>>4176970
FRESH DICK HOT OF THE PRESSES COME GET IT

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>>4176970
"Go ahead, Richard." Cyril jerks a thumb towards the countless locks on the rickety wooden door. He's packed a ratty towel against the bottom seam, and now places his back against it. Harriet sits down on the filthy bed, not interrupting. "Ray's right outside guarding the door! No one's gonna' bother us, and we're not going anywhere."

You've spread soil across the floor of your small room, and kneel in it without any further hesitation. Closing your eyes, knitting your hands together in prayer, you bow your head, and begin your third invocation of the Goddess of Agriculture.

At least, you intend to.

Harriet interrupts, "wait."

You and Brother Trebbeck shoot the priestess a look like she's just killed Ray.

"I-am-so-sorry-for-interrupting," she rapid-fires, "but wait. Wait just a moment. I nearly forgot something."

Not minding her white, tattered robes getting any filthier, Sister Cardew walks over from the edge of the room. As her myriad shawls and skirts drag across the floor, the soil kicks up a little, with another sneeze. Sniffling, she kneels down beside you, and all of the goods Cyril has acquired.

Your coin went to good use, for the assortment of prepared grains (in several dishes), food from vendors, ales, seemingly clean water, wine, and even cooked meat that has been neatly laid out. The priest went far enough to obtain a light green cloth to drape it all on, knowing full well what you are about to attempt.

Clearing her throat, grabbing your attention, you see that Harriet had her head bowed in brief prayer.

She wanted me to take a moment to reflect, too.

"I have complete confidence in you," she asserts, "but I have never seen this myself."

With his back to the door, Cyril smirks, "no shit?"

"No," the priestess dead-pans, and then brightens with a glance back to you, "excuse him. I thought it would be nice. We've done a lot of good work together. You will be just fine."

"Thank you," you murmur, and try to calm the beat of your heart. You etch the symbol of the Goddess into the floor, into the dirt. The tremor in your hands is significant enough that you have to steady your wrist with the opposite hand.

It's been three days since you last ate or slept.

It took five months to build yourself up, to regain your strength, and to resemble anything more than a walking corpse.

Over six months have passed since your last invocation to Agriculture. You and your allies were granted protection from poison, given structure, stability, and it nearly killed you.

Three years have passed since you begged the Goddess to end the famine. Countless lives were saved.

It's easy to forget why you haven't eaten in three days.

Her symbol, a scythe stares back at you. It's embedded in the ground. Dirt is under your nails.

Green is always in your irises. You bow your head, and do not close your eyes. Though your pupils swim with strands of yellow-gold, the sage remains firmly fixed on the soil before you.

(2/3)

>>4176974
Divinity works itself into your voice, resonant, and unearthly. You reach out from the cracks in your soul, and implore the Gods themselves to work through you. "Goddess of bounty."

https://youtu.be/kmTFoUufb1g

There's shifting, immediately, from Brother Trebbeck and Sister Cardew. They don't dare to disturb you further.

"Goddess of plenty."

Not from the ground, but from a deeper recess, you feel more soil. It works its way from the very beds of your nails, supplicating. There is something unseen, wanting to get closer than even the scars littering your skin.

Unclasping your hands, placing your palms directly over the scythe, you dig your fingers into the dirt. Digging deeper into yourself, you reach out.

"Goddess of death, of life, and everything that comes between. I ask not for Your gifts. I ask not for Your generosity."

From within the deepest recesses of your being, there's an embrace. Neither with heat or touch, but inside of your vessel, there is a blessing. It is not of the grave, but of life. There is the scent of the Tending Moon. You're ensnared, with love, and birth, a new harvest, from fresh blossoms.

There is growth. She has you, and is giving you a promise.

Everything you want and need will rise, because of what has fallen before.

You're reverent, and not entirely sure if you're clutching desperately onto the floor, or if you're being held back. In absence of pain or pleasure, there is a fullness of soul, that leaves you wanting for nothing.

You have not felt hunger or thirst in over three years. It is a gift.

Your eyes are open, swimming with green, as you look upon a gift. Though your breath hitches, and you are ensnared in divinity, there is no new scar tissue. Though there is elation, devotion, and love, there is no trace of the agony that usually accompanies it.

There is no need to question anything further. There is a seed of knowledge.

Almost all of the bounty before you is tainted. The water is foul. The wine is laced with illicit substances. The wheat in the beer has turned. Much of the meat is spoiled. What is not questionable, or otherwise unfit for yours and your allies consumption, is outright poisoned.

It is a scar upon Her works, but you are Agriculture's vessel.

Together, you are whole.

Together, you reach out...

"Richard." It's a mortal woman's voice.

Someone is physically holding you back. It's Cyril, and he's speaking much more softly than you're used to hearing from him. It is not vines wrapped around your arms, but an incredibly patient priest. He's looking to Sister Cardew, who is stunned, and has parchment in hand.

"Richard," she repeats, very slowly, "Richard. Good. I think he can hear me. Can you hear me? Are you alright?"

(Options in next post.)

>>4176980
>A] Gods, no, you are still terrified. Thank Cyril for literally holding you back from doing anything you might regret, but maintain the invocation. The only thing more terrifying than what the Gods could do to you through misusing Them would be retribution for not using Agriculture at all. Ask for some reassurance. You need to know that this is okay.

>B] This is actually really nice. It doesn't change the fact that you're still scared, and want to take things as slowly as possible. Ask Cyril if he can let you go, and...
>1] For some guidance. You don't want to be hurt again.
>2] Why is almost everything here poisoned? This doesn't make any sense.
>3] Are you taking notes?
>4] Please stop taking notes?

>C] This is nothing like your other invocations to Agriculture, or even your connection to Mercy. This is not abuse. You're doing this for everyone in your care, you have an affinity, a passion, and you are NOT afraid. Reach out.

>D] Write-in.

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>>4176982
Archive (Threads 1-5 for the Ruins expedition, 6-10 covers the Church of Flesh and recovery, 11-present starts in Calunoth): http://suptg.thisisnotatrueending.com/qstarchive.html?tags=Catalyst%20Quest
Discord (Update notifications, art, a huge music playlist, etc.): https://discord.gg/24cmNWp
Brother Anscham's Journal (High-res map, full calendar, your tenets, expanded info on all the Gods, demons you've faced and much more!): https://drive.google.com/open?id=1r-yFdCSj0VJi63LsD3Vl9T0DWw4us6wn

(Schedule? Full sessions every weekend Friday-Sunday, and regular updates every weekday!
Art? The full-res calendar has been updated, journal entries from the last thread posted, and I'm sitting on a small mountain of sketches for a project hopefully to be posted later in this thread.
You guys are awesome. Thanks for joining us on this crazy ride, formatting errors and all!

Let's bring our hero back to life.)

>>4176982
>>B] This is actually really nice. It doesn't change the fact that you're still scared, and want to take things as slowly as possible. Ask Cyril if he can let you go, and...
>2] Why is almost everything here poisoned? This doesn't make any sense.

>>4176982
>C] This is nothing like your other invocations to Agriculture, or even your connection to Mercy. This is not abuse. You're doing this for everyone in your care, you have an affinity, a passion, and you are NOT afraid. Reach out.

>>4176986
>>4177046

As a compromise I'm ok with asking whats up and then going deeper into the invocation

>>4176982
>>C] This is nothing like your other invocations to Agriculture, or even your connection to Mercy. This is not abuse. You're doing this for everyone in your care, you have an affinity, a passion, and you are NOT afraid. Reach out.

>>4176986
>>4177050
>>4177046
>>4177051
>Ask what's up
>this is not even 0.125% of your full power

(Let's gooooo! Vote is locked, writing now!)

>>4177054
"Yes."

There's no heat.

Sister Cardew lifts her voice in disbelief. "Are you...?"

There is no pain.

"It's pretty fuckin' obvious, Harriet. He's fine."

A vine of devotion and love is working its way through your voice, as it resonates, and intertwines with something greater than yourself.

"She feels wonderful."

It's not particularly cold, either. There's just...

"Nothing to fear," the priestess across the room asserts.

"There is something," you immediately correct, frustrated.

There's a strong urge to wrap your arms into the ground, but they're still behind your back.

The blonde— your bindings, the offender— mutters, "go on. All cause I can keep this up all day doesn't mean I want to."

"Please let go. I need to inspect Her works more closely. Something is wrong."

He hesitates. It's infuriating, and Harriet thankfully asserts, "let him go. He's fine."

Taking in a deep breath, there's the scent of soil, cut grass, flowers, newly harvested grain, the gentle embrace of a Goddess—

"Richard," Harriet patiently reminds you. "You are looking for poison."

—poison. "Why is this tainted? Why—"

It feels as if your heart could break into a hundred pieces.

With an inhuman amount of restraint, you stave off the urge to reach out for just a moment longer. It seems Cyril did, in fact, release you. You continue to kneel, immediately placing a hand to the ground. The other wraps around yourself.

Cyril is patiently explains, "there's some shit goin' on in the city. A lot of people blamed your guys. I asked for whatever they couldn't use. Everyone was happy to get rid of it. Kept all the coin—"

Months have passed, in silent devotion. Away from your congregation. Devoted to yourself. To Them.

"You did WHAT—?!" Harriet stands, fuming, and begins shouting something further.

You know that the Goddess has been listening. Waiting. You place both hands to the ground. Sliding along the dirt, letting it come up to your arms, you murmur, "She can't help Herself."

Both of your companions were probably arguing, but they've stopped.

"This is nothing like my connection with Mercy. Nothing. I don't need to hold back. Not here. This is not abuse. It's alright. I know."

No one in your company protests, though Cyril does rapidly back up.

The grit of the soil underhand is flowering. A dozen sage green petals burst and die in a single, explosive motion.

"We have always had an affinity for each other. A passion. I understand. There is nothing to fear. There never has been."

Both of your allies are against the wall.

You don't need to look upon them to know. There is a connection, from the hundreds of cracks littering your vessel, and through it, you can feel everything.

(1/2)

>>4177122
https://youtu.be/lIJ5JJXKWo8

There is everything that grows.

You can feel the soil, cleansed after your unfathomable sacrifice. Years have passed, and it remains unsullied. The stone beneath your feet is unshakable, though cracked with ages of use. The moss winding through it has more history than the fallen wood about you all. It constitutes the shack you reside in, neglected, though serving its function even after being felled.

"I just needed to reach out."

You reach out.

There is stone, wood, vines, and light green flowers.

There is a scythe in your hand, made of stone, wood, vines, and light green flowers.

You pause.

It looks real. The hand is of a jet black timber. The stone looks as though it is made of the ruins themselves. Vines snake around the blade, down the handle, and up into the scars littering your hands.

It feels real. The petal are soft. The weapon is sound. She wants you to reap. She wants you to sow. She wants you to grow.

With a glance over your shoulder, to Cyril and Harriet, you see that they are both huddled together on the bed, holding onto each other, and are definitely paler than you've ever seen them.

"Th-th-th-" Harriet tries, "that is new."

Brother Trebbeck pries himself off of her, looking to you wide-eyed, and smiling nervously. "H-hey. Richard? Buddy? You gonna use that for—"

>A] The food that is poisoned. There's a significant amount, easily enough to last you all the week. Your allies will be able to acquire water and wine from any of the streams outside of the city limits.

>B] The food, and the meat. It is an extreme commodity, and will easily meet all of your needs until Brother Trebbeck can get in touch with your contacts in Beoward, and Father Friedrich at the Church of Flesh.

>C] The food, the meat, and all of the water. You don't trust any public sources, but you trust in the Goddess.

>D] Everything before you. The beer and wine could be bartered with, or supplement your exhausted supplies. You need all the help you can get, and you are confident that the Goddess is here to help you.

>E] Write-in.

>>4177125
>C] The food, the meat, and all of the water. You don't trust any public sources, but you trust in the Goddess.

>>4177125
>>D] Everything before you. The beer and wine could be bartered with, or supplement your exhausted supplies. You need all the help you can get, and you are confident that the Goddess is here to help you.

We need everything we can get.

>>4177132
>>4177133
(Vote will remain open for a little while longer, if you guys want to discuss any further or we get any further votes in. Otherwise we'll go with D due to the further justification.)

>>4177125
>D] Everything before you. The beer and wine could be bartered with, or supplement your exhausted supplies. You need all the help you can get, and you are confident that the Goddess is here to help you.
We’re in need so let’s get what’s possible

>>4177132
>>4177133
>>4177219
(Alright! Vote is locked. Writing now.)

>>4177234
Taking to only one knee, you utter, "our need is dire."

A vine snakes its way, rapidly, from the base of the scythe around your wrist. It holds gently onto your hand. There's a shriek, from a figure that is of absolute concern, though it is promptly muffled.

You know that there will be Time, and Mercy. Your companions know this as well, and do not disturb the work of Agriculture again.

"Let us reap together."

Raising the weapon expertly, there is no exaggerated motion, and no desperate attempt to cling onto the Goddess. She wants to work through you.

The blade sings, as you sweep it over everything spread out on the floor. Straight behind the motion, and blossoming in every direction, are toxic flowers. They rise from the poisoned food, sprout in the toxic drink, and snake upwards.

There is no fear in your heart, as they blossom, linger, and burst forth.

The petals harmlessly carry into thin air. The air is cleaner than it was when you all first entered it early this morning.

She's given you so much.

The soil is sinking back into the stone, while every purified item remains. It feels as if everything sinks into you. You're embraced, your soul overflowing with Her works. You can scarcely speak. The words are muffled, overwhelmed as you are, but you still manage to express your thanks. "Thank You for your bounty. Thank You, for your limitless generosity. Through Your works, everything is possible."

It's a good thing you're on one knee. There's a weight on you, though it is far from painful. There's a weariness on you, though it is not of exhaustion, thirst, or starvation.

You close your eyes.

You know that this is not Mercy. Your connection to rest of the Gods is just as precious, but fleeting, and it can't last forever.

The scythe fades from your hand, retreating into the edges of your skin as quickly as it came.

Cyril rushes back to your side the moment the weapon is gone.

Agriculture is still with you.

"Richard. Richard, are you alright— oh. No way." He's laughing lightly, and gently shakes your shoulder. "No fucking way."

The crunch of what little soil remains underfoot shifts. Sister Cardew comes a lot closer. "You can release Her. It's alright. That was marvelous."

>A] Release the Goddess without further question. You've made miracles. Allow yourself to enjoy yourself, just this once.

>B] That really was not so bad. Release the invocation, but you're wary. This is unprecedented.
>1] Try to plainly reassure your allies that everything is fine. You trust your work, and need them to trust you.
>2] Give yourself a minute to recover, at least.

>C] There has to be something wrong. Cling onto the invocation for a few moments longer, just to ensure that your work was performed to everyone's standards. You know it will hurt you, but you don't care. You're too paranoid.

>D] Write-in.

>>4177282
>B] That really was not so bad. Release the invocation, but you're wary. This is unprecedented.
>2]

>>4177322
+1

>>4177322
+1

>>4177322
>>4177335
>>4177349
(Great, locking the vote here. Writing now!)

>>4177368
A strong desire for self-protection, your unwavering prudence, and some justified wariness creeps into the edges of your mind. Without pain, pleasure, or anything more than a level breath, you release the invocation.

There's no trace of seeds in your throat, or glass in your lungs. There's no lingering weariness, crippling exhaustion, or anything more than the dirt under your nails.

As you open your eyes, it's clear that Harriet and Cyril both look extremely impressed.

"I take back what I said," Brother Trebbeck politely states, before repeating, "are you alright?"

"I let her go of my own volition," you mutter, nerves on end. He is never this polite. Nor is he ever worried.

Everything in the room seems to be intact. A number of the blackened petals are still drifting delicately along the floor. The harvest looks immaculate, untouched, and the entire area smells faintly of freshly cut vines. "We should dispose of the decay immediately," you murmur, shifting with increasing discomfort. "What precisely, Cyril, are you referring to?"

"I'll get rid of it, don't worry." He pauses, searching for a way to phrase something delicately.

Placing a hand to your temple, trying to ignore that it feels as if you've eaten enough to satiate three adults for a week, you close your eyes again.

Of course.

It's not painful, but you can't imagine wanting for anything.

Cyril places a hand on your shoulder. "You're still restraint on legs, mate. Not a glutton. Sorry I said it."

There's no ignoring that you're softer, over the muscle you've worked tirelessly to build.

You can hear Cyril's grin break out, replacing any pretense of sensitivity. "This is brilliant. You were brilliant. The way we work, you'll burn it off in no Time at all!"

There's no ignoring it. Your tunic, belt, and pants are tighter— you can feel it— and the priest of Flesh at your side seems hell bent on keeping your attention.

He wraps an arm around your shoulders, points to the sheer amount of supplies you've blessed, and is grinning to you as if you've said he could go home. "You did great! Can't believe it. Really. That was some shit. Not something you'd see in Wearmoor, by any fuckin' measure."

The sound of a quill scribbling frantically pulls your attention further away, towards a priestess who adjusts her glasses, and beams at you. "I am certain you'll be fine." She pauses, looks you over, and shrugs. "Surely. The weapon was extremely unusual, but I believe you will be just fine."

"Thank you," you flatly state, still reeling from the creeping divinity on the edges of your mind.

The soil has returned beneath the stone at your feet. The walls are intact, unfettered, and unadorned with vines. You take a few level breaths, and confirm that there seems to be no pain to speak of.

(1/2, just barely over)

>>4177459
Your wrists are a little thicker, and your stomach is noticeably protruding.

Sister Cardew snaps your attention back, so excited that she isn't even looking back to you as she returns to her parchment. "Aside from sparing us illness, and finding a solution for our financial issues—" she's very excited, writing faster, "this has some serious implications. Incredible. I imagine this won't be necessary again. Not for some Time. Thank you, Brother Anscham."

Cyril pats you on the back, much harder. "Thanks mate. Really."

>A] This is going to accelerate your progress with Father Friedrich's training regimen so substantially, you can't blame Cyril for being excited.
>1] You'll just tweak the routine to have a lot more running. You're not exactly happy about the situation.
>2] Doubling down on your strength training is going to feel effortless. This is perfect, and Cyril has a point.

>B] This was actually no problem at all. There's greater implications here.
>1] You probably won't need to have a fraction of the supplies here, now. It's going to stretch significantly farther, which means more safety for your companions. You won't take no for an answer.
>2] You legitimately feel no hunger or thirst, after abstaining from any nutrition for three solid days. Does this mean you could, theoretically, never have to eat again?

>C] You're actually a little worried for your health. It's not vanity. Really.
>1] This isn't normal, right?
>3] You don't still need to eat or drink, right?

>D] It's vanity. You look fine, right?

>E] Write-in.

>>4177467

This is fucking monumental, we can actually invoke other gods beside Mercy without having to sacrifice anything. Fuck the fat it is not important, we ca actually use the entire pantheon without driving ourselves into the grave. Imagine if Yech heard about this, he would be so proud. We can actually create bounties like he can, maybe not exactly but still. We are gonna use this extra fat to GET FUCKING STRONK and make Fred and Flesh proud, I want the next time we invoke flesh to turn into a goddamn mountain of sheer strength. Ask Cardew if she thinks this could happen when praying to every god *at the moment* or if we still need to work on our connection with some of them.

>>4177467
>A] This is going to accelerate your progress with Father Friedrich's training regimen so substantially, you can't blame Cyril for being excited.
>1]

>>4177489
I would also like to add that we should get shitfaced on that wine we have and talk about good times we had with Yech as he too manifested vines. We should also try and figure out why so much stuff was poisoned.

>>4177489
>>4177496
>>4177501
(We can absolutely work with all of this! Vote is locked, writing now.)

>>4177540
Wordlessly, you get up, pick up one of the flagons of wine, and inspect it. It's clean, clear, and even a demon of Agriculture would be proud of your work. You frown intensely at the flagon, and raise it to your companions. "This is monumental."

Harriet nods, actually looking up from her work for long enough to beam at you. "I know! I know. It's incredible. Oh."

Scooting away from the edge of the room, clearly not minding any change in your appearance, the priestess only glances to you. "It's only right. Go on. We'll drink and talk." Picking up some small wooden cups, she does at least ask again, "are you sure you're alright?"

Cyril is already putting everything neatly into bundles, clearly rationing it for the coming weeks. "Fuck it," he declares, "fuck it. It's not even midday? Fuck it."

You go through the motionns. Everyone raises their cups.

"Richard, you look fucking miserable," Cyril helpfully toasts.

"Yech would be so proud," you sniff, knocking back the wine and hoping it's as potent as it smells.

It is. You're so full you can't even taste it. Certain that you might die if you imbibe anything further, and don't even finish half of the small cup.

Sister Cardew pauses. "I'm sure he would be."

"He would be," you assert.

You're all standing awkwardly around the stupid rug in the center of the room again. Unable to stand still, you break out into full-blown pacing. "Cyril."

"Yep?" He helpfully takes the entire flagon of wine out of your hands, probably so you'll stop fidgeting with it.

"Thank you—"

"Yep."

"We're modifying my routine."

"Fred's going to be pissed."

"I am not exactly happy with our current situation," you frown, harder still.

"You're fine," Sister Cardew dead-pans. "It's typical."

"No one asked you," Cyril chirps, before giving you a mock salute. "Right then, boss. Any special requests?"

"Have you ever been to Folorast, Brother Trebbeck?"

"The mountains? I've seen 'em."

"I would like to be capable of moving them."

"NOW we're talking."

"First I will need to run to them. Several times over. Preferably as soon as possible."

"Understood."

"You know I am not speaking literally."

"Got it."

"Sister Cardew," you politely ask, resuming your more typical tone, "did you mean what you said?"

"Yes. It's quite typical. I've read extensively on the Church of Agriculture, and almost everything matches my findings."

"This is—" you actually stop pacing, and run a hand through your hair. There's a flower petal stuck in it. Grimacing, you gently pocket the item, and make a few gestures to yourself. "This is not important. I have probably looked worse."

"Definitely," Cyril unhelpfully remarks.

You fire him a glare intense enough to cull a demon. The blonde sheepishly glances away, smirking, "forget it, yeesh."

"What matters is not fat, or lack thereof," you insist, "but that I— I was capable of invoking Her without digging myself a grave. I—"

(1/3)

>>4177618
You're probably losing your composure, stop pacing, and sit down.

The shoddy mattress squeaks slightly.

You immediately regain your composure, frowning so intensely your face hurts. "Sister Cardew."

"Yes?" She's still drinking, and you realize that no one in your company has likely looked after themselves in days, either.

"Are— are you even listening—"

"I am trying very hard to not interrupt, Richard. You have a habit."

With a deep breath, levelly, in a practiced tone, you manage, "Sister Cardew. Please correct me if I am mistaken—"

"You are."

You feel a headache coming on. "I was not finished."

"Go on," she smirks, raising an eyebrow to Cyril.

The blonde sits down beside you, working at some of the more perishable food you saved, and gives you a broad grin. "It worked," he tries to reassure you. "So far as I can tell."

"I know. Good. Thank you, Cyril."

"Mmmhmm."

"Sister Cardew," you try for a third time, maintaining your legendary patience, "just how much work do you think would be necessary to invoke any other deity?" You do not like the look she is giving you. "At this moment," you try and clarify.

"I want to be honest with you," she prefaces, and you're already miserable, knowing she always is, "but I was worried enough about this. I was aware that you grew up on a farm—"

"Yes, but—"

"—regardless of your childhood, or upbringing, you spent months working in the Church of Agriculture—"

"Mother Bethaea was very kind, and it was a miracle I did not die—"

"—and knowing everything you have been through since, well." She is still smiling. "I think I have never been more relieved to have made the wrong deduction."

"This is not helping," you grimace.

"I'll be back," Cyril pats your arm, takes the rest of the wine with him, and begins unfastening the door.

"Where are you going," Harriet drawls.

"Getting us all some clean clothes. You look a hot fucking mess."

"Have some decency," she hollers.

"More worried about Dick than you! Shouldn't take a minute!"

Ray immediately snakes in the door, the moment it's opened. You greet him gladly, and the mastiff seems utterly delighted to see you. Scratching behind his ears, confident that at least one person in your company is non-judgmental, you continue, "please elaborate, Sister."

"To put it simply, I think I wasn't taking every factor into account here. It's as you said. Our need was dire. Agriculture came to you for a matter of life and death, when you asked nothing of Her— and She does not ask for much—"

"She gives," you plainly repeat.

"Yes. I— I mean absolutely no offense by this—"

"Get on with it."

"Mercy is the very Goddess of Compassion. I doubt She has ever turned from your side, and your need has been great."

(2/3)

>>4177622
She's not wrong, barring a few particularly suicidal or extreme endeavors. Even then, a little blood or relief was more than you could have hoped for, no matter what anyone says, not the worst of it.

"The other Gods are significantly more temperamental, demanding—"

You snap back to the present, and can't help but look horrified. Your dog seems to catch onto your mortification, and glances up to Sister Cardew as well.

"Don't give me that face. You too, Ray."

You oblige, the dog does not. "Good boy. You know a heathen when you see one, don't you? Wouldn't take orders from her anyways, would you."

"Shut up, Richard," she grins.

A long pause stretches between both of you. You're both scowling again before long.

You can't help but break the silence, plainly stating "I get it. I know. I have abused Them."

"There are very few opportunities for anyone to responsibly call upon the Gods." Sister Cardew tries to reassure you, "most of us never need to, let alone have the opportunity for something," she gestures to the bundles of food, and tastelessly to you, "like this."

"You don't think it would be safe to call upon any of Them? Spirit has looked favorably upon me. You mentioned Dream."

"I think," she plainly states, "that it could hurt to try." There's a glance to the door, with a nervous smile, and back to you, "I don't know if I should ask this, but would you want to take that risk? Are you even comfortable discussing this?"

>A] You aren't. You're going on a run as soon as Cyril gets back.
>1] And you're taking Ray.
>2] Cyril, too. He's been a good workout partner, and you need more Time to think.

>B] Maybe, but why?
>1] Does she think your need is dire enough?
>2] What the fuck was the deal with everything being poisoned, really???

>C] You are actually okay with this. Probably excited. Definitely curious.
>1] Ask her about invoking Dream in the near future. You haven't slept in days.
>2] Ask her about invoking Spirit in the near future. You seem to have the Goddess' favor.

>D] Write-in.

>>4177625
>B] Maybe, but why?
>2]
asking the real question here, why the heck this was a thing ?

>>4177625

>C] You are actually okay with this. Probably excited. Definitely curious.
>1] Ask her about invoking Dream in the near future. You haven't slept in days.
>2] Ask her about invoking Spirit in the near future. You seem to have the Goddess' favor.

>2] What the fuck was the deal with everything being poisoned, really???

I would also like to go on a run at some point and just look around the city to see if we notice anything off.

Sidenote: The dire thing isn't as big as a factor here as she makes it out to be in my opinion. Our need was the most dire in the ruins and the gods still fucked us up for it, no doubt the context of invoking matters but there is something else here we need to figure out, a different variable. I would hold off on invoking dream first because we did abuse him a while back and it might take us a bit longer to mend our relationship, Spirit on the other hand is a much safer bet as we have never really crossed her in any major way and we also have a sister of her church to guide us.

I miss Yech.

>>4177641
>>4177648
(Ironically forgot to eat IRL, back and ready for action. Locking the vote here, writing now!)

>>4177703
"Possibly," you start, "though I am baffled."

"What's wrong?"

"How are you and Cyril acting so—" you glance to the piles of food Cyril has set aside, gesturing to the enormous evidence of something foul afoot, "that. That is not right. This entire situation is ridiculous. I never should have needed to— what is going on? Why was he so vague? What really is going on in the city?"

"He told you," Harriet patiently repeats, though much more clearly, "an enormous volume of food was poisoned or ruined in a large market. Maybe several. He really was unclear, I'll ask him when he returns. At least one was deep into the city, though. As your congregation was blamed, I strongly suspect it was work of a demon—"

You get down, onto the floor, next to Ray. He's elated, drops his head on your lap, doesn't care at all that there's a little less room than usual, and looks up to you lovingly.

You care.

You care a lot.

No matter what anyone thinks about you.

"I would like to go on a run at some point, around the city. To see if anything is amiss."

Harriet is looking down at you awkwardly, and skeptically.

"Really," you insist. "I believe that your concern regarding the severity of our situation—"

"Richard," she huffs, getting onto the floor next to you.

"I know that it may be a poor idea to invoke Dream, given my behavior in the Church of Flesh— but Spirit? I know that I am in Her good graces. I—"

"Richard."

"My need was so much greater in the ruins, Sister. You know."

"I know."

"I know you are here to guide me."

"I am."

You wrap an arm around Ray. In a much lower voice, you murmur, "I miss them. I miss Yech."

"I'm sorry, Richard. I know you've been through a lot."

You're trying very hard to maintain your composure. "There is something that I am fundamentally misunderstanding."

A hand goes to your knee, the one that Ray isn't occupying the majority of. Your dog licks it, oblivious to what you're discussing.

He looks up to you, with a few scars over his own face, and completely understands that you're still in a lot of pain.

"You went to the ruins to die, didn't you," Sister Cardew quietly states.

"I have said a lot of things."

"Like that it was for research? To men here, in the capital? Who serve King Magnus?"

"There were others, too."

"They all are waiting for you. They all need answers."

A very long silence stretches between you both.

"It will have to wait, with everything else. This is more important. I'm sorry. I know you had noble intentions."

"You have no idea what it has been like."

"I have some idea. I know that They would not take kindly to anyone casting away the ability to invoke Them. I know that it is the greatest affront—"

You pull your knee away, taking care not to nudge Ray. He helpfully offers a warning growl to the priestess.

(Barely over, 1/2)

>>4177756
Sister Cardew softens her voice, just a little. "I know that your life was in peril. But you could have left. It probably didn't feel like it at the Time, but no one was forcing you to stay down there. With strangers, and demons. No one would ever expect you to. No one sane. No one who actually cares. We have enough problems at home, Richard. The Gods—"

>A] The Gods nothing. Sister Cardew said it herself: she didn't realize that Agriculture would even forgive you now. She has no idea what you've been through, for everything you've told her.
>1] You're not mad. You're disappointed, and going on that run as soon as Cyril returns. Alone.
>2] You're actually really mad, and just don't want to say anything you might regret. Ask for some space, get those clothes, and head out when Cyril is back.

>B] Is her having an outside perspective supposed to make you feel better? It's really not.
>1] Your alliance with Yech is historic, and you've had to hide it like a dirty secret. Defend him. Demand that you talk about him. You don't care if the truth hurts.
>2] There's such a thing as too much honesty. Ask her to at least try and respect your tenets, and to show some compassion. You're pretty upset. You need some support.

>C] Well. Fuck. You really hadn't thought about it like that.
>1] You're too upset, and really need some Time to think. This conversation is over. You're going on a run, alone.
>2] This is why she's still worried about you invoking Spirit, isn't it?

>D] Write-in.

>>4177757

>D] Write-in.

"Sister. If I left I wouldn't have this Relic, MY Relic. The one that saved so many lives in Beorward, the one that spared the suffering of so many. The only reason I have it is because *I didn't leave*, your sister caught a glimpse of what I endured and it almost broke her. The lives of the people we are looking for, how long were they going to suffer for? How long until someone showed them Mercy? I could've left, yes. But I stayed because I had to, because no one else would, because no one else *could*. Those *demons* were once our brothers and sister, why do you all find it so easy to forget that? *Prudence will not cloud my judgement.* Why did you choose to aid me? Why are you subjecting yourself to this? You could have stayed at the church of Spirit. What is forcing *you* to stay here?

(Just a heads up guys, going to call the session here, but still may update once or twice again this evening depending on how many votes come in and if I'm up. Thank you so so much for the stellar start to the thread!

We'll be back tomorrow for sure, with our usual schedule of a minimum of 1 update a day during weekdays, (usually more), and full sessions on weekends.)

>>4177810
2nd this, why not

>>4177810
+1

>>4177810
>>4177817
>>4177819
(Back up, absolutely got at least one more update in me tonight. Locking the vote here, writing now!)

(Minor formatting issue, please F5/refresh if the old post is appearing in your browser.)
>>4178248

You're infinitely past the point of caring about upsetting this woman, or anyone else in her family. "Sister."

Patiently folding her hands, and scooting a little further back, the priestess plainly observes the obvious. "I've upset you."

"If I had left and abandoned my work in Ostedholm, I would not have saved the lives of—"
She starts talking over you. "You are missing my point—"
"—do not interrupt me."

Making a motion of locking her lips, Sister Cardew looks straight at you. "Fine. Get it out, then."

You literally pull on the chain around your neck, and show the Relic that was entrusted you. "This Relic," you sneer, making a point of immediately placing the item back under your shirt, "my Relic, was entrusted to me because I stayed. You know the full scope of how many lives it has saved, but you were not there. This is about more than healing, or light. You seem to misunderstand the situation."

Respecting your request, she simply raises an eyebrow.

"I was not so blinded by self-pity as to completely forget myself. To forget Her. My love of Mercy, my compassion, is why so many lives were saved. Not invocation. Not running—" you laugh a little, absolutely floored by the absurdity of having to explain it, "—despite what everyone would like to believe—"

Harriet looks like she wants to comment.

You don't increase your volume. You lower it, and mutter, "I feel as if I am the one surrounded by insanity, still. I am not so naive as to forget our state of affairs. I am fully aware of how many more men and women have suffered thanks to my actions. I know the Church of Mercy has languished. I know what waits for me at home— but I am not attempting to trivialize the plight of our people. I am not running back to Eadric, for protection or aid— unlike the thousands who have done the same towards me. I stayed. I stayed, and I do not regret anything."

Without pause, merely taking in a deep breath, you continue, "no one else was capable of showing my allies Mercy. No one. There were well over fifty other men and women just in the libraries of Ostedholm. Any one of them could have attempted what I did. Did you know that the corpses from the city of darkness," you are trying to keep your breath level, "climbed from the depths of the Abyss," to not panic, "to the peak of the ruins," to not be sick, "and that could never have encompassed them all."

"Richard."

"I still showed Beltoro restraint. I still stayed my hand." Your voice is wavering, breaking down further than the weeks of torment or hundreds of years of knowledge could, "I still did everything—"

(1/2)

>>4178373
Ray nudges you with the side of his nose. You politely ask him to get off of your lap, and much more quietly, cruelly remind Harriet, "your sister caught a glimpse of what I have endured, and it nearly broke her. Not second-hand. No poor retelling. You wouldn't know, would you? Without any of this rambling—"

"Richard—"

"Do not make me repeat myself."

She quiets down.

There's little hope left for your composure. Your voice break completely, stating, "they were not monsters. Yech is still my friend, but this is about so much more than the monstrous behavior of humanity. This is about more than the fact that a demon can give, or love, or learn. These are our fallen brothers and sisters. They are still down there, languishing, in a nightmare of their own making."

You do feel horribly sick.

"They are the ones who cannot leave."

Slaked with horror, it takes a few minutes to get yourself level, enough to even hear anything further.

"Go on," Sister Cardew sighs. "Go on. Go ahead. I'll wait."

Your anger renews tenfold. "There is more that you are still withholding from me. You never chose to aid me. There is no conceivable reason that you could have, to have stayed all of this Time. You could have gone home. Nothing was keeping you at the Church of Flesh. Even your sister thought it was insane, for you to have—" she visibly recoils, and you keep pressing, "—to have spent so much Time in my company. Why are you subjecting yourself to this? What is forcing you to stay here?"

You both wait.

Several very long, uncomfortably silent minutes pass.

"I don't need to call upon a God to know you're hurting. I have never invoked Spirit," Sister Cardew finally says, "and I never have wanted to. Ever. Do you know why?"

"Why."

"I love to actually learn. And to listen. I don't want Her gifts given to me, when I can serve Her freely. Which is why," she takes a deep breath in, like it's hurting her, "you need to learn to do the same. I want to help you, Richard, but I can only do so if you will actually speak with me." She actually looks to be in a significant amount of distress, as she brokenly smiles, "you told my sister that trust is a two-way street. What about communication?"

(Options in next post.)

>>4178375
>A] You legitimately just wanted to dump your feelings on Sister Cardew. Not only that, there's more you have to say. (Write-in.)

>B] You're actually really broken up about this. Ask her plainly to try and be kind. You can't stand another word of debasement.
>1] Everything you heard last night is getting under your skin, and the present situation is adding insult to injury.
>2] You are just upset! Righteously upset! You don't want this to be about you, even if this all is absolutely about you.

>C] It's only fair to listen, and you won't say a word edgewise. You're a priest of Vengeance, and will absolutely remember if your counselor decides to kick you while you're already down.

>D] You actually care about what she has to say. All of it. Your mutual devotion to Spirit is unorthodox, at best, but it's helped thus far. Mostly. (You have established almost no boundaries with Sister Cardew, but now would be the Time to write-in any preferences.)

>>4178377
>D]
Despite everything strange that appear about her helping us, there's a bit of truth to it. Let's try to hear her and better our judgement if we can be more than allies by fate.

>>4178377
>>D] You actually care about what she has to say. All of it. Your mutual devotion to Spirit is unorthodox, at best, but it's helped thus far. Mostly.

>>4178395
+1

>>4178395
>>4178630
>>4178728
(Cool cool locking with the unanimous vote, time for an update before work! Writing now.)

>>4178815
Brow furrowed, you murmur, "you know I care."

"I know." Sister Cardew keeps her fingers folded, gesturing with them to show you the back of both of her hands. "This is two sides of the same coin. You sympathize with demons. I know you desperately want to be capable of saving them."

She sets her hands back down, and looks to you earnestly. Tight-lipped, the brunette plainly states, "I know this is painful. I know you miss him. I'm not trying to dance around the issue, Richard."

"Yech was not an issue."

"I know he was kind. That is what I am getting at. Have you forgotten that it was you called for a representative of the Church of Spirit to come to Beorward? That I took on my post out of duty? That I came to the aid of the Church of Flesh at your call?"

"Father Sullivan—"

"He's a man. A manipulator, yes. A psychopath, yes. But he is not a puppeteer, and not the reason I am here. Not ultimately."

I want to believe that she's being honest, but—

"Richard. Look at me. Please."

You do.

She looks furious, but her voice is soft, and level. "This is about more than our work. I am not reducing their importance, but you need to remember that this is about more than your Relic, or demons, or the Catalyst."

Righteous anger seeps into her next few words. "All you've ever wanted is for people to stop hurting you. You miss one of the only friends you've ever had. You miss being treated like an equal. You miss people who were plain about their abuse."

Your voice threatens to break completely. "It's strange."

You're pulled promptly into a hug. The petite woman's frame is frail, but every word directed towards you sounds bitterly resonant, and justified. "It's not. I'm not stuck here. Not that I would want to return to Murgate, but I can move quite freely. I want to stay. I want to help. I will not be part of the problem."

Lifting her head slightly, Sister Cardew looks to you, if only to make sure you see her smirk. "How much research do you think we can really do, if you can't even help yourself?"

(Options in next post.)

>>4178872
>A] Hug her back. She has several valid points, and you really can't work like this. Though it may be a poor idea for you to invoke Spirit, you want to get back to business.
>1] Fate has worked in infinitely stranger ways for you than hired help doing their job. Ask Sister Cardew plainly what she thinks the responsible course of action might be from here. She did mention having a plan.
>2] You may have just invoked Agriculture, but you're insatiable. You are convinced that invoking Dream will get you results, potentially faster than anything else, and want to do so responsibly. Try to broach the subject one more time.
>3] Even if it's a terrible idea, you want to at least thoroughly understand why invoking Spirit right now is such a poor move. You were fine last night. Right?

>B] Hug her back. Let yourself get a little choked up. You're hurting pretty badly, and get the feeling she's not done. You need friends, and have sorely lacked them for most of your life.
>2] Yech was not perfect, and though no one is, you do want to learn how to have healthier relationships.
>3] Yech was a near and dear friend, who tried to save you from yourself. Unlike almost everyone who's ever known you. You appreciate the support.

>C] You're really uncomfortable. Ask her to not hug you. She's wrong. (Write-in any disagreements you may have, up to and including attacks on character.)

>D] Stay put. You just can't believe that she's showing you unfettered compassion. There has to be a catch! There has to be! (Write-in any discrepancies, paranoid, justified, or otherwise!)

>E] Write-in.

>>4178875
>>B] Hug her back. Let yourself get a little choked up. You're hurting pretty badly, and get the feeling she's not done. You need friends, and have sorely lacked them for most of your life.
>3] Yech was a near and dear friend, who tried to save you from yourself. Unlike almost everyone who's ever known you. You appreciate the support.

>A] Hug her back. She has several valid points, and you really can't work like this. Though it may be a poor idea for you to invoke Spirit, you want to get back to business.
>1] Fate has worked in infinitely stranger ways for you than hired help doing their job. Ask Sister Cardew plainly what she thinks the responsible course of action might be from here. She did mention having a plan.

>>4178875
>B2 and 3

>>4178875
>B]
>2]

>>4178875
A2

>>4178995
+1

>>4178875
>A1

>>4179184
>>4178895
>>4178995
>>4179180
>>4178937
>>4178897
>back from work
>4 way split
(Good. We can do all of this. Vote is locked! Writing now.)

>>4179703
You return the hug in full. It's the only thing you aren't conflicted about. Fighting to not get completely broken up, and desperately wanting to, you simply hold onto Sister Cardew for several minutes.

She doesn't mind that your breath hitches a few times, and holds you a little tighter each time it happens. You aren't as bothered by her being unable to get slender arms fully around you. "You don't have to answer," the priestess simply says. "It's alright."

Holding back onto her more desperately, you choke out, "I appreciate the support— more than I can possibly say. You're right, but it— it doesn't change anything. I miss him. I miss all of them. This is still all wrong. There— there is always some drawback. Something always has to be wrong. I—" you sniff, burying your face a little, muffling the next few words, "I need to learn how to have healthier relationships. Yech would have been so proud to see me. He was so good to me. All he wanted was to help me see the good in myself. In everyone—"

Your voice breaks. You really can't continue. There's still a flask nestled in your shirt pocket, as a constant reminder of someone who wanted to give long after death.

There's a pat on your back, while Harriet murmurs, "you can talk to me any Time." A smile creeps into her voice, teasing, "no catch. We don't even have to party, or gamble, or binge."

It really only makes things worse. "I love all of those things, though."

She doesn't laugh, but you can feel her smile. "I know."

"This is terrible. We're all terrible. He wasn't perfect, but— just look at me. At anyone. He was trying to help me."

You pause, failing to battle another break in your composure. The catch in your breath borders on a sob, as you point out, "no one seems to know how to."

A deep breath. "I know you're trying."

The sob wins out, as you bury your face in her shoulder. "Thank you for putting up with me."

You can't see anything beyond white shawls. You're slightly hunched over to be at her shoulder, it's uncomfortable, and neither of you really care.

Sister Cardew's tone is sincere, as she patiently reminds you, "I'm not. You're nowhere near as terrible as you think you are."

Bitterly, you murmur, "I really am. Cyril was lying to me, wasn't he?"

"He always is," the priestess of Spirit teases.

"Please do not joke about something like that," you grimace, legitimately offended by so much disrespect towards your tenets.

The same patient and level tone is resumed. "What are you on about?"

"You've said it, Remigius forced it into me, Father Friedrich reminded me plenty— there are songs being sung about the extent of it. I'm a glutton. I am insatiable, Sister."

You pull back, just slightly, to look down at the priestess. The thin line of her mouth is as straight as ever, as she calmly listens, and doesn't make any motion to pull away.

(1/2)

>>4179867
There's so much conflict in you, you can't bear to keep making the same mistakes. You're almost afraid to ask, "how can we fix this?" There's an attempt, in a desperate murmur that's barely audible, "you said you had a plan."

She takes a deep breath, and pulls you back into a proper hug. "I know you want to say more."

Nodding is always appropriate.

"I know you're trying," the brunette brushes a little hair away from the side of her face, immediately replacing her hand on your back, "and I'm scared this is all going to undo everything. I'm not afraid of you, Richard. I'm not worried. I just don't want to make anything worse."

Something between a laugh and a sob escapes you. "That's his whole game, isn't it?"

It's definitely another sob. "Sullivan thinks if he can push us far enough, I'll be out of the picture. Isn't that right? He's already calling himself the victor. I—" your breath catches, "I know that there must be a responsible way to deal with him. To find my congregation. To put a stop to all of this. But it's not—"

A bitter, seething mutter greets you in return. "It's not going to stop. It wasn't a mistake to inform the King of what he put you through. What your Brothers did. We can fix this, but it's not going to be easy."

You can't help yourself. "It can be."

"Listen. Richard." You're pulled back, very gently, to better look at the priestess. Her glasses are smudged from you both holding onto each other, in your relatively filthy clothes, but she really doesn't seem to mind.

You wipe your face, and grimace back, "yes?"

"Cyril and I are doing everything we can. I know he has his ear to the ground. Promise me that we'll try a few other avenues first. Let's see what he's brought back. Maybe you can go for that run. We'll put our heads together, and make something of the day—" she puts a hand to your shoulder, with a weary frown, "and if we have no other option, then yes. Certainly. We'll do everything we can."

You can't really help yourself, and take her back into a hug. A ragged and relieved sigh escapes, as you murmur, "thank you."

The door abruptly swings open. Ray perks up from the side of the room, barking for only a moment, before seeing it's Cyril.

The blonde has more pollen in his hair, though he is grinning broadly, and his arms are full. The wine is gone, cloth of assorted clothing and a robe is draped over both biceps, several pairs of shoes are in the other, and he is wearing six hats. Each one is somehow more stupid than the last.

"Richard!" He declares, ignoring Harriet entirely, and winking to Ray, "I see I am interrupting!"

(Options in next post.)

>>4179872
>A] "Yes, Cyril, you ARE, please EXCUSE US for just a MOMENT."
>1] Pull away from Harriet, and knock his hats off until he leaves.
>2] Politely ask him to give you some space.

>B] "You're right on Time, actually. We were just talking about you."
>1] Pull away from Harriet, and knock his hats off while demanding he sit down and listen.
>2] Politely ask him to sit down, while you regain your composure. There's business to discuss.

>C] "You just had me call upon a Goddess for something as simple as food and drink."
>1] "How were the hats necessary, Cyril?"
>2] "Why are you back so early, Cyril?"
>3] "Why are you lying to me, Cyril?"
>4] "What is going on, Cyril? Where is our coin, Cyril? WHY ARE YOU LIKE THIS, CYRIL?"

>D] Write-in.

>>4179876
>B]
>2]
Blondie needs to stop doing stupid things

>>4179876
>B2

>>4179917
>>4180098
(Going to lock the unanimous vote here for one more update tonight! Writing now.)

>>4180291
"You're right on Time, actually."

Pulling back gently from Harriet, you mouth, "thank you."

She gives you an appreciative nod, while you both stand.

Trying to keep yourself level, fidgeting with your tunic, you explain, "we were just talking about you."

"Only good things, I'm sure," Brother Trebbeck lilts, while dumping the armfuls of supplies on the bed.

Harriet looks like she might kill him, but holds her tongue.

Very patiently, you mutter to the priest, "please sit down."

He does. The bed squeaks slightly. You take a few very deep breaths, and sit down beside him. He makes a point of squeaking the bed again.

You close your eyes.

"Blondie."

"Dick."

"Stop. I know this is difficult. Please. Show me a little compassion. Stop," you open your eyes, to see him smiling back at you, "stop acting like an imbecile."

The smile drops, as he crosses his arms, and smirks back to you. "Sure."

"You are more intelligent than this," you try to not look at the pile behind you, but it's there. The robes are actually very nice, though they're gray, and you're not sure how the dye or bleach was obtained.

He looks mildly concerned. "You need a minute?"

You pause, and put a hand to your temple. "Yes."

Sister Cardew is particularly quiet, standing off to the side, and making a point to look past you, rather than at you. The mutual respect is appreciated, as your pulse winds down. There are no demons in the room, save for the ones persisting in your head, and you look back to Brother Trebbeck.

"There's business to discuss," you calmly state.

He's much more straight-faced. "Yep."

"Please explain yourself," you ask, "starting with the supplies you acquired this morning."

Brother Trebbeck's tone shifts into a report, though his slouch persists. "I'd heard there's a house for priests of Flesh in the north-western district. Was on my way to getting the message out, for the weapons and supplies you asked for. Some funds. Not a big deal," he shrugs, "'til I got past the cathedral."

"You found us housing?"

"It's under the shadow of the King. You probably don't want to know."

"Tell me."

"Streets were packed. Guards everywhere. Thought it was an outbreak, but people weren't running. Shouting for people to stay inside." He looks you over, and grimaces, "word was that there was something worse than demons running about."

"They are still smearing my congregation."

"There was something that turned all the food in the market." Leaning back a little, putting his hands behind his head, the blonde's frown lightens. "Naturally, I went straight for it."

Sister Cardew sniffs. "Please."

"Really," he leers at her, then frowns back to you. "It was a bad scene. Everyone was acting like the stuff was cursed. Practically throwing it away. I took what looked decent. I knew you'd get to the bottom of it," he shifts his lips up, almost smiling, "and you did."

(1/3)

>>4180456
There's a hard pat on your shoulder. "You worked a miracle this mornin'. Thanks again."

"We did," you correct, "but you are very welcome. This— why did you not say anything sooner? This is— this is significant. This could be a lead—" you frown, "though nothing was cursed. It was tainted. Spoiled. Drugged."

There's another shrug, as the blonde reclines fully, and collapses on the bed. "Figures."

"Don't sound so disappointed," Harriet sneers.

"Nah," your bodyguard mutters, "this just sucks." He's looking up to the ceiling, muttering, "this shit is taking forever," and swings back upright. "Any questions?"

"What is the meaning of all of this," you gesture, to the bed, the hats that have fallen off of his head, and the clothes.

Sweeping the robe up, behind him, and grinning to you broadly, Cyril dramatically declares, "Brother Anscham!"

You're fidgeting more intensely, and ask, "yes?"

Taking a slow step forward, Harriet adjusts her glasses and asks, "where did you...?"

Brother Trebbeck holds a finger up to her. "Don't spoil it." There's a cheeky grin being directed back to you. "So. While you two were chatting—"

He left on purpose to give us Time to speak?

"I thought to myself, 'we all look like trash! They'll see us coming from a mile away!' And I was right, would you believe it?"

What little color is in your face leaves it. The fidgeting is inescapable. You probably fray the end of your tunic, but your eyes are fixed on the blonde. "What."

"Listen. While I was on my way through the slums, a priest of Dream came to me out of the crowd! I thought I was done for, but he carried himself like Atticus." Cyril mutters, "it came to me, like a Dream:"

Dropping his voice, with the utmost seriousness, the priest whispers, "'this guy probably has cigars'."

Leaning in further, Cyril maintains his whisper. "he absolutely did, Richard. It was one of Father Wilhelm's men. They know we're here."

You shift uncomfortably.

"What did he have to say," Harriet asks, smiling broadly at the item behind Brother Trebbeck's back.

"Nothing," he smirks, proclaiming, "just that Atticus made it back home safe, the fishing is great, he sends his best regards—" There's a flourish, as the priest produces the item he's held behind his back. "—and he wanted you to have this!"

You try to get a better look, in the low candle light. The weave is exquisite, the hood is long enough to easily shroud your face and hair, it's certainly got enough cloth to actually suit your height, and would make the best of any weather. You assume it would normally be a little baggy, but would look flattering enough now. The color seems impossible to actually pin, but you accept the item.

It feels fantastic. Seemingly weather-resistant, but soft enough to put most silks to shame, you sincerely murmur, "I will have to find some way to thank him. Sister Cardew, what is the matter—"

(2/3)

>>4180464
She leans in closer, smiling like a maniac, and adjusts her glasses incessantly. "No. He couldn't have. I mean, he could, but he wouldn't— how do you have so many well-off friends?"

You stare at her like she's crazy. "We— we have been fishing twice. I— I mean. He saved my life— not on the fishing trip— though I may have saved his at the Time. You would not believe the size—"

"Not that. Though I'd like to hear the story, the dye," she somehow grins broader. "The dye. It's enchanted. This must be worth a fortune."

Cyril beams at both of you. "The hats were his idea, too, but don't worry about it. Said you had a nice enough nightcap already, Richard."

"It is quite nice," you admit, trying to pin what exactly is constituting the enchantment. The cloth is clearly of fine make, but it seems mundane enough to the plain eye.

Harriet is still all business, glancing to Cyril. "Did Brother Wilhelm have anything else for us?"

"Yeah. He was real upset. Seemed to have a poor grasp of Time, way he was running. Guess my detour caught him off-guard."

"Detour," Sister Cardew mutters, too fascinated with scrutinizing the robes to raise her voice.

"Yeah. Wasn't planning on having to dodge beggars the whole fuckin' way through the slums. The streets are packed," he grins, "but that might work on our favor."

You can't help but shift, trying to not think too much about weaving through mobs of people who might want you dead. "The crowds should make blending in significantly easier. We can make excellent work of the rest of the week, if you put out word to Father Friedrich."

"Yep. Might be less Time than that for him to get back to us."

"What does this do, exactly—?"

"Best disguise we could have asked for. Said it can change color," Cyril happily states, glancing to Sister Cardew for confirmation.

She's squinting, and the glass over her eyes seems to be swimming. It's not the candlelight, but a few different hues reflecting back onto the frame. Her smile does not falter, as she murmurs, "absolutely." Taking a step forward, the priestess moves to touch the item, and stops herself. Beaming to you, she says, "this is fantastic. You suit clergy far better than any peasant's garb—"

Cyril clears his throat, interjecting, "got you some plain clothes too, but you should try it."

This is far from your first encounter with Magic. "There's no risk...?"

"The item itself is not imbued," Harriet practically sings, "only the dyes, and I am certain they are safe. Go on."

(Options in next post.)

>>4180466
>A] You have your preferences. Black denotes Vengeance, and though you will likely stick out like a sore thumb in finer districts, you'll raise no eyebrows in the slums. Needless to say, you'll blend right in if a demon is encountered. (While also being significantly more flattering than any other color, and capable of disguising blood more readily, the association with the Church of Vengeance will certainly help with intimidation.)

>B] You are a priest of the Church of Mercy, and this is the King's city. Gold is garish, and you usually shy away from the robes of your church, but you've never been closer to the Goddess. You want to look the part. (Save for in close proximity to the home of King Magnus, this is the safest option, and will carry massive social advantages in more civilized portions of Calunoth.)

>C] Agriculture has seen fit to bless you, even if you aren't happy about it. Green in any shade will have you taken for a priest of Agriculture without question. The Church of Agriculture, and the borders of Wearmoor is only a few days away. You'll not have to worry about being recognized by anyone. (This is the safest option, far and away, for not being recognized. You will likely come under no fire in any district, and obtaining further supplies for your companions should be a simple matter.)

>D] The Church of Storm, Dream, Time, Flesh and Spirit all serve their own role in society, but you normally would have little reason to try and pass for a member of their order. As a man of all the Gods, you could conceivably justify donning their garb— but you would need exceptional cause. (Write-in.)

>>4180470
>C]

>>4180470
>>C] Agriculture has seen fit to bless you, even if you aren't happy about it. Green in any shade will have you taken for a priest of Agriculture without question. The Church of Agriculture, and the borders of Wearmoor is only a few days away. You'll not have to worry about being recognized by anyone. (This is the safest option, far and away, for not being recognized. You will likely come under no fire in any district, and obtaining further supplies for your companions should be a simple matter.)

We need to keep as much of a low profile as possible, it also seems right with the invocation and all.

>>4180470
>>C] Agriculture has seen fit to bless you, even if you aren't happy about it. Green in any shade will have you taken for a priest of Agriculture without question. The Church of Agriculture, and the borders of Wearmoor is only a few days away. You'll not have to worry about being recognized by anyone. (This is the safest option, far and away, for not being recognized. You will likely come under no fire in any district, and obtaining further supplies for your companions should be a simple matter.)

>>4180472
>>4180842
>>4180856
(Locking here with the unanimous vote! I have to go pick up my roommate but will be back shortly to write.)

>>4180862
Without hesitation, you murmur to the garment, "green, of any shade."

Immediately, the fabric swims with a tasteful, mild, and flattering sage. There's no fanfare, or any of the frills you're accustomed to seeing from anything containing Magic. Both of your companions look surprised, and you inspect the robe a little more closely. It seems as if the swimming hues have assumed a static form, it's very easy to look at, and you immediately feel like you need to explain yourself.

"We all need to keep as much of a low profile as possible," you murmur. Sister Cardew and Cyril both nod, seemingly too amused to criticize your decision. You really can't care, and more gently, you insist, "it only seems right, given the invocation."

Cyril pats you on the back, and sweeps up a few more garments from the bed. "Nothin' in black, but I got you a few other things. I'll be back."

He's already back on his feet, and tosses you the other, more mundane articles of clothing. You catch it expertly, seeing a pair of linen trousers and an innocuous shirt. They seem light enough for the warmer weather, and is in the same make as everything Sister Cardew is being saddled with. She's not amused, but silently accepts the skirts, shawls, and you realize that the vast majority of the fabric was solely for her.

Both of your companions respectfully leave you to your room, and Ray's company. He minds himself, dutifully guarding a suspicious edge of the hideous rug while you change out of the peasant's garb you've been in for several days. Getting into something more suited to your station is less of a relief than being rid of the ill-fitted and patchwork tunic. Your suspicion that it was merely unflattering was incorrect. Sliding into the far finer robes— which are well made enough to even compensate for the coarse wool and linen beneath— you try to ignore how many scars lace nearly every inch of your body. More so than the new gashes along your arm, it's a mild concern that it will take a few weeks of running to get your stomach down.

The robes, at least, are extremely flattering. The sage probably compliments your eyes, your pallor seems a lot less severe, and the hue doesn't clash at all with the gold in your hair, on your Relic, or at the base of your ring finger.

There's still a pining for something familiar.

You call Ray over, and unfasten an extremely neglected item from his harness. The emerald green leather and gold trim of your journal is still untouched, though far from intact. The blood-streaked, soot-stained, previously soaked, torn and wrinkled pages are practically falling apart in places, but you maneuver your long fingers over the parchment, and find a clean page.

The flower that was stuck in the gold of your hair is still in the old tunic. You fish it out, along with one of your pens that survived the ruins.

(1/2 just barely over)

File: Revised Observations in Prayer.png (1.31 MB, 2000x1412)

1.31 MB PNG

>>4181017
You realize there is so little you know about invoking the Gods responsibly, you can't even fill half of a page. Still, there's a slight smile across your face, as you press the light green petals of a Goddess back into the tome.

Re-securing the priceless item on your guardian's person. scratching your boy behind his ears, you realize that for once, you have a moment by yourself to think.

>A] You should probably go out for that run. It doesn't matter where, so much as that you stretch your legs.
>1] Take Ray with you. He'll draw attention, but you could use the backup.
>2] Ask Cyril if he'll join you. You know he'll make sure you push yourself.
>3] You really want some more Time alone, and it seems Cyril is easing up on hovering over you. Go by yourself, so you attract less attention, and ask Harriet to take Ray on a walk while you're out..

>B] Ask Cyril exactly where the market was that was corrupted. You're going to investigate at the source.

>C] Ask Harriet if she can elaborate a little more on her plans. She's being obtuse, and probably for good reason, but you want to know before you go anywhere.

>D] You've already taken the Time this morning to pray, before the invocation. There's still something you'd like to do in the Hangman's Hangout this morning, though. (Write-in.)

>>4181018
>B] Ask Cyril exactly where the market was that was corrupted. You're going to investigate at the source.

Race him to it.

>>4181023
+1

(Going to be at work for the rest of the afternoon so vote will remain open until then!


Just a heads up, I've updated the Google Drive for your journal with the latest entries: https://drive.google.com/folderview?id=1r-yFdCSj0VJi63LsD3Vl9T0DWw4us6wn

Still haven't made the entry for Beltoro but otherwise should be completely up to date for in-character entries. Let me know if anything is missing or something is out of place!)

>>4181018
>>B] Ask Cyril exactly where the market was that was corrupted. You're going to investigate at the source.

>>4181023
>>4181055
>>4181167
(Locking with the unanimous vote, still have about two hours before my shift ends but I should be able to post right when I get home!)

>>4181438
have to get a hold of myself. The day has barely started. I've never felt better physically-- save for during an invocation-- and Yech would have wanted me to make the most of this. More than being capable of invoking Agriculture-- which is unbelievable enough-- but being truly capable of giving something for my friends? Sister Cardew and Brother Trebbeck are trying their best to help me heal. We all want to make this right.

The pages of your journal are closed, but you can still faintly smell the flower pressed within its pages.

I know they're here out of more than pity, or duty, or compassion. We all are working towards something greater. For something greater.

The mild scent of fresh petals is intertwined with vines, and freshly cut grass. Cleaning some of the dirt out of your nails, you can't help but smile.

Agriculture has listened, all these long months. I have not permitted a single day to pass by without constant devotion to Her.

The evidence of your connection to the Goddess is probably swimming in your eyes, reflecting the sage on your robes.

No one can deny our passion, let alone my devotion.

Pulling down your sleeves, standing with the same rigid posture you're so accustomed to, it's probably apparent that you're more relaxed already. The robes feel remarkable, lightweight, and you pull at your collar, fidgeting regardless. Frowning to your mid-section sticking out, you place your Relic as discreetly as possible beneath the clean cloth and high collar of your undershirt.

It's been a long road. I suspect this is not even the beginning-- and She has not made it easy.

There's no sign of the gold chain about your neck, let alone the locket. There's a great deal of heat and comfort in the gold ring on your left hand.

They have never made it easy.

It should raise no questions, especially for a young priest. You're beholden to Mercy, but your vows are being upheld now out of devotion and love. Out of sincere loyalty, you leave the metal band in plain sight, unable to imagine taking it off for anything.

Slipping Yech's flask into an interior pocket by your chest, grab your satchel, and glance at Ray, and fire him an entirely insane grin.

He's chewing on the rug, and looks up to you with guilt in his wide eyes.

"Drop it," you smirk, quickly tensing and kneeling down. He immediately releases the item when you take a knee, before quickly crossing the room to pounce into your open arms. A very reluctant laugh escapes you, realizing that for once, he can't easily knock you over. Redoubling the affection, you murmur to your boy, scratching at his back, "nothing may ever be easy."

A curious glance at your tone and improved mood is Ray's only reply, while you grin, "but that has never stopped us before, has it?"

(1/3)

>>4181767
Shifting your pitch from soft and timid speech, you rustle the mastiff's side, scratch his ears, and enthusiastically ask, "you want to get some fresh air, Ray? Come on. You've been such a good boy. Let's go."

Sister Cardew is waiting out in the hall, reading over the parchment that she penned from your invocation. Wearing no fewer than three skirts, an apron, her hair tied back neatly, head covered with a scarf and her holy symbol concealed, you barely recognize the priestess.

Her eyes go wider than usual upon seeing you, though they're still concealed behind her cleaned glasses. Cyril is right beside her, back in a sleeveless tunic and leggings, and actually lets out a whistle.

Harriet can't help herself, giggling, "oh. Would you look at that?"

You frown, fidgeting with the ring on your hand, and ask, "what?"

She can barely manage to whisper, struggling to keep a straight face, "it's a blessing in disguise."

Cyril groans like he's been mortally wounded, "nooo. No. Stop."

You and Sister Cardew snicker for a few moments. The blonde ruffles your hair at some point, "alright. Come on."

Collecting yourself quickly, batting away Cyril's hands, you ask the priestess beside you, "would you please see to getting Ray some exercise? He's restless, and a walk would do him some good."

"Of course." She folds away the parchment, concealing it in the beige apron. "You both stay out of trouble."

"Don't make me say it," you smirk, before making a few short commands to Ray. He dutifully follows after the priestess, as they head down the hallway.

Once again, as she walks away, Harriet calls behind her, "no promises you can't keep? Just don't use your names!"

The morning sun is filtering through a few windows down the hall, the fresh air almost cuts through the nauseating stench of whatever is cooking down the corridor, and you're no longer keeping an eye on your friends. Cyril waves repeatedly to Harriet, though his eyes are fixed on you.

"Please stop staring at me," you mutter.

He complies, shrugging, "knew you'd be fine. Whatcha' got for me, Brother… Ashwood? Aspen? Alyssum!"

"Oh, no--"

"Yes. We have to."

"I have a better idea," you grin.

Brother Trebbeck raises an eyebrow, crosses his hulking biceps, and doesn't interrupt.

"Where, exactly," you leer, "was the market you passed through this morning?"

"North-eastern district," he immediately repeats. *There's a main road that passes right up through King Magnus' gardens. Hugs the cathedral, but branches off to the rest of the central wards. Couple of checkpoints along the way, nothing major. Normally I'd say we should stick to the side roads," he somehow grins wider, "but shit, Richard, I barely recognized ya'." He pats your shoulder, raising an eyebrow at the robes. "It looks great, by the way."

"Thank you."

"I think we'll be just fine. Wouldn't bat an eye at ya'."

(2/3)

>>4181770
>>4181770 #
An unhinged smirk spreads across your face, as you make a mental note of the route. Adjusting your satchel, tossing up your hood, you work yourself up. Shifting in place, putting a heel to the back of the wall behind you, you give only one warning:

"Race you there."

"What--?!"

You're off running, or at least, weaving rapidly through the Hangman's Hangout. Passing by
overturned chairs, the still unconscious bartender, the disgusting mural and towards the exit, you call over your shoulder, "first one there decides what names we use!"

>Feel free to propose code names for yourself and Brother Trebbeck while you race. Prompts will be provided if/when necessary.

>A ROLL WILL BE REQUIRED for all of the following options. Further strategy and write-ins may make a big difference!

>A] Try the straightest path, through the center of Calunoth. The city is massive, and though you literally have all day, you want to win this. You aren't afraid of the big city!
>1] Play fair if Cyril gives chase.
>2] A little banter and distraction couldn't hurt. (Feel free to write-in any ideas.)

>B] Though getting to the market as fast as possible is ideal, you are wary of being held up by guards or checkpoints from interior defenses. Skirt just barely around the gardens and cathedral.
>1] Try to taunt Cyril into following you.
>2] Sabotage his attempts to chase you at all costs. (Write in any particular ideas you may have.)

>C] You're a country boy at heart, at home in a bar fight and not afraid to get your hands dirty. Risk moving around the King's district completely.
>1] Pray Cyril takes another route entirely, so you don't have to worry about him playing dirty either.
>2] Men like you have no use for pride. Do what it takes to win.

>D] Write-in.

>>4181810
Rogal Dorn for us and Cato Socarius for Cyril
>B] Though getting to the market as fast as possible is ideal, you are wary of being held up by guards or checkpoints from interior defenses. Skirt just barely around the gardens and cathedral.
>1] Try to taunt Cyril into following you.

>>4181906
Cato Sicarous

>>4181810
A1, but with >>4181906 codenames

>>4182489
what he said

>>4182554
>>4182489
>>4181906
A1 and shameless WH40k names? We can work with this. I'd prefer something not directly ripped from another medium (even "Master of the Watch" or "Unyielding One" would be less on the nose), but I'm sure we can think of something. Still open to suggestions, but in the meantime!

>Roll 1d100. Best of 3 will be used.
>+20 SPEED DEMON WOULD BE AN UNDERSTATEMENT
>-10 AGRICULTURE WAS DEFINITELY TOO ENTHUSIASTIC
>+5 STRAIGHT SHOT
>-5 PLAYING NICE

Rolled 62 + 10 (1d100 + 10)

>>4182605

Rolled 52 + 10 (1d100 + 10)

>>4182605
>A1 and shameless WH40k names
They don’t know it

Rolled 81 (1d100)

>>4182605
How about Rook for us and Knight for him then if you're so anal about references

>>4182626
>>4182633
>>4182636
(Super anal, that sounds fantastic, and that 91 is absolutely the highest roll! The discussion is still absolutely open if anyone has any further thoughts or anything.

It's currently 2AM EST and wasn't expecting such a fast turnout. I will be back to update as soon as I wake up, before work.)

>>4182605
Roderic Thatcher and Eadwin Salter

>>4183079
(Have a preference for who would be who?

Also I'm finally home from some unexpected errands and can write. Update soon!)

>>4183148
Whatever would fit the personas better, as a fake priest of agri I guess Salter would fit Richard better and Thatcher would work for Cyril

>>4183148
With a slight laugh, you practically leap over the last few overturned chairs in the Hangman's Hangout, and rush out the front door. Cyril shouts, already trailing behind.

Pealing away from the shoddy tavern, into the bright light of morning, there's fresh air in your lungs. Away from the tallow candles and smoke, you rush through the dirt road. Pounding over the still-soft soil, you're relieved to find that not even Agriculture's works can slow you down.

I've been running all my life. Cyril doesn't know what he's in for.

Countless homes streak by as you push yourself harder. Your breath is rapid, but level, practiced, and an enormous relief. The burn in your legs comes quickly, along with the heat in your chest, and soon over the rest of your skin. You're probably wearing too much fabric for the exertion, but it's never been a problem for you to push yourself.

In fact, you run even harder. The slums soon give way to proper roads, stone foundations, and the start of the city's proper defenses. Surely enough, a large stretch of stone carves right through the center of all of the building commotion. Countless workers, priests, merchants, beggars, harlots and thieves litter the streets, their wealth and position as plain as the simple clothes on their backs.

A smile paints your face, as you begin to weave through the crowd. A filthy beggar ducks aside, shaking a frayed hat, as you turn sideways and have to jump over their wares. "Oi— watch it!"

"Sorry!"

"Something a matter?!" A priest of Mercy catches you running, immediately moving from their conversation, to holler at you as you pass by.

Cyril is still far behind. You grin, calling behind your shoulder, "not in the slightest—!"

There's shouting from vendors, as you cut into the start of the first proper district. Hundreds of people are in the streets, heads covered from the sun, adorned in thread-bare garments of mostly browns and beige. The homes and businesses of Calunoth are painted in every shade, and the majority of the buildings seem to depict commerce.

You practically fly past a mural of men trading rare spices, leaping clear over a mound of more mundane trade goods littering the ground. Calling another apology over your shoulder, you see that Cyril is failing to catch up. He's grinning broadly, clearly enjoying himself, and something occurs to you.

He always skips leg day.

You're laughing, and manage to weave through an incredibly dense collection of traveling priests. They look to be of the Church of Flesh, and they collectively call out in surprise upon seeing you. Most of them are delighted.

"Well would you look at that—"
"End of the damn world when Agri has Her men running!"
"Not something you see every day!"
"Told you coming to the city was worth it!"

(1/2)

>>4183205
A veteran clergyman breaks away from the group, trailing behind you through the crowd. Despite how quickly you're moving, he rapidly approaches you. The gray-haired gentleman calls, "any trouble?!"

Glancing back, seeing Cyril is still lagging behind, you decide to be the better man. "No! Nothing at all! Morning run!"

The priest shakes his head, obviously bewildered, and pulls back to his group. You leave them behind in a matter of moments, pushing yourself even harder. The fire in your lungs is increasing by the second, and it's not from just the pollen in the air.

You look up, making sure your footing is sound, and can't help but admire the view.

Over the skyline, and a colossal network of stone, you look upon the first gated ward of Calunoth. Even higher above the defensive wall, the buttresses, re-purposed ruins and countless guard towers, is painted glass. Even from a great distance, you can make out the painted peaks of King Magnus' home. At this early hour, the cathedral is literally singing, as a choir is performing from within its enormous, hallowed halls.

Glancing back down, littering the sides of the road in almost all directions, is something that nearly makes your heart stop.

It's yours and Mother Bethaea's flower. Beneath the shade of the stone walls, practically concealed by the shadow, are small, golden petals. They're emitting a faint light of their own, and the sweet smell of their blossoms is carrying over the wind. It's like honey, and you can't help but marvel at how much hardier they look.

King Magnus must have been cultivating them all this Time.

Despite really feeling the burn, you are like the wind. Having cleared so much distance in such a short period of Time, your limbs are searing, your stomach is aching, the fire in your lungs is intense, and it feels phenomenal.

Approaching the most innocuous looking guard tower, to properly enter the gardens cutting through the center of the city, you immediately see no fewer than 10 guards posted. Three are priests of the Church of Mercy, and the rest look to be volunteer forces.

>A] Keep running, and risk causing a little trouble. You have a huge lead on Cyril, and don't want to lose it. Make an excuse, without lying. (A HIGH ROLL WILL BE REQUIRED.)

>B] Slow down, stress that you're in a hurry, and try to get through by toting your position as a priest of Agriculture. Hopefully no one raises any questions. (A MODERATE ROLL WILL BE REQUIRED.)

>C] Don't take any chances. Stop for a moment, take advantage of your lead, and simply ask to move through the checkpoint. You're not doing anything wrong by getting some exercise, and no one needs to know where you're going. (A LOW ROLL WILL BE REQUIRED.)

>D] Write-in.

>Please feel free to continue discussing code names for yourself and Cyril. Current suggestions (respectively):
>Rook and Knight
>Eadwin Salter and Roderic Thatcher

>>4183206
>A] Keep running, and risk causing a little trouble. You have a huge lead on Cyril, and don't want to lose it. Make an excuse, without lying. (A HIGH ROLL WILL BE REQUIRED.)

>>4183206
>>C] Don't take any chances. Stop for a moment, take advantage of your lead, and simply ask to move through the checkpoint. You're not doing anything wrong by getting some exercise, and no one needs to know where you're going. (A LOW ROLL WILL BE REQUIRED.)

Not worth blowing our cover for a race.

>>4183206
>C] Don't take any chances. Stop for a moment, take advantage of your lead, and simply ask to move through the checkpoint. You're not doing anything wrong by getting some exercise, and no one needs to know where you're going. (A LOW ROLL WILL BE REQUIRED.)
That’s why you don’t skip leg day
>>4183206
Rich and Mory

>>4183221
>Rich and Mory
Forgot our real name. Libz and Mory

>>4183206
>>C] Don't take any chances. Stop for a moment, take advantage of your lead, and simply ask to move through the checkpoint. You're not doing anything wrong by getting some exercise, and no one needs to know where you're going. (A LOW ROLL WILL BE REQUIRED.)

>>4183216
(Appreciate you mate, but going to go with the majority here since these are mutually exclusive.)
>>4183218
>>4183221
>>4183225
>>4183234
>keep your cover
>play it safe

>Roll 1d100. Best of 3 will be used.
>+20 SPEED DEMON
>-15 PRIEST OF AGRICULTURE FEELING THE BURN

>+5 STRAIGHT SHOT
>-5 PLAYING NICE

(Making note of all name suggestions as well.)

Rolled 70 + 5 (1d100 + 5)

>>4183252

Rolled 89 + 5 (1d100 + 5)

>>4183252

>>4183262
>>4183275
>choose the easiest option
>gets high rolls
What did he mean by this ?

>>4183312
(Mercy has straight blessed the dice the entire quest. Really though you guys are absurdly lucky.)

Rolled 17 (1d100)

>>4183252

>>4183262
>>4183275
>>4183451
>94 for a low DC
(Typical lol. Locking here! Currently at my desk so it may be a minute, but I'll update ASAP.)

>>4183453
https://youtu.be/dlome5tTfcU

Slowing to a jog, completely accustomed to the pomp and ceremony of your church, you don't dare to raise your voice to the guards or clergy from a distance. Though the guard tower rapidly looms overhead, not a soul in sight seems alarmed by your approach. In fact, they all seem relatively amused. A few spears slacken, the priests walk ahead to meet you with a few confused glances, and the only cause for alarm seems to be your obvious urgency.

It’s more than prudent for you to slow to a walk. It disarms the remaining tension in the men ahead, and gives you unbelievable relief. Though you're sweating and your lungs feel as if they are on fire— to say nothing of your limbs or the rest of your abdomen— it's the perfect opportunity to scrutinize the priests. With a few extra seconds, a quick glance, and an impeccable memory, you have the utmost confidence that not a single face in the crowd is familiar. More importantly, they don’t make any motion of recognizing your shrouded visage. With legitimate relief, you mildly call out, "Brothers! Good morning."

Glancing over your shoulder to see Cyril attempting to navigate around a large gathering of merchants, your worry fades completely. Coming to a complete stop, glancing to the civilians, they recognize their place. Shifting, but staying put, one at least fires a nervous glare to a nearby priest. They’re both brunettes, but the priest is likely twice your age. He looks you over with a smirk, as you try and catch your breath. "Good morning, Brother. What's all this about, then?"

You wave a hand behind you, gesturing vaguely towards the crowd, while you put your hands to your knees. The welcome reprieve is no act, lifting your head to smirk, "bodyguard."

There's a collective and understanding series of chuckles and murmurs from several of the guards.

Head back down, making a point of allowing yourself the momentary break, you genuinely huff, "wagered with him we couldn't go running this morning! The blonde thinks he can beat me!"

Every guard within hearing range starts to look through the crowd, seeing Cyril plainly sprinting towards you all. You hear just off through the mob of civilians, "GET BACK HERE! DON'T THINK FOR A SECOND I'M TAKIN' IT EASY ON YA'!"

The collective amusement of the men around you redoubles.
“What a bastard. Really should take it easier on you!”
"Get a load of the balls on this guy. You sure you aren't with the Church of Flesh?”
"Give him a break."
“Ha, looks like he’s catching up!”

The priest directly in front of you chuckles, "I'd be a poor sport to keep you!” He quickly gestures to several of the men behind him, “get the gate. Go on!” Glancing back to you, smirking, he mutters, "hope everything is alright across town. Don’t let us hold you up. I’d help if I could, but—"

(1/3)

>>4184104
You immediately straighten back up, and shift slightly in place. Your lead was significant enough to take an extra moment to sincerely wheeze, "I know how it is. Thank you," though not for a second longer.

One of the guards, a younger man, can't help himself as you move to go. He calls after you, laughing, "want us to hold him up a bit?"

Several of the men fire off their support, while a pair of the guards finished opening the colossal, plainly heavy, wooden and iron-banded gates ahead. Interrupting the choir of bullying towards Cyril, waving your hands, you really can’t help yourself. "Show him a little Mercy," you beam.

There's a slight groan from one of the guards at the gate, who practically shoos you away. The priests don't give you so much as a second glance while you break back into a run, through the gates, and out into the heart of Calunoth's main road. Cyril is dragging, compared to the speed that you resume.

You're confident that the burn in your lungs is healthy. The air is filled with specks of pollen in all directions, reminding you intensely of Eadric— though even your old gardens at the Church of Mercy could not rival the collection adorning the street. Petals, shrubs and trees of every shape and size are neatly attended to. They’re nestled near and around hundreds of homes, each one painted in the likeness of lords, ladies, and the land you call home.

The stone underfoot has even more history, obviously re-purposed from fallen ruins. It courses in many places with slight streams, redirected from the surrounding districts. It’s barely cooling off the roads, the hundreds of people bustling, or heat and increasing burn through your limbs.

The fire in your chest and gut has stopped bordering on painful, and is outright becoming a detriment to your form. Luckily, you are no stranger to pain. Expertly slipping past a minstrel, ignoring the chorus of "let down your drawbridge, I'll enter your keep!" you focus on your breathing. Nearly become entangled in the crowd around him, you duck, slide, and weave ahead. Moving a little more slowly, past a gathering of priests of the Church of Spirit, you don’t overhear a word spoken between them. In a moment they’re gone, while you skirt past another group of vandals. Leaping to the side, you narrowly miss a cut-purse, grimace, resume your run, and glance back to see how your competition is faring.

Cyril seems to have been accosted by a mob of vagrant children, and is clearly struggling to pull away. You don't linger, keeping your eyes fixed back ahead the second you can pick your speed back up. The streets underfoot may not as well be there, for how focused you remain on keeping your form, fighting the heat, and pressing on. Your lead is substantial, as houses and countless flowers streak by. There’s a looming shadow, and more specks of light. Confirming that no one is about to accost you, still weaving ahead, you dare to look up.

(2/3)

>>4184109
Beyond a further interior defensive wall, past a gate of solid gold, looming over the district you're about to depart, and singing praises to Mercy is a cathedral of unparalleled scope. You've seen it once before, many years ago, and it hasn't changed a day. The stained glass murals of every prior King's worship catches on the morning light, cascading color of every hue onto the streets ahead. The highest peaks of the building scrape the sky, the road swims with divinity, and everything in between is clearly in respect to the current ruler of Corcaea. There’s walls of gold, the edges just barely visible from your vantage point. Having heard rumor of infinitely more of the metal, waiting in the long gardens leading up to the doors of His home, you don’t hesitate to keep moving.

Eyes back down to the streets, rapidly approaching the end of the district, you can’t help but feel a renewed sense of urgency.

He is waiting for me. They all are.

You have been running all of your life, from responsibility, enemies, and your past-- but no longer. Running ahead, towards duty and salvation, leaving the colored light behind, you push yourself as hard as you can. The end of the gardens fly by, another checkpoint is exited with even less issue, and the start of another lively district comes into view.

The walls and their many paintings are dedicated to trade and commerce. Heat pours out of several open buildings used to boil and dry products en masse, even out of season. A few blacksmiths are at rolling flame, though they do not dare to put their priceless products out for display. Flower shops and vendors are scattered around peddlers of cloth, imported goods, and more jewelry than you've ever seen. You dart by a stall toting parodies of holy symbols, being firmly spoken with by two priests of Vengeance.

The streets are significantly less crowded, and you know there is still a ways to go. The city is enormous, and if Cyril's directions were correct, you still have this district to clear before arriving at your destination. Far in the distance, over the heads of more stalls for food and drink, beyond a great many smaller houses, and against another checkpoint, there’s a little smoke rising.

(Options in next post.)

>>4184119
>A] The end is in sight, and Cyril has fallen catastrophically behind! Push yourself to the finish! (A LOW ROLL WILL BE REQUIRED, with increased negative modifiers.)

>B] Slow your pace to a jog, but sprint to the market the moment he’s back in view. You’ll get a little recovery, but hopefully it will go a long way. (A MODERATE ROLL WILL BE REQUIRED, with no change to the modifiers.)

>C] Slow down to a walk, and gather yourself until Cyril catches up. You’ve shown excellent sportsmanship, and want to approach whatever lies ahead together.
>1] Let him win, and take the extra few minutes to compose yourself before approaching rising smoke. (No roll required.)
>2] Push yourself to win, once you both have met back up. (A HIGH ROLL WILL BE REQUIRED, and negative modifiers will be reduced.)

(Last call for name discussion! For you and Cyril, respectively, the suggestions we're looking at are:

>Rook and Knight
>Eadwin Salter and Roderic Thatcher
>Libz and Mory

If no consensus is reached and you guys win, I'll roll to determine what gets picked.)

>>4184127
>B] Slow your pace to a jog, but sprint to the market the moment he’s back in view. You’ll get a little recovery, but hopefully it will go a long way. (A MODERATE ROLL WILL BE REQUIRED, with no change to the modifiers.)
>Libz and Mory

>>4184127
>>C] Slow down to a walk, and gather yourself until Cyril catches up. You’ve shown excellent sportsmanship, and want to approach whatever lies ahead together.
>2] Push yourself to win, once you both have met back up. (A HIGH ROLL WILL BE REQUIRED, and negative modifiers will be reduced.)

>Rook and Knight

>>4184127
C2, Room and Knight.

>>4184196
>>4184497
>>4184637
(Locking here, going with majority on this one since it's mutually exclusive. Rook and Knight will be used if you guys win!)
>BE A GOOD SPORT
>YOU'RE IN IT TO WIN IT

>Roll 1d100. Best of 3 will be used.
>+20 SPEED DEMON
>-10 PRIEST OF AGRICULTURE GOT A SECOND WIND
>+5 END IN SIGHT
>-5 PLAYING REALLY NICE

Rolled 83 (1d100)

>>4184707
So, my luck may not have been the best over the past few rolls.

That's fine.

LET'S FINISH THIS SHIT.

Rolled 50 (1d100)

>>4184707

Rolled 50 + 10 (1d100 + 10)

>>4184707
>>4184708
Godspeed anon

>>4184708
>>4184724
>>4184751
(LITERALLY
GOD
SPEED

WRITING NOW)

>>4184708
>>4184754

https://youtu.be/dv13gl0a-FA

>>4184754
>>4184755
https://youtu.be/SYDY7xuhwDU

There's no sign of Brother Trebbeck.

You bring your sprint down to a jog. The stone beneath your feet seems to re-materialize, as you slow to a walk. A few amused vendors holler to you, but you pay them no mind. An entirely familiar pain is coursing through you.

Your oldest lover is a sting in your long limbs. They're suited perfectly to momentum, which you keep steady and measured even at a more moderate pace. The intensity of your breath evens out. Sweat clings to your neck, down the back of your shirt, and across your brow.

You grin broadly, wiping your forehead, and look again behind you.

Cyril is sprinting with comparatively poor form. You know beyond any doubt that his expertise is short brawls, lifting, and that he favors his upper body in any endeavor. It's impossible to tell if he's redder from anger or exertion, but he's catching up fast.

He's catching up very quickly.

There's probably the same heat in your face, concealed as it is, but you don't care. Your breath is steady. The air is clear. The street ahead is significantly emptier. Your path is straight, your resolve is absolute, and you have never skipped leg day.

You run.

Neither of you have enough wind in your lungs for a single word. Every stride is another step of devotion and dedication to form. There's shooting pain through every inch of you, and from more than the stone underfoot.

It doesn't matter. Pain is your momentum, your rhythm, and the only thing that really matters.

The vendors become blurs on the edges of your sight. The houses, shops and stalls might as well not exist. Fighting every urge to bend, to lean, you permit yourself one more glance behind you.

You don't have to glance behind. The priest was limiting himself, saving his endurance for the final stretch of the race. He knew exactly how long the course would be, and fires you the stupidest grin you've ever seen.

Cyril sprints right alongside you. A shared grimace to each other is the last distraction you permit yourself.

Your gaze is hyper-focused on the streets ahead. Anyone glancing to the two of you immediately parts, and you are moving fast enough that their precaution is necessary. The sound of your breath and the pounding of feet on stone eclipses the commotion of the city. The light of day is searing, but nowhere near as much as the flame in your chest.

Breathing feels impossible.

Your competition is struggling, his breath ragged. You hear him, seeing his rapid movements from the periphery of your vision. The stone is gone, flying beneath you as you redouble your efforts. The air might as well not exist, for how hard you feel you need to breathe. The streets are stripes of motion, the crowd is evaporating, and you see it.

The end of the district.

There's probably a stupid smile on your face. It's definitely something between religious fervor, and a grimace.

(1/2)

>>4184841
Cyril is gone, from the edges of your vision. Out of your sight, out of your mind.

You dig in. Deep. The ground underfoot is all that matters. There's no breath in your lungs.

You feel a little closer to God.

You tear past the edge of the district, away from the houses, rapidly approaching the checkpoint to the final market.

Your destination.

It flies past you.

You've won.

Practically skidding as you slow, from your full sprint, peeling away from a high stone walls of the interior defense, you turn from the guard towers, run adjacent to the buttresses, and try to slow your pace.

There is rising smoke, over the walls, and a district being stoked into flame.

Your legs are practically numb, your arms and torso are killing you, and you can't care. Pulling away, slowing your pace dramatically, you catch a blonde ponytail slowing to a stop.

You run a circle around him.

"Knight," you huff, grinning ear to ear.

"You've got to be shitting me," he pants back, coming to a full stop. Instantly, he looks like he wants to collapse, and puts his hands to his thighs. Breath ragged, he's red-faced, and dripping with sweat.

"Keep your head up, Knight, you continue to smirk, slowing the jog to a walk. The walk is another, significantly slower circle around him.

"Dick—"

"No," you quickly correct. It's a struggle to speak. Sweat sticks your hair to your temple, the back of your hood, to all of your undershirt, and you really don't care. Keeping the milder movement up, you manage to point to yourself, and huff, "Rook."

Cyril can't help himself, and drops to the ground. Back against the inviting, shaded, cold stone, he grins to himself. "Red," he gestures to himself, before collapsing his arms out on either side, "and black?" There's a vague gesture to you. He's breathing so hard, he might as well be hyperventilating. "That's— not very funny—"

You want to laugh, but there's spots in your eyes, and you're positive taxing your lungs any further would put you over the edge. It's easy to forget that you haven't eaten in three days, despite your invocation to Agriculture. It's been three days since you last slept, as well. The majority of that Time was spent in Mercy's company, but you're very focused on the present.

Despite the ache in your gut, the sear in your limbs, and the exhaustion soaking in— there is a fire in you.

(Options in next post.)

>>4184842
>A] Keep moving. Walk off the race. Pull Cyril to his feet, remind him you can rest back at the Hangman's Hangout, and make your way to the market. You're not going to waste any Time now. Talking while you walk is probably going to be a challenge, though.
>1] Simply express your thanks for the run.
>2] Ask briefly about the situation ahead. He's been extremely vague so far.

>B] Collapse next to Cyril, just for a minute. Agriculture was VERY enthusiastic this morning, and no matter how tempting it is to keep moving, you want to respect your limits.
>1] You're really still a farm boy at heart, and it was nothing but prayer when you last came to Calunoth. Use the respite to ask Cyril what you can expect from the city guard up ahead.
>2] Catch your breath, and banter a little with the priest. He put up a good show, and was just as fair of a sport as you were, but you can't help tease him.
>3] He was a really good sport, and put up a fair fight. Show some thanks for the excellent workout, and commend Cyril for doing his best to keep up with you.

>C] Write-in.

>>4184846
>B]
>3]

>>4184846
>C] Write-in.
do stretches and situps, some jumping jacks to establish dominance over Brother Trebbeck, while asking about the Guard detail up ahead.

>>4184846
>>B] Collapse next to Cyril, just for a minute. Agriculture was VERY enthusiastic this morning, and no matter how tempting it is to keep moving, you want to respect your limits.
>>1] You're really still a farm boy at heart, and it was nothing but prayer when you last came to Calunoth. Use the respite to ask Cyril what you can expect from the city guard up ahead.

>>4184846
>>B] Collapse next to Cyril, just for a minute. Agriculture was VERY enthusiastic this morning, and no matter how tempting it is to keep moving, you want to respect your limits.
>>1] You're really still a farm boy at heart, and it was nothing but prayer when you last came to Calunoth. Use the respite to ask Cyril what you can expect from the city guard up ahead.

Knowing your limits is a tenet of Flesh after all.

>>4184859
>>4184862
>>4184872
>>4185086
(Alright! Locking the vote here, taking all discussion and opposition into consideration. Writing now!)

>>4185093
It's difficult to stop moving. You assume a few stretches, grinning like a maniac to no one in particular.

There's a sinner in you.

Boast. Brag. Assert dominance.

You're not the embodiment of restraint. You're so out of breath, speaking feels impossible.

There's a glutton in you.

What's the harm in having more?

The stretch nearly becomes more activity. More exercise, more devotion, more worship of Flesh.

There's a fire in you, flickering.

Four months in the Church of Flesh taught me about more than going beyond my limits.

Moving from a stretch, to attempt a body weight exercise, your mid-section is unavoidably an obstacle.

There's an old memory, in the back of your mind, and the tenets of Flesh still sitting in your journal.

Strike down your weaknesses. Rest. Healing. Growth. Respect the Church of Flesh in all its forms.

Cyril's rapid breath picks up on the edges of your mind.

You crash firmly back to the present, the reality of your situation, the extreme exhaustion drenching you, the heat and sweat slaking you.

It feels wonderful. Not like a blow to the face, or a new laceration. Not in the same way as hours of grueling training, or torture under the hands of the demon.

It feels healthy.

You collapse back, completely, to lay your head against the stone littering the roads. Under the shade of the nearby fortifications, it's an immediate relief. Looking to the sky, the light yellow and orange clouds gathering overhead, away from the smoke on the horizon, you permit yourself some actual rest for the first Time in three days.

Resisting every urge to close your eyes, glancing to Cyril, you see that he's leveled his breathing, is still laying back, and is smiling like an idiot. Your own breath is significantly more level, as you sincerely pant, "good run."

"Had me worried for a second," he teases. "Didn't exactly want to stop you, but— well— you usually don't know when to quit. Good on ya', though."

"I appreciate it," you tease back, "but if— if I wouldn't think to take it easy on you— what makes you think I would go easy on myself?"

"Our honor was on the line, Rook. You're awful at names, by the way—"

"Rook is a fine name," you firmly assert, "and so is Knight. You should be thanking me."

"Right. Mhm. I take it you gamble when you play chess, too?"

You don't deny it. "That— that is beside the point." Honesty is a tenet of Mercy. "You were a good sport. Honorable, even."

"Shut up," the blonde grins.

"I mean it," you insist, embracing the increasing pain in your legs and knees. Your own smile is audible, as you continue, "the workout was phenomenal, and your behavior was more than commendable. Thank you."

(1/2)

>>4185140
Brother Trebbeck shifts from his position on the ground, to sit fully upright. He doesn't extend a hand or make any motion to help you back up, and smirks, "least I could do. You're fuckin' crazy, though. Killed two birds with one stone! Probably got here in record Time."

With a muffled groan, trying to ignore the unrelenting fullness in your gut, the burn in your limbs, and the fatigue setting in to virtually every inch of you, you sit back upright. With a glance to the rising smoke, and the guard towers ahead, you note the suspicious lack of sound in the markets over the wall. "Likely not a moment too soon. What was the situation like, when you last left? Do you have— is there any way you would know what we can expect?"

Smirking, Cyril confesses, "it was a little confusing. Lotta' people running around. Couldn't make out what half the guards were saying, over the commotion. Whatever it was, it ruined maybe a hundred people's wares? I'm willing to bet that they cleared everyone out, to be safe. I know we'll be asked a lot of questions if we aren't careful." He glances over the top of the wall, and frowns, "I know for sure, at least, that where there's smoke, there's fire."

"If we are not careful— Cyril. Can you please speak a little more plainly?"

"You're rubbing off on me," he leers.

"Please don't say that. Really."

"I mean, they're gonna want to know why we're there. You're not a liar, and I'm not always the brightest—"

"You are fine. We will be fine."

"What even is your work with King Magnus about, anyways? Can't you just throw his name out there?"

"I— the terms were thirty-five pages long, Cyril."

"We don't have Time for that shit."

You take a level, deep breath, and try to make yourself clear. Conciseness is not your strong suit, but you manage, "I am meant to find and disband my congregation, without compromising the security of His city. If necessary, I could state that I was working directly for Him, but that may cause more trouble than it's worth. Our disguises are a necessity. The names are a necessity. It is not a sin to protect ourselves— and it is as you said: I am not a liar— but we have to protect ourselves, first.

"If any of 'em were lurking around, they might go runnin' if you breathed a word—"

"Yes. Certainly. It may sabotage my work entirely. They do not want to be found."

"Shit."

"...precisely."

"I really didn't think this through," Brother Trebbeck laughs, getting to his feet. "What's the story gonna be, then?"

(Options in next post.)

>>4185141
>A] Honesty is a tenet of Mercy, one of your dearest vows, and one that you have never broken. It's worth the risk. You'll say you're investigating the market under the King's orders, and elaborate if necessary.

>B] You're disguised as a priest of Agriculture, and one of the guards you encountered seemed unphased by you heading this way. Let everyone around you assume as much as possible, and stay quiet. Encourage Cyril to do the same.

>C] It's a loop-hole, not befitting of the Father of the Church of Mercy, and grounds for reprimand from your elders— but you are a BROTHER of the Church of Mercy! You are not at your church, and you have a priest of Flesh in your company.
>1] Ask Cyril to lie on your behalf, but only if necessary.
>2] You're already using fake names. A proper cover story is probably fitting. A lot of people already saw you both head this way. (Write-in any suggestions, otherwise a ROLL may be needed.)

>D] Write-in.

>>4185142
B

>>4185142
>>B] You're disguised as a priest of Agriculture, and one of the guards you encountered seemed unphased by you heading this way. Let everyone around you assume as much as possible, and stay quiet. Encourage Cyril to do the same.

>>4185167
+1
Yup, it’s gardener time

>>4185142
>>B] You're disguised as a priest of Agriculture, and one of the guards you encountered seemed unphased by you heading this way. Let everyone around you assume as much as possible, and stay quiet. Encourage Cyril to do the same.

Trying to investigate what happened to the food, something spoiled her bounty and they shouldn't be surprised if we don't know some details considering the state of the church

>>4185142
>B] You're disguised as a priest of Agriculture, and one of the guards you encountered seemed unphased by you heading this way. Let everyone around you assume as much as possible, and stay quiet. Encourage Cyril to do the same.

>>4185166
>>4185167
>>4185169
>>4185172
>>4185201
(Unanimous, hell yeah, noting the comments and locking the vote. I'm currently at work but will try and get a mobile update out ASAP.)

"No stories." Taking an additional precious moment of rest, you frown to Cyril, "not if we can help it. I would like to stay quiet. Let anyone who would— who would like to pry— make whatever assumptions they see fit."

"Gotcha." The priest extends an open hand, grinning to you, "a little Mercy, huh?"

It's hard to not fire a smile back.

Both of you wince, as you get back to your feet. Without having to say another word, you assume a brisk walk towards the nearest guard tower. Relishing the light wind and the pollen carried on it, you try to ignore the searing heat through all of your body. The pulse in your ears has faded significantly, and your breath is level enough to at least speak without difficulty.

It's a shame that it's probably a bad idea to speak. The smoke is getting thicker by the second. The scent is rotten, sweet, and reminds you of death. "Mr. Knight," you try, with a growing grimace, fishing for some bandages to use as a makeshift handkerchief.

"Yes, Brother Rook," Cyril grins back, producing two white slips of cloth from his things and giving one to you.

Accepting the aid gladly, covering your nose and mouth, you put away the bandages and mutter, "no one should be surprised if I am unfamiliar with the situation, right?"

"Not at all," he frowns back. "They'll probably think it's a miracle you came this quickly."

You both take on longer strides, though you pull slightly ahead of Cyril. With your rigid posture and the urgency of your demeanor, as you enter the checkpoint, over a dozen guards perk their heads up. Within the stone confines of the high walls, beside a sturdy gate, there are no fewer than 20 men posted. Most have rags held to their faces, as the scent on the air is growing stronger by the minute.

A muffled choir breaks out from several of the men at arms. A young man, still practically a boy, can't help but lean to a nearby comrade and murmurs, "what the fuck?"

"There's no way," another plainly remarks, staring at you, making no motion to move and tensing the hold on his spear.

"We shouldn't have had a response for hours," the man next to him mutters, glancing to you and Cyril skeptically.

There's more muttering, quieter, and clearly distressed from several of the men posted. It's difficult to make out, but the gist is of complete disbelief.

A grizzled gentleman, with a graying beard and a few haphazard pieces of segmented armor over his right arm, puts his sword to his side and steps away from a nearby table. Gesturing for the guards behind him to open the gate, he growls to you, "finally."

"I made it here as quickly as I was able," you mutter, easily keeping your voice low enough to not be heard by everyone in the room.

"No," the guard grimaces, crossing his arms with a harsh *clink*. "Glad you lot are taking this seriously. We have the situation under control, but— well. There's not much left of it."

Horror sinks into you. "What—?"

(1/2)

>>4185358
The gate is open. Flame is rising from the center of a courtyard, and toxin is in the air. "You probably still have Time," the lead guard shrugs.

Without another word, you practically shove the man aside without shoulder as you walk past. Moving rapidly past the guards, they give you fair space, letting you out into the next district.

Your heart sinks. The trees, bushes, gardens and all contents of a former market have been upturned. Rapidly abandoned blankets, sheets and spreads of wares are in utter dissaray. Trinkets, baubles, baskets and a few children's toys are tossed aside. It's all tossed aside, to make room at the center of the man-made clearing.

Mounds of collapsed wood are piled into an impromptu kindling, right in the middle of the disaster. Several trees are still being rapidly torn down, from the edges of the road, to add to the flame.

On top of the dismembered stalls, the fallen wood, and the scent of decay, is obviously the contents of a hundred vendors' wares. The bounty, Her harvest, the evidence of your prayer and unbelievable sacrifice…

It's all spoiled beyond recognition. The rot is plai to the mortal eye, even when eclipsed with fire. Plumes of deep, verdant smoke rises from the mound, consuming the poison, and carrying it into the air. The illness creeping into you is not merely from the destruction of Her works.

The decay is spreading. You can see the toxin creeping through the grain, seeping soft rot into the edges of the surrounding greenery. It's spreading fast enough to be witnessed with the visible eye.

You're not sure if you should even get closer. There's something— someone— who drives a jolt of electricity straight up your spine.

Among the some thirty guards moving about, stoking the flame, patrolling the edges of the clearing and the few running towards you is a rare figure. There are only a few of them in the entire country. In deep orange robes, what little is left of his white hair contrasts harshly. The strands are standing on end. Leaning slightly against a metal cane, the priest of Storm is likely three times your age, and has not pulled his eyes away from the fire since you've walked into the courtyard.

The church of Agriculture and Storm have been historically at odds. It doesn't matter. You're a man of all the Gods, and you need answers.

(Options in next post.)

>>4185363
>A] You're sickened. Make it clear that this is not a solution. Half the district will be ill at this rate. Try to be civil, and keep your composure.

>B] You're furious. This is blasphemy. Outright reprimand the priest of Storm, and demand he explain himself.

>C] You're curious. The priest looks like he knows what he's doing. Save your judgement, and try to keep your cool.

>D] You're understandably scared. Run over, and stress that the poison in the material at hand is a threat to the city's health.
>1] You might hurt yourself if you try and purify this much material at once, and are worried for your own health. This is way more than what you expected. Simply demand an explanation, and hold off on extending yourself further.
>2] You're infinitely more worried for the city's welfare than your own. Stress that you can invoke Agriculture to help the situation, but need to know what the priest of Storm thinks he's doing.

>E] Write-in.

>>4185364
>D] You're understandably scared. Run over, and stress that the poison in the material at hand is a threat to the city's health.
>1]You might hurt yourself if you try and purify this much material at once, and are worried for your own health. This is way more than what you expected. Simply demand an explanation, and hold off on extending yourself further.

>>4185364
>>C] You're curious. The priest looks like he knows what he's doing. Save your judgement, and try to keep your cool.

Try to get him on our side a bit, whatever the issues is us working together is a better solution than fighting over who gets the last say. That being said I would still like to have a worried tone, get him to second guess himself a bit, as hard as that might be for someone his age.

>>4185364
D2

>>4185364
>D1

>>4185364
>>D] You're understandably scared. Run over, and stress that the poison in the material at hand is a threat to the city's health.
>>1] You might hurt yourself if you try and purify this much material at once, and are worried for your own health. This is way more than what you expected. Simply demand an explanation, and hold off on extending yourself further.

(Alright! Vote is locked.)
>>4185367
>>4185440
>>4185442
(Going with the majority for D1)
>>4185407
(Work in some of D2)
>>4185377
(And taking note of all this. I'm stuck at the office for another hour and a half, but I'll be home after that for the rest of the weekend.)

>>4185672
(Back home for the weekend. Just a heads up guys, I have the next three days totally free. Got some other projects to work on but if we keep the votes coming I can get quite a few updates out!

Writing now.)

>>4185875
Against your better judgement— or perhaps because of it— you break into another run. Cyril immediately hollers behind you, but you can't care. The sear in your body is excruciating, but it's well worth it. The guards that were running towards you back off, seeing you in the company of another guard and bee-lining for the priest of Storm. No one so much as calls out to you, as you cross the market, trying to not breathe in too much of the smoke.

Arriving a few feet away from the elderly man, you are completely out of breath once again. The fumes coming from the bonfire are suffocating, and your lungs are already at a loss for integrity. Ready to drop, you bend a little at the waist, putting your hands to your thighs, and huff, "what— what do you think you're doing?"

The man makes absolutely no motion to even acknowledge your presence, frowning as he stares intently to the flame.

"I'm— I'm forgetting myself," you huff, straightening back upright. "Brother Rook. Church of Agriculture. Please explain yourself. Quickly. I do not want to make any assumptions."

Bristling a patchy chin with an even more intense grimace, the priest croaks, "Brother Murdac. The fuck do you mean, explain? Isn't that your fucking job, to sort this out? It's foul. We're burning it." He sounds as if he hasn't drank anything in his entire life, and still has yet to even look at you. "I wasn't about to wait until the city turned to ash. I'm keeping watch." The cane in his hand is waved dismissively towards you. "Go tend a garden. Bark up another tree. Your services are not needed here."

Having caught your breath, keeping a respectful distance, you quietly mutter, "you know full well that the toxin is not contained. You are making the situation significantly worse. Think of the welfare of the city."

"Maybe if the Church of Agriculture would stop dragging their ass, I wouldn't have had to bother," he growls in turn. Cyril bristles behind you, keeping to himself, but obviously bothered. Murdac continues, unphased, "maybe if the Church of Mercy would stop dragging their ass, this wouldn't be an issue at all. It's all shit."

The priest actually takes his eyes off of the flame, whipping his head towards you. There's a sick pop from a joint in his neck, as he rattles, "the fuck are you here so quickly for? Getting on me for burning Agriculture, and look at you—" he darts sickening orange eyes over your swear-stained robes, and smiles broadly. Several teeth are missing. "Fucking hypocrite."

(1/2)

>>4186065
Cyril shifts again, and leans in to tap you on your shoulder. You shrug him off, used to hearing far worse, and step forward. Without any pettiness or callousness, worry colors your words. Legitimate fear drenches your demeanor. "This is no laughing matter. I will help in any way I can." Not caring if the priest catches every word, you drop your voice to a murmur. "My response was still insufficient. I couldn't reach you in Time— but salvaging Her bounty is infinitely less important. We need to prevent further harm to our people. This is far from a matter of pride. Can you make an attempt to work with me?"

Darting his eyes back, to the flame, the side of his face twitching, Brother Murdac drawls, "well. At least one of you gives a shit. Go on. You asked me to speak quickly. Going on with more flowery shit than even you could stomach. Typical. Wasting my Time—" he shifts, leaning harder on the cane. "It's burning fast. Not much left to salvage. I could kick up Storm, get the wind going, but I don't think I've got it left in me."

The gold on your hand is welcome comfort from memories of convulsions in the dark, and your last invocations to Storm. "I understand completely."

"Got any better ideas, Rook? The fuck you look so nervous for? You don't know the half of it. Or are you gonna build me a fucking castle? Live up to your name, is that it?"

(Options in next post.)

>>4186075
>A] You want to be better. Listen to the priest, but insist that he present an alternative solution. Time is precious, but he is wise, you are sharp, and you know there has to be SOMETHING that can be done with the resources at hand. (Write in. Clever and creative solutions will likely require no rolls. Without any suggestions presented, your QM will provide alternatives.)

>B] The damage is done. Order the spriest looking guards to run, to get as many priests of Mercy they can obtain. There is a lot of illness about to develop in this district, and you want to cull it at the source. If push comes to shove, you can disguise yourself further, and join in the effort.

>C] Conduct an incredibly brief investigation, but focus on helping to burn as much of the surrounding toxin as possible. This is spreading rapidly, and you know how much good it will do for relations between the church of Storm and Agriculture.
>1] Use the aid as leverage, to speak to Brother Murdac further. You're probably doing some damage to your relationship with Agriculture, but this is about the bigger picture.
>2] Don't be manipulative. You're doing this out of legitimate fear and compassion.

>D] Try to remove a portion of the contaminated goods. This is far more severe than what you witnessed earlier today, and you are NOT leaving empty-handed.
>1] Invoke Agriculture, to cut off a safe gap in the flame. Obtain a charred piece of the contaminated goods, and leave Brother Murdac to his work. Maybe you can work on it in your own Time, once you're away from so much toxin.
>2] Invoke Agriculture, to completely isolate an unscorched item. You'll use soil and stone to encapsulate it, and hope the poison isn't potent enough to spread to the surrounding substance.
>3] Invoke Agriculture, to completely isolate an unscorched item. You'll identify exactly what's contaminating it, why it's spread, and safely remove the poison to handle it. Potentially hurting yourself is infinitely less important to you than getting to the root of the matter. (Write-in any specific items or quantities of goods, e.g. only the closest flask of wine, the least spoiled basket of grain, etc.)

>E] Write-in.

>>4186077
>C]
>2]

>>4186077
D3, grab whatever seems the most effected by the contamination

>>4186258
+1

>>4186158
>>4186258
>>4186529
(Aaaalright guys, totally got carried away drawing and hadn't realized we had a tie breaker. Going to lock the vote here and get an update out before bed. Writing now!)

>>4186590
You do not live up to your name. You don't meet the debasement or question of your authority with anger, or ridicule. Legitimate fear and compassion is driving you to lengths you previously thought impossible. Moving to go, you repeat, "it's as I said before." You cough, through the building smoke. Picking back up into a jog, you call over your shoulder to the elderly priest, "I'll help as much as I can, but I must gather some evidence of what transpired here! We'll get to the bottom of it!"

The priest of Storm raises an eyebrow, doing a poor job of hiding his shock as he calls back, "where the fuck did they find you?"

It's impossible to resist. "The Gods are Merciful!"

The flame is intense, beating on you from a distance. You almost immediately slow to a walk, and come to a complete stop just outside the worst of the heat. Cyril jogs up alongside you, smirking. "Was that a good idea?"

"I don't see you offering any better ones," you frown, realizing that proper investigation is all but impossible via more mundane means. The debris littering the courtyard is so haphazard, it would take hours to go through and try to find trace of ill intent. Most of the surrounding area has already been stripped clean. You know it's for safe measure, but a grimace paints your face nonetheless.

Without a window in your room or any other method of Time keeping, you realize you have no idea how long it's been since Cyril last came to the market, let alone how much Time has transpired since the perpetrator first struck. As a priest of the Church of Mercy, you glance to the clearly exhausted guards, most of whom are struggling to clear their lungs. Looking back to Cyril, who's as spirited as ever, your anxiety is a stark contrast. "Will you help the men here?"

"Sure thing," he replies, making absolutely no motion to move. "You gonna be alright?"

As a priest of the Church of Agriculture, with fear of the Goddess in you, you lock your gaze on the building flame. "I can only pray."

Cyril pats you on the shoulder, as you preemptively take a knee. "That's really not funny," he mutters, still staying put.

"Go," you murmur, with no trace of humor in your voice. The blonde gives you a wary look, but breaks off into a run towards the other guards.

His barking to the other men to use proper form fades from the edges of your mind. Rather than keep the sage in your irises fixed on the flame, or even to scan through the decay, you look to the ground. The stone is worn, scuffed by countless footsteps, and is peppered with soot.

Pressed for Time and lacking any holy symbol, you pull back your sleeve to your elbow. Agriculture's symbol is so simplistic, it takes a single, terrified breath to draw the scythe against Her works. Keeping your hand to the ground, you close your eyes. It sears your lungs to do so, but you take a deep breath, and force yourself to steady your voice.

(1/4. Buckle up.)

>>4186740
"Flame and wind are irrelevant," you begin, and immediately find yourself.

Digging your fingers into the dirt, feeling up against the edges of adjacent stone, you are taken away from the smoke.

"I care for the cries of our people," you stress, closing your eyes out of sheer sympathy. There's no sight or sound of any suffering. There is the scent of freshly cut grass, which completely eclipses the fumes of decay.

Your throat clears, and you say with conviction, "I care for a priest of Storm, who is willing to part from his life to preserve our home."

A few light green flowers begin to sprout from underhand. They creep up, holding the petals lightly against your palm. The sensation is of life, and the promise of something infinitely more secure than tremor or lightning in the dark. You keep hold of the blossoms as they weave against your fingers. Taking the caress, feeling more than the soil and rock, you grit out, "I worry for the hundreds of men, women and children about us. Those who have gone unaided— who will suffer, when Your works were needed most."

You don't need to look upon the rot ahead, but the verdancy in your eyes is swimming with divinity. You open your eyes, to gaze upon a pyre. "My heart aches for You, Goddess of bounty."

She's not on you. She's listening.

"Your generosity has been scorned, for far too long. Come to me."

She is in you.

Your breath hitches, as the soil and flowers underhand sink straight through the palm of your hand. "Agriculture," you say, watching the ground as if your life depended on it. You invoke Her, pleading, though She's been listening to and answered every word intently, "bless me. Let us reap together."

There's a sensation of vines creeping up through your veins. Your blood is running green, though there is no pain to speak of. Though your sleeve is only pulled just below your upper arm, you can feel the growth snaking up, beyond your limb, winding around your neck. There's no urgency. It's a caress, deeper and closer than anything you've ever felt before.

She rapidly surges into your eyes. More than in your veins, She's on your lips. The scent of pollen is so intense in the air, intermingled with new blossoms, that you can practically taste it.

https://youtu.be/bfg593CAv1I

There is no pain.

There is no Time.

There's pollen in the air. It's the season of Grace, in the month of the Tending Moon.

Every day is Agriculture's Harvest.

You know that every minute, from birth until death, is in service to Her.

The sun is shining overhead, casting light onto dozens of men running, breathing, and living.

There's smoke on the air. It's thick enough that you can see it.

(2/4)

>>4186744
She is patient. She asks for so little. She wants you to show devotion to yourself. To Our home.

You murmur, so quietly that only She can hear, "show me. What is furthest from Your works? What has spoiled it? Why?"

She has been waiting. She is listening. There is a bundle of grain, buried deep within the piles of rot and decay. It's not an affront to your senses. The harvest was immaculate. Your sacrifice was never forgotten. The Goddess has listened, all these years. To all but those who would blaspheme Her works.

"A demon."

A trifle.

From the palm of your hand, still flush against the ground, you do not part with the Goddess.

"What has fallen will rise again."

She grows through you, snaking vines into the soil, digging beneath the flame, and coming directly beneath the blasphemous display. Stone parts effortlessly before tendrils of the Goddess Herself. They char, and burn, but this is no extension of yourself. It's a display of your might.

There is a command over death, and everything that comes before. The vines ensnare the gift. It was already so charred, there's no perceptible movement in the bonfire ahead. You do not hear the crackle of flame, the collapsing decay from within. You feel it, though. You feel the absence of the object from its pyre, as the tendrils snake back. They come to you, as quickly as they left.

You could not conceive of wanting for anything more when the dawn broke over Agriculture's land earlier today, but you look upon a gift, now, and have had your prayers answered in full. An untainted, unspoiled, and entirely harmless bundle of grain is beneath the palm of your hands. It's come up through the soil, and is still littered with pebbles and dirt. The gathering is significant, several feet long, and tied together with bands of straw.

You brush aside the debris, picking through the stalks to find your purchase. At its center is a stone vial. It's no more than two inches long. Strands of grain are tied around the neck, like a bow, and it's impossibly corked with polished rock. The fit is flush, enough so that there's no risk of losing any of the poison within.

It's beautiful.

You know with absolute certainty that a demon of Agriculture is spoiling goods in the city. Your congregation is not to blame, though they are being held responsible. Holding undeniable proof of the Goddesses works, there is no question in your mind that you are loved. You're holding onto enough poison to easily kill a man, with no pain to speak of. She took nothing from you. You've been protected, and embraced by divinity. There's no heat from the rising flame. There's a gentle caress, enough grain to bake several loaves of bread in your grasp, and no doubt in your mind: your wrists look a little bit thicker.

(3/4)

>>4186746
The reality check is sufficient to look back to the rising smoke. Cyril is definitely shaking your shoulder. He's making a point to stay to the side of you, at arm's length, as if he's afraid to get too close. You glance down, to see that the rock underfoot is cracked, from a multitude of light green flowers that have burst forth. Your stomach isn't protruding much farther, certainly not enough to obstruct your view, but as the word chubby sears into your thoughts more than the flame just ahead, you try to come back down to the present.

Brother Murdac is nowhere in sight, through the dense smoke. A few guards can be seen running past, but it's incredibly hard to focus. There's the scent of flowers, and something snaking under your skin.

You release the invocation.

Brother Trebbeck is shaking you harder. There's no agony. No scraping pain of glass against the interior of your throat. There's the faintest scent of blossoms, and rapidly, you're aware of the density of the smoke.

"Hey." Cyril grins with relief, the second your eyes dart to him. You really can't find the will to speak. Your soul is fit to burst, and you're almost afraid of what may come out if you dare to part your lips. The edges of your mind are reeling, and there's specks of pollen drifting past in the air.

"Come on. They sent for some of the King's men. We gotta move."

>A] Look for Brother Murdac. Even though it's incredibly risky to linger, you want to at least relay your findings. He was ready to put HIS life on the line for everyone's collective safety, and your congregation is innocent (of this, at least).

>B] For the sake of your work in Calunoth, the safety of everyone in your company, your discretion and your congregation, you have to go. Hopefully you made a small difference with the relations between the Church of Agriculture and Storm, but your goals ultimately have to do with the men and women counting directly on you.

>C] You not only need to get moving, you're pretty shaken by your findings. Try to get somewhere safe immediately with Brother Trebbeck, out of this district, and relay what you've learned.
>1] Somewhere incredibly discreet. You're REALLY shaken, and need a minute to compose yourself.
>2] All the way back to the Hangman's Hangout. The only Time in your life you've invoked so frequently was in the ruins. You're overwhelmed, and really just need a break.

>D] Not only are you shaken, your fear seems to have been justified. Once you're somewhere safe enough, try broaching the subject of your appearance with Cyril.
>1] You're actually really upset. You're a priest of the Church of Mercy, with a congregation singing your praises.
>2] You're pissed. You'd like to be a priest of the Church of Flesh, too, and this is an actual setback.
>3] You're trying to show yourself some compassion, and really just need some reassurance that you did the right thing.

>E] Write-in.

>>4186747
>>B] For the sake of your work in Calunoth, the safety of everyone in your company, your discretion and your congregation, you have to go. Hopefully you made a small difference with the relations between the Church of Agriculture and Storm, but your goals ultimately have to do with the men and women counting directly on you.

>>4186750
+1

>>4186747
>B] For the sake of your work in Calunoth, the safety of everyone in your company, your discretion and your congregation, you have to go. Hopefully you made a small difference with the relations between the Church of Agriculture and Storm, but your goals ultimately have to do with the men and women counting directly on you.

We should look at the evidence later and try to figure out how to catch this demon.

>>4186747
>B]
Such a shame we’re still being persecuted, may our deeds soften their hearts

>>4186750
>>4186753
>>4186757
>>4186976
(Alright, straight unanimous vote! Home for the weekend and ready to rock and roll! Vote is locked, writing now.)

>>4187145
Holding the objects in hand to your chest, you get back to your feet. There's a weight on you, and it's from more than the invocation.

It's in your chest, in your heart, and your soul. You feel for everyone who is counting on you, and move without any hesitation.

Away from the pyre, back through the rising smoke and flame, you both wordlessly work to find a way out of the courtyard. The bonfire seems to have been controlled, but its effects absolutely have not. There is no sight of Brother Murdac, or any of the priests of Mercy that have been summoned.

Their work will be needed, as there's a fire in your lungs, and you can hear wheezing and coughing in almost all directions.

Staying fairly close to your bodyguard's long strides, you keep pace despite the sear in your lungs, the burn in your limbs, or the precious cargo in your hands.

After what feels like an eternity of walking through the dense plumes of decay, you get to thinner, clearer air. At the end of the clearing, beyond several houses, you both begin to wind through a more residential portion of the craftsmen district. The sun is overhead, but the sky is gathering with soot. A gray filter feels as though it's over the myriad buildings, and you know you're heading west. Noting that it's closer to the district of Flesh that Brother Trebbeck briefly mentioned this morning, you also notice that the streets are nearly deserted. With Agriculture's bounty held as closely as you can manage, your throat searing from the soot and ash, you still can't help but break the silence between you both.

The facts seem like a good place to start. "I am still being persecuted."

"Don't take it personally," Cyril croaks, "that old shit— Murcrack?"

"Murdac," you correct, noting that the buildings around you are made of substantially higher quality stone than what you've seen before. You don't feel the need to mind your step, still hyper-attuned to the Goddess. Any dip in the road is trivial, compared to the spectacle of unique moss, flowers in the distance, and even more glimpses of greenery far ahead.

The priest at your side seems to have been patiently waiting to speak, for you to glance back to him. He asserts, "well. He seemed to take you seriously. Took the issue seriously, too, is all."

There's shouting, from the direction you came. It's of outrage, and significant distress.

Cyril is practically beside himself, walking much more briskly. "You didn't need to take any of that shit. It's petty. They're all acting like kids. Worse, really. Buncha' petty bastards."

(1/3)

>>4187304
"Cyril," you practically whisper, absolutely quietly enough for no one eavesdropping to hear. The smoke is clearing fast, and there seems to be another checkpoint ahead. Beyond the trees is a monument of stone. It's not just re-purposed. The new function and form of Her works is breathtaking. The buttresses are sound, the towers are hardy, and the gates would not be felled by flame, water, nor wind.

"Sorry, mate. It's just not right."

"That is precisely why we left," you murmur.

"Could have kicked his ass, you know," Cyril grins.

"Your safety is paramount," you raise your tone, infinitely more convicted, "but I would like for you to be treated with more respect. The same goes for our allies. This is our work. Our home. This turmoil is unnecessary, and they all know it. Even our enemies." Holding the blessing of a Goddess more tightly still, for a last precious moment before rejoining the crowds, you murmur, "may my deeds soften their hearts."

There's a firm pat on your back. Brother Trebbeck gives you a very weary smile, and glances to the objects in your hands. "We'll be alright." Pausing, he pats your back one more time, and frowns, "you gotta worry about yourself, too, sometimes. I'm not trying to judge here, but Fred's going to kill you."

You don't even dignify the comment with a reply. Looking ahead to the edge of the craftsmen district, you see life reemerging in full. Though bushes litter the edges of the streets, speckled with flowers, and trees are in full bloom, you do not look just to the pale blossoms that catching on the wind. It's not a matter of glancing to the insects flitting about, or even a few birds passing by far off in the distance.

There's a large gathering of people at the edge of the checkpoint. You set to picking out the stone vial from the center of the bundle in your hands, and put it within your satchel for safe-keeping. There's still dirt caked under your nails. You try to not pay it any mind, brushing some of the soil off of your palms, already more concerned with the work ahead.

"Don't suppose that's the answer to your prayer, is it," Cyril tries, crossing his arms and nodding towards the vial.

"We should look over the evidence as soon as we are able. This was not the doing of my congregation," you levelly explain, despite the significance of what's to follow.

"Eh?" Cyril slows his steps, legitimately surprised.

"They are not monsters," you sigh, trying to keep your patience. "But the culprit was. This," you gesture with the grain, "was the work of a demon of Agriculture. It could manipulate poison."

"We've got a detour to take, then," Cyril grins. While you maneuver the crops to be securely fastened against the straps of your satchel, the blonde lifts his head to the crowd at the checkpoint, "right after we get through this."

(2/3)

>>4187309
There's a din of men, women, and children all clamoring to get to the gate. Every citizen in Corcaea knows that the segmented structure of each holy city is to do more than keep an invasion out. Few forces are daring enough to strike at the heart of humanity. Every man, woman and child in the country is a disaster waiting to happen.

The walls are to keep outbreaks in, in most cases. Naturally, the priests of Mercy were not called to heal the sick. You have cut off Mercy's blessing from hundreds of clergy.

The King's men were summoned to restrain the commotion, and they're on their way. "Please tell me you know of a way around this," you mutter, frantically looking back to the direction you came. There's no shouts to be heard, but you're certain that even at your brisk pace, there's little to be done for a lead.

Cyril puts a hand to his brow, nervously laughing. "Cathedral's right up the way, but it doesn't matter if they couldn't sprint half as fast as we did. The city's swarming with Magnus' men. Including you. They'll be here any second."

Both of you come to a complete stop, against the side of a building, off of the side road. "I was hoping you could switch robes and get us right out," Brother Trebbeck hisses.

The priest smells of ash and sweat, and you suspect you're in equal disarray. "I could be recognized," you murmur back. "We both will likely be recognized, after—"

Fifteen priests of the Church of Mercy run past. They're silent, and all have weapons in hand.

Running a few fingers through his hair, picking out a twig and flicking it aside (to which you frown), Cyril mutters, "shit. Got any bright ideas, then?"

>A] It's as good of an idea as any. Try to clean both of you up as well as you can, get your robes into a golden hue, and DISCREETLY attempt to get through the checkpoint. (A ROLL WILL BE REQUIRED.)
>1] Shove the grain on your person into your satchel, just to be completely safe. The bag was a gift from Yech, and you suspect it shouldn't damage the goods or be an issue.
>2] Keep the item out. The crowd is dense, and no one saw you leaving. You suspect it won't put you at any risk.

>B] Your aversion to presenting yourself as a priest of Mercy aside, you know there has to be a better way to do this. (Write-in.)

>>4176970
Your quest is great, man. Cheers.

>>4187325
(Bro that seriously means a lot, thank you so much.)

>>4187312
>A] It's as good of an idea as any. Try to clean both of you up as well as you can, get your robes into a golden hue, and DISCREETLY attempt to get through the checkpoint. (A ROLL WILL BE REQUIRED.)
>1] Shove the grain on your person into your satchel, just to be completely safe. The bag was a gift from Yech, and you suspect it shouldn't damage the goods or be an issue.
Let’s not make their taint on mercy keep us from appear as one ignore aspects and we gotta hide the seed to dodge any possible question about it and at least to keep our hands free

>>4187312
A2

>>4187343
+1 the seed remains hidden in the sack

>>4187343
+1

Make sure to not spill the seed. We swore a vow after all.

>>4187344
(Appreciate you man, A1 and A2 are mutually exclusive though so going with the majority.)

>>4187343
>>4187346
>>4187349
>execute order 69
>Dick jokes are a go
(A1 it is, lol. Writing now!)

>>4187359
(I completely failed to call the roll, dug this grave, and am going to lie in it. Your guys write-ins were perfectly justifiable and I won't go back on locking this! As previously stated, writing now.)

>>4187387
"Get some of the soot off your face, at least," you mutter to Cyril. "Make some use of these," he fires a broad grin at you, silently accepting a number of bandages, "and we'll keep our heads down."

While the priest sets about a makeshift disguise, wrapping the cloth around his nose and mouth, you make quicker work of cleaning yourself up. Praying that everyone else in the district will be just as disheveled, or more so, you settle on making the most use of your resources at hand instead of laboring over the lack of water or soap.

Looking to the sage robes adorning you— still perfectly flattering and in a complimentary shade of green— you place a hand to one sleeve. "Yellow-gold," you murmur, "though not too gaudy. Discreet, if such a thing is possible."

The verdant dye shifts, swims, and shines brightly for only a moment. A deeper hue pulls through, almost matte in the light. You're reminded of unpolished amber, though under the sun's rays, the color shifts to indicate your station. It's absurdly tasteful, absolutely would compliment your hair if the hood was pulled down, and you know the strands of gold in your eyes are shining.

Cyril doesn't dare to whistle, but he grins to you broadly. "Fuckin' a. You look the part, you know that?"

"No blemish on the Church of Mercy should prevent me from appearing as one," you murmur, smiling slightly, and adjusting a sleeve. It's lined with gold-work, in a deeper shade still. "Thank you, though."

"What are you doing," Cyril smirks, as you move to hide the grain at your side.

"Concealing..."

You pause, glancing to the seed, the sack, and fail to repress a groan. "Don't. I know what you're thinking."

"Who's the lecher now?"

"I mean it, Cyril."

"Diii—"

"Stop. I know you've taken significantly fewer vows— but please. Show mine a modicum of respect."

The blonde settles on a few choice, crude, phallic gestures as you attempt to secure an entire bundle of grain in your bag. The immature humor fails to keep your attention, as you stare wide-eyed at the items in hand.

The bag appears to be bottomless. Once you maneuvered the bundle into the jet-black satchel, all of the grain effortlessly fit inside. There's no indication of there being less room for storage. It makes absolutely no sense, and complete sense. There's a pang in your chest, wanting for the company of a sorcerer of unparalleled skill, missing a demon of Agriculture intently, and wanting nothing to do with the situation at hand. You manage to choke out, "how will I ever make this up to him—?"

"Come on, big guy," Cyril pulls you, practically dragging you away from old memories, "we can talk about another man's sack later."

You punch him against his shoulder, hard, and pull away. "Don't start. Keep your voice down. Alright? We need to dodge every question possible. Any blows that might ensue."

"I think you're underestimating how much pull you've got—"

(1/2)

>>4187497
"Come on," you mutter, trying to quell your anger as you pick up the pace.

Taking broad strides ahead, with as much urgency you can muster, you enter the crowd. Barking to every civilian that dares to approach, "step aside!" you find that you're given a wide berth in a matter of moments. Even through the chaos, the reputation of the Church of Mercy precedes you. Your reputation precedes you. It likely doesn't register to the significantly shorter figures, but you stand taller than almost every figure in the crowd, and have done a world of good for the country in the few years you led Mercy's services.

It comes as little surprise that you command the attention of every guard as you get to the gates of the checkpoint. "The Gods are Merciful," you quickly mutter, to the men who silently wait your command. Gesturing to Cyril, ignoring the shouts of the gathering and letting your genuine stress seep into your voice, you demand, "we need to exit the district. Now."

Immediately, five of the dozen or so guards look like they're going to panic. "With d-due respect," one of them stutters, "we can't."

"You would interfere with Her will," you mutter, taking a step forward, "and obstruct our work? Work on behalf of our King?"

There's a long pause. Long enough for several civilians in the crowd to begin speaking among themselves about your activity, so near to the gate. There's shouting over the conversation, cries in the background, and the din is too chaotic to make out more than a single voice.

A younger guard peeks his head up, jumping up from the back. He calls to the group around you, "Sirs!" Running over, in a high voice, he beams to you, "Brother, I mean— excuse me—"

There's a brief reprimand, a slap on the back of his helmet (which seems to be far too large), and in a matter of seconds something has been agreed upon between the security. "Right this way," the younger guard chirps, glancing back to you repeatedly.

There's a few burn marks across his face, and you realize beyond any doubt that this is one of the children you saved during the outbreak in Beorward. He weaves through the crowd, expertly batting a few desperate civilians aside with thin arms and a shoddy shield. Winding along the edges of the gate, outside of the crowd, and to a narrow groove in the wall, you almost want to laugh.

The door is made of stone, and is almost invisible to the eye. It's plain to see once you recognize the form, and the boy makes quick work of opening it. He shows absolutely no sign of recognizing you, calling to you as Cyril practically shoves you past, "the Gods are Merciful, Sir!"

"Come on," Brother Trebbeck mutters, hopefully quietly enough that no one can hear.

(Options in next post.)

>>4187500
>A] Corcaea a small country, for housing the last of humanity, and you don't need everyone who you've ever saved to recognize you. This is reward enough. Get moving, and simply nod in thanks.

>B] This makes perfect sense, given the proximity of Beorward to Calunoth, and how many people likely fled the Church of Flesh after its last outbreak. You're confident that you won't be recognized. Express your thanks to the young man for taking initiative, and get moving.

>C] The Church of Mercy is already stretched unbearably thin. Caution the boy to get his family aid as soon as he's able. He may be working, and have his own duty to uphold, but it would break your heart if you could prevent any further suffering and didn't.

>D] Write-in.

>>4187501
>>A] Corcaea a small country, for housing the last of humanity, and you don't need everyone who you've ever saved to recognize you. This is reward enough. Get moving, and simply nod in thanks.

He is doing his duty, we are doing ours.

>>4187501
>B]

>>4187501
>C] The Church of Mercy is already stretched unbearably thin. Caution the boy to get his family aid as soon as he's able. He may be working, and have his own duty to uphold, but it would break your heart if you could prevent any further suffering and didn't.

>>4187514
>>4187517
>>4187527
(Three way tie? No problem. Locking the vote. Writing now.)

>>4187569
You can hardly believe it. Lingering in the door for just another moment, not even looking to the next district ahead, you manage, "wait. Mr. Knight."

Cyril stops his harassment, looking nervously over his shoulder to the crowds just beyond.

"I'll go on ahead," you whisper, "but please relay to this young man that he needs to get his family to safety. To get to aid as soon as he's able. I can explain later."

"Alright," he grumbles, slapping you on the back as you turn to leave. "I'm getting myself a fuckin' drink, and patching myself up. We'll meet at the Half Pint. See about getting that thing looked at, will ya'? End of the residential district is the right place for it. Flowers everywhere." The priest can't help but smirk, "you'll love it."

Shaking your head, you glance behind Cyril, and simply nod in thanks to the young man. He fires you a broad smile back.

You see Cyril move to speak with him out of the corner of your eye, as you hurriedly move to get into the next district. The smoke rapidly falls behind you, as the air is clearer than you've ever seen it. Not from the winding streets snaking into a district dedicated to the Church of Flesh, though the stone is clean, everything is in extreme repair, and the streets seem unphased by the commotion beyond. A few bystanders are pointing to the smoke on the horizon, but a number of priests of Flesh are running about, keeping the peace.

Smaller houses are nestled against the furthest edges of the district, almost concealed by the many structures leading up to them. Though there were plenty of trees and shrubs leading up to the humble community, the growth is completely outdone by hundreds of flowers. Bees are skipping about the pollen floating by, catching on the sunlight. You're more aware of the scent around you than you possibly ever have been. Slowing your walk, looking to the various hand-painted signs adorning the increasingly smaller structures around you, you pick out a few notes.

Brother Trebbeck is getting to know you. It's hard to not love so much compassion for life. There's a florist, minding their wares. Her collection puts King Magnus' gardens almost to shame. There's lavender, tulips of every shade, and daffodils tended to with expert care. You glance around, catching your eye on a well decorated series of homes down the stone speckled roads. Following the trail, the gardens and natural growth, you glance up occasionally to many open windows. They're all airing out smoked goods and hearths being brought to a high heat. Grains and herbs of every kind carry out into the streets, along with a handful of citizens. The streets are a little emptier here. You walk unhindered, though your steps slow, as you approach a bakery. The aroma is foreign, sweet, and full of spice.

(1/2)

>>4187668
Glancing around the corner, you see a small pastry shop, sitting at the end of a narrow, winding lane. The stone streets are littered around the building with flower baskets. Carrying over the light wind, taking the smoke from your lungs and putting a little more spring in your step is orange zest. It's interwoven with a little cinnamon, and an undercurrent of clove.

There is an overwhelming aroma of honey. The faintest hint of brandy carries down the road.

Your heart stops in your throat.

You know the ingredients like the scars on the back of your hand.

You know her, in ways that you cannot wrap your mind around.

The name falls from your lips, as foreign and forgotten as the land she hails from.

(2/3)

File: Ofelia -Eagle Eye- Banks.png (875 KB, 1000x996)

875 KB PNG

>>4187675
https://youtu.be/DF5plzMFST8

"Ofelia?"

A ceramic bowl falls from the a small woman's hands, who has a blindfold wrapped around her eyes. She's no more than half of your height, dressed in humble aprons and skirts, and is much thinner than you remember last seeing her. The assassin, the killer, the halfling, and all of her blonde, bushy hair is visible even from a distance.

She's staring at you. The gold in her eyes is concealed, but she is staring down the street. She looks infinitely too stunned to move, but she's smiling.

It's goofy. She cannot seem to care to pick up the shards of pottery at her feet. Her freckles are a little lighter. Her pallor is still visible from a great distance.

You were together in the ruins, in the company of demons, for nearly two months. You can't count how many times you saved each others lives.

You didn't even hear the pottery fall to the floor, but a loaf of bread stupidly flops out from it, onto the hem of one of her skirts. You can hear a few bees float by.

The entire world is oblivious to everything you've been through together. The rogue told you that she had given up on trying to find a way to aid her father's fading health. The continent is vast, and there are no roads back to Spira. Corcaea is small, for the last remnants of humanity, but you have always known a few halflings called the capital home, too.

She said she wanted a quiet life. To go back. Why is she here?

>A] Just stand there. Let her approach you if she wants to. The last Time you spoke, she asked you to not follow her.
>1] You're probably shaking like a leaf, and don't know how to respond at all.
>2] You've changed a lot, and simply want to be respectful.

>B] Gingerly approach, and try to keep your voices down. Try to be normal. (Write-in anything you might want to say, otherwise your QM will provide appropriate characterization.)

>C] You know this is going to be weird. Let it be.
>1] Plainly inform Ofelia that you have to use some discretion right now, and ask her to not use your name. You do want to talk, but you need to be careful.
>2] Jog over. She's smiling like she's missed you, even if it's awkward. Ask her what she's even doing here.

>D] Run over. "What happened to your eyes?"

>E] Run over. "What happened to your eyes?!"

>F] Write-in.

>>4187676
>A] Just stand there. Let her approach you if she wants to. The last Time you spoke, she asked you to not follow her.
>2] You've changed a lot, and simply want to be respectful.

>>4187676
>C2
lets be a little bit happy at least, even if this is shocking. Though lets not get too excited :^)

>>4187676
>>A] Just stand there. Let her approach you if she wants to. The last Time you spoke, she asked you to not follow her.
>>1] You're probably shaking like a leaf, and don't know how to respond at all.

This is a major AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

>>4187676
>C
>2&1

>>4187676
>C] You know this is going to be weird. Let it be.
>1]

>>4187689
>>4187690
>>4187692
>>4187702
>>4187707
(Yes. Vote is locked. Writing now.)

>>4187718
The tremor in your hands is definitely in the rest of your body, as you stand there, staring right back. You scream a little, internally, but it's not in horror.

You're so overwhelmed by the woman's lack of dismay, you feel a little more of your sanity slip away.

She's not running.

Remembering that you need to breathe, rooted to the spot, you wait a minute longer. The blonde ignores the shards of ceramic at her feet, kicks aside the bread, and picks up the hem of her skirts.

It's all the permission you need. You jog towards each other. A slight smile is across both of your faces.

"Ofelia," you barely manage, so nervous that you can barely speak.

The halfling stops a couple of feet away, so she doesn't have to strain her neck to look up to you. She can't speak at all. You both stand there, stupidly, in the middle of the road for several long moments.

Her grin breaks out a little more broader with each passing second. Laughing slightly, dusting some flour off of her hands, she gestures to you. Every inch of her is flustered. Her accent is still thick, the ends of nearly every syllable clipped, and a familiar weariness works its way through her laughter. Her voice cracks, so full of emotion that she clearly doesn't want to keep her composure. "You took my advice," she chokes out, "look at you. Never thought I'd see the day. Just look at you. It's so good to see ya'. I thought ya' might have died. I thought worse."

Your own voice breaks, barely managing, "it's good to see you, too. It's alright. I'm— I'm alive, and— and well enough. What— what are you even doing here—"

Breath hitching, the halfling gestures from your robes, and sniffs to the bakery behind her. "Couldn't leave. Didn't wanna'. Trip here nearly killed me, and I— you know how tired and messed up we all were, Ri—"

"Wait," you interject.

A confused glance is barely portrayed through the bands of cloth around her eyes. "What's the matter?"

You look around the fairly sparse streets, to the occasional glances from a few other halflings you're being given, and murmur, "I am in the midst of a— an incredibly sensitive mission. I am well, but I am certain you've heard enough in the city. It would be prudent to avoid using my name."

Fussing with her apron, the halfling gives you a smirk. "Yeah. It's fuckin' stupid. That's even stupider. Come inside. We're talkin'."

"What—"

"No buts." Plainly gesturing again, smirking broader, she can't help but tease, "yours is looking great, by the way. Imagine how happy Yech woulda' been!"

"Mercy," you manage, trying to remain respectful. "Ofelia. I— you are avoiding answering my question—"

(Just barely over 1/2)

>>4187775
"Trip back would have killed me," she plainly frowns. "I stayed. I'm gonna stay! It's not so bad here. You really sold me on it while we drank ourselves half to death. I don't forget shit so easily too, y'know." She nudges you, on the side of your thigh, and immediately looks delighted. You're worried the halfling might pass out from the sheer amount of emotion she's contending with, but she manages to continue smirking, lip wavering, "you gonna stand in the road lookin' dumber than an imp? Or are you gonna come inside and actually keep your promise?"

>A] You might cry.
>1] Keep your composure, and accept the invitation. Cyril might be a while, and he can absolutely wait for this.
>2] Don't keep your composure, and accept the invitation. You'd feel a right fool to not allow yourself to make this right.
>3] Let her know she can let her guard down a little. You both have been through so much together, you can't imagine hiding anything. Cyril will understand.

>B] She's going to fight you tooth and nail if you say no.
>1] But argue anyways. (Write-ins may help here.)
>2] Try to bargain. (Write-ins will definitely help here.)

>C] Write-in.

>>4187778
>A] You might cry.
>2] Don't keep your composure, and accept the invitation. You'd feel a right fool to not allow yourself to make this right.

A3 seems patronizing to me, and I think A2 can possibly get the same message across while also letting us...let it out per-se

>>4187778
>>A] You might cry
>3] Let her know she can let her guard down a little. You both have been through so much together, you can't imagine hiding anything. Cyril will understand.

I really missed you ofelia.