File: What is Catalyst Quest.png (6.4 MB, 1200x2839)

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>>4159591
https://youtu.be/uEyvjHuMR4E

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You have to say something.

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

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

>C] You really have changed. (Write-in.)

>>4159593
>A] You have countless questions.
>1] About your Relic.
First

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

>>4159593
>>C] You really have changed. (Write-in.)

How has She been, since we last parted?

>>4159593
>A] You have countless questions.
Why is our relationship with the goddess of mercy complicated ?

>>4159594
>>4159596
>>4159604
>>4159639
>How has She been
>Relic
>Mission in the ruins
>Congregation
>Why is your relationship complicated

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

Hope you guys are having a wonderful Friday as well. Writing now.)

>>4159657
>Why is our relationship with the goddess of mercy complicated ?
i'm new here and this point really made me curious

>>4159663
(Welcome! Strap in mate, you're in for a hell of a ride. I'll be sure to address it, every write-in really matters here!)

>>4159665
Finding yourself and your speech, you hold Mercy closer against your side, chest, and the edge of your shoulder. She nestles closer still, listening intently.

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

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

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

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

"No one is more deserving."

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

"You always have."

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

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

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

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

It's Her gift.

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

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

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

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

"No."

"You will heal."

"Yes."

"It is unbearable, to see you suffer."

"You have never left my side."

"You have never been alone."

"I love you so much."

"I love you, too."

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

(1/2)

>>4159703
"There are others, that suffer as you have."

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

A finger presses to your lips.

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

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

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

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

"I have never questioned your faith."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

>E] Write-in.

Cool thread how do I sign up to participate?

>>4159708
by blowing me ma'am
>>4159705
>C

>>4159705
>B]
Since she also about restrain, does she plan to marry us eventually ?

>>4159705
>>A] "You're the Goddess of Truth. Speak your mind."

>>4159716
>>4159719
>>4159744
(Three-way tie? Good. Vote is locked. Writing now.)

>>4159753
This is the Goddess of Truth, Compassion, and Restraint.

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

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

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

"I am only yours."

"What?"

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

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

>A] WHAT

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

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

>D] WHAT ABOUT THE KING

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

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

>G] Write-in.

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

In that order, please.

>>4159767
+1

>>4159767
+1

>>4159764
>>E] Kiss her.
>>1] You don't care about anyone else in the world.

>>4159773
but we do care about other people, that's our job! :^)

>>4159767
>>4159768
>>4159772
>>4159773
>>4159776
(I think we can definitely work with all of this. Vote is locked. Writing now!)

>>4159781
https://youtu.be/ZuH5WhAdPnc

"What?!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She loves you. Only you.

-----

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

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

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

"Fine, shit—"

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

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

"You need to be careful."

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

"I love you."

"I love you, too."

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

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

>>4159801
>A] 1]

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

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

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

And then do this.

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

Ask for advice in dealing with the king and our congregation.

>>4159814
>>4159835
>>4159811
(VOTE IS LOCKED. Writing now. Should be able to keep up the pace with a little more speed through the evening if we keep the votes coming!)

>>4159881
For several more moments, you simply bask in the light beside you. Along the small of your back, the Goddess traces a few fingers. Running gently up your spine, leaving comfort and heat in Her wake, She mirrors the motion with Her lips. Pecking along your arm, from your wrist up to your shoulder, She finishes the motion by resting Her head and hands back by your heart.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She wants you to remember seeing Her at Her best.

"You are never truly alone, Father."

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

(1/2)

>>4159928
She's gone.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

>A] You're pissed.

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

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

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

>E] Write-in.

>>4159930
>>B] You're relieved. This should save some Time.

>>4159930
>C] You're extremely proud of yourself, and have nothing to hide.
Being a peeping Tom is a bad habit you know ?

>>4159930
>>C] You're extremely proud of yourself, and have nothing to hide.

Envy isn't healthy Cyril, are you sure Flesh treats you right?

>>4159939
>>4159946
>>4159965
(Bants and not over-explaining. You guys really have come so far lol. Let's do this. Vote is locked! Writing now.)

>>4159981
A sigh of relief escapes you. Glancing down the hall in both directions, confirming that there is no one else around, you see it is completely dark outside. You were with Mercy for several hours, minimum.

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

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

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

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

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

The blonde whistles. "Would have never known."

"You are terrible."

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

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

"Brother Trebbeck."

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

"Please do not call me that."

"Your royal Di—"

"Cyril. What— how much did you hear?"

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

"Mercy—"

"Right! The fuck?!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"C'mooon."

"You have a point."

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

"You did not answer my question."

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

(1/2)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

>E] Write-in.

>>4160025
>C]

>>4160025
>E] Write-in.

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

Sidenote, maybe we could try to convince Mercy that the devotion of our congregation is similar to our own so that they can also invoke? If we had the only people that could invoke Mercy on our side it should give us some extra protection from politics bullshit. Maybe we could aim for a complete overhaul of the church of Mercy, with us as Father and our congregation as Brothers and Sisters. If we have the favor of the gods themselves, allies in the church of Dream and Flesh and the option to reveal that not even the king himself can invoke Mercy let alone his church we have a lot of weight to throw around. Maybe we could sort of imply this when we meet the king. "We know your mercy cock is limp" type deal, get him a bit on edge to even the playing field.

>>4160068
>>4160049
(Wow, nice. Really want to give this a proper response, going to leave this vote open for a bit while I get some dinner. Feel free guys to make any rebuttals, disagreements or discussion! I'll be back.)

>>4160097
>I get some dinner
Remember to properly fry the bat before making the soup. Waiting warmly

>>4160068
I second the first half of that write-in, as for the sidenote...I feel that that is a big step to take at this stage, especially where we are, but maybe ...maybe

>>4160025
>>C] You need to talk to Sister Cardew before making any choices. Her advice has always been sound.

>>4160068
Agree with the first bit, and absolutely not the sidenote.

(Sorry for taking so long dudes, had some serious tax-related news come up after eating and only just now got back. Fine, but boy did that sidetrack the evening.)

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

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

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

Vote is locked. Writing now!)

>>4160322
"You are absolutely correct," you reply, gritting your teeth, placing your hands firmly on Cyril's shoulders.

"Yeah!"

"This will not leave your confidence."

"You can count on me."

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

He smirks. "Look at you. Yeah!"

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

"You did promise to write—"

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

Sheepishly, the blonde looks over his shoulder.

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

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

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

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

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

"What?"

"You heard me."

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

"You did what—?!"

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

Farthest from the bed.

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

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

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

"He'll kill you."

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

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

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

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

(1/2)

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

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

"This is stupid. This is so stupid—"

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

"Excuse me?"

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

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

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

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

She is definitely staying inside.

>(Please pick EITHER A1 or A2.)

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

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

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

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

>D] Write-in.

>>4160409
>A] It IS pure gold.
>1] But you are not literally pulling out your hair to cover room, board, clothes, drinks, or any other form of security. You all will manage.
Wait, our hair is really made of gold ? Damn
>B] Surely your life isn't in immediate danger. King Magnus had to have known about this issue even when He pardoned your behavior in the Church of Flesh.
>1] Wait. Why would He have done that?

>>4160430
(Don't have any sketches handy and you guys haven't seen your reflection in a hot minute, but it seems as though well over half of your hair is now strands of gold. Actual, real, pure gold.)

>>4160430
Supporting. As clever of an idea as it is, we really shouldn't be pulling our hair out for room and board.

As well as that,

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

Safety is key. Let's be cautious.

>>4160430
>>4160437
(Going to lock here, writing now.)

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

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

The priestess frowns, "Richard."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"How could He have permitted me to live?"

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

Sister Cardew immediately mutters, "He needs you."

Your grimace is back.

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

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

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

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

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

(1/2)

>>4160561
"Why, would He ever think that?"

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

The sting is wonderful.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Another long silence hangs in the air between you all.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The barkeep is staring.

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

(Just over, 2/3)

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

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

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

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

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

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

>C] Ask Cyril to go into town and get you something. The hour is already late, but he seems extremely savvy.
>1] Make an explicit request. (Write-in.)
>2] Trust his judgement.

>>4160570
>B] Something less conspicuous would be a good start. See if you can barter for something here.
>2] Trust that Cyril has the arrangement here covered, and simply try to get some clothes and be on your way.

>>4160587
+1

(Thanks for the awesome session guys, it is getting pretty late and I am beat. Going to come back in the afternoon, EST. Vote will be open until then!)

>>4160583
18 naked +1's waiting to be (you)'d

>>4160587
>+1

>>4160587
>>4160598
>>4160831
>>4161190
(Aaaaalright, locking the vote here! Back and ready to rock and roll. Hope you all are having a great day. Writing now.)

>>4161206
"Honestly, Cyril, anything would be fine—"

"Yeah fuckin' right."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

https://youtu.be/B89WXWPQaKg

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(1/2)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE LOST SOUL

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

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

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

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

>D] Write-in.

>>4161269
>C] The suggestion was clearly made with good intent. Try to speak up, and see if it helps. He probably wants you to keep your identity as obscured as possible.

>>4161269
>] The suggestion was clearly made with good intent. Try to speak up, and see if it helps. He probably wants you to keep your identity as obscured as possible.

>>4161269
>>C] The suggestion was clearly made with good intent. Try to speak up, and see if it helps. He probably wants you to keep your identity as obscured as possible.

>>4161277
>>4161283
>>4161306
(Unanimous, locking here! Writing now.)

>>4161321
"No one's goin' to buy the getup if you sound like a clergyman."

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

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

"Are you certain—? Mercy—"

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

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

https://youtu.be/ZN17x2P3ctM

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(1/2)

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

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

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

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

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

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

>D] Write-in.

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

>>4161432
>>C] Cyril did say that he wanted to talk. Have a little beer, try and enjoy the atmosphere, and keep your ears open. The singer near the hearth has your nerves on end.

Listen to the singer and the guy talking about guards, emphasis on the singer.

>>4161443
>>4161464
(Going to lock this here with the unanimous vote, gonna try and keep up the pace today! Vote is locked, writing now.)

>>4161488
Raising your mug to Cyril, you make a point to clearly say, "a drink, surely, could not hurt."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Barely over, 1/2)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

>D] Write-in.

>>4161560
>C] You really do. VENGEANCE is going to be delivered. The moment you're able, you're going to intimidate this guy into joining you out back.
>1] To talk, away from listening ears.
No need to start a fight here when we have business to do. We'll talk with the singer later, away from prying eyes, if he believes what he's sang about or if he did it for the money

>>4161560
Keep our cool. Maybe get him to sing another song about us to see what *exactly* the slander against us is. Then

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

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

While around other people we shouldn't let our mask slip too much.

>>4161560
>>C] You really do. VENGEANCE is going to be delivered. The moment you're able, you're going to intimidate this guy into joining you out back.
>>1] To talk, away from listening ears.
>>2] To punch his face in. This is bullshit.

>>4161570
>>4161587
>>4161623
(Majority explicitly doesn't want to fight, so going to omit C2.
Social skills are not exactly your forte, and as you're disguising your greatest leverage (your position):)

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

>Roll 1d100. Best of 3 will be used.
>-10 COMPLETELY OUT OF YOUR ELEMENT
>+10 STILL REALLY INTIMIDATING
>+5 SPECIFIC QUESTIONS

>>4161623
If we do that anon we would just be proving the song right. Save your rage for the people that orchestrated all of this, Vengeance should be proportional.

Rolled 1 (1d100)

>>4161668

Rolled 96 (1d100)

>>4161668
MERCY HELP US!

File: 05058D58-1805-4987-AA3E-E(...).jpg (34 KB, 750x418)

34 KB JPG

>>4161672
Damn bro
>>4161623
>>4161669
Time to roll guys, please

Rolled 13 (1d100)

>>4161668
Hasta la vista Luck

>>4161676
I GOTCHU BROTHER MERCY IS WITH US

>>4161672
>>4161673
>>4161677
(THE LEGEND NEVER DIES. Seriously that is some shit. Good thing we're doing best of 3. Vote is locked, writing now!)

>>4161673
>>4161681
Yeah https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F8oqZ7SJN_8

>>4161681
Itching to loosen another one of the bard's teeth, you take a deep breath, and coolly slide back your chair. "Our Vengeance will be proportionate."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(1/2)

>>4161845
I have heard all of this before. ...everything worth listening to, that is.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Underestimated 2/3)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

>D] Write-in.

>>4161696
(Just gonna casuuuuaaaallly drop that on the big playlist. Good shit.

Didn't make this apparent with the options, but holding onto that roll for the discussion.)

>>4161857
>A] You have questions! Questions that need answering!
>3] How long has this been going on for?
>4] Why are you going along with this slander?
There’s a reason for him to be singing that and I bet it wasn’t at random

>>4161917
Good ol’ lord of the rings

>>4161977
(Classic stuff.

Gonna leave this vote open for one more hour. Pretty beefy post and gives me an opportunity to get some dinner. If there are no other votes at that time I'll plug right on ahead with yours mate.)

>>4161857
>>A] You have questions! Questions that need answering!
>>1] Who are you working for?
>>2] How much are they paying you?
>>3] How long has this been going on for?

>D] Write-in.
Where did you get the hat?
Are there any other minstrels like yourself singing the same songs?
Do any of the people actually believe what the songs say?

>>4161933
>>4162020
(Hoo wee. Locking the vote here! Writing now.)

>>4162089
In a low voice, you utter, "you must speak quickly. Time is of the essence. Is there anyone else you are working with, under your employ? You all are in extreme danger."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(1/2)

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

"Why?"

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

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

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

"And your colleagues?"

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

"What do you mean?"

"Abou'—"

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

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

"Years...?"

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

"What could possibly warrant...?"

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

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

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

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

This man has earned his living slandering my name.

The people love it.

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

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

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

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

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

>E] Write-in.

>>4162195
>B] You're going straight back to the Hangman's Hangout, and discussing this with Sister Cardew.
After hearing this, I can’t really blame the bard because the slander was going on even before he got some pay from those traitors and he believed it. We’re gonna need help on how to deal with things and later we’ll look for info

>>4162195
>D] You're not giving up this easily. You came out tonight for information regarding your congregation, and no matter how severe the situation is, you are pressing on.
>1] Without much in the way of funds, you're really limited to the slums. Ask Cyril if he knows of any other places you can check out, to keep investigating.

>>4162268
>>4162351
(Hey guys, going to leave this vote open for the rest of the night since I'm getting some shut-eye a little earlier than usual. I'll be back for our last session of the weekend tomorrow afternoon, same EST time, same Catalyst channel. Hope you have a great night!)

>>4162195
>>D] You're not giving up this easily. You came out tonight for information regarding your congregation, and no matter how severe the situation is, you are pressing on.
>>1] Without much in the way of funds, you're really limited to the slums. Ask Cyril if he knows of any other places you can check out, to keep investigating.

>>4162195
>D] You're not giving up this easily. You came out tonight for information regarding your congregation, and no matter how severe the situation is, you are pressing on.
>1] Without much in the way of funds, you're really limited to the slums. Ask Cyril if he knows of any other places you can check out, to keep investigating.

(Back and ready for action! As usual this will be our last session of the weekend. Updates at least once a day Monday-Thursday, full sessions resuming next Friday!)

>>4163223
>>4162351
>>4162268
(Let's do this thing. Vote is locked, writing now!)

>>4163239
(4chan being a shit, got you too bro.)

>>4163240
>>4163242
"Don't keep your audience waiting any longer, then," you murmur, nodding back towards the tavern.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Sure, you—"

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

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

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

"Hey. You alright?"

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

"Good— wait. When?"

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

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

"How much did that beer cost you—"

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

"I am. Our search is extremely limited."

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

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

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

"You're right. You are licentious—"

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

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

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

"Tell me they ban minstrels on sight."

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

(1/2)

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

"Is this—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

>C] Write-in.

>>4163330
>B] Surely this couldn't hurt. You are a devout and pious man. You can keep to yourself. This is business. You're taken, but that shouldn't stop you from research.
This isn't the worst we have to deal today, but tell Cyril that we'll go straight to the point here

>>4163330
>B] Surely this couldn't hurt. You are a devout and pious man. You can keep to yourself. This is business. You're taken, but that shouldn't stop you from research.

>>4163347
>>4163365
(Had to run to the store unexpectedly, back now. Vote is locked! Will write in just a moment.)

>>4163500
(Writing now!)

>>4163523
Firing you a sincerely apologetic glance, Cyril mouths, "I know you have more class than this."

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

The man looks between you both expectantly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Don't worry about a thing."

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

"Very funny."

The man at the door is still unfastening locks.

Why are there so many?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is not funny.

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

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

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

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

(1/2)

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

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

"Come on," Cyril drags.

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

Your heart sinks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

>D] Write-in.

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

>>4163667
>D] Write-in.

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

>>4163696
We are flying blind right now, we don't have any sort of information. We should use this opportunity and do as much as we can, getting a room seems like a waste of time right now.

>>4163712
I agree with the write in but boy golly gee do I want to spend only the bare minimum time here necessary

>>4163742

The fuckzone was way worse than this anon, this is nothing compared to Remi and we have the luxury of not having to fight for our lives. Time spent here is gonna save the lives of our congregation, isn't that worth a little bit of discomfort?

>>4163753
and I didn't like that place any better lel , I'm not saying I don't want us to do this, I just would rather we do it quickly...for both the lives of our congregation...and our sanity.

>>4163757
Fair, I can agree to getting out of dodge quick as long as we get everything we can from here.

>>4163696
>>4163712
>>4163742
>>4163753
>>4163757
>>4163821
(Pretty sure I can take this all into consideration and give you guys something cool in the process. ;^) Vote is locked! Writing now.)

>>4163959
(Accidentally dropped pic, please refresh f5! Post will be out in a second.)

File: Remigius Journal Entry.png (5 MB, 2000x1412)

5 MB PNG

>>4163959
There's a dull pulse.

https://youtu.be/-4CBMt71yY8

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

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

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

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

You have to think about her.

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

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

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

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

Remigius.

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

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

My memory is usually wonderful.

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

A woman without a blouse helpfully bounces over towards you.

Cyril has, apparently, been sitting next to you.

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

You fire back a look that could kill.

You've intimidated demons before.

You've beaten them bloody, too.

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

You don't need to come up for air.

She didn't let me. This is nothing.

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

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

The door still looks to be locked.

The red door.

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

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

The remaining men are clearly uncomfortable.

(1/2)

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

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

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

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

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

A nod, to Cyril, to stay seated.

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

Or that he's terribly worried.

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

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

No music kicks up.

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

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

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

The cloth is white.

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Options in next post.)

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

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

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

>D] Write-in.

>>4164143
>B] You're not so naive as to think that this harlot will just speak with you. Say that you're helping out your friend. It's not a lie! Maybe she would agree to go with Cyril!
>1] You just want to get out of this horrible place as fast as possible, and trust he can do the talking with more ease.
Guy is looking like he'll explode, let's get Cyril to convince the priest to inform us

>>4164163
Support.

>>4164163
>>4164175
(Alright let's gooo. Locking here with the unanimous vote. Might even have time for one more update after this, we'll see. Writing now!)

>>4164205
"It's nothing," you mutter, "and I am not here for her."

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

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

She leans in.

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

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

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

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

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

"She?"

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

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

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

"Yeah. Sit tight."

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

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

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

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

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

It's hot.

Your head is killing you.

The red door is firmly out of sight.

You can still feel it.

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

>B] Vomit.

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

>D] YOU ARE OKAY. REALLY. (A ROLL WILL BE REQUIRED.)

>>4164248
>C] Get a little more distance and sit down.
Damn this is taking a toll on us. Let’s keep it together and finish our mission

>>4164271
Supporting. Let's take a step back and focus on anything else for a bit, just until we're better.

>>4164248
>C] Get a little more distance and sit down.

>>4164271
>>4164285
>>4164296
(Gonna lock the vote here, flying tonight with the votes. Can't stay up too late but might even get one or two more updates out. We'll see! Writing now!)

>>4164304
The blonde at your side raises virtually no complaint as you aimlessly walk down the road. It's not enough distance to fully escape from the sounds emanating from the Battered Maid, but with the crippling intensity of your increasing headache, it's enough.

You sit down.

Deep breaths.

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

Keep it together.

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

Take a step back.

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

Cyril quietly asks, "yeah?"

Focus on anything else. Stay grounded.

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

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

"You don't say."

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

"I know a little," you offer.

"No shit."

"Really."

"Baking?"

"Only my mother's recipes."

"Like what?"

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

"Bryning's a skip away."

"It is not."

"Close enough. What do you got?"

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

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

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

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

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

"Excuse me?"

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

"You have done nothing wrong."

"I've got orders, Dick."

"Richard."

"Your highness."

He has no hat to knock off.

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

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

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

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

(Options in next post.)

>>4164345
(Accidentally dropped my trip, my bad.)

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

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

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

>D] Write-in.

>>4164346
>>C] Thank the priest for helping you ground yourself. You're not alright, but let him know that his support makes a big difference. You know this can't be easy for him, either, but he's still making the effort.

>>4164346
>C] Thank the priest for helping you ground yourself. You're not alright, but let him know that his support makes a big difference. You know this can't be easy for him, either, but he's still making the effort.

>>4164347
>>4164352
(Fuck yes I think we can do one more post tonight then. Vote is locked here, writing now!)

>>4164364
"Cyril."

"...what?"

"You are absolutely right."

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

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

"Yep."

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

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

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

You both pass a few more minutes in silence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Do not ask me to make a promise—"

"Shut the fuck up Richard. Just look."

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

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

(1/3)

File: Brother Anscham.png (275 KB, 620x537)

275 KB PNG

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

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

"You're almost presentable."

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

"Knew it would help," he smirks back.

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

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

"Lecher."

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

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

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

"Lead the way."

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

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

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

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

"Why would that be an issue?"

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

"In the ruins?"

"Yeah."

"Mercy."

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

"What is it, then?"

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

"Fighting is not an issue—"

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

"Please do not do that."

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

(2/3)

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

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

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

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

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

"No."

"You sure you're okay?"

"Significantly better, thank you."

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

"Why are you so worried?"

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

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

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

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

"Excuse me—"

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

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

"This is not funny."

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

"What are you talking about—"

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

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

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

(Options in next post.)

>>4164427
>A ROLL MAY BE REQUIRED FOR ANY OF THE FOLLOWING. PLAUSIBILITY WILL GO A LONG WAY.

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

>B] You've done a LOT in your short life, but, shit, it's almost universally from your service in the church, AND word really seems to have gotten around.
>1] This is actually grounds for stretching the truth. You have a ridiculous reputation and lives are on the line. (Write-in a feat of strength, plausible or otherwise.)
>2] This is actually grounds for some creativity. Show your devotion to Dream, stretch your imagination, and come up with a better idea. (Write-in some way you can demonstrate your strength, with or without Cyril's help.)

(Calling the sessions for the weekend here guys, we will be back tomorrow! I'm still working despite all the craziness going on but will have a minimum of an update a day out for you all. Sessions will resume this coming Friday. Hope you all have a fantastic night.)

>>4164428
>2] You endured flame, blood and boiling water (they don't need to know it was self-inflicted) and still have the scars to show for it!
This makes me go through the archives of this quest, but I never end up looking into it because of laziness

>>4164434
see you later OP !

>>4164428
>>A] Of course! No one here would know the details of your venture into the ruins.
>3] You were STABBED in the back FOUR times and boy HOWDY do you still have the scars to show for it!

This is probably the best option as we don't have to show our face. Tbf the flight from Ostedholm is the the most badass shit ever but its gonna give us away.

>>4164428
>A3

>>4164441
(Back in action!)

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

Got your vote,)

>>4164613
>>4164828
(and I think we can incorporate this all no problem. Vote is locked, off of work, and with any luck can do a few updates tonight. Writing now!)

>>4165744
A rush of nostalgia carries through your voice, the verve, and each step down the stone. "I know you are afraid— but you forget who you are with, Cyril."

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

This is truly your element.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(1/2)

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

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

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

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

Grimacing is always appropriate. "No."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

>D] Write-in.

>>4165867
>C] Be HONEST. No one is known to have emerged from the ruins unscathed, and you are obviously unhinged. Give the full story.
>1] But make no connection to the women you were protecting, Ray, or anyone else that was in your company.

>>4165867
>C] Be HONEST. No one is known to have emerged from the ruins unscathed, and you are obviously unhinged. Give the full story.
>1] But make no connection to the women you were protecting, Ray, or anyone else that was in your company.

>>4165894
>>4165904
>when you reflexively lock the vote without calling for dice

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

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

Rolled 79 + 10 (1d100 + 10)

>>4165932
been a long while since I rolled so I am only 85% sure I did it right

Rolled 3 (1d100)

>>4165932
let\s get it (for real this time)

Rolled 71 + 10 (1d100 + 10)

>>4165932

>>4165939
>>4165940
>>4165970
(Best of three [sweating over that 3 fuck] makes that 89 a definite success. Locking here, writing now!)

>>4165981
"The only demon— sorry, demons— was over a dozen imps. Over broken glass. The sheer number of daggers—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

https://youtu.be/au_8hDDifvM

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Barely over, 1/2)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

>F] Write-in.

>>4166063
>A] Go defend the woman who is absolutely about to be violated.
>2] Fuck it, you're going all in. Maybe she'll owe you one.

>>4166063
>>C] You're not about to get yourself killed. Go to that arm-wrestling contest.
>>1] See if Cyril can put his money where his mouth is. You need funds, badly.

It's easier to get information watching a wrestling competition rather than brawling.

>>4166063
>A2

>>4166428
>>4166107

Considering this woman decided she wanted to fight those guys it is more likely she will perceive our intervention as insulting rather than helpful.

>>4166107
>>4166366
>>4166428
>>4166433
>BRAWL
>NO OFFENSE MA'AM
>MAYBE GET SOME INFO

(let's do this)

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

Rolled 19 + 10 (1d100 + 10)

>>4166705
Let's do this

Rolled 74 + 10 (1d100 + 10)

>>4166705

Rolled 45 + 10 (1d100 + 10)

>>4166705

>>4166716
>>4166807
>>4166928
(Alright lads, nice. Locking here with that 84 as the bo3. Still have about 4 hours left of work but I'll be writing just as soon as I'm home!)

>>4166931
(Back home, writing now!)

>>4167439
Fists at your side, grimacing to the woman being pinned to the floor, you grit out, "let's do this."

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

https://youtu.be/vMxo_3oHULE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fists up.

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

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

You glance frantically around, and smile.

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

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

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

The perpetrator crashes to the floor.

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

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

She takes it, darting her eyes around.

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

(1/2)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He means my hood.

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

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

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

>D] You're pretty creative. Bar fights are a trifle compared to everything you've endured. (Write-in some other strategy. A ROLL MAY NOT BE REQUIRED.)

>>4167531
>B] Tell the guard to get back out of here, and focus on giving her an out. You'll question the woman when you can slip away. (THIS WILL REQUIRE A MODERATE ROLL.)
We’ll not leave this night empty handed

>>4167531
>B] Tell the guard to get back out of here, and focus on giving her an out. You'll question the woman when you can slip away. (THIS WILL REQUIRE A MODERATE ROLL.)

>>4167547
>>4167549
(Calling here to hopefully get a few updates out tonight!)
>YOU GET OUT OF HERE
>WE'RE NOT LEAVING EMPTY-HANDED

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

Rolled 45 + 5 (1d100 + 5)

>>4167569

Rolled 29 + 5 (1d100 + 5)

>>4167569

Rolled 48 + 5 (1d100 + 5)

>>4167569

>>4167570
>>4167572
>>4167583
(That 53 is by the skin of your teeth, but that'll do it! Locking here and writing now!)

>>4167588
Before the pierced woman at your back can launch herself away, you put the full extent of your training to the test. A chain lashes overhead, aiming for your throat.

It misses its purchase completely.

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

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

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

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

There's no opportunity to appreciate the spectacle.

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

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

A number of sharpened, wooden implements streak towards you

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Barely over 1/2)

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

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

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

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

Neither are the remaining attackers.

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

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

>B] You're better than this. Fight through the pain. (All modifiers will still take effect.)
>1] Tackle the woman off of Cyril. (THIS WILL REQUIRE A LOW ROLL)
>2] Make a break for it. (THIS WILL REQUIRE A MODERATE ROLL)
>3] Stay and finish the fight. (THIS WILL REQUIRE A HIGH ROLL)
>4] Write-in.

>>4167659
>B] You're better than this. Fight through the pain. (All modifiers will still take effect.)
>1] Tackle the woman off of Cyril. (THIS WILL REQUIRE A LOW ROLL)

>>4167659
A3

>>4167659
>B] You're better than this. Fight through the pain. (All modifiers will still take effect.)
>1] Tackle the woman off of Cyril. (THIS WILL REQUIRE A LOW ROLL)

>>4167760
+1

>>4167659
>>B] You're better than this. Fight through the pain. (All modifiers will still take effect.)
>>1] Tackle the woman off of Cyril. (THIS WILL REQUIRE A LOW ROLL)

>>4167760
>>4167920
(Thank you guys but going to go with majority vote, as previously stated.)

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

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

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

Rolled 89 + 5 (1d100 + 5)

>>4167941

Rolled 8 + 5 (1d100 + 5)

>>4167941

>>4167951
why are my rolls so bad in this quest what the fuck

Rolled 34 + 5 (1d100 + 5)

>>4167941
>>4167946
nice work bro

>>4167953
(I appreciate you bro.)

>>4167946
>>4167951
>>4167956
(Nice work guys, lol. That is a 94, writing now!)

>>4167961
forgot your trip dude

>>4167988
(4chan has an April Fool's event going on, it's messing with tripcodes and names. My ID should still enable me to use formatting, but we're about to find out.)

>>4167961
You are a gentleman, but there are no ladies in The Pit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The attack never comes.

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

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

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

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

(1/2)

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

"What were you thinking?!"

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

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

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

Your blood runs cold.

https://youtu.be/_FuP5Dh003U

You can hear it.

They are all wearing white masks.

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

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

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

You strongly suspect that its Catalyst was violence.

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

The guard is nowhere to be seen.

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

(Options in next post.)

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

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

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

>D] Write-in.

>>4168051
>B] Something (mild) for yourself, just to take the edge off. Linger a moment. Check out The Pit, and the crowd.

>>4168052
>>B] Something (barely alcoholic ) for yourself, just to take the edge off. Linger a moment. Check out The Pit, and the crowd.