not going to be easy, but when has anything ever been easy?

>B] You've learned a lot, and improved so much over the last several months. Ignoring every sign and warning around you to back down is still in your nature, though. You've stalked, you've abused, you've done crazier things. (Write-ins subject to QM approval and any objection from fellow players.)
>>
>>4173621
>A] Go back to the Hangman's Hangout. This is a lost cause, but you gained a huge volume of information tonight, and may have spared yourself an enemy. Let Sister Marjorie Cardew go, and try to salvage your budding friendship with Brother Trebbeck.
>3] Try to have an actual conversation. It's not going to be easy, but when has anything ever been easy?
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>>4173623
(Hey man, seriously appreciate you. Leaving this vote open for a bit while I have dinner, but we'll get at least one more update out before the end of the night.)
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>>4173732
(And of course something has to come up. Nerve issues really bugging out tonight, but I'll be back in the morning. Apologies dudes. Vote will be open until then.)
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>>4173623
+1
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>>4173621
>>A] Go back to the Hangman's Hangout. This is a lost cause, but you gained a huge volume of information tonight, and may have spared yourself an enemy. Let Sister Marjorie Cardew go, and try to salvage your budding friendship with Brother Trebbeck.
>2] Let the blonde talk. Listen.
>>
>>4173623
>>4174333
>>4174409
>Have a conversation
>Make sure to actually listen
(We got this. Vote is locked, getting some breakfast and will write shortly.)
>>
>>4174511
"I won't."

The priestess awkwardly looks around the small, white room that you all are currently occupying. It seems Marjorie was distraught enough to not realize the lack of other passages, and leads both you and Cyril back out, into The Pit.

Firing off no witty remarks or debasement, Brother Trebbeck immediately sets to guarding you, as the chaos within the cavern seems to have increased. More screams are rising from the hole at the center of the building, and the second floor is up in arms. More chairs are flying, and all you want is to mutter, "let's get out of here."

"Thought you'd never ask!"

Letting the blonde do the brawling, you sink into a little quiet reflection on your way out.

A lot has changed.

There's no sight or sound of Marjorie through the din, as you both approach the first floor again.

Just last year, I was tailing lost opportunities through the dark, wasn't I? For all the good it did. Orgoth nearly killed me, twice.

Winding your way back out of The Pit, to the same door you entered from, Cyril has a little more blood on his arms. You relax the hold he has on your shoulder, to wind up and punch a particularly foul looking patron. Your knuckles streak with the grease that's smeared across his face, the impact shoots through your arm, and you already can't quite care for any more violence for the evening.

Marjorie may be a lost cause. That does not mean this was all for nothing.

Back to the metal door, out into the long corridor that houses both guards, you see that their shift has changed. Another elderly man and young woman are standing there, in the same outfit, but they're clearly different individuals.

Everyone has to be so careful. This entire situation has been too delicate for me, from the start—

Ignoring the rowdy cries behind you, Cyril closes the door, and briskly begins walking out with you back in a tight hold. "Come on."

Winding up the dark passage, back onto dank stone steps, wary of the echo in the chamber, you both remain silent until reemerging back on the surface. Shoving aside the pile of debris near the exit, you stand once more under an open sky.

It's such a late hour of the night, the sky is beginning to brighten.

"It's a long walk back," Brother Trebbeck yawns, "and that was some bullshit if I've ever seen it."

He punches you, right on your uninjured shoulder. It's likely not as hard as he can manage, but the pain is immediate and perfect.

Not giving you any Time to recover, strong-arming you into a hold, he resumes walking. "Do you even know what that was for?"

Biting hard on your lip, you remain as silent as the grave. The embodiment of restraint, thinking of clear skies, and cold water—

You both walk in silence for several long minutes. The heat dies down in your shoulder, you regain your composure, and mutter, "I know— I know how dreadful the situation must have appeared."

(1/2)
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>>4174556
"You were taking advantage of her," he says, visibly upset. "Or hurting her. Maybe both."

"No," you sneer, "I was not. Do you want to even hear what I have to say?"

A long pause.

"Yeah."

Keeping your eyes on the myriad stone houses, the murals of old family accomplishments, the paintings of countless citizens, you let out a deep sigh. "She shared her Spirit with me. She was horribly frightened. Confused. Misled. I showed her the truth of the matter."

"It still sounds fucked."

You dead-pan, "it is."

Walking under a broad expanse of trees, hanging over the winding city road, it seems to have protected the ground from the incessant rain. The soil underfoot crunches, as you both continue in silence for several more moments.

Cyril breaks the pause, simply and sincerely. "I know they're all lyin'. Whatever it is that you've been through, it had to have been fucked. To do that to her—"

He's having trouble articulating the sentence, and you try to not interject.

Gesturing broadly with his hands, to you, the priest finds the words he's looking for. "They're scared. They're spreadin' lies, like they do. They're desperate. Lashin' out like a cat in a corner."

"You are— that seems—"

"You don't believe me?"

"It's significantly more severe than that, but you seem to get the gist of it."

"Weren't you the one sayin' I'm not an idiot?"

"You know I am always honest."

"Thanks."

Another long pause. He's clearly uncomfortable, and confirms your suspicions with a few awful questions.

"Are you planning on tellin' me why the fuck you were inviting that bitch back to see Harriet, then? Hugging her?"

You look at the blonde like he has two heads. "She was beside herself. Sister Cardew is under the impression that most of her family is deceased. Do you not— do you have a shred of compassion—?"

He opens his mouth to reply.

You give him a sincerely perplexed look. "Well?"

He shakes you a little, and still has an arm wrapped around your shoulder. Frowning, he mutters, "bleeding heart. You're fuckin' hopeless."

"You— you understand, then—"

"I get it, but it's still fucked. I know you're not that crazy—"

So he thinks I am?

"—but you need to get how it is lookin' in on this shit."

"...go on."

Putting a hand to his temple, running a hand through his hair, Cyril streaks a little blood into the blonde strands. Looking down to the dampness on his hands, he laughs, and manages to say, "what am I saying?"

"What?"

"It's fucking crazy. It really is. All of this."

You both stop walking, as he lowers his voice, and asserts, "I'm no fuckin' coward."

"Of course not."

"Shit, you really think so?"

"Naturally."

"Well, shit—" he resumes walking, and mutters, "you think you still will when I tell ya' I'm scared shitless of all this? I don't know if I can even start getting into it, Richard. It's makin' me sick. All of it."

(Options in next post.)
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>>4174559
>A] That's a pretty valid concern, for multiple reasons.
>1] To be honest, you're scared shitless too, but that's not going to stop you.
>2] To be honest, you're confident you can handle it, and Cyril needs to know.

>B] You don't expect him to accompany you any more than necessary. He's here involuntarily, and you don't expect him to literally guard you. You'll shield him as best as you can.

>C] You're going to take greater pains to protect yourself. Brainstorm a few ideas. This situation is going to only get worse, and you need to be careful. (Write-in any suggestions you have off the bat!)

>D] Write-in.
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>>4174563
>C] You're going to take greater pains to protect yourself. Brainstorm a few ideas. This situation is going to only get worse, and you need to be careful. (Write-in any suggestions you have off the bat!)
wallet, check
rubber, check
dagger, check.

Time to invest in concealable bodyarmor, Cyril and Ray can't always be near enough in the future.
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>>4174563
>D] Write-in.

I agree with the bodyarmor post, perhaps we could look into getting a leather tunic under our robes? Preferably we get stuff we can keep on us at all times lest we lose all of our kit to a demon like last time, throwing daggers would be a good choice considering Fred had us practice throwing weapons before. Boot knife, robe knife, belt knife, pocket knife the whole 9 yards. In case anyone makes it to close range we should have some knuckle dusters for that sweet bleed damage. The church of Spirit is very sneaky so they would probably attempt a more subtle approach like poisoning, to prevent this we should keep rations on us and eat at irregular intervals, perhaps stuff from random street vendors that is prepared right in front of us. We should probably get Cyril some armor and weapons too, if anything just to put his mind at ease.
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>>4174575
>>4174629
(Hell yeah guys. Keeping some setting info in mind going incorporate as much as possible into the brainstorming, provide you with a bit more too, locking the vote here! Writing now.)
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>>4174632
"It is high Time that I invested in our mutual defense, Cyril." You wrap a bloodied arm around the blonde's shoulder, and look up to the sky. It's cloudy, but the faintest light of morning is beginning to seep through.

You nearly trip over a pot hole, and Cyril ruffles your hair.

"Come back down, mate. Always got your head in the clouds. We couldn't even afford those drinks. They spoiled you rotten, didn't they—"

"No. Not— not this minute," you clarify, "but after we can reach Father Friedrich—"

"You didn't want to write, either," he reminds you.

"We have options," you insist.

"I'm listening," the blonde leans, pulling you away from another dip in the road.

"Aside from procuring a leather kit," a pair of raised eyebrows and a whistle is directed at you, "something for your knuckles," the whistle continues, "and plenty of daggers— will you please stop that—"

"Alright," he grins. "I do like the sound of it."

"You and Ray cannot always be near enough," you politely remind him.

The priest puts a hand over his heart, and actually seems touched. "Me and Ray? In the same sentence?"

"Do not get used to it," you frown back.

Glancing down from the sky, it's hard to not look to the soil. "Poison."

"Say again?"

"I am worried," you murmur, "for our collective safety. We could be poisoned. I was already drugged, the first night I left our quarters. It could have happened sooner. It was infinitely too easy for Marjorie to deduce my location this evening, without either of us using our names or showing our faces. It may be insufficient to even eat at irregular hours, or to utilize street vendors—" Cyril shoots you a skeptical look, and you practically groan, "even if it were an option."

"Well, I mean," he averts his eyes, shifting you slightly, away from another sink in the ground, "at least 'til I can get some word back to Beorward. It's probably gonna' be another week, at least. But it's like you said. You do have options. "

You pull back, slightly, and try to not look uncomfortable.

"Hey," Cyril nudges you, "look. I'm not trying to be a bad influence. There's a Time, and a place, and this is probably it."

"I—" you realize you've been fidgeting with your ring, try to stop, and find the motion entirely too soothing to quit, "I know that there is responsible use of Agriculture."

Fidgeting a little more intensely, trying to appreciate that everything on you fits, that you aren't a walking corpse, and that the ground underfoot is not going anywhere, you murmur, "I know I have shown Her due respect. Near constant devotion. My faith has been unwavering— and it— it is entirely within Her ability. To detect poison. To remove it. I—" you take a deep breath in, "I have done so before on a far greater scale, and still lived to speak of Her gifts—"

(Options in next post.)
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>>4174661
>A] There's more. There's a lot more power that you wield, that could help your current situation. Cyril should know.
>1] So that he can stop you, if you try and invoke any deity. You've hurt yourself badly before, and you're terrified of doing so again.
>2] So he can reassure you, if it would be doing the right thing. You're so wrapped up in your love of the Gods, it's hard to tell what's right anymore.
>3] So he can know that you're capable of wielding Them to protect you all. You might not know perfectly what responsible use of the Gods is, but you're guided by your faith, and positive that your conviction is righteous.

>B] This alone is nerve-wracking.
>1] Which is why you're going to save literally all further discussion for when you get back to see Harriet.
>2] It's also exciting. You promised Cyril you'd eat when you got back. You can try and sort out all of this at the Hangman's Hangout, but you're solving at least ONE problem TONIGHT.

>C] Write-in.
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>>4174661
>>A] There's more. There's a lot more power that you wield, that could help your current situation. Cyril should know.
>3] So he can know that you're capable of wielding Them to protect you all. You might not know perfectly what responsible use of the Gods is, but you're guided by your faith, and positive that your conviction is righteous.
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>>4174665
>A]
>3]
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>>4174674
>>4174682
(It's a good day to write. You guys rock, locking here with the unanimous vote. Writing now!)
>>
(Formatting got messed up, please refresh/F5.)
>>4174690

Righteousness seeps into your tone, as you continue more strongly than before, "though I do not need to use Them on such a scale to protect us all."

Cyril remains silent, respectful, and does not interrupt as you continue.

"I swore to you both to not invoke Mercy publicly, but I am a man of all all of the Gods. I know that Marjorie had to have invoked Spirit to find us last night. I can do the same, to find these blasphemers, and heathens. Without— I pray, without nearly as severe as the effects you witnessed this evening.""

"Don't suppose that would do much good for your men," he smirks.

"Of course not," you frown. "Dream may be of great assistance, however. His gifts are of prophecy. They are more difficult to interpret, of course—"

Cyril's smirk is gone. He looks a little repulsed.

"Please do not give me that look," you frown back. "I am speaking of using Them with respect. With conviction, and devotion, and love—"

"Like you did in Beorward," he frowns harder.

"Like I did in Beorward," you grimace, "to save your life, and the lives of countless others. Not in the way that I healed countless men and women, or to regrow an entire severed limb, on a man at the brink of death—"

"You actually...?"

"Regardless of what I am capable of, you know full well of Their ability. You've used Flesh in my company. Responsibly. For defense. For strength."

"Yep."

"He and I have had a tenuous—"

"Relationship."

"That is one way to put it."

"I see you twitching sometimes. Can't tell the muscle is messed up at a glance, but, yeah." Under his breath, he mutters, "you call watchin' you a problem." More clearly, Brother Trebbeck points out, "I can tell, though."

"You should see me when I actually drink. It may be best for me to abstain—"

"Don't be ridiculous."

"Not from drinking. Cyril. You know what I mean. Unless it is truly warranted, Flesh and Vengeance should likely be held in my respect. Only my respect."

"All this business is pretty fucked, but you know I'm not going anywhere, right?"

"I know."

With a glance up to the sky, and a very nervous laugh, the priest asks, "you're not going to call on Storm, are you?"

"I am not crazy," you readily assert, "though I know what is said of His clergy."

"I know. I was teasin' you."

Brother Trebbeck's smile is fading again, fast. "That comment you made, in The Pit? I know you were just jokin', too."

"Which one?"

"About Flesh being dissatisfied. You really think you can do something about the food situation? It's been a few days since I've trusted anything, either. Harriet and I have been careful, but I've really just been foragin'. If we're going to be stuck here awhile— and I know it might get worse—"

"Cyril."

(Options in next post.)
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>>4174744
>A] You'll consult with Sister Cardew when you get back, and not make any more promises you don't know if you can keep.
>1] Speaking of which, what was that comment about getting in contact with Father Friedrich?
>2] Speaking of which, isn't it kind of a big deal that you have made no effort to uphold multiple promises you've made?

>B] The situation here completely justifies your behavior. You don't need further explanation, and trust Cyril's judgement when it comes to acquiring mundane supplies.
>1] He can leave the more dangerous work to you. Promise him you'll take care of the issue of safely assessing your supplies and whatever he can acquire when you're back, through invoking Agriculture.
>2] Promise Cyril that you'll find the Time to deal with your issue, but you really want to at least warn Sister Cardew first.
>3] Ask the priest if he'll show you where he's been obtaining supplies, try and safely acquire some more, and ask if he'll keep you company during the invocation. You're worried, and want to be in this together.

>C] Write-in.
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>>4174744
>>A] You'll consult with Sister Cardew when you get back, and not make any more promises you don't know if you can keep.
>>1] Speaking of which, what was that comment about getting in contact with Father Friedrich?
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>>4174748
>>A] You'll consult with Sister Cardew when you get back, and not make any more promises you don't know if you can keep.
>1]
Things are getting complicated
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>>4174753
>>4174761
(Fear not lads, we're going to get through this. Vote is locked! Writing now.)
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>>4174767
"You said a week? Possibly more?"

"Yeah. I'm not lettin' you go breakin' your tenets with all this shit goin' on."

He means well, but you're too stunned to even reply.

"Don't beat yourself up," he shakes you a little, "and you don't gotta' even reply to that. I'll take care of everything. Wouldn't be the first Time I've had to do somethin' like this. He'll get it. Cardew's got her own methods, too. It'll be alright."

"P-please elaborate."

"I know you two got to talk on our way over here."

"Not as much as I would have liked."

"Ol' Fred's got a few people here. Sure you saw 'em outside the bar."

"The Church of Flesh is already stretched so thinly—"

"I told you, don't worry about it."

"You are asking for the impossible."

A broad smile is directed back to you, throwing your hood back up. "We can get a message to him. It's going to be fine— oh. Hey."

"Yes?"

"Sun's comin' up." There's a nod, towards the tops of the winding houses, the edge of the slums, and the top of the Hangman's Hangout.

Through the thick, rolling clouds overhead, there is a gorgeous golden sunrise.

It's hard to not smile.

"That's better," Cyril pats you on the back, hard, and looks to your mutually tattered clothing. "She's going to kill me. Better get this over with."

Two steps into the building, and the barkeep is shouting at Cyril.

"Yer feckin' dog nearly ripped my FECKIN' ARM OFF YOU PIECE OF—"

"Would you please excuse us," Cyril happily chirps, pushing you towards Harriet's door. Under his breath, he hisses, "please make sure her and Ray are alright."

Alarmed, glancing over your shoulder to the mutual fighting, you see that the man in question does, in fact, have a wicked series of wounds all along his right arm. There's bloodied bandages wrapped around the limb.

You sprint to make sure your boy is alright, unable to focus on the context of the shouting behind you. Winding through the dimly lit tavern, with its audacious mural, the unlit tables, the cheap chairs, the pungent odor, you make your way to the back hall.

Ray is proudly sitting outside of Harriet's room. His food and water dish are overturned, his mouth is covered in blood, his fur is matted in a few places, and he otherwise looks completely fine.

Sister Cardew's door is closed, and you do not hear anything from the other side.

(Options in next post.)
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>>4174818
>A] "Who is a GOOD BOY" oh Mercy, you are proud of him, but you are going to kill anyone that tried laying a hand on anyone in your company
>1] Literally, you will kill anyone that tried laying a hand on Ray. Take your dog, go back over to the barkeep, and punch him clean across the face. Let Cyril try and stop you. (A ROLL WILL BE REQUIRED.)
>2] This was a horrible idea, you are not killing anyone but you are PANICKING, HOW COULD THIS HAVE HAPPENED— HARRIET?!

>B] "Come here, Ray. Sit. Stay." Calmly, coolly, inspect your dog and make sure he's actually alright.
>1] Immediately get Sister Cardew and demand an explanation.
>2] Call for Cyril. If the barkeep comes over as well, so be it.

>C] Sister Cardew might be hurt, and comes first.
>1] Take Ray with you.
>2] Your boy is capable of defending himself VERY well. Command him to stay right outside. You can look him over more thoroughly later.

>D] Write-in.
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>>4174822
>>C] Sister Cardew might be hurt, and comes first.
>>1] Take Ray with you.

Our boy eats actual demons some dipshit barkeep is no match.
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>>4174822
>C] Sister Cardew might be hurt, and comes first.
>1] Take Ray with you.
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>>4174826
>>4174856
(Still laughing at that comment, alright. Vote is locked, writing now!)
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>>4174862
"You've eaten bigger demons alive," you reassure Ray, keeping your tone level. Knowing full well that he can read off of your mood, you rush to Harriet's door, and keep your composure. "Sister Cardew? Sister Cardew! Harriet, I am opening the door."

A tired, quiet voice resonates from the other side of the wood. "Richard? Hold on. It's locked. Just a moment."

Taking a step back, listening as no fewer than five metal devices are unfastened and unbolted, you give a weary smile back to the woman in your company.

She's still in her tattered white robes, but otherwise looks hale, and fairly well rested. Looking past you to Ray, obviously hearing the commotion, she puts a hand over her mouth. "Oh, no."

"He is fine," you reassure her, kneeling down by your boy, and keep your eyes fixed on the priestess. There's no visible sign of injury on her, and the moment you're certain of it, you direct your attention back towards Ray. "A barkeep is no match for him. Isn't that right, boy?"

"The barkeep." Sister Cardew says it like she's speaking of filth. "He was at the door. I thought I heard something."

You keep your eyes and ears to the mastiff before you. His teeth are all intact, there's no injury in his gums, and he licks your hands repeatedly. It seems he's more worried about your own injuries, nuzzling hard against your uninjured arm, and taking great care to not disturb any of the scratches along your sleeves or face.

"Do I want to know what you two were up to," Harriet drawls, looking with absolutely no amusement to the blonde at the other end of the building. Cyril is still shouting. A chair gets thrown, and broken, against a far wall. Some smaller wooden objects are destroyed. Candles clatter to the floor. They're probably wrestling.

You wince, and admit, "probably not— but we need to speak, regardless."

Scratching Ray behind his ears, mildly concerned that he'll pick up fleas in the severely lacking building, you reassure everyone in your company, "I am just fine." With a glance up, towards Harriet, you sigh. "Are you alright? Are you certain?"

"Really. I'm not hurt. You think I grew up in Murgate without learning a few things?" She kneels down beside you, looking to your dog, and furrows her brow. "Thank you for protecting me." Looking to you, she seems seriously bothered. "I'm sorry Ray had to deal with him at all."

Cyril returns with more blood on his knuckles, and a broad grin across his face. "Board is free for the rest of the night. We'll go somewhere else tomorrow. Really shouldn't have stayed so long anyways," he leers at you, "but since some of us seem to want to keep their hands busy—"

"M-Mercy—"

"Richard," Harriet politely interrupts, "Cyril. Perhaps we could discuss why you both reek of liquor, smoke, and sweat more privately? Somewhere further away from my room. Where the blood won't get on anything."

(1/2 just over)
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>>4174924
You all move towards your room, after short deliberation, and your complete lack of care for the living space. Ray is infinitely more important, who obediently lets you clean the blood off of his teeth. Re-examining his fur, you confirm that he is uninjured. Your boy settles in with some water from your flask— you don't trust anything in the building— and he settles into a far corner to sleep.

The door is closed, and you have been given three of Harriet's locks. There is no window, you're reassured that the barkeep is unconscious (for now).

Everyone is standing awkwardly around the hideous rug in the center of the floor. With a deep breath, you and Cyril launch into the events that transpired during your first night in the city.

By the Time you finish recounting everything, Sister Cardew is sitting, on the bed, with her head in her hands. "This is exactly why I refused to accompany you."

>A] Ask her to please spell out everything as clearly as possible. It's a lot, you're overwhelmed, it was a REALLY long night, and you need the facts before anything else. Plainly. To know is to serve, after all.

>B] You don't want the priestess to sugar-coat anything. Ask her to share her honest thoughts. You don't want to hear the same information. You need her advice, and you need it immediately.

>C] You don't need a re-cap, and you honestly don't want advice. You're frightened for yourself, your companions, and need some reassurance that this is something surmountable.

>D] Share the information you've deduced yourself, plainly, clearly, and couple it with the strategy you and Cyril discussed. You did good work tonight, despite it ending on a sour note, and want to remind Sister Cardew that you're pulling your weight.

>E] Write-in.
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>>4174928
>>D] Share the information you've deduced yourself, plainly, clearly, and couple it with the strategy you and Cyril discussed. You did good work tonight, despite it ending on a sour note, and want to remind Sister Cardew that you're pulling your weight.
>>
>>4174928
>B]
Let’s hear what she thinks, don’t need more problems with our allies
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>>4174953
Lets give her all the details first so she can get the full picture, withholding information from a Spirit fag seems like a bad idea.
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>>4174957
yeah I agree

but B and D aren't mutually exclusive right
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>>4174981
though if they are I choose B > D
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>>4174981
We can tell her everything we know and then ask her opinion
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>>4174939
>>4174953
>>4174957
>>4174981
>>4174987
>>4174989
(You guys are so legit, we can definitely do both of these. Appreciate the solid communication. Locking here, writing now!)
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>>4174996
Harriet puts a hand to her temple. She holds up a hand, and politely says, "I think I understand. Help me get this straight," she winces, obviously nursing a headache.

"Please do not sugar-coat anything," you implore. Reminding her, "I know you never have. Do not start now."

Lowering her hands, folding them on her lap, the priestess of Spirit takes a deep breath. "You saw a number of guards, in plain sight along the main road, that were under the employ of Father Friedrich?"

"Yep," Cyril helpfully adds, "probably not him directly, but close enough."

"Despite there being no outbreaks in the slums, for months, according to the word you caught at The Lost Soul?"

"That is correct," and you add, "although it would seem a curfew is enacted regardless."

"Which no one in a public tavern, a brothel, or a fighting pit was respecting," the priestess dead-pans. "Obviously because the King's men are nowhere near as much of a threat as they used to be."

You shift very uncomfortably. "I see."

"Without their ability, they're resorting to more traditional methods, and additional employ from other churches. Putting out word on the street." There is no life in her voice, as she utters, "primarily through the support of the Church of Spirit. You saw how bad it is."

You sigh, "the minstrel I encountered had only been working for a few months, but he was not the only one in their employ, no. We saw a lord at The Battered Maid, who had no fear of the increased security, and conducted himself foolishly with no concern for his... position. Even the vagrants at The Pit seemed to have a strong association with the Church of Spirit."

"Father Sullivan chooses his friends wisely. His enemies more so. It would seem that he has no qualms about supporting Brother Morris and Brother Stace." Sister Cardew smiles viciously, "even given their tarnished reputation."

You can't help but nervously smile back, "the Church of Mercy seems to have a far weaker hand in affairs—"

"Wonder why," Cyril chirps, and Harriet throws an entire shoe at his head. "Fuck—!"

"I don't suppose you have something to add," the brunette hisses, getting up to retrieve the item that her target expertly dodged.

He boops her gently on the nose as she passes, laughing as she wrinkles it at the motion. "Where do you think I got that tip from?"

Your heart skips a beat, and the room feels a lot smaller. "A priest of the Church of Mercy was in The Lost Soul?"

"I didn't want to tell ya'," Brother Trebbeck apologetically says, "but yeah. More than a couple were at the bar. They were crawling all over the place, have been outside, too. Mostly out of uniform, mind, but this is the King's city. The Merciful's city. They've been lookin' for ya' for months, Richard."

"The minstrel at The Lost Soul couldn't even recognize my face," you choke out, trying to maintain your composure.

"It likely does not make a difference," Harriet reminds you.
>>
>>4175112
In frustration, you toss off the cloak from your shoulders. Both of the individuals in your company take a sharp breath in.

"Nice."
"This is exactly what I am talking about—"

They're looking to the gash along the side of your face, from the furniture that grazed it. You put a hand to the wound, and your fingers stick slightly. It's packed with drying blood, and the gash is deeper than you thought. It's at least two inches long.

Just how high is my pain tolerance...?

"You are already very recognizable," Sister Cardew apologetically states, not interfering as you move to get a poultice and water to treat off your wounds with, "and it's as I attempted to warn you. You are dealing with monsters of a different sort."

Cyril looks legitimately impressed, eyeing the tears along your sleeve, and shakes his head as you gesture to mend his injuries. "It's a waste. Just a few scratches, nothin' Flesh isn't goin' to take care of."

"We are going to take further precaution," you remind Sister Cardew, and shake your head at Cyril. "We took far too many risks tonight, already. It is nothing short of a miracle that the demon of Vengeance within The Pit did not break out."

"I was going to say, Richard," Harriet murmurs, eyeing you winding a number of bandages into a pack with legitimate respect, "I am not surprised."

"In regards to...?"

"I know that it could not have been easy."

She's avoiding the subject of her sister. She's been avoiding it for months.

"Sister Cardew—"

"I am fine."

She looks furious, but you remain silent, trying to let the woman speak.

"I appreciate you doing everything in your power to deal with my family. I have a bit of research to conduct, as well. Marjorie could never perform any sort of illusion or enchantment. What you endured this evening was not her work. Not the majority of it," she immediately corrects, "and I'm sorry that you were drugged."

There's a long, awkward pause between you all. The sound of your pestle and mortar working is the only noise for a good while, enough to finish with the herbs, before the priestess resumes speaking.

"She's still too young, and nowhere near strong enough for any sort of sorcerery."

She sounds furious, but you patiently finish cleaning off the wound on your face, and expertly apply the bandages. There's no sting, for how capable your work is, and the motion seems to even calm the priestess. Sister Cardew looks at you, bewildered. Her head shakes slightly, and the low candlelight in the room catches off of her glasses. "You are enduring. You need to give yourself a lot of credit."

"What about me," Cyril smiles, leaning in.

"The shoe was a warning. Next time it will be a book."

"I'll dodge it."

"Let me speak."

"Fine!"

(2/3)
>>
>>4175116
Leaning in, the priestess asserts, "we could have used another year in Beorward, at least. You may be dealing with some of this for the rest of your life— but— well. Richard. I am extremely proud of you. You are doing the Gods work. Without needing to call upon Them."

"About that," Cyril peeps up.

Sister Cardew fishes for a book from her person. "That's it."

"No, really—" he laughs, backing up, and dodging the tome that sails across the room.

"Pick it up," she laughs back, through a frown.

The blonde fetches the item, and politely closes it, handing the tome over, and looks to both of you. "She's right," he admits, "and I don't mean anything by this. But we're in a bad spot. Real bad. It's going to be days before I can get us any help. I don't want to go blowing shit for us, and if I need to, I can probably get us some shelter. I'm just worried. I think it's not a bad idea."

"Of course it isn't," the priestess fires back, "but that is not what I'm talking about."

Cyril looks baffled. "It's not?"

Patiently adjusting her glasses, Harriet murmurs to you, "Richard. I am going somewhere with this. I know you trust me. Do you understand where I'm coming from, with this, at least?"

>A] Of course you do. It's why you mentioned invocation to Cyril in the first place, and you really appreciate her encouragement. This is not easy for you, by any means, but you are willing to learn how to responsibly use the Gods...
>1] ...for your mental well-being.
>2] ...for your congregation.
>3] ... for your work in the capital.
>4] ...for everyone's health and safety in your company, who cannot use the power you possess.

>B] This is not easy for anyone in your company, but you want to hear their thoughts, and respect their decision. This is about more than you, and you are not comfortable making this call.
>1] You'll listen and go along with Sister Cardew's advice. She's been sound of mind and counsel since the first day you met her (with a few extreme exceptions).
>2] You'll take up Cyril on his wisdom and advice, even if it's a little less safe. He's been tracking your actual living situation, and you know he means well.

>C] You get it, and you appreciate the words of reassurance, but you're seriously frightened. Invoking the Gods has hurt you in the past, badly, and without fail.
>1] Sister Cardew actually knows the full extent of it, but you feel it bears repeating.
>2] Cyril doesn't understand at all, and you want him to at least know why you're so reluctant.

>D] Write-in.
>>
>>4175119
>A]
>4]
Shit’s getting real
>>
>>4175119
>>A] Of course you do. It's why you mentioned invocation to Cyril in the first place, and you really appreciate her encouragement. This is not easy for you, by any means, but you are willing to learn how to responsibly use the Gods...
>>1] ...for your mental well-being.
>>2] ...for your congregation.
>>3] ... for your work in the capital.
>>4] ...for everyone's health and safety in your company, who cannot use the power you possess.

For everyone.
>>
>>4175143
>>4175205
(Shit's getting real, doing this for everyone. Got it. Writing now!)
>>
>>4175228
"Of course I do," you reply.

Cyril smirks, "to trusting her?" with eyebrows nearly to his hairline.

"Yes," you plainly assert, "and to understanding completely. It is why I mentioned invocation to you to begin with." In a softer tone, you glance to the priestess, "It is why I sincerely appreciate your encouragement."

She looks a little sheepish, and significantly less angry. "You should hear it more often."

"It— it means a lot. The severity of our present situation will worsen by the day, but it is already—" you take a deep breath.

You take another.

You manage, "this is not easy for me. By any means. It is so important, I— I cannot imagine doing this alone. I know precisely why I have always leaned so heavily on the Gods."

Both clergy in your company look to you expectantly, as you fidget, and continue speaking.

Neither of them have tried interrupting me in days. Not really. They're both doing everything they can to be supportive.

"I need your help," you say plainly. "Now, more than ever."

Sister Cardew points her hands towards you. "You know you have always had it."

Simply grunting, Cyril nods towards the priestess, then to you, "name it, boss."

"More than for my mental well-being..."

I could scarcely go out tonight without breaking down.

"...more than for my congregation..."

Those unmarked graves were not there four months ago. I could have came to their aid sooner, but I am here now.

"...even more than for my work, here, in Calunoth..."

I am still a priest of the Church of Mercy, under order from King Magnus, and beholden to the command of Father Friedrich— but I have my research. Sister Cardew is trusting me. Father Sullivan is coming for me.

Your eyes focus.

Both of your friends are looking to you, worried. Cyril is covered in bruises and cuts from protecting you, and looks more haggard than you've ever seen him. Sister Cardew's clothes are tattered, there are bags under her eyes, and she clearly has not slept as much as you initially suspected. Ray is cleaned up, but fought under your command, even when he was not at your side.

I haven't eaten or slept in three days.

"For our health and safety. For everyone with me, who cannot use the power that I possess. Please help me."

She imparted the same message to me. To learn. To feel. To grow. It applies now, more than ever. We can start here. Really, truly start.

"Please. Help me learn how to responsibly invoke the Gods. For everyone."

(END THREAD.)
>>
>>4175322
With that, we end our 11th thread of Catalyst Quest!

Archive: http://suptg.thisisnotatrueending.com/qstarchive.html?tags=Catalyst%20Quest
Discord: https://discord.gg/24cmNWp
Brother Anscham's Journal: https://drive.google.com/open?id=1r-yFdCSj0VJi63LsD3Vl9T0DWw4us6wn

Felt we were at a good stopping point, though I am far from out of steam! Thank you all so much for the stellar reception, participation, discussion, feedback and for being seriously amazing.

We will likely resume tomorrow morning at 11AM EST.

If you have any questions, feedback, concerns or just want to hang around and chat I will be here and in our discord for the rest of the evening. I will post the official start day/time for the next thread in /qtg/ and our discord as soon as I can.

Thanks again everyone!
>>
>>4175332
Why are you ending the thread now ? We’re still on page 5
>>
>>4175350
We covered a lot of ground and like I said, I felt we're at a good stopping point. At over 300 posts, over 35k words, over 203k characters, and with me wanting to keep up the quality, I'm calling it here for the night and we will resume with a new thread. I've also received feedback from multiple people politely requesting if there's a way to block out the threads.

If you guys feel differently, please let me know! The enthusiasm means the world to me and I seriously appreciate all of you guys.
>>
>>4175427
Ok, thanks for answering
>>
>>4175449
No problem man, thank you for all the participation! Hope to see you again with the next thread.
>>
Voting C
>>
>>4176970
>>4176970
>>4176970
Completely forgot to link the new thread. Been a rough morning. Sorry bout that guys!



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