>>4200658
"Really," Ofelia laughs, lifting up a bat covered in spikes. "What even is this?"

Though almost every surface of The Honey Bee's dining area and kitchen is covered in correspondence, letters undoubtedly from Sister Cardew, and handkerchiefs cordoning off work areas, it is now covered in weapons, shields, and empty boxes. Shaking the feeling of still being in the dark, having slept for the last four days, you take comfort in knowing it was to invoke Dream. Responsible for garnering the majority of your lead, you ask, "how, precisely, did you all work so quickly? I suspected it would be a week, at least, before Father Friedrich could requisition any supplies." Glancing to Cyril, you ask, "you said this all came from Beorward?"

"He'd been waitin' to hear from you," the priest apologetically explains. "He gets it, though. Just needed to know we were somewhere safe enough to send it over. He says 'hi,' by the way."

"Anything else," you frown, trying to not remember the death threats.

"You really don't want to know," Cyril grins back, patting your shoulder a few times.

From across the room, Sister Cardew crosses her arms. "It has been remarkably easier to get out the word, thanks to Ms. Banks assistance." It's a mutter, but everyone can hear, "working out of that hovel in the slums was nearly as miserable as pretending to work alongside Brother Trebbeck."

"Mrs. Trebbeck!" Cyril happily leers, almost skipping back across the room, "is that any way to speak to your doting husband? We have been through so much together! And for you to endure my company, all the while we've been gathering info around town! Come 'ere."

This is easily the stupidest cover story I have ever heard.

She swiftly knocks three of the absurd hats off of his head, and leers back, "you had better hurry, if you want to keep the supplies from Brother Wilhelm. I suspect he'll find this infinitely more interesting than cigars—"

There's a shout, as he literally trips over himself to run back to your side. "Say no more!"

Easily the most plausible cover story I have ever heard.

A light pat on the side of your leg, from Ofelia, politely grabs your attention. "They've been out tryin' to get the word, but I got some appearances to keep, too. Busy-body neighbors have been a real pain in the neck. Harriet's actin' like an extra hand. Don't answer the door, okay? She'll take care of it."

"Of course," you sincerely murmur back. "Thank you, Ofelia. Breakfast was wonderful, too. We can discuss—"

"Yeah, yeah," she's waving a hand over her shoulder, grabbing a water can with the other, and clearly still slighly upset that you're watching what you're eating. "Stay safe!"

An arm wraps firmly around your shoulders, as Cyril cuts off a short prayer for the halfling's safety. You fire him the dirtiest looks possible, but he's all smiles. "Richard."

(2/3)

File: What is Catalyst Quest Th(...).png (6.43 MB, 1200x2839)

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>>4200661
"Yes?"

"Weapons, Richard." He is clearly having a religious experience, gesturing broadly to all of the items that have been unpacked and set out on the tables around you both. "I got everythin' you asked for. He sent us more. I can almost forgive the guy for tearing me away from my little dew drop."

"With this," picking up an incredibly balanced, heavy throwing knife, you can't help but meet his enthusiasm, "I suspect we will resolve our work with far more ease." Wrestling out of the grip around your shoulders, you continue to inspect a series of knives of every make imaginable. "Certainly enough for you to return home quickly."

Though far from discreet, a pair of matte black gloves leers at you. There is metal sewn straight into the knuckles, and they fit your broad hands like a Dream. Cyril grins to you, clearing his throat, and rapping on his chest. There's a soft thud, of leather being worn underneath his plainclothes. "He really went out of his way. Not sure if the armor'll fit, but we'll make something work."

Your grimace is fading by the second, looking to a number of swords, maces, small bucklers, and even blades to rapidly make pole-arms with. "The Gods are Merciful, Cyril. This is perfect."

There's a soft click, as Sister Cardew lets Ofelia out of The Honey Bee, and comes over by all of the weapons. "We still need to be careful. Both of you. Regardless of what you get up to."

>You are on a covert operation to find and disband your blasphemous congregation. While pursuing your first target (Brother Murdac, of the Church of Storm), and during the remainder of the investigation, it will be assumed that the following prompt has determined your preference. At ANY TIME you can specify otherwise, but this will be the default.

(Options in next post.)

>>4200664
>MAJORITY VOTE will decide your primary weapons and church associations. Weapons carried may not be mutually exclusive, if it makes sense to take them.

>A] Stay in the garb of the Church of Mercy. Maximum social leverage. Moderate risk of recognition. Moderate weapons options. (To protect is to serve the Goddess of Compassion. A shield MUST be carried in combat to avoid excessive scrutiny.)
>1] Sword and shield.
>2] Mace and shield.
>3] Pole-arm and shield.
>4] Just a shield, but make sure it's one you can bash, crush, and kill with if necessary.

>B] Change into robes befitting of the Church of Agriculture. Moderate social leverage. Negligible risk of recognition. Minimal mundane weapons options. Only option for invocation without severe repercussions. (As a priest of life, death, and everything in-between, you will be able to invoke Agriculture without risk of detection. Openly carrying almost any weapon will raise a LOT of eyebrows.)
>1] Let Cyril (your bodyguard) rough up anyone that isn't a significant threat. Invoke if you absolutely must, but you'll stay your hand as much as possible. You are trying to moderate yourself.
>2] You've been called a glutton before. Take every one of those knives you can comfortably strap onto your body, hide the rest in your satchel, and see if you can get some poisons from Ofelia, too. Death is not something to be feared, unless it's at your hands.
>3] A scythe. Just a scythe.

>C] Change into the garb of the Church of Vengeance. Low positive social leverage. Maximum leverage via intimidation. Highest risk of recognition. Moderate weapons options. (Stay NOT your hand. Carrying a mace and shield will almost guarantee recognition, but almost all weapons are on the table. Bear in mind that as a priest of Vengeance, you are expected to exercise PROPORTIONATE retribution towards your enemies.)
>1] Take the gloves. You're getting your hands REALLY dirty.
>2] The throwing knives, and all of the daggers will do nicely.
>3] A longsword. You've always thought they looked gallant.
>4] The bat with nails in it. Your enemies are not fucking around, and neither are you.

>D] You'll go in plainclothes. Put your robes in your satchel, and give everything to Cyril to carry. No social leverage. Moderate risk of recognition. All weapons options. (No invocation options will be provided barring a life-or-death situation. Needless to say, to call upon the Gods without bearing immediate association with them will raise a LOT of questions. Carrying exotic weapons will, too, but this is the only means by which you could do so. Mace and shield remains your specialty.)
>(Write-in any combination of weapons you would like to carry via mundane means.)

>E] Write-in. (Please bear in mind that if any write-in would seriously jeopardize your health and/or the safety of your allies, it will be disregarded to maintain characterization.)

>>4200667
>>C] Change into the garb of the Church of Vengeance. Low positive social leverage. Maximum leverage via intimidation. Highest risk of recognition. Moderate weapons options. (Stay NOT your hand. Carrying a mace and shield will almost guarantee recognition, but almost all weapons are on the table. Bear in mind that as a priest of Vengeance, you are expected to exercise PROPORTIONATE retribution towards your enemies.)

>2] The throwing knives, and all of the daggers will do nicely.
>2] Mace and shield.

Give Cyril the glove as he is going to probably make the most of it with those huge buff sexy arms. Being recognized may not be such a bad thing at this point, we have enough information that an encounter would actually benefit us somewhat. If word gets out that we are here the congregation may have an easier time finding us and as such we can keep them safe.

>>4200667
>C] Change into the garb of the Church of Vengeance. Low positive social leverage. Maximum leverage via intimidation. Highest risk of recognition. Moderate weapons options. (Stay NOT your hand. Carrying a mace and shield will almost guarantee recognition, but almost all weapons are on the table. Bear in mind that as a priest of Vengeance, you are expected to exercise PROPORTIONATE retribution towards your enemies.)
>2] The throwing knives, and all of the daggers will do nicely.
>3] A longsword. You've always thought they looked gallant.
No more mister nice priest. let’s get some dagger for extra measure and knives for ranged option

>>4200716
>>4200741
(Going to keep the ball rolling here since this should be very easy to combine. The mace and shield already in your possession will definitely not be going anywhere, but as this is a covert mission and there are lives at stake, going to favor the long sword to start rather than the insanely riskier option. If mace anon wants to bring it up at any point in the future though please do so! Noting all the other write-in info and notes. Vote is locked. Writing now!)

>>4200796
The worn leather on both of your shoes is rapidly outfitted with a slender, perfectly weighted, black-handled knife. Beneath your robes, along the side of your trousers, and against your shirt, goes as many more knives as you can fit. Ensuring there's no noise when you move, strapping on leather fasteners, and making proper work of your belt, you fasten several more. Pocket knives are always necessary. The throwing knives join them, all ten. Refastening your robes, opening your satchel, you pick up every single other knife in the room, and drop them inside the endless carrying space.

Grinning insanely to your allies, "this will do nicely," Cyril puts a hand to your shoulder.

"I knew you had in you, mate."

Taking his hand firmly off of your sleeve, keeping the hold on his wrist for just a moment, you sweep up the metal-fitted glove, and thrust it into his palms. "I can think of no one more fitting to wield something so indecent."

A few stars dance in your eyes, together, as he grins back, speechless. He might want to kiss you.

Sister Cardew clears her voice. "Does the walking armory want anything else?"

You pull back from the priest and priestess. "I could do with a fight."

Placing a hand to your robes, you quote, "proportionate will be our enemies ruin. Stay not my hand." In a lower voice still, speaking to the fabric, you murmur, "grant me the deepest hue. Black."

The amber and gold in your robes violently shift, and grow darker by the second. The light that was previously reflecting from the cloth, and the flickering lanterns around you all practically soak into the fabric. Your silhouette becomes nearly indecipherable. It's devastatingly tasteful, extremely flattering, clean, black, and for the first Time in a week, your appearance feels right.

Picking up the most gallant weapon on the table before you, legitimate joy courses into your thicker arms and wrists. Though you can easily fit both of your scarred hands on the hilt, and the blade has about equal length, you will need no holster. Carrying the item is almost effortless. There's weight behind the motion, as you grasp the long sword with both hands, and quickly shift your grip to take one end on the blunter edge of the blade. The dark hues of your robes catch in the angular metal, against the light of the lanterns. Grinning, you take the sword with only a single hand. The balance isn't right for the motion, but you still have the strength to wield it as such, if absolutely necessary.

Gripping the leather-bound hilt once again, longing for more defense, you turn to Cyril. Both of your companions seem stunned. Harriet plainly balks, "you went for the largest weapon. Of course."

"You'll want armor," the priest beside you sniffs, looking so proud he may actually be crying. "Cloth was the best Fred could do. Said all his leather was brittle as shit. We're going to make this work. Come on. Fuckin' hell, Richard."

(1/2)

>>4200985
It takes the better part of an hour to deal with the laces, the fasteners, get the padded cloth to sit the right way, and to refasten all of the knives, but by all the Gods, you manage.

There's a loud knocking at the front door. The rapid shuffling of Sister Cardew's skirts, and a familiar squeal, tears across the house. The front door is abruptly closed, as Ofelia shouts, "a sword?! I have to see this."

Rapidly, there's footsteps approaching the guest rooms where you've been changing, and a loud knocking on the door. You try to keep your dog from getting too excited, shifting aside your mace and shield, re-shouldering your bag, and taking up your newest friend. A lethal friend. The sword has yet to be named, but it is gallant, and hard to not love.

Brother Trebbeck rapidly lets the woman inside. "Yer gonna let the whole street know what we're up to. The fuck is the matter—" he cuts himself short, looking past the halfling, and then eagerly smiles to you. "he's here."

"Be a good boy," you finish murmuring, scratching Ray behind his ears with a free hand, and asking, "who?"

"Come-on," Ofelia rapid-fires, grabbing your arm while you're leaning down, and immediately grins ear-to-ear. "Woooow. This is nice. Look at you! I think I get why ya' went with the black before! C'mon. He's pretty tired. Don't wanna keep him waitin'."

Practically dragged out of the small side room, down the hall, and around the corner back to the kitchen, you look wildly around. Almost all of the papers have been cleared, the remaining weapons are nowhere to be seen, and Sister Cardew is politely standing and speaking quietly to a young man. Clearly not old enough to need to shave, he is old enough to unfailingly resemble his father. Brother Wilhelm is not wearing a night cap, and you deduce that his shoulder-length, wavy brown hair is mussed with sleep, instead. The deep blue robes adorning his slender frame are wrinkled, and tastefully stitched with a few moons along one sleeve.

Mild features, eyes lidded with bags, and the faintest trace of cigar smoke sticks to the edges of your senses as you are all but pushed further towards the priest. Skidding to a stop, you gently pull away from Ofelia, and try to introduce yourself. In a distant, muted voice, the priest of Dream immediately begins talking over you, while keeping a pair of searing blue eyes just over your shoulder. "Father Richard Anscham. Leader of the Church of Mercy. A pleasure."

The collective cringe around the room likely sprains someone's face. He holds out a completely unscarred hand, though he's extremely pale, and seems confused. "Brother Theodore Wilhelm. I believe we have met once before, though you were in a Dream at the Time."

(Barely over, 2/3)

>>4200990
Frowning is normally so comfortable. It hurts to maintain the expression, for how intensely you're torn between wincing and a grimace. This is unquestionably one of the men who traveled with Father Wilhelm to escort you halfway across the country, when you first left the ruins. You still recognize the leader of the Church of Dream's youngest son, though you never once heard him speak in the weeks he traveled by your side.

This man saved my life, and I'm only just now learning his name.

>A] Earnestly shake his hand back, and properly express your thanks for his assistance. Don't correct him. It's way too awkward, and you're genuinely grateful for his past efforts. No need to get off on the wrong foot now.

>B] Hold off on shaking his hand for just a moment, and tactfully ask why he's calling you by your old title. Honesty is a tenet of Mercy, and you're honestly confused.

>C] Shake his hand, gently correct his mistake, and try to move on. There's business here, and now, that needs to be resolved.

>D] Write-in.

>>4200993
>B] Hold off on shaking his hand for just a moment, and tactfully ask why he's calling you by your old title. Honesty is a tenet of Mercy, and you're honestly confused.

>>4200993
>A] Earnestly shake his hand back, and properly express your thanks for his assistance. Don't correct him. It's way too awkward, and you're genuinely grateful for his past efforts. No need to get off on the wrong foot now.

>>4201020
let's call our blade "Piedade", since we're with the color of vengeance and we have a strong connection to mercy

>>4200993
>>A] Earnestly shake his hand back, and properly express your thanks for his assistance. Don't correct him. It's way too awkward, and you're genuinely grateful for his past efforts. No need to get off on the wrong foot now.

>>4201028
>>4201235
>>4201020
(Going with mostly majority on this, but can work a little in from B! Vote is locked, writing now.)

>>4201078
(That's fucking sick as hell. Totally noted, would love if anyone else has any thoughts, too.)

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>>4201282
You are still the Father of Compassion, and ultimately resist the urge to correct the young man. Earnestly taking the priest by the hand, in the symbol of your own church, you use both open palms to enthusiastically murmur, "I knew I recognized you— you, you traveled with your Father. Father Wilhelm— I suppose you would know him as Atticus." A slight nod of amused agreement is directed to you. "All— all the way from Somerilde, last year— all for my sake? I never thought I would see you again. This— this is unbelievable."

Pulling back, giving the young man a moment to respond, he's all slight smiles and the same distant look in his eye. "The weather was fair. The company was fairer. I was happy to accept another opportunity to interpret for the Church of Dream, Brother Anscham. To aid in our relations with the Church of Mercy is more welcome, still. I knew you would have done the same for me."

With a legitimately relieved sigh, taking a step back, you try to not literally look down. The boy is a full foot shorter than you, but you keep your voice steady, and assert, "I never had— I never took the chance to properly share my gratitude— to you, or to your brothers—" letting up on your grimace, you manage, "the effort meant the world to me. Thank you."

Brother Wilhelm yawns, and glancing over to Ofelia, quietly nods, "this is quite unique. Very unique. 'Eagle-Eye'."

She's instantly sheepish, and grins back, "yeah?"

"My vision was of midday. I suspected less company. Do you have any tea? We may be a few minutes."

Sister Cardew and Cyril are shifting, obviously insanely uncomfortable. Neither of them move or respond, as the halfling chirps from the kitchen, "lemon? Lavender?"

"Chamomile, if you have it," the priest calmly replies back. Looking to you and to the other two clergy in your company, he casually asks, "tea? We may be speaking for awhile." There's no wait for a reply, even though you love chamomile. "Mrs. Cardew. Excuse my manners."

For the first Time since you've met Harriet, it seems that there is a fracture in her composure. The edge of one of her lips quirks down, almost imperceptibly, but she remains quiet. Cyril is all smiles, for only a moment, as the priest across from him looks up, and continues without missing a beat. "Brother Trebbeck. Father has spoken highly of you."

Ofelia comes over, with a tray, and five steaming cups of tea.

You sit down, at the stupid table, with the ill-fitting chairs, and try to keep your tone level as you take some of the tea with a trembling hand. Firing a warning glare to Sister Cardew, you murmur, "you shouldn't," knowing full well that it will make her pollen sensitivity worse.

She fires you an appreciative glance, sliding her cup away, as everyone patiently looks to Brother Wilhelm. He makes absolutely no motion to speak, and you're worried he may actually pass out if he relaxes any further.

(Options in next post.)

>>4201377
>A] "Brother Wilhelm. What news do you bring from Somerilde?" The journey took you and Father Wilhelm half a month under the fairest conditions, and almost nonstop invocation to safely guide you. The young man is exhausted, for good reason, and you are legitimately curious how things are faring on the opposite side of the country.

>B] "Brother Wilhelm. May you please mind your manners, and apologize to Sister Cardew?" Pleasantries aside, it might be wise to actually address how odd his behavior is. It's not to be rude, but for the sake of your friends.

>C] "Brother Wilhelm— may I call you Theodore? Do you prefer something else?" This young man has traveled Corcaea for you twice now. Trying to be a little more human couldn't hurt. Leave it to your friends to grill him for information. It's the least you can do.

>D] Get straight to business. You're wearing enough daggers to put most armories to shame. There are lives on the line, and even if you love tea, this is not the Time. Tactfully ask Ofelia if the priest of Dream can take up the guest room today, after you all hear what he has to say.

>E] Write-in.

>>4201380
>A] "Brother Wilhelm. What news do you bring from Somerilde?" The journey took you and Father Wilhelm half a month under the fairest conditions, and almost nonstop invocation to safely guide you. The young man is exhausted, for good reason, and you are legitimately curious how things are faring on the opposite side of the country.

>>4201380
>>A] "Brother Wilhelm. What news do you bring from Somerilde?" The journey took you and Father Wilhelm half a month under the fairest conditions, and almost nonstop invocation to safely guide you. The young man is exhausted, for good reason, and you are legitimately curious how things are faring on the opposite side of the country.

>>4201380
>>A] "Brother Wilhelm. What news do you bring from Somerilde?" The journey took you and Father Wilhelm half a month under the fairest conditions, and almost nonstop invocation to safely guide you. The young man is exhausted, for good reason, and you are legitimately curious how things are faring on the opposite side of the country.

>>4201386
>>4201410
>>4201689
(Goood morning! Hope everyone is doing well. Up bright and early and ready to rock. Locking the vote here, making some coffee, and will write ASAP.)

>>4202263
"Brother Wilhelm." Knowing full well what a substantial journey must have recently concluded, you can't help but immediately ask, "what news do you bring from Somerilde?" Sipping on the tea is almost as important, immediately after. There's familiar notes of apples, and a natural tone of honey. Even if it feels like needles to imbibe anything, it's worthwhile, to sit, and to not be rude.

The priest of Dream actually fell asleep, hands to his face, elbows on the table. Cyril laughs— hard— and nudges him on the shoulder. "Hey. Sleepy-head. Get yer ass up. Show some respect."

https://youtu.be/jiHKGmb7_jA

Blinking a few times, immediately coming back to and not even changing his position, Brother Wilhelm looks blearily around to you all and smiles. Without missing a beat, he replies, "outbreaks worse every day. Baranfen isn't doing well. Weather's shit," Sister Cardew huffs, not at the state of affairs, but mocking offense at his language. "No apologies, Sister. Church of Storm isn't faring well, either. Hasn't been for months. Church of Agriculture is too preoccupied. Church of Mercy," he pauses, "well," and doesn't even address the matter.

Everyone in the room politely sits, and listens, and sips at their tea.

"Yet Father urged me that this was more important." There's a big, blue gaze directed up to you, as the boy pries himself up from the table, makes a point of sitting straighter, and gives you another sincere smile. "So I made the trip."

There's another nod towards Ofelia. "The home of the Eagle-Eye can be spotted from a mile away. Life, love, and the pursuit of poison are its maker." The halfling is actually blushing, and simply grins back. "Safe refuge will come to you, on the wings of the honey bee."

With a glance to Harriet, the priest averts his eyes, and slumps slightly. "Harriet Cardew's title is a misnomer, for her marriage is to the work at hand. Let her be your guide. I may have misinterpreted His works, Sister. My apologies." Amusement colors the priestess' smile, as she waves a hand, and coolly doesn't address it further.

There's another nod, towards Brother Trebbeck. "Under the protection of a priest of Flesh, who needs no introduction, you will find the first leg of your journey."

Cyril cannot be anymore tickled. "Glad I bumped into ya' yesterday."

"That was no mere coincidence," Brother Wilhelm distantly corrects.

(1/2)

>>4202320
Looking imploringly to you, the priest firmly states, "Father Richard Anscham. Leader of the Church of Mercy. He is known to the holy city of Calunoth by many more names, still." No one dares to interrupt, but there's another collective wince. "There is gold. It will tarnish, without the care of others. Yet— is the only trace of the metal in the entire world." He beams up to you, "Your need has been great. Dream thought it was important. So do I."

Meeting your eyes, the priest muses, "color's weirder than mine. No offense. Looks better than even Father's, and his are fierce.." Before you can reply, Brother Wilhelm quietly continues, "I slept a lot back home. Makin' sure I was ready. That's what I got."

(Options in next post.)

>A] You're a little too stunned to articulate any pointed questions. Leave it to Sister Cardew to guide the young man, and simply thank him for the compliment. No one ever says anything about your eyes directly to you.

>B] Well, shit. This confirms almost every suspicion you have about the state of affairs. Ask immediately about the Church of Storm's woes.

>C] Don't get side-tracked with politics and weather. Stick to business. Strictly ask how much the young man has been asked to assist you with. You're uncomfortable to impose on someone so new to the church of Dream's service, even if he has significantly more Time within its halls as you.

>D] It's plain as day that the priest can invoke Dream. Run your vision by him. See if your interpretation holds up. He's still obviously learning, though, so it may be wise to take his feedback with a grain of salt. This is actually still your superior, by all rights, so you figure it's worth deferring to his judgement in matters of Dream.

>E] This is not only still your superior, by all rights, but Brother Wilhelm is old enough to make his own decisions. Ask him, respectfully, how HE would like to conduct his affairs in the capital.

>F] Write-in.

>>4202321
>>B] Well, shit. This confirms almost every suspicion you have about the state of affairs. Ask immediately about the Church of Storm's woes.
>>C] Don't get side-tracked with politics and weather. Stick to business. Strictly ask how much the young man has been asked to assist you with. You're uncomfortable to impose on someone so new to the church of Dream's service, even if he has significantly more Time within its halls as you.
>>D] It's plain as day that the priest can invoke Dream. Run your vision by him. See if your interpretation holds up. He's still obviously learning, though, so it may be wise to take his feedback with a grain of salt. This is actually still your superior, by all rights, so you figure it's worth deferring to his judgement in matters of Dream.

>>4202321
>>B] Well, shit. This confirms almost every suspicion you have about the state of affairs. Ask immediately about the Church of Storm's woes.

Ask Cardew to give us our damn letters.

>D] It's plain as day that the priest can invoke Dream. Run your vision by him. See if your interpretation holds up. He's still obviously learning, though, so it may be wise to take his feedback with a grain of salt. This is actually still your superior, by all rights, so you figure it's worth deferring to his judgement in matters of Dream.

>C] Don't get side-tracked with politics and weather. Stick to business. Strictly ask how much the young man has been asked to assist you with. You're uncomfortable to impose on someone so new to the church of Dream's service, even if he has significantly more Time within its halls as you.

>>4202333
+3 nice trips

>>4202324
>>4202333
>>4202337
(Checked. Nice. Vote is locked! Writing now.)

>>4202379
Straightening up a little further, you mutter, "Mercy." Pointing a glare to Harriet, your tone takes on a more desperate edge, still. "Sister."

"Yes, Brother," she dead-pans, already producing a sheet of parchment and an envelope.

"My mail, Sister. I do not care about the risk. No greater damage can be wrought by keeping me in the dark. My letters," you seethe, and have to take a long moment to level your voice back out. "Please obtain them from Father Friedrich. Blame me if you must. I need Father Barthalomew's correspondence. Now."

She's already finished drafting something, likely in code by how ornate the script is, and tucks it away in one of at least three shawls. You take another deep breath, the chamomile somehow smells better than before, and you gently implore to Brother Wilhelm, "this confirms almost every suspicion I have, in regards to the Church of Storm's woes. Please elaborate. How is Father Barthalomew? Do you have any word from Rimilde?"

"His health's failing," the priest immediately, quietly replies. "Father said he— Father Barthalomew— can't make the trip to Somerilde. Trip's too far for either of them. All the rest in the world won't do him any good. Not if it killed him just to get back."

Ofelia can't help but glance over to you. She doesn't dare interrupt, but gets you some more tea, and you both share a brief look of understanding.

More distantly, Brother Wilhelm continues, "I do not know the details. Something is foul with the weather. Too much, or too little. The Church of Agriculture has been doing well, these last few years. It's a good thing." Literally everyone else in your company gives you a more grateful look, still, barring the young priest.

He obliviously looks to everyone drinking their tea, and seems to remember his exists. "Hear they're fighting to keep the crops from going. We've all been hoarding, of course. Who wouldn't? But it could be bad news. Especially for anyone not so well off. It falls to Father Barthalomew to make amends." Bluntly, the young man distantly notes, "he is not a politician. They need to relax," he finally touches his tea, sipping at it slowly, and doesn't speak again for a few minutes.

Everyone waits, silently, for a few minutes.

Finally, the priest manages to resume, "but they're not. None of you are, either, and that's okay. But people are dying. There will be a lot more hardship. It's a bad spot. He's probably under a lot of stress."

(1/3)

>>4202485
"News is difficult to come by," you softly reply, "and I cannot thank you enough for your assistance. This— there is ample foundation for my suspicions, Brother Wilhelm. I received a vision, from Dream, not even two nights past." His eyes somehow light up even further, but the young man doesn't speak over you. "It is substantial, and though we have all done our best to interpret His vision, I wish to defer to your judgement on the matter."

The young man straightens up, sets down his tea, and quietly asks, "to interpret is to serve. It would be a privilege, Fath— Brother Anscham."

Cyril rubs at his face, which is obviously hurting from wincing. "Ofelia, you got some more brandy?"

"It's not even midday," she whistles, "but you know I do. Why not! We're gonna be awhile. Gimme a sec. I'll grab Ray, too. Poor guy probably needs a walk."

It takes until midday to keep Brother Wilhelm awake for long enough to disseminate the entirety of your vision, but by all the Gods, you manage.

Looking over the sheets of parchment Harriet dutifully transcribed, he finally comments, "blue ink would have been preferable."

"I know," Sister Cardew bemoans, giving you a frown.

Putting up your hands, setting aside a fourth cup of tea (having refused the brandy), you manage, "my best interpretation— if you will humor me," the priest of Dream nods, "was that a demon of Agriculture is to blame. For the immediate threat. The poison is a distraction, while the additional toxin is being spread by a priest of Storm. Brother Murdac, to be precise."

There's no recognition of the name in the young man's eyes, so you continue, "the Church of Storm's involvement may purely be an attempt to keep the focus away from anyone truly responsible. My largest concern lies with the Church of Spirit's slander against my name, as it is distracting the public from the Church of Mercy's involvement."

Calmly, without even blinking, the priest of Dream asks, "did you sleep on it?"

You blink. "Of course." Grimacing is appropriate. "For four days."

"How much of that was for Dream?"

"All of it," you firmly reply. "To rest is to serve."

Crossing his arms, Brother Wilhelm is smiling, obviously insanely impressed. "And what did you think. After sleeping on it?"

"That it was a demon of Mercy. Ultimately."

For the first Time all morning, the young man actually looks like he's focusing. Several more minutes pass. Cyril finishes the bottle of brandy, with Ofelia's help. The two of them set to playing with Ray, who came back from his walk an hour ago, and now is using the end of a blunt weapon as a chew toy. Brother Wilhelm speaks up, over your mastiff's growling, "this is all really complicated."

"Yes," you patiently reply.

"You're probably right," he almost whispers, yawning, "but I should probably sleep on it."

(2/3)

>>4202488
Everyone in the room looks to the young man like he's insane, save for you. All business, you interject any and all complaints, and firmly state, "Brother Wilhelm."

He's still yawning, but opens one eye to glance to you. Ray yawns, helpfully, and Cyril follows suit.

"I understand that your journey was long— and tiresome— but your expertise is invaluable. I would never wish to impose on you, or your Father's efforts. Your experience with Dream greatly outclasses my own—"

"Nah," he mutters. "This," there's a slight gesture towards the stack of papers, "this took you what, three days?"

"No." The disregard of Time has your nerves on end. "Four, counting further reflection."

"This is substantial. My blessings repeat," he vaguely explains, "so it is difficult to get new details. Your vision repeated, in a way. It was to grant you the opportunity to better understand His works. He looked kindly on you. You have a gift."

"The Gods are Merciful," you patiently reply, "and He unquestionably has looked kindly upon me. I sincerely appreciate the sentiment, Brother, but I am concerned with our work in the present."

"Of course."

"How much has your father instructed you to assist us with?"

There's no pause, as the priest immediately quotes, putting on a comically deep exaggeration of Father Wilhelm's spirited tone, "'keep out of trouble! Don't trust anyone— aside from Richard's company— and don't let him run you into the ground! He means well, but don't let him run himself ragged, either! I'll kill you before any demon can get to you if you don't get enough sleep,'" he pauses, and resumes in the usual distant tone, "there was more. He talked my ear off the first day. Insisted on keeping me company on the road, for a bit."

Sister Cardew looks deeply concerned. "You're alone. Are you staying anywhere nearby?"

"Been moving around," he shrugs, "like Father instructed me to. He's going to kill me. I thought it was odd, at first. That you all are holed up here. I misinterpreted your work. Having a safe place to rest. It is crucial."

Taking a deep breath, levelly, you murmur, "Brother Wilhelm. As much as I wish to serve Dream, I would appreciate it," you put your hands flat together, pointing them to the young man, "sincerely, if you could speak plainly. Your instructions. Without any need for interpretation, from Father Wilhelm?"

(Baaarely over, 3/4)

>>4202493
The priest gestures, respectfully, and delicately, with the parchment in hand. "This," he quietly nods, towards the Dream, "was to be my work. More importantly, to help you all rest. He thought there may be a lot more people who'd need our church's services. Coming through here. Coming back out, hopefully. It seemed tasteless. For no one to be here to help them. Father believes in you," there's a very slight smile up to you, "and in your work. He believes that you should have another hand. For rest."

With an apologetic glance, Brother Wilhelm says much more softly, "he also says he's 'sorry, that he couldn't come here himself.' I barely see him, for how busy he is. I can only imagine how hard you've been working. He said you would understand."

>A] This is actually a lot worse than you thought. It's up to Ofelia if she'll harbor Brother Wilhelm, but you don't want to press the boy for too much information. Thank him profusely for his assistance, and put your head together with your allies. Let him get some rest, and finish gathering information for the morning.

>B] This raises a LOT more questions than it answers, and you need answers. Immediately. (Write-in any additional questions you have for the priest of Dream.)

>>4202494
>>A] This is actually a lot worse than you thought. It's up to Ofelia if she'll harbor Brother Wilhelm, but you don't want to press the boy for too much information. Thank him profusely for his assistance, and put your head together with your allies. Let him get some rest, and finish gathering information for the morning.

>>4202494
>>A] This is actually a lot worse than you thought. It's up to Ofelia if she'll harbor Brother Wilhelm, but you don't want to press the boy for too much information. Thank him profusely for his assistance, and put your head together with your allies. Let him get some rest, and finish gathering information for the morning.

>>4202494
>A] This is actually a lot worse than you thought. It's up to Ofelia if she'll harbor Brother Wilhelm, but you don't want to press the boy for too much information. Thank him profusely for his assistance, and put your head together with your allies. Let him get some rest, and finish gathering information for the morning.

>>4202494
>A] This is actually a lot worse than you thought. It's up to Ofelia if she'll harbor Brother Wilhelm, but you don't want to press the boy for too much information. Thank him profusely for his assistance, and put your head together with your allies. Let him get some rest, and finish gathering information for the morning.
Thank you boy

>>4202495
>>4202498
>>4202500
>>4202519
(Well that was fast as hell, let's lock the vote here and keep this ball rolling! Vote is locked, writing now.)

>>4202531
"I understand completely," you murmur, in a low, and particularly pained voice, "but thank you. Thank you so much. You have already been an enormous help, and I cannot express my gratitude enough."

Cyril gets up from playing with Ray, to walk over, pat you on the shoulder, and offers a pained smile. "We're not goin' anywhere, big guy. Relax," the grin is pointed towards Brother Wilhelm, "isn't that right?"

A brief shuffling of teacups later, Ofelia is beaming to the priest of Dream. "Guest room okay? I'm not takin' no for an answer. Don't even answer that. Might be a little stuffy this time of day. C'mon."

"Thank you," Brother Wilhelm practically slumps out of his chair, dragging as he follows the halfling away from the dining area. There's a wave over his shoulder, to you, "blessed be the Dream, Father Anscham. You are very welcome."

"Blessed be the night," you call back, too grateful to articulate anything further.

Ofelia comes back after a few minutes, having located almost every pillow in the house and seemingly brought them to the guest room. Snoring drifts out from down the hall, within a matter of moments, despite the doors and wood in-between. Bewildered, everyone in your company simply stands about the dining area for a few, long moments.

Punching his fist into an open palm, Cyril is all teeth and urgency as he cuts the (relative) silence. "Let's go crack some heads." Ray helpfully growls, from the side of the rug, still fighting with the weapon in his teeth.

"Wait," you almost laugh, fighting through a frown. "Wait. Please. You both were out this morning," you glance to both clergy still standing beside you. "I slept for four days. Is there anything else I should be made aware of?"

Adjusting her glasses, Sister Cardew looks up with a smirk. "There is to be a meeting between a representative of the Church of Storm and a priest of the Church of Agriculture this afternoon, to discuss the disaster that transpired earlier this week. It is to be held discreetly," she snorts, "on the outskirts of the city. Several priests of the Church of Mercy will be attending, as mediators. They thought the slums could hide them. The imbeciles."

There's another, harder punch. "We can head 'em off," Brother Trebbeck sneers, "and get 'em while the gettin's good."

"Or," Harriet sneers over to him, and raises an eyebrow to you, "you could pose as a member of the meeting. No names were to be used, and the matter is to be kept under strict confidence."

Looking down to Ofelia, as she's fidgeting with her apron, you murmur, "I assume you will be keeping an eye on things."

(1/2)

>>4202572
"The house," she grins, "and a few other things, yeah. My neighbors are good for somethin', you know. Heard a lot about the district over the wall gettin' sick as shit. Thought I'd go help out, and see if I can't get some more of the stuff that got in the air." The smile falls off, as she looks to you, apologetically. "There's been a few people who've died. No one's gonna complain. I know yer church isn't doin' so well, Richard, so they're takin' all the help they can get."

"I see," you mutter. "Your sources were sound, Sister Cardew, I'm sure—"

"Please," she scoffs. "They were careless. Picking up on the trail was easy enough, with how much legwork you and Brother Trebbeck put in last week. Getting out for myself, for a change, was a welcome change of pace."

Trying to not think too hard on how a young woman would have procured so much information in such a brief window of Time, you take another deep breath, and make the right call.

>A] You'll cut off Brother Murdac before he ever arrives at this meeting. You can Cyril can move FAST when you need to. It could make the work of everyone present a little easier, if the source of your problem has the fear of God in him, as well. Maybe you can even extort some information.

>B] Let Cyril slow down Brother Murdac, and accompany Sister Cardew to the meeting. You'll discuss a strategy and gather some more information along the way. You trust yourself to handle a more nuanced affair, and you could likely glean a LOT of intel if you play your cards right.

>C] Leave it to the clergy in your company to handle the politics. Go with Ofelia to the poisoned district near her home, and see if you can look closer into the mechanism that the demon is operating under first-hand.

>D] You can only be in one place at a Time, but you have a better idea. (Write-in.)

>>4202580
>>A] You'll cut off Brother Murdac before he ever arrives at this meeting. You can Cyril can move FAST when you need to. It could make the work of everyone present a little easier, if the source of your problem has the fear of God in him, as well. Maybe you can even extort some information.

The dude is old and walks with a cane. Worst case scenario we kill him and pretend we are the storm priest

>>4202589
+1

>>4202589
+1
Let’s put our intimidation bonus to good use

>>4202580
>>A] You'll cut off Brother Murdac before he ever arrives at this meeting. You can Cyril can move FAST when you need to. It could make the work of everyone present a little easier, if the source of your problem has the fear of God in him, as well. Maybe you can even extort some information.

>>4202589
>>4202590
>>4202593
>>4202609
(Unanimous vote! Great. Locked, writing now.)

>>4202634
Looking to Cyril, with ice in your eyes, you murmur, "we will cut off Brother Murdac, before he ever arrives to this meeting." Glancing around to Ofelia and Sister Cardew, you continue, "it may make all of our lives easier, to help educate our fellow clergyman."

Ofelia shrugs, clearly amused, and motions to leave. Sister Cardew snorts, again, and puts a veil back over her face. "Very well," she muses, but persists for another moment.

More urgently, grimacing back to Brother Trebbeck, you produce one of the dozen knives on your body. "Our Vengeance will be proportionate. A little extortion could hurt," he laughs, "particularly for the elderly. That cane could not merely have been for show. It may not be necessary to use," you nod towards his gloves, and he laughs harder. "anything more severe."

Disgust is cutting hard against Sister Cardew's face, and it intensifies as you tease, "if necessary, we could always simply kill him and pose in his place—"

Harriet interjects, "I've heard enough!" While you and the priest of Flesh exchange a few entirely insane grins to each other, she continues sternly, "please be careful. Don't bring anyone back here. Particularly if you get messy, alright?"

There's actually a pause in yours and Brother Trebbeck's plotting on how to mutilate the priest of Storm, through an elaborate series of crude gestures. Peering over to the priestess, Cyril mutters, "the shit shack okay?"

"Far too risky," Sister Cardew hisses. "The Hangman's Hangout should be burned to the ground, by all rights. Now that I think about it, for questioning, it may be appropriate. I leave it to your discretion."

Another punch hits an open palm, as Cyril seems to really like the gloves. "Sure."

Putting away another one of the blades on you, ensuring everything is secure, you toss up your hood. Ofelia waves over her shoulder, as she waits by the front door. "We really should be careful 'bout how we're leavin'. You guys take it easy at least 'til yer outta the neighborhood, okay?"

The priestess of Spirit is still adjusting shawls and scarves, and you catch a glimpse of at least five knives stashed on her person, as well. Harriet smirks up to you. "I'll stay behind for a moment longer. I suspect you will buy me ample Time to get to the meeting. I would like to ensure Brother Wilhelm is safe in our absence. Please take care."

Cyril is already heading out the door, putting on a show of posing like a guard as he exits. You head out behind him, murmuring a word of thanks to Sister Cardew, and again to Ofelia, as the smaller woman holds the door open for you.

(1/2)

>>4202693
Stepping out into the light of day for the first Time in over half a week, you're hit with searing heat, and the scent of Grace. Clouds litter the heavy air, as a thunderstorm is surely brewing out of season. A heady aroma of hearths being stoked and put out, smoke and grain, all is rapidly muffled. Storm shutters are being closed rapidly. Pollen floats by, heavy and littered with bees. The streets are fairly empty, not only due to Ofelia's residence among the few other halflings in Calunoth, but as everyone is hunkering down for the foul weather. There's a skip in the blonde's step at your side, which is nowhere near as interesting as how much life is in bloom. Every porch and corner is adorned with flowers, punctuated with trees casting welcome shade.

In low voices, you and the priest at your side keep your eyes peeled, while you walk side by side. Mutually relief sinks into you, falling under almost no scrutiny. "Priest of Mercy showin' a little compassion to a new baker is good for business," he murmurs. "Nobody's gonna give Ms. Banks a hard Time if one of the King's men is staying at her place. Best cover we could have asked for," there's a light tap on your shoulder, but the metal behind it actually stings, "but that's not important."

"What is important," you grin like a demon, "is how quickly we get to our destination."

"Damn straight. You know the way. We'll slow down around the edge of the district, try to not tip him off too early. Just to be safe, though, Harriet said he'd be off the main road. You remember the river that ran up to The Battered Maid?"

"I would have preferred to forget it," you smirk, "but of course. Yes."

"Cuts behind half the city. It's almost a straight shot. Tons of buildings. With the weather, doubt anyone'll give us a second glance. Race you there?"

"You can bet on it."

"First one there gets the first hit in," the cheater is already off, laughing hysterically, "and now we're even!"

"Get back here!"

>Roll a 1d100. Best of 3 will be used.

>+20 SPEED DEMON
>-15 STILL FEELING LIKE A PRIEST OF AGRICULTURE
>-5 HALF AN ARMORY ON YOUR PERSON
>+5 STRAIGHT SHOT

Rolled 35 + 5 (1d100 + 5)

>>4202694

Rolled 69 (1d100)

>>4202694

Rolled 51 (1d100)

>>4202694

>>4202703
>>4202708
>>4202725
(74 is pretty damn good! Locking here, writing now.)

>>4202741
https://youtu.be/NCGu6mwkV_8

The stone and soil underfoot practically kicks back behind you both, for the pace in which you take off. Streaks of buildings pass by, all painted in odd hues. The Half-Pint flies past, its tables cleared, patrons going home for the afternoon, and the banners rapidly being taken down. The little house of Dream down the street is a blur of blue on the edges of your vision.

There's heat on the road, a sear in your chest, fire in your lungs, and a smile across your face with every level breath. Passing rapidly by the checkpoint to the exterior of Ofelia's home district, you are hot on Cyril's trail, and have to reconvene momentarily to be let out to the slums without issue. Seeing a priest of Vengeance accompanied by an armored guard raises no questions. You're practically shooed away, by another guard stammering, "b-best of luck w-with whatever is out th-there, B-Brother!"

Firing a grin to Brother Trebbeck, paying no heed to anyone else on the streets, you both tear off at breakneck speed. The stone foundations are almost all that persists of respectable civilization within minutes. Locating the river that carves around the bulk of Calunoth's populace, the filthy running water and all of its many inhabitants, you get no respite from the heat. Steam is coming off the water, and the sun is baking on the black fabric adorning you.

Wooden homes all around are adorned with vagrants, children, and countless citizens, fanning themselves, leering and hollering at your passing. Cyril practically stays at your side, as you catch up. Winding through the countless streets, weaving past the borders of the city, you both fry under the midday sun.

It's a long run. There are no exterior defenses for the poorest of Calunoth's populace, and without interruption or fail, you push yourself to your limit. Neither of you want to linger. Brother Trebbeck's form is poorer, but the priest of Flesh seems determined beyond all measure to out-do your previous competition. He may have been practicing his technique, or it may be the small armory you're saddled with, but he pulls ahead at the last stretch of the road. Calling to you over his shoulder at the last stretch, red-faced and barely able to breathe, he wheezes, "here!"

(1/2)

>>4202807
The priest remains a good sport, slowing his pace immediately upon winning the race. Returning your good sportsmanship from the prior excursion across Calunoth, your strides match, as you both break back to a jog. After a few moments, resuming a brisk walk, you almost catch your breath. Sweat is sticking hot and fast to the back of your neck and layers of clothing on you, but it's far less important than minding your environment. A few nearby vagabonds leer from their homes, fanning themselves and jeering at you both. Keeping yourself moving, ignoring the sear in your legs, and the healthy burn in your chest, you wipe some sweat off of your brow. Knowing full well that only someone suicidal would attempt to accost a priest of Vengeance, there's no fear of the common man in you.

Huffing at your side, still fighting for air, Cyril grins to you, "good shit. Good shit. You got me runnin' harder than anyone back in Beorward, you know that? Fuck. Gimme a sec, okay?" It seems his desire for poor form wins out, as his long ponytail flops stupidly down. The priest puts his hands to his knees, hanging his head, and coming to a complete stop. "Just a minute," he huffs, making a rude gesture to the nearby citizens.

It looks as if Cyril nearly killed himself, too, just to barely beat me?

>A] Be a good sport. Congratulate the priest, give him a moment, and leave it at that. You have business to attend to.

>B] You'd have beat him fair and square without the knives. Easily. You'll want a rematch! Tell Cyril he isn't getting off that easily, and get him up. There's no Time to waste.

>C] It's not that you're a poor sport, you're just disappointed. Promise Brother Trebbeck that you're going to keep on him. Mention the changes you need to make to your exercise and diet regimen, while you're at it. You want to respec the Church of Flesh in all its forms.

>D] Write-in.

>>4202809
>>A] Be a good sport. Congratulate the priest, give him a moment, and leave it at that. You have business to attend to.

>>4202809
>A] Be a good sport. Congratulate the priest, give him a moment, and leave it at that. You have business to attend to.

>>4202809
>A] Be a good sport. Congratulate the priest, give him a moment, and leave it at that. You have business to attend to.

>>4202809
>C] It's not that you're a poor sport, you're just disappointed. Promise Brother Trebbeck that you're going to keep on him. Mention the changes you need to make to your exercise and diet regimen, while you're at it. You want to respec the Church of Flesh in all its forms.

>>4202819
>>4202828
>>4202832
>>4202838
(We can totally make this work. Locking the vote here, writing now!)

>>4202852
"Of course," you huff, making a point of not walking a circle around the priest. You do, at least, pace for a moment in between the vagrant's line of sight, and the bent over figure at your side. Cyril rights himself quickly enough, and your breath is almost level as well. Grinning earnestly, you murmur, "good run. You know how to push me, too, you know."

"Yeah," Brother Trebbeck wheezes, the red in his face nearly matching standard garb of the Church of Flesh. "Thanks."

Against your better judgement, but wanting to be a good sport, you come to a stop by the priest's side and pat him firmly on the shoulder. "I let myself down, but I will not disappoint you again. The changes I mentioned before, to my regimen?"

"Yeah," he continues to wheeze, grinning in a pained way, and sounding as if he's punctured a lung.

"Insufficient," you tactfully explain. He gives you an apologetic glance, but stays quiet. "I could use your support."

"I gotcha," Cyril huffs, seeming to find the air again in his lungs. "No problem. It's gonna' kill your gains," he frowns, "but I get it."

"Moderation," you stress, unable to believe the word is falling from your lips, "is key, here. I am content to have a sub-optimal routine," you frown, "for lack of a better phrase, to spare myself any further gain."

Gingerly, Cyril pats your back, taking care to not pelt you with the metal around his hands. Resuming a brisk walk, you both part from the hold. The priest frowns back, "fair. Let's burn a little more, then."

"That is not funny," you grimace, looking down the road and in every direction for sign of the priest who nearly set a district ablaze. "He should be easy enough to locate. Are you sure we are in the—"

You're cut off, and pulled hard, by the back of your robes. Coming flush against a nearby home, Brother Trebbeck puts a finger to his mouth, not even daring to make a further sound. Pointing around the corner of the building, with the opposite hand, you follow the motion.

Far down the road, in plain clothes, is an elderly man. He's dressed as an innocuous peasant, and is hamming up the use of the cane in his hands. You recognize the metal crutch from even a great distance. White hair, almost standing on end, is a further giveaway of Brother Murdac's appearance. Moving as quickly as you would expect from a gentleman likely three times your age, it should be a simple matter to catch up to him.

Brother Trebbeck shifts, and whispers to you, "I know the bet was for me to get a hit in first, but I'm followin' your lead on this."

(Options in next post.)

>>4202926
>A] Keep up your disguise as a priest of Vengeance, just long enough to keep Brother Murdac's guard down. (A MODERATE ROLL WILL BE REQUIRED.)
>1] You'll try to keep him down through sheer intimidation, until you can get somewhere discreet. (An additional negative modifier may be applied, barring write-ins.)
>2] Have Cyril grab him, and strong-arm the priest of Storm somewhere off the road. There's too many prying eyes here, but not enough to take an extra risk.

>B] He's not expecting you. Sneak up on him, and try to maintain your disguise. Yes, he's an old man, but you have no use for pride. (A LOW ROLL WILL BE REQUIRED.)
>1] Have Cyril ambush him, and wait from a distance. Don't make your presence known at all, and meet with Cyril somewhere discreet.
>2] Work with Cyril to take him down. It's absolutely over-kill, but you want to make sure you don't lose your target. (An additional positive modifier may be applied.)

>C] You're probably going to be recognized the second your voice is heard. Make yourself clear from the start. (A ROLL MAY BE REQUIRED.)
>1] Approach him in plain sight. Call out to the priest, and risk him making a break for it.
>2] Have Cyril go ahead and accost Brother Murdac, but approach him right after. Let the people see for themselves if this man wants to make a scene.

>D] Write-in.

>>4202928
>>B] He's not expecting you. Sneak up on him, and try to maintain your disguise. Yes, he's an old man, but you have no use for pride. (A LOW ROLL WILL BE REQUIRED.)
>2] Work with Cyril to take him down. It's absolutely over-kill, but you want to make sure you don't lose your target. (An additional positive modifier may be applied.)

He may be an old fart but he is also capable of invoking Storm and that mf crazy. Better safe than sorry.

>>4202928
>B] He's not expecting you. Sneak up on him, and try to maintain your disguise. Yes, he's an old man, but you have no use for pride. (A LOW ROLL WILL BE REQUIRED.)
>2] Work with Cyril to take him down. It's absolutely over-kill, but you want to make sure you don't lose your target. (An additional positive modifier may be applied.)
Let's go with Cyril, we also need to take part in the interrogation

>>4202928
>B2

>>4202928
B2

>>4202939
>>4202940
>>4202955
>>4203010
(Calling the session for today here, but for the roll!)

>GET HIM
>Roll 1d100. Best of 3 will be used.

>+5 GOOD LUCK GETTING AWAY FROM A PRIEST OF AGRICULTURE
>+5 FLESH AND VENGEANCE ARE NATURAL ALLIES
>+10 GETTING THE DROP ON AN OLD MAN

Rolled 36 + 20 (1d100 + 20)

>>4203135

Rolled 17 + 20 (1d100 + 20)

>>4203135

Rolled 26 (1d100)

>>4203135

Rolled 75 (1d100)

>>4203135
Doesn't matter but rolling anyway

>>4204152
(Appreciate you man, you lucky SOB)
>>4203145
>>4203149
>>4203152
(But as previously stated going BO3! Still a low threshold and that 56 is something! Vote is locked, writing now.)

>>4204803
Keeping your hood up, in a low voice, you point around the corner. "Keep quiet No matter his appearance, this is ultimately a priest of Storm." In a lower voice still, with ice in your eyes, you unsheathe the sword from your back, and grimace, "we will take him down, together. Do not hesitate. Vengeance and Flesh are historic allies, Brother Trebbeck. We move on my signal."

Tensing, Cyril glances again around the wall, and back to you. With a nod, crouching down, the priest of the material does not even crunch the dirt or stone underfoot. Getting the impression that he's done more malicious things in the past, without further question, you snake together around the back of the building. Parting to opposite sides of the building ahead, to flank Brother Murdac, you alone dart behind the nearest alley. Keeping the long sword at your side, knees bent, low to the ground, you swiftly come full circle. Cyril darts the ice in his own eyes to the priest's slow procession down the street.

Weapons in hand, on your mark, you both come up behind Brother Murdac. The coordination is effortless, for how long you've both been in each other's company during training.

You both pounce. There's a shout, from the elderly priest, as he is taken from behind. Obviously fearing for his life, he doesn't utter a word while Brother Trebbeck goes for his neck. The blonde uses all of the strength in his hulking biceps to wrestle and pin the man against his form, clearly taking care to not kill the frail looking gentleman outright. Rather than go for his legs, seeing how effortlessly Cyril is keeping him in check, you roll, skid, and keep a little more distance. Getting rapidly to your feet, with the end of the blade in your hand pointed towards your target, you glance rapidly down the road. No one is daring to interfere, and several men and women rapidly dart inside.

As Brother Murdac chokes incoherently against the grasp, you are ready to take down the priest, or chase him if necessary. Just as you are about to order Cyril to drag him with you, off of the street, and away from prying eyes, there is a roll of thunder.

There's only a split second to react, as the priest of Storm directly in front of you flares with an orange light from the depths of his eyes. Cyril is standing behind him, unable to see the light. He instinctively looks up, expecting a Storm from above.

It will come from within.

Brother Murdac does not carry with him a metal cane. He carries a lightning rod.

(Options in next post.)

>>4204889
>A] As a priest of the Church of Mercy, to protect is to serve. (A ROLL WILL BE REQUIRED.)
>1] Jump back, and away, praying that the attack cannot reach Cyril. You both need to hide. Brother Murdac may have panicked, thinking his life was in danger. He said previously that the invocation could kill him. Play it safe, and wait it out for a moment.
>2] Tackle Brother Murdac and Cyril. Try to interrupt his invocation. You have no idea if it will work, but at the worst, maybe you can take on the brunt of the attack. You aren't letting this man call upon Storm against you, or anyone else.

>B] Shout to Cyril, and to everyone in the area, to get back. It may take a moment, but you trust Cyril to handle himself. You are not fucking around with the God of the Tempest. Call upon a deity of reciprocation. Risk activating the Catalyst for the 31st Time. Invoke Vengeance.
>1] To reciprocate the poison Brother Murdac sent into your lungs, in the days past. It will not instantly kill him, and you came here for interrogation.
>2] For pure intimidation. Strike the fear of God into this man. You would never invoke unless it was a matter of life or death. Make him feel the same.
>3] To deliver the blow he is about to deal to you or Cyril. If he did not intend to kill you outright, it should not strike him down, either.

>C] Write-in.

>>4204896
>C] Write-in.
Call upon Storm to hold His Might.

>>4204901
This if possible, otherwise
>B] Shout to Cyril, and to everyone in the area, to get back. It may take a moment, but you trust Cyril to handle himself. You are not fucking around with the God of the Tempest. Call upon a deity of reciprocation. Risk activating the Catalyst for the 31st Time. Invoke Vengeance.
>1] To reciprocate the poison Brother Murdac sent into your lungs, in the days past. It will not instantly kill him, and you came here for interrogation.

>>4204896
>>B] Shout to Cyril, and to everyone in the area, to get back. It may take a moment, but you trust Cyril to handle himself. You are not fucking around with the God of the Tempest. Call upon a deity of reciprocation. Risk activating the Catalyst for the 31st Time. Invoke Vengeance.
>1] To reciprocate the poison Brother Murdac sent into your lungs, in the days past. It will not instantly kill him, and you came here for interrogation.

>>4204901
>>4204903
(It is absolutely possible, just bear in mind that the last two times you invoked Storm it was preceded by pretty severe effects and you were badly weakened for days afterwards. If majority wants to go for this, it will override any other prompts and be mutually exclusive due to how involved the invocation is.)

>>4204910
It's not like we are invoking him to do battle, more akin to askin "could you not?"

>>4204910
Alright going with B1 then.

>>4204896
>>B] Shout to Cyril, and to everyone in the area, to get back. It may take a moment, but you trust Cyril to handle himself. You are not fucking around with the God of the Tempest. Call upon a deity of reciprocation. Risk activating the Catalyst for the 31st Time. Invoke Vengeance.
>>1] To reciprocate the poison Brother Murdac sent into your lungs, in the days past. It will not instantly kill him, and you came here for interrogation.

>>4204901
>>4204913
(Appreciate you man, but)
>>4204903
>>4204907
>>4204914
>>4204916
(Going to go with overwhelming majority here for B1. Vote is locked! Writing now.)

>>4204922
https://youtu.be/HcZY0lELOGA

"GET BACK!"

Your scream falls short, under another roll of thunder. Cyril rapidly backs up, crimson and flame licking at his irises and around his fists, as he makes no motion to run. Every bystander that was occupying a nearby building either slams the doors to their homes shut, or flees entirely. Several screams break out in the distance, but they're lost to you.

The world becomes distant. Holding your ground, gritting your teeth, you clasp your hands together on the hilt of your sword. There's a commotion, and a peal of lightning. The light and heat should be deafening. The scent of charred Flesh catches on the edges of your mind, and someone is screaming to you, but there is no need for the material.

You long to control the Storm, to harness the might of Agriculture, and you are certain there is no better way to unhinge your enemy than through Vengeance.

You pray. The language of the Gods drips from your voice, intermingled with black bile and blood. The words are incomprehensible, but the meaning is clear. An acrid scent and rancid taste is that of poison, rot, and righteous fury. From your lips, impossibly, the language congeals. It is not foul. More of the substance flows from your veins, parting from your hands, and snaking around the weapon before you. There is an endless flow, from a recess so deep within you, it cannot be touched by Gods or demons.

It is a weapon. You are a weapon.

You are the hand of Vengeance.

There is a hope, in the back of your mind. There is a mission. There is excruciating pain, sharper and harsher than anything you have felt before. It is not a hot iron driven into your spine. It is not wedges on your legs, or the promise of never running again. It is not months in bed, mending punctured lungs. It is not eight years in restraint and darkness. There is a looming dread, an abyss, from which you know you can return. There is the Catalyst. There is a fracture, and a break, within such a deep recess of your being that you cannot hope to ever feel again. There's a hope, and you know it is a place that can be returned from.

The God of Reciprocation will not suffer you to feel it. There is an embrace, for the 31st time, in which you are given a glimpse of endless turmoil. You are not a demon of faith. You never have been. You have suffered punishment, without reward, for far too long.

You will reward sin.

You open your eyes, black as night, and look upon the man before you. His eyes are rotten, his lips seeping with blood and bile. Horror is drenching him, his invocation halted. He is choking, his lungs having turned from the same toxin he inflicted you with just a few days past. He likely has only a few minutes to live.

(1/2)

>>4204963
At your side is a priest of Flesh. His clothing is charred, his body littered with burns, but he is alive, and rapidly healing. He is not shaking from pain. He is trembling with righteous fury, and looks to you with crimson in his eyes.

The God of Retribution flows through your veins. He is more than compassion, or bounty. You do not need to heal. His will, His wrath, and your reward come together. Vengeance has always looked kindly upon you. He looks through you, beside the priest of the Material, and a failure to the Tempest.

Even though Vengeance is with you, in you, is everything you have ever known and wanted, there is a crushing fracture in the recesses of your mind. He wants to take more. Your restraint is that of Mercy, to be respected, but it is not of His making.

Brother Murdac cannot hope to weather the Storm. He releases his invocation, as you grab him by the collar of his shirt.

>(A and B are mutually exclusive. Majority will decide. All numbered prompts may not be mutually exclusive.)

>A] Maintain the invocation. This is going to take a lot out of you, and you need your strength.
>1] Interrogate the dying man with the God of Retribution on your side.
>2] Simply stare at him. He knows what you want.
>3] Write-in.

>B] Release the invocation. It will have taxed you to an extreme degree, but you wish to show Vengeance all of the respect He is due.
>1] Ask Brother Murdac who is truly responsible for the demon's works in Calunoth.
>2] Demand to know if the Church of Storm is working to destroy the life of Brother Richard Anscham.
>3] He probably doesn't know, but you're desperate. Insist that he reveal anything he knows about your congregation.
>4] Write-in.

>>4204968
>B] Release the invocation. It will have taxed you to an extreme degree, but you wish to show Vengeance all of the respect He is due.
>1] Ask Brother Murdac who is truly responsible for the demon's works in Calunoth.
Let's be quick on getting this info

>>4204974
+1

>>4204974
Yep

>>4204974
>>4204976
>>4204978
(Locking the unanimous vote here, writing now!)

>>4204983
Keeping your hold on Brother Murdac, and preemptively taking a knee, you bow your head. Vengeance parts from your frame, as you release the invocation. However, there is a persistent, lingering sensation. There is blood and bile on your lips, coating your hands, and slaking the hilt of your sword. It seems you had been holding the weapon only in your main hand, and effortlessly holding up the body of the elderly priest with your right. A sense of justice, and unwavering righteousness sinks into every fiber of your being. Slamming your sword into the ground, wiping the bulk of the viscera from your chin, you look with wide eyes of green and gold upon the priest before you. He is dying, rapidly, and Cyril kneels beside you to help hold him up.

Your friend is literally on fire. The priest of Flesh has grotesque, snaking scars lancing his exposed chest, where a bolt of lightning clearly hit. He's breathing rapidly, the burns are mending so quickly you can look upon the work with a mortal eye. It's clear that he can barely breathe, is suffering intensely, but shows no indication of budging from your side. Looking to you, imploringly, urgently, he does not need to ask for you to speak.

There is still a lingering sensation, a cloying pull, and Vengeance on your mind. Urgently, you do not question. You demand, "Brother Murdac. Who is truly responsible for the demon's works within Calunoth."

He coughs up a fair amount of blood. Cyril supports his head further, the flames licking around his frame emitting no heat or injury. With a rough motion, as if he can't control his own strength, the priest of Flesh forces the elderly man into a better position. You release your hold on the priest, seeing he's being held, to put your hands to your knee. It's necessary, to try to not collapse. Exhaustion is crashing into you, but you look to the priest of Storm with threat in your eyes.

With a ragged breath, he splutters, "moths. They're everywhere. Morris—" he coughs, harder, "showed me."

Grabbing him by the shirt again, practically shaking the dying man, you demand, "where."

"They—" there's significantly more blood, thicker, with flecks of meat inside. He's having trouble breathing, and weakly murmurs, "light. Mercy. They're trained to— to seek out Mercy. I was—" a deep, ragged, wet breath follows, "following them. You had to be stopped."

(Options in next post.)

>>4205016
>(A and B are mutually exclusive. Numbered prompts and write-ins may not be mutually exclusive.)

>A] Demand more information. He's dying, but you have no pity for this man. He's going through the same thing countless others are suffering from back in the center of Calunoth.
>1] WHY would he think this was the right thing to do?!
>2] BE MORE SPECIFIC. Where were they headed next?!
>3] Write-in.

>B] Put your Relic in the dying man's hands. It will relieve his pain, though it won't grant him any additional Time to live. Risking anyone seeing your Relic could be catastrophic, but it's worth the risk. You are desperate for more information.
>1] Why was he willing to jeopardize the lives of hundreds, or thousands, just to put a stop to your work?
>2] Why would the Church of Storm ever permit this?
>3] What instructions did he receive from Brother Morris?!
>4] WHERE THE FUCK IS YOUR CONGREGATION?!
>5] Write-in.

>C] Write-in.

>>4205020
>A] Demand more information. He's dying, but you have no pity for this man. He's going through the same thing countless others are suffering from back in the center of Calunoth.
>2] BE MORE SPECIFIC. Where were they headed next?!

>>4205020
>B] Put your Relic in the dying man's hands. It will relieve his pain, though it won't grant him any additional Time to live. Risking anyone seeing your Relic could be catastrophic, but it's worth the risk. You are desperate for more information.
>>1] Why was he willing to jeopardize the lives of hundreds, or thousands, just to put a stop to your work?
>>2] Why would the Church of Storm ever permit this?
>>3] What instructions did he receive from Brother Morris?!
>>4] WHERE THE FUCK IS YOUR CONGREGATION?!
Probably not going to get through all the questions before he expires but whatever

>>4205020
>A] Demand more information. He's dying, but you have no pity for this man. He's going through the same thing countless others are suffering from back in the center of Calunoth.
>2] BE MORE SPECIFIC. Where were they headed next?!

>>4205020

>A] Demand more information. He's dying, but you have no pity for this man. He's going through the same thing countless others are suffering from back in the center of Calunoth.

>4] WHERE THE FUCK IS YOUR CONGREGATION?!

>>4205024
>>4205025
>>4205027
>>4205039
(Allllright going to work this together as best as I can with priority on majority! Writing now.)

>>4205058
It's impossible to not shake the dying man. Desperation claws at the acrid sear in your throat, and along the blood slaking your hands. Tormented, you demand, "where!? Where were they headed next?! WHERE is my congregation?!"

There's a lull in the priest's head, as he looks to you, with rotten eyes. Blood is coating his chin, down the front of his shirt, and he laughs in your face. It's wet, sickly, and the color is fading from his skin fast. "Brother Rook, was it?"

You shake him again, more desperately, and try to not snap the man's neck in half. The plea is just as cutting, and dread is sinking into the last remnants of the invocation. With no mistake of the threat in your tone, you state the question. "Where is my congregation."

"Brother Anscham," the priest of Storm stresses the title, like it's something to be ashamed of, "what makes you think they even want to see you?"

Cyril's breath is leveling, and there's still crimson in his eyes. In an ethereal voice, resonant and deep with divinity, he sneers, "answer him."

A creaky, moist, and sick laugh escapes again from Brother Murdac. "They picked on an old man for the job for good reason. Knew you'd kill me. Knew it from the start. I'm ready to die. Go on then, Dick. Make your father proud!" Tilting his neck, exposing it as if he's asking for the skin to be cut, the old man rattles, "Morris sends his regards."

>A] Kill him, with dignity. You aren't willing to go any further with this line of questioning, and won't stoop to the same level as your enemies.
>1] Make it quick, using your sword for the first time. Appease the God of Retribution, and sink your blade into a deserving body.
>2] You did promise Cyril that he could get the first hit in, and don't want anything further to do with this scum. Leave it to the priest of Flesh to get his hands dirty.

>B] Let him succumb to the poison, here on the street, to die like the dog he is.

>C] This isn't over. Invoke Spirit. Get the answers you need, whether this HEATHEN likes it or not. It's going to be terrible, and you're ready for whatever you learn.
>1] You're going in. Tell Cyril to keep the priest alive, by any means necessary.
>2] Heal him, just enough to extend your questioning. Use your Relic.
>3] Only stay with his mind for long enough to see if he knows any location of your congregation. You may be a glutton, but you know when to hold yourself back.

>D] Write-in.

>>4205092
>>B] Let him succumb to the poison, here on the street, to die like the dog he is.
Don't you worry old man, you'll have plenty of company joining you eventually

>>4205092
>B] Let him succumb to the poison, here on the street, to die like the dog he is.

>>4205092
>>B] Let him succumb to the poison, here on the street, to die like the dog he is.

>>4205092
>>C] This isn't over. Invoke Spirit. Get the answers you need, whether this HEATHEN likes it or not. It's going to be terrible, and you're ready for whatever you learn.
>>1] You're going in. Tell Cyril to keep the priest alive, by any means necessary.

YOU AINT GOING NOWHERE BITCH

>>4205110
>>4205099
>>4205103
>>4205105
(Obviously C and B are mutually exclusive. Going to leave this open for another 10 minutes in case anyone wants to discuss anything, or change their vote. After which I'll lock the vote!)

>>4205113
(Alright! Going to go with majority here and incorporate as much as I can. Vote is locked. Writing now!)

>>4205129
"Don't worry," you state, voice level. Releasing your hold from Brother Murdac, you shakily put both hands to your knees. Getting back to your feet is an ordeal, but you use the sword at your side as a makeshift cane, to right yourself, and to take a step back. Cyril does the same, completely releasing his hold, and coming to your side. Still invoking Flesh, Brother Trebbeck doesn't give you a shoulder to lean on. He draws a little further into himself, tensing, as the God of Regeneration rapidly works to keep his priest alive.

At your feet, a heathen is rapidly dying. You look down to him as if he was vermin, while the old man writhes, coughing, wracked with pain and exhaustion. It's only fitting, to spit, "you are not going anywhere, Brother Murdac. I will not lay another hand on you, but rest assured: the company you keep will soon be joining you."

There's a rattle— weak, and horrific. You speak over the priest's last breath, convicted, and righteous. "Our retribution is proportionate."

A thin trail of black bile snakes out of Brother Murdac's lips, as he lays inert on the street. From the corner of your eye, you see several civilians leering from the edges of nearby buildings. Knowing full well that your invocation must have been witnessed, and looking to the corpse in the road, a little more horror sinks into you. Exhaustion is drenching your form. The evidence of calling upon a God of Retribution is on your face, streaking down your chin, littering your lips, your hands, and the body before you. You know full well that Brother Murdac was allied with the Church of Mercy, and you are King Magnus "the Merciful"'s city.

A priest of Storm did not hesitate to strike you down, and he now is dead. Dead, without a clear lead.

Despite having to lean on your long sword for support, Cyril slumps, hard, onto your shoulder. The blonde releases his invocation to Flesh, his shirt in tatters, and a horrific scar lacing over his chest. It is unmistakably of lightning, and you cannot fathom how Cyril is still alive. With a weary look in his eyes, the crimson across his irises and pupils fades. A mortal, icy blue cuts through, wincing.

Grimacing, Brother Trebbeck keeps his eyes on the body as if it will jump up and kill him at any moment. With a ragged breath, he manages to grin to you, clearly in too much pain to speak.

The taste of divinity and death is on your lips. You felt the Catalyst for a 31st Time, but Vengeance spared you from this heathen's experiences. Far and away, it was the mildest invocation to the God of Retribution you have ever experienced.

There is a fear in your heart, that the mortal world will want their own retribution next.

(Options in next post.)

>>4205150
>A] Thank Cyril with everything you have for taking a bolt of lightning to his fucking chest for you. Tell him to go rest in an alley, for now. No matter how ragged you are, you have a body to dispose of. Declare to anyone listening that the Church of Vengeance has seen to this matter. You need to make FAST work of this, before anyone catches onto what transpired here.

>B] There's no Time for anything, dammit. You'll thank Cyril later. Ask the priest if he's capable of guarding the corpse while you go for help. This is going to get messy, fast, and you have no idea how to salvage the situation.
>1] Run to get Sister Cardew. You trust her judgement more than anyone else in the city.
>2] Run to get Ofelia. She's a trained assassin and used to run a criminal racket. She'd know exactly how to take care of this.
>3] Run to get a guard, and ensure they aren't a priest of Mercy. You are not a liar. Report that you were attacked, and pray that this doesn't blow up in your face.

>C] Write-in.

>>4205151
>>A] Thank Cyril with everything you have for taking a bolt of lightning to his fucking chest for you. Tell him to go rest in an alley, for now. No matter how ragged you are, you have a body to dispose of. Declare to anyone listening that the Church of Vengeance has seen to this matter. You need to make FAST work of this, before anyone catches onto what transpired here.

He just took a fucking lightning bolt for us, dude. He's earned the rest, we can handle this.

>>4205151
>>A] Thank Cyril with everything you have for taking a bolt of lightning to his fucking chest for you. Tell him to go rest in an alley, for now. No matter how ragged you are, you have a body to dispose of. Declare to anyone listening that the Church of Vengeance has seen to this matter. You need to make FAST work of this, before anyone catches onto what transpired here.

>>4205151
>>A] Thank Cyril with everything you have for taking a bolt of lightning to his fucking chest for you. Tell him to go rest in an alley, for now. No matter how ragged you are, you have a body to dispose of. Declare to anyone listening that the Church of Vengeance has seen to this matter. You need to make FAST work of this, before anyone catches onto what transpired here.

See if we can hide him somewhere and invoke Mercy to heal him. If not spare his pain with our relic.

>>4205154
>>4205159
>>4205160
Is anyone else on board for invoking Mercy? If so, would you want to do so before hiding the body?

>>4205163
after, let's be safe

>>4205168
+1

>>4205168
>>4205171

I was thinking before so that Cyril could help or at least walk on his own.

>>4205172
+1

>>4205172
Swapping to this

\>>4205168
>>4205171
>>4205172
>>4205183
>>4205186
(Alright, locking here! Invoking to heal Cyril (DISCREETLY) and then getting to the body. Vote is locked. Writing now!)

>>4205190
As loudly as you can, you turn wildly around, to the civilians you're sure are coming to gawk at the body. "STAY yourselves. This is a matter of the Church of Vengeance! Our retribution has been proportionate! For your safety, and with respect to the God of RETALIATION— GET BACK TO YOUR HOMES."

There's a skittering, of multiple doors being closed, women shushing children, and grumbling of men who clearly were looking forward to the spectacle. The moment you're certain it's safe to do so, you rip the long sword in hand out of the ground, and point it to every alley, house, window, and unseen figure. "I will NOT repeat myself! KEEP YOUR DISTANCE. The body will be seen to. I will NOT tolerate a single disturbance!"

A little more movement can be heard, and it's enough. Grabbing Cyril by an arm, you pull the majority of his weight over your shoulder, and grimace. "Hold on."

Practically dragging the priest of Flesh to an adjacent alley is a short affair. He's confused, but doesn't complain, as you gently set him down beside a stone wall. Glancing down the narrow lane, baking under the afternoon sun, you try to find as much shade as possible. The locket around your neck feels as if it's on fire, as you yank the chain off of your person, and place the gold within Brother Trebbeck's shaking hands. He's showing no indication of hearing you, as you murmur to him to stay still, and to hold onto the item.

It's entirely necessary to force his hands to clasp around your Relic. The moment his skin closes around the item, his shoulders slack, and a little more light comes back into his eyes. There's no further need to speak, as you do not need words between yourself, and the Goddess of Compassion.

You invoke Mercy.

https://youtu.be/4ti_H9O10g0

Light floods your senses. An all-encompassing embrace is around you. A caress runs up, through the gold in your hair, the band at the base of your ring finger, and into the palm of your hands. She holds you, and wordlessly knows everything you seek.

His mind is wreathed in flame. Brother Trebbeck's nerves are on fire. He cannot hear, nor can he speak. The God of the Material has kept his heart beating, and mended his body. The damage here is within his mind. A network of pain is lancing from your friend's heart, and it will persist, until the day he dies. You can fix this. You can mend him. You can grant him relief from his pain, as you have done for so many others.

You are the Father of Compassion.

Take your Relic. It is our gift to you. Use it, in ways that your Goddess cannot. It is yours to wield. Mend his vessel.

(Options in next post.)

>>4205233
>A] Ally yourself with Brother Trebbeck. Ask him to invoke Flesh. Utilize the gifts of the Goddess of Healing and the God of Regeneration. Mend him, by combining your efforts. You don't know if he's capable of understanding you, and you're certain it will be agonizing, but you have to try.

>B] Give Cyril the tenet of healing. You have endured greater torment, and come back from it whole. It will cost you dearly, but you have recovered from worse things, still. Even giving your restraint to a demon was surmountable, given enough Time. Sacrifice an element of yourself, for the sake of your friend.

>C] Give the Relic to Cyril to hold, for now. Heal the remainder of his injuries through Mercy's blessing, as best as you can. Go to hide the body, and think on how to aid him. Come back to him as soon as you can, knowing he will have relief from his pain.

>D] Write-in.

>>4205235
>>A] Ally yourself with Brother Trebbeck. Ask him to invoke Flesh. Utilize the gifts of the Goddess of Healing and the God of Regeneration. Mend him, by combining your efforts. You don't know if he's capable of understanding you, and you're certain it will be agonizing, but you have to try.

We are stronger together. Let's heal our friend.

(Taking a short break from the session here and will be back tonight! You guys are fucking awesome and I'll see you soon.)

>>4205235

>>A] Ally yourself with Brother Trebbeck. Ask him to invoke Flesh. Utilize the gifts of the Goddess of Healing and the God of Regeneration. Mend him, by combining your efforts. You don't know if he's capable of understanding you, and you're certain it will be agonizing, but you have to try.

We are both going to be fucking exhausted but it is what we get for rolling like shit. We invoked Flesh and Mercy together before in the ruins, this time he will get to feel it too.

>>4205235
>A] Ally yourself with Brother Trebbeck. Ask him to invoke Flesh. Utilize the gifts of the Goddess of Healing and the God of Regeneration. Mend him, by combining your efforts. You don't know if he's capable of understanding you, and you're certain it will be agonizing, but you have to try.

>>4205235
>>A] Ally yourself with Brother Trebbeck. Ask him to invoke Flesh. Utilize the gifts of the Goddess of Healing and the God of Regeneration. Mend him, by combining your efforts. You don't know if he's capable of understanding you, and you're certain it will be agonizing, but you have to try.

>>4205239
>>4205245
>>4205247
>>4205253
(Totally unanimous, awesome. Locking the vote here, might take a minute but writing now!)

>>4205430
You are the leader of the Church of Mercy, the rightful Father of Her children, and the keeper of YOUR holy Relic.

The gift of a Goddess already rests in the palms of your friend and ally. You keep the hold on Brother Trebbeck's hand. Divinity drips from your words, like the gold falling from your eyes. The metal sticks hot and fast to your face, searing with overwhelming sympathy. Compassion is clinging to you, embracing you, in an all-encompassing definition that could rival the Gods themselves. Through the contact on his scarred fingers, the heat in his Flesh, and the snaking wounds wrapped over every inch of the man's upper body, you gaze, and you plead. "Please. Save yourself. Call upon Him again."

Your hold is soft, and the man twitching before you looks as if he could cut glass with his stare. It's harder than any metal, colder than the southern peaks, but the ice in Cyril's eyes parts once again. Crimson sears from the depths of an empty gaze, and the flame kindled from within the priest leaves him. The heat sears out, with an intensity to rival your own.

The hold between you tightens, as his form struggles to mend the damage that has been done. There's twitching, familiar and horrible, from a body wracked with lightning. No new muscle comes forth. There's an internal struggle, to repair an ill-beating heart, and to mend a mind that is alight with an unwanted Storm.

With sharp clarity, devoid of pain, Cyril looks to you. Through his pain, and a fracturing mind, the gaze is not with the flicker of a God. There is legitimate respect, understanding, and a mortal's loyalty. Not a trace of regret hangs from his expression, nor is there a shred of resentment or fear. The priest keeps his hold on the Relic between your hands, and smiles. "The Gods are Merciful."

(1/3)

>>4205514
https://youtu.be/rhjvBRUd0RM

Mutual heat and flame courses between your hands, consuming your bodies in an instant. The stone beneath your kneeling frame cracks, redder than a god. Every break in the stone floods instantaneously with gold, while the surrounding rock blackens, and becomes polished in an instant. A trail of fire wraps around the center of your Relic, firing through your hands, and baking the tops of your knuckles until they are charred and smoking. You feel the pain of the man before you. The pain of a family lost. The pain of murder, of struggling, of fighting through the streets, of a persona ill-suited to a priest, and nightmares in the dark. There is fear, of a Goddess of Time, and constant worship of Her will. There is mourning, for a child who could never hope to be protected. He is filled with longing, and does not fight for himself.

Brother Trebbeck tightens his grip on you. It's agonizing. Your bones break from the sheer intensity of his grasp, and you restrain every last urge to pull away. The sensation is divine, from the last invocation you made to the God of Regeneration, and the Goddess of Healing. No sound escapes you, but you are flooded with relief that rivals the touch of your lover. There's gold, streaking from your allies eyes, as he looks to you with an impossibly wide gaze. The red and metal coursing through his vision, a copper plating upon his sight, is as if he's looking upon you for the first Time. There is no grief, but a horrific realization— and so much anger you can feel the Gods themselves tremble in anticipation.

You keep the embrace, the fire and gold. There is a mission, more important than all of the metal or strength in the world. The hold on your Relic does not part, but rather, you both take a trembling arm, and embrace in full.

The world shifts. You are in a network of pain.

From the battered, thickened scars adorning the tops of your hands, through every nerve in your body, there is fire. You cannot hear, nor can you see. Through the flame wreathed around your frame, to the gold dripping from your hands, there is a nightmare. The figure beside you has unraveled, and you can see, straight into the heart of your patient. There is blood, and veins, nerves and bone.

Brother Trebbeck is in agony, and he needs it.

Having called once before on the Goddess of Healing, with the God of Regeneration, you know them. You know the Gods, as a healer, a fighter, a lover, and a masochist.

There's an ally, a friend, a fellow combatant, and a man of Flesh who can part from the pain. He wants to serve, and he knows you are here to help.

(2/3)

>>4205515
The trouble is, he doesn't want you to. Not really. He's encompassed in the embrace of divinity. No mortal man should be capable of withstanding the might of divinity. He has never been embraced by the Gods, not in the way of you, or any of your allies. This is no demon. This is a man, a father, and a fighter, who cannot contend with the forces you know and love.

Your mind is sound enough. The vessel in your hands is whole, coursing with more heat than any mortal should be capable of holding. Your Relic is hotter than the sun, wreathed in red flame, and snaking with liquid gold. It can withstand this dual invocation, without ill-effect. It has contained three deities before, though you were very ill at the Time. There is no doubt in your mind, which is as clear as you could hope for, that Cyril has been ill. He thinks he deserves this network of agony. He was ready to die, when he took on the might of the Storm. The spider-veins of pain lancing from the erratic beat of his heart, the spikes of pain coursing from the depths of his mind, and through every limb in his ravaged body, are his idea of retribution.

You have the ability to heal. You have the strength of two deities in you, and this is nothing like your invocation before.

There are two Gods between you and Brother Trebbeck. There is divinity, searing through you. Mercy needs to help. To heal. To protect. To restrain. Your lover is on you, in you, and is begging for you to do something. To save him, as he saved you.

There is a vessel, fractured, and in desperate need of your strength.

There's a connection between you, beyond mortal comprehension.

>A] Let the Gods speak. This is absolutely beyond your comprehension.

>B] Take on the invocation yourself. Brother Trebbeck is not the leader of a church, a man of all the Gods, or anything more than a desperately loyal friend. Take on the pain of the real father in your journey. Heal yourself, knowing you can take it, and pray he can learn to heal himself in Time.

>C] Try to communicate to Cyril. He's losing his mind. You never really knew him to begin with, but you think you can stop it, if you can just get through to him. (Write-in.)

>>4205520
C
Cyril, you have suffered enough. If you intend to find true redemption then listen to me.

>>4205535
+1

>>4205535
+1

>>4205535
>>4205540
>>4205556
(Totally unanimous, going to lock the vote here! Couple minutes before I'll be back to writing.)

>>4205741
(Writing now!)

>>4205877
"Cyril. You have suffered enough. If you wish to serve, to find true redemption, please. Listen to me. I have never known you. We can stop this, but only if you can talk to me. We seek to mend your Flesh. We wish to heal your soul. I want nothing more than to help."

You take a step forward, towards a man who's mind and body have unraveled. He does not draw away. Brother Trebbeck draws into himself, with eyes wreathed in flame, and asks, "why do you think I value family so much?"

With a steady hand, you reach out. To feel. "Why?"

"I killed my own."

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VqtDIMn0EGw

Desperately, as if he's afraid for everything that's ever existed, between the Gods, the land, and the gold dripping from your hands, Cyril draws further into himself. There's an itch, and a familiar creeping at the back of his mind. He's afraid of weakness. You recognize it, the instant he clings onto the God of the Material. There's a deep-seated fear, more terrifying than any external demon you could hope to face, or to fight.

They are ultimately a distraction, from the need for security, and a true home to come back to. Brother Trebbeck pulls deeper into himself, and his unrelenting agony. There's a wide, unhinged and utterly disbelieving stare directed back at you.

It's lonely. This is about more than your mission. This is a man who has no true home. Who's family has been pried from his hands. Who's church has demanded his absence from the one thing that's ever really mattered.

"You're afraid of failure," you murmur.

There's a broken shell of a man at your side, willing to die for what he believes in. He is willing to serve his God with every destroyed fiber of his being. It's not a lust for pain or a marriage to compassion that keeps him going. The man at your side is brutally strong, and manages to fight through the pain. Without hesitation, he holds the stare you've asked him to restrain so many Times before.

He won't admit that you're right, but Brother Trebbeck takes you back, into a tight embrace.

You are in a dank alley, beneath the growing shade of the high afternoon sun. Flame licks around the cracked stone beneath your feet, filled with gold, and charred with fire. The heat and agony between you and the priest at your side eclipses anything a mortal should be capable of withstanding. As you stretch bandages of gold thread between your hands, producing the works of Mercy through sheer compassion, you look to your charge. Your friend, your ally, and a man who was willing to die to uphold what he believes in is at your side, slouching, and is still desperately holding onto the item between your hands.

(1/4)

>>4206074
Cyril is still desperately clutching onto you. He will not part from your Relic. The gold is still solid, but dripping with liquefied metal. The only evidence of the metal left in the world courses from your very soul. Mercy's gift intermingles with the works of Flesh, from the trembling skin beneath your open hands. There is need for your aid.

It's impossible to stop the mending, to keep the deities apart. After everything you have endured, you know that there was never the need to stop.

The might of your patrons is making rapid work of healing Brother Trebbeck's injuries. A tight, ragged breath comes back into his lungs. He pulls back, not in fear, but to look at you properly. The ice in his eyes has melted. Cyril stares up at you, almost vacantly. A swarm of divinity and heat pierces through the haze of crimson. He's on another plane of existence, utterly enamored with Flesh. It is the first Time you've seen someone so taken by their patron before, and you are certain you'd know the look even from afar.

Up close, you know to keep him grounded, and to heed every convicted word that falls from the priest's bloodied lips. The first thing he has to say, despite being caught up in the presence of a God, a Goddess, and an item of holy significance, catches you so off-guard you almost stop your work.

"You are not a bad person."

He pauses, wincing, as you place a hand to his back. You know. There is a current of electricity running through his spine, incessantly, that would cause tremor for the rest of his life. You set to removing it, while Cyril stoically continues, "I'm a liar. You're a glutton, and you're a masochist, but you are not a sinner. You care," he smiles, despite the excruciating pain you know he's in, "even if you're caught up in this. Them. The Gods. How they course through you."

You are the Father of Compassion, but you serve all of the Gods. There's heat on you, and flame licking around the gold coursing from your hands. It's making rapid work of identifying the worst of your ally's injury, and to stop now is unthinkable.

"I've come far enough to know that you're—" he can't help but take a sharp breath in, as you press firmly down on the top of his collarbone. There's a knot, of ruined muscle, just underneath the surface. It would be agonizing to endure the irregular beat of his heart. It will kill him faster than any other injury. You add another twenty years to his life, in a single blessing. Between the might of Flesh, and the grace of Mercy, you restore the motion, the beat, and continue to listen.

With more strength in his voice, Cyril grins, "you're much more than what you're painted as, you know. You're able to grow. You're a healer. You're more than able to learn. You want to make things right."

(2/4)

>>4206078
Looking to him with wide eyes, at the familiar verbiage, you do not dare to interrupt. Impossibly, there's a break in the work. With a deep, level breath, Brother Trebbeck pulls back from your embrace. Moving a bicep with a fluid motion, he's all smiles, and there's a little more light back in his eyes. It's not just the flame of the God of the Material, or the radiance of Mercy reflected back from your own form. "You want to be better."

He puts a hand to your shoulder, finding the strength to cough up an enormous volume of blood. You don't shy away from the healthy material leaving his lungs, and place a hand to his back. There's no further evidence of the erratic beat in his heart, or the lightning streaking through his mind. "This is all fucked," the blonde laughs, sounding like himself again, "and I know you think I'm an idiot. Maybe I am. Thinking of you as a friend."

It's impossible to give so much as your usual grimace. Two deities are working through your vessel, and the heat in your hands is all-encompassing. A force greater than anything a mortal should be capable of wielding is in your hands, under your control, and you are certain that Brother Trebbeck is literally leaning on you to keep your alliance together. All humor falls from his voice. Both of Cyril's hands are on your shoulders, as he grits out, "I want to help you improve. I will help you. Anything is possible, and not because of Them. You don't give yourself enough credit."

For good measure, you slam your hand to Cyril's back, and get him on his feet. There's a waver in both of your forms, for the exhaustion that not even the Gods can keep at bay. With a little more insanity seeping into your company, you realize that Cyril's hold has parted from your Relic.

He takes you back into a hug, releasing his invocation to Flesh. He stands of his own volition, as strong as he was before taking the full force of Storm on your behalf. Bitterly, earnestly, he mutters, "this is only possible because you're my friend. I'm not going to leave you behind. Not here. Not at the end of the world."

There's a firm slam on your back, and the priest grits out, pained, and more grateful than anyone you've ever heard. "I've got your back, you son of a bitch."

You can't release your invocation to Mercy. There's a desperate need for protection. To stay on your feet. To exercise the will of the Goddess.

To heal, to protect, to restrain, and to show compassion is to be Merciful.

(3/4)

>>4206086
You and Cyril make quick work of disposing of the body, without interference from any prying eyes. Brother Trebbeck has killed, many Times before, as have almost all of your allies. You are not a killer, and this was a matter of self-defense. Brother Murdac died like a dog, and is buried with as much grace. The Goddess of Compassion is with you, and spots of gold swim in your eyes as he is buried in an unmarked grave, far outside the outskirts of Calunoth. You insisted on not dumping him in the river, though it feels as if ever step back into the city is sending another crack through your soul.

Having spent upwards of three days before with your lover, there is no fracture in your mind, nor any pain in your heart. There's a deep-seated longing, an intense need for more, as you make your way back to a familiar bend in the river in the hands of Mercy. The stream winds through the slums of Calunoth, and thanks to the relatively untainted water, you can make short work of washing the blood and bile off of your face. You may have seen your reflection at some point, but it's irrelevant.

Collapsing next to a dear friend, placing your Relic back around your neck, you finally release the last of the invocation.

https://youtu.be/mYas4yGadq8

The last Time you were this tired, you had abused Dream Himself. Having invoked Vengeance without killing another, capturing the regeneration of Flesh, utilizing your Relic to heal a man who never rightfully should have weathered Storm, stayed with the Goddess of Mercy and restrained yourself, and even ran halfway across the city this morning, there's more than gold dancing in your eyes. There's spots of black, and more exhaustion than a man should be capable of enduring.

It occurs to you that there is stone behind your back and head. It's hard to feel your legs, for how sore they are. There's a numbness in your arms, from carrying your sword for hours without even thinking to holster it. Your hair is damp, and probably disheveled, as you recline in the late afternoon sun. There's little shade, though a Storm is still on the horizon. Heat and flame is still in your body, though not of the Goddess or God. It's hot, you may be running a fever, and you know you're at your limit. There's still a metallic taste on your tongue. You have not felt thirst in nearly four years, but there's an intense urge to be rid of the reminder of blood and rot. Still, it brings you comfort.

Turning your head, to see Cyril collapsed against the ground in a similar fashion, you're greeted with a smirk. There's a lot more warmth in his eyes, as he glances away, back up towards the setting sun.

"I think you're onto something, you know that?"

It's a little too difficult to speak, for the weariness sinking into you, but you manage, "oh?"

"The Gods really are Merciful."

(Options in next post.)

>>4206089
(All of the following may not be mutually exclusive, save for options E1 and E2. Please discuss among yourselves if you'd like to place priority on any options, or in what order you'd want to address them. Any active opposition will be taken into full account.)

>A] That was a fucking experience. Take just a minute to digest everything, and try to talk to Cyril.
>1] Thank him again for saving your life. You may have immediately returned the favor, but you're really stunned.
>2] He should have died. He should be crippled or injured for life. He didn't have to put himself out there like that. You could have protected him. You don't want to thank him, you just need to express your shock.
>3] No one who you've use your Relic with had the ability to even discuss it after the fact. You're reeling, but want to try and express how much his trust and alliance means to you. Period.

>B] It's tasteless and awful to ask, but you can't help yourself. You've told this man your life story, and he's got more issues than you can shake a stick at. It's only fair to know.
>1] He killed his parents. Now that you aren't trying to manage Gods in your mind and a holy Relic in your hand, you want to know. It's not going to sit right with you otherwise.
>2] He's got no real home or family. It's not your place to dig up his past if he's not ready to tell you, but what is going on with Elena?
>3] It's no wonder he doesn't sleep well. Maybe you can help? Maybe Brother Wilhelm can help? Does he want help?

>C] As a man of all the Gods, you know abuse when you see it. Cyril is leaning on Flesh for support, and not in a healthy way. Try to tactfully broach the subject. Try to be understanding. Try to not get upset.

>D] You're upset. Plainly tell Brother Trebbeck that you know his relationship with his patron is completely unfair. He's able to invoke the God of the Material without ill effect, despite his behavior. It's not right. Why are you so hurt by your own invocations of Flesh?
>1] It's tragic. You've served the Gods diligently, all your life, and know Flesh hasn't forsaken you. It's not right.
>2] You're shaken. What does this mean for you? Are you broken? Is there something wrong with you? You don't understand, and you need answers.

>E] You feel like death warmed over and the sun is fading fast.
>1] Don't risk putting anyone else at risk. Find a place to crash in the slums. You can talk when you've had some sleep.
>2] It's dangerous, but resting so close to where Brother Murdac died might be riskier. See if you can get safely back to The Honey Bee. It's halfway across the city and behind a checkpoint, but you're resourceful. You're cunning, and clever, and have a strong ally at your side.

>F] Write-in.

(After that monster of an update, I'll likely be out and about for the remainder of the day! Got work this week and updates will be 1-2 a day, thanks so much you guys and looking forward to writing again very soon! I'll still be around for questions and anything else you may need so don't be shy.)

>>4206094
>A] That was a fucking experience. Take just a minute to digest everything, and try to talk to Cyril.
>3]
Let's talk about the touching subjects after we rest

>>4206110
+1

>>4206094
E1

>>4206094
>>A] That was a fucking experience. Take just a minute to digest everything, and try to talk to Cyril.
>1] Thank him again for saving your life. You may have immediately returned the favor, but you're really stunned.
>2] He should have died. He should be crippled or injured for life. He didn't have to put himself out there like that. You could have protected him. You don't want to thank him, you just need to express your shock.
>3] No one who you've use your Relic with had the ability to even discuss it after the fact. You're reeling, but want to try and express how much his trust and alliance means to you. Period.

In that order.

>>4206094
>A] That was a fucking experience. Take just a minute to digest everything, and try to talk to Cyril.
>1] Thank him again for saving your life. You may have immediately returned the favor, but you're really stunned.
>2] He should have died. He should be crippled or injured for life. He didn't have to put himself out there like that. You could have protected him. You don't want to thank him, you just need to express your shock.
>3] No one who you've use your Relic with had the ability to even discuss it after the fact. You're reeling, but want to try and express how much his trust and alliance means to you. Period.

>>4206110
>>4206120
>>4206307
>>4206672
>>4206200
(Aaaaaalright guys getting in tonight's update! Going A1 > A2 > A3 and a heavy emphasis on the latter, closing out with E1, vote is locked, writing now!)

>>4207671
A few birds fly by, on the edge of the horizon. The shade is deepening, as clouds roll in, and the sunset hits over the humid streets of Calunoth. Cyril's statement hangs in the air, while you both recline in the heat, and bask in the wake of a monumental afternoon. Too weary to even sit up, you merely turn your head, and try to digest the implications of everything you've witnessed.

Cyril is calmly looking to the clouds, with a neutral expression. His breath is level because of the experience you went through. Still completely stunned, you force yourself up. Using an elbow for leverage, groaning with soreness and exhaustion, a shooting pain fires through your wrist. It's the same location from where black bile and liters of blood flowed, but you grit your teeth, and sit fully upright. Knowing full well that Mercy stayed with you to fight against the worst of the exhaustion, that it is a phantom pain and no permanent injury will linger, a murmur of thanks falls from your lips.

"The Gods are Merciful."

The Goddess ensured you stayed on your feet. You do not fear for what lies ahead, sitting fully upright, and relishing the burn in your chest and limbs. With a deep breath, you knit your hands together, and try to convey as much gratitude as you can. "Cyril."

The soft sapphire in the priest's eyes dart to you. He's healed, but doesn't bother to sit up. Smiling slightly, turning his head from the clouds, Brother Trebbeck simply asks, "yeah?"

"You saved my life."

He immediately smirks, "yeah. Well. You kind of did me a bigger favor."

Grimacing is not only appropriate, but a welcome relief from managing the will of the Gods. There's a familiar awe and respect for the Gods, fear and utter reverence as you murmur, "you took a bolt of lightning to the chest, Cyril. You weathered Storm. The full might of His servant."

He smirks back, "I guess handling Flesh and Mercy is just a casual afternoon for ya'—" your frown deepens, intensely enough the the blonde laughs, "but yeah. I guess I did."

"You should have died," you murmur. The laughter falls from your friend immediately, and he doesn't interrupt further. "There was an ill beat to your heart. Even though you survived the blow, the remnants of Brother Murdac's invocation persisted. It would have killed you in months, if you were lucky. Elena may have never seen you again— and if she did, you would have been crippled. Deaf, and worse. I could have protected you. We— I— you never had to— to go so far—"

"Hey," he sits upright, swiftly, and turns to face you. "It's alright. I mean— you're alright? Right?"

You can barely articulate yourself. "I— no one, no one who I have allied myself with— not Yech, nor Father Friedrich, or even Father Wilhelm— none of us could find a way to come to terms with— with Her gift. My meaning. Her blessing. My Relic."

(1/3)

>>4207787
You have to take a breath, and fail to compose yourself. "It— this— I don't know how to thank you. What to say. How to properly convey just how much your trust means to me. You alliance. All of this—"

"Richard," Cyril interrupts, grinning again, "it's okay. Really. I mean, all of that— that actually—" It's obvious he's at a loss for words, too. "I mean. Fuck."

You both try to think on the matter, for a few more minutes.

A few birds fly overhead, interjecting the unfathomable with a reminder of mortal affairs. The sunset is stunning, the heat is intense, and you both look disastrous.

Half an hour likely passes by.

It's impossible to articulate everything you both want to say.

Brother Trebbeck— who worships the material— gets to his feet, and holds a hand out to help you back up. "This'll hurt you more than it'll hurt me, glutton," he grins, making an exaggerated groan the minute you grab his hand.

Firing back a grimace, you mutter, "think of how ashamed Flesh would be to hear you complain—" you wince, as you're quickly pulled up, "hearing so much heresy. Honestly. A priest of Flesh! Whining about having to lift—"

You're cut short, to muffle another sound that wants to come forth. Cyril punchesy your shoulder, with the metal-lined gloves, and definitely because he knows you like it. "Dick."

Punching him back, too exhausted to put any force into the blow, there's no need to hide a genuine smile across your face. Trying not laugh, awkwardly or otherwise, you put on a parody of your own voice, and grimace anyways. "Heathen. I am far from finished with you."

There's a mockery of horror, as Cyril gives you a shoulder to lean on. While you gladly take the assistance, he plays at the ruse with a rasping, "I'm a demon of friendship, Richard. You cannot strike me down."

"It's too late for me," you murmur, as if all the life has left you. There's a laugh, as Cyril shifts you on his shoulder. You both set off, back towards the city, before you murmur, "what are the odds of finding a safe hovel nearby to collapse in?"

"Low," the former urchin frowns, "but getting you somewhere safe is the least I can do. Come on. I'll try to find a bed without too many fleas."

"That— that was an experience," you say much more quietly, as you both try to keep a steady pace. Heading away from the city, towards the outskirts of the slums, you frown, "but I meant what I said, Cyril."

(2/3)

>>4207789
"What's that," the blonde frowns back, keeping his eyes on the street.

"I would like to touch a little more on what transpired— after I get some sleep."

A broad grin fires back to you. "You got it, boss."

The light is fading fast, and not just from the sunset. You practically nod off several Times as you and Cyril move to the furthest edges of Calunoth. Rather than seek refuge in an inn, the priest makes his way to a small, quiet home. Banging on the door, the life comes back into your form. A middle-aged man, bristling with strength, dressed plainly and clearly in the midst of drinking comes to the door. The scent of beer hangs on the air, as you catch the interior of a woodcutter's home. Barrels reeking of homemade beer, piles of smoked meats, countless furs and only a few sparse pieces of ratty furniture are lit by a roaring hearth from within the dilapidated shack. The door is thick, banded with metal, and there are no open windows to speak of. It seems the man was winding down for the night, but Cyril snaps his head to you, and to the woodcutter inside. "I'm sorry for imposin', sir, but our Brother here got caught in a bad way. Saved my fuckin' life. Please. He's exhausted, and can barely walk. Getting back into the city will be a nightmare, and the streets aren't safe. I need to get him some rest before the sun's down. We'll be gone by mornin'."

The woodcutter lingers. There's either fear of you, or of the night, that's staying him from moving any more rapidly. The door creaks, as an impossibly deep voice slurs, "this ain't no house of Mercy, and I don't want no fuckin' trouble."

>A] No matter how risky it is to stay at an inn, you do not want to impose on the common man. Insist that you seek shelter at an establishment, and apologize profusely to the woodcutter

>B] You can speak for yourself. Beseech this citizen to provide you and your ally shelter from the woods at night. You are a priest of Vengeance, in serious need of safe refuge, and your work is to keep the people of Corcaea safe. Try to be kind, and don't appeal to the Gods for once in your life.

>C] This man IS obligated to shelter you, and you take no issue with stressing that fact. Intimidate him if you must.
>1] With Cyril's help. It's far from honorable, but you know you'll get results.
>2] Without Cyril's help. You're clearly at your limit, but there's still a lot to be said for the association with the Church of Retaliation.

>D] Write-in.

>>4207792
>>B] You can speak for yourself. Beseech this citizen to provide you and your ally shelter from the woods at night. You are a priest of Vengeance, in serious need of safe refuge, and your work is to keep the people of Corcaea safe. Try to be kind, and don't appeal to the Gods for once in your life.

>>4207792
>B] You can speak for yourself. Beseech this citizen to provide you and your ally shelter from the woods at night. You are a priest of Vengeance, in serious need of safe refuge, and your work is to keep the people of Corcaea safe. Try to be kind, and don't appeal to the Gods for once in your life.

>>4207792
>B] You can speak for yourself. Beseech this citizen to provide you and your ally shelter from the woods at night. You are a priest of Vengeance, in serious need of safe refuge, and your work is to keep the people of Corcaea safe. Try to be kind, and don't appeal to the Gods for once in your life.

>>4207792
>C] This man IS obligated to shelter you, and you take no issue with stressing that fact. Intimidate him if you must.
>1] With Cyril's help. It's far from honorable, but you know you'll get results.

>>4207792
>>B] You can speak for yourself. Beseech this citizen to provide you and your ally shelter from the woods at night. You are a priest of Vengeance, in serious need of safe refuge, and your work is to keep the people of Corcaea safe. Try to be kind, and don't appeal to the Gods for once in your life.

>>4207794
>>4207812
>>4207846
>>4208456
>>4208459
(Not at my desk but going to do my best to get an update out this afternoon. Vote is locked!)

>>4208735
Still leaning on Cyril's shoulder, you make no motion to even go for the door. Instead, you simply put a hand to Brother Trebbeck's chest. The silent motion insists he doesn't speak further. Dropping your arm, wearily, you firmly reply, just as the door is about to shut, "hey."

"What," the woodsman grumbles back.

It's abundantly clear that you're the primary source of his fear.

"You're a hard worker. I've ran myself ragged for my own duty. There are not enough priests of Vengeance in the country to keep our woods safe, but nothing has stopped me from trying." There's a pause, though the citizen makes no move. Exhaustion is cutting into your speech, and it's excruciating to stand still, but you grit out, "I am not concerned with the church, the Gods, or anything more than getting off my feet. I am certain you've been hard at work today. So have I. We want nothing to do with your home or your business. We do not wish to die, but I am not asking for your protection. A place to lay my head down. To get back to work tomorrow. We can be gone before sunrise."

There's a loud creak, as the door opens in full. The woodsman looks, nervously, over your shoulder and to the last of the setting sun. Glancing back to you, he plainly grunts, "don't get any of that black shit or blood on me fuckin' rugs. I want ya' both out by sunrise. Not a second later."

Nodding is the most you can manage. Relief sinks into you, despite the heady scent of animal fat and smoke within the small shack. Cyril grunts, "thank you," helping you inside without another word. You're led to the back wall, gently and slowly let down to the floor, and nearly pass out the minute you don't have to struggle to stay on your feet. Cyril simply kneels, whispering, "I'll be up all night. Keep an eye on your shitl, make sure we're safe. Don't worry about it, alright? Get some rest."

There may be the start of a prayer, thanks, or even a mundane reply that falls from your lips, but the world swiftly becomes black.

-----

No one visits you in the darkness.

A hard shake on your shoulder rouses you from deep slumber. A familiar pair of blue eyes, narrow and worn with insomnia meet yours. Cyril seems to be kneeling directly in front of you. The hearth is still roaring, and significantly more barley is in the air. It's as if you're inside a cask of beer, for how much liquor is hanging in the air. The scent of grain and poison is not on the breath of the man in front of you, though he's speaking in a low voice, right beside your ear. "Hey. Get up, you fuckin'— come on. There we go. Mornin'."

(1/2)

>>4208856
Rubbing at your eyes, shifting upright, you are immediately aware of a horrific stiffness in your neck and back. Cyril immediately gives you more space, watching intently as you stretch to try and correct the pain. It's likely that you were shifted to rest on the floor at some point, and it's been months since you've only slept on stone. Wincing, you look around to see that your host is still awake. He's stoking the hearth, eating some sort of smoked meat, and is eyeing you as if you'll kill him at any moment.

"We need to go," Cyril curtly whispers, giving you a hand to get up. The blonde stands fully upright, shifting slowly, having stayed up all night without rest.

There's a faint chirping of birds outside. Suspecting you slept through the night without event, getting back to your feet, and quickly confirming everything is still on your person only takes a moment. It's obvious that the pain in your spine is from having slept on a scabbard for the entire night. The long sword is still in place, and you almost grab for it.

The woodsman gets to his feet, urgently and with visible threat. Having set down the tankard and meat in hand, looking to you and Cyril with squinted eyes, he growls, "so. The fuck is going on?"

Cyril bristles. "Thank you, again, but we'll be seein' ourselves out."

"Cut the shit. No black priest would be caught dead with a bodyguard. I knew you had some game, but I wasn't about to let you both get mauled."

There's a grimace, that almost rivals your own, as he continues, "There's not much that'd fuck you up that badly. Not out in the woods. What evil are you bringin' on me? Runnin' from Mauseburg makes no sense, you coulda stopped in Beorward. Runnin' out of the city, then? Someone chasin' you? I need some fuckin' coin if you expect me to keep my mouth shut. I did you right, but if you're expectin' me to put my neck on the line— or if yer not a priest at all, I'm gonna need a good fuckin' explanation—"

You've heard it since you were a boy: to lie is to sin. Honesty is a tenet of Mercy— one you took prior to becoming the Father of Her church. Truthfulness is a virtue of all clergy of your kind, regardless of age or status. The priest of Flesh at your side has no such qualms, as his concerns lie not with compassion. The servant of the material— even as your superior within the rank and file of the clergy— is your ally. Enabling a lie by omission, or doing so yourself, still is tantamount to blasphemy.

(Options in next post.)

>>4208859
>A] You've sworn to your Goddess and lover to uphold the truth, no matter the cost. Risk an altercation, and be straight with the man who sheltered you in your Time of need. He ultimately did demonstrate one of Mercy's virtues, and he knows it.
>1] Make it clear that you do not want to fight. He might construe it as a threat, given that you're the prior leader of the church of restraint and have a bad reputation. Still, you want everyone present to know you don't intend to hurt anyone.
>2] Make no promises you can't keep. Simply come clean about having to hide for your safety, and see how he responds.

>B] This is an EXTREMELY delicate situation, and you know sin can be forgiven. Don't answer. Let Cyril come up with a story, and get out of here as fast as possible.
>1] Help bribe the man if necessary. You're carrying a small armory, after all.
>2] Intimidate him, if necessary. It's ugly, and might bite you in the ass, but you want immediate results.

>C] You trust Cyril, but you don't necessarily trust his intelligence. Lie, like your life depends on it. (A ROLL MAY BE REQUIRED. WRITE-INS MAY MAKE A HUGE DIFFERENCE.)
>1] Deny all evidence. The story is convoluted enough already. Stick to what the man is accusing you of. It may protect him if he's asked about your activity, and you run little chance of this coming back to you if he runs his mouth.
>2] Stick close to the actual story, but fudge the details. It could put you all at risk, but you'll at least be making the effort to uphold your tenets.

>D] Write-in.

>>4208860
>C] You trust Cyril, but you don't necessarily trust his intelligence. Lie, like your life depends on it. (A ROLL MAY BE REQUIRED. WRITE-INS MAY MAKE A HUGE DIFFERENCE.)
>2] Stick close to the actual story, but fudge the details. It could put you all at risk, but you'll at least be making the effort to uphold your tenets.
Let’s give this man a piece of what happened, but leave the more bothersome details out. We don’t need to involve an innocent in this mess

>>4208860

>>D] Write-in.

If you don't want to be put at risk, it would be in your own self interest that you forget we were ever here. If you are afraid that someone might come asking questions, it would be better if you didn't have any answers, no? I see that you are a clever man, one that would help the church without ulterior motive. That should be enough to sate anyone's curiosity.

>>4208887
>>4208890
(Back home, going to combine these as best as I can. No roll should be required, totally legit explanation and very reasonable. Seriously nice shit dudes. Vote is locked, writing now!)

>>4209339
In a low voice, and devoid of any physical threat, you stay right in place. Your only motion to move an arm out, to encourage Cyril from moving forward and making things any more tense.

"If you don't want to be put at risk," you murmur to the woodsman, "it would be in your own self interest— that you forget we were ever here." He moves to speak, but in a much firmer tone you continue, "if you are afraid— that someone may come asking questions— it would be better if you didn't have any answers. Am I mistaken?"

A fair amount of thought and scrutiny is being directed towards you, from a face worn with sun and toil. The behemoth of a man relaxes his shoulders, almost imperceptibly, and it's enough. You move to leave, murmuring as you walk past, "it could not be clearer that you are a clever man. One that would help the church without ulterior motive." At the door, you turn, and look to your host with legitimate sympathy. "I would hate to involve a guiltless soul in our affairs."

All of you remain standing, tense, but keeping a respectable distance. The woodsman gestures for you to step further aside, and starts removing the barricades and locks from the door. A mutter is directed to you, "yeah. Well." There's a grunt, as he shifts a large metal plank to the floor. "Got a decent head on your shoulders, if I've seen one. If anyone comes knockin', I didn't hear shit. Some fuckin' truth."

With a rough gesture, the door is opened, back out to fresh air and immediate relief from the hearth. Rain is coming down in a light fog, evaporating off of rock and trees alike under the light of morning. It's humid to an extreme as you step back outside, to the edge of Calunoth. The light mist is providing almost no relief from the heat and encroaching thunderstorms, but you pay no mind. Cyril quietly steps out, not even nodding to your host as the woodsman lingers. Hanging behind the door for a moment, he grumbles, "managed not to bleed out on the rug, passin' the whole night on the floor. Though ye would sleep like shit. Can't imagine what ye were chasin', to sleep like that."

With a final nod, moving to close the door before you can reply, the man's voice drops further. A crippling fear of Vengeance drips from every last word, hanging in the air after the door slams shut.

"Hope whatever it was doesn't come back."

Birds continue to chirp, off in the distance. The forest stretches away, as you and Cyril promptly begin walking. The mutual agreement is not on your destination, but to get further away from the small shack.

(1/2)

>>4209469
It's difficult to avoid scrutinizing Cyril's appearance, as you make your way along the border of the slums. The lightning bolt clearly set his clothes aflame, not the invocation to Flesh. There is no trace of the leather armor he was wearing, his shirt was practically burnt off where it hadn't been shredded, and he's loosely wrapped a cloak around his upper body to not look utterly ridiculous. Odd scars still streak across his chest, mirroring his veins, in a deep and angry red. There's flecks of gold dotting his shoulders, where your dual invocation fell from his very eyes. The reddened copper is gone, and no other trace of the metal persists. Mortal irises flit over to you, still in a warm blue, but everything else is reddened with exhaustion. Slouching, clearly exhausted, Brother Trebbeck looks to you with a laugh. "Now who's staring?"

Avoiding eye contact is always appropriate. The floor should be a fairer view.

Dried blood and bile sticks to the soles of your shoes, almost masked by the dark hue of the leather. There's more of the substance on your robes, in the devastatingly tasteful black that you assumed yesterday. They're still obscenely flattering, but it's inescapable that there is evidence of a life lost, and an imperfect invocation. Though your hood is up, you're certain that you must look nearly as haggard as the blonde at your side.

"They will be looking for us," you murmur. "A priest of Vengeance, and of Flesh."

"I have an idea," Brother Trebbeck sighs, stopping your procession, "but I don't think you're gonna' like it."

"Go on," you frown, coming to a halt, and certain beyond all doubt that the floor is not a fairer view. Having to acknowledge Agriculture's blessing, and a figure befitting solely of Her church is less than ideal.

Neither is Cyril. He's grinning. It's the same look he gets when he talks about The Rub and Grub Pub.

"I already can tell this is going to be a terrible idea," you dead-pan.

"Listen," he continues to leer, "I think we can manage it. Loan me your shirt. I'll run into town, get us something to disguise ourselves with, and come right back."

"This is a terrible idea."

"You're shit at bartering," Cyril plainly asserts, "and way more recognizable. It'll be fine. You trust me, right? I'm sure it won't take too long."

(Options in next post.)

>>4209471
(A and B are mutually exclusive. C and write-ins may not be mutually exclusive.)

>A] You don't trust Cyril's ideas as far as you can throw him— which is at least some distance. Politely tell Cyril that the idea isn't terrible, but you would prefer to go into town yourself. A makeshift hood should be sufficient to disguise your appearance, to start. (A ROLL MAY BE REQUIRED.)
>1] You're dressed too finely to not raise questions in the slums, but maybe you can get away with it past the checkpoint. With the nearby poison and demons about, a cloth over your face should work nicely. Not having to disguise your well-groomed speech or soft-spoken nature should make it much easier if there are any questions, too.
>2] Take your chances in the slums. You can't easily change clothes with Cyril, but you can mess up what you're currently wearing, at least. Pretend as if you have a facial deformity or wound, and use some filthy bandages for good measure. Not having to pass through a checkpoint is at least one less hurdle.

>B] It's way more trouble than it's worth for you to go with Cyril, or to get some supplies in his stead. Trust his judgement, give him something to wear, and wait it out.
>1] Don't make any suggestions. Simply ask him where he intends to go. Swear on all the Gods you're coming to kill him, or whoever assaults him, if he keeps you waiting.
>2] Ask him if there's any way he can try and acquire multiple outfits. Give him your bag as well (after taking out anything personal or particularly vital), and see if he can stock up on some disguises. It's a long way back to Ofelia's home, and you don't want to have this be a recurring issue.

>C] This might be the most peace, quiet, and privacy you get for some Time. Before you or Cyril go running off, there's something you want to say. He's running himself into the ground trying to help you.
>1] You know he's going through a lot, and want to offer some kindness and support.
>2] Plainly tell him he needs to take better care of himself, and don't sugar-coat it.
>3] Sleeping on yesterday's events only has you reeling harder. You need to talk to Brother Trebbeck about the use of your Relic.
>4] You're probably wanted for killing one of the few priests of Storm in the country. This likely has made the situation a LOT worse. It may be a good idea to touch on what this could mean for both of you, regardless of whether anyone finds out or not.

>D] Write-in.

>>4209473

>>D] Write-in.

Just change the color of our shirt to something else, perhaps a priest of Mercy. Priests of Flesh are common enough that seeing one as the bodyguard of a Mercy priest shouldn't raise any questions, the brothers aren't going to look for their own people.

Also

>1] You know he's going through a lot, and want to offer some kindness and support.
>2] Plainly tell him he needs to take better care of himself, and don't sugar-coat it.

And if he seems sound of mind touch on

>3] Sleeping on yesterday's events only has you reeling harder. You need to talk to Brother Trebbeck about the use of your Relic.
>4] You're probably wanted for killing one of the few priests of Storm in the country. This likely has made the situation a LOT worse. It may be a good idea to touch on what this could mean for both of you, regardless of whether anyone finds out or not.

>>4209473
>C] This might be the most peace, quiet, and privacy you get for some Time. Before you or Cyril go running off, there's something you want to say. He's running himself into the ground trying to help you.
>2] Plainly tell him he needs to take better care of himself, and don't sugar-coat it.

>>4209485
+1

>>4209485
>>4209504
>>4209709
(Great! Good shit guys. Locking the vote here for the write-in and C 1-4, emphasis on C2. Got up bright and early for some horrific reason, maybe it's method writing. :^) Seriously though might have a little more time than usual this morning to update before work! Either way, writing now.)

>>4210075
"Cyril," you mildly start, without any trace of condescension.

The blonde can already tell you have a substantially better idea, and sighs, "yep."

"Turn around."

He complies immediately— crossing his arms, and unable to resist whistling.

https://youtu.be/Yzs9WSyZKTg

Making quick work of tossing off your robes, unfastening your shirt, and throwing it to Cyril, there's a little satisfaction as it lands perfect over his head. The priest fusses for a second with the cloth, whipping it off of his face. Your robes are back on in full by the Time he spins around to complain, "seriously?"

Smirking, placing a hand to your robes, you murmur, "gold. As close to the King's guard as possible."

"The fuck didn't I think of— ah. Ahaha." From the recesses of black dyes shines a brilliant, golden hue. It's every bit as garish on your pale skin as you remember it. "Oh. Wow. Is that—"

The two tones compete for the briefest of moments, soaking in the blood and grime around it. Stopping his whistling, Cyril takes a few steps closer, and squints. "Huh. Nice."

Recalling how clean your robes were this morning, you can't help but turn around, to try and inspect every angle of the fabric. There's no trace of any dirt, bile, or so much as a stray drop of blood. The color is garish to an extreme, catching on the light with ease wherever you move. It's easily the least flattering thing you've ever worn, and does no favors for your silhouette. Grimacing once again, you mutter, "it's hypocritical— really. A church of restraint, making regular use of gold thread— they typically do not use actual gold, mind, but cheaper metals, or a thin plating. The gold itself is reserved for the Father—"

"Black's a better look," Cyril is struggling not to laugh, interrupting, and patting you hard on the back. Making fast work of changing out his abysmal attire, "but we'll be back soon enough." He fails to not laugh, "gotta' say, though— you're brilliant, mate."

Staring at the man, lips quirking up with a light laugh, you groan, "wait—"

"No can do!" He always tears the sleeves off his shirts. Cyril's biceps (you try to not think of them as buff, and fail, but they still) are undeniably huge. Shredding the top of the hem with no regard for the garment's integrity, the entirety of both his arms are revealed once again. Fastening a belt around the tunic that is the rest of the shirt, he grins broadly to you, "thanks, though."

"No one will think twice," you sigh, "of a priest of Flesh accompany a priest of Mercy within the city. We're common enough, and will hopefully be unrecognizable."

(1/2)

>>4210092
There's no escaping the sight of blood on the soles of Cyril's feet, or the faintest traces of the scar on his chest. The deep, crimson scarring extends up to the top of his collarbones and the base of his neck. You make a slight gesture to the area, and he promptly tosses the shredded shirt over it as a makeshift cloak. "Good lookin' out."

"Someone needs to look out for you," you bluntly reply. "You are running yourself into the ground on my behalf." He frowns, and shifts with visible discomfort. "I appreciate your efforts— more than I can say—" you firmly continue, "but you will be of no use to our work if you stop taking care of yourself."

There's more shifting, as the priest of Flesh looks borderline pensive. He manages to stop moving, for a moment, to nod for you both to get walking again.

You stay in place. "I strongly suspect this will be the last Time we can speak privately— for at least a good, long while. Are you alright?"

He's shifting, obviously with nervous energy. It's almost an insult to ask a priest of Flesh to stand still, and he can't comply, pacing, "that comment you made yesterday fucked up any chance of me sleepin', you know that?"

Frowning is always appropriate. "Which one?"

"'bout Elena. Me not bein' able to go back to her." You've never seen him look so openly upset. "You were right, of course. It's fucked. Real fucked."

Brow furrowed, you try to close the gap, and put a hand firmly to his shoulder to stop his pacing. The priest's eyes are bright, and still much warmer than you're use to seeing. Cyril is tired, and clearly distraught, but he's nowhere near as unhinged as he could be. The blonde gives you a worried look. "You gonna kiss me or some shit?"

Pulling away, you're certain he's sound enough of mind for a little heavier discussion. Maybe a little teasing.

>A] You can't resist grinning at the comment. Remind Cyril he's competing with a Goddess, but keep the teasing to a minimum. You really want to actually discuss what happened with your Relic yesterday.

>B] Disregard the comment entirely. You're not amused. You're actually curious. There can't be any way Cyril's experiences with Flesh are anything like your connection with Mercy, but what about how he experienced the dual invocation?

>C] Tease Cyril mercilessly for the suggestion. You're not letting him forget a comment like that so easily, especially when he loves bullying you. Drop it when he's had enough, and get back to business quickly, though.

>D] Write-in.

>>4210093

>>A] You can't resist grinning at the comment. Remind Cyril he's competing with a Goddess, but keep the teasing to a minimum. You really want to actually discuss what happened with your Relic yesterday.

Blow him a kiss.

>>4210093
>>A] You can't resist grinning at the comment. Remind Cyril he's competing with a Goddess, but keep the teasing to a minimum. You really want to actually discuss what happened with your Relic yesterday.

>>4210093
>>A] You can't resist grinning at the comment. Remind Cyril he's competing with a Goddess, but keep the teasing to a minimum. You really want to actually discuss what happened with your Relic yesterday.

>>4210093
>D] Considering what I’ve seen and felt, if a kiss can ease you I’ll have no problem in doing it

>>4210097
>>4210106
>>4210324
>>4210415
(That's just about unanimous with no active opposition, but just to be 100% clear: you guys are fine with teasing, and overtly gay connotations? To put it plainly, I have no issued writing whatever character development your collective heart tells you to follow, or wherever that goes. Just want to be clear to avoid any miscommunication or portraying our protag in a way that anyone would be seriously unhappy with.)

>>4210598
fine by me

>>4210598
Teasing's fine, but I don't know about the overt connotations. We are sort of involved with a goddess, and I don't see why what we have with Cyril needs to go beyond brotherhood - banter's fine, but seriously telling him that we'd kiss him seems a little bit much to me (in reference to the write-in).

>>4210666
+1

>>4210603
>>4210666
>>4210860
(Gotcha, appreciate the feedback. We'll keep it platonic and get to the Relic discussion pronto. Vote is locked! Currently away from my home desk but I'll try to get an update out ASAP.)

>>4210900
It's just not in your nature to be merciless, even when it comes to innocent teasing. Beating down a strong urge to do so much as blow Cyril a kiss, you can't resist at least grinning, "please. As if you could provide any contest for the very Goddess of Compassion— M-Mercy—!"

You're hit with the damned metal gloves on the side of your arm, in a burst of heat and *fantastic* pain. Your savior smirks, as if he's able to catch the spots of gold dancing in your eyes. Cyril definitely avoids setting eyes on the heat adorning your face, keeping his distance, and audibly smirking, "as if I'd take advantage of a target this easy. I told you, Richard. Bullying is reserved for priests of Mercy. My Flesh, on the other hand—"

"My *Relic*—!" you tactfully interrupt, utterly incapable of hiding how flustered you are. "If we could *please* change the subject."

Crossing his arms, visibly relaxed from getting some physical tension out, Cyril's smirk intensifies. "Sure."

With a level breath, resisting every urge to press onto the bruise you're certain is blossoming on your upper arm, you at least hold onto the spot. It's an enormous comfort, between the pressure, pain, and the ring on your left hand. They're searing with an equal amount of heat. "Mercy. Her gift— and the way that She has worked with Flesh through me— it was *entirely* different before. The invocation was almost unbearably intense. This—"

Cyril looks to you like you're utterly insane. "Holy shit. There's no fuckin' way you could have. Is that— that has to be why. Fuck, Richard." He runs a hand through his hair, repeating, "holy *shit.*"

"I can safely say I have never experienced such an invocation with a clear mind," you delicately reply. The priest is too floored to express anything further, and goes silent, looking to you for an explanation. "My Relic is a vessel," you try to explain, "yet I believe you still felt Flesh, as well. Were you— after Brother Murdac's attack, I was scarcely able to mend you even with Her full grace. I am— *what* did you feel?"

The priest at your side is visibly shaken, but he keeps his lips tight, sternly looks to you, and struggles just as badly to articulate the experience. "It was intense. More than usual. I know what I've got with Flesh isn't anythin' like you and Mercy, but I haven't ever felt so much. I thought— I knew it was right. It's always good, but," Brother Trebbeck gives you a guilty look, "I didn't stop to think I was losin' myself until you said something. Cleared up a lot of things."

(1/2)

>>4211062
Taking the hand off of his bangs, the priest firmly asserts, "why I'm fighting. Why He works through me." More earnestly, and with a much milder motion, Cyril puts a hand to your shoulder. "Why we're working together. It was all something I already knew— I just— it *felt* right, Richard. I know I haven't deserved Him, or any of this, but—"

His hand comes off your shoulder, bothered. "Right? What—" he looks to your chest, the locket concealed by your robes, though the gold chain holding it is plainly visible. "I know you didn't do anything fucked to me. You saved my life. Gave me back more than that. I'm gonna be able to see, and hear, and be there for my little dew drop when this is all over— but *what* did we *do* back there? The fuck was that? Is that— is that normal for you? Is it always that intense?"

>(Please note that the prior vote to touch on the death of Brother Murdac will be incorporated when appropriate!)

>A] Cyril probably doesn't need to know that invocation is usually a LOT more intense for you. This is curious, though. Maybe your Relic mellows your connection to the Gods, so you can make better use of Them?

>B] What WAS that dual invocation? Try to make some sense of what you experienced, with your mind not split into three. Maybe talking it out will illuminate something, even if it disturbs your friend.

>C] Cyril may be a veteran of invoking Flesh, but he's no leader, and far from the brightest candle in the church. Get back to The Honey Bee, and try to run this by your research partner.
>1] Only if Cyril is okay with it, and only with however much he's okay disclosing. He's shown you nothing but respect (where it counts), and you want to do the same for him.
>2] As a priest of Mercy, you will deal with nothing but the whole truth. Plainly tell Cyril you want to go over all of this with Sister Cardew, and possibly the other two mortals you've allied with. Father Friedrich and Father Wilhelm need to be in on this, too.

>D] Write-in.

>>4211066
>B] What WAS that dual invocation? Try to make some sense of what you experienced, with your mind not split into three. Maybe talking it out will illuminate something, even if it disturbs your friend.

>>4211066
>>B] What WAS that dual invocation? Try to make some sense of what you experienced, with your mind not split into three. Maybe talking it out will illuminate something, even if it disturbs your friend.
>>C] Cyril may be a veteran of invoking Flesh, but he's no leader, and far from the brightest candle in the church. Get back to The Honey Bee, and try to run this by your research partner.
>>1] Only if Cyril is okay with it, and only with however much he's okay disclosing. He's shown you nothing but respect (where it counts), and you want to do the same for him.

>>4211066

>>B] What WAS that dual invocation? Try to make some sense of what you experienced, with your mind not split into three. Maybe talking it out will illuminate something, even if it disturbs your friend.

I personally think the Relic dilutes invocations to allow them to mix with each other. Also

>C] Cyril may be a veteran of invoking Flesh, but he's no leader, and far from the brightest candle in the church. Get back to The Honey Bee, and try to run this by your research partner.
>1] Only if Cyril is okay with it, and only with however much he's okay disclosing. He's shown you nothing but respect (where it counts), and you want to do the same for him.

>>4211072
>>4211074
>>4211076
(Back home from work, locking the vote here! Writing now.)

>>4211387
There were 50+ enemies crawling through the abandoned church of Mercy, 14 demons on you, 4 knives in your back, 2 deities in your mind, and a single fracture in your soul so intense it's persisted to this day. Insanity soaks into your voice, as you dig a few fingers into the bruise on your upper arm, and smile slightly to Cyril. "Yes. It typically is far more intense.."

"Well." Your ally blinks, significantly more shaken. "Fuck. It's a miracle you're still with us, isn't it?"

https://youtu.be/N52VD2LzQmw

Like your counselor instructed you, over four solid months of solitude and rest, you take a few level breaths. There are birds chirping in the forests outside of Calunoth. The sunrise is magnificent, pouring pinks and yellows onto the mist littering the stone and dirt beneath your feet. The air smells of potential. Potential for a new harvest. There's been a harvest already, of flowers blossoming, and the gift of Agriculture in every inch of you. There's blood. There's blood under your nails, and there's pain, and relief, and an acute reminder each and every Time you are blessed with an injury that you are loved and will not suffer.

Deep breaths.

With a slightly less insane, but still utterly disturbed mutter, you manage, "what was that invocation?"

"Hey." Brother Trebbeck shifts again. He's not restless, or afraid. Gently, he pulls at your hand, to get you to stop exacerbating the slight injury on your upper arm. "Cut that shit out. What did you just tell me?"

Fidgeting with the ring on your hand is a significantly safer option. You fire a grateful look to the priest, keeping your hands occupied with the warm gold. "Right. Yes. Well."

"I was really hopin' you can tell me," Cyril mutters, "but are you with me?"

"Yes," you immediately murmur in return. The sun is shining. The birds are singing. You are not surrounded by broken glass, or ripping serrated knives out from right next to your spine.

"We're going to see Harriet when we get back?"

"I was about to make the very same suggestion."

He's eyeing your hands like they're weapons. "You gonna be okay 'til then?"

The symbol of your church comes out quickly, as you show your open palms, and make no further motion to draw out any further pain. "I can think of no better way to return your respect, Cyril, than to go with your judgement on this matter."

"Can you," he sighs, looking skyward, clearly losing his composure, "can you just spell this shit out for me? I feel like I'm goin' crazy too."

Torn between a nervous laugh and a grimace, you manage both. It's far from ugly, and Cyril immediately looks horrified. "Sorry," he laughs back, a little uglier.

Both of you laugh lightly, trying to not lose your minds under an open sky.

"No," you manage, collecting yourself. "No. It— you have a point."

(1/4)

>>4211586
"You got a good head on your shoulders," the blonde continues to apologize, looking mortified beyond all reason. "Got me sorted yesterday, didn't you?"

"Really," you insist, straightening up a little further. "I know this is all extremely overwhelming. If— if I may?"

Slouching a little less, Brother Trebbeck glances up to meet your grimace. "Yep."

"Mercy permitted me to invoke Her, in an attempt to heal you. Your injuries were beyond Her capabilities, possibly due to Storm's influence. She implored me to use my Relic, to unite our strengths. To heal you."

"And— the Gods normally talk to—" Cyril sighs, straightening up a little further. "You know what? Fuck it. Go on. Yep."

Not missing a beat, you continue, "Flesh immediately came to you, despite having just invoked Him. You were pushing yourself to your absolute limit. I strongly suspect that your behavior was exacerbated by such frequent invocation—"

He's not offended, just surprised. "Do I want to know how the fuck you would know that?"

It's been a long five months of recovery. You know better. "No."

"Mhm." A few years you gave to Brother Trebbeck's life might fall off of him. "Go on."

"Despite the state you were in, you not only accepted my aid— you willingly allied yourself with me. Am I mistaken?"

The sapphire in Cyril's eyes softens a little further. "Nah. Spot on. You heard all the sappy shit I had to say, didn't you?"

"Of course," you immediately reply, trying to ease up on your grimace. "There was undeniable evidence of the alliance, prior to the pact we exchanged. I have— I have witnessed such an event twice before. From my own works my own pacts— and I have enabled it once between two others. It seems that the Relic manifests something physical from the union."

"So. Wait. Why the fuck did we need to split the alley in half? And— Richard. Do you think all that gold is still there—"

"It is not important," you murmur, much more focused on a theory.

Cyril gives you a puppy-dog face, joking for only a moment, before seeing how deep in thought you are. "What's wrong?"

"What if— what if my Relic is diluting the invocation?"

"What now?"

"What we experienced was a fraction of the intensity of my prior invocations." All of the color leaves Cyril's face, realizing you've done this many Times before, "Particularly with multiple deities, at once or otherwise. Simultaneously— typically— it leaves a permanent effect."

(2/4)

>>4211591
You place a hand over your heart, nestling your Relic between your skin, the robes of Mercy, and Her symbol. "This. This is Her gift. I cannot hope to tell you how much I sacrificed to obtain it. I scarcely know how to wield it. It seems obvious— having shared my Relic with someone other than a demon, or three Gods at once—" Cyril looks as if he needs to sit down, but you continue, "having experienced a more mild invocation, I believe that this particular use is clear."

"Sure," the priest beside you breathes, as if his soul has left his body. "What might that be?"

There's more soul and life in you than ever. "My first allies were, still are, and always have been the Gods themselves, Cyril. It is only fitting— to be capable of sharing Their works with another. We were able to heal you, in ways only both Mercy and Flesh could. I did not need to suffer another break in my mind, or endure a fracture of my soul. You were granted relief from your pain, and insight beyond mortal comprehension."

"Only—" more verve still comes into your voice, and a passion you usually reserve for the Gods, "only through working together, and uniting our strengths, were we able to truly save your life. The Gods are Merciful, Cyril, and They— Mercy— has made the impossible, possible. You— you said it yourself."

"Yep," Cyril mutters, actually sitting down, and looking up to you with wide eyes.

You sit down beside him, immediately, taking care to move the scabbard on your back to the side. "Are you alright," you murmur, trying to keep your voice level.

"You," he gestures with his hands towards you, and the locket you've been fidgeting with incessantly, "you made it happen. This is your Relic, isn't it?"

"It— it is complicated. Terribly complicated, and a very long story."

A long silence sits between you both. Brother Trebbeck looks to you, with wider eyes than usual, and mutters, "I would really like to hear it all. Sometime. Maybe when shit calms down."

With a ragged breath, trying to enjoy the dew on a few nearby flowers, the overgrown forest floor, and the company of a legitimate friend, you stifle the worst of more emotion than you should safely handle. "Brother Murdac," you mutter, restraining every horrible tone that wants to enter your speech.

"Yep."

"Our work is about to get significantly more complicated, isn't it?"

"Yep."

"Are you—" you force yourself to stop fidgeting, to turn and look to Cyril.

He has a hard look in his eyes, and grits out to you, "he deserved it. Every last minute in the street. Bastard didn't hesitate, second he realized it was you. I don't regret shit, Richard," a hand goes to your shoulder, "and I hope you don't, either."

(3/4)

>>4211598
With every intention of actually answering his question, you put off a reply for a moment longer. "How much of this are you willing to relay to Sister Cardew?"

"I'm not sparin' a fuckin' detail," he looks to you, desperately. "Would only make her job harder."

"And what of Brother Murdac?"

A few birds chirp off in the distance. A long pause hangs between you. "They'll be looking for him. Church of Spirit's gonna get involved. Vengeance after that. It's gonna be real, real fuckin' messy. I don't know. I don't think I wanna tie up Teddy—"

"Brother Wilhelm."

"Brother Wilhelm, or Ms. Banks. Not in this. They got homes, and family— lives to get back to, you know? I— I don't know. I don't know, Richard. Harriet needs to know, though. She'll have some idea. I'm sure of it."

>(A is mandatory, B is optional. It will be assumed if no prompts for B are selected that you're undecided on how you feel. The following are not mutually exclusive. If you dislike another prompt or write-in selected, PLEASE vocalize your opposition!)

>A] This is extremely overwhelming, and you seriously need some counsel. Try to get straight back to The Honey Bee. Your disguise is excellent, and you think you'll be alright. You just REALLY need to talk to Sister Cardew.
>1] ONLY Sister Cardew and Cyril, about all of this. Lives are absolutely at risk here.
>2] Sister Cardew, Cyril, and Ofelia. The assassin likely has experience with this sort of issue, and she swore to shelter and aid you.
>3] Sister Cardew, Cyril, Ofelia, and Brother Wilhelm. The priest of dream deserves to know what's going on with his allies, even if he's young. You trust him to aid you all better if he has all of the facts, and babying him will not help if any trouble does fall on The Honey Bee.

>B] The death of Brother Murdac was in self-defense, and during an invocation to Vengeance, but it was your hands that ultimately killed him.
>1] You don't regret anything. He was scum, and died like the dog he was. Let come what may.
>2] You don't regret anything, but you wish it didn't have to happen. The Storm that's to come is infinitely more worrying than any blood on your hands.
>3] You are a little bothered, primarily because of your old, positive relationship with Father Barthalomew. One of his men actively tried to kill you. What does this mean for your relations with an entire church?
>4] You're rightfully upset. This was an act of self-defense, and it's going to be held against you. Given your nightmarish reputation already, this could be a final nail in the coffin of slander. For your sake, and your allies, this never should have happened.
>5] Write-in.

>>4211601
>A] This is extremely overwhelming, and you seriously need some counsel. Try to get straight back to The Honey Bee. Your disguise is excellent, and you think you'll be alright. You just REALLY need to talk to Sister Cardew.
>4]
>B] The death of Brother Murdac was in self-defense, and during an invocation to Vengeance, but it was your hands that ultimately killed him.
>2]

>>4211626
meant A3 and B2

>>4211601
>A3
>B1
The ramifications aren't great but he definitely deserved it.

>>4211626
>>4211659
>>4211664
(Got it! I can definitely make this work. Vote is locked, writing now.)

>>4211601
A3 B1

>>4211886
(Got you mate! Really though, vote is locked. Writing!)

>>4211890
"There is a Storm on the horizon," you mutter, turning to Cyril with a harder line in your eyes. "Brother Murdac was scum. He died like a dog, and you are absolutely correct. He deserved it. I have no regrets, about anything."

The hood on your robes is adjusted, your scabbard shifted back in place. With your satchel at your side, filled with an armory, it only seems fitting to extend a hand to Cyril once you're back on your feet. "We should get moving. We owe it to our friends—" you stress, trying to not groan (or moan) as you help him stand, "all of them— to ensure they are prepared for what is to come."

"I hope you're right."

https://youtu.be/gWd6_jIT3EM

Leaving the forest behind, gritting your teeth, both you and the priest of Flesh at your side have your nerves on end. It's a terrible day for walking, given the humidity and unrelenting sun. The gold in your robes is almost blinding, and Cyril keeps ahead of you after only a few minutes of squinting. The slums are packed with men, women and children trying to escape the heat. Sitting under makeshift shelter, wincing from the drizzle of increasing rain, not a soul dares to approach either of you. There are other guards in the streets within the first hour of your procession, flitting about, trying to keep the peace.

Closer to the first walls of Calunoth is further commotion. Beggars plead and pull at the edges of your vision, not bold enough to approach you with the presence of a priest of Flesh. Sweating merchants holler, filthy vagrants make work of the building crowds, on the air are cries for Vengeance. It's difficult to pick out a single voice from the dozens of men and women bustling about. The general sentiment is that a priest of Storm is in the King's city, and is entirely to blame for the foul weather. What should be small talk has a violent edge, mellowing the closer you get to the first checkpoint.

The gates to the interior of Calunoth— so close to a district of Flesh— are far mellower than you'd expect. Given the tension in the slums, yours and Brother Trebbeck's demeanor is easily that of two men with a mission. No one gives you a second glance as you both briskly approach the gates, and there's not even a need to demand your business. Waved through without event, you rapidly approach Ofelia's place of residence, and try to not choke.

There's something foul on the air. You pin it instantly. The mist and drizzle is intensifying, bringing a little respite, but you can practically taste it. Rot is hanging, in an absence of wind, and catching against what should be a gorgeous start to the Tending Moon.

It is the month of Vengeance.

(1/5)

>>4212063
There's never been a better excuse to cover your face, simply using a handkerchief. Cyril promptly does the same with his cloak. Cutting through the district, almost in a run, you and your guard force a less conspicuous pace only when you're around the corner of the little winding road, leading up to The Honey Bee. It's almost midday, for how much ground you had to cover without raising any alarm, but the small home and its little flower baskets are quickly brought into view. No one is outside, the windows are shut, and a small sign is on the front door. Dread sinks into you, as you run up the little steps to the bakery's front porch, and see a familiar swirling script.

Closed until further notice.

Cyril doesn't wait, and promptly bangs on the door. You wince, whipping your head around to see if anyone's watching. The streets in the neighborhood are practically deserted, with only a few neighboring halflings boarding up their Storm shutters or putting away the last of their wares.

The front door to The Honey Bee blessedly opens. Sister Cardew is wearing pants. It's somehow more unsettling than the dead body you buried yesterday.

You blink. Cyril blinks.

The priestess pulls you both inside, and the door promptly is slammed shut by an unknown figure. Trying to reorient yourself, you see that the weapons are not out, but neither are any of Ofelia's usual wares. There's parchment, covering almost every inch of the dining room table, and only one other figure. Brother Wilhelm is asleep, slouched over the table, and is drooling on a fair amount of the parchment. Ofelia clears her throat, from behind you, having locked the front door. "I thought you were jokin'," she mutters, fastening several more locks, "when you said you were gonna kill 'em."

Taking a sharp breath in, you give a worried glance to Sister Cardew. The light in the house is low, from only a few lanterns nearby. The priestess has her hair tied up, and you can plainly see the lines of worry starting around her eyes. Behind broad glasses, a glare catches on the lens, masking what you're certain is a deeply concerned look. "Richard. I just heard. Ofelia got the news before I could. No one arrived to the meeting."

You're taken into a tight hug. "I was terrified. It is an enormous relief to see you both." The petite woman doesn't bother looking up, probably smudging her glasses. She pulls back after a long moment, and looks between you and Cyril. "We need to move very quickly. Please. What's actually happened?"

Brevity is not your strong suit, but Cyril is happy to relay the encounter. You handle the details and implications of the invocation, as best as you're able, and everyone has to sit down.

Ofelia is the first to break the silence. She's laughing in a desperate sort of way, and if you weren't mistaken, she sounds like she might start crying. "Hey. You know— you still— you still got that flask, Richard?"

"Yes."

(2/5)

>>4212065
"You guys got all fuckin' morning to talk. I haven't seen Yech in months, y'know that? Half a year. Could be livin' it up, fer all I know. Not havin' to deal with any of this shit. We had a thing goin'. A fuckin' demon lord, havin' anything to do with me. It's insane. A fuckin' archdemon. It was terrifying. He was a monster."

No one dares to interrupt.

"It took us nine days, y'know. Nine days. Creepin' through the city of darkness. Crawlin'. Fightin'. Carryin' you, Richard. Ray helped. He's—" her voice cracks, "he's still alive. Your boy made it, and where's my mate? Ray fuckin' made it out of there, and I never thought any of us woulda' made it. We had a thing. He thought I was a monster, too. An alliance, right? And you, and Cyril. And I guess these other guys. Your churches. Your leaders."

Her lower lip is trembling, and you are too stunned to speak. You were unconscious, after an invocation to Storm, and came to at the top of the ruins. Neither of you wanted to go over the past, but it legitimately never occurred to you what the alliance between Yech and Ofelia truly entailed.

"We have to move," Sister Cardew curtly states, looking between you and the halfling like she's having to kill Ray. "I am so sorry."

"It's fine," Ofelia sniffs. "I'm fine."

"The priests of Mercy ran to find Brother Murdac," the priestess stresses. "Ran. The Church of Spirit will be looking into his disappearance, possibly as we speak."

"It's just a body," the poisons master can't resist interrupting. "Should be piss easy to have hid."

"That is irrelevant," Brother Wilhelm yawns, dragging himself up from the table. "If the Church of Spirit cannot locate an individual who witnessed the event, the Church of Dream would be called upon. The death of a priest of Storm is monumental."

"It is a short matter of Time," in a devastatingly hurt voice, Harriet looks to you, and tries to mildly say, "Father Sullivan will take advantage. This would be all the justification they would need to take you back, Richard."

You spent eight years in darkness and restraint, from your first invocation to Vengeance. This is the 31st. With a trembling hand, you take the flask you were given from a demon of Agriculture out of your robe, and look to its base. There is a new tally mark, carved into the underside, since you last looked upon it.

Brother Wilhelm looks to you all, wide-eyed, and with a distant voice tries to break the silence. "Moths, was it?"

Anger is coating Cyril's tone, as he almost barks, "yeah. He was real clear about it."

Ray helpfully barks, dropping his head uneventfully alongside your leg. With a trembling hand, you scratch behind his ears, and try to not have a panic attack. Looking to the priest of Dream, you murmur, "you mentioned that your blessings repeat. Did you come to any conclusions, in our absence? Any further interpretation?"

(3/5)

>>4212070
It is incredibly difficult to keep a level voice. Your boy made it, and knows how much you miss an archdemon. How much you miss everyone. You have an alliance with Yech, too, but this is about everyone here.

"Yes," he mildly replies. "They are everywhere. Moths. It is as he said."

Gesturing to the parchment spread out over the table, everyone collectively pulls back their elbows, weapons, cups of tea, and Ray's current chew toy. "Sorry," Ofelia mutters, fussing with the dishware.

Straightening a few pens, Harriet and Theodore make quick work of spreading out numerous illustrations. Most are crude maps, and you do your best to not judge the lack of depth or scale. All of them have a familiar pair of eyes. "Everywhere," Brother Wilhelm repeats. "Some were brighter than others. Brother Murdac was dying. He had every reason to lie. Dream has no use for such falsehoods. I am certain that this demon can be tracked. The Dream you had, Father Anscham? It was vivid. Very vivid. The streets were clear. So is our path."

Harriet pins several of the illustrations down, and sneers, "moving frequently is an absolute necessity for your congregation. It will serve you well, too, Brother Anscham. I am confident that your interpretation of Dream was sound. There was something in your theory that gave me pause, however."

"Please," you manage, accepting Ray's gesture to practically climb in your lap, "go on."

The mastiff by your side demands that you kneel down with him, and get some proper support. You unceremoniously get on the floor beside him, and simply look up to your friends. Sister Cardew is not terrified. There's a righteous fury undercutting every word, as she grits out, "the demon of Mercy. Brother Wilhelm's trail is to pursue the demon of Agriculture, and it may lead us to your congregation. It will absolutely keep us nearest to this toxin. No one will suspect us to stay so close to guards or any representatives of the Church of Mercy. It's valid. But— your theory."

"Yes," you mutter. "Brother Murdac was insistent on informing me of Brother Morris' involvement." In a lower voice still, voice dripping with vitriol, you manage, "he made sure to send his regards."

Ofelia sneers, "cheap. Cheap and dirty."

"Excuse me," you manage, patting Ray on the head as he fires a few more accusatory looks at the source of your dismay.

"This Morris—" Ofelia grits out, stabbing a knife into the table. Theodore doesn't even wince, but levelly slides a few papers further away from her. "—not sorry, Teddy—"

The priest tilts his head, and yawns, utterly unphased.

"Morris," the assassin venomously leers, "is likely nowhere near here. Sullivan is the one nearby." In a slightly milder tone, she smirks, "I bet your fine ass on it, Richard."

A little life comes into you, but not much. "M-Mercy—"

(4/5)

>>4212073
"Don't you fuckin' start," the rogue warns, her leer dropping back into a grimace. "I bet he's the one on the ground. Pullin' the actual strings. Wantin' to get his hands dirty."

An extremely agitated look is given to you, and to Harriet, from a priest of Flesh. "Marjorie," the blonde recalls. "you think the rat bastard would've...?"

Sister Cardew puts a hand to her temple, as if she has a headache. "It's plausible. He would have gotten to her by now. We have no idea how far he's willing to go to keep his name clear."

"The door," Brother Wilhelm mildly states, as if it isn't cause for extreme panic, and everyone gets promptly to their feet, "will not hold what is coming."

A disgruntled series of complaints comes from everyone in the room, as he mellowly finishes, "I suspect we have a few minutes left. I may have misinterpreted—"

"Get yer shit," Ofelia interjects, shushing the young man and making no move to budge anything from the table.

No one moves. No one moves, at all. Every one of these men and women are looking to you. Who are willing to run, and fight, and tarnish their good names.

You are a man of alliances. There is a congregation in the holy capital of Calunoth. To associate with them means certain death.

The terms of your pardon from King Magnus were 35 pages long, but the letter itself was over 50. It detailed your dismissal, as Father of the Church of Mercy, but also spoke of further exemption from your activity in the ruins. King Magnus "the Merciful" lives up to His name, more often than not. You have every reason to believe that disbanding your congregation could put this entire nightmare behind you.

Every single one of these men and women are counting on you.

(Options in next post.)

>>4212076
(THIS VOTE WILL REMAIN OPEN FOR THE NEXT 13 HOURS, MINIMUM. ALL DISCUSSION, OPPOSITION AND WRITE-INS WILL CARRY THE SAME WEIGHT THEY ALWAYS DO.

Please feel free to ask questions or provide vocal opposition to any course of action you do not wish to pursue.

MAJORITY VOTE WILL DECIDE unless a vote can easily be incorporated into another.)

>A] Take the collective interpretation of everyone's efforts, from your visit with Dream. Follow the trail that Brother Wilhelm has laid out, to follow a demon of Agriculture. There's no Time to go over the details, but you know this young man has done his due diligence. Trust the more experienced priest's work, a vision...
>1] ...and Cyril's street savvy. Have the priest of Flesh and former street urchin get you all to a hideout, as safely as you can manage. The Honey Bee has had you all coming and going for far too long. Move, and make the Time for strategy when you can.
>2] ...and your mutual experience fighting demons with Ofelia. Ask her where she thinks the most likely target will be, given her knowledge of Calunoth. You all can cope with the insanity of your situation when this is over with, but for everything you've been through together, you think you both can handle this much.

>B] An assassin in your midst thinks a psychopath is really the one to blame for this disaster. Targeting Father Sullivan may be your best shot at tracking down your congregation.
>1] Put your intellect and Sister Cardew's research to the test. You both know Father Sullivan well. If he's the one pulling the strings, you can afford a few extra minutes of brainstorming to try and deduce his next move.
>2] You and Cyril have done a LOT of leg work in the last week, but almost everyone in your company has an issue with the leader of the Church of Spirit. Rather than focus your strengths, see if your collective efforts have some pay-off.

>C] Trust your instincts, and seek out a demon of Mercy. You are a man of faith, and are not one to ignore your feelings, no matter how irrational they may seem. Between an extremely detailed visit from Dream (on two occasions), the collective experience of your life in the Church of Mercy (all 13 years of it), the dying words of Brother Murdac, and your friends recent deductions, you have AMPLE resources to find a lead. (WRITE-IN your deduction. Your QM will happily provide points of reference through the archives for anyone who wants it.)

>>4212079
>A] Take the collective interpretation of everyone's efforts, from your visit with Dream. Follow the trail that Brother Wilhelm has laid out, to follow a demon of Agriculture. There's no Time to go over the details, but you know this young man has done his due diligence. Trust the more experienced priest's work, a vision...
>1] ...and Cyril's street savvy. Have the priest of Flesh and former street urchin get you all to a hideout, as safely as you can manage. The Honey Bee has had you all coming and going for far too long. Move, and make the Time for strategy when you can.
I don't think Ofelia will just back down after knowing all this, but ask her if she's willing to go with us

>>4212079

>>A] Take the collective interpretation of everyone's efforts, from your visit with Dream. Follow the trail that Brother Wilhelm has laid out, to follow a demon of Agriculture. There's no Time to go over the details, but you know this young man has done his due diligence. Trust the more experienced priest's work, a vision.
>2] ...and your mutual experience fighting demons with Ofelia. Ask her where she thinks the most likely target will be, given her knowledge of Calunoth. You all can cope with the insanity of your situation when this is over with, but for everything you've been through together, you think you both can handle this much.

The hunter becomes the hunted. Let's go take the fight to them, no need for shelter when you are going on a killing spree.

"Hunting demons, like the good old days"

>>4212205
+1 but without the tacky comment

>>4212076
>A2

(Work is going to be really busy today, but I'll safely be able to write as soon as I get home. Vote will remain open until then, ETA 6 HOURS!)

>>4212088
>>4212205
>>4212434
>>4212442
(Back home, vote is locked! Making note of everyone's comments and writing now.)

>>4213434
"Ofelia." With legitimate respect, rather than insecurity, you softly start, "I wish we had more Time. This ordeal is far from alright. You did more for me than venture for nine days, in the city of darkness. You stayed by my side for weeks. Through agony, and more demons than anyone should ever have to stand."

"You saved my fuckin' life," she murmurs back, "and gave me hope every fuckin' day we thought we were gonna die. You are why I'm still here, Richard, and I'm not stickin' around because of that."

"...pardon me?"

Ripping the knife out of the table in front of her, pointing the weapon to you, the assassin venomously sneers, "I'm stickin' around because yer the only thing in this whole shitheap worth fightin' for. These bastards are comin'. We don't have the fuckin' time for tea. We don't got time for shit, and you know what?"

Looking down to Ofelia, wide-eyed, you can't help but ask, "what?"

"I like it that way. The last few months have been fuckin' miserable. I can have my tea and The Honey Bee anytime, but you?" The light in her eyes flits around the room, "all of you?"

No one dares to interrupt, as the assassin meets your gaze again. "I'm not gonna have much to come home to at this rate. There's worse monsters above the ruins here— not as bad as Remi! For fuck's sake, Richard, stop givin' me that look. I'm tryin' to be nice and not get into it."

It's impossible to unstick your grimace. Sister Cardew nods to Brother Wilhelm, wordlessly, and the young man actually does move to go get something from one of the side rooms. The priestess clears her throat, and sharply informs you, "Ms. Banks and I have spoken at length about your recovery, Brother Anscham. I insisted."

Your face hurts from frowning so intensely, but there's a sick enjoyment in the expression, so you keep it. "I see."

"I asked," Ofelia plainly says. "First night ya' stayed here. I didn't forget anythin', and I know you've been through a lot. So have I. I know yer workin' hard." Tensing her hand around the knife's hilt, the small woman stashes the item on her person, before meeting your gaze again. "It's gonna all be for nothin' at this rate. We'll have our cake, and talk over tea, and cry about all this shit later. I'm not lettin' you ever get so bad again, Richard. Not if I can help it. Not when yer all tryin', and not when you need me."

It never occurred to you how sickly the yellow is in her empty eyes sockets. They're piercing, searing into you, as Ofelia grimaces. "Friends don't let friends get locked up for a third of their life! The guys we're chasin' were in the dark for a lot longer than even you. I want to help. You don't gotta take it, but I know yer no fuckin' liar, hotshot."

Taking in a deep breath, trying to not have your world collapse from hearing the old nickname, you choke out, "no."

"You know I'm hotter shit than anyone here," she smirks, letting up on the intensity of her look only slightly.

(1/3)

>>4213661
Cyril mocks offense, and teasingly reclines in his chair, shooting the halfling a dirty and silent look. Harriet knocks the makeshift hood off of his head, and begins to whisper something to him.

"Absolutely," you wholeheartedly agree.

"We've killed worse," she grins insanely, "and made friends with worse than that."

Sniffing, you put away your flask, and assert, "of course. We are not forgetting him. He would want better for me. For both of us."

"Right," the former criminal leader grits out. "We're gonna make him proud."

"Right."

"He'd want you to grind these pricks into the dirt, right?"

"Right." You pause, and thoughtfully frown, "far worse, I'm sure, but point taken."

Cyril briskly moves away from the table, nodding to you, and leaves towards the same room Theodore headed towards. Not paying the priests any mind, you catch the two women before you glancing to each other. Harriet looks to you, adjusting her glasses, and curtly says, "this is about significantly more than your congregation, or your name. We all know you are working to make this right, Richard. Even for more than a common enemy."

"Or more than just bein' friends," Ofelia grins, maliciousness lingering on the edges of her speech.

Both priests come back out of the guest room. Cyril's changed into clean trousers and a tighter shirt, and Theodore is in plain clothes. Dirt is smudged over the face of the priest of dream's mild face and unscarred arms, clearly masking himself as a peasant to draw as little scrutiny as possible. Your mace and shield are promptly set beside you and Ray, from Cyril's hulking arms. The blonde frowns to you. "We ready to move?"

Harriet sniffs, unable to hide her disdain. "You were paying absolutely no attention, were you?" Brother Trebbeck shrugs, adjusting the obscene black gloves on his hands a little further.

You glance back down to the halfling in your midst. Old insecurities, sincere appreciation, the insanity of every waking moment of your life and more compassion than a man should be capable of enduring unhinges your speech. It's timid, and you almost sound like your old self again as you murmur, "how many more of my demons do you think you can handle, Ofelia?"

"Try me," she grins back, with an equally disturbed expression.

You both hold the look for a long moment, resist the urge to hug, laugh, scream or cry, and look intensely to the maps on the table.

(2/3)

>>4213667
"The trail," you nod, to the illustrations, and to Brother Wilhelm. He yawns briefly, far from oblivious, but completely at ease. There's no reply, so you continue, "the demon of Agriculture is targeting Calunoth's people. We've fought together, Ofelia. Many times. You have lived in Calunoth longer than any of us. This demon— it is capable of destroying anything that grows. It may be associated with the church of Storm, Spirit, and Mercy. I know your knowledge of our country is still limited, but your thoughts on this matter are invaluable. Where— where do you think we should begin the search?"

Brother Wilhelm interrupts, "the door. Sorry to repeat myself. Really, this Time."

The young man is grabbed by the collar, as Cyril rapidly drags him down the hall. Calling over his shoulder, "back door," everyone is up in arms. "Everyone. Let's move."

There's an extremely loud knocking, and both priests are already out of sight. Sister Cardew gathers together every map and illustration adorning the table in a single, obviously practiced motion. Ofelia sweeps a swathe of dark blue fabric off the back of her chair, and grins to you as she puts an old friend around her shoulders. Fastening a broach in the shape of an eye above her bosom, the holder of a Magic artifact grins, "keep close. Follow me."

You take up your mace and shield. The black matte defense is slung over your back in a second, while the heft of your weapon sits comfortably in your main hand. The flanged and lethally sharp edges are infinitely safer carried than on a belt, and you shift your grip just slightly, as the pounding at the front door continues. With a firm, low tone, you turn to your best friend. His low growling ceases the instant you command, "Ray. Follow. Good boy."

Carving around the hallway, Cyril's and Theodore's frames vanish into the poisonous chamber at the end of the hall. Ofelia practically sprints ahead, gesturing for Sister Cardew to get inside. The priestess of Spirit is so petite, with her hair tied back and lacking any skirts, you almost pause. As she tosses a cloak over her shoulders, you realize Harriet has likely disguised herself as a young man to avoid any easy identification.

You usher Ray forward, bringing up the rear, and slip inside the poison master's storage room. The low lighting cast from countless vials of poison neatly masks an obscured door on the side of the building. The owner of the home makes quick work, with the help of another rogue, at barring the room completely. With your exit safely secured, you all slip out of The Honey Bee, into the streets. Something occurs to you, back in the scent of rot on the air. The streets are far emptier than usual, the weather is miserable, you're a group of six, and are bound to attract a LOT of attention.

"Where are we going," you mutter, as everyone wildly looks around the street.

(One paragraph over, 3/4)

>>4213672
"Teddy pinned one of these guys bright and clear near the neighboring district," Ofelia whispers, keeping her back flush against the building. Peering intensely around the corner, she whips her head back, and mutters, "smells like somethin's already turned."

>A] RUN. There's no pretense of your group hiding, especially with how many weapons you're carrying. A halfling alone will draw a lot of stares, but Ofelia has her cloak, and may be able to avoid detection more easily on her own. Stay on the lookout at the rear, and make sure Ray is right by your side. He'll know a threat to your person coming long before anyone else does, and you trust Ofelia's eyes more than anyone else on Aerth.

>B] BRISKLY move ahead. You can at least attempt to not arouse suspicion, though your garb and dog will almost surely identify you to anyone looking. Take the lead with Eagle Eye and Ray. Dressed as a priest of Mercy, let people make whatever assumptions they want about your company. Ask Cyril to keep on the lookout at the rear with Brother Wilhelm, and keep Harriet safe in the center of your group.

>C] CAUTIOUSLY proceed. Traveling in such a large group isn't unheard of in Calunoth, and you are certain you can stave off detection for at least a few more minutes. It's an uncomfortable thought, but split the group slightly. Assume the attire of a priest of Agriculture, and have Cyril pose as a guard for the other people in your company. Ask Brother Wilhelm and Sister Cardew to space themselves off a bit, and have Ofelia get ahead. You don't want any more trouble than you can help.

>D] This might get very ugly, very fast. For the safety of everyone in your company, you have a better idea. (Write-in.)

>>4213677
>B] BRISKLY move ahead. You can at least attempt to not arouse suspicion, though your garb and dog will almost surely identify you to anyone looking. Take the lead with Eagle Eye and Ray. Dressed as a priest of Mercy, let people make whatever assumptions they want about your company. Ask Cyril to keep on the lookout at the rear with Brother Wilhelm, and keep Harriet safe in the center of your group.

>>4213677
>>A] RUN. There's no pretense of your group hiding, especially with how many weapons you're carrying. A halfling alone will draw a lot of stares, but Ofelia has her cloak, and may be able to avoid detection more easily on her own. Stay on the lookout at the rear, and make sure Ray is right by your side. He'll know a threat to your person coming long before anyone else does, and you trust Ofelia's eyes more than anyone else on Aerth.

>>4213677
>A] RUN. There's no pretense of your group hiding, especially with how many weapons you're carrying. A halfling alone will draw a lot of stares, but Ofelia has her cloak, and may be able to avoid detection more easily on her own. Stay on the lookout at the rear, and make sure Ray is right by your side. He'll know a threat to your person coming long before anyone else does, and you trust Ofelia's eyes more than anyone else on Aerth.
SPEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEDY GONZALES

>>4213699
(Appreciate you man, but going with the majority since these are directly conflicting.)

>>4213891
>>4213924
(Locking the vote here! Seriously overslept today, going to make some coffee, wake up a bit, and will write ASAP.)

>>4214726
"There is no conceivable way we will not attract attention," you mutter. "The streets are empty, and they already know The Honey Bee's location. I'll stay back. You all know I can catch up." The order you give to is as clear as the resolve on every one of your companion's faces— and the footsteps rapidly coming from around the building. "We need to run. Push yourselves."

Pulling her hood down far below her nose, Ofelia's eyes and face are completely masked from view. Her form slips into shadow under direct scrutiny, but you're certain she's still standing in the same place. A distant voice mutters, "everyone keep together. Anyone gets separated, we'll get back to your shitshack."

No one bothers to reply, as the halfling immediately darts off, running behind the group, and down a back alley. Harriet whips her head around, taking off after her with a little more speed than you'd expect. Cyril and Theodore flank her, the former grabbing her hand outright, forcing the woman to move faster.

You feel like you scarcely need to jog from the rear. Long legs, a lifetime of running, and the extreme threat to your safety has you wanting to fly over the stone, but to stay in the back is to meet everyone else's pace. There's at least the added security of a reliable guide. Barely breaking a sweat, a few gestures are absolutely necessary to your mastiff, to slow him down, and to keep him from outright attacking anyone approaching.

Constantly glancing behind your shoulder, certain that no one has caught up, you glance back ahead. Ofelia weaves you all through narrow back alleys. The rogue is going for a convoluted route. On multiple occasions, you're certain no other party would be capable of catching every bend and turn. Luckily, you're too fleet of foot to not keep up with two women— and one half your size. Staying sharp, not getting distracted by any of the assorted stone buildings, debris littering the streets, or overwhelmed by the scent of decay on the air, you focus on your form, and your boy. Ray's low growling, despite your earlier command, is becoming incessant.

There's no indication of anyone in your company stopping. The route you've taken is so disorderly, it's difficult to gauge how far you've moved towards your destination. Before long, your dog's growling becomes a snarl. Ray is far too well trained to disobey every order you've given him to stay on your company's heels, but there's a marked viciousness cutting into his panting and whining. You whip your head behind you, hair still dry from the minimal exertion and embrace of your robe's hood.

No sight or sound of anyone is behind you. Still, you trust your boy with your life, and know that there must be someone rapidly nearing you all— someone who's scent he's already picked up on.

(Options in next post.)

>>4214821
>A] There has to be a way to get everyone to move faster, and desperate times call for desperate measures. Speaking to your allies might give away your position, but try to do something more to lose your pursuers.
>1] The Time has come. You marked Ofelia's words. Run ahead, and ask the halfling to ride on Ray. Implore Cyril to carry Harriet, if necessary. Drag Theodore, if you must. You need to get to this demon, and there isn't a second to waste.
>2] Ask Cyril to invoke Flesh, and to carry Harriet and Ofelia. You don't want to risk harming yourself, but (you're pretty certain) he can invoke the God of the Material without ill effect. Drag Theodore with you, and run behind them.

>B] Someone is on your trail, and they might be able to follow it all the way to your destination. Warn your company that you're hanging behind, hide, and scope out the enemy before doing anything. It's not avoidance, or cowardice. You just don't want to do anything rash. These could be innocent men, simply doing their jobs.

>C] You need to solve this problem, not run away from it. These men may follow you, or go to get more guards. Rather than escalate the problem, don't risk giving away anyone's position. Silently hang back, and confront the guards, to buy everyone some Time. You know you can catch up.
>1] Try to not appear hostile. Command Ray to stay down.
>2] The snarling beast of a mastiff at your side should be all the intimidation you need. You don't even need to command Ray to attack anyone that comes near you.
>3] Make it abundantly clear that you'll both fight back if they try ANYTHING.

>D] Write-in.

>>4214823
>A1
The time has Come and so has I, other options are a waste of Time.

>>4214823
>>A] There has to be a way to get everyone to move faster, and desperate times call for desperate measures. Speaking to your allies might give away your position, but try to do something more to lose your pursuers.
>>1] The Time has come. You marked Ofelia's words. Run ahead, and ask the halfling to ride on Ray. Implore Cyril to carry Harriet, if necessary. Drag Theodore, if you must. You need to get to this demon, and there isn't a second to waste.

NYOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM