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The trio arrived in a new town early the next day. They didn’t even see it on the road ahead, and few maps, atlases, or itineraries existed off the pilgrim’s path. The town was built into a natural depression in the jagged ground. Like a pit. At the bottom, a natural spring bubbled up out of the arid dirt. Some kind of primitive irrigation system siphoned water up to various plots of land.
“Hmmm. An unconverted town,” said Calaf. “So close to the pilgrimage route?”
“The Church is open to all. But, naturally, the lands tread by the Heroes of Yore take priority,” said Deacon. “There’s simply not been an opportunity to do missionary work in this land, yet-unblessed by the Interface.”
The houses of this hovel were small, made of thatched roofs and some form of raw, unprocessed cement.
The trio walked into town without a welcome. Indeed, it was a while before they encountered anyone at all.
“Who’re you, then?” inquired a dirt farmer.
“Greetings, unbaptized citizen,” Deacon said. “We are travelers – official Arbiters of the church. On an important mission that requires circumventing the grand pilgrimage route.”
“The who from the wha?” asked the dirt farmer.
“Why, from the Holy Church of the Menu.” Deacon performed a professional and polite church bow.
“We’re barely a day off the pilgrimage route,” Calaf said. “To think that people here wouldn’t know about the church.”
No knowledge of the church meant no knowledge of the Menu! Why, these dirt farmers had to toil day in and day out to siphon water up from the well. Were they simply baptized, they’d be able to utilize the divine power of the Menu to add water to their inventory and apply it to their crops with minimal hassle. Why, this dusty hovel could be as fertile as Riverglen with just a bit of Menucraft.
No inns. Minimal smithing capabilities. Truly, this was a desolate place.
“Name’s Vault,” said the dirt farmer. “The town, I mean. ’Cause it’s all couped up in the pit ya?”
“Oh poor, beleaguered dirt farmer,” said Calaf. “Won’t you accept the Interface into your heart? Why, through the Menu all things are possible.”
“The who ‘n what? Ain’t never heard of it.”
Deacon held up a consoling hand, urging Calaf to silence.
“Alas, we prioritize missionary work on areas visited by the Heroes of Yore,” said Deacon with a tinge of regret.
“The who’n what?” asked the farmer.
Indeed, a small crowd of similarly accented farmers approached. Calaf tried his best to translate their rather guttural accent in his mind.
“Why, the Ancient Heroes of Yore,” said Deacon. “Gather around, for all should hear the tale of the heroes who blessed the world with the divine glory of the Menu.”
“Oh, we’re going to be here awhile,” Gorman said with a yawn.
“It was centuries ago when four unassuming adventurers discovered the divine grace of the Interface in a dire-scorpion cave far to the south. There were four of them in all: The Knight, first Paladin of the Church. Just a lowly Shielder at the time.”
“What’s a Paladin?” asked another dirt farmer.
“Why, even our noble Calaf here classed into Shielder and is well on his way to respeccing into Knight.” Deacon used Calaf as a prop. “The besainted Paladin gave his life in the battle against the demon king, but his fellow travelers helped to immortalize his role through the ages. To this day, every cathedral is consecrated in his holy name.”
“Your bloke died?” asked a farmer. “Well, that’s unfortunate ain’t it. If me and the guys from the pub were around to back him up I’m sure it wouldn’t have gone down like that.”
“The Cleric. Founder of the Church. The team healer. Started as a lowly porter and alchemist, carrying antidotes and vials of potions. The Menu, in its divine grace, did grant her healing spells by which she had carried the Heroes through the wilds of Firefield. With the ancient demon lord of olde defeated, it was she who spread the church's teachings and converted even the beasts of the field into the Menu’s fold.”
The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
“Why, I’m a porter,” said a water-fetching wench.
“Indeed. Truly the Ancient Heroes of Yore came from the humblest of origins.” Deacon clasped his hands in prayer. “Third, there was the Battlemage. Master of blade and magic both. It was he who perfected most forms of combat under the Menu.”
“Swords and magic? Oooh, could he blast ‘em with lightning then stab ‘em?” asked another farmer.
With the Vaultian accent ‘lightning’ sounded a bit more like ‘loightning.’
“Indeed. Level up under the menu and class into a mage or fighter class at level 5 and even you too could one day be a battlemage,” said Gorman. “That’s my plan at least.”
“And lastly, The Scout. Nimble of foot and more tuned for agility and sly shenanigans than straight-up fights,” said Deacon.
“Oooh This here’s ringing a bell,” said that first dirt farmer. “Me ma put down bedtime stories about some bloke what came down from the hills and looked about for a few days. Said he was searchin’ for a route to the Demon King’s Lair. Whatever that is.”
“Ooh?” That got Deacon’s attention. “Why, the heroes did stay in Granite Pass for a bit to confirm the fastest route to their target. It sounds like the noble Scout may have stopped by here for a time, only to settle on the northerly route through the forests.”
“Ya. Didn’t call ‘imself a scout though. It was sumpthin’ else. Think Moira’s still got his flagon behind a pane ‘o glass. He was quite the drinker that one,”
Deacon eyed the dirt farmer with a raised brow. “Oh. You have an article of the faith? A relic from the old heroes?”
“Yep. Somethin’ like that. Get lost tourists from out east what gawk at it sometimes.”
“May I see it?”
“Er, sure suppose she’ll let you take the ol’ gander. It’s quite old but safe behind the glass. Quite good for ganderin’ if I don’t say so myself.”
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Without further ado, Deacon convinced the dirt farmers to lead him to their pub, by which they meant a particularly large concrete-and-thatch hut at the edge of the sinkhole.
“There it is.” A farmer motioned to a positively filthy mug beneath a foggy glass pane.
Item: Ye Olde Mug
Description: A mug of the Thief. Kept as a conversation piece.
“Hmmm. Yes, it is said that the Scout was quite adept at drinking.” Deacon scratched at his chin “If this is legitimate…”
Deacon produced his miracle catalyst and performed some utility spell or another. He gasped, and then he threw his hands up.
“It’s… the Holy Flagon of the Scout!”
There were gasps throughout the pub, though few knew what that meant.
“Ay, he didn’t call himself no Scout tho,” said that very first dirt farmer. “It was Thief somethin’. Didn’t thieve anything from us though he just said the burglary was his occupation somewhere south. Riverview or something I dunno. That’s what ma used to say.”
Deacon frowned subtly. “The scriptures are clear. His profession was Scout. Thievery is immoral, the Old Hero of Yore could never partake in it. Any mentions of a ‘Thief’ among the heroes is merely a mistranslation. These old legends can warp especially in oral retellings. The important thing is that the church’s scriptures are perfectly accurate and infallible in every way. And this, is the Flagon of the Scout, blessed be.”
“Ay. Blessed be the Thief or Scout or whomever he was. Regular hometown hero he was.”
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With their cleric’s blessing, this holy relic – the Flagon of the Scout – would serve as a level anchor. This would, once the local animal population was baptized, help maintain them at a reasonable level delta. Perhaps one day, Vault could serve as an alternative pilgrimage path should the way through Granite Pass remain blocked indefinitely.
Deacon spent long hours into the night converting the populace. Branding them (and by extension, their children, grandchildren, and so on forever more) with the Brand of the Interface, allowing them to level up under the Menu and granting them access to the Interface (blessed be its UI).
By ten at night, basically the entire village was converted. The next morning, he began to teach the newly converted how to perform their crop-farming duties via the Menu. They started off at level 1 of course. But townsfolk seldom needed massive combat skills in their day-to-day jobs.
A sudden boon to the church. But it complicated their mission.
“I shall stay here, at least until additional clerical staff can properly set up a monastery in Vault,” Deacon said. “The path north from here should skirt the mountains. You’ll be able to see the alpine forests on their high plateau as you journey. And Plains Junction should be easy to spot from several days away.”
The journey with just the two guardsmen would be perilous, no doubt. But Deacon was not yet done with his blessings. He presented… the Flagon of the Thief in one hand and his catalyst in the other. He muttered a prayer out, holding them both aloft.
Special Prayer: Limitless Myriad Holy Blessings
Description: Provides a non-stackable shield refreshing every hour that will block one (1) blow of any kind. Not applicable to magic attacks. Dispels after three days.
“This shall provide a holy shield blessing. Protecting you from at least one hit every hour,” Deacon explained.
“Thanks, I guess. If we stick to the path monsters shouldn’t be too tough from here on out I hope. What’re we going to do when we find this thief of yours?” Gorman asked.
Deacon handed Calaf a letter.
“Present this to the city watch. They’ll know what to do. And the Plains Junction has facilities by which they can alert the other pilgrimage stations. It’s the easiest way to prevent this thievery from spreading. Go, and I will help this new township learn the ways of the Menu.”
With little else to discuss, Calaf took the letter, ensured his brand-new steel weaponry didn’t require any additional repairs per his interface, and continued onward.
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