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Burning. Burning the corpses of the unconsecrated. That was the church-approved doctrine for disposing of bodies too far gone to commend to the cathedral crypts. The mix-match entity spliced together from all the corpses Baldr had been too lazy to dispose of and too messy to leave intact had been dealt with by immolation. Went up like a torch, though the individual vines emanating from the flesh-blob proved brittle and snapped away as the ‘core’ went up in flames.
Calaf shuddered, now well into the bustle of town. He’d lived his most formative years amidst the Riverglen priory. He’d been down into the Riverglen crypts, where everyone who died around town, where the Good Pryor Yordan could consecrate their remains, was interned. Calaf had an extensive knowledge of church teachings and, yes, he’d seen his fair share of too-far-gone corpses of men and beast during this latest pilgrimage season. But he’d never seen a corpse do that. Never heard any church doctrine about tangled vines of reanimated flesh, either.
Even during the afternoon in this balmy, swampy abode, chills penetrated Calaf’s armor. The appeal of leaving town early and camping out on the road suddenly fell off a cliff. He’d be staying in a defensible, second-floor room with four solid walls and enough illumination to always cover every corner, thank you very much.
To do that though, he’d need an inn. And most rooms were booked up by the latest crusading call.
It was while walking along the docks looking for something, anything to secure living arrangements for the night that Calaf passed a small flotilla of boats offloading mercs, adventurers, and enlisted from Riverglen.
“Excuse me!” he waved over to the nearest adventurer. “What news do you have from the Riverglen cathedral?”
Got to refocus on getting home. Anything to take his mind off that putrid flesh-golem.
“The cathedral? Well, under new management,” the adventurer said. “Some crazy lady shot up the place. Old deaconess has taken over in the interim to keep the pilgrimage ceremonies going for this season.”
“Yes, I was there,” Calaf said with an impatient frown.
“Well, pretty much anyone of any rank is up here now,” the adventurer continued. “Riverglen’s camp is out past the walls. We’re heading out there if you want to follow.”
With no other leads to speak of, Calaf followed. This led them on a direct route shadowing an aqueduct until they reached a westward gate, the one Calaf used to enter Port Town during his trip north. It felt like a lifetime ago, Calaf reflected, as he emerged not into a swamp trail lined by dire-gators but into a cleared-out field. Heraldry of various sorts, mostly logos of southerly adventurer guilds, hung up and around numerous wide tents.
The Church of the Menu at Riverglen tent was the largest and most central tent in the camp, its clerics working round the clock to heal conscripts and adventurers both of the various wound and communicable diseases that were inevitable when an army gathered and camped.
True to his intuition, there, taking charge as the central administrative and spiritual authority, was…
Name:
Charlotte, Deaconess
Rank:
Cleric (Most Holy Church of the Menu)
Level:
48
Status:
500/500 (Pensive)
Charlotte turned, sensing someone enter the tent. Without looking up she let out a long sigh.
“Welcome to the Riverglen auxiliary mission. If you wish to sign up I’m sure our numerous mercenary guilds or adventurers companies are still recruiting.” She sighed again, rubbing her eyes. “If you’re a cleric or other healing class, regretfully, we’re only authorized to accept healers signed on with the Riverglen cathedral. You can try your hometown’s regiment or wait until we get to Plains Junction.”
Only then did Charlotte – the perfect, blonde, still-very-betrothed Deaconess Charlotte, look up. Her normally radiant golden eyes were dark in the dim interior of the tent. She gasped upon seeing Calaf, and nearly dropped her clerical stave.
“Oh, by the Cleric’s wood-carved holy text,” she exclaimed, mouth agape. “Is it truly? Or do my eyes deceive me, misreading this Interface?”
Calaf rushed up, avoiding the scandalous act of picking her up and hugging her only with some last-minute sensible thinking and the fact that his Interface did not have any ‘hug’ command on quick-select. Instead, they clasped hands, somewhat scandalous but understandable given the circumstances.
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There was a small ration of ecclesial wine normally meant for liturgical purposes, now set aside for ‘victory conditions.’ Charlotte hazarded donating a single glass to the latest celebration.
“My dear,” she said warmly. “We’d lost contact with you long ago. I was so worried, but the late unpleasantness prevented me from hiring another courier.”
Calaf took a sip of the Plain Liturgical Victory Wine (x1).
“I’ve been north of Port Town for some time,” he said. “I received a message from you in Firefield but that felt like ages ago.”
“Yes, my love. Did you bring those vile relic-thieving heretics to justice?”
“I, ah,” Calaf began. “We encountered each other, and I acquired all the relics that could be accounted for. I still have the Port Town relic in my inventory, which I plan to hand into local authorities… whomever that may be now.”
Calaf explained the brunt of his first adventure through Port Town to his betrothed. He mentioned the monastic cloister, by which dissidents were branded into silence. He mentioned Metzger Cross’s thieves’ guild he ran on the side and the eventual flight of said guild to Firefield.
She paid close attention, particularly to this last part.
“Oh my, well, running an enterprise on the side as an ordained Bishop is certainly a most sinful activity,” she said.
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What Calaf did not mention was anything about being stabbed by official Church Hunters, or anything about Jelena.
“Right, and anyone who dared defy him was forced into the monastery and had an addendum to their Brand forcing them into silence forevermore!”
Charlotte tilted her head slightly. “Say, was this bishop ever apprehended?”
“He was… slain,” Calaf deferred.
“Ah, well, rewarded as a two-timer deserves,” Charlotte said. “Oh, brave Calaf. You’ve surely done much good for the Church. I shall send a letter to the archbishops council about your feats as soon as this rebellion is done with. Surely, our marriage shall be done at the Riverglen Cathedral just as soon as we get back.”
Calaf nodded eagerly.
“You know, when Gorman said you were headed north past Plains Junction, I was quite worried.” Charlotte fluttered her eyes demurely. “It’s said that naïve young travelers are often… led astray… by the fiery passion and nubile temptations of those who dwell around Firefield. Yes, many a church-approved betrothal has been led astray by, ahem, desert fever.”
Calaf let out a weird ‘huh’ sound from his mouth as his betrothed let a sly grin spread along her line-thin lips.
“W-what’s ‘desert fever’?” he stammered.
“But I knew that my beloved Calaf would never be tempted by the voluptuous bodies and libertine morals of those wicked, un-Menuly Firefield ladies.”
With a wink, Charlotte rose from her seat.
“Wait right here,” she said and disappeared around a divider meant for the modesty and privacy of bed-bound patients.
There were still some other patients being tended to, and clerics doing healer work, elsewhere in the tent. Still, Charlotte’s own ‘office’ here was relatively quiet in an isolated corner.
A quick Menu-ly flourish appeared and swiftly disappeared behind the divider. Charlotte emerged. Her clerical robes were no different.
“Well, dear Calaf. Examine my equipment,” she said slyly.
It usually wasn’t polite to snoop around another’s equipment or stats screen. But if his betrothed – a holy woman, mind you – insisted, well…
Calaf peered into his fiancée’s equipment screen.
Item: Plain Clerical Robes
Description: Plain Robes Befitting a Cleric. Nondescript, Fitting a Woman of the Cloth. Habit optional.
Weapon: Banded Clerical Stave
Description: Plain Club, Doubles as a Healing Catalyst.
Item: Deaconess’ Discrete Nightly Negligee.
Description: Private Garments of a Church Sister. Viable, if Unadvised, for Seduction. Provides a Perfect View of the Wearer’s Menu Brand Along Her Right Breast. Mildly Sinful to Even Lay Eyes On.
“Yes, indeed,” Charlotte began, posing cheekily. “Do not be led astray by those unfaithful foreign women who probably don’t even have their Brands applied properly. Think only of these.”
Calaf stared at his betrothed’s assets, flustered. Already, he could feel himself being weaned away from the heretical, seductive wiles of that relic-thieving harlot and back into the loving, godly influence of this pure and proper deaconess. Yes, truly this was holy, on-Menu seduction, not like that other godless apostate seduction.
The Deaconess’ Discrete Nightly Negligee was a bright, laundered white, of course. Custom-tailored around the dear deaconess’s form and figure. Why, a part of Calaf wondered how it would look on the curvaceous, sun-kissed body of a sassy and free-spirited rogue from the deserts outside of Firefield… No… no, there would be none of that! There would be no Desert Fever here today.
“If only you’d made it home a little earlier,” Charlotte declared, demure. “Our company is full for now. But if you could march alongside us, why, I could show off the black and ruby sets around camp.”
Calaf gasped. “Deaconess Charlotte.”
“Ah, we’ll be marching into danger soon, my dear,” the Deaconess continued. “Yes, these rebellious apostates do not take kindly to innocent young deaconesses. Oh, won’t you come and march with us? While the main regiment is full up, there’s no doubt an opening available with the adventurer’s guild or a free company. Come, my love. Won’t you raise your spear against godless heresy once more? For me?”
“Well, the plan was to get home,” Calaf admitted.
Though the plan had also been to get home to Charlotte. And here she was. Heading into danger while he was homeward-bound.
“About these heretics. These, what were they called, Cultivators?” Caelus said. “I’ve heard nothing about them on the road thus far.”
“Oh, they’ve caused great riots and disturbances, even putting the treetop cathedral at Deepwood at risk. Yes, the tragedy at Riverglen Cathedral was a portent of a tumultuous pilgrimage season.”
“What do they believe?” Calaf asked.
“Why, the manifesto was widely available before the church so swiftly clamped down upon their heathen lies. They stand against everything the martyred Pryor Yordan represented. They cast out the holy church and its agents in favor of pursuing mastery of the Interface and its System willy-nilly. Imagine that – a pilgrimage without stations. Classes switched and activated without visiting holy cathedrals or shrines. Oh, it will be chaos, my dear, without a steady guiding hand”
Calaf listened to this spiel. “So they’re out to overthrow the church?”
“Far worse than that, my love.” Charlotte’s eyes twinkled slightly, catching far-off candlelight. “Why, they even forsake the church’s burial strictures. They want to disinter our hallowed dead from the cathedral crypts and spread them about in some common field unconsecrated. ‘Graveyards’ they call it.”
Buried without consecration. The act sent a chill up Calaf’s spine in ways all the talk of heresy up until now did not. He became acutely aware of his breathing. Warfare and heretical rebellions… both would end with many deaths by necessity. Corpses, left to fester, decaying far beyond the requisite -5 HP required to arrest rot and intern the fallen in a proper crypt. And his beloved Charlotte was walking right into this.
Yes, it wouldn’t do to return to a home without his betrothed in it.
“I can go,” Calaf said.
Hell, Deepwood is on the way home anyway. It was just one more detour. Just have to kick these Cultivators out of the Battletower. They’d be back before the pilgrimage officially ended.
“Oh, how I wish you could march with the cathedral’s main contingent.” Charlotte clasped hands with Calaf. “Yes, if only you could be by my side. But to march further along the line, even then we may see each other once or twice during the campaign.”
“I’ll get a position with one of the auxiliary adventuring groups, or mercenary companies,” Calaf said.
“And I shall ensure we don’t send that company as part of the most dangerous vanguard,” Charlotte added with a giggle. “We leave first thing in the morning. If you can get a spot on one of the auxiliary companies, mayhaps we can march back to Firefield together within a fortnight, my love.”
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Calaf’s objectives now were thus:
Firstly, he would have to level up exactly once to reach the coveted level 40.
Companies and adventurer’s guilds were arranged by level. If he could get to level 40, he could get priority positioning in a mid-range formation.
Second, Calaf needed to reclass at the Port Town cathedral. His next major class change was nigh, the path that would begin to mold his stats and build on the road to Paladin.
Third. While at the cathedral, Calaf needed to find someone, anyone to take the Scout’s Lockpicks off his person. It was his original quest, after all. If he were captured or killed on the crusader’s path, it wouldn’t do to have this priceless holy relic looted right off his corpse by some feral apostate.
“Hey!” a familiar figure waved to Calaf as he left the tent. “Been a while!”
An interface menu cropped up:
Name:
Gorman, Church Regular
Rank:
Dualpath, The Most Holy Church of the Menu
Level:
29
Status:
59/59 (Surprised)
Weapons:
Plainswood Standard-Issue Steel Spear (Str: 12, Agl: 14)
“Gained a few levels on the way back,” Gorman said. “Not as many as you, it seems.”
“Hey, Gorman,” Calaf said. “You came here too?”
Gorman nodded. “Everyone with the stat requirements to pick up a sword is being called up. Something really must have the ecclesial council spooked. Sounds like the rabble-rousers are just a bunch of up-jumped hinterlands bandits if you ask me.”
Calaf nodded.
“Say, you looking for something? Any dire-rats need clearing out of the Port Town sewers?”
“I have to level up.” Calaf shook his head. “Sorry, have to slay something solo. Not enough time to warrant splitting the experience in half.”
“Fair enough. See you on the trail, eh?” Gorman asked, surprisingly alert all things considered.
With another reunion under his belt, Calaf left the camp and made for the adjacent pine woods, relatively high ground compared to the delta swamps and bayous. There’d likely be a dire-hog or something similar to slay. Only a few more experience points were required.
And so, Calaf went forth, spear in hand. The sun poked through a modest canopy of pine barrens. And the sounds of camp were never too far away. The road and city wall were always to his south and east. Yes, he’d be safe from that tangled kudzu here, despite the overgrowth. He’d be safe in the light.
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