Kneeling in front of the altar, the upside-down teardrop casting a shadow on him, he tries to feel out the new addition in his metaphysical being. The presence, or rather, the God, has already left, yet a part of It still remains.

It ate his desires, his pain, his emotions. But that left him with a surprising amount of rational thought. No longer is he bound by the shackles of an emotional brain, no longer has he to succumb to his libido or other animalistic urges.

He can still feel the presence, even in It's slumber; something is radiating from the holy symbol, and being so close to It just makes that very clear. Looking up from the ground, he ponders about what to do next – should he return to the camp with the other bandits? And after that? He has no reason to return to them, to exert himself for them for no more apparent gain.

Back before the church, it used to be a sweet deal: He has to swing a sword around, cut down some farmers, rape their wives and take their daughters. Sometimes the sons will be taken in for forced labour, to do menial tasks for the bandits.

They always slaughtered the animals, every village raided a feast for them, and every bandit having enough to satisfy their desires, even with the majority of young girls sold off to slavery in return for better weapons, armour, sometimes exotic foods. A life full of excitement, of hedonism and more.

None of that interests him anymore. Nothing interests him anymore. But he still feels like he has a debt to pay. After all, this God spared his live, even gave him some kind of power. The man doesn't even care about having his emotions sucked out of him. There is only one desire slowly forming in his mind: to assist this benevolent being, who spared him instead of outright killing him, who gave him a second chance at life.

He stands up, approaching the altar, and reaches out with a hand, laying it on the wooden sculpture. It shows no blemishes, and is surprisingly smooth. The presence of a God is resonating throughout it, and the former bandit focuses his intent on the being inside the sculpture.

"Lord," he mutters, "What should I do to assist you?"

To his surprise, an answer came. To his increasing surprise, that answer came in the form of a language. Of eldritch sounds and rythm approaching his mind, immediately followed by raw concepts, triggering the synapses in his language center.

Damp. Uncomfortable. Windy, chilly, holes in the wall. Plug the holes. Make clean.

Feed yourself. Energy storage – no, Food storage. More will come. Welcome them.

An abundance of concepts are flooding his mind, and ideas start forming in the goon's head. With newfound clarity he asserts the building he is in: An old church, made of a single room, not that much bigger than a barn. Walls of rough stones of random sizes, expertly stacked on top of each other, defying the decay of time not entirely unscathed, as vines and moss are growing both on the inside and the outside, filling every nook and cranny they can.

Wooden beams used to hold up a simple wooden roof, tarred shingles held up by a complicated framework of beams and pillars, attacked by the ages, left to rot. Most of the beams have fallen down, crushing the pews beneath them and leaving gaping holes through which the sun shines it's rays on mossy spots, where patches of grass have started to grow on a thin layer of dirt covering the stone floor.

Finally, his eyes land on the corpse of someone he used to call his brother-in-arms. A lifeless husk of what used to be a strong man with stronger convictions, even if those convictions were of the shadier sort. Memories of their rather short time together sprout up in his conciousness and disappear much faster with no emotions to cling themselves to.

He has to move it outside. In here it will just attract vermin, and that would not be beneficial to his new God. It is only a matter of time until the corpse starts rotting, infesting the inside of this soon-to-be sanctuary with a smell so foul that people not used to it would pass out immediately.

Not that he had that problem – he is used to this smell, after all. He had to, if he wanted to spend an evening in the prisoner's area to 'use the goods' from the last raid. But his God wants more people to come, so this has to go.

With a lot of effort, the ex-bandit drags the corpse of the much bigger man by the feet through the doorway, completely ignoring the fact that there should be a second corpse near the door where an empty spot crosses his way, and dumps it at the side of the church, a little bit out of the way of someone coming in from the overgrown pathway. He will have to bury the corpse later, hopefully with a shovel procured from somewhere, but that seems very unlikely at this moment, considering he is in the middle of a forest with no civilization around for miles.

And he really didn't want to go back to the camp.

After a surprisingly small time of deliberation, he chooses to try his luck in foraging. He still needs to eat something after all. The thin gruel they had this morning was not filling at all, and he deliberately ate less so he would've been able to enjoy more of the feast they would be having this evening.

Yeah, they are probably currently feasting in the camp now, stuffing their bellies with freshly-slaughtered livestock and precious ingredients like honeys and jam, taken from the homes and barns of innocent villagers.

While he strolls through the nearby flora, eyes glued on the foliage in hopes of finding some berries or mushrooms, he imagines what the feast would taste like. The broiled pork always used to be his favourite, a thick piece of meat and fat cooked to perfection, with a healthy dose of honey as a makeshift sauce, sweet and savoury at the same time. Yet memories can never invoke the taste quite perfectly, and for some reason he feels like simple charred meat could do the job as well. His desire for gluttony is simply gone, along with the intricacies of taste.

Picking up a purple berry from a bush, he pops it into his mouth to see if it is edible. Juices wrap around his tongue, and he finds that it tastes slightly sweet for a berry. Definitely not toxic, but also definitely not filling. Yet he still eats all the small berries growing on this bush, filling his stomach as much as possible. Despite them being somewhat sweet, he didn't find the taste enjoyable. He can't imagine any taste as enjoyable anymore. Merely nutritious, and those berries definitely aren't.

After two more fruitless hours of searching, he decides to head back. He didn't venture far and the way back is easy for him, so it does not take him long to get close enough to hear something peculiar besides the usual sounds of the forest. Something is scratching, sniffing, growling near the church.

Near where he deposited the body.

And as he comes out of the underbrush, he quickly sees the culprit of those strange sounds.

A beast is nourishing itself on the giant corpse of the deceased teammate. A huge beast, really, covered in a body thick with fur and muscle, held up by four rather stubby yet strong limbs, at whose ends long, black and very powerful claws inhabit the front side of it's paws. The head however is covered in feathers, and a very strong and sharp curved beak sits where other creatures would have a snout.

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And withhin moments of the man stepping out of the underbrush, it's huge, predatory eyes laid sight upon him.

It must be a beast fallen on hard times, resorting to scavenge corpses like that. But then again, it is a rather fresh corpse, having only deceased a few hours earlier, and with no visible wounds aswell.

As the beast stares down the man half his size, the man should be filled with fear. But all his fear has been eaten up already, along with other feelings he should feel at this very moment, feeding the core that was forced upon him. Yet that very same core somehow fills him with determination: It is a huge beast, sure, but huge does not mean powerful most of the time.

It does mean that it is slower than your average predator, which is where a chance is.

So the ex-bandit grabs for his bandit blade, a shortsword that he never puts down for his own safety or the misery of others, although he is not sure about the latter anymore, and with one swift motion, honed over thousands of hours of training, draws it, pointing it at the beast with a menacing stare.

The owlbear is slightly confused. It expected the possible invading prey to be filled with fear, like every other being it came across in it's entire lifetime. Nevertheless, it's instincts told it to charge at the challenger, at the threat in front of it. So it did, stomping it's mighty paws into the soil, kicking up stones and leaving deep grooves with it's paws, building up surprising speed.

Usually, whatever he charged at either stood their ground, either fueled by anger or paralyzed by fear, getting rammed and turned into mush in the process, or they immediately ran away due to their self-preservation instinct kicking in. It never encountered a human in it's life, much less a fearless one. Or one without an intrinsic self-preservation-instinct.

While it simply blindly charges at the person in front of it, said person calmly took everything in, his perception slowing down, and he can see the bear charging at him in slow motion.

A stomp.

He can see it building up speed, every stomp not taking longer than a second, and each consecutive stomp lasting half as long as the precious one.

Another stomp.

He can feel the strength behind every step the beast takes, the power of the beast shaking the very earth below it, the shockwaves propagating until they reach and rattle the man's bones.

Another stomp.

He checks the distance of each left-behind footprint with his eyes, and compares those with the distance left between him and the beast. With every stomp as-is, the beast should reach him in about four more stomps.

Three now.

He changes his thoughts, listing and assessing multiple possible options in the span of just a fraction of a second. Should he hit it dead on? No, even if he somehow manages a killing blow in one strike, the inertia would still mean that the beast's corpse would utterly destroy him. Not a good option.

Dodging? Sure, if he times it right, the beast will run past him, and then it's back to square one, with the disadvantage being that the beast now knows that he can dodge.

Two now.

If he wants to dodge, he needs to find a way to strike the beast aswell. But he is weak, even for a human. The beast's hide is thick, it's muscles bulging. There is simply no way for his short blade to penetrate the beast's tissue, not with the force he can muster.

That is when he can feel his core once again – he CAN muster enough strength. Pictures flood his mind, concepts, and a sudden innate knowledge on how to use his newfound power. A move forms in his head, but it needs to be executed at the right time.

Images flood his mind, of a knight in a dark, ruined castle, fighting monstrosities many times bigger than him, launching relentless attacks one after another. Yet the knight carefully positions himself, rolling and weaving gracefully through each strike, until an opening presents itself and the knight can land a miniscule hit.

One stomp away.

THIS is the time! He faces the beast down, then lifts his left leg, slightly bending his right leg while his body hunches down. He then immediately straightens his right leg, shooting his left leg forward to catch him on his sideways launch, and immediately turns to the side, facing where the side of the beast will be in less than a second.

Using the inertia of the motion, he lets his blade fly backwards to his right side, and there it comes to a rest, gripping the handle with both hands, stretched aside from him, the blade pointing away. His right leg followes his movement and plants itself behind the left leg, and while the energy of his jump pushes him down, bending his knees, he fills his leg with raw energy from his core.

With incredible strength, he catapults himself towards the side of the incoming beast, his shoulder, also infused with strength form his core, but instead of strengthening the muscles it forms a protective layer, connects with the midsection of the beast, sending it flying sideways.

The besat, unable to keep itself balanced due to the combined motions of it's charge and the sudden and very painful bash to it's side, falls down, disoriented, sliding across the floor for a bit, dizziness filling it's mind as it's head smashes against a cubic, loose rock.

With another soul-filled jump, the man quickly closes the distance between himself and the beast, raising his blade up high, the point pointing downward, and with a mighty stab, he plunges the shortsword into the beast's esophagus, severing multiple important veins in the process and cutting off the beast's air supply.

With another final burst of strength, he rips his blade out sideways again, through the front of the beast's nech, completely ripping open one of the most important lifelines of the beast's anatomy, leaving it bleeding out and damaging some nerves in the process aswell.

The beast still shudders a little, trying to stand up, to keep fighting. But it's rapidly weakening body simply would not listen to it's commands, and so it slowly perishes in a clearing, in a forest, next to an old, dilapidated church.

With a quick swing of the blade, he clears it of blood, putting it back in it's sheat and assesses his kill. The beast is quite a bit larger than him, and it's still bleeding out. From what he has heard in the past in the camp, from those who slaughter and prepare the meals, it's that if you slaughter to eat, it is important to drain all of the blood first. Why, he does not know, but this seems like a good opportunity to him.

This beast might feed him for a while, at least, if he can get it prepared first, of course. But food tends to spoil very quickly, even if cooked. Another idea enters his mind, sent from the core in his being – about what it is that makes food spoil, about how the smoke of a fire can cure the meat of spoilage, preserving it for longer.

So now he has to make a fire.

Again, the core helps out. Grabbing his blade again, he cuts open a hind leg of the slain beast, pulling out a long tendon. This process takes him a while; he is still inexperienced when it comes to butchering, but he somehow knows what he's looking for, and how to extract it, which makes this rookie attempt somewhat successfull.

Now to grab a few more things laying around: a healthy tree branch, a dry, sturdy stick, some bark from a tree and a bunch of dried leaves as kindling.

He ties the end of the tendon to the end of the healthy tree branch, then twirls it around the sturdy stick, tightly holding the other end of the tendon and the other end of the branch in his right hand. A simple, primitive bow drill, really, and while it is the first time he's ever heard of it, he already knows how effective it's usage can be.

Using a larger chunk of tree bark as a bowl-like base, filled with dry, crumply leaves, he presses the dry stick down with a flat chunk of stone form the many lying around, and begins to move the bow drill back and forth, infusing his arms with a bit of energy from the core.

Quickly, some of the leaves start to turn into embers, and he carefully blows on them to give them more oxygen and kindling, then continues his drilling, until a small flame emerges from between his legs.

Luckily, firewood is easy to come by here, a heap of dry sticks surrounded by some old stones making a perfect hearth for his very first campfire.

He cuts out some chunks of meat from the beast's already cut-open limb, impaling them onto some sharpened sticks and ramming them into the ground next to the fire, for the meat to be somewhat cooked. The setup for smoking meat is quite more elaborate than that, but he needs something quick right now, so he lets it cook while he works on a more complex contraption.

With the sun setting, he looks at what he has achieved so far: a relatively sturdy sticky frame holds a large chunk of meat over a very smokey fire. Adding tree bark to the campfire greatly improved the amount of smoke coming from it, but dwindling the flame in the process, so while the meat gets cured, he won't be able to cook any more meat.

Not that he has to, somehow the few chunks he had were enough to fill his stomach.

A large part of the beast is still lying there, untouched, but that's something he has to accept. He can't do more right now, so here's hoping that the meat is still good tomorrow. With those last thoughts, he quickly falls asleep, lying on the dirt next to his smoking pit, the smell of fire keeping other predators at bay.