>>4004914
vote c

>>4004914
FIRST POST LETS GO CATALYST AAAA

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

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

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

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

It is your obsession.

A weakness.

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

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

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

Your study lies in the soul.

In the Catalyst.

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

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

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

You are no stranger to suffering.

(2/3)

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

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

Nothing has prepared you for such a meeting.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Options in next post.)

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

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

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

>D] Write-in.

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

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

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

>Is the world ready for you?


Archive (First Arc): http://suptg.thisisnotatrueending.com/qstarchive.html?tags=Catalyst%20Quest
Discord (Update notifications, art, music, etc.): https://discord.gg/24cmNWp
Father Anscham's Journal (Guide to invoking the pantheon, Mercy's tenets, maps and more. Updated regularly.): https://drive.google.com/drive/u/0/folders/1r-yFdCSj0VJi63LsD3Vl9T0DWw4us6wn

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

>Is the world ready for you?

They better fucking be cuz catalyst is back babyyyyyy

>>4004937
seconding

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

>Is the world ready for you?

Let the legend come back to life.

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

>>Is the world ready for you?

Start the theme music

>>4004937
>>4004938
>>4004945
>>4004953
(Unanimous right off the bat, love it. Vote is locked, writing now.)

>>4004984
More screams cut across the courtyard. The five priests ahead manage to wrest open the front door, as you listen to the cacophony. More priests still are inside the building, assisting with the weight of the defense. You strongly suspect that the wood is only additional protection, for the metal that no doubt lies beneath.

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

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

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

https://youtu.be/mz5Ka4AvjQM

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

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

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

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

More come back, bleeding.

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

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

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

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

(1/2)

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

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

You are pulled back to the present moment.

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

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

"Father Friedrich has been—"

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

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

The hand comes off of your shoulder.

Everyone is looking to you, very earnestly.

Father Wilhelm is visibly sweating.

Mercy, no. He didn't.

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

He must have.

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

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

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

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

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

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

>D] Write-in.

>>4005060
>>A] Father Wilhelm did everything he could to get you here. Save your questions for later. Fend for yourself. Go in with only Ray.

>>4005060
>>A] Father Wilhelm did everything he could to get you here. Save your questions for later. Fend for yourself. Go in with only Ray.

>>4005060
>>A] Father Wilhelm did everything he could to get you here. Save your questions for later. Fend for yourself. Go in with only Ray.

>>4005071
>A] Father Wilhelm did everything he could to get you here. Save your questions for later. Fend for yourself. Go in with only Ray.

>>4005060
>>A] Father Wilhelm did everything he could to get you here. Save your questions for later. Fend for yourself. Go in with only Ray.

>>4005071
>>4005073
>>4005081
>>4005084
>>4005093
(Locking vote here. Just a head's up, I don't always and I mean almost never only do just the unanimous vote, so to anyone lurking just be aware that there's always merit in throwing in any comments or other votes, too! Writing now.)

File: Father Wilhelm.jpg (195 KB, 1024x1527)

195 KB JPG

(Had to switch computers since last thread and had to dig up old character art, managed to get everything! Missed pic of Father Wilhelm in last post, here it is now. Properly writing now.)

>>4005106
Turning as politely as you can manage from the priests, you murmur to your guide. The man who's done as much for you as anyone could possibly hope for.

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

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

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

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

"...Father."

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

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

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

One that rivals your own.

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

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

When Flesh has worked through you.

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

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

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

(1/2)

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

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

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

He's definitely about to.

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

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

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

>C] Write-in.

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

No reason to let ourselves get hit or return the blow - also demand is too harsh of a word, asking would probably be better.

File: Father Friedrich.jpg (186 KB, 1000x1414)

186 KB JPG

>>4005203
(It's a good thing this isn't a drawquest, forgot the pic again. Father Friedrich, of course.)

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

>>4005207
he hot

>>4005203
>C
>dodge and weave, like we dodged our responsibilities the last few months.

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

We can't be getting knocked around this early, and throwing one back wouldn't be Merciful.

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

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

>>4005205
Don't demand
>>4005208
>>4005216
>>4005223
>>4005228
Dodge the hit
>>4005213
Dodge and weave

(Got it. Writing now!)

File: Father Richard Anscham.png (316 KB, 1020x1131)

316 KB PNG

>>4005252
You have been training. Through old responsibility, your position at the leader of the Church of Mercy, and its many obligations.

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

You dodge.

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

Not a single scar adorns the immaculate Flesh.

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

You try launching something better than an attack in return.

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

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

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

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

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

You jump back.

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

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

(1/2)

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

"What's wrong? Sick of fighting?"

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

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

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

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

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

>A] Today.

>B] This week.

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

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

>E] Write-in.

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

>>4005468
>>C] As much as he knows has transpired, since your absence.

>>4005468
>>C] As much as he knows has transpired, since your absence.

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

Definitely both of these - maybe a question for a question type of deal? He deserves answers.

>>4005481
>>4005483
>>4005513
(Gonna lock the vote here to keep this ball rolling.)

File: Incomplete Map of Corcaea(...).jpg (2.36 MB, 2402x3200)

2.36 MB JPG

>>4005551
The urge to bet, to barter, to take in as much information as you're able is irresistible. There's a tilt to your voice, as you murmur in return, "Yes."

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

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

"Get on with it, then."

"You don't—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(1/3)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Don't say it. They wouldn't.

"—about you."

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

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

"Yes, but—"

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

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

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

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

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

Don't call me a glutton.

"Yes, Father Friedrich, but—"

(2/3)

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

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

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

"Easy, Ray."

"Is he always like this?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Don't disappoint me."

(Options in next post)

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

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

>C] Write-in.

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

Staying secluded from the others of the clergy isn't lying.

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

>>4005854
>>4005906
(Locking this to do what's probably the last update for the night, gotta get some sleep. I'll be back with more tomorrow! Writing now, though.)

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

File: Continent Level Map.png (4.15 MB, 2985x1278)

4.15 MB PNG

>>4005854
>>4005906
>>4006032
The seconds drag on, as Father Friedrich completely fades from sight. A thin trail of red smoke billows from around the corner, evidence of the man's immediate invocation of Flesh. It's a certain sign of how dire the situation must be.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(1/2)

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

Are there other human civilizations, beyond our borders?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Knock, knock."

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

(2/3)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

>E] Write-in.

(I'll be back in no more than 12 hours, with our usual schedule! At least one update a day for the remainder of the thread, hopefully more. Thanks again everyone.)

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

>>4006051
>>B] Take up your mace and shield. Serve the Church of Flesh with your own body.
>2] You might not be fooling anyone. Go as you are.

THE CHURCH DIDNT RAISE A COWARD

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

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

Gotta be cautious in our current situation.

>>4006057
>>4006075
>>4006079
>>4006265
(Back and ready to write. Vote is locked.)

>>4006278
Utter determination paints your grimace. The door has remained open, and the cries in the distance are unmistakable. Your murmur drops completely, so that you may better be heard. The statement is meant for Father Wilhelm, but you mean to reassure every man in your presence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"How...?"

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

(1/3)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Get them out!"

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

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

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

"They're breaking through the courtyard!"

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

(2/3)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Father Wilhelm looks to you, very earnestly.

"I am right behind you."

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

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

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

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

>>4006342
>>A] Protect yourself as best as you're able. Charge outside, into the thick of it.
>4] Use your own hands, your cloth, your mace and your shield. You can take it.
Deliverance begins when hypocrisy ends. Invoking Flesh would be to further disgrace Him.

>>4006342
>E)
Hold the line with our body, shield and mace, so the priests may get as many as possible into safety from the demons clutches.

>>4006342

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

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

Us and Ray charge ahead with the older priest without invoking the gods. Also tell him we should try to bait the demons away from the injured so the smoke doesn't kill them and the rescuers have an easier time. We can't kill everything here by ourselves without invoking and I suspect Friedrich went to gather the cavalry so all we need to do is stall for time and minimize casualties.

>>4006345
>>4006346
>>4006359
(Going to lock the vote here! Writing now.)

>>4006371
Your command is simple, as you tighten the grip on your mace and shield.

"Arm yourself."

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

"I already have."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Our hypocrisy ends. Deliverance begins."

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

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

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

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

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

You reel, for only a moment.

(1/2)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You are not afraid.

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

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

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

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

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

Dream, in a more tangible form.

(Slightly over, 2/3)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

>E] Write-in.

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

>>4006400

>E] Write-in.

Form a line with us at the front, everyone that can stand is going to push with us as we counter charge the two imps. It's better than staying put and we are also taking attention off those who can't move.

>>4006400
Also, could we use the relic like we did back in the ruins with Yech and Ofelia to coordinate everyone through the smoke? Im not voting we do it just making sure we have the option.

>>4006412
conga line of memetics +1

>>4006428
(Absolutely. To use it to unite the efforts of the priests behind you would absolutely be within your capabilities, so yes, that is always an option. Just as a reminder, your relic has multiple functions.

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

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

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

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

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

I didn't present its use as a prompt at this point due to the statement about ending hypocrisy, using your own Flesh, etc. but appreciate the opportunity to expand on it.)

File: Father Anscham's Relic.png (474 KB, 750x852)

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>>4006438
(Had a few things come up IRL. Definitely will be able to update tomorrow, but may have to postpone anything further tonight. Possibly one more update later. Either way, here's a sketch of your relic as a consolation prize. I'll be back!)

>>4006405
>>4006412
>>4006430
(Alright, gonna make this work! Got time for an update before bed. Writing now.)

File: Imps of Flesh.png (48 KB, 1530x898)

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>>4007100
Pic courtesy of one of our voters.
https://youtu.be/kA614N3IHD4

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

"Line up! Behind me! NOW!"

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

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

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

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

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

You love it. You love them.

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

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

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

The demon moves to strike.

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

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

"Keep moving!"

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

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

He does not cry out in pain.

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

(1/3)

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

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

It's exactly like a female human.

Sobbing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Red smoke is rising from it.

Father Friedrich's work.

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

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

(2/3)

>>4007172
What is this sorcery—?!

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

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

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

They rest.

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

"Find Father Friedrich."

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

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

You have learned so much, since then.

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

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

>C] Write-in.

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

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

As well as that, add a conscious effort to quiet the pleasure derived from pain. Might not work, but trying is better than not.

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

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

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

>>4007173

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

This man killed like 20 demons so far I'm sure he can handle himself.

>>4007198
>B] Trust in Father Wilhelm's ability, the priests that are still all around you, and the men in the Church of Flesh. Find Father Friedrich.
o7 rest well blueballs

>>4007198
>>4007253
>>4007282
>>4007346
>>4007545
>>4007578
(Awesome, locking the vote here. Writing now!)

>>4007776
You've learned to trust in your allies.

"I'll find him! COVER ME!"

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

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

"Look out!"

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

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

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

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

You all persevere.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

More are ahead.

The Church of Flesh is red.

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

You have little fear in your heart.

The only cure is death.

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

(1/2)

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

"It's going to be suicide."

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

You suspect he doesn't have much time left.

"The bastards—! Behind us!"

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

I could kill them both with relative ease.

Were they seeking safety as well?

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

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

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

>D] Write-in.

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

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

>>4007961

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

Send the priests away to find Fred, stay with Ray and kill the demons.

>>4007985
+1

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

>>4007985
Supporting

>>4008033
>>4007988
fuck, forgot that already voted

>>4007988
>>4008033
>>4008034
(So based dude, thank you for voting.)
>>4007985
(Appreciate it guys, but due to the totally different outcomes going to have to go with the majority here.)
>>4007965
>>4007971
>>4008027
(Vote is locked! Writing now.)

>>4008036
"Ray, stay BACK! Guard!"

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

I can return his thanks another Time.

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

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

I'm still hooded, aren't I?

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

"Shields up."

https://youtu.be/HadWBMDZmAg

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

There's an opening, through the cursed limbs.

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

"The Gods are MERCIFUL!"

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

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

Your mace digs deep into the demon before you.

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

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

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

You swing again.

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

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

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

(1/2)

>>4008159
It matters little. The priest beside you clearly has less experience with the creatures.

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

Not everyone has spent their life fighting demons.

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

"GET IT OFF OF ME! GET IT OFF—"

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

No half-measures.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Something is very wrong.

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

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

>C] Write-in.

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

>>4008163


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

We aren't going to charge like a madman anymore, we need to take care of our allies, as temporary as they may be. This isn't abusing Her, this is using Her gifts exactly as intended.

>>4008163
>B] You'll need all the help you can get.
>1] Heal the wounded man beside you, with Mercy's blessing.

>>4008182

Anon we said we would stop the suicide charging, we need to stop abusing the gods and take care of our allies. We trusted Fred and Will to do their duties so far, we need to do ours as well.

>>4008192
It's not a suicide charge, I just want to save as many priests as possible.

>>4008196

If things get bad we can send the 2 priests we have with us to carry off the wounded hence saving more lives. We still don't know what we are facing and id like to keep all assets close until we can determine what the situation is.

>>4008182
(Sincerely appreciate the discussion!)
>>4008185
>>4008190
(We're going to go with the majority here again, but I'll bear wanting keep em protected in mind, of course. Vote is locked. Writing now.)

>>4008284
The cessation of smoke on the horizon has you fearing the worst.

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

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

I will not charge in blindly, to certain danger.

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

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

There is never enough Time.

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

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

No amount of respite is worth the life of another.

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

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

>C] Write-in.

>>4008321
>>A] Take hold of Your Relic, as if it were a normal holy symbol. You have no idea of its full uses and effects, yet, but you may at least be mistaken for a typical clergyman, if you do. Invoke the Goddess, to heal the man and relieve his pain.

>>4008321
>Take hold of Your Relic, as if it were a normal holy symbol. You have no idea of its full uses and effects, yet, but you may at least be mistaken for a typical clergyman, if you do. Invoke the Goddess, to heal the man and relieve his pain.

>>4008321
>A] Take hold of Your Relic, as if it were a normal holy symbol. You have no idea of its full uses and effects, yet, but you may at least be mistaken for a typical clergyman, if you do. Invoke the Goddess, to heal the man and relieve his pain.

>>4008326
>>4008332
>>4008403
(Locking the vote, writing now!)

>>4008529
The shield that has brought you so much protection remains on the floor. A number of mutilated digits go from the hilt of your mace, to the gold around your neck.

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

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

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

Mercy.

She ensures that there is immediate relief from your pain.

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

Properly acknowledging the question seems appropriate. You are Merciful.

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

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

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

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

"M-Mercy, Goddess of Compassion—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Save for one.

She wants him to know.

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

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

You need each other.

(1/4)

>>4008800
We are Merciful.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wordlessly, you all break into a run.

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

It has been weeks, since you were last together.

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

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

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

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

The speech is familiar.

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

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

An entirely broken interjection follows.

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

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

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

(2/4)

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

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

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

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

"Get inside!"
"MOVE!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

Again.

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

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

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

There are no windows. This— I can't—

(3/4)

>>4008830
You are a gift. You are the light. They will look up to You. You are Merciful.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"DON'T COME ANY CLOSER!"

Panic drenches you.

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

It's a dagger.

The priest intends to kill himself.

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

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

"Don't."

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

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

He's already a demon of fear.

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

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

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

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

>E] Write-in.

>>4008833
>>C] Grant restraint, through Mercy.
>>1] Over the suicidal man. You've done so to a major demon before. You might be able to do so to someone undergoing the Catalyst.

>>4008833
>>C] Grant restraint, through Mercy.
>3] Over every person in the stables, up to and including yourself. This has escalated far enough.

>>4008833
>C3

>>4008833
>>C] Grant restraint, through Mercy.
>>3] Over every person in the stables, up to and including yourself. This has escalated far enough.

>>4008858
>>4008935
>>4009554
>>4009632
(Great, locking the vote here. Writing now!)

>>4009647
Peril coats the walls. It's stifling, choking, thicker than the filth and decay. The rising fear in every living soul here is placing them at imminent risk, of losing themselves to the Catalyst.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Golden eyes look out to Your congregation.

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

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

You feel them.

You feel the Goddess of compassion.

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

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

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

You are Merciful.

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

(1/2)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

>D] Write-in.

>>4009678

Could you elaborate on what the third prompt means? Is it like what we did with Beltoro?

>>4009690
(You guys aren't 100% on the uses of the relic. It's implied to be similar. With Beltoro, he was lacking restraint, and in healing his pain, you straight up gave him that quality. You gave him restraint. Not from the Relic, but from yourself.

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

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

>>4009678

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

Honestly this demon isn't worth any sacrifice from our part and if I remember correctly Yech said we tortured the paint demon when we held him with Mercy.

>>4009678
>>C] Take hold of Your Relic. You have learned so little of the Gods, and so much of demons. Grant this one relief from its pain.

>>4009678
>C] Take hold of Your Relic. You have learned so little of the Gods, and so much of demons. Grant this one relief from its pain.
Heresy train taking off!

>>4009678
>C] Take hold of Your Relic. You have learned so little of the Gods, and so much of demons. Grant this one relief from its pain.

Let's see what happens this time

>>4009678
>Take hold of Your Relic. You have learned so little of the Gods, and so much of demons. Grant this one relief from its pain.

>>4009701
(Very valid points.)

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

Vote is locked. Writing now.)

>>4009994
https://youtu.be/TwmFcu6QAqI

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

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

Again.

You need to know.

It is heretical.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mercy makes you whole.

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

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

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

Over.

And over.

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

Again.

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

Mercy is restraint in the face of the undeserving.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Don't."

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

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

His son.

(1/2)

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

"You've done enough."

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

There was a barricade, to wall something in.

To keep something out.

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

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

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

You practically know more about demons than other people.

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

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

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

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

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

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

>D] Write-in.

>>4010082
>>B] Listen to Father Friedrich. Questions can come later.
Actions and questions are both important in equal measure. But TRUST is, while not a tenet, a measure of compassion and Mercy between two people.

>C i dont know but need explination.

>>4010082
>A2]
I believe

>>4010082
>A2

>>4010084
>>4010171
>>4010173
>>4010185
(Can integrate all of this to some degree. Vote is locked, writing now.)

>>4010247
The demon before you is utterly silent. Its sobs subside, the moment a single word leaves Your lips.

"Father Friedrich."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I do.

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

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

You believe in yourself.

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

The demon before you knows what it represents.

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

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

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

Mercy gives Herself to you.

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

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

It curls into itself.

(1/3)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I've heard enough."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(2/3)

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

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

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

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

She is so proud of you.

"M-Mercy—"

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

She loves you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The demon is demonstrating compassion towards more than itself.

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

The Goddess of Compassion is still working through you.

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

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

Especially on a demon.

(Options in next post)

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

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

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

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

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

>D] Write-in.

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

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

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

>>4010512

seconding

>>4010512
>>4010565
>>4011053
>>4011225
(Got my work cut out for me lol, calling the vote here! Writing now.)

>>4011347
For all the restraint that the Goddess has granted you, there's still the unavoidable need to stay with Her.

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

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

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

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

She is so content with your works.

It's not enough.

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

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

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

"There's nothing to apologize for."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"This may not last, Father Friedrich."

(1/4)

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

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

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

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

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

Anything less would be a tragedy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Not while We still draw breath."

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

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

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

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

(2/4)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(3/4)

>>4011584
There is no protest.

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

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

"Father. Father Anscham."

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

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

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

"We need you to move."

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

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

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

You do so much more.

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

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

You stand taller than any of them.

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

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

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

>D] Write-in.

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

Letting it be known that I'm soft voting for this, and that my opinion can be swayed. Ray's a good boy and should comfort the civilians while the people who know what they're doing take care of things...also we need to make a conscious effort to tone down the masochism, which I'll restate.

>>4011654
(Going to leave this open until morning, we'll proceed with one vote then if there's no further votes!)

>>4011654
+1 cuddly murder slab

>>4012591
(Hell yeah. Got dragged away tonight, but I will update first thing in the morning. Vote is open until then.)

>>4011592
>>B] Any and all hope of concealing your identity is certainly lost. Your reputation might be ruined. Don't lose anything else in this fight.
>>1] Heal as many as you're able, through Mercy.

While we are healing them also try to calm them down so they don't freak out about the demon. Tell them the light of Mercy can cow even the foulest demons.

>>4011654
>>4012591
>>4013189
(Alright, back and ready for action. If we get the votes coming in today I should be able to do quite a few updates in. Locking the vote here and writing now!)

>>4013204
The hinges of the stable door groan against the force of your allies. The two priests that have been keeping the defense at bay all this Time look to you for permission, to release their restraint. To open the gates. To unleash the battle.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mercy.

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

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

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

His watch begins.

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

Your head whips around, from his dutiful form.

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

The Father of Mercy is known for granting protection.

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

You uphold your vows.

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

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

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

"MERCY!"

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

(1/4)

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

"FLESH of my Flesh!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There is a flash, of bone on light.

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

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

(2/4)

>>4013304
I will save as many lives as possible.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He moves.

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

There are no screams behind you.

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

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

It's like a Dream.

Father Wilhelm.

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

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

There are so many more that need your aid.

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

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

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

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

(3/4)

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

The Gods need not work through only one vessel.

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

They are all fighting for their lives.

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

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

It doesn't halt the attack.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You.

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

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

>C] Write-in a different strategy, an invocation, a prayer, or anything else more befitting of the Father of Mercy.

>>4013310
>B] Charge towards the civilians.
>1] Ensure that they receive any healing you can offer. Don't lose any more lives here than necessary.
The other clergy would understand. Tell them where we are going.
>C] Call the other Fathers over to us, maybe meet them halfway?
But we still cannot let them fall.

>>4013310

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

>>4013315
Mama Mercy, takes a secondong

>>4013331

Supporting - but also remember to tone down on masochism things. We need to contain that shit. I'm not saying it's in this vote, but I'm saying in general. I'll keep hammering that shit in until it kills me.

>>4013315
>>4013331
>>4013334
>>4013348
(I can make all of this work for sure. Locking the vote here, writing now.)

>>4013377
The ground beneath your feet might as well not exist, for how quickly you flit around the edges of the magma. Divinity and gold flows from your hands. Another shield, of radiant light, flares forth. It shines before the civilians across the courtyard. You head as quickly as you can towards them, sparing a precious moment to pull back your hood, to make your identity and presence known to any who may question your authority.

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

No holy man can question Your authority.

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

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

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

"Where have you been—?!"

"YES, FATHER, RIGHT AWAY—!"

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

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

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

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

The unholy noise its emitting is one of lethal intent.

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

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

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

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

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

"It's about Time!"

"FINALLY!'

"MERCY!"

(1/4)

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

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

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

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

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

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

https://youtu.be/ag7ECEJ1dAo

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

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

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

Reactionary. Priests of Flesh.

You are a master of prevention. Of medicine.

You are the Father of Mercy.

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

Borderline panic follows. Humanity cries out in pain.

They are all Your children.

"PLEASE—!"

"My husband! You HAVE to help!"

"There isn't anything they could do—"

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

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

"MERCY! FATHER—!"

(2/4)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

""RUN!"

(3/4)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Father, please, my husband!"

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

"This man's burns need immediate aid!"

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

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

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

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

>C] Write-in.

>>4013487

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

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

>>4013496
oy vey +1

>>4013496
Supporting.

mandatory restraint post

>>4013496
yeah this seems like the proper order to do this. so +1

>>4013496
>>4013500
>>4013502
>>4013549
(Awesome, let's keep this rolling! Vote is locked, writing now.)

>>4013565
You rise from the wounded at your feet, ignoring every cry around you for a moment. Light blooms and bursts before your vision from the slightest motion. The yellow flowers, the light of day, and a Goddess looks out from your eyes of gold. It disguises a gaping wound, a protruding bone, a child's face knitted in pain, a man begging for death, more burnt Flesh than you can stand—

You focus.

https://youtu.be/LhIS4FdS7co

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"GAZE UPON OUR WORKS! OUR STRENGTH!"

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

"HE'S GOT ME FUCKING LEG—"

"GET TO FATHER WILHELM!"

"WATCH THE FUCKING FIRE!"

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

"To my side! NOW!"

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

You have to focus on a different heat.

Focus.

With raised hands, you close your eyes.

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

She grants relief. Compassion.

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

She is Merciful. The bleeding ceases.

(1/4)

>>4013866
The Flesh weaves back over, with interlocking bands of yellow gold.

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

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

Your own work is needed elsewhere.

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

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

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

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

You are rapidly remembering why demons are universally reviled.

I've saved so many.

There's a Goddess, in you, on you—

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

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

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

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

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

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

It wouldn't be the first time.

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

It is not a sin to heal so many.

You are a blessing.

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

(2/4)

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

"GODS—!"

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

"HELP ME! WHERE ARE THEY?!"

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

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

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

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

They refuse to leave your side.

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

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

Mercy, he won't stop screaming.

Wet, bloodied, open, raw.

Row, after row.

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

Protruding organs.

There is another life lost, further down the row.

The pallor. Blackened skin, flaking into the air. The scent, on the inside of your nose, sticking to the back of your throat.

You don't retch.

You are compassionate. Your strength lies in Your restraint.

There is simply not enough Time for everyone. This is a task that could have benefited from every clergyman at your disposal.

The man beside you and so many more have the worst of their pain mended, through the utmost of Your works and devotion. You ease their pain. You heal them, taking off as much of the burnt and lost Flesh as you're able.

You have to stop.

Focus.

There's more cries, demanding your immediate attention. You're running

There is a boy, no older than ten. Far too young to be of any use in a fight, but brave enough to have come to his family's aid. His lungs are devastated, for how much he's coughing. His foot, charred and decayed from the work of a demon, is evidence of a narrow escape from the start of the outbreak.

He was a first responder.

There's an itch, at the back of your mind. A reminder.

There's more, brought together by three women, all being dutifully attended to. You recognize that the youngest of the children must have already turned over.

To the Catalyst.

Imps.

(3/4)

>>4013878
There's a turn, again, in your stomach, as you keep your fists tight.

Looking with divinity to the brave and devastatingly young figures gathered together, wounded and bleeding, you murmur.

"We're here to help."

The two women about you nearly collapse, having not even recognized your approach. Relief drenches them, in waves.

"Thank all of the Gods."

"Mercy." The statement is not a correction. It's a promise.

You remain standing, extending a single hand, and gently lift it to a small figure laying on the dirt. Her tousled hair is tied with red ribbons. Crimson laces the enormous wound in her side. Impossibly, her slight figure has endured a horrific injury, of a dagger, made solely of congealed blood.

With your outstretched hand, the blade falls, harmlessly, to the ground beside her. You remove the poison from her wound, the smoke from her lungs.

Your face is unreadable, utterly bent on your work, on saving as many lives as you can.

The little hero curls in on herself, coughing reflexively, though you know she does not have anything in her body to expel. She looks up to you, with a mortal light in her eyes.

Her expression is utterly serious. She is clearly too stunned to even be alive, let alone to speak.

It matters little. You hang back, permitting the women to aid you in assisting the worst of the dying. The young, and undefended. All of them have so much smoke in their lungs.

You wonder for the health of all of the civilians who poured back into Beorward, seeking shelter.

As you extract the last of the viscera and agony, placing a hand to one of the women beside you, you try to focus.

The screams are becoming a haze, against the nonexistent edges of your mind.

There are voices, still. They are not your own.

"Take the children. Take them to the city. Seek as much aid as you are able. Send word to the King. Let Him know what has happened here. He will understand. WE are Merciful."

Father. We have more work to do.

There is no question in your mind that

There is no question in your mind.

(Options in next post)

>>4013881
>A] The rest of the dead and dying will have to wait. You are seriously hurting yourself. Try to release Mercy. You are surrounded by people who want to protect you. Trust in them.
>1] Don't wait another minute longer than you have to.
>2] Implore one of the civilians that's still able to get you to safety, in the event you collapse.
>2] Sprint back to the stable, your congregation, and Ray. Do everything you can along the way.
>3] Get back to the interior of the Church of Flesh.

>B] Stay with the Goddess just long enough to heal as many more as you can recognize to be on the brink of death, and let come what may.

>C] You have stayed with Mercy for longer, though never after working so much through your vessel. Get back, to Father Wilhelm and Father Friedrich. The battle is still raging, and they need your protection, no matter the cost.

>D] Write-in

>>4013885
>>C] You have stayed with Mercy for longer, though never after working so much through your vessel. Get back, to Father Wilhelm and Father Friedrich. The battle is still raging, and they need your protection, no matter the cost.

We can't stop as long as we have people to protect. We need to reign in our thoughts, show our restraint, and soldier on to make sure we protect as many as we can. Like she said, we have more work to do - we are the Father of Mercy.

>>4013885
>>C] You have stayed with Mercy for longer, though never after working so much through your vessel. Get back, to Father Wilhelm and Father Friedrich. The battle is still raging, and they need your protection, no matter the cost.

>>4013960
>>4014105
(Going to lock here to get out one more update tonight. Writing now!)

>>4013885
We can't stop. Not as long as We have people to protect. We need to

show our restraint and soldier on. To make sure We protect as many as We can.

It's too difficult to speak out. Something perfect is working through you. The heat in your face and all the rest of your body rivals the very Sun. Yet, for all the weariness in your limbs, you manage to tear away from the last of the wounded. There is trust, here, in those who can still heal.

Your aid is needed elsewhere.

Sprinting as fast as you're able is relatively easy. Compared to keeping your breath level, your voice from rising out of you like a man possessed, each agonizing movement is effortless. You welcome it. Every surge of torn muscle, a curse, a caress.

Your vision is swimming, for the heat rising in and before it.

Lava coats the entire courtyard.

There are fewer priests than you last laid eyes upon, past the battlements. Five seem to have fallen, at least. It's difficult to make out any forms with absolute clarity. Obstructing a third of the field is a large demon, comprised entirely of spears. All of its focus is bent on Cyril. The blonde's fists are dripping with blood, but his smirk persists. He fires, from atop the battlements, along six other priests. He's tossing a ludicrous volume of spears alongside them, using the corpse of an imp as a barrier.

Smoke no longer rises from his body. His eyes must be a fair shade of blue, as he down up to the creature fearlessly, and without divinity.

Invoking a God, more often than not, is enough to destroy a common man.

To stay with one for as long as You have is a gift, a miracle, a blessing—

Beside Cyril, you only recognize two of the other priests. The man you healed, and the figure with his now-broken sword are weary. Every priest, from their elevated position, seems unable to recognize your approach.

We have more work to do.

Aside from the fifteen imps that still remain among the magma, all eyes are fixed on a monstrosity.

It has moved to infringe on the Church of Flesh. The demon's colossal form seems weakened, for how much mass it has been ripped clean away from its body.

The imps eyes are all fixed on you.

Like a man possessed, Father Friedrich is riding atop the demon in the center of the courtyard. He is punching, clean into the demon. Every strike is punctuated with another syllable, for how quickly he's moving. His body is aflame, with plumes of heat and divinity coursing off of him.

There is little fear in your heart, as you charge, across the molten flame and rock before you. Across the courtyard.

It parts under your feet, the magma and the rock.

Searing divinity is left in your wake.

(1/3)

>>4014618
You weave, through a barrage of blood, thickened into solid projectiles. The attack surges, plummeting into the flame behind you. The assault that you cannot withstand with your own body is shielded, in full, with another wave of your hand. A clenched fist. A surge of divinity, through every last fiber of your being.

It feels like nothing can touch you.

I am the Father of Mercy.

Over your rapid approach, you can hear a cry. The punctuation of sickening wet tears and rips in the demon's Flesh carries across the field, but not over Father Friedrich's voice.

"Do you feel Our works? For everything you have lost? Everything you've taken?! We're going to kill you, you miserable wretch, if I have to tear you down to the last muscle! Have you found it? OUR GIFTS?!"

Father Wilhelm is nowhere in sight. Several spears hurl through the air, granting you cover, for how much distance you've been granted in so little time.

You do hear his reply. "Fall into the nightmare. Permit Him to enter You. Dream."

A wave of paint and viscera overtakes the demon, surging past you and straight into the creature. Its body pools and swirls, leaking, spilling. The paint spreads, in broad strokes below Father Friedrich's feet. He cries out, too enraptured by his own God to have realized what was coming.

He is only a moment away from literally falling into the demon.

Sliding to a stop, your radiance halts within a heat that cannot hope to rival the Goddess. For all of the swirling devotion about you, there is gold in your hands. It flares up, spreading without ever making contact. You decisively reach out, mending the wound within the nightmare in an instant.

You protect the Father of Flesh.

An expanse stretches, within the maw of the creature before you.

It is at least thirty feet tall, but you don't need to look to its peak.

You've healed the opening a dreamer created, moments before Father Friedrich plummeted to his death.

There is no wave, or call for thanks. Not yet.

The demon is writhing, convulsing, and there is a horrific cry coming from every imp in the courtyard.

Four of the priests cry out, almost simultaneously.

"Get back!"
"MOVE!"
"SHIT—!"
"RUN!"

An insane grin is directed towards you, from across the courtyard. Father Wilhelm is visible, adjacent to the front door of the church. He's guarding it with his body and life, though an aura of divinity is about him. He does not speak, to you, murmuring a prayer you cannot hear. With outstretched fingers, he drags a hand down. The work moves, across the front of the pustule.

(2/3)