>>4274153
FIRST POST

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>>4274153
https://youtu.be/cajpoQCN_ZE

For the first Time in your life, you feel completely equipped for the task at hand. Father Sullivan has yet to return from his study, and you have the extreme luxury of a few moments to yourself. The sun has yet to climb much higher than the horizon, which you confirm, tossing open a set of thick curtains.

Dust catches on the morning light. You're easily three stories above the ground, at only half the height of the demon you slayed earlier in the week. The priest of Spirit's room you're currently residing in overlooks every eastern districts you've traveled in weeks past. It's immediately evident why he was stationed at an opposite end of the castle from you. Smoke still rises from many buildings, though the plumes are white. It would seem that the worst of the chaos has been subdued.

Hundreds, if not thousands of homes stretch out between segmented and highly fortified walls. Those that have remained untouched by the worst of the demonic outbreak are bustling with activity. You can pick out the district of Flesh in the distance, the rubble and decay, and pray that Ofelia's home has stayed intact.

It's a small comfort that construction is being set about in almost all directions, repurposed from old ruins. Between the clergy of Flesh and Mercy, countless citizens and the last remnant of real human civilization, Calunoth remains a hive of activity.

It brings another breath of fresh air into your lungs. Turning from the window, to frown to your dog, you see that Ray is still fast asleep. Utterly oblivious to how much work you have to set about, he at least ensures you take the Time to pick the last few flecks of gold off your robes, and to think ahead.

You've been given a fair amount of counsel this morning, and want to make the most of it.

(Options in next post.)

>>4274158
>A] Go seek out Father Sullivan. You'd like to make your most significant human alliance public knowledge.
>1] You figure he'd know the most appropriate way to do so. Leave it to his discretion.
>2] Request that you take a walk through the castle together. You need to properly thank him for encouraging you to make the Time for Mercy this morning.
>3] Ask if he knows of a place in the closest district to get a decent breakfast. You want to get the word out as soon as possible, as tactfully as possible.

>B] Head to your quarters, and inspect the material King Magnus has left you. You're certain at least some of it outlines the details of your return, as the Father of Mercy. Though you're certain everything in your possession will remain secure, you don't want to leave any matters of importance unattended.

>C] Your congregation is your top priority. Head to the royal library, and seek out the scholar you have yet to meet. Walter Middleton has been holed up in there for MONTHS, and could probably do with a little light.

>D] It's going to be incredibly difficult to manage, but see if Father Sullivan can accompany you to meet Walter. It's asking for trouble, but you believe it will ultimately be of greater benefit for all of your allies to TRY and get along.

>E] Write-in.

>>4274159
>>B] Head to your quarters, and inspect the material King Magnus has left you. You're certain at least some of it outlines the details of your return, as the Father of Mercy. Though you're certain everything in your possession will remain secure, you don't want to leave any matters of importance unattended.

>>4274170
+1

>>4274159
>B] Head to your quarters, and inspect the material King Magnus has left you. You're certain at least some of it outlines the details of your return, as the Father of Mercy. Though you're certain everything in your possession will remain secure, you don't want to leave any matters of importance unattended.

>>4274170
>>4274193
>>4274202
(Locking the vote here, let's get this show on the road! I'll keep half hour voting windows for this session, unless things slow down.)

>>4274206
There's nothing that could be more important than to ensure you don't repeat past mistakes. The sheer length of Time you've spent in the dark has you itching to get up, as you rouse Ray, and set right out the door. "Come on, boy. Stay close. Guard."

You nearly collide straight into four guards. Each one stiffens faster than the last, attentively echoing the other's choir of, "good morning, Father Anscham!" "Father Anscham," "g-good morning."

One particularly grizzled gentleman gets the door for you, eyeing Ray sideways. Your mastiff doesn't so much as glance at any of the men, as you hurry past them, quickly murmuring, "good morning," knowing full well how to escape the pomp and ceremony.

No one can hope to match your strides, though several call after you hopelessly. Eagerly, and quickly, you almost break into a run as you set down the cavernous halls of the castle. There's little need for torchlight, as the sun filters in through magnificent murals of stained glass in countless archways. The fractures of painted history cast over long corridors, enough stone to rival the ruins, and what seems like a hundred inquisitive faces. More open hands follow, in the symbol of your church, from clergy, nobility, and more common men alike.

There's simply no way you can keep them all straight. The chorus of greetings and addresses becomes a blur, within minutes. It's not for a lack of memory, but due to the sheer pressure of Time. Your rapid pace takes you halfway across the castle before long, and you arrive back at the colossal, banded, wooden and metal door to your chambers.

More guards are posted. Patiently, you go through the effort of politely asking them to stand aside, to relent the formality, and to let you get to your things. It's a lot of hassle, and you gently remind yourself that you're going to have a lot more of it back home, as you get back inside your room.

There's a mountain of flowers stacked in every corner. Most of them are of the strain you and Mother Bethaea cultivated. Their yellow luminescence eases the shadows, while you pull open several pairs of gilded curtains. The entire room is gilded, and hard on the eyes, but you aren't about to complain. A huge spread of dried meats, cheeses, and several bottles of incredibly fine wine are all set aside on a table nearest to the only bookshelf in the chamber. You pick up a note alongside it, which reads in a familiar, and impossibly ornate script of solid gold strands,

"Father Anscham,
Wishing you well, courtesy of our friends to the east! We'll discuss them another Time. There are much more urgent matters to attend to."

A small, simple, and silly diagram of a bookshelf is sketched into the column of the note, which resembles the bookshelf next to you. Wondering if King Magnus was bored while outlining the details of your position, recently or otherwise, you try to focus on the letter itself.

(1/3)

>>4274313
"Volumes 1-9 on the first shelf are of your position's history, and obligation. You can safely skim all but the first. You are entirely familiar with the severity of the position you hold, and the obligations that await you back home. The entirety of the second shelf comprises relevant tomes We hoped you may enjoy perusing, upon returning to Eadric. The parchment and scrolls We have provided on the bottom shelf pertain to the history of the Church of Mercy, its surrounding lands, and select readings from Adrian and Morris' work in the past few months. Please do not concern yourself with them now."

Glancing up from King Magnus' note, you confirm that nine incredibly weighty tomes occupy the top shelf. They're lined with age, though you've seen older, and have handled more delicate parchment without fear. Beneath it is a collection of myriad tomes, on everything from recent history, to noble lineage, to a slender pamphlet on devotion towards Mercy through recent history. Your scowl softens considerably, having to kneel down to catch your gaze on a pile of neatly stacked letters and scrolls. All have already been opened. Several have blood on their pages.

You blink, unphased, and get back to the note. It's really more of a colossal scroll. Torn between grimacing, and laughing at being bested in flowery discourse, you pick at some of the food set out. Tossing Ray an entire hunk of some animal's leg, you continue to read, "As previously stated, your request to postpone your return to the Church of Mercy has Our blessing." Your dog's growling and slobbering interjects your own dismayed grimace and sigh, at the following list:

"While occupying Our most holy city, the following are in need of your immediate attention:

- The eastern district of Flesh. Four hundred and eighty nine citizens have contracted severe complications of their lungs, in the wake of Brother Murdac's efforts. The deaths number well over three hundred, and are rising by the day.
- Lady Edith and her aide, Sir Douglas, were last seen in Our company six years past. Her safety is of the utmost importance to Us, though We trust that she has been safe under your care. As previously stated, We cannot bear the loss of another one of Our children. Please ensure her safe return to Us.
- The north-eastern district of Flesh. Upon your congregation's flight from the sewers, no fewer than fifteen of our guard were struck down, and killed. Their grieving families are without shelter. Kindly delegate this matter of your congregation's actions as you see fit.
- The restraint of Mathers Ormond, Eckard Sollers, Clarence Connelly, Carlisle Ballard, and James Sower. Punishment befitting of their treason has been stayed only by your hand. Putting an end to their slaughter of Our people demands the utmost urgency.
- Insurance that those who sought refuge under Norward Bauldry's company will not bring further turmoil to Our city.
- The whereabouts of Harvey J. Algrith."

(2/3)

>>4274317
You can feel a headache coming on. Not only are the last two items almost entirely out of your hands, you realize you haven't even been tasting the food, and go instead for the wine. The former was decadent, and obviously imported. The latter is exactly to your taste, nothing is causing you further pain, and isn't so strong to spoil the morning. It's a good thing, as the back of the scroll has more.

"As you have been recovering from your exploits for the last several days, We have seen to formally announcing your appointment as Father of the Church of Mercy. Please enjoy the hospitality of Our capital as you see fit."

The prospect of actually getting out and about, without your life being in immediate danger, almost puts a smile on your face. It's gone as quickly as it came.

"Word will reach Eadric in a few days Time. We strongly recommend that you see to your return home as soon as possible, but please, do not spurn the matters of great importance here, in Our capital. We have appointed a guard of Our own, at the Church of Mercy, and will continue to see to its safety in your absence."

Swallowing hard, you get to the end of the excessive note. "Please take care of your repaired relations with Father Sullivan. Most of all, kindly look after yourself."

The entire rest of the scroll is an exhaustive list of titles, formal closings, and lastly, "King Magnus, the Merciful."

You take a very ragged breath, and grimace to Ray. He glances back to you, oblivious. Confident that you're at least in a better state of mind for the overwhelming responsibility, picking up your satchel, sheathing your sword, refastening your shield, and ensuring your mace is clean and in place, you mutter, "we had better get started."

>A] Walter can wait. You're heading back to the safe house, where the majority of your company SHOULD still be located. You'll decide what to do when you get there.
>1] Take a hefty guard with you. You're easily the most famous and recognizable man in the city, and don't want to take a single risk.
>2] Only an imbecile would attempt to openly confront you. Travel with just Ray, openly, until you get closer to where your congregation resides.
>3] Go discreetly, and as quickly as you can manage (which is quite a lot).

>B] Gather as many hands as you can. You need to get to the dead and dying nearest Ofelia's home.

>C] While you're in the castle, go find Father Sullivan.
>1] You already need further counsel.
>2] Delegate the matter of the widows and children in the north-eastern district to him.

>D] Slow down, just a little bit. Take the Time to have a decent breakfast, inspect the rest of your room, and maybe look over some of those books.
>1] The first volume of your specific obligations, back at the Church of Mercy.
>2] The religious writings, for something lighter.
>3] The bloodied notes from Brother Morris and Brother Stace.

>E] Write-in.

(Going to call the session here since we've definitely slowed down, will be back with an update either later tonight or tomorrow morning, votes permitting, EST as usual!)

>>4274321
>C] While you're in the castle, go find Father Sullivan.
>2] Delegate the matter of the widows and children in the north-eastern district to him.

>>4274443
+1

>>4274321
B

>>4274321
>>C] While you're in the castle, go find Father Sullivan.
>2] Delegate the matter of the widows and children in the north-eastern district to him.

This shouldn't take to long and tackling multiple issues at once is always a good bet.

>B] Gather as many hands as you can. You need to get to the dead and dying nearest Ofelia's home.

This seems like the most urgent task, we need all hand on deck including our congregation which is why I think we should grab them on our way there.

>A] Walter can wait. You're heading back to the safe house, where the majority of your company SHOULD still be located. You'll decide what to do when you get there.
>2] Only an imbecile would attempt to openly confront you. Travel with just Ray, openly, until you get closer to where your congregation resides.

This way we have enough manpower to deal with everything as quickly as possible minimizing deaths. Hope can't be just one man.

>>4274443
>>4274462
>>4274481
>>4274858
>delegate
>see to the dead and dying
>get your lads

(Why not, we can do all of this. Back as promised, vote is locked. Writing now!)

>>4274940
A fire is under you. Back out the door, to every guard posted, you quickly begin to bark with every bit of urgency you can muster, inching to run, "get every hand you can find to the north-eastern district! Any able-bodied clergy of the Church of Mercy is to begin any work they're capable of performing, with or without my supervision. Do not wait for me. I will be there as quickly as I'm able. Do you all understand?"

A choir of "yessir!" and "yes, Father Anscham!" rapidly greets you in turn. Two guards linger, at your room, and you pay the additional security no mind. You're already tearing back off, right back in the direction you came at the start of the morning. Every open hand extended towards you— from golden robes and mildly concerned faces— quickly becomes another pair to attend to the task at hand. Simply along the way to Father Sullivan's study, you send off another eleven priestesses to follow in the guard's footsteps. Each one of them is ordered to find more aid.

Your own rapid steps and quickened pulse practically skid to a stop, outside the door to Father Sullivan's study. Ray helpfully growls at the guard that hesitates to grant you entry, before you tear into the modest chamber.

Father Sullivan is just as unsettling as he was the day past, standing at the far end of the room in stark white robes, an excessive amount of thread, shawls, and the pits of his milky eyes.

"Sullivan," you huff at him. Your breathlessness is not from lack of breath, but sheer exasperation. "Good morning."

"Good morning, again, Richard." The priest asks, with reluctant concern, "I take it everything went well?"

You pause, almost forgetting yourself. With a quick display of Mercy's symbol, you murmur, "exceptionally. Thank you."

Closing the door behind you, crossing the rest of the distance over to the elderly man in your company, you earnestly and briefly produce Magnus' letter. The Father of Spirit seems legitimately flattered that you'd bother to go through the trouble, and looks it over in earnest. "He's trying to kill you," Sullivan frowns, though dry humor is discoloring his voice.

"He is attempting to save several hundred lives," you mutter back, rolling up the scroll rapidly, "including those that my company has ruined."

The frown pointed at you deepens. "This isn't the start of it."

"It is a start," you clarify, putting a hand to his shoulder, "which is why I leave you entirely with the bereaved."

He's outright scowling.

You elaborate, "no one could be better equipped to understand their needs, let alone have the resources to see to such a delicate matter. I trust you with their well-being completely."

Under his breath, something along the lines of, "an astute observation, Father Anscham," begrudgingly escapes the priest. "Where are you going, first, then?"

(1/2)

>>4274980
The expression is so foreign, your face is already hurting, but you manage a slight smile before the edges of your mouth relent. "Thank you." Grimacing in full, as you back out the door, you sincerely murmur, "to heal. The Gods are Merciful, Sullivan. Come on, Ray—"

The guards posted just outside are baffled at how little Time you spent with the Father of Spirit, and both call out to you upon your exit. You really can't be bothered, until you realize you have absolutely no idea how to even exit the castle. They're both happy to point you in the right direction, and offer an escort. You politely decline the latter.

With no difficulty, you and Ray practically sprint down the next several levels of corridors, halls, and a significant amount of activity. As you wind through the lowest levels of King Magnus' home, past the painted glass and long halls, a small gathering of nearly forty clergy are all rapidly filing out. Beyond the high stone walls, about one of two drawbridges, ample supplies for seeing to the wounded and dying are in the arms of your church. Every face seems worn with care, to white-knuckled hands that are working as quickly as they're able in all directions. Hardly anyone even notices you in the commotion, though your robes are a slightly deeper hue of gold, and your height is a dead giveaway of your identity, if nothing else.

You continue to grimace, slow your pace, and try to not linger. It's a beautiful day, the scent of flowers and morning dew is in the air, the sun is pulling up in the sky, and a hundred questions are being directed towards you. You're only capable of piecing out a couple, and the tone isn't particularly to your taste.

"The Gods are Merciful, Father, but—"
"Are you coming with us, Father Anscham?"
"What can we be expected to do—"
"Leave it to us, Father. Who might you wish for us to prioritize?"
"Fathe—"

The grimace on your face is so intense, you manage to cut off the last few pleas for guidance. Knowing full well that the district your clergy is heading is completely in the opposite direction of the city from your congregation's safe house, and what a miserable idea it would be to delay things any further, you want to at least let your men and women take heart. Granted, it's mostly women from the interior of King Magnus' castle.

It doesn't quite give you pause, as you're wracking your brain with how to best address the situation. Not a single soul in the country— save for you— is capable of calling directly upon Mercy's healing. You're en route to Sister Corbon, who will certainly be an invaluable help, but your clergy here needs you now.

(Options in next post.)

>>4274981
>A] Leave it to your clergy to decide how to proceed. Insist that you will meet them all as soon as humanly possible, with even more helping hands. You know that things must be (and have been) dire, but they're stressed, not helpless.

>B] Take an additional moment to offer explicit directions to anyone who seriously needs it. You're aware literally everyone is going to want your instruction, but you'd rather spare the Time here than to risk them wasting Time with the sick.

>C] Plainly and clearly stop what you're doing, to offer some guidance and encouragement. It's going to slow things down, but giving some heart to the people looking up to you may be worth even a life that would have otherwise been saved. They'll be of no use to you if everyone is worried you won't even meet them there.

>D] Write-in.

>>4274982
C

>>4274982
>>C] Plainly and clearly stop what you're doing, to offer some guidance and encouragement. It's going to slow things down, but giving some heart to the people looking up to you may be worth even a life that would have otherwise been saved. They'll be of no use to you if everyone is worried you won't even meet them there.

>>4274982

>>C] Plainly and clearly stop what you're doing, to offer some guidance and encouragement. It's going to slow things down, but giving some heart to the people looking up to you may be worth even a life that would have otherwise been saved. They'll be of no use to you if everyone is worried you won't even meet them there.

>Insist that you will meet them all as soon as humanly possible, with even more helping hands. You know that things must be (and have been) dire, but they're stressed, not helpless.

Keep everyone stable at the very least, Corbon alongside us should be able to deal with the worse off patients.

>>4275007
>>4275015
>>4275032
(Awesome, unanimous vote with some write-ins. Got it, vote is locked, writing now.)

>>4275069
It's entirely necessary to stop, find a nearby outcropping of rock beside the drawbridge, and to get yourself another head taller than everyone else in the crowd.

The very moment you clear your throat, and look out to the bustle, everything stills. All eyes are on you. Without hesitation, or a single falter of your tone, you speak out. "Sisters, and Brothers. You all are to keep our fellow citizens stable. Is there a soul here who does not know of pervinca, of our wreaths, or of licorice and comfrey?"

Complete silence greets you in turn. The vast majority of supplies your clergy is carrying are of exactly what you speak, and a multitude of other aids. Bandages and stretches are of little use to the church of herbalism.

"Good," you softly state, before re-emboldening your tone. "We have countless capable hands in our midst. More will follow. Many of you surely witnessed Sister Corbon's work, as she kept me from death? While she and I put a demon of Storm to rest?"

Several murmurs of, "yes, Father Anscham," greet you in turn. Some are clearly all fire, already. Everyone else is infinitely too well-groomed to speak over you, or to even reply.

"She will accompany us," you promise, "in our work against these last vestiges of a demon of Agriculture." It's necessary to remind everyone, "it is dead, by Our hand." You lower your voice, and encourage everyone to strain to listen. "Every moment we tarry, another life may be taken from us."

There's a distinct shifting from the majority of people in the crowd. "I have already wasted enough of your Time," you mutter, to several protests.

"Even when I am not at your side," you speak out, much more urgently, "and because you have been under great strain, it is an insult— to every last one of you— to do anything less than acknowledge your strengths. Take heart. Sister Corbon, myself, and any greater hands I can gather will join you all, with due haste. You all have worked diligently. It is our oath, our bond, and our duty to continue to do so. To heal is to serve," you prompt.

A chorus of, "to heal is to serve," greets you in reply.

You think you catch a few determined grimaces, and even a smile from one or two of the priestesses, as you move to go. Calling Ray to follow you, it's not for appearances that you break off from your clergy in a full sprint. Striding across the drawbridge, you're hollered at by several more guards, and a few of your men and women. They sound grateful, if not mildly concerned, though none are capable of stopping you.

The stone underfoot streaks from your field of view, as you keep your gaze to the crowds. Shifting on heel and trying to not stagger, you narrowly miss running through several groups of gathered nobility. More barriers, several tedious explanations, and wall, after checkpoint, after bridge and further security make way for the edges of the royal home.

(1/2)

>>4275094
https://youtu.be/kJWvmSJ3k9Q

Past the ceremony, back outside castle walls, under the morning sun and with flame in your chest, you emerge into the destroyed remnants of King Magnus' gardens. The morning sun is casting heat even below the shadow of His castle. Dirt and dust is in the air, amidst the scent of flowers. The cathedral ward is entirely under construction, and so little remains of its former glory, your steps almost falter.

Running past dilapidated stone fountains, little streams of redirected water, and beyond the craters remaining from the impact of the demon's assault, you actually have to pause. Nearest the edge of the gardens are a hundred splinters in the stone. Copper flooded through them, from your invocation to Flesh and Mercy, and every divine splinter has persisted long after your work. There's a colossal opening at its center, where you cleaved Piety straight into the molten rock.

The recess has been filled with flowers. There's a memorial, to every life that was taken, and a display of devotion to the work of the Gods themselves. The blossoms are the very same as the ones that are packed into your room, back in the castle. Taking a deep breath, as a few nearby workers wave to you call, "good morning, Father Anscham!" it's entirely necessary to appreciate the faint scent of lemon and honey on the air.

With renewed verve, you take back off running, out of the cathedral ward, and into packed city streets. It's only then, that you fully realize that you were only given vague directions towards your congregation's safe house. It's intentionally kept a secret, of course. The men and women you rescued from the ruins are universally heathens, murderers, and outcasts. It's appropriate that they reside within the slums, beyond the red-light district, on the other side of Calunoth. The house with a tamer, and a lion vaguely resembling Ray is so specific, you'd surely know the building when you see it— but the streets are packed. It's hard to see much of anything.

Just beyond the edges of the checkpoint, that takes you from the cathedral ward, to the western walls you know will come out to slums, is commotion. Bustle. Navigating the city without accompaniment is actually an entirely new experience for you. You're without bodyguard, escort, drinking companion or assassin, and are but a farmer's son with your dog. It's a little overwhelming, but you're certain you can handle a thousand voices, filthy faces, packed streets, bustling markets, and beggars in all directions.

(Options in next post.)

>>4275095
>A] Make a convoluted route to where you suspect the safe-house to be, and simply search yourself. Time is precious to you, especially now, but it's difficult to shake the feeling that your congregation is not welcome in the city. Leading someone straight to them may be naive, at best. (A low roll will be required, at the cost of significantly more Time.)

>B] You know a river that runs right alongside the district your safe-house should be in. Though you are INCREDIBLY recognizable in that portion of town, you shouldn't have anything to fear from the citizens of Calunoth. None that mean well, at any rate. (A moderate roll will be required.)

>C] Cut a straight path to the red-light district. You've taken down demons greater than the King's castle. You'd like to see anyone try and give you trouble. (A high roll will be required, though this is the fastest option by far.)

>D] Linger near the cathedral ward, and see if you can find a reputable guard or two to accompany you. Traveling without an escort is probably a terrible idea, given your status in the city, and the Relic you carry. (No roll will be required, at the expense of a significant amount of Time being taken, and whatever qualms your congregation may have with the King's men. [Even if you technically are one, as well.])

>E] Write-in. (A roll may be required.)

>>4275096
>>B] You know a river that runs right alongside the district your safe-house should be in. Though you are INCREDIBLY recognizable in that portion of town, you shouldn't have anything to fear from the citizens of Calunoth. None that mean well, at any rate. (A moderate roll will be required.)

>>4275096
>>B] You know a river that runs right alongside the district your safe-house should be in. Though you are INCREDIBLY recognizable in that portion of town, you shouldn't have anything to fear from the citizens of Calunoth. None that mean well, at any rate. (A moderate roll will be required.)

>>4275096
>A]

>>4275098
>>4275099
>>4275112
(Going to call the vote here, going with majority for B but keeping the A vote as a modifier.)

>Roll 1d100. Best of 3 will be used!
+5 AWARE OF YOUR SURROUNDINGS (MOSTLY)
+5 NOTHING TO FEAR
-5 EXCEPT FOR ASSASSINS
-5 THE RELIC YOU CARRY
-5 AND NOT HAVING SLEPT NEARLY AS MUCH AS YOU SHOULD

Rolled 3 (1d100)

>>4275117

>>4275117

Rolled 81 (1d100)

>>4275117

Rolled 26 - 5 (1d100 - 5)

>>4275117

>>4275118
>>4275122
>>4275128
(Alright guys, Bo3 will be that 76! Writing now.)

>>4275133
https://youtu.be/dlome5tTfcU

This isn't anything you haven't managed before. With your faithful hound snarling at any approaching beggars or vagrants, you eagerly side-step a hand reaching just too close for comfort. Renewed energy picks up, into your steps, your perfect form, and your level breath. By all rights, you are already completely exhausted, but nothing can slow you down now.

After all, you've had more rest in the last few months than you've had in most of your life.

Running through the broad city streets, around rubble that has yet to be cleared, you know better than to pause at a single gesture or cry of your name. Though it pains you to ignore the downtrodden, there's infinitely more pressing concerns at hand, and lives at stake. Your sprint carries you beyond the furthest edges of the royal gardens, and beyond another checkpoint without contest. You peel through a mercantile ward, and emerge back out into the slums before long. With sweat sticking to the back of your robes, the sun in your hair catching on gold and flecks of exertion, you could almost smile.

Heat and light is coming in rays off of the river running adjacent to Calunoth's borders. You break stride, though keep your form, and grant yourself a moment of a slower pace. The silhouette of yours and Ray's procession is on ripples of water, broken by the splash of skipping stones. There's children running about on the opposite shore, laughing and screaming as their mothers tend to laundry, bathing, and keeping young voices down. More hollers rise from men on the street, and as you pick your steps up, not every voice is nearly as friendly.

Winding through narrower and narrower roads, it's no wonder that so many heads turn at your motion. From women leering off of porches— indecently hiking their skirts about their ankles and knees— to more malicious vagabonds with blades indiscriminately unsheathed, you come down to a jog. Having come through here recently, in the garb of a priest of Vengeance, you are not quick to forget the recent execution of a priest of Storm at your hands. Neither are they.

You're left well alone, for the most part. Breath hot in your throat, the sun baking down on your back, it would seem that every shadow from the many painted walls of the holy city are another blessing. Depictions of every family history you can think of leers back. Murals in hues of red are predominant. Berry-lips paint across whorehouses. Bloodied swords smeared across more nefarious lodgings, still. Between them are a few spotted flower shops, or shacks with notions of greater heritage. Between all of the boasting and heritage are a few modest scrawls of younger handwriting.

(1/3)

>>4275188
Tales of modern heroism, names of lovers intertwined, and every other painting are easily eclipsed by the absurdity of one, ramshackle dwelling. The building is short, squat, and you nearly walk past it. Were it not for a caricature of a beast master on the side of the abode, you would have not blinked twice. You blink once, at the absurdly strong chin, and again at shoulders as broad as the house. Three times, you blink, at a whip in hands as scarred as your own, which are commanding a hilariously inept portrayal of a lion. Upon its wrinkled face is unmistakably Ray's visage, spread across the side of the building. Laughing, you stop your run, come around to the front door, and rapt only once.

Several locks on the other side clink against on another at the motion. You don't dare to announce yourself, glancing behind your shoulder at every shadow. Before you can knock again, countless bolts slide apart, a few keys can be heard, and the door opens.

A priestess flashes before your eyes, grinning broadly, before she leaps up and takes you into such a tight hug, the air is squeezed right out of your lungs. As a few spots dance in your eyes, and you choke out, "S-Sister Cardew—!"

Right behind her is a gaggle of heathens and clergy alike. She punches you in the shoulder, pulling back, and granting you more than the air in your chest. The sight and sound of a commotion immediately starts. The Flea Circus, gathered around a table, completely upends a game of dice. They clatter to the floor, as Mick knocks the table clean onto Victor's head. Swears, cursing, and a mellow voice all blend together as you're taken by a totally unscarred hand. Brother Wilhelm gingerly leads you inside, helping Sister Cardew with the door, while he mutters, "we all heard the news. It is good to see you, Father Anscham."

"Likewise," you stammer, urging Ray to get inside, and look wildly around. The space is altogether too small for nine, even for a short period of Time. Sister Corbon and Sister Tirel were quietly talking to each other in the corner of the hovel, but both have gotten to their feet, and politely look to you. Ofelia and Cyril are nowhere to be seen. "Where...?" you start, eyes falling on stacks of parchment from Sister Cardew and Theodore, away from mounds of inappropriately cutesy pastries, a pile of blankets and sheets, and towards only one other door at the opposite end of the shack. It's really more of a single kitchen, with a broad hearth and a few tables, than anything.

"Couldn't keep them off each other," Randall leers, laughing hysterically at the heat that immediately comes to your face. He makes a few indecent gestures towards you, and the far door.

(2/3)

>>4275190
Flashing your gaze over to a definitely locked and absolutely quiet bedroom at the other end of the room, away from the debauchery, you are tapped on your shoulder, by Sister Cardew. She shakes her head, and makes a face, and you both seem to wholeheartedly agree that it's unthinkable.

Groaning, as he helps Victor to his feet, the more lecherous of your company continues to grin, "not that I wouldn't have minded helpi—"

"Enough!" Victor snaps, chucking an entire dice cup at the portly rogue, and to their taller companion. Whipping his head to you, narrowing his eyes, he's happy to march over, and demand, "have a fine time rubbing shoulders with royalty while we were all rotting, did you? Father Anscham?! Whole lot of thanks we've been getting!"

An incredibly large hand drops on his shoulder, as Mick grins. The hulking scoundrel has something in his teeth. You point to you own mouth, politely, showing him the spot. The scoundrel picks at it, and in a deep voice mutters, "thanks. Been four days. We were about to pack up."

"He's speaking for himself," Sister Cardew snips, as she finishes wiping her glasses down. Straight-lipped, and as composed as you'd hope for, the priestess nods towards the two sisters quietly sitting at the back of the room. "We have been more than happy to wait. What's kept you?"

(Options in next post.)

>>4275194
>A] Plainly tell everyone in your company exactly what you've been up to. Don't spare a detail. It's going to take awhile, but they deserve to know.

>B] Explanations REALLY have to wait. Take a minute, to give everyone a hug, and try to at least briefly touch on what THEY all have been doing in your absence.

>C] Simply ask everyone (that you know can be of assistance,) if they're willing to follow you for the morning. Promise you'll come back as soon as you can to properly speak to everyone. There's literally people dying while you've lingered. It goes without saying that you need Sister Tirel's healing...
>1] ...and you want to make sure that Spangle is actually okay. You both went through a LOT together.
>2] ...but Sister Corbon gave her arm for you. As a priestess of Mercy, she should be capable of lending a hand, too. Try to be sensitive. Maybe you can talk on the way to the sick and injured about her abilities.
>3] See if Theodore can come with you, for his vision. The young man is absolutely capable of deducing a sound course of action, and you suspect that he may be of great help prioritizing who can still be saved.
>4] You don't trust Sister Cardew's safety alone with the rogues in your clergy, and want her company just to ensure her safety. You both have a LOT to discuss, anyways.

>D] You SERIOUSLY need Mick to make sure his Flea Circus is under control.
>1] It's not your place to tell him how to control his men, but, well, it is. Tell him.
>2] Simply ask him what's happened to everyone from the sewers.

>E] Ofelia's knowledge of poison is unparalleled, and she helped out in this district at the start of the outbreak. Cyril's strength and heroism is pretty much unrivaled. As much as you hate it, you really could use their help.
>1] Ask someone else if they can get their attention. It's not that you're a prude, you just don't have the heart for it, and have way too many other concerns right now.
>2] There's no tactful way to interrupt your friends. Forget about tact, and tap into every bit of the priest of Flesh that you know you rightfully are.

>F] Write-in.

File: Father Anscham's Congregation.png (7.01 MB, 4256x3368)

7.01 MB PNG

>>4275195
(Of course I forgot the pic. From left to right, Ofelia, Sister Tirel, Theodore, Sister Corbon, Ray, you, Cyril, Mick, Sister Cardew, Mad Eye and Randy.)

>>4275196
(Mad Dog*

Disclaimer, I've got a bit of a fever and cold. Gonna try and keep updates coming but might have to slow down a bit this evening.)

>>4275195

>>C] Simply ask everyone (that you know can be of assistance,) if they're willing to follow you for the morning. Promise you'll come back as soon as you can to properly speak to everyone. There's literally people dying while you've lingered. It goes without saying that you need Sister Tirel's healing...
>>1] ...and you want to make sure that Spangle is actually okay. You both went through a LOT together.
>>2] ...but Sister Corbon gave her arm for you. As a priestess of Mercy, she should be capable of lending a hand, too. Try to be sensitive. Maybe you can talk on the way to the sick and injured about her abilities.
>>3] See if Theodore can come with you, for his vision. The young man is absolutely capable of deducing a sound course of action, and you suspect that he may be of great help prioritizing who can still be saved.
>>4] You don't trust Sister Cardew's safety alone with the rogues in your clergy, and want her company just to ensure her safety. You both have a LOT to discuss, anyways.

>D] You SERIOUSLY need Mick to make sure his Flea Circus is under control.
>2] Simply ask him what's happened to everyone from the sewers.

>B] Explanations REALLY have to wait. Take a minute, to give everyone a hug, and try to at least briefly touch on what THEY all have been doing in your absence.

>>4275195
>A] Plainly tell everyone in your company exactly what you've been up to. Don't spare a detail. It's going to take awhile, but they deserve to know.

>>4275208
C4

File: Spoiler Image (98 KB, 500x500)

98 KB PNG

>>4275208
>>4275235
>>4275263
(7 prompts. Alright. Sure, why not. Vote is locked! This one is definitely going to take me a minute, but writing now.)

>>4275289
"First things first," you quickly assert. Everyone looks to you quizzically, as you completely keep your gaze to the far end of the room, to the hearth, a comfortable looking chair, and shut out any sounds you think might have escaped from the bedroom in which your company resides. You may be a prude, and want to do virtually anything and everything other than have to address Ofelia and Cyril. It's alright.

As you take a seat beside Sister Corbon, Sister Tirel, and motion for Sister Cardew to join you, you're among fairer company, and keep your mind on the task at hand. "I have been incredibly busy, as you've heard," you say, pointedly towards Harriet, "but I would like to hear how you all have been in my absence, first."

The priestesses immediately at your side give you two incredibly weary smiles. "Never thought I'd see you walk again," Sister Corbon manages, with a listless look in her eye. "I've been getting some sleep, as well."

"Too much." Clemence flashes her teeth at her like a wild thing, and then to Ray, for good measure, as your boy trots over to you. He flashes his teeth back, confused, as Harriet drops right alongside the mastiff. He's easily as large as she is, and you realize there's legitimately not enough room in the hovel for you to all comfortably speak at length.

Plainly, to the priestess of Spirit, you murmur, "we have a lot to discuss. No matter what we have to say to one another, I would pray you will remain in my company, Sister Cardew."

She thrusts three envelopes into your hands. "I wouldn't have it any other way. Don't open them," she mutters, "but I know. I've been in contact with Father Friedrich." There's a wince. "He's going to kill you, but wants you to know he's happy nothing got to you, first."

"Thank you so much," you mutter, and resist every urge to open the letters in hand.

"I've been fine," the priestess earnestly states. The light of the hearth and several heady tallow candles catches on the lenses before her eyes, as she whispers, "thank you for looking out for me, Richard."

You take her into a big hug, and murmur, "of course."

Theodore distantly says, as he ensures the front door is completely locked, "I've sent word to father as well. It will be a few weeks, but he knows of your appointment. Rest assured."

"Your aide has been invaluable, Brother Wilhelm," you call over. He takes a seat a few feet away, giving everyone enough room, and knows full well that his work is far from over. A pointed glare to your Flea Circus is prudent, who have inched over towards you. "Mick," you start.

"Father Anscham," he grins, dropping alongside you. You make a point of wedging yourself between him and the women in your company.

(1/3)

>>4275404
The utter absurdity of your position is all the invitation Randall needs. He practically skips over, and tries to drop himself in your lap. You stand up, and warn all three scoundrels, "if all—" your grimace breaks, as you choke out a laugh, "all you've wanted is a hug—"

Victor looks like he's inhaled spoiled milk, and sounds as foul, as he drawls, "not on your fucki— get your hands off of me, Richard—!"

You squeeze him a little tighter, battling down the smell of old cigars and sweat before letting go, with a warning stare. "Your gathering, in the sewers. What's happened to them? To all of you?"

"They'll be fine," Randy leers, attempting to trail a hand over your shoulder. You bat it away, give him a glare that could cull a demon, and he pockets his hands. Like a dejected puppy, but a little more seriously, he admits, "most of them, at least. They'll have gone looking for somewhere new to settle. We have a few beds to lie in, under the city— if you haven't led Magnass's cowards through all of them, too."

Your grimace is as intense as Norward's laughter. "Waited six fuckin' months! Four days wasn't shit," he claims. "Knew you wouldn't be able to help any of them. Least you could do was save our hides."

It seriously dawns on you— for the first Time— that you have no idea why anyone in your congregation has been following you. Rather, why they have been supporting your name, or you, or anyone in your company at all.

"This is unacceptable," you insist, and try to ignore the headache threatening to creep back between your temples.

Wearily, Sister Tirel leans back. You practically drag Randall aside, to keep his focus on you, as she breathes, "he's been busy, Mick."

Literally everyone has their eyes on you. It doesn't escape you how clipped everyone's reply was, or that you've been fidgeting incessantly since returning to less civilized company. It's fine, and you happily inform them, "it was not necessarily— that I have simply been preoccupied. I've nearly died. Several Times over. You told them all, didn't you," you look, to your congregation members. Those who were with you, on the field of battle.

Electrum blanches. "It didn't seem like my place to."

A look of abject horror crosses over Sister Corbon's face, in turn. "I've been unconscious for the last few days, Father Anscham. We were just speaking about it, now." With a sneer to the curvier of the two women, Spangle huffs, "you can't tell me you left it to—"

With a triumphant "ha," Victor leans over towards Sister Cardew, and Brother Wilhelm. "While you were being looked after by our resident baby-sitter—"

Mick kicks him, hard enough to elicit a shout. Randall snaps, "shut the fuck up, Victor," and offers you a grin. "Go on."

(2/3)

>>4275412
Sister Cardew's face remains completely straight, as she shifts a chair over, leans away from the rogues, and declares, "we've all missed you, Richard. I am listening, at the very least."

While Theodore goes about making tea for everyone in the room, your retelling of meeting King Magnus goes over as well as could be hoped. A cup of mint and honey is placed in your hands by the end of it. Everyone is clearly extremely uncomfortable, but far too proud of your actions to really complain.

"Thank you, Brother Wilhelm."

"By all rights, you should be able to retire in Somerilde by now, Father Anscham." He offers you a slight smile.

You give him an incredibly earnest grin back. "There's more," you breathe, taking a sip of tea, and trying to not have a panic attack. Confirming that Sister Cardew doesn't have any knives immediately visible on her peasant's garb, it dawns on you that, in the commotion, you hadn't quite realized what disarray all of your congregation was still in. They seem to have washed off the worst of the sewers, but plenty of sleeves and pant legs are slashed from knives, frayed from battle, and Sister Tirel's false arm is absolutely still flecked with blood in places.

You wince, set your tea aside, get up, and hug everyone in turn. Victor doesn't even pull away, and as you sit back down, everyone is utterly silent.

A mattress squeaks, a little, and that's all the prompting you need. Clearing your throat, battling down the flush on your face, you put a hand to Ray. It's not just for reassurance, or for the knowledge he'll maul anyone who tries to kill you first.

You keep a hand to your dog, scratching behind his ears for a little more courage, as you state the unthinkable.

>A] "The Church of Mercy and the Church of Spirit are officially allied." Give them a moment to process the implications. Let everyone voice their grievances, if necessary.

>B] "Sullivan came to my heel." Stress that your relationship is ultimately one where you have complete authority, and FIRMLY leave it at that. They don't need to know that it's one of mutual respect just yet.

>C] "I've made amends with Sullivan. Please try to understand that I have not made this decision lightly." They all really need to know that he is no one to be feared. Not any longer. Defend your alliance with everything you have.

>D] "Harriet," you need to clarify, to ensure that the vindictive priestess doesn't do anything unbefitting of her station,
>1] "do you still have all of those knives on your person?" You're legitimately worried for everyone's safety.
>2] "please promise me that you won't kill me outright." You're worried mostly for your own safety.
>3] "may I speak with you privately?" She was under the impression you both were going to kill this man, not befriend him. (This option is mutually exclusive, and if majority chooses it, will trump any other prompts picked.)

>E] Write-in.

>>4275419
>>C] "I've made amends with Sullivan. Please try to understand that I have not made this decision lightly." They all really need to know that he is no one to be feared. Not any longer. Defend your alliance with everything you have.

>>4275442
+1

>>4275442
>>4275457
(Alright my dudes, gonna lock the vote here. Writing now!)

>>4275497
https://youtu.be/mRJSIYmHuNI

"I've made amends with Sullivan." Complete silence greets you in turn. You persevere, "please try to understand that I have not made this decision lightly."

A few birds chirp outside.

Harriet drives a knife straight into her chair. Sister Tirel jumps out of her skin, while the priestess of Spirit visibly shakes. Venom drips from her tone, unapologetic and seething, as she whispers, "you did what?"

Sister Corbon immediately tenses at your side, and doesn't dare to say a word. It's abundantly clear that both priestesses of Mercy completely respect your decision, and remain straight-faced.

Everyone thinks, for a good, long moment. Mick, Randall, and Victor are still too stunned to speak. Theodore yawns.

Mad Dog throws his teacup at the wall.

The priestess of Mercy at your side takes one of your hands in hers, as a little tea drips on the edges of your hearing. A grip she clearly still can't control, and fingers of solid gold are infinitely too firm for such a soft woman, but neither of you care. Clemence demands that you meet her gaze with her own, and earnestly informs you, "we left the day we found out about the state of the Church of Mercy, you know."

Her sister is battling between a scowl, and something worse, as Beatrice mutters, "you're too good for him. For any of this. That demon doesn't deserve your kindness, Father Anscham. You haven't deserved any of this."

You might cry, shake your head, and can't possibly convey what you're thinking. You didn't recognize either priestess in the ruins, and still don't understand their plight. Whether they served under Father Edmund, or heard about your imprisonment, you're unsure.

But Mick has actually gotten up, and started getting his things together. You get to your feet, and try to explain. "We have all been doing what we thought was best—"

"Save it," the rogue mutters.

Victor grumbles, "not laughing now, are you, you big sack of shit?"

The hulking scoundrel beside you finishes strapping on a bag to his back, a number of knives, and looks you dead in the eye. "We've been fighting for months. You don't know how bad it's been. You don't need to." A hand goes to your shoulder. "Save the sermon this time."

Mercy, no, why? Why can't he understand?

(Options in next post.)

>>4275582
>A] No no no no no no no not like this. You can't have a man responsible for hundreds of heathens and blasphemers turn on you. Not now. Not ever. This is about more than your people. It's about him. You need to know how to make this right. Ask Norward how you can help. Beg him, if you need to. Surely, he can be reasonable. Everyone is reasonable. Surely, you can at least try to be friends.

>B] You can know a lost cause when you see it. It's a miracle Norward helped you at all, and allying yourself with his worst enemy is not the best news for even the sanest of men. Simply ask the man if he can do you the honor of looking after his own people.
>1] Wish him all the best.
>2] Pray that he can go with more Mercy towards his congregation than you have.

>C] Oh, Mercy, Harriet is being REALLY quiet. So is Randall, and Theodore, and Victor, and you're trying VERY hard to not have a panic attack. Focus on trying to keep this from becoming a complete nightmare. Show Mick enough respect to let him walk away, without lecturing or preaching. Try to keep yourself, and your friends together. You can explain. You know the rest of them will at least try to listen.

>D] Write-in.

>>4275588

>D] Write-in.

As much as we wanted to, as much as he deserved it. It was not possible to kill him, because this whole country needs him so I have done what I decided was the next best thing which was to bring him to heel. I don't expect you to work with him, and you are always free to leave. But I can only hope you can trust my judgement, *the problems we face are bigger than every single one of us.*

>>4275622
(No idea why 4chan ate my post. Vote is locked! Had been writing, glad no one got missed. Posting now.)

>>4276503
https://youtu.be/G1mWfvbcjcI

It hurts more than you can say, but you try, regardless. Watching as the scoundrel finishes strapping several more weapons to his frame, without a shred of tension in his body, your words practically cut the interior of your mouth. "No sermons. No preaching."

Glancing between Mick, and everyone else in your company, you mutter, "you know just as well as I. What— what he's deserved."

"Good!" The scoundrel chirps, giving you a broad grin, and dropping a hefty hand on your shoulder.

You don't flinch, or do so much as stare him straight down. "As much as I have wanted to—"

"Save it, Father. You're not gonna convince me for a fuckin' second you would've killed the old shit."

"You are always free to leave my company, Mick."

With an amused glance, he takes his hand off your shoulder, crosses his arms, and lingers.

Hating to go immediately back on your word, you really can't help yourself. You're not only a preacher. You're the very leader of the Church of Mercy. This is your life, your work, and with utmost conviction you practically shake as you declare, "I could not kill him. I will not. The problems we face are so much greaterthan any single one of us."

"I know," he immediately fires back. "Why do you think I'm still trying to help you?"

"...excuse me?"

"You think I stuck around this shitheap for days, with Randy's thumb crawling up my ass—" the lecher waves obscenely, winking, while Mick can't help but laugh, "—or that any of us have died over anything less?" He can't help himself, and takes you by both of your shoulders.

"I can't stop now," you murmur, practically wanting to cry. "I have done everything that I can. Not— not just to bring Sullivan to my heel—"

His laughter falls as soon as it came, with a frown, as he declares, "you gave us all a second chance." The grip parts. "None of us deserved it." He spits. "Still don't."

"Your lives are about so much more—"

You're cut off, by a look so stern you nearly draw back. Norward jerks a thumb to Victor. "Yeah. You have any idea how many like him are out there?"

The madman makes such a rude gesture back, you flush, but every ounce of willpower you have keeps your voice level. Honestly, you murmur, "not in the slightest."

"That's right," Mick happily grins back to you. "Not in the slightest. Better that way." With infinitely more seriousness, the rogue looks to the door. You realize he can't even say it while looking at your face, as he drawls, "you worry about this bullshit up top, and your politics, and keeping old men from torture, and murder. Way you came running in here, I'm sure I'm keepin' you from something more important, still!"

(1/4)

>>4276505
"Will you just fucking go," Victor drawls. Randall punches the man so hard in his shoulder in reply, they both wind up off of their position in the floor, battling to hit the other. Sister Tirel and Corbon inch a little further away, while Sister Cardew extracts her knife from her chair.

"Listen," Norward grins back to you. "Listen. You up there, Richard? You with me?"

Your grimace could not be any more extreme. "I am. Now— and— and I do not intend on going anywhere—"

"Now," he nods. "When we're face-to-face. You've got so much shit weighing you down. I get it. You can't look after everyone. Not even close. You reminded me, just now! About what you said, when we first met."

One of the most sincere smiles you've ever seen flashes at you. "Really met, I mean. We haven't lost. Not even close."

You might cry, know full well that you've given this man the will to live, and nod, keeping your lips tight.

He goes for the door.

"You're being cruel," Randall happily calls out.

"Shut the fuck up, Randy."

"Don't forget that drink you owe me!"

"Get the women, and we'll talk," the scoundrel fires back, heading out the door. "Give Cyril a pat on the ass for me, will you?"

The door that has been blissfully closed practically flies off its hinges, as Cyril, in a state of complete disarray, pulls his pants and most of his shirt back on, ignores that his bangs are standing on end, sprints across the room, and clocks Norward right across the face.

The behemoth of a man slams his face into the side of the door, hits the wood so hard a tooth is knocked loose, and collapses straight to the floor.

Everyone gets to their feet. There's enough incoherent shouting that it's all you can do to rush over, and make sure Cyril hasn't killed anyone today. The scoundrel is not only breathing, but immediately laughs, and waves you away.

Backing up, you narrowly avoid bumping into Ofelia, as she lingers in the doorway. Red-faced, with her deep blue cloak done about her like a robe, her curls bob angrily as she whips her head from the two meat-heads and back to you. "The fuck ya' didn't come and get us for, Richard?! Awful stupid of ya', fer how smart I thought— Cyril will you give him a fuckin' hand, the guy can't even see straight—"

You are absolutely too stunned to speak, as Cyril obliges, and cheekily gives Norward a hand to get back to his feet. The priest is angrily smiling. The latter is completely amused, rubs his jaw, as he gets up, and tongues the gap between his missing tooth while looking to the blonde.

"For fuck's sake. I'm only going to be gone a few days," Mick informs him, groaning. He winces, as the priest tenses a fist. "Alright! Maybe a little more."

"You could have told him as much," the priest of Flesh tenses, cracking his knuckles. A grin is flashed over his shoulder, to you. "Good to see you, Richard!"

"L-likewise."

"Hair's lookin' better than before. Glad She's treating you well."

(2/4)

>>4276508
"Th-thank you, Cyril," you manage, run a hand through what's probably a lot more gold, wonder if you're too young for it to go gray, and have to sit back down.

Both men linger in the door frame, talking for just a few minutes. You hear something along the lines of the Rub and Grub Pub, a debate on whether The Battered Maid would be too mild for Randall, and they both eventually agree on some watering hole you can't even hope to pronounce the name of.

Mick is waved out the door. Cyril slams it shut, runs over to Ofelia, and whispers several things to her.

Everyone is completely unamused, and entirely silent. Randall gestures for the priest to at least put the door back on its hinges.

With more disdain than you can manage, after a silence so long you couldn't hope to measure it, Harriet calls over to Cyril at last. "Brother Trebbeck."

"Yes, Sister Cardon't?"

"Richard's gone and befriended Father Sullivan."

"About fucking Time," the priest laughs, slamming the door back into place, and grinning over to you. He doesn't cross back over the room, but fires you an incredibly cheeky grin. He winks. "Willingly?"

You lean a little in your chair, even if it kills your back to do so, and try to breathe. Ray whines at you, and sits himself right back by your side. You realize you've distanced yourself a little from everyone in your company. Thanking your boy, you go and sit back by everyone. With a ragged breath, looking straight at Harriet, you declare, "yes. With, and without Spirit."

Her gaze falls behind the lenses of her glasses, entirely inscrutable, though she puts away the knife.

Theodore yawns, again, and replaces Victor's teacup. The lunatic looks too guilty to throw it again, mutters his thanks to the young priest, and watches as Brother Wilhelm patiently gives you another cup, as well. It's light blue, with a couple sheep painted on the side. You love it, almost as much as the lemon and honey, and thank him sincerely.

Victor and Randall launch into a discussion among themselves, in low voices, while the priest of Dream at your side demands your full attention. "Father Anscham," he mildly says, completely ignoring everyone else in the room.

"Yes," you manage, having to tense much more than you'd like to fight down the tremor in your hands.

"This is wonderful news. Wonderful."

"I'm so glad you think so," you choke out.

"Bringing the churches of Mercy and Spirit together bodes well for our entire nation."

"Yes, it does," you half-whisper, battling to keep yourself together.

"Mr. Bauldry's people are our own. He has been working very hard. Very hard. I am confident that he will be just fine."

"Thank you, Theodore."

"They will not be, without his aid."

"It has been one of my highest priorities."

"You haven't had them straight. You haven't been sleeping enough, Father Anscham."

"Four days, Brother Wilhelm. Just this week."

"For Dream?"

(3/4)

>>4276514
"For Mercy."

"Not my expertise, Father."

"I know."

"It's alright. Your tea is not. Do not let it get cold."

You take a ragged breath, try to enjoy the steam, and look to everyone in your company. They're all, impossibly, quieter. Harriet's lips have never looked so thin, as she's clearly fighting down each and every urge to fire off a complaint.

You take heart.

They may not like it. They may resent me for it— but all of my friends really do respect my decisions.

>A] You can talk en route to the district of Flesh. No matter how shot your nerves are, there are more important matters at stake.

>B] You seriously need to know what your congregation has been doing in your absence. Now.

>C] Thank Cyril for his pragmatism, and Brother Wilhelm again for being so unshakable. You REALLY could use a moment to collect yourself, and to give everyone a minute to breathe.

>D] Write-in.

>>4276521
>>A] You can talk en route to the district of Flesh. No matter how shot your nerves are, there are more important matters at stake.

>>4276521
>C

>>4276521
A

>>4276597
>>4276637
>>4276681
(Alright, calling it here while the tie is broken! Still can incorporate a good bit of C, though. Vote is locked. Writing now!)

>>4276691
https://youtu.be/WqCpWu8tgRw

Cyril drops down beside you, finishes buttoning his shirt, and fires you a broad grin. Even if he smells like sweat and sex, has blood on his knuckles and laughs at the motion, it doesn't stop either of you. He really doesn't mind that the tremor in your hands is worse than usual, either, as you pull him into an unrestrained hug. The priest pats you on the back, and any anger still clinging to him totally dissipates as you stammer, "I really— there is no saying how much I— I appreciate you all—"

The blonde coughs, "easy, big guy. You know I gotcha'."

Politely, Brother Wilhelm takes your cup of tea, and nods, "you never need to, Father Anscham. Truly."

You're given a collective, exhausted, pained, and understanding smile from almost everyone in your company. Harriet is still extremely agitated, but keeps her lips tight. Victor glances to her, and to you, unable to stop from scowling, "the fuck did you come back for, anyways?"

Prying yourself off of the priest of Flesh at your side— who helps himself to your tea— you try to ease your frayed nerves.

Mercy— it's no use, is it?

You're on the border of panicking or laughing hysterically, as you fidget with the band on your ring finger. Through a broken composure and suppressed twitching, you manage, "King Magnus immediately set to reinstating more than my prior responsibility— as, as the leader of the Church of Mercy—"

Sister Corbon and Sister Tirel fire each other a pair of worried looks. With a scowl, Spangle gets to her feet, and offers you a hand. Your heart melts, as you take it immediately. "I knew I could count on all of you," you choke out, getting to your feet, "but I am still in the dark. The casualties— from Brother Murdac— and—"

The priestess of Mercy keeps her hold on your hand, for just a minute longer than necessary. "We'll take care of it. You know we already have been."

They've been working in the city undercover for months, haven't they?

You try to not choke up, fail, and run a hand through your hair again. "I need your help. There have been well over three hundred deaths. We have to do something. There are four hundred citizens just near The Honey Bee, who need our help. I cannot fathom how much Time I have wasted—"

Ofelia clucks her tongue, gives you a teasing scowl, and mutters, "can't believe ya'. Don't wait up, but I'll be just a minute."

The door closes, and everyone gets on their feet, save for Victor. "Go on," he drawls, sweeping the thrown dice cup from the floor. "Leave me to the mercy of this despicable," Randall slides next to him, "cheating," they grin to each other, "useless piece of filth."

(1/3)

>>4276739
"I knew you cared," the lecher drawls back, before glancing up to you. "We'll hold the place down." With a nod to Cyril, he fires off the string of incomprehensible nonsense that the priest had mentioned as a drinking spot, to Mick. You're almost reminded of orcish boasting, as Randall confirms, "see you there?"

"No promises," Brother Trebbeck sighs, groaning as he stretches, and looks about everyone in your company. "Know a better way to get there than the main road?"

Victor huffs, like he's actually offended, and immediately produces several maps from a nearby stand. Harriet gasps, grabbing at the other parchment before it all collapses to the floor. The two shout to each other for several long minutes. Before long, you all have the most expedient route possible, each other's company, a more presentable demeanor, and are out the door.

"Thank you," you mutter, again, to the remainder of your Flea Circus. "The Gods are Merciful—"

"No!" Victor interjects, "stop it! Stop it. You are. Now get the fuck out of here. Go on."

Randall smacks him upside the head, shouting, "ignore him, Father Anscham! Safe travels!"

They leave you to the streets, the high morning sun, and a beautiful day. Ofelia has her hair tied back, and a colossal assortment of vials, trinkets, and assorted smoke-assisting devices on her person. For the first Time, you notice how conveniently the cloak in her possession shifts away from any straps or packages about her. You eye them sideways, eyes having some difficulty adjusting to the enchanted fabric, as she insists on taking the lead. Cyril pockets your maps, and is right behind her. Brother Wilhelm is more than happy to accompany you and Ray at the rear, while Sister Cardew is neatly situated at the center of your company, flanked by Sister Tirel and Corbon, all safe from prying eyes.

There are plenty of prying eyes. The size of your gathering and the audacious garb of the Church of Mercy is enough to draw stares, but having a halfling among you is unique enough to outwardly draw shouts and leers. You try to drown out any indecent calls from women on the street, scoundrels about their business, and the lowest classes of the capital not minding their business in the slightest.

Carving through the deepest portions of the red-light district, Brother Wilhelm is a breath of fresh air, as he politely tries to keep your attention. "The members of your congregation have scarcely rested," he notes. "In the months since their return, Father Anscham, I fear the Church of Dream has completely failed them." He nods, towards Sister Tirel, "her help has been invaluable. It has been difficult to gather any information. Sister Cardew has done as much as she can, as well."

You're all keeping a brisk pace, but it's nothing you can't manage with a level breath. Still, you're having a hard Time of breathing, and can't help but sharply exhale, "I see."

(2/3)

>>4276741
"They all have been through a great deal." Theodore trails off, almost as if he's asking for permission, "if I am not mistaken..."

"Your thoughts are— are always appreciated, Brother Wilhelm. It's alright."

He smiles slightly to you. "I believe they wished you had taken a longer absence. To rest."

They haven't just been waiting for me. They're worried for my well-being, too.

Your heart threatens to give out. It's altogether too difficult to reply, but you keep your gaze firmly on the priestesses of Mercy ahead. They're saddled with a number of makeshift bandages from your own equipment, and a great deal of herbs that Sister Tirel presumably has gathered in her own Time. Sister Cardew has literally turned up her nose, can't seem to handle the two women passing the medicine by her, and finally falls back, to walk beside you.

As modestly as you could hope for, Brother Wilhelm nods to you both, and asks, "may I go ahead with Ray, Father Anscham?"

You nod to the two of them, command your dog to keep on the priest's heels, and they both run ahead, past Ofelia and Cyril. You're certain that the priest of Dream is going to offer an explanation at the checkpoint, and formally introduce you. The young man is an absolute blessing, surely about to save as much Time as possible, and you make a mental note to find some way to repay him and Father Wilhelm for all their kindness, one day.

Look down to the singular, petite priestess at your side, you flinch as she sneezes. There's no calming your nerves down, but you take comfort from the compulsive murmur, "bless you."

Her hair is frizzing from lack of proper care, there's scratches on her glasses, she's scowling, and fishes out a handkerchief. "Thanks."

You don't flinch, as she puts the item away, and in her free hand, firmly takes your fingers into her own. The touch is colder than it should be, and is significantly more reassuring than you remember. No matter how upset she is, the priestess of Spirit still finds a way to articulate herself. There's so much anger in her voice, you can hardly stand it, but you look earnestly to the young woman as she demands, "I need to know. What happened to him? To you? Did the King threaten him with death? Imprisonment? Torture? Or did his cowardice win out, and drove him from hiding? Why, Richard? Why now?"

(Options in next post.)

>>4276743
>A] "Nothing of the sort, but I can only speak for myself." Don't make a single assumption about Father Sullivan's behavior. He's done enough of that towards you, and you want to learn from the man's mistakes, not repeat them.

>B] "He has honestly changed— for the better. Without any ulterior motive." Stress how severely the priest had broken down, over everything he'd done. Knowing that he truly wants to repent for his sins could make a huge difference to Sister Cardew.

>C] "We have so much to discuss, I don't even know where to begin." Sullivan looked into well over 1600 years of demonic memories with you, and you both could barely keep it together. Try to express just how much help he was, even if it's nearly impossible to convey.

>D] "This is something I need to share when we have more Time." It's not fair, it's not right, but there's never enough Time for everything you want to do.
>1] Try to touch on your alliance with Cyril, a week late. You're STILL reeling from everything you need to discuss with Sister Cardew, and can barely sort it all out.
>2] Implore the priestess to let you know how she's really been doing. You've saved her life in multiple ways in just the last few weeks, and you know she's been doing this all for the sake of your research.
>3] Your research may be ruining this woman's life. Father Sullivan brought up how unhealthy her behavior has been in the past, and you're deeply concerned for her well-being. Ask her if she's up to the task ahead. Your findings can wait.

>E] Write-in.

>>4276745
>>A] "Nothing of the sort, but I can only speak for myself." Don't make a single assumption about Father Sullivan's behavior. He's done enough of that towards you, and you want to learn from the man's mistakes, not repeat them.

Putting all feelings aside, it is the wisest move. We did not just remove an enemy piece of the board, we stole it for ourselves. Sullivan might have a long list of sins to his name but so do I, pride is of no use to us.

>>4276745
>A] "Nothing of the sort, but I can only speak for myself." Don't make a single assumption about Father Sullivan's behavior. He's done enough of that towards you, and you want to learn from the man's mistakes, not repeat them
If she wants we can arrange a meeting for her to make her own judgement. As long as there's people to make sure she doesn't go nuts.

>>4276752
>>4277199
(Awesome, taking note of all the write-ins. Vote is locked. Per usual, going to average 1-2 updates during the work week. Writing now!)

>>4278083
You can't help but pause, and understanding Sister Cardew's righteous anger completely. For all her knowledge, the priestess knows so little of who she speaks. It's with a heavy heart that you admit the same.

"Nothing of the sort— but— I, I can only speak for myself."

She's baffled, and looks to you like you're crazy. "You're joking."

You grit your teeth, and expertly shove down every emotion that may cloud your judgement. Devotion to your friends and your cause persists, as you mutter, "all feelings aside—"

Another glance is given to you, like you've lost your mind. "Richard—"

"It was the wisest move," you assert. "To not only remove his antagonism from our lives— to stop all of the manipulation, fear-mongering— and hate—"

Both of you stop walking. Unable to beat down the waver of your voice, you softly murmur, "he is on our side."

"I can't believe you," Sister Cardew confesses, sounding as broken as the Father of Spirit did just yesterday. "He's gotten under your skin, Richard. Into your head. I know him. How he works. If you've got a heart of gold, his tongue is silvered—"

It's impossible to not admit in turn, "I have just as many sins to my name as he does."

The priestess makes no effort to disagree.

"You know just as well as I do," you earnestly remind her, "that none of us are free from guilt. I have no use for any pride, Sister Cardew. It is unfathomable— to— to continue to repeat the same mistakes. Not only my own."

"Don't," she groans, hating every second of the conversation.

You know that she only hates how right you are, as you swear, "I want to learn from Sullivan's mistakes."

The rest of your company seems to have noticed that you've stopped moving, and pause. Reluctantly, you and Harriet pick back up your steps. She's outright sneering, and you gesture to her, with open hands, "I have had enough of assumptions, and games."

The hard lines of the priestess' mouth soften, if only a little. You continue, as resolutely as you're able, "I was only able to restrain myself, thanks— thanks to King Magnus' grace. It was nothing short of a miracle that I stayed my hand. I found it in my heart to listen— and I do not expect a single soul to do the same." Every trace of Vengeance has dropped from your frame. Quietly, you murmur, "though his sins are abhorrent, I forgave him. That cannot change the fact that your judgement is your own. You should not take my word for his actions, repentance, or any intent that he still possesses."

She glances up to you, wary, and already aware of what you want to propose. You say it anyways. "If— if you would like, I— I can arrange a meeting. For you to make your own judgement. With anyone present necessary— to help you stay your hand."

(1/2)

>>4278265
The very idea has her cringing, and Sister Cardew is obviously so conflicted she can barely speak. She manages to expel a little more poison from her lungs, with a whisper of, "you're asking for me to serve both of our patrons, Richard. "

An edge comes into the young woman's tone. "But I don't know if I can. Not right now. I would like to, but I need to know." Teeth bare, as she sharply grits out, "just how much damage he's done."

You've sworn to yourself, up and down, to try and respect the priestess' wishes and wisdom. As she nods, towards the checkpoint ahead, you do your best to not look too crestfallen. Sister Cardew frowns at how distraught you must appear, and parts her hand from yours. "Please don't give me that look."

You give her the same look. You're an honest man.

With significantly more composure, she admits, "I know how difficult this must be for you."

Your frown decimates the intensity of her own. "It is not, save for my concern over your well-being."

She somehow manages to sniff proudly, while simultaneously sounding heart-broken. "You've done so well. I can hardly believe it."

"It is almost entirely thanks to your help," you politely reply.

"Don't be absurd." Her frown threatens to beat yours in intensity, though she may be joking, "I'd have never encouraged you to get along with him."

You lose the fight, smirking as you remind her, "to lie is to sin, Sister Cardew."

She can't help herself either, back to a straight-face and a huff. "I'll consider it."

That's more than I could have prayed for.

The entirety of your company arrives at the nearest checkpoint, to re-enter Calunoth's walls. The fuss over your passage is entirely circumvented by Brother Wilhelm's tactful foresight, as he dismisses a number of the guards questions. With some intimidation on Ray's behalf, you're all through the fortified tower, past the gates, and well on your way to Ofelia's home district. You suspect you have no more than an hour of travel, given your company's brisk pace, the route your Flea Circus has provided, and the guidance of a priest of Dream.

(Options in next post.)

>>4278269
>(Time is limited. Please clarify what importance you place on any prompt chosen. Vocal oppositions will be taken into full account. Majority vote will decide, if there is so much selected that it's not feasible to address everything at once.)

>A] It's so bizarre to make the time to talk to anyone in your company as you walk, that you really aren't comfortable doing so. Encourage everyone to move as quickly as possible, and save any further discussion for after your work is seen to. You can handle this! You just need some space to breathe, and think.

>B] After everything they've been through, make sure all the Sisters in your company are alright. It's not just that you're a gentleman, or are entirely sympathetic towards their own stressors. No matter how battle-hardened they are, losing an arm, taking on a demon of Storm, and nearly being dragged into sewage and bondage isn't exactly befitting of fairer clergy.

>C] Your Relic, the alliance you formed with Cyril, and your investigation into the demon of Agriculture nearly got you and the priest of Flesh killed (several times over). You think sorting at least some of your traumatic experiences out will help ease your nerves.

>D] Plainly tell Harriet that you're worried for her well-being. Your reservations about continuing to work with her are growing by the day, and you are only taking her with you right now to ensure her safety. Be transparent. She's sworn to help you, and you feel she's done enough.

>E] You know that Harriet has always meant well, too. Share as much as you can coherently piece together about your experience with Beltoro's memory...
>1] Even if it came from your work with Father Sullivan. Withholding your discovery from the priestess of Spirit would be cruel to an extreme, even if it trivializes all of the work you've done together.
>2] Because it came from Father Sullivan. She has the right to know that the Father of her church was appointed there for good reason. She's got thick enough skin to learn what he's capable of.

>F] It's a blessing, to be able to travel and actually talk at length with anyone. You have wanted an opportunity like this for ages. (Write-in.)

>>4278270
>>B] After everything they've been through, make sure all the Sisters in your company are alright. It's not just that you're a gentleman, or are entirely sympathetic towards their own stressors. No matter how battle-hardened they are, losing an arm, taking on a demon of Storm, and nearly being dragged into sewage and bondage isn't exactly befitting of fairer clergy.

>>4278270
>>B] After everything they've been through, make sure all the Sisters in your company are alright. It's not just that you're a gentleman, or are entirely sympathetic towards their own stressors. No matter how battle-hardened they are, losing an arm, taking on a demon of Storm, and nearly being dragged into sewage and bondage isn't exactly befitting of fairer clergy.

>>4278760
>>4279025
(Cool cool, going to lock the vote and knock out an update before work! Writing now.)

>>4279073
https://youtu.be/5SSNwhvEqo8

Beyond a fair number of market stalls, into the mercantile ward, and as you all proceed through the start to the city proper, Cyril immediately goes on guard. Hollering, cries of vendors, vagrants, beggars, and a fair amount of fuss immediately greets you all. It's beyond a relief to have capable hands at your side, as the priest of Flesh makes quick work of dissuading anyone from doing so much as propositioning you all for more mundane activity.

They're not your concern. Though you're all unphased, and briskly head for your destination, worry knits your brow. To the woman at your side— who is already having some difficulty keeping up with you all— you offer a guiding hand to help her keep pace, and lean down to speak more discreetly.

"You have been dodging my question, Sister Cardew." With a glance to the other priestesses in your company, you mutter, "all of you have."

The tight lips and glare of the sun on Sister Cardew's face ensures that she remains inscrutable. "No one wants to worry you further, Richard."

Squeezing her hand slightly, you murmur, "you know I will, regardless."

"I knew full well what I was getting myself into. You've done everything you can to look out for us—"

"I am worried about you."

Her spine gets a little straighter. "I'm fine."

"Are you lying to—"

"No." She's trying to not get too offended. "Not to you. Not to myself, either. I've had a few days to think it over. You made sure no harm befell me. I would be lying if I said I wasn't shaken," her glasses are pushed up, again, and she sighs in an exasperated way. Parting her hand from yours, to adjust the straps holding her lenses in place, Harriet finishes, "but that is beside the point."

You're reminded of how young you thought the priestess looked upon first meeting her, but her tone is just as mature, and significantly more worn now. A weary smile is cast up to you. "You've always been a gentleman."

"This is about more than—" you try to not smile back, and manage to maintain your straight-laced demeanor, "than good breeding, or—"

"You should know by now," she continues to smile, more mischievously.

"What?"

"It will take more than a few scoundrels to get under my skin."

She's stronger than anyone gives her credit for.

Realizing that you've been fidgeting incessantly with your Relic, noting how much difficulty she's having breathing, you politely ask, "do you need any assistance—"

The priestess huffs, "I would appreciate it."

You stride ahead with ease, get the attention of Clemence and Beatrice, and you all slow your pace enough to stay alongside Sister Cardew. Despite Electrum being fairly stocky, and Spangle having a lankier frame than you used to, they're both taller than average, and have absolutely no trouble with the brisk pace.

(1/3)

>>4279214
A cloak is draped over Sister Tirel's shoulders, which you immediately nod to. She laughs. "It's crazy. Still feels strange. I'd heard the story, you know. Thought it was just that. A story. Unbelievable."

"Excuse me?"

With an air of mysticism, she puts on a voice befitting of a minstrel, and retells, "deep within the church of the material, a mortal man bore witness to the last trace of gold in the world. From the hands of Mercy came another! A hand," she reveals a few gilded fingers, and flexes them in the sunlight, "and an arm," the priestess happily grins to Sister Corbon, "of metal that moved like Flesh itself! A gift. One only made possible by a man of all the Gods." The grin directed towards you could not be brighter. "I should be dead. You both have given me more than another chance to fight."

Sister Tirel looks up from the road, nearly tripping immediately on bits of rubble. With a bemused, shark-like grin, she muses, "just think of how much this could sell for."

I narrowly escaped a demon of coin, didn't I?

Wrapping an entirely mundane arm around her Sister, Beatrice sneers at her, "I'll plate your lips shut if you so much as joke about something like that again."

Electrum happily wrestles the wiry woman into a hold. "I'd like to see you try!"

The priestess of Spirit beside you is as unamused as you could hope for. You're at least paying some attention to the road, and try to intervene, "Sisters."

All three of them immediately pause, though you all keep your steady pace through the last of the district. Another checkpoint is passed through, into a small district you've yet to encounter. It's mostly residential, the streets are much emptier, and you count the blessings of the expert navigators in your company. Cyril stops his guard, to get to the head of your group, and encourage a more mellow pace for Harriet's sake. While the priestess of Spirit tries to breathe, you part hands, and plainly ask all of the women beside you, "are you all alright? Truly."

They all blanch. Sister Corbon is somehow grumpier. "I could ask you the same, Father."

You frown back at her. "You have done so much more than save my life."

She frowns more intensely, still. "It was only possible because of your healing."

Your grimace cuts the edges of your face. "By your hands."

Her scowl threatens to becomes grotesque. Sister Tirel is laughing, as the woman at her side grumbles, "fair."

A smirk and a renewed skip is in Sister Cardew's step, as she can't help but comment, "what a pleasure." Beatrice snaps her head towards the priestess of Spirit, daring her to say something sarcastic. Harriet frowns back at her, immediately clarifying, "to have some reasonable company, for a change."

You can't help but sigh. "Avoiding answering me is a far— an infinitely greater strain than simply telling me what is plaguing you—"

(2/3)

>>4279216
With a renewed grimace, Sister Corbon nods to you. "I had told myself that I was giving up. That all of this was for nothing."

Clemence nods as well. "Mhm."

"At your side," Spangle scowls, "it didn't seem like facing down death was my real concern. Not nearly as much as what we've been fighting for, all along."

The two sisters of Mercy give each other a knowing look, and glance up to you. Electrum notes, "healing for."

"Protecting," Spangle asserts. "You gave me the hand I needed, Father Anscham. I knew you would." Her scowl intensifies, looking to the next checkpoint. "I'll be alright when we're all safely back home."

A little more air comes into your lungs. It smells like old blood.

"We have more than enough concerns in front of us," Clemence notes, wincing at the sound of cries in the distance.

There's a few screams for Mercy on the air. Your heart drops.

"I'm glad you all are still with me."

"Of course," Sister Cardew immediately snips.

Both priestesses of Mercy are too grief-stricken to reply.

You're all taken through a last gate, into a district with the scent of death on the air. Every door and window is shut, but there are dozens of your clergy in the streets. The mostly residential district of Flesh has seemingly been gated off, and turned into a makeshift residence for those affected by Brother Murdac's work. The few taverns and inns you can view from the edges of the guard tower's gate have beds and hammocks done about, and every space is occupied.

There's fresh, dried, and sticky crimson in the road. The clergy of Flesh and Mercy going about their work, stoking healthy smoke, driving out the decay of the lungs, utilizing every herb and tonic at their command— moving bodies, aiding those still coming into the district— they have yet to notice you.

They all answer to you.

Ofelia falls back, as you all totally exit the checkpoint, to shift her satchel. Vials clinking, her heavily accented tone picks up over the screams and sobs that feel as if they're closing in around you. "Hey, Richard? I can go ahead, but we really had our work cut out fer us. This shit's nasty."

"Is it the same toxin, Ofelia?"

"Yeah. The slow actin' one? These guys are at the worst of it. There's not a whole lot yer guys are gonna be able to do. Turns the chest real foul. Gonna have gotten in the blood. Even I don't have enough stuff to work through everyone here. Not by a longshot."

"What makes you think—"

"No offense, Richard, but yer periwinkle and wreaths ain't gonna stop a pair of lungs that's gone black. Definitely not the blood. Might give your guys a little comfort before they go. That's about it."

Sister Tirel is visibly offended, looks like she wishes she could crack all of her knuckles, and keeps her comments to herself.

Ofelia raises an eyebrow to the priestess, and politely asks you, "you got any plans, big guy?"

(Options in next post.)

>>4279222
>A] Brainstorm with Ofelia for the exact antidote and quantity of it you might need. Invoke Agriculture, and produce as much as you are capable of. Your congregation can distribute it, with Ofelia leading any instruction on the administration.
>1] Don't kill yourself. There's over 400 people here in need of your aid. Go to your comfortable limits. (Invoking Agriculture typically results in some extreme weight loss or gain, and you're unsure of the mechanism. Write-in any restrictions you want to impose.)
>2] You seriously don't care. There's lives on the line. Push yourself.

>B] Gather your clergy, as best as you're able. It's going to take precious Time and attention away from the sick and dying, but you need to gather some information. Learn of their priorities, and create a triage, before making any big decisions.

>C] Have Sister Tirel go and lead those who can only heal through mundane means. Invoke Mercy, to aid the worst of the injured with her. Send Sister Corbon to lead and delegate her own healing capability as best as she sees fit.
>1] Work with Cyril and Ofelia to identify the worst of the injured as quickly as you can. There's entire buildings here in need of your aid. Between her eyes, and the priest of Flesh's familiarity with his church, they should make the fastest work of assessing the situation.
>2] Plainly ask Theodore to invoke Dream. His foresight should be invaluable here.

>D] You're not fucking around. Invoke Mercy and Agriculture simultaneously. You have absolutely no idea what it will do to you, and you don't care.
>1] Your intent is to produce a cure to this poison as quickly as possible.
>2] You want to have the means of drawing out the sickness without causing yourself any harm, even if it has to be done on an individual basis.
>3] Write-in.

>E] Write-in.

>>4279226
>>C] Have Sister Tirel go and lead those who can only heal through mundane means. Invoke Mercy, to aid the worst of the injured with her. Send Sister Corbon to lead and delegate her own healing capability as best as she sees fit.
>>1] Work with Cyril and Ofelia to identify the worst of the injured as quickly as you can. There's entire buildings here in need of your aid. Between her eyes, and the priest of Flesh's familiarity with his church, they should make the fastest work of assessing the situation.
>>2] Plainly ask Theodore to invoke Dream. His foresight should be invaluable here.

>>D] You're not fucking around. Invoke Mercy and Agriculture simultaneously. You have absolutely no idea what it will do to you, and you don't care.
>2] You want to have the means of drawing out the sickness without causing yourself any harm, even if it has to be done on an individual basis.

The job of everyone else is to keep people alive until we can get to them and get the poison out.

>>4279248
This

>>4279248
>>4279635
(Going deep with as many people as possible? Got it. Vote is locked. Writing now.)

>>4280161
(So it looks like my roommate replaced our router while I was at work. Changed the IP, and my ID. A little upset, and going to take a minute to decide how to proceed. Will write shortly.)

>>4280181
(Going to proceed with the rest of the thread without formatting! If any of you guys feel it's a serious hindrance or have any other feedback please let me know. Writing now.)

>>4280161
"You know I never ask for any of you to follow me," you immediately declare, to everyone in your company. They all seem torn between amusement, and frustration.

Cyril smirks, and the edges of his busted lip curls grotesquely. "Don't get me started."

No one needs to say anything further, as you request, "please identify the worst of the injured, as quickly as you can. I need your feet," you glance to Ofelia, "and your eyes on the ground."

The priest of Flesh nods to her. "Church'll have the worst of it."

Harriet can't help but mention, "the dead will be significantly easier to move closest to the walls. Rather than the at the center of the district."

"The fuckin' Half-Pint," Ofelia frowns, taking off her hood, and looking to the horizon. "Yep. 'Course. Capacity's probably fer fifty, at least, Richard. Full up."

You put a hand to Brother Wilhelm's shoulder, intending to address him. The young man's eyes are already swimming with hues of blue in every shade, and you nearly pull away. He anticipates the motion, leaning towards your flinching hand, and takes it in his own. A distant, melodic, and completely divine voice resonates from his slight smile. "You have seen this destruction once before. Look not to the trees."

Fear of the Gods practically defines you, and you keep your gaze locked with his own. His smile disappears, completely. "Look not to the lungs."

"Sister Corbon," you mutter, as quickly as you can, not daring to look away from the priest of Dream. "your presence here will be expected. I trust your ability completely."

"I'll head for the tavern," she fires off, and nearly runs off with your fellow priestess of Mercy.

Not daring to interrupt Brother Wilhelm, you almost let her go, as he muses, in an incredibly distant and melodic tone, "look to the home."

Panic slakes you, as you dare to call out, "Sister Tirel!"

"Yes, Father Anscham—"

"Please accompany me! Our clergy will have need of your guidance—" she's already running back, to your extreme relief, "and I may not be capable of doing so myself."

The young man before you finishes his invocation. "Look upon each seedling, placed in your heart."

As Sister Corbon resolves to break off, Harriet has the decency to warn her on your behalf, "the Honey Bee!"

A wave of acknowledgment comes from the lanky priestess, as she tears off towards the further edge of the district. Blinking away swirling hues of turquoise and cornflower, the natural brightness of Theodore's eyes shine back at you. He comes back, away from divinity, to say, "I do not need to tell you. There is little to interpret."

"We need to hurry to the church," you confirm, which he mildly nods to. Grimacing, particularly to Sister Tirel, you mutter, "go. All of you." You gesture to Ray, to follow the more vulnerable members of your company for protection, while you insist, "I will catch up."

(1/3)

>>4280627
The priestess of Mercy doesn't hesitate for a second, and barks to Sister Cardew and Brother Wilhelm, "I'll need every hand I can get. Come on."

They take off running. The poisons master and bodyguard in your company linger, despite your request. "Richard," Ofelia starts, to which Brother Trebbeck immediately follows up.

"I'm sticking right by your side," he insists, "but you just let me know what you need. Alright?"

"Thank you," you murmur.

With worry discoloring her features, Ofelia tosses up her hood, and gestures towards several more houses. "No idea how we can get to 'em all."

"Our mission—" you clarify, "your mission, is to keep as many alive as you can. Grant Sister Corbon and I the Time to act. Please."

She nods, breaking away, and following the rest of your companions. You can't make the Time to wait for anything further, brace yourself, and call upon your Goddess.

https://youtu.be/FnTd0HvAwCI

A flash of heat and devotion is on you faster than a flare from the sun itself. Cyril staggers backwards, and you almost do the same. The sheer intensity of the Goddess' blessing is unlike anything you've ever felt before. Spots of gold swim in your vision, as metal completely plates over your eyes, and the sensation of arms tightly wrapping around you keeps you in place. You look upon a wave of heat and light, dripping from the palms of your hands, as Mercy embraces you, and keeps you from falling completely into ecstasy.

There's more heat than you can stand, wrapping itself through the base of your spine, up through your chest, and before you can even register a single thought or acknowledge Cyril's caution to "stop, Richard— you don't have to—" you are knitting your hands together for *more*.

The voice of grace itself parts from your lips. It is not of blood, though it is pure, when held in the hands of Mercy. You take several steps forward, towards your calling.

To the church.

While thinking to the soil underfoot, and remembering to breathe, you catch something as sweet as the smell of your lover's dandelion curls. It's the season of Grace, flowers are in bloom, and there is still life to be had in the cries of death all about you. "Goddess of Bounty," you murmur, aching with compassion. "Your gardens have been overturned. Your trees have been felled. Your gifts have been tainted, and Your love gone unheeded for far too long."

From the corners of your eyes, to the flakes of gold parting up, off of your hands, and into the air, you catch a glimpse of green-gold. It's not metal. Pollen is rising, and dissipating. You part your hands, permitting the manifestation of your Goddesses to openly be seen. Trusting in your partner, in yourself, in your faith and the hold within every crack of your soul, you lean into the invocation.

Mercy grants you light, under every step. There is verve and love in every word, as you declare, "I want only for your protection."

(2/3)

>>4280629
Cyril has sprinted ahead. On the periphery of swimming radiance, and a softness to the edges of your senses, you hear something along the lines of, "BY THE ORDER OF KING MAGNUS, THE MERCIFUL—"

"Goddesses of Beauty."

"THE HANDS OF THE CHURCH OF MERCY ARE ON YOUR FUCKIN' DOORSTEP—"

You slow your procession, as the pollen makes way for something deeper. Under your skin, inside of your veins, there is an embrace so complete that it works itself into more than your Flesh.

"Come unto me."

"OPEN UP!"

They're on you, and in you, as you can't help but declare, "Goddesses of health. Of growth, of life, of death, of grief, compassion, and enough LOVE to drive out the *sin* that has plagued your children."

"BY *ALL* THE GODS! RICHA— *FATHER ANSCHAM*—"

At the declaration of your name, a pair of doors opens up, just ahead. They're of an old and ancient wood, though you are not concerned with the trees felled in their making. Nor are you particularly focused on the moss, deep in the recesses of winding stone, that comprises a holy structure. The church of Flesh within Calunoth is nowhere near as significant as the home of the Father of Flesh.

"Let us draw out this sickness."

The bodies, in its interior, are cause for your aid. You mutter, feverishly, enamored with the embrace that is working itself up, into your lungs and heart. "Agriculture. Mercy. Your blessings are *needed*."

The dozens of souls within the building are trapped in a nightmare. Blackened skin and more pain than you can stand immediately greets you, with the scent of extended torment. Men, women, and children who have succumbed to weakened lungs still lie in some beds, never granted the air they needed, frantically being moved away by priests and priestesses who could do nothing to stop the inevitable.

You are a priest of life, death, and everything in-between.

Your hands are shaking.

A tendril of green-gold that may be a hand, or a finger, a vine or a blossom has come forth from the cracks in your soul, to steady your hands. It could have been a caress. One from the base of your spine, up through the heat crossing your face, and the impression of a finger pulling gently through your hair. You're certain it is of the petals that have worked between your fingers, and the agony threatening to crush you with more weight than the world itself.

Utter control over nature knits itself into the spaces between your hands, with a tendril, and a blossom. It more than a spring yellow gold, that wants to grant air to the lungs before you.

There is a desire for restraint, to control the desire to reach out.

Someone has been talking, and you're being shaken so hard you can't really ignore it any longer. "Richard. RICHARD."

Ofelia is at your side, and earnestly points to Brother Wilhelm. He calmly calls from the banister, in a distant voice, "there is no Time, Father Anscham."

(Just over 3/4)

>>4280634
The back of Sister Corbon's gilded robes catch on the periphery of wafting pollen, the herbs in the air, a dozen priests of priestesses of Mercy, their last-ditch efforts at staving off more suffering than they can stand, a cry for help. A man is turned on his side, frothing at the mouth, and in the clutches of death. Another's wheezing threatens to stop completely. A grown man is crying hysterically, unable to breathe through his sobs, and desperately grabbing at his own chest in a poor attempt to calm himself, and not die from the strain.

There's simply no way to heal everyone individually. There's no Time.

You've asked the Goddess of Compassion for her protection, and are quite satisfied with being unable to register any further sensation properly. A thought occurs to you, amidst mild pleasure, and an all-encompassing urge to permit two Goddesses to exert their will over the mortal coil. To stop the suffering. To save as many lives as possible.

>A] Save as many lives as possible. Take a leap of faith. Invoke Flesh. There are over four hundred lives here, waiting to be saved— and you will settle for nothing less.

>B] There are more lives to be saved than the ones in this church alone. Show restraint. Serve your Goddess, respect your partner, and love yourself. Reach out with Agriculture, trust in Her works, and know full well that Mercy will protect you.
>1] Purify the lungs of every single man, woman, and child in the church.
>2] Take the toxin from the blood of every single man, woman, and child in the church.
>3] Ease the pain of every single man, woman, and child in the church who cannot be saved.
>4] Do everything conceivable in your power to completely heal every single man, woman, and child in the building. You don't know if Mercy can contend with Agriculture's will to such an extent, but you're willing to pray for the best.

>C] Compromise your own well-being, to save as many lives as possible, and share both of the Goddesses love with those present. Ask Mercy to heal through you, as much as She is able, rather than guide your invocation to Agriculture. They love you too intensely to kill you. They want to help, and save every life before you.

>D] You are utterly terrified of losing yourself and the small voice in the back of your mind that wants you to live another day is stressing that there is something you can do here that does not involve any personal sacrifice, to save as many lives as possible. You've worked incredibly hard to build up your alliances, look after your health and restore your connection to all of the Gods. Fight down the urge to go any deeper, and (write-in).

>>4280636
A, with great power comes great yada yada

>>4280636
>C] Compromise your own well-being, to save as many lives as possible, and share both of the Goddesses love with those present. Ask Mercy to heal through you, as much as She is able, rather than guide your invocation to Agriculture. They love you too intensely to kill you. They want to help, and save every life before you.
We FUCK

>>4280636
>>C] Compromise your own well-being, to save as many lives as possible, and share both of the Goddesses love with those present. Ask Mercy to heal through you, as much as She is able, rather than guide your invocation to Agriculture. They love you too intensely to kill you. They want to help, and save every life before you.

THIS IF FOR YOU MOTHER BETH.

>>4280636
>>C] Compromise your own well-being, to save as many lives as possible, and share both of the Goddesses love with those present. Ask Mercy to heal through you, as much as She is able, rather than guide your invocation to Agriculture. They love you too intensely to kill you. They want to help, and save every life before you.

>>4280913
(Really appreciate you man, going to take this into account but)
>>4281028
>>4281032
>>4281065
(Going with the overwhelming majority! Taking all write-ins and comments into account. Writing now.)

>>4281284
https://youtu.be/JEsoAwdABsI

Nothing else could matter more to you than this moment. Your lover. A Goddess scorned. Pleasure, without pain, and the sensation of hundreds of souls on the brink of destruction.

There is no need for fear, or any other reservations. "Heal through me," you implore, "that We may save *every* life before Us."

There is a scattering of priests and priestesses who flock to you. Their hands are open. They need your love. They need your compassion. Your heart breaks. Each seedling of grace and sincerity comes to fruition, in a desperate bid to retain your identity, sanity, and beloved memories.

You think of Mother Bethaea, and choke out, almost in a sob, "We will make light, even in this darkness."

There is a compromise. You reach out, with open hands. From the pollen drifting across the splinters of your soul, green-gold flecks part, into the air. They drift, across the edges of your blurred vision. You see light. You see green, tinting the yellow-gold that is swimming and growing in your eyes.

It hurts. The agony of every man, woman, and child is on you, as you and the Goddess of Compassion clutch a hand to your chest. Struggling to breathe against the softness underhand, you murmur, "Agriculture must take away Her bounty—"

With a gasp, and a pain through your chest that is utterly suffocating, you dig into the pain. You harvest the morning, in mourning, and watch as yours and Mother Bethaea's flower blossoms. The radiant herbs have seeded into the stone underfoot. From the base of the entryway in which you stand, from pollen and the will of the Goddesses, you reach out, further. Love, devotion, and the hope for a union of Mercy and the Goddess of Life tends to a new garden.

"She has so much to *give*."

Flowers burst into view, snaking their way from your position, and into nearly every natural surface.

"We shall ease the body. In memory, and loving devotion."

Their gentle, golden radiance is of honey, sweetly pouring oxygen into the air.

"Through which We shall cure *any* poison."

You can't take a deep breath, and clutch harder onto the tender Flesh between your skin and your heart. You miss her. The Goddess of Sympathy and the patron of a fallen Mother are in you, grieving.

"We will grow."

A man eased into a makeshift hammock, frothing at the mouth despite being placed in a pew and the arms of two priests of Flesh stops fighting against imminent death. You look not to his lungs, but to his heart. To the blood, that you reach out to, with the hands of Mercy.

"Life. Death."

A woman on the verge of death, with blackened skin and despair in her soul can no longer weep. Laid out like a corpse, the decay in her muscle is *nothing* the Goddess of healing cannot mend.

"It is an endless cycle," you murmur, with verdancy blossoming from every syllable. "In more than the fields."

(1/2)

>>4281503
Twisting your wrist, as if you were adjusting your grip on a scythe, you motion to every last soul on the brink of death in one fell motion.

"In more than the green!"

The memory of the sun baking down upon your back, in the field and beside the fallen Mother of Agriculture is more than a bereavement. The Goddess of Light tends to the growing pressure against your back, up along your chest, from the pit of your stomach, the swell and *tension* all throughout your arms and hands.

You bury the notion of self-preservation, and harvest decay. Not merely with the will of Agriculture, but the combined might of your partner, your lover, and your greatest ally: you *heal.*

Slowly, as every single person in the Church of Flesh goes utterly still, you motion to the flowers. You motion to the rot. You pull your arms in, to embrace the love of two Goddesses, and share them in full.

The blackened and decaying skin all about one child utterly dissipates, leaving nothing but vibrant, healthy skin the Goddesses wake.

A man, sobbing hysterically to himself, stops his motions. Clutching at his throat, in disbelief, bloodshot eyes mend instantly and look to you with gratitude.

A citizen in the throes of death stops their seizure, while the life, death, and everything in-between is channeled through *your* vessel. It is instant, and overwhelming, and you cannot possibly take in the sight and sounds and taste of over fifty lost souls all being saved with the grace of your hands.

You are full. Impossibly full. Two Goddesses, who love you more than they can hope to express, and know of your devotion, have heard your plea. Mercy works through you, desperately, and tirelessly. There are so many who need your aid. There must be twenty who's sickness you've harvested, and twenty more on the brink of death. More are stable, but will rot if left unattended.

Agriculture knows of your plight, and is blossoming, all through you. Your shirt and belt beneath your robes are complaining, and you feel as if you can't take another second of the invocation. More than the impression of dirt packed under your nails, the weight that's dropped you to one knee, there is a swell. Deep into your stomach, there's a seed that's been buried.

You want to do more. The conflict is almost more than you can take,.and you don't dare to look away.

Several priests and priestesses are already harvesting the flowers you've brought to life.

Mother Bethaea should be remembered. She always wanted for more.

You're insatiable, and through the melted edges of your mind, from the caress of two Goddesses, and the softness of every inch of you— you can't help but feel the same way.

You're feeling, and trying desperately to breathe, and to save every soul that you can. There are already families and friends talking together, asking why, and trying to make sense of your work. Their lives were brought back in a single, blessed moment.

You can do *so* much more.

(Options in next post.)

>>4281507
>A] You need to stop. Mercy and Agriculture won't outright hurt you, if they can manage it, but you're pushing their limits. Leave the clergy here to finish the job, and look to your allies for where your help is needed most.
>1] Keep up the dual invocation. There's over 400 people in this district in need of your aid.
>2] Release your invocation to Mercy, if only to spare your sanity. You need to focus.
>3] Release your invocation to Agriculture. You have very little grasp on how to manage her, and don't want to ruin yourself. Gather as much of yours and Mother Bethaea's flower as you can, and supplement Mercy's healing with it.

>B] You're not going anywhere. You wanted to heal everyone here, no matter the cost. Commit to it.

>C] Release the invocation completely. You hadn't realized the scope of this sickness, and have already provided an incredible amount of resources for your clergy. Try to get yourself together, and regroup, with a clear mind and some strategy.

>D] Write-in.

>>4281509
>>A] You need to stop. Mercy and Agriculture won't outright hurt you, if they can manage it, but you're pushing their limits. Leave the clergy here to finish the job, and look to your allies for where your help is needed most.
>>1] Keep up the dual invocation. There's over 400 people in this district in need of your aid.

MERCY DIDN'T RAISE A COWARD.

>>4281519
+1 WE STILL FUUUCK

>>4281519
>>4281705
(GOING IN
VOTE IS LOCKED
WRITING NOW)

>>4281973
https://youtu.be/Qk40cJLgRTY

"Mercy," you smile, through the ecstasy of your lover, and yet another Goddess working under your skin. "There is nothing to fear."

On bent knee, ignoring the discomfort from how full you are in every conceivable way, you attempt to look for your allies.

You can't. You need more.

There is pain, in the dozens of men and women who are being attended to. Your clergy now have the tools they truly need at their disposal, from the hand of Mercy, and your smile broadens. With it is reassurance, that the blossoms covering every visible surface will bring further relief. The interior of the church of Flesh is positively radiant. You are enamored, yet it feels as if the weight of the world is on you. In you.

It feels as if you're suffocating. There is more to the invocation than an embrace. A desperate need works its way through the space under your skin. The motion is devoid of heat or cold. Tenderly— in fear, and apology— there is the desire to ensure that you never want for anything again.

The Goddess of Compassion knows you are unafraid. There is no fear of death, or any reluctance to persevere. Though you ache from the pain you've endured, you take heart. It was on behalf of fifty innocent souls. Every ounce of decay has gone back, to the soil, and to you.

Someone takes you hard by the shoulder. It's Brother Trebbeck. He looks relieved. Sister Cardew is directly behind him, with Ofelia. You can see Theodore parting from Sister Tirel's side, in the distance. Before any one of your company can utter a word, you speak out. The natural, spreading green-gold about your eyes winces, utterly insane and unquestionably divine. "There are more to save."

A long moment passes, in which the sensation of two deities working their way through your vessel stretches out— out, into what may be hours, or minutes. There's no Time. There is complete control over recovery. Over the natural world.

It's just a moment, in which you move to stand, and look to the tall ceiling of the church of Flesh. Thousands of petals adorn every single inch of the structure. Pollen is raining down upon the citizens you have saved. Families look to each other, call to each other, and take one another in their recovered arms. They take in clean air, and a remedy befitting of the Gods.

You're certain that these people are *now* in capable hands. Clergy are running about, making rapid work of your invocation's remnants, and tending to those who still require aid.

(1/2)

>>4282125
The sheer intensity of the invocation has your vision swimming, in hues of gold and flecks of petals. You can barely see the collection of clergy behind your friends, shouting. Cyril has kept his hand on your shoulder, and you understand that it's been to keep you steady. Firmly, he jerks his head in the direction of the door. He's fighting down the urge to shake you. You can feel his sympathy, and compassion, from the hold on your body to the fire in his speech. "Are you alright? Richard? You in there?"

"Yes." An impression of verdancy emanates from the tenderness of your speech. Earnestly, you ask, "Where are We needed most?"

No one replies, initially.

Brother Wilhelm is almost visibly frustrated, for the first Time since you've met him. The young man practically shoves aside the rest of your company, lingering next to Cyril. It feels as if every other word is an invocation. *He* understands. "You know that Sister Corbon is across the district, tending to the dying. Her skill is *yours*, Father Anscham. What ails our fellow man resides in the home. My interpretation— Our vision— is one of resignation. There are more buildings such as this. It is nearly impossible to see who should be tended to first. The citizens of Calunoth will have largely kept to their own dwellings, and I fear many of them cannot be reached in Time."

The priest's respect for the Gods completely outclasses the fear on the rest of your company. Cyril's hold on your shoulder is unbelievably tight. "You know I want to help."

Shoving herself ahead, Harriet snaps to you, "Richard. *Richard.* Breathe. Think. Are you *sure* about this?"

From your soul, as a vessel, and a man who wields the Gods themselves, you speak a single word. A trio of replies stems, and radiates, and evokes: "Yes."

Rapidly, Cyril nods again, towards the door. "They said they're keeping the worst cases near the wall. We'd better hurry."

"It's as I said," Sister Cardew notes, "though I was mistaken in one respect. As Brother Wilhelm mentioned. As Ofelia has observed. A number of heathens within their homes are bound to succumb to this illness." In a lower voice, straight-laced and blasphemous, she notes, "I highly doubt they all can be saved, Richard. Please. Do *not* kill yourself trying. Let us help you."

Ofelia can't help but speak up, convicted, and unshaken. "You guys turn under stress?"

Sister Cardew seems beyond offended, but before she launches into an explanation, you put up a hand. Your wrist is thicker, but you don't pause. "In a way. The Catalyst is cause for concern."

"Saw a couple guys around town," the halfling frowns, "real messed up. I can take you to 'em, but I don't know if you wanna. What with how much is goin' on. You sure yer ok?"

(Options in next post.)

>>4282131
This vote has three parts. MAJORITY WILL DECIDE, permitting any overlap if necessary.

1. Specify where you would like to assign your company, from A-F.
2. Specify how many individuals you would like to take away from the church of Flesh, if any, from G and I.
3. Use the options from J-L, to indicate where everyone is going.)

>1] THE FOLLOWING INDIVIDUALS— IF THEY ARE ABLE AND WILLING— WILL GO WHERE YOU ASK THEM:
>A] Ray. (Moral support is important.)
>B] Brother Cyril Trebbeck (He has more physical strength and speed than anyone else in your company.)
>C] Sister Harriet Cardew (Her observations and caution are commendable, though she's slow on the ground.)
>D] Brother Theodore Wilhelm (His foresight and respect for the Gods is nearly as intense as his father's. His help towards your well being is up to your interpretation.)
>E] Sister Clemence Tirel (Traditional healing and a strong constitution makes for far easier mundane work.)
>F] Ofelia Banks (Possesses a limited supply of remedies, and a deep knowledge of poison. Her company is almost always invaluable.)

>2] AS THE LEADER OF THE CHURCH OF MERCY, THE FOLLOWING CLERGY ARE AT YOUR IMMEDIATE COMMAND:
>A] Approximately 30 clergy of the Church of Mercy. (Incapable of invoking, but are traditional healers, and are rapidly stocking up on yours and Mother Bethaea's cure. Largely defenders of the weak and weary, but excel in prevention more than reaction.)
>B] Approximately 15 clergy of the Church of Flesh (Capable of invoking Flesh. Likely do not have any further information than what Cyril acquired, but will be able to move through the city just as fast Brother Trebbeck. Infinitely more capable of putting down a newly born demon.)

>3] THE FOLLOWING LOCATIONS ARE KNOWN TO HAVE CITIZENS ON THE VERGE OF DEATH:
>A] The Half-Pint, where Sister Corbon is working. Sister Tirel will likely be of the most use with the greatest amount of hands at her disposal.
>B] The general populace of this district. Having Theodore in your company will ensure you see to those in the greatest need of aid.
>C] The heathens, blasphemers, liars or soon-to-be-demons that Ofelia identified. Having her in your company is mandatory to find them.

(Due to overwhelming, unanimous, and consistent votes to pursue this course of action, write-ins will not be accepted for the outcome of this prompt. You are committed to maintaining your invocation to Mercy and Agriculture.

That said, feel free to discuss any strategy you like for positioning, anything you want to say, how to save as many lives as possible, etc. Please let me know if you have any questions!)

>>4282136

1A 1B 1F 2B Will go to 3C

1C 1D 2A(5 only the most skilled) will stay 3B

1E and 2A(the rest) will go 3A

We need to take care of those demon as soon as possible lest we need to suffer through yet another outbreak, the spirit of these people is broken enough as is. Cyril and Ofelia can go on a cute demon murdering date and Ray has always been more than just moral support.

Having the majority of the mercyfags with us is redundant, we need to spread out as much as possible, theo is with us for mimaxing and Cardew to tell us when it's time to pull out.

The people in the half pint are getting the second best thing to Richard himself, hopefully that is enough.

>>4282447
+1

>>4282447
+1

>>4282447
>>4282504
>>4282615
Just to be totally clear, are you going with Cyril/Ofelia's group, or keeping Theodore with you to tend to the general public?

>>4282679

We are keeping theo and cardew with us while we tend to the general public

>>4282683
(Copy that, thanks for the fast response. Vote is locked, then! Writing now.)

>>4282685
https://youtu.be/QDNhe1Vy0No

You take a step forward. A trail of mullein blossoms in your wake. As quickly as you're able, addressing Ofelia and Cyril, new flowers might as well come forth from your lips. The tone is that of grief, yet emboldened with the grace of the Goddesses. "The Spirit of our people is broken enough as is. Would you see to those who need your aid most? To end the suffering of those who cannot— *will not* be saved?"

They both nod, completely understanding the gravity of your request. You are in the throes of sensation so divine, you don't dare to kneel down to Ray, but you command your boy to follow and guard them both without fail.

There's a moment where Cyril almost protests your glance to the rest of the clergy present, but with a flash of green and gold to his own blood-shot eyes, there's no use for him to pause or counsel. Lives are on the line. You raise the divinity in your voice, and call out, "Sisters, and Brothers! We ask for you to COMBAT UNCERTAINTY!"

Every single member of the church of Flesh completely stops their motions, to dart their eyes to you, and to stop their movement. "Go," you declare, "that the Church of Mercy may make the most of Our works here!" With a gesture to Ofelia, you command, "look to the eyes of the Goddess," and with a wave of your hand to Cyril, ignoring the pollen that falls in its wake, you declare, "and the command of Brother Trebbeck!"

There's immediately shifting, as the clergy resolve to finish their duties.

You bark, "show your DEVOTION! Do NOT spurn His works! Do not tarry a MOMENT longer!"

Cyril has already ran to the door, and begins calling out to the rest of his fellow clergy.

"Each breath we draw may be their last!" You demand, "GO!"

It's all the encouragement they need. Every single priest and priestess of Flesh begins to run out of the building, and you note that some of them are wearing the flowers you've produced in lapels, collars of their robes, and even in one woman's hair.

The assassin at your side quickly, resolutely comments, "yer a lunatic. I gotcha', though."

"Thank you," you softly reply.

"I'll see ya' back at the Bee."

"The Gods are Merciful, Ofelia."

"Yeah. I know. Take care of yerself, Richard."

She gives you that pained smile you hate to love, and in a toss of her cloak, is gone.

Knowing full well that you can't heed Ofelia's caution at the present moment, you direct your full attention towards Sister Cardew. She's already frowning. "You don't need to ask."

You do anyways. "Your guidance means more than We can convey. Tell Us. When to stop. To come back."

Wearily, lips tight and straight-faced, the sister of Spirit informs you, "I will." She nods, towards the structure, flowers, patients and clergy behind you. "I know They won't hurt you. You will be alright, but they need you, now. We *all* do."

(1/4)

>>4282796
It seems you've commanded the attention of the entire church. Aside from the clergy of Mercy that persists, the sight of so many healed brings more light into your heart than you can stand. Sister Tirel hasn't stopped her motions, command, and work. Though you know of her capability, you call out to every other priest and priestess among you. "FIVE! With the ability to aid those beyond aid! Will FIVE of you lend your hands, to serve alongside Us?"

An elderly man, only a few feet away, immediately works his way through the collection of clergy that have been clamoring to get your attention. His neatly combed mustache and beard hardly bristles, as he quickly states, "Brother Fergant. At your service, Mercy. Agriculture. Father."

You give him an appreciative nod. "Thank you, Brother. Your respect is greatly appreciated."

While the rest of the clergy recognizes their aid is needed more here, and that you are not giving any answers, a few more come to you. There's shifting, as three women part from Sister Tirel's side. It's clearly at her urging, as they're shooed away from upstairs.

Another man, who's short, but with all the speed and urgency you could hope for, practically materializes after squeezing through the group about you. "Brother Durville," he says. His voice is grizzled as the gray in his stubble. Both of you share a brief nod of understanding, and mutual gratitude.

While the three priestesses upstairs make their way down, you call out, "as We see to those who could not be with Us here today," To the priestess of Mercy, in particular, you stress, "to those who are able follow Sister Tirel's command! Your aid is still needed! The Half-Pint, repurposed into a house of Mercy, sits at the edge of this district! Take heed of our Sister's judgement! Spare as many lives as you are able!"

At your back, Sister Cardew is speaking in a hushed tone with Brother Wilhelm. Over their whispering, you hear Electrum call out, "yes, Father Anscham—! ALRIGHT, YOU HEARD THE MAN! LET'S MOVE!"

While shee barks a number of orders to the healers about the top of the church, at its base, the remaining three clergy you've called for make their way over. The space about you rapidly clears, revealing a blessed sight. Each woman's arms are positively brimming with the flowers you've produced. In baskets, bandages, and every makeshift carrier they could find, you pause, and almost do a double-take. All three women look nearly identical, curtsy, and say simultaneously, "Sister Willoughby."

"Agnes," "Susan," and "Tilda," is fired off, in quick succession, from each woman. They look so similar, you can't hope to sort them out, though there's a slightly different inflection in each one of the sandy-haired, full-lipped, and youthful priestesses voices.

(2/4)

>>4282798
Sister Cardew immediately informs you, just to your side, "Brother Wilhelm will minimize his invocations to Dream., while he remains awake. It would seem that there are at least one hundred more who require your immediate attention, Father Anscham."

"There is no Time," the young man distantly repeats, in a daze and the sight of a God. His brow is knitted, in mild distress, as his eyes lose focus. A few clouds shift in his speech, while the crescents of his pupils open into a full moon.

He smiles, slightly. There is a crack in his very skin, running alongside his left eye. Paint swims in the depths of what should be exposed muscle and bone. It's impossible, beautiful, disturbing, and is spreading by the second as Brother Wilhelm maintains his invocation.

Very gently, without drawing back, you implore the priest, "nothing is impossible. Will you run with me?"

"Amidst the moon, and stars in the sky," he replies instantly, as you all bolt out of the building.

Leaving behind the bustle of Sister Tirel's delegating, the work of the remaining 25 clergy of your church, and every man, woman and child who calls for you, the doors to the Church of Flesh remain open a moment longer. As you look back, to a trail of flower petals and divinity trailing along the ground, in impressions of light and gold from every step, there's a curtain. From the pollen drifting from the interior of the church, beyond the pews and in makeshift beds of every kind, over fifty people are all waving, and calling out. Many are crying, in sheer relief. It was difficult to hear, at first, but not even the divinity pushing up, and in, and through your soul could sound so sweet.

"Thank you, Father!"
"*Thank you!*"
"The Gods ARE Merciful, Father Anscham."
"YOU are Merciful!"
"Go with the Gods, Father Anscham!"
"Bless you, Father!"
"Thank you!"

The doors to the church close. You've definitely lost count of how many lives you've saved on Father Friedrich's behalf, and as you run through the city streets, keeping just behind Theodore, you can't help but ask, "where, Brother Wilhelm? Where are We needed most?"

He all but skids to a stop. The district you reside in has countless winding streets. Though the Church of Flesh is just off the main road, little cobblestone alleyways peel off, into Ofelia's old residential area. The small houses of the few halflings who take refuge in Calunoth are gently pointed to, by the priest of Dream. "Long have you gazed upon blasphemy and sin. He will not look upon them."

Brother Wilhelm whips his head around suddenly, to stare straight at you. The motion is so harsh, for such a gentle priest, you almost draw back. The vessel before you loses a voice of his own. For a moment, the moon and stars of the God of the Night Himself declares, "the hands of Mercy cannot hold every one of Her children."

(3/4)

>>4282800
A streak of pain lances through you. Not merely in your heart, but in every crack of your soul. You are MORE than outraged. You are the Father of your children, and are more than capable of seeing to their health. Their lives. Their souls.

You want to believe that this is blasphemy. You, and the Mother of your children, are aching.

It has to be a lie.

You HAVE to save them all.

More mildly, yet persisting with the God of Visions, the priest of Dream before you murmurs, "one hundred souls." He points, to a break in the road ahead, and gestures in a specific and incredibly odd pattern. It's almost as if he's painting, as Theodore motions, "sixty may yet be saved. They have indicated upon their homes, that they have turned from the light of Mercy. Closed are their hearts, and their homes."

The three sisters of Mercy in your company look like they want to sprint to their aid, but wait for your command.

Pain laces through Brother Wilhelm's tone. You know he's imagining what must lie ahead, as the young man winces, "forty are dying. This is not the place of Dream. This is a nightmare."

He wakes up.

The young man practically collapses. You reach out. A dozen vines are produced from the motion, though you stop his fall with your hands. The hands of Mercy are those of a healer, and as you keep the priest on his feet, all exhaustion seems to fall from his frame.

The vines about you return to the Aerth, and the flowers that have grown behind your motion wave slightly in the wind. Brother Wilhelm looks up to you, with eyes of mortal blue. He shakes his head. "I will take you to them. Sixteen are in enough pain that they wish to die, Father. They are all in different homes. This is not counting a family who has a newborn among them. She may die as we speak."

Panic hits you, and must be visible in every inch of your frame. Much more urgently, Brother Wilhelm rattles off, "seven more are in their midst, though in fairer condition." His tone gets a lot more distant. "Five homes have young children. Younger than I. They are in death's grasp."

You wonder for the boy's sanity, as he parts from your hold, to stand on his own two feet. "The remaining two are elderly, and have accepted their death. They are on opposite sides of the wall."

There's definitely something broken in Theodore's speech, as he repeats yet again, "it is impossible. There is not enough Time."

>Options in next post.
>Please choose one option from each group. (e.g. A1, B2, C1, D2, E1.)
>MAJORITY VOTE will decide for each category. If there is a direct contradiction, the vote will remain open until a consensus is reached.

>>4282803
>A] The three priestesses of Mercy in your company could cover a lot of ground.
>1] Send them to see to the less injured throughout town. Have them provide the rest of your company with as much of their supplies as they see fit. Preventing anyone from needing your care would be prudent.
>2] Keep them by your side. You can't stand the thought of losing anyone who could have been saved, by their hands. You're going to see to this catastrophe, no matter how long it takes.

>B] Sixteen innocent lives are at stake, who may not want your help. You know how it feels, to long for death. No matter how much pain they must be in, you aren't quite sure how you feel about intervening.
>1] Let them go. You have more than enough people to save who want your help, and no Time to see to their plight.
>2] Send Sister Cardew to attend to as many of them as she can, before they pass. The priestess of Spirit may be able to at least bring some comfort to them, before they die.
>3] Turning from the Gods, especially when you're in the throes of Their embrace, is unthinkable. You fear for their souls, more than any other, and are making this your first priority.

>C] The population of Corcaea is in constant decline. A family of eight is about to lose an infant.
>1] You can't stand the thought of it, and are sprinting there as fast as you can. Let the rest of your company catch up. You'll sort out the rest of their family once you're certain that the baby is saved.
>2] Brother Durville seems like the fastest man in your company. Send him to attend to the entire family as he sees fit.
>3] EVERY life in your hands is of equal weight. No matter how much it hurts, you need to focus on those who have less of a chance of surviving the first of your care. Don't attend to the home, or the infant, until you address someone else first.

>D] Five homes within this district have young children, on the brink of death.
>1] Delegate the matter to the five clergy of Mercy in your company.
>2] It might be hurting him to do so, but ask Theodore to accompany you, and help you save all of them yourself.
>3] Go with everyone in your company. Don't tax Brother Wilhelm any further, and ensure you save every last child.

>E] Two senior citizens are extremely far from one another. You know you cannot physically reach them in Time, even with Mercy and Agriculture within you. Your vessel can only do so much.
>1] Ask Brother Wilhelm for a criteria to prioritize who to save. (Write-in how you go about doing so.)
>2] You don't feel right picking and choosing who to save. Simply have the young man tell you both their locations, and (Write-in how you wish to do so.)
>3] You have to accept that you can't save everyone. Let them die.

>F] Dream won't look upon the souls of sinners. You will. Tend to the halfling refuge. (Write-in how.)

>>4282807

>F] Dream won't look upon the souls of sinners. You will. Tend to the halfling refuge. (Write-in how.)

Richard runs to every single child who is about to die and brings them back to a stable condition, the mercyfags we have with us remain in his wake to tend to the other members of the families *just enough to buy us more time*, after Richard manages to bring everyone back from the brink he should tend to the 16 others who are in great pain, and only after that see to the elderly if they are still alive. If at any point one of our clergy members is idle they should sprint to the aid of the seniors. Theo and Cardew can assist in any way they think they can without slowing down Richard.

>>4282880
(Sorry if this wasn't clear. To be totally clear, Dream did not give Theodore ANY information regarding the halfling refuge. The five homes with young children (16 people total) are human. This prompt is for your FIRST plan of action, as you are uncertain how long this will take, or how the situation may change.)

>>4282885
(For further clarity, the premise of the vote, like I tried and failed to demonstrate, was :
Letter (for which group to get to first)
Number (for who to assign, who makes sense to have there)
The only pure write-in is for the halfling district, as no info was provided at all.

If anyone would like to provide a pure write-in, please CLEARLY specify who is going where, and what course of action you'd like to take IMMEDIATELY.)

>>4282885

Right, I didn't understand the prompt properly. I say we leave the refuge last because halflings are basically immune to poison so they shouldn't have the same amount of trouble as the humans

>>4282890

I should also clarify that Richard should tend to the most critical baby first and then run to the rest of the children, the mercyfags tend to the family while dick focuses on the kids.

>>4282897
(Gotcha. So for ABSOLUTE clarity, your vote is for C1. Tentative plan of action being tentative, will absolutely bear it in mind.

Got an appointment in about an hour, will be keeping tabs on the thread if anyone has any further questions!)

>>4282807
>C] The population of Corcaea is in constant decline. A family of eight is about to lose an infant.
>1] You can't stand the thought of it, and are sprinting there as fast as you can. Let the rest of your company catch up. You'll sort out the rest of their family once you're certain that the baby is saved.

>>4282880
>>4282933
(Alright! Locking the vote here. Writing now!)

>>4283084
Inching to run, your mind instantly races with a singular, definitive plan. It's impossible, of course, but you are a *hero*. You are a man of all the Gods, and don't care in the slightest about what is, or isn't possible.

Through more pain than a mortal could fathom, you have to start, "where is the newborn, and her family?"

Brother Wilhelm immediately understands the situation, and murmurs as quickly as can, "take the main road east. Third alley. Make a left. Second house beyond the rubble to the right."

You're off running, calling behind you, "everyone with Brother Wilhelm! Come as quickly as you can!"

To your relief, every single person in your company can be heard picking up into a full sprint after you. There's no burn in your lungs, or fire in your chest as you completely leave them in the dust. You really can't feel much of anything, beyond the ache of compassion that wrestled itself in to the deepest fibers of your being. Mercy is with you, and cannot ease this pain. The potential of losing another life— *especially* when you are together— is unthinkable.

The Goddess of Healing ensures you follow each direction to the letter. Relief soaks into what should otherwise be an utterly exhausted form. Not a stone beneath yours or Agriculture's feet could be a hindrance, either. You might as well have teleported in front of the small home, with two stories, and the sound of a few crying children within.

It's not right to open the door without at least declaring, "Father Anscham, leader of the Church of Mercy! By the sight of Dream, and order of the King, we come with Mercy, Agriculture, and more help on the—!"

The door is jerked open before you can finish, by a burly citizen befitting of the Church of Flesh. The intensity of his anger and grief is only dwarfed by a wheeze, as he comes right up to your face. Immediately taken by a horrific coughing fit, trying to look back to the interior of the house as he bends over, the man demands, "get inside—! Do what you have to—"

Nestled about the hearth are a number of beds, that have been dragged closer to the mundane smoke and flame. Coughs interject the entirety of the humble abode. Three small girls are nestled together, on a single mattress. All of them have blackened lips, and though only their faces are visible, you are certain their lungs have gone foul.

Two young women, around Brother Wilhelm's age, are beside a rocking chair. In it is surely their mother. All three are in slightly better health, though they're practically taking turns coughing. The mother sitting at the center of the group can't conceal a huff of blood, that comes to her lips. She was clearly too ill to even hear you at the door.

As she realizes who you are, you're met with a cry. Her pain outclasses yours, or Mercy's. "Please, Father. My baby. My baby girl. *Please.*"

(1/2)

>>4283187
Wiping away the efflux of crimson, and revealing the network of decay that's spread along her arms, from her bosom, the woman practically staggers up to meet you. "Hurry."

You cross the room, paying the two boys no mind who have ran to their father's side.

There's no Time. There's a newborn, wrought with the first days of a sickness, and struggling to breathe as she clings to herself in pain. You can't stand the thought.

There is Mercy, who works through the flowers knitted between your fingers, and gently takes hold of a dying child. There's a slight impression of Her embrace, in the back of your mind. For a moment, the scent of decay, ruin, and poison is replaced with honey.

A cascade of faint, golden flecks is about the mother's shawls, and healthy tissue is about her child. The woman begins to sob hysterically, holding her baby to her chest, who is back to crying right alongside her. Incoherently, over healthy wails, she tries to choke out, "thank you— Mercy—! Thank you, Father! Thank you— my sweet, sweet little Marigold—"

You might cry, and have to turn on a heel, to address the seven men and women who have sprinted to your aid. They're in the door, and there is legitimately no Time to process anything that's happening.

(Options in next post.)

>>4283192
>A] Your intent was to leave your clergy here, to buy you more Time. You speculate every child here is in a later stage of this Agriculture-based illness, and will eventually require aid, if your antidote will not mend them. Write-in who among your company you would like to stay in this home, to look after the sick as they see fit.

>B] You can spare one more minute, to help administer yours and Mother Bethaea's flower. (It should probably have a name by now. Anyone who wishes to write-in a moniker for it is welcome to at any time.)

>C] You're already here, with Mercy and Agriculture on your side. You know you're going to run yourself into the ground at this rate, but you are trying to look out for your company, too. Heal everyone here...
>1] ...with Mercy, alone. It will take slightly longer, but you know She wants only the best for all of you.
>2] ...with Agriculture, alone. Poisons are Her domain, and it will be instantaneous, but will likely cost you.
>3] ...with Mercy, and Agriculture. The strain on your mind and soul is already extremely intense, but you can't spare a second.

>D] No one here is in the throes of death. Many more are. You're certain the three girls here cannot move on their own, but will try to not curse the lack of any clergy of Flesh among you. You're taking everyone else, and running to the district where the remaining children are with this illness. Before you go...
>1] Have only one of your clergy momentarily part from your company. Have them escort the family to the Half-Pint, and rejoin you as soon as they possibly can. (Specify who, and if you have a preference for where they should find you.)
>2] Ask Brother Durville to run, to order the clergy of Flesh to assist you all. (Specify how many, if you need more than one clergy member.)
>3] Swear to this family that you'll send for more aid as soon as humanly possible. (Leave with everyone.)

>E] Write-in.

>>4283195
>>A] Your intent was to leave your clergy here, to buy you more Time. You speculate every child here is in a later stage of this Agriculture-based illness, and will eventually require aid, if your antidote will not mend them. Write-in who among your company you would like to stay in this home, to look after the sick as they see fit.

We are leaving whoever has the most trouble keeping up with our pace, probably the oldest healer we have.

>>4283202
+1

>>4283202
>>4284070
(Good afternoon guys! Probably not going to have a session today but will be around and have my eyes peeled, updates as often as possible this weekend per usual. Locking the vote, writing now!)

>>4284511
https://youtu.be/e52IMaE-3As

You, Mercy, and Agriculture firmly beckon a single member of your clergy forward. Pollen continues to fall from your outstretched hands, between the beams of sunlight cast from the gentle motion. "Brother Fergant."

The elderly gentleman has already taken a great deal of supplies from his sisters of Mercy, and without question, comes forward. "Of course, Father Anscham. I'll see to them."

"The Gods are Merciful," you insist, nodding to the bereaved and devastatingly angry father standing at the door to his home. The scent of death is still in the air.

Brother Wilhelm was too kind to mention that this home had already lost a child.

Your clergyman stays behind, with a "thank you, Father," before beckoning the parents within the small abode to assist in his work. You know they're in capable hands. Panic is drenching you, but you shove down every urge to sprint. Walking out the door, you try to ground yourself.

The soil is fair, and more tender than you feel. You think of the roots underfoot, and a few pale green flowers sprout up merely from your loving attention.

Harriet has her hands to her knees, and is clearly struggling, but is being aided by one of the sisters Willoughby. Brother Wilhelm is breathing a little harder than he should. You know he can't keep your pace, yet he points down the street. "You do not wish to know who to aid first," he breathlessly states, looking to you earnestly. The crack alongside his left eye has stopped spreading. The network trails down his cheek, in a melancholy way, and you have to say something.

"No," you murmur. "They are *all* Our children."

A look is flashed at you that says the young man knows he's already wasting too much of your Time. A number of directions are rattled off, and seared into your memory.

As quickly as you're able, you tell the rest of your clergy, "remain behind at each home, and only if necessary. Do *not* tarry. If your work falters for but a moment, please see to the elderly across town. Brother Wilhelm— Sister Cardew— please find me as soon as you are able."

They both nod. You're off, down the road. It's immediately apparent that Theodore's directions were to take you only to the nearest home. There are a few bodies in the street. In the distance, a number of priests of Flesh are moving the dead onto wagons. Time has no place here. Not for how quickly you arrive at your destination, nor for formality.

(1/3)

>>4284640
Banging on a small home's door, briefly announcing yourself as you move to open the shelter, you're greeted again with desperation. A single woman, all in black, raises reddened eyes to you. Five children are about her, each one seemingly younger than the last. She draws them close, possibly unaware she had left the door unlocked, and clearly is in too much distress to recognize you. Her voice— ragged from crying, over what she presumes to be a lost child— breathes a single word.

"Mercy."

Extending a single open hand, the Goddess replies, "in a different form."

You step into the building, shutters drawn, candles low and unattended. Blankets and sheets are done about the floor, the hearth having gone out some Time ago. A house cat looks to you, quizzically, while its eyes reflect the verdant, golden light you leave in your wake. From Her reach, and upon every last flower that sprouts from beneath the dirt beneath your feet, between floorboards and stone, comes the promise of continued life.

From the reach of two Goddesses, from a wave of your hand, you spare yet another life. The young mother before you throws herself onto her bundled child, stricken with too much emotion to speak or sob. A muffled, "may all the Gods be praised," is all you hear before everyone in the building goes utterly silent.

Battling down every urge to let your heart crumble, turning your back on a family stricken with reverence and disbelief, the world shifts from under you. You, or Mercy, or Agriculture, may have nodded in acknowledgment.

You run, from house, to house.

One couple, with two children, cannot understand why only one of their babies was afflicted in such a way.

"What kind of Gods would allow this?"
"Who do you think you're serving?!"
"My baby. My baby boy— why did you wait so long? *Why*?"

They don't thank you, as you leave. There are curses.

They don't have to understand. Their child might, one day. It doesn't matter. The Gods are Merciful.

Another home is so grateful for your work, they beg you to stay. You have to pull off a woman clutching to your robes. The scent of liquor is on her, as she pleads, "my other children, Father. You have to. *Please.* I'll lose them ALL."

It doesn't matter.

She starts rattling off Mercy's tenets. It's such a mockery of Her work, you can't even recall the extent of the mother's sin.

The Gods are Merciful.

You implored her to seek the church of Mercy's aid, from the sisters in your company, before turning to run.

The work becomes something of a blur.

You're losing track of just how long you've been with Mercy, and Agriculture.

They're in you. They are you. From the reassurance that there is nothing to fear, that your hands are that of a healer, that your gifts are endless, and a bounty all their own, it's definitely the fifth home that you've been to.

You stand in the street, and try to not reel. Reaching out towards a nearby building, for support, you find there's no need.

(2/3)

>>4284645
The embrace of your lover is all through you. It's terribly hard to feel anything, in the hands of the Goddess of Healing. You're certain that you can't want for anything more. The Goddess of Bounty is all about you, and soothing, sating, ensuring that Sister Cardew has to practically scream as she shakes you to get your attention.

"RICHARD! Sorry—! Richard." She's having an exceptionally hard Time breathing, but manages, "Richard. It's alright. You're alright."

Out of the corners of the sage and gilt practically sparkling along the edges of your vision, from the heat of the sun, the gift of every rock, and tree, the soil underfoot and the flowers littering every step, from every path you've taken, leading up to the small garden growing underfoot, you think you might catch a few clergy of the Church of Mercy, down the road.

"They heard you had come back. What happened at the Church of Flesh."

Your heart sings. "A blessing. Over fifty lives spared. Our gift, that will save hundreds more."

"You've done enough."

You have never wanted for more in all your life. A little insanity works its way into every divine note that demands, "there are more."

"You're hurting yourself," the priestess states, just as firmly, "and Brother Wilhelm needs to rest."

The Goddess of Compassion seems torn between melting down the heathen at your side, and sympathizing with the pain drenching such a devoted priestess.

"This is not the only district that was affected, Richard." She's furious, but keeps a level voice. "King Magnus shouldn't have asked this of you. I know you're hurting."

Your own compassion, obsession, and drive wins out. "Many would have died without Our aid. There are *more* to save. We are wasting Time."

"Brother Wilhelm explicitly said they didn't want to be saved," Harriet snips. "You asked me to help you. Let me. Come back."

(Options in next post.)

>>4284647
>A] No. You just got started. There are still eighteen more people, minimum, who could be saved with your aid. Sure, they might not all have lived. You don't care. You're committing to seeing this through, even if it's just for visual confirmation of homes that need to be relieved of the deceased.

>B] Mercy, you just want to do the right thing. Ask Brother Wilhelm if he can confirm if there are any surviving citizens. Anyone you know with some certainty you can save. Wait to make your decision until you have a little more information. You can't even tell where he is right now, but swear to yourself to find a way to make it up to him.

>C] Let Sister Cardew help you. Simply ask her what she advises, and try to heed her counsel.

>D] You hate to admit it, and will at least get back to The Half-Pint. Make sure everyone in your congregation is safe, and then release the invocation.

>E] You know she's right. Get back to The Honey Bee, knowing that Ofelia and Cyril will have headed back as soon as they're able. You probably are going to need to rest for a long while after this, and want to be somewhere safe and quiet.

>F] Write-in.

>>4284650
>>B] Mercy, you just want to do the right thing. Ask Brother Wilhelm if he can confirm if there are any surviving citizens. Anyone you know with some certainty you can save. Wait to make your decision until you have a little more information. You can't even tell where he is right now, but swear to yourself to find a way to make it up to him.

>>4284661
+1

>>4284661
>>4284781
(Awesome, locking the vote. Writing.)

File: chrysanthemums.png (662 KB, 916x1024)

662 KB PNG

>>4284784
https://youtu.be/wS_6u1F2gz4?t=15

"Mercy," you choke out, "I just want to do the *right* thing."

A rain of spider chrysanthemums drops from your lips. It really feels like you're suffocating, in heat, and devotion, as the edges of your vision continue to swim. It's getting harder to speak. You put a hand to the blessing, and the petals that persist. They drip through your fingers like melted gold.

You're so full— of life, and the blessing of your Goddesses— that nothing could taste sweeter. There's an incredibly strong compulsion to choke down *more.*

"Brother Wilhelm," you murmur, catching edges of fractured blue, "We cannot turn from those in aid. Not without certainty. *Please.* Of the citizens you spoke of, how many are still enduring?"

A fracture, and another web catches on the edges of your sight. It's a splinter, across a young man's soul, and across his face, as he endures long enough to inform you, "only one. It is as I said, Father. He wishes for death."

A splinter catches on the edges of your mind. It's of sixteen lives, gone, in just a few minutes. This is not the only place in the King's city that was affected by the demon of Agriculture. Brother Murdac poisoned two districts under your sight alone.

You left for Calunoth last month.

It has been six that your children have waited for you.

In four months time, it will have been a year, since you left the Church of Mercy to die.

You did want to die. As a kind, and compassionate, and loving man, with more empathy in your soul than any mortal can withstand. It's difficult to not think, back, to the Church of Mercy. A place where you could never have enough hands for every soul that came to you for aid.

There's a woman at your side, who has heard all of this before, and sees the pain written across your face that not even two Goddesses can stave away. "Richard. You need to listen to me. We are *all* here to help. Your clergy are here, in the streets. In the church. They are still at the Half-Pint. They *will* go back to The Honey Bee. They all need you, but you need to look after yourself."

She practically shakes you, but you really can't feel it. Sister Cardew must have taken your hand in hers, at some point. The touch is significantly softer than you remember it being, and a lot less cold. It's likely the Goddesses, though there might as well be another deity of compassion at your side.

The priestess of Spirit is usually inscrutable, but your partner knows she's worried for you. "Listen to me. You trust *me*, don't you?"

"Only one," you repeat, unable to respond normally.

On the verge of collapse, Brother Wilhelm nods, "yes. With due respect, Father..."

"Go ahead."

"You need to rest, too. I cannot imagine how quickly father will kill me. For not doing more. You have done an incredible thing here, today. Permit us to find someone, to attend to your charge. If my interpretation is not mistaken, you would thank me."

(Options in next post.)

>>4284888
>A] No matter how much it taxes your mind, body, and soul, you will NOT permit someone to die who may be saved by your hand. Disregard every plea and counsel, and demand to know where this last lost soul is. You will not rest until you see to them.

>B] You've done more than enough. Get back to The Half-Pint. Make sure everyone in your congregation is safe, and then release the invocation. You know they'll look after everything in the district on your behalf.

>C] You know they're right. Let your friends help you. Get back to The Honey Bee, where you know they all will gather, and release the invocation somewhere safe. There have been many, many more lives lost to your neglect than just this. Don't neglect yours, now.

>D] Write-in.

>>4284890
>>C] You know they're right. Let your friends help you. Get back to The Honey Bee, where you know they all will gather, and release the invocation somewhere safe. There have been many, many more lives lost to your neglect than just this. Don't neglect yours, now.

We need to worry about the future lives we have to save too.

>>4284912
+1

>>4284912
>>4284915
(Unanimous C vote. Good shit, noting the comments. Vote is locked, writing now!)

>>4285195
Worry knits your brow, as Mercy's arms and heat wraps behind you. She's in less of a hold, and more of a caress. From your chest, up, along your neck, and into your hair, She's there beside you, as you *both* think to *every* life you have yet to save.

She loves you so much.

"I will go back," you murmur, through the dirt packed into your throat. Swallowing down the thought of another life is worse than the grit, of every person you were have left unsaved. "Go. Meet me at The Honey Bee."

"I'm not leaving you," Sister Cardew insists, still holding onto your hand. You know she wants to keep you grounded.

"Thank you." It's more to both of the clergy in your company. The priest of Dream, who's sight has granted you more blessings than you can count, simply nods. Without wasting another second, Theodore takes off running. You know he'll keep his word.

At your side persists a singular friend, who guides you back, to the little, winding, cobblestone streets. From the weathered roads adorning the majority of the district, the halfling refuge is a welcome sight. There are so many flowers, in varying states of disarray. Each step is another blossom, brought back to fruition. The wilted and drying trees come into color, and life, as the scent of pollen and freshly cut grass is all you can think or feel or see.

Through the narrow alleys, to the small picket fence, up a flight of stairs made of fairly old wood, you quietly observe as Sister Cardew makes immediate work of picking the front door's lock. A weary frown is offered to you, by the priestess of Spirit, as she works.

You take the note off of Ofelia's front door. It read, "Closed until further notice." A wreath of flowers blossoms in its place.

Gingerly taking you from the trails of stems and blossoms, the gold, and the green, Sister Cardew leads you into a home in disarray. You do not focus on the upturned furniture. Neither the papers strewn about the floor, the kitchen supplies scattered about, or every piece of evidence on the floor is cause for alarm.

The King's men will no longer think that Ofelia was harboring anyone befitting of capture. There is no one else home, but you don't mind. Into the guest chambers, onto a familiar bed, you're encouraged to sit down.

The bed squeaks, louder than usual.

Sister Cardew grabs a chair, and does not need to light a lantern. The pollen falling from your hands is so radiant, the entirety of the windowless room is aglow. So are the flowers spilling forth from your lips. You move, to put a hand to them, and realize the priestess beside you is holding onto you as tightly as she can. Stopping the motion, Harriet quietly states, "Richard."

"Yes," you acknowledge, barely able to speak.

"It's alright," she says, in a warning, wary fashion.

Taking in a deep breath, almost unable to feel or taste the air, you murmur, "We know."

(1/2)

>>4285354
A trail runs from the base of your spine, as an impression, into a hold. Two Goddesses have filled every crack in your soul. Their embrace has lasted longer than any man could hope to bear. They cling to you, for one more moment. They know how much you care. They know how much more you wish to do. How you long to serve, and express your devotion. To the land, its people, and every last fracture in the hearts of mankind.

The Goddesses of Mercy and Agriculture have hope, as you release your invocation.

Immaculate gold glints off of the pupils of your eyes. Rimmed with natural sage, it's not the overwhelming heat, or compassion, that has you draw in on yourself. You're overwhelmed with affection, and nurture, that demands you never want for anything again.

You immediately keel over. An out-pour of flowers spills from your lips. The light green petals are soft, gilded, and impossible. Like a caress from the deepest recesses of your gut— which is unmistakably preventing you from bending over completely— you let the blessing spill forth.

It's uncomfortable, and makes no sense. Sister Cardew has a bucket, and politely helps you. There's no nausea. It's not that you're retching. It's a sensation you have not felt in nearly four years. Not without torture, or abuse.

As the last of the petals and seeds fall from you, it occurs to you that you are so full, you simply can't keep anything more in your body. Pulling back, with a clearer mind, and the taste of honey and petals on your lips, no exhaustion takes you. Instinctively taking a sharp breath in, you try to stifle the urge to vomit again.

More than a significant amount of weight rests on your broad shoulders. It's in the pit of your stomach, and has clearly spread out. Filled out, rather, by several more inches. The hold on your chest is soft, along with the weight in your rounded out mid-section. Despite having spilled ounces of bounty from your vessel, there's no indication of the swell going down. Not from your thickened wrists, or legs, or arms. Certainly not from the reassurance you're immediately trying to tell yourself.

It's a blessing that you can't imagine ever eating again. More than a few months of running may be necessary.
How appropriate, that Mercy had you running without feeling a thing.
You knew utilizing Agriculture for over fifty souls burdens couldn't have put enough on you to kill you.
Surely, the Gods are Merciful.

Squeezing somehow even more tightly on your hand, the priestess beside you attempts to keep your attention. She does manage, at least, to pull your gaze back to her. Her glasses are smudged with blood, and decay, and the peasant's garb about her is still frayed. Covered in pollen, she sniffs, "you're still awake. Good. I knew they wouldn't hurt you."

Despite every attempt at keeping her composure, Sister Cardew is clearly extremely worried, and doesn't hesitate to note, "that doesn't mean you're alright. Are you okay?"

(Options in next post.)

>>4285360
>(Feel free to choose one option from A, and at least one prompt from B-F.)

>A] You've always had an affinity for Agriculture.
>1] You're not okay in the slightest.
>2] This is honestly not a big deal, and a trivial burden for how many lives you saved.
>3] You're really not sure how to feel.
>4] Write-in.

>B] You're immediately reading your damned letters and getting back in touch with Father Friedrich. Even if he kills you. Ask Sister Cardew to stick around for some counsel and support.

>C] You really just want to change clothes. Ask the priestess if she can acquire something before everyone gets back to The Honey Bee.

>D] You are extremely worried about how Mercy could have permitted this. Ask for some privacy, and immediately invoke Her. You seem to actually have some Time at your disposal, now.

>E] You're worried sick about everyone else. Ask Harriet if she can just talk to you, while you make sure you're physically alright, and wait for everyone else to show up.

>F] Write-in.

>>4285360
>B] You're immediately reading your damned letters and getting back in touch with Father Friedrich. Even if he kills you. Ask Sister Cardew to stick around for some counsel and support.
Training montage 2.0 (2)

>>4285366
>>B] You're immediately reading your damned letters and getting back in touch with Father Friedrich. Even if he kills you. Ask Sister Cardew to stick around for some counsel and support.

>>4285983
>>4286014
(Alright guys, locking vote to write before bed!)

>>4286025
Three concerns come to your mind. The answers— your damned letters— have been among your things throughout the entire day.

Gently pulling Sister Cardew's hand off of your own, you immediately unsling your satchel. Dropping your shield to the floor, setting aside your mace, Piety, and begrudgingly turning around to adjust your belt. You try to not think about how many notches. Sitting back down, with a grimace, you fish out three letters from Yech's endless storage solution. Each envelope is already opened.

Your stomach turns again. Opening one without discrimination, you murmur to Harriet, "I would appreciate your continued counsel, Sister Cardew."

The brunette sits beside you, not even brushing the pollen out of her hair, or adjusting her glasses. Firmly, she insists, "you are not answering me, Richard."

"I would appreciate your continued support," you mutter, "in contacting Father Friedrich as quickly as humanly possible."

"I see."

"I know he's going to try to kill me. He can try— all— all over again. I do *not* care."

The priestess of Spirit smirks. "I would like to see him try."

You can't help but offer her a weary frown. Some part of you wants to smile, and you really can't manage it.

"Go ahead," she murmurs, gesturing to the envelopes in your hands. Taking out some parchment and a pen preemptively, the priestess insists, "We'll get to it."

The letter in hand is a reply to your note to Mother Aimar, from *five months back.* It's a brief, methodical, and an almost unfamiliar script. The straight, small, and deep purple text is as tidy as the only other example you've seen from the Mother of Time. The note before you, by comparison to the singular previous sentence that welcomed you to the Church of Mercy, is significantly longer.

"To the order of Father Richard Anscham, as of the 27th of the Thundering Moon, 605.
Your observations are correct. Father Edmund had penned his final note to you forty-nine months ago."

You have to blink, several Times. She wrote the letter the day you initially wrote to Eanlac, surely. The day that Father Edmund's suicide note was given to you.

It's practically seared into your memory. His acknowledgement, and caution. Of the burden, and all the responsibility he was placing on your shoulders. "'It will likely be years before you even *begin* to understand everything that this means for you.' He wanted to try and prepare me. I know Father Edmund loved me, despite— despite the neglect— and everything I had suffered. He wanted to do more than apologize. He offered his blessing, over my appointment as the Father of Mercy." Very quietly, trying to pull yourself out of reverie, you note, "he— he said he knew that She loves me. It's been six months, Sister. So much has happened."

The priestess at your side mentions, "he would be *very* proud of you, Richard."

"Yes," you choke out. "He would have been."

(1/2)

>>4286076
With a nod, Harriet urges you to continue looking over the letter. You realize that the correspondence is addressing each one of your prior questions, in order, without taking the Time to even properly acknowledge them. You try and fill in the blanks.

- Why was Father Edmund's letter withheld from me? There is no conceivable reason that the validity of my title should be withheld for any period of Time.
"The validity of your title will not be under question. I have withheld nothing that is not already common knowledge."

- If you were aware that I was to be appointed his successor after his death, why have you abstained from delivering this to me, personally? Father Wilhelm had this item in his possession for several weeks, at your instruction. Why was he instructed to wait?
"Father Wilhelm's concerns have been addressed as they have arisen."

- Regardless of the 'need to know' basis the Church of Time operates on, Father Edmund perished during a catastrophic outbreak of demons. He died on the field of battle, in an attempt to save the lives of hundreds. If you possessed knowledge of how to reach him, or where to obtain this letter, it must be made clear to me with all due haste. This is to say nothing of the events of his death, or any preventative measures that could have been taken.
"Her will is unchangeable.
Father Edmund died so that others might live.
Let us both make the most of the Time that is given to Us, now."

She at least took the Time to repeat herself.

"Welcome back.
-Mother Astrid Aimar"

You look over the back of the letter. There is nothing, save for a slight impression of the woman's pen, for how firmly and quickly she must have pressed into the parchment. Sister Cardew looks mildly terrified, and asks to see the paper, regardless. You hand it over, to which she winces, and rapidly hands the note back to you. "The date is correct," she notes, having deduced the age of the ink on the page.

There was a lot more to your note to the Mother of Time. Granted, it was terribly flowery, you were extremely ill at the Time, it may have not *all* been necessary, but you are the Father of the Church of Mercy.

Every other church leader still— ultimately— answers to you.

(Options in next post.)

>>4286077
>A] Reply. This is exceedingly insufficient. You are determined for things to be different. YOU NEED ANSWERS and you need them NOW.
>1] Implore the Mother of Time that she needs to actually acknowledge your first question to her. She was in close contact with Father Edmund, possibly up to the day of his death. WHY was this letter withheld from you at all?
>2] HOW is she capable of utilizing any sort of blessing from Time? You're not only obsessed, you are desperate for ANY sort of information.
>3] WHEN did she intend on getting this information to you properly? This is a grotesque disrespect of your own Time, and you're deeply dissatisfied.

>B] Take a deep breath. Every church leader (save for Sullivan, who is a *very* special case), has completely respected the distance you've given them. Until very recently, that is. At least wait to reply until you've seen all your mail.

>C] You're not wasting Mother Aimar's Time on any further questions. You have significantly more pressing concerns at the moment, and know that she is avoiding addressing these subjects for good reason. Trust her judgement, and get to the rest of your letters.

>D] Write-in.

>>4286080
>>C] You're not wasting Mother Aimar's Time on any further questions. You have significantly more pressing concerns at the moment, and know that she is avoiding addressing these subjects for good reason. Trust her judgement, and get to the rest of your letters.

>>4286080
>C] You're not wasting Mother Aimar's Time on any further questions. You have significantly more pressing concerns at the moment, and know that she is avoiding addressing these subjects for good reason. Trust her judgement, and get to the rest of your letters.

>>4286080
>>C] You're not wasting Mother Aimar's Time on any further questions. You have significantly more pressing concerns at the moment, and know that she is avoiding addressing these subjects for good reason. Trust her judgement, and get to the rest of your letters.

>>4286092
>>4286094
>>4286269
(C gang rise up. Unanimous, vote's locked! Writing now.)

>>4286285
The only thing in this world you respect anywhere as much as Time itself is the Mother of Her church.

"I trust her judgement," you firmly state, "and will not insult Mother Aimar with any further questions. She can write to me any Time she wishes, if there is anything further for us to discuss."

Harriet patiently keeps her own parchment and pen in hand, nodding to you while she writes something to herself, regardless. "Not just a gentleman," she murmurs.

Taking some comfort in knowing the priestess still finds you sharp, you fold Mother Aimar's short letter neatly, and set it back among your things. The next is written upon wrinkled parchment. Harriet is unable to stop smiling, adjusting her glasses as she looks to the page. "Water-proof ink. Fantastic."

https://youtu.be/I4GXUrYtEzY

The entire document is stained with saltwater, and smells distinctly like something you've never looked upon. The sea is in a wavering script, that stretches from the base of the letter up to its horizon. Father Barthalomew has always had nice handwriting, despite his disability. As a respectful, level-headed man, it's almost a surprise that he's a devotee to such a temperamental God.

Reports from the coast, of his activity in Rimilde, and reassurance of the continued safety of Corcaea's northern shore have come across your desk a few Times before. It's odd to look at his elegant, coral handwriting anywhere else. Harriet gets up briefly, to stoke the hearth and light a few lanterns, as you start to read.

"1st of the Setting Moon, 605.

Father Anscham,

Weather's been shit."

You blink, and try to recall the beginning of the last Setting Moon's weather. It was pouring, as you ran with Sister Cardew out of A Hope, on A Prayer. She was all in white, you both had a lovely evening together, and didn't really mind the rain in the slightest. The priestess murmurs over her shoulder, unphased, "Storm didn't relent for months after."

There's a nod for you to keep reading. You try to not grimace, and can't help but wonder if the singular comment from Father Barthalomew set off the God of the Tempest. It's now been nine months since Storm first appeared to you. Eight months since the second visit. Six months since you wrote.

"Glad you wrote to Henry. The old windbag has been worried sick. You want some advice, see him for it. I want some answers."

Almost all of the residual seething from being delayed your letters starts to lift. You beat him to it, alright. Sister Cardew could not be more disgruntled, but you take heart.

"What's really going on over there? You left us for months, and not even Storm sent you back? You haven't wrote. You haven't replied. No one has come from Eadric in what feels like an age."

You can't help but almost relent in your grimace. Help will come, and he gave you some advice, regardless of your absence.

"You can't run from the Tempest, Richard. You adjust your sails."

(1/2)

>>4286339
Sister Cardew frowns a lot more intensely at the next few lines.

"I'll try and send some help to the capital. We're strapped for men here, and could always use another hand, but I'll find a way."

You both have to wonder if the news of Brother Murdac's activity and death has reached him yet. It's probably not your place to do so.

"Write me back. Pay me a visit, if you can. I know you can handle the trip. Let me know if Storm's giving you a hard Time. I'll set Him straight."

You can't help but lift your eyes, to a phrase the priest has yet to share with you.

"Calm is our center. Fire, wave, and tempest DEFINES our devotion. Weather not the Storm!
-Bart

P.S. Send Fred my regards. He's the only one of us worse at writing back than you are. At least kick his ass for me, if you can't make the Time for a letter."

The rest of the envelope is empty. To your mild amusement, the priest sketched a small boat on the back of the parchment, with a handful of fish beneath it. You speculate he wants some Time off, as well.

With a penchant for fishing and the sea, you both at least have several things in common. The lack of actual address towards anything you've asked, yet again, isn't so frustrating, in context. Still, you have a choice to make.

>A] Write back a thankful and respectful reply. Keep it light. Mention how excellent the fishing was in Beorward, and at the base of the Folorast mountains. Promise to beat down Father Friedrich, as soon as you get the chance.

>B] Ask the priest a few more questions. You have always wanted to go visit Rimilde, and your curiosity is piqued. How their weather has been, if Father Barthalomew's health is alright, and maybe if he's had the chance to get out on open water shouldn't be too intrusive.

>C] You're sick of people being opaque and dodging your questions, dammit. As the leader of the Church of Mercy, you're aware that you're going to be treated differently from most people, but you need normalcy. Transparency.
>1] Plainly ask Sister Cardew for some advice on how to address your fellow church leaders. You're uncomfortable, know nothing about politics, and don't know how to handle this.
>2] You think you can manage just being straight-forward. Insist that Father Barthalomew address your visits from Storm. If he can't write about it, maybe you can plan an eventual visit.

>D] He asked explicitly for a reply, but regular communication is something of a struggle for you. You recently killed one of his men, and this just doesn't seem right. Put off writing a reply just a little while longer, while you see to the last letter you were given.

>E] Write-in.

>>4286340
>A] Write back a thankful and respectful reply. Keep it light. Mention how excellent the fishing was in Beorward, and at the base of the Folorast mountains. Promise to beat down Father Friedrich, as soon as you get the chance.

>>4286340
>>A] Write back a thankful and respectful reply. Keep it light. Mention how excellent the fishing was in Beorward, and at the base of the Folorast mountains. Promise to beat down Father Friedrich, as soon as you get the chance.

Also mention that we are going to visit him on the first chance we get.

>>4286364
>>4286428
(Cool, definitely will make mention of the write-in. Vote is locked!)

>>4286455
Sister Cardew is more than happy to give you some parchment, and a pen. To your amazement, there's no tremor in your hand. Permitting your calligraphy to flow much more freely than usual, a few flourishes are absolutely necessary, as you capitalize on being able to produce your own script without hindrance.

You keep it light. Having a hard Time with brevity, you easily wind up filling nearly two pages. It's mostly in thanks to Father Barthalomew's respect towards your position. Gratitude towards his own quick response, you're sure to include more reassurance, and some actual answers. Not only that you've been trying to look after yourself, but notes regarding fishing from the Morinburn river. From your excursion beneath the shadow of the Church of Flesh, and all the way down to the base of the Folorast mountains, you can't resist asking Father Barthalomew if he's ever been river or ice fishing.

At some point, Sister Cardew leaves to get a pot to make some tea. You pay her no mind, as she quietly sets some water to boil.

With a solemn oath to lay waste to Father Friedrich, and promising to visit the Father of Storm at the first chance you get, you happily sign the document, "the Gods are Merciful. Sincerely, Father Anscham."

There's a few things in your possessions that King Magnus must have seen to. Yellow sealing wax, a stamp bearing the symbol of your church, and a fair amount of coin is entirely familiar to you. The priestess of Spirit at your side is happy to assist with the tedium of sealing the note, promising, "I'll send it out by the fastest channel I have, as soon as I can."

Nodding with gratitude, you're slightly amused, as Sister Cardew deeply enjoys handling the faint gold envelope you hand off.

You direct your attention towards the last letter. The envelope isn't scorched, but the parchment within might as well be on fire. It's from Father Friedrich.

"Try to not take it personally," Sister Cardew frowns.

Your eyes almost immediately glaze over. It's nothing you haven't heard before. About two paragraphs of debasement, in all capital letters, detail the Father of Flesh's outrage at your neglect of his routine. Between extreme criticism of your sleeping habits, replacement of most water with beer or days without any actual nutrition, he seems inconsolable.

You skim, trying to ignore that the priest is this outraged from only your first two successful invocations to Agriculture, and get down to the actual context that matters.

"Glad you're not wasting all of our training! Putting down a demon of Agriculture with your bare hands, TWICE? I need the full story. And invoking Mercy, on top of it?! Bet you're right as rain!"

A slight smile threatens to escape you. Father Friedrich was really the first person to encourage you to go out of your way to be with your Goddess, with or without need, rhyme, or reason.

"At the rate you're going, you're going to need this, and all the help you can get."

(1/2)

>>4286500
There are three pages inside the envelope, which you take out, and immediately frown at. It's an exercise routine that easily eclipses the insanity of your old one, and covers all three pages. You flip them over, and on the back of the last letter is a small note, above a sadistic diet regimen. "Good thing you like greens so much! Better get used to them."

Sister Cardew's lack of amusement almost rivals yours. With a grimace, she sniffs, "he'll get over himself."

The end of the note is a little worse, with several comments about not coming back to Beorward until you're in better shape. It's signed, "sorry about the mail. You've had more important things to worry about. Take care of yourself, and don't worry about writing back. I'll let you know if anything comes up. Congratulations on coming back into the fold. I know you earned it.

Remember, even piety must be taken in moderation! MODERATION!
-Father Friedrich"

"He's a hypocrite," Harriet grumbles, looking through the colossal exercise schedule in hand. "You simply cannot make the Time for all of this. Not without compromising your work here. I'm certain it would be feasible back in the Church of Mercy, Richard, but not now. You're already running yourself ragged."

"I will likely be busier," you mutter, "the moment I return to Eadric. There was never enough Time, Sister Cardew. There never will be."

You pause. "This is not dated."

"He sent it with the other letters, a fair amount of coin, more armor, and a list of names on the day before you returned. The messenger was a priest of Time. It would seem he spared no expense to return your correspondence, once he received news of your appointment."

"Names?"

Putting a hand to her temple, Sister Cardew mumbles, "local farmers. He's terribly upset. Apparently, he thought you would appreciate knowing where to get produce in the city. Only produce. I have half a mind to write him back, for giving you such a hard Time."

"The armor?"

"Try not to worry about it," she frowns, more apologetically. It strikes you that anything fitted for your previous measurements are not an option, as the priestess of Spirit finishes, "he sent the coin for anything else you may need. Not that it should be an issue, now. I believe he is *trying* to show you some support."

(Options in next post.)

>>4286504
>A] Even if it kills you, you're sticking to this routine, and not writing back to Father Friedrich. He REALLY doesn't need to know that you've put on more weight just today. (This will take upwards of several hours out of your days, multiple days a week, and you might not be up to the task initially.)

>B] Your mentor should probably be aware of your current physical condition before you start on his training regimen. Write him back, as you intended, and ask him for a revised routine. Be honest.
>1] Stay as close to his regimen as you can, in the meantime, but don't kill yourself trying. (Same time restrictions as A, without risk of injury.)
>2] You're already an incredibly active man, and legitimately don't think you could even eat the pittance Father Friedrich is recommending. You'll be alright. Stick to your current lifestyle, until you hear back from him. You don't want to hurt yourself.

>C] Not only is your current lifestyle absolutely sufficient for dropping some weight, you're certain that you're going to be fine. Especially with Cyril's help. Don't write back, for now.
>1] You might be just a little offended.
>2] You're pretty offended.
>3] You really don't care about the hot-headed priest's debasement, and just don't want to engage him when he's so upset.

>D] Write-in.

>>4286507
>>B] Your mentor should probably be aware of your current physical condition before you start on his training regimen. Write him back, as you intended, and ask him for a revised routine. Be honest.
>>1] Stay as close to his regimen as you can, in the meantime, but don't kill yourself trying. (Same time restrictions as A, without risk of injury.)

Make a habit of working out when doing other things, instead of sitting in chairs we hover right above them, running literally everywhere, sparring with Cyril during normal conversation, carrying Theo and Cardew whenever we need to go anywhere with them and so on. If we can't make time for working out the second best thing is to mix it with everything else.

>>4286513
+1

>>4286513
>>4286517
(Great stuff, locking the vote. Writing now.)

File: Father Richard Anscham Th(...).png (264 KB, 612x511)

264 KB PNG

>>4286817
You get to your feet. The capability to still *see* your feet while standing is an immediate relief. The weight on your mid-section, and suffocating fullness, is not. Previous fidgeting is put to shame, as you shift, and pace, and try to decide how to best keep any movement going.

Sister Cardew seems a little uncomfortable with your pacing while you both speak, but she moves to pen the letter for you without complaint. "I suppose you will want to keep on the move."

There's no conceivable way she's more uncomfortable than you are. You fuss with the collar of your shirt. "Precisely. Please inform Father Friedrich that I will adhere to his— to his regimen, as closely as I am able. For the Time being. Stress— if you could—"

"Of course."

"Please stress that I need a revised schedule. Strength training, perhaps. Endurance, and— and *speed*."

Rapid writing punctuates your diction.

"If I cannot find the Time to incorporate these things into my day, I will do so with other activity." Almost inaudibly, you murmur, "as well as I am able. Please inform him of my physical condition," you finish, "as well as you are able."

Deciding ultimately on hovering around the bed, you're given another sniff. Finally brushing the pollen off of her clothes, Harriet raises an eyebrow to you, and tries, "husky?"

Frowning intensely, trying to not notice your stomach in your peripheral vision, and fidget further with your undershirt. "He should get an honest reply."

With a nod, Sister Cardew takes a long minute to look you over, produces a pocket mirror, and tries again to reassure you. "To be honest, Richard—"

"Go ahead," you sigh, flicking open the small lens.

"There's much less in your face. You'll be fine."

You don't reply, and scrutinize the sage still barely bordering your pupils. Gold plating sits at the center of them. A significant amount of the strands of gold in your hair catch catch on a nearby lantern's light. Practically reflects off the hues on your robes, you can tell that the amber runs through what was formerly a disheveled mop. Your scars are much lighter, as the skin on your face almost seems healthy. It's decidedly rounder, and at the upper limit of what you're comfortable with, as you poke the soft spots sitting where hollows once were.

"Going soft is not the worst thing to happen to the Father of Mercy," she smirks, getting a slight smile out of you, "if you can forgive me."

"I may find it in me," you quietly note. The deep bags under your eyes, the poorly healed nose, and a little more insanity in your eyes persists, but you conclude, "more of Mercy, than of Agriculture."

Closing the pocket mirror, and handing the valuable trinket back to Sister Cardew, she reflects the sentiment. "It is certainly stranger. Try to not worry yourself."

You both try to not sigh. A few more minutes of mutual silence are shared together. As the priestess finishes scratching out your note, she hands it to you for approval.

(1/2)

>>4286958
There's a tactful comparison of your physical capability from your entry to Beorward's exterior ward, to your previous inability to even properly wield a mace and shield. She makes mention of your savvy with a great sword, and the story of your first fight against a demon of Agriculture. Noting respect to endurance, an ability to out-run Cyril, and an estimate that you are at least double her weight, you fold the letter.

It's handed back to her. Another long minute passes. Your face hurts from grimacing, and your body doesn't feel like your own, but you resolve to make movement your newest devotion.

Harriet puts up the mail, and notes, "it may be some Time before everyone else arrives. Was there anything else you wished to discuss? I can't begin to imagine how much King Magnus has tasked you with, if this was your first order of business."

>A] Ask Sister Cardew for her counsel, regarding tying up any loose ends here in the district of Flesh.
>1] You intend to leave the rest of the matter to the hard-working men and women of Calunoth, but simply want Harriet's advice.
>2] You're not leaving this district until you've personally ensured a satisfactory job.

>B] You want to know everything the priestess gathered on Mick's Flea Circus.

>C] Touch on what might be necessary to arrange a meeting with her and Father Sullivan.

>D] See if she's gathered any information on Lady Edith and Sir Douglas. You have no idea if they've moved.

>E] The Freak Show is still out there, and you need to find them.

>F] Harvey Jay Algrith continues to escape everyone's grasp.

>G] You seriously need a breather. Though you'll keep up your movement, some recovery wouldn't hurt.
>1] Go out, personally, and run to get some additional supplies. (Clothes, armor, weapons, etc. are all viable. You are the leader of the Church of Gold, and money is really not an issue. Feel free to write-in any specifics you may want to acquire.)
>2] Look over those farmers markets. Get something other than pastries and honey in Ofelia's house.
>3] Stay in The Honey Bee, and just talk to Harriet. Thank her for everything, and make sure she's okay.

>H] Write-in.

>>4286965
>>A] Ask Sister Cardew for her counsel, regarding tying up any loose ends here in the district of Flesh.
>>1] You intend to leave the rest of the matter to the hard-working men and women of Calunoth, but simply want Harriet's advice.
>D] See if she's gathered any information on Lady Edith and Sir Douglas. You have no idea if they've moved.

>>4286965
>>F] Harvey Jay Algrith continues to escape everyone's grasp.
>D] See if she's gathered any information on Lady Edith and Sir Douglas. You have no idea if they've moved.

>>4286970
>>4287992
(We can definitely get to all of this. Locking the vote here, writing now!)

>>4288087
Though half of you wants to run out the door and resume your work, you settle on pacing through the small guest room, and insisting, "I cannot turn a blind eye from the situation at hand. Our people have worked— diligently, earnestly, and for far too long without any aid."

A proud sniff is directed at you. "So have you, Richard."

The slight smile threatens to come back. "You are a priestess of Spirit."

"Yes."

"You surely are familiar with loose threads."

Harriet can't contain a smirk.

You do. "How to tie them up—"

She's trying to not laugh. The priestess loses her composure as you finish, "and keep this situation from unraveling any further."

Shoving down a little pained laughter, Sister Cardew straightens up, puts away her handkerchief, and raises a teacup to you. "Well. Since you asked so nicely." more seriously, she recommends, "trust in your friends."

"I do," you immediately, and honestly reply.

More gingerly, she advises, "try to not ask too much of them. While I believe that your congregation is more than capable of keeping up— even with you—"

"Of course," you mutter, with a great deal of pride.

"I can't say the same for the rest of us," Harriet firmly adds.

You try to not think too hard on the bags under her eyes, how much difficulty she's still having breathing, or the scars lacing Theodore's face.

The image is practically seared into your mind. "Do you think he will— will be alright—"

"He was sent to look after all of us," you're reminded, "and has seen you under far more severe conditions. He is resilient. Give the boy some Time. Give *everyone* some Time. When you can. This was not the only district affected, but was easily the hardest hit. I believe King Magnus may have wanted you to witness how many lives you've affected. He trusted you to save many more."

The grimace upon your face feels like it will never relent. "The men and women of this city are working just as hard as any of us. I only wish to make their lives easier, Sister— but I— I know we are all in capable hands. Their hands will see to this matter. Surely."

A glance is given to your own hands, behind smudged lenses, with a frown. "I don't suppose all of the fidgeting is intentional," she muses, "but we'll work on it."

"I have more pressing— immediately— there are *other affairs* that I have in mind," you insist.

"Go ahead."

"Norward and his gathering have *their* own business to mind," you mildly state.

Harriet's mouth falls open, realizing that you're meant to track their activity, but remains quiet as you continue, "and I have no use for the mundane. We can leave Cyril to more material affairs, if necessary."

Harriet snorts at her tea. "Well said."

"The remainder of *my congregation*, Sister Cardew. I MUST find them. King Magnus is grieving over losing more than enough of his people. Another child may be more than He can bear. Than *either* of us can bear."

(1/3)

>>4288388
Your pacing picks up in intensity. "Though my invocation to Spirit and Mercy came at the beginning of our flight from the city, Lady Edith and Sir Douglas are— were—"

A deep breath later, you manage, "I pray they are still within the ruins themselves. Algrith was to be in their company. Have you had any word? Any news— anything?"

"Not a word," she simply states.

You try to not look devastated. "Nothing?"

"No news is often good news. Without any indication of their capture, let alone any movement, they may still be where you last saw them."

"It has been at *least* four days," you muse, "and I cannot fathom anyone— anyone persisting in the ruins for so long. Not without any travel, or movement."

With a scowl so foul even you are impressed, Harriet informs you, "they may have given up."

You frown at her with equal intensity. "They gave survived worse things."

"It's entirely possible that no news has reached them of your work throughout the city," Harriet begins, launching into what you suspect is a sharp recollection of something she's read. "Calunoth was built on more than the ruins. Networks of rot, and ruin, that could not be repurposed in the city. The forgotten cities beneath our capital have been *stripped clean.*"

You both share a moment of appreciation, of the collective nightmare that's the human existence, and are probably enabling some mutually unhealthy interests. It's alright, as the priestess of Spirit eagerly states, "I've read of terrible things. Of demons without a domain."

An unhinged smile tilts, to say, "you will have to show me the libraries within Murgate, Sister Cardew, as soon as— whenever we get an opportunity."

A weary glance shines back at you. "You'd love them. I would be lying if I didn't say I was worried, though."

"I will be perfectly fine—"

"No," she quietly states, "them. The nobility. Algrith. Who could find going back to the ruins a better alternative to a castle, or the Church of Mercy?"

A loud creak announces someone at the door to The Honey Bee. You and Sister Cardew fly out of the guest room, to see Ofelia covered almost head-to-toe in blood. She's wincing, possibly only at the door's noise, while she quickly slinks inside. Theodore is being carried on Cyril's back. The priest of Dream is sound asleep, while Brother Trebbeck is struggling to get a key out of the lock without making a further sound.

Ray practically shoves himself through the door, to come up to you, and sits politely, whining. He's hurt.

You all start whispering, beginning with your reassurance to Ray. "Come here, boy. It's alright."

He has a small cut along his gums, from biting on something incredibly sharp. It only takes a second to run back to the guest room, grab a number of supplies from your satchel, and work on making a salve.

While you work, Sister Cardew echoes your sentiment, looking to Theodore. Everyone's filed into the entryway. "Is he alright?"

(2/3)

>>4288391
"Yeah," Ofelia huffs, "got 'im from the side of the damn road. Couple'a priestesses were with the guy. Sisters. He's okay— Cyril, will you stop standin' there and get him to a bed, please—?"

The priest of Flesh is clearly dazed. There's no injury on his body, but multiple slashes in his shirt, streaks of blood in his hair, and the impression that he healed himself through near fatal injuries several Times over. You give him a hand, and a shoulder, and lead him to get your youngest ally to lie down.

Cyril really looks like he needs to lay down, too, but he drags himself back to the hall, and collapses on the floor. Still concious, he rolls over, and points to you. "Richard."

"Yes," you fidget in reply.

"That shit—" he's on his back, and talks halfway to you, halfway to the ceiling, "that shit was fucked."

Ofelia drops on the floor next to him, while Sister Cardew gets some towels and water. Both of the combatants among you look like they need a stiff drink.

"What happened to you?" Cyril laughs. "You've gotta be more terrified of what Fred's gonna do! More than of anything we put up with, at least."

"Leave him alone," Ofelia drawls, collapsing onto the floor, and clearly not caring if she's getting blood everywhere.

>A] Ask them what happened.
>1] Direct your questions towards Ofelia, even if she hates talking at length, and might not understand the situation as well.
>2] Point your inquiry towards Cyril, even if he seems shaken. He'll have full context.
>3] Ask both of them what's going on.

>B] Save your questions for another Time. Have Harriett go check on the situation. Make sure everyone's injuries are attended to, get them anything they need, and look after Theodore, for good measure.

>C] Give all of your friends a break. Fill them in on what you've been up to, go along with some teasing, and simply ask them if they need anything. Double-check on Theodore, when you get a minute, too.

>D] Write-in.

>>4288394
>>B] Save your questions for another Time. Have Harriett go check on the situation. Make sure everyone's injuries are attended to, get them anything they need, and look after Theodore, for good measure.

>>4288394
>>B] Save your questions for another Time. Have Harriett go check on the situation. Make sure everyone's injuries are attended to, get them anything they need, and look after Theodore, for good measure.

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>>4288394
(Dropped pic ofc)

>>4288399
>>4288403
(Alright guys, locking the vote here and will try to write ASAP. May take an extra minute but I'm on it.)

>>4288534
You move to the door— with serviceable speed, despite discomfort and heaviness— and look to the street. There's a collection of priests of Flesh standing about. Talking among themselves, those that are keeping watch in the streets take a moment to wave at the sight of you.

Obviously, the men and women who came to ensure your friend's safety were instructed to not come inside The Honey Bee. Further down the lane is the sound of movement, carts, and probably your clergy from the castle hard at work. There's no doubt in your mind that they're all capable of looking after themselves, but there's an entire district that used to literally be on fire.

Whipping your head back to Sister Cardew, you urge her, "please gather as much information as you can, regarding the situation at hand."

Without question, garnering a sincere smile from you, she immediately goes to head out the door. With a straight-laced nod, she promises, "I'll let you know what I find. No need to wait for me. I'll get your letters out, as well."

"Thank you so much. To know is to serve, Sister Cardew."

She's gone in a flash, with the door closed behind her.

Taking a deep breath, more of anxiety than anything else, you're greeted with the scent of all the pollen still on your robes. Dusting it off quickly, and picking a petal or two out that became stuck in your hair, there's a familiar note of every herb and grain in your bag. From the the honey down the hallway, a trace of chrysanthemums on the other side of the door, and the salve you've made for Ray, you want to pause, to take in life, and appreciate all of the blessings that have been given to you.

An infinitely more manageable triage is at hand, and you don't dare to stop moving for an instant.

Ray is stoically laying down. Now that he's got your company, he doesn't protest or whine any further. Big, brown eyes flit up to you, as you kneel down, gently scratch behind his ears, set aside the mortar and pestle, and look for any further injury. Aside from his old scars, and a very slight abrasion on his left side, there's no serious damage. Nothing seems to be concealed by his fur, though he's got a fair amount of soot around his nose, and blood on his teeth that is not his own.

Knowing that the only member of your company who can't speak is in no serious pain or injury, you breathe a little more easily. The scent of goldenrod picks up, under pestle and mortar, as you finish grinding a paste. It makes for a simple salve on Ray's bite wound. He immediately sets to licking at the palatable plant, despite your commands to leave it be.

For a moment, you consider that you may be physically incapable of stopping your devotion to both Agriculture and Mercy. It really doesn't matter, as an entirely human concern is at hand. As much as you don't want to bother anyone with a single question, you have to ask your friends, "were any of you hurt?"

(1/2)

>>4288828
"Don't worry about it," Ofelia starts, and laughs, as you put up the supplies for Ray and practically sprint to her side. "Easy! It's nothin'. Really."

You gently hand a towel off to her, and throw one to Cyril. Predictably, his reflexes are unrivaled, but he makes a point of catching it a moment later than he should. The cloth drapes over his head, disguising the scars across half his face.

A nervous, relieved, and disjointed laugh escapes from you. They both seem fine. The more blood that Ofelia wipes off her face, the clearer it is that not a drop was her own.

You gather a good deal of water, some basins, and make use of some white willow bark and turmeric. The few cuts that your friends have on their hands and forearms shouldn't be aggravated any further, and they both seem extremely appreciative.

With a quick nod, and a murmur of, "excuse me, for just a moment," you leave them to finish cleaning up, and make for the guest room.

Opening the door as quietly as you can, your anxiety almost drops off entirely. Theodore is buried under five blankets, and a mound of pillows. It looks disgustingly comfortable, and he's soundly asleep. There's still a fair amount of blood on his robes, but the young man had the energy at some point to wake up, put on a nightcap covered in small sheep, and create the absurd sleeping arrangement he's in now.

Backing up, closing the door, and returning to the hall, you see that Ofelia has moved to the dining area, and obtained several bottles of strong liquor. Your friends are both on the floor, and are taking turns drinking straight out of a bottle of whiskey that smells divine. You don't have a palate for liquor, beyond a sincere appreciation for binging, but there's nuance. Notes of exotic spices, wood, and smoke are in the air.

There's no use dwelling on the lingering attunement to Agriculture. She hasn't hurt you, even if you're battling to not get overwhelmed.

It would seem you're entirely capable of healing, despite having given Sister Corbon the very same tenet. Either Mercy has worked more miracles through you, or the craft came back with infinitely greater ease than any restraint.

While you wonder if it may have to do with granting your gifts to a priestess of Mercy, rather than a demon, Ofelia looks up from her absurd position. Reclining against Cyril as if he was a chair, she motions for you to join her on the floor. "Don't tell me yer goin' to go runnin' off again. After what you pulled? Can't believe it. Still can't believe it."

(Options in next post.)

>>4288834
>A] Your friends look like death warmed over, and clearly feel worse.
>1] You can tolerate sitting for a minute or two while you listen to your friends. Accept a small shot.
>2] Stay standing, and try to engage Ofelia and Cyril without being too pushy. You're not having anything to drink, but they're not acting like themselves, and you're worried.
>3] Ask Cyril and Ofelia plainly what would make them the most comfortable. Try to be there for them, and go along with what they want until Harriet gets back. This is about everyone in your company, not just you.

>B] Disregard Harriet's advice. Tell Cyril to get on his feet, and spar with you. You know that not only will Ofelia appreciate the sight of it, but that he's physically fine, and you both need to discuss what's going on with your invocations. (A ROLL WILL BE REQUIRED.)
>1] You're intent on getting him in a choke hold, and ruffling his stupid ponytail.
>2] Overpowering him for the first Time in a mock fight would be deeply satisfying.
>3] Write-in.

>C] You actually, seriously, really need to run.
>1] Back to the Flea Circus' safe house. Victor and Randall deserve to know what's going on, and you could use their help navigating below the city.
>2] To the castle, to check on Father Sullivan's progress with his own work. You're not sure of his capabilities with Spirit, but his counsel and presence could be invaluable in getting Lady Edith, Sir Douglas, and Algrith back to the surface.

>D] Write-in.

>>4288835
>>A] Your friends look like death warmed over, and clearly feel worse.
>>1] You can tolerate sitting for a minute or two while you listen to your friends. Accept a small shot.

>>4288835
>>A] Your friends look like death warmed over, and clearly feel worse.
>1] You can tolerate sitting for a minute or two while you listen to your friends. Accept a small shot.

>>4288863
>>4289398
(Woke up early this morning, writing now! Vote is locked.)

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>>4289399
https://youtu.be/YMB8F4O0_ZQ

Certain that you can tolerate a few minutes of sitting, you grab a shot glass from a nearby counter, make sure Ray is alright, and let your boy come sit next to you on the floor. Cyril props his feet up on your leg, and none of you really mind how ridiculous anyone looks.

A shot is poured into your glass, which you intend to nurse, for how borderline medicinal the scent is. Sipping the glass, you wind up putting the entire drink back immediately. It's unbelievable. There's notes you couldn't pick up from the smell alone, of the sea, and something as sweet as vanilla. Cardamom and black pepper persists on your tongue, as you think to open your mouth to speak.

You immediately decide against it. Both of your talkative, blonde friends are being extremely quiet. Ofelia wiggles a little, against Cyril, trying and failing to get comfortable.

Many minutes pass, until the woman among you mentions in a casual way, "there were a lotta kids, Richard."

Something catches in the back of Cyril's throat, and he goes for the bottle again.

"Didn't wanna mention it," Ofelia continues, "thought it'd be better if ya' didn't know off the bat. I gotta stop doin' that shit. Yer a grown-ass man. Doesn't matter how much you've been through. Yer nothin' but honest with me. It's not right to not do the same."

"It'd help," Cyril frowns, and shoves you slightly with his legs. "You wouldn't have wanted us to go. Heard what you did on the way over here. Not saying it's your fault— but—"

He's trying to not choke up, and leans completely back against the floor. Ofelia rolls off of the priest, sits upright, and punches him again. "Nobody would've kicked as much ass as you did. We needed ya'. Besides, yer a beast—"

There's a shake in Cyril's shoulders, at a phrase he hasn't heard from his little dew drop in weeks.

You slide over to the absent father, and pat him firmly on the shoulder.

"Richard," he mutters, brushing his damp bangs off his face, trying to conceal moving aside any mist in his eyes, "they weren't even imps. Just kids. Kids and their parents. They had enough. Turned the second they realized we weren't able to save 'em. It was disgusting. Some real shit. Just like that. Barely formed. We had to kill 'em. They were goin' for homes, and— if we had another outbreak? After everything you've done?"

An incredibly small hands knits itself into Brother Trebbeck's, as Ofelia asserts, "ya' did more than anyone."

(1/3)

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>>4289446
He winces, wiping at his face again. "I didn't." It seems like the graying eye on the left side of his face doesn't have functioning tear ducts, for how badly it was slashed previously, and you're uncertain if it's a Mercy or not. The rest of the man's face is hidden by a dark blue handkerchief, that your host immediately hands over, and drops on his face. Muffled, not bothering to move it, Cyril mumbles, "that just makes it worse. How many more do you think there were, that we didn't get to? Who turned, and stayed like that, even longer?"

His voice cracks, and the priest rolls over. Dragging himself upright, trying to not break down, he looks to *you* for answers. "I've been killing and fighting my whole life. Never once thought about it 'til now— but it's gonna kill me, Richard. Just kids. They were hurting. Bad. I could tell. Could see it in what was left of their faces. They were just kids. Probably didn't understand half of what was happening."

A pair of muscular arms takes you into a tight hold. You immediately return it, not caring in the slightest about how much softer you are, or that you can't breathe. Cyril is struggling with everything he has to maintain his composure. "Tell me," he chokes out, gritting his teeth. "I don't care if it's a lie. I can handle monsters. I can take down men. I'll rip an orc in half with my bare hands, or take an elf's ears right off. Send me back to the 'fen, for all I care."

He's beside himself, and seems to dry his tears, to angrily grit out, "I know some of 'em are kids. Even when we fought back in Beorward. Just— tell me they don't know what's happening. That they aren't hurting. Tell me I'm not a child killer. I can't take it—"

Ofelia tugs gently on Cyril's shirt. He turns around. She punches him as hard as she can, and angrily spits, "don't put that shit on him."

He whips around, coming out of your hug. "He'd know better than anyone."

"Doesn't matter," she snaps. "Yer the one that agreed to help him. Isn't that right?"

Brother Trebbeck sniffs. "Yeah."

"Then act like it," she frowns. "You don't know the half of it. You got a problem with how *we* work," she smiles sincerely at you, before scowling to Cyril, "go pack up. Go see your girl."

A scowl distorts the majority of his face.

He's seriously thinking about it.

Several long moments pass, before he goes for the whiskey again. Ofelia looks to you apologetically, while the priest between you drowns out anything he might want to say. With a firm tone, the assassin mutters, "there's gonna be no pretendin' I'm just runnin' a bakery, after all this. Not that it matters. Fuck it. *I* knew what I was gettin' into, Richard, but—"

There's a glance to the guest room, where Theodore is sleeping, and back to you. "I never meant to hurt yer feelin's. Every time I thought, or said, or whatever— that I wasn't sure if you were human?"

(2/3)

>>4289448
Your grimace could cut glass, but you remain silent, and let the halfling finish.

"Yer stronger than any guy I've ever met," Ofelia frowns, before punching Cyril, "including this meat-head. It's not normal. Not sayin' it's not right, or that I'm not proud of ya'." The blonde darts her impossible, radiant eyes up to you. "It's just not healthy. I can't tell ya' how glad I was to see ya', and I'm worried yer gonna kill yourself all over again. Humans are all crazy. It's like they said."

She shakes her head, with significantly less bob in her wet hair than usual. "Fuck 'em. I wouldn't have ya' both any other way."

Taking the whiskey back from Cyril's hands, the poisons master finishes the bottle in a smooth motion. It occurs to you that your friends put back an entire bottle of liquor in a matter of minutes. The scent of peat and smoke is hot on the air. Theodore's snoring drifts out of the guest room, as further reassurance that he's still alive.

Cyril sits back up, and hugs you again. Reluctantly, he mutters, "can't lie to you, Richard."

You tense slightly, expecting another intense statement. The priest's begrudging smile is broad enough that you can feel it against your shoulder. "This is really comfortable."

Ofelia snorts, and goes to open a second bottle.

"Damn glutton," the priest holding you laugh. "Going and ruining yourself for half the fuckin' city."

You try to not frown too much.

"No one's gonna appreciate it as much as those kids," he murmurs. "Over sixty people. Bet most of 'em didn't even thank you."

Patting him a little on his back, you continue to frown, "most of them did, Cyril."

"Good. You're probably sick of hearing all this," he mutters, muffling himself in your robes, "but this is normal for you, isn't it?"

"That is an incredibly generous use of the word."

He laughs. "How the fuck do you live like this? Even Fred doesn't—"

Cyril pulls back, and looks you over. Something occurs to him. "You're harder than Fred, you know that?"

(Options in next post.)

>>4289450
>A] This is possibly the lengthiest, almost-normal conversation you've ever had with either of your friends (without Ofelia being in tears, or Cyril getting philosophical). Simply stay quiet and reassuring, while they work this out of their system.

>B] Answer the priest's question. Tell him in plain terms what you know about what happens to humans, post-Catalyst. He explicitly asked you to tell him the opposite, but truth is a tenet of Mercy, and you are not about to let him live with a lie.

>C] It's REALLY challenging for you, but do your best to respond in a normal way to your friends concerns. Allow yourself to have a few drinks with your fellow veterans. Try to loosen up, and maybe actually respond to their comments.

>D] Reassure Ofelia and Cyril that things are going to be different. You're the Father of Mercy, not a lunatic, and are not going to kill yourself working to death. Even if it's agony to not constantly be doing *something* for the church and your research, try to slow down your pace a little. (THIS PROMPT WILL HAVE LONG-REACHING EFFECTS, IF MAJORITY VOTE DECIDES. This is in direct opposition to prior decisions to go after your congregation with as much speed as possible. Prompts presented will come at a slower pace, unless situation dictates otherwise.)

>E] Write-in anything you wish to convey to Cyril and Ofelia. (Your QM will be happy to interpret any suggestions or comments appropriately.)

>F] Write-in.

>>4289451
>>C] It's REALLY challenging for you, but do your best to respond in a normal way to your friends concerns. Allow yourself to have a few drinks with your fellow veterans. Try to loosen up, and maybe actually respond to their comments.
With great power comes great responsibility unfortunately. If not us, then who?

>>4289451
>>B] Answer the priest's question. Tell him in plain terms what you know about what happens to humans, post-Catalyst. He explicitly asked you to tell him the opposite, but truth is a tenet of Mercy, and you are not about to let him live with a lie.

Don't think about the ones that turned, think about the ones you spared, the ones *you will* spare. Don't let this demolish you, there are plenty more people that are going to need you, in their darkest moments. If you put them to rest before they turned, maybe it was a Mercy, the only one they could afford at that moment.

>>4289451
D. Good in excess is bad, yada yada yada

>>4289513

Not really in this case, we already made a promise to go after our congregation and out of everyone here Richard is the most capable one, by not doing what we promised we are abandoning our congregation for a second time. We can relax when we get back to Eadric and settle into a routine, right now there is a lot of stuff we need to fix.

>>4289453
>>4289459
>>4289513
>>4289534
(The vote for D was to be included if the majority vote went for it, but since we have vocal opposition with a lot of justification, going to note it. No false promises, etc etc. Think I can incorporate just about everything though. Locking the vote here, will try and update before work. If not I'll get this out ASAP. Writing now!)

>>4289634
There isn't a single word that's come out of your friend's lips that hasn't had you worried or tugged at your heart strings. Knowing full well that Cyril doesn't want to go anywhere, you keep him in the hug for a few more moments. Gesturing to Ofelia, over his shoulder, you make every indication for her to get some glasses for the rest of the liquor.

"Cyril." You have to try and reassure him.

"Yeah." He's intentionally muffling his voice in your shoulder.

"The power granted to us— it is more than that of even Flesh, or Mercy."

"The fuck are you on about?"

"We have responsibility."

"I was afraid you were going to say that."

You pull him back, to stop his self-pity, take the priest by his shoulders, and stare him straight in the eye. His are unbelievably red, and you're certain he's unsettled by your own gaze. Wincing, the priest can't help but ask, "the fuck did they do to you, Richard?"

"Even the best of— thank you, Ofelia—" you take a glass of some licorice-smelling liquor from her. "Even good, in *excess*, can lead to bad."

You raise your glass, and make your point. It's beautiful, and almost the same color as the last green in your eyes. The priest of Flesh at your side can't help but laugh, in a dry, and dark sort of way. Looking to the cup in hand, and back to your friend, you grimace at the scent of licorice, and knock back the entire glass. It's been diluted with water, has a little sugar in it, and tastes unmistakably like anise.

"The fuck has gotten into you," Cyril manages, a little more seriously.

You practically shake him, as he's not getting the point, and you're losing your patience. "At least fifty pounds— in less than two weeks—" Ofelia nearly spits out her drink, "—not to mention a few death threats from Father Friedrich—"

A darker laugh of, "humble estimates," comes out of the priest, stopping your laundry list of complaints.

"We've all made promises," you insist. "I intend to uphold mine."

You part your hold from Cyril, and don't complain as Ofelia sidles up next to you and Ray. "Routine, and relaxation will— there will be ample opportunity for normalcy when I return to Eadric." It's entirely necessary to implore the priest, "you can let this destroy you, Cyril."

The fighter is legitimately offended, but remains silent, as Ofelia makes quick work of shoving another glass into his hand of the same emerald-green liquor.

"Or," you point out, "you can look to your displays of Mercy. The lives you've saved. The suffering you've ended—" you glance to everyone around you, "—and the people who still are looking to you for aid, in the dark."

It's absolutely necessary for everyone to raise their glasses.

"If not us," you frown, "then who?"

(1/2)

>>4289714
Ofelia hands off her glass to Cyril, muttering to you, "that's what I like to hear. Cheers, Richard."

Unable to help himself, Brother Trebbeck returns your toast. "Cheers."

The halfling drinks straight from the bottle once again. Cyril can't help but laugh, sets her offering aside, and seems to have calmed down significantly. He nods to you, and resolves, "it'd better be us, right?"

You offer him a weary smile, and try to nurse the rest of the liquor given to you. Musing that it must be from Spira, there's no ill-effect— until you're certain that a button on your undershirt gives out. Maybe two.

Calmly setting your glass aside, three now sit in front of Brother Trebbeck.

He looks to you, your fidgeting, to Ray quietly laying next to you, and to Ofelia. He drops back against the floor. "This is so stupid."

"Hey," the halfling frowns.

"Not you," he grins. The flash of his usual attitude seems to spark up a bit more, musing to the ceiling, "this shit is just taking *so long.* I'm beat, and I know," he waves to you, "that you got some shit planned."

"I'll kill ya before anyone else can," Ofelia frowns to him, "but he's got a point. Watcha' got, Richard?"

>A] You can't ask them to go running into the ruins. Reassure Ofelia and Cyril that you'll be alright, and simply keep their company until Harriet gets back.

>B] Ask Ofelia to come with you to find Lady Edith, Sir Douglas, and Algrith. She's easily one of the most resilient people you've ever met, and you think she can handle it.

>C] Ask Cyril if he's seriously okay to go back out today.
>1] Plainly ask him if he can get some things from town while you wait with Ofelia, for Harriet to get back.
>2] Go with him into town for a bit, for the company, some fresh air, and to curtail any stupid hat purchases.
>3] See if he's up for an excursion into the ruins, despite everything.

>D] Write-in.