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Late afternoon was upon him, and Calaf had achieved the first major hurdle of his last-minute to-do list.
A slowly whirling light cut through the sky, barely visible even from the far side of town. The lighthouse was still in operation, for now. The beacon still burned.
Calaf headed towards the Port Town cathedral. Den of iniquity though it was, he needed to pray to the statue of the martyred Paladin here, to advance to his next class.
Port Town remained crowded with inbound crusaders. A seedy underbelly remained, but for the most part, the corruption of Bishop Cross’s tenure here was swept away – or at least remained buried well enough.
Once more, Calaf visited the cathedral district. He walked up to the great building, one of a few structures made of heavy stone in these swampy environs. Some weeks and what felt like a lifetime ago, he’d been imprisoned there in the adjacent monastic wing. Now, though, he walked through the door into a quiet hall occupied by a spattering of pilgrims hoping to venture north at this late hour, and more crusaders praying to become a hammer of faith.
It was there, behind the altar, that Calaf encountered one more familiar face.
Light streamed through the painted window relief of the Scout at the cathedral’s back. It obscured the new interim Bishop’s face. But it did not obscure the System Menu, its divine Interface visible in all lighting conditions such that it was:
Name:
Deacon
Rank:
Deacon, Church of the Most Holy Menu
Level:
42
Status:
87/87 (Implacable)
“Why, you’ve nearly surpassed me, brave sir knight,” the kindly Deacon said.
Calaf gasped.
“Deacon? Why, it’s been so long. Last I recall you were still back in that off-System town. You know, I can’t quite recall the name…”
“Vault, I believe,” said the deacon. “Much has transpired since we last met.”
The Deacon took time off his busy schedule to explain to Calaf what he’d been up to in the weeks and months since they last parted ways. The pair ascended to the belfry to catch up and describe their journeys to each other.
The conversion of Vault continued apace. Most of the populace now lived Under the Menu. A basic church Mission had been established, with some recently educated locals serving as Sisters and a contingent of Riverglen church personnel having relieved the lone Deacon… Deacon, from his duties as the sole holy man in that homely abode.
Deacon, as always, hit the road in search of his next assignment. That brought him back to Granite Pass, then north, shadowing the great pilgrimage. Along the way, he aided and proselytized amongst recent converts on the road.
Deepwood was something of a signature holy site for Clerics, Deacons, and other holy men. So Deacon spent some time there, meditating on the ancient Cleric of Yore’s teachings. After some days, right around when Calaf was heading through the desert to Japella, Deacon ventured through the woods towards the springs and alpine camps of Twelfthnight. It was there he’d encountered his first trouble along the road, as groups of brigands were picking fights with random clergy.
What’s more, these honorless brigands had weaned promising, pious pilgrims off the righteous path with curios promising easy and bountiful leveling free of the random nature of the Menu.
But persevere, the Deacon did. He banded together with those still faithful to party up and push to the Plains. From there he’d heard tell of the sudden empty position of Bishop in need of filling in Port Town. So, he’d traveled here and swiftly began cleaning up the gaping administrative and spiritual void left by the late Bishop Cross.
Up in the belfry, Deacon gazed over his new area of spiritual responsibility. The cathedral towered over the squat wooden buildings of Port Town.
Outside, the far lighthouse beacon continued to twist around and around.
“Hmm. That light,” said the deacon. “It’s dim. Turning slower.”
Calaf cleared his throat.
That could require some elaboration.
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Another hour passed as Calaf tried to explain the strange entity he’d encountered in the basement. The Stalwart left out any mention of how the corpses got there. Instead, he merely said that he’d investigated the lighthouse following some adventurer’s commission or the other.
“Oh my.” Deacon sat back and listened intently. He scratched his chin. “Some sort of… reanimated, unconsecrated corpse? Talking and moving like a man? Yes, that sounds fowl indeed.”
“Is there any reference to a creature like this in church scripture?” Calaf asked.
“No, definitely not,” Deacon spoke with the learned expertise of someone who had the holy scriptures memorized. “That’s what’s so worrisome.”
Again, in the evening near-dark, the lighthouse beacon made another painfully slow pass.
“I shall send some trusted guards over to the lighthouse. Give it kindling for the night, at least. And ensure there is nothing else in the basement.”
“Thank you,” Calaf said.
The pair traveled down the stairs as a great bell rang from the opposite belfry. It was a summons for evening liturgy and prayers, an act Deacon would be required to officiate.
“Will you be staying for the evening sermon?” Deacon asked.
“I cannot.” Calaf shook his head. “I’m going to visit the shrine of the Paladin, then I need to sign up for a company headed out into the hinterlands.”
“Ah, the response to the brigands.” Deacon nodded sagely. “There must be some greater threat under the surface to warrant a full call to crusade over every station of the pilgrimage route. Be very careful.”
“Thank you, Deacon.”
“It’s Bishop Deacon, now,” Deacon said with a warm grin. “Please, stop by the cathedral at any time.”
“Oh!” Calaf turned back to Deacon. “Before I leave. There is something I should entrust to you.”
Calaf
If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.
· Holy Lockpick of the Thief Scout (Unbreakable)
To:
Deacon
· None
“Ah, relic retrieval – your original mission,” said Bishop Deacon. “Yes, you did good, wresting this priceless artifact away from that relic thief. I shall commend this to the reliquary. Go in peace, brave Stalwart.”
Calaf felt the Agility and related sub-stat abilities drain suddenly from his stat menu now that he no longer had access to the artifact’s holy power.
“Thank you, Bishop,” said Calaf, with a respectful bow.
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Crusaders, pilgrims, but surprisingly few locals stopped by the cathedral for the liturgy. Calaf, meanwhile, traveled to the eastern wing of the cathedral complex, where the church reliquary and the shrines to the four heroes were located.
That quiet monastery, home to more than a few bad memories, sat in the western wing. Calaf avoided that like the dire-plague. With church in session, this wing was calm and silent. He would not be disturbed.
A great vault led to the reliquary, dead center in this wing. To think, the crooked Bishop Cross had full access to these priceless holy trinkets all along.
A path forked at the vault door, ending at shrines to the Scout and Battlemage to the left and right respectfully. The path then traveled around the vault and through some pensive gardens to the remaining two shrines.
Calaf turned left, as the Paladin was usually on the left of most holy shrine setups. He passed the Scout, whose statue was grander than the rest courtesy of being Port Town’s local hero.
The shrine to the martyred Paladin beckoned. Cold, shaded in the evening light. The Paladin’s visor betrayed no facial features at all, whereas all other hero’s statues portrayed at least some generic visage. The Paladin’s armor was all-concealing. A perfect defense, and yet he’d laid his life down for his beloved Cleric.
Faithful knew that this slain hero had a Brand on the left side of his neck. It was clear in church records, as well as evident on the necks of his noble descendants who still lived today.
Calaf knelt. He offered up a hand towards the statue, which stared down upon him through the slitted helm.
He received no response from the statue. There was no spark of divine inspiration, only cold stone. But the System stirred in the background, changing him in its myriad background Interfaces. Calaf’s Menu Brand itched slightly,
Name:
Calaf, Crusader
Rank:
Squire
Level
40
Status:
120/120 (Conflicted but Persevering)
The power of the Paladin flowed through Calaf. His class changed from Stalwart to Squire.
The ‘midway’ point reclass on the route to those hallowed final classes of Paladin, Scout, Battlemage, and Archpope (final form of Cleric) granted a slight increase to that discipline’s key stats. Compensation for the leveling doldrums faithful were likely to encounter at this point. Calaf felt himself grow stronger in the following stats as well:
Strength: 46 (+3)
Endurance: 65 (+4)
Agility: 28
Intelligence: 25
Charisma: 23 (+2)
Arcane: 9
Luck: 33
Yes, he felt stronger already. The Holy Menu, that most blessed System, empowered him with strength, the better to wield his spear. It granted him Endurance, the Paladin-path signature attribute, the better to tank blows, hold shields, and increase his prodigious pool of Hit Points.
And it even granted a bit of Charisma. A dump stat until now, but it was useful for various buffs and even the nascent realm of spellcraft, of which Squires and above could begin to access some rudimentary healing magic.
It would be the last major mass-stat increase for some time. From here on out, it was all one or two points to Endurance and a secondary stat per level. And that’s if he were lucky!
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The path to Paladin was well-known, memorized by every child old enough to pick up a Sharp Stick and Fake Board-Shield (Level 1, Str: 1, End:1) and partake in mock-battle in the streets.
The progression was thus, after passing the requisite Initiate and Convert classes of level one:
Path of the Paladin:
Class
Level Range
Shielder
~3 - ~15
Stalwart
~15- 40
Squire
40 - ~65
Errant
~65 - 75
Paladin
75+
This knightly progression path was the typical endurance-heavy, shield-based preservation class. A soldier against corruption. Ready to leap in front of party members to block blows with shields, or with their own body if necessary.
There were a few pathways one could take at the lower levels; Stalwart could also head down the Battlemage route of Dualpath a little earlier. That was Gorman’s road through the ranks. But with its defense-based skillset this was the primary class tree of guards and soldiers. Level forty was the hard cut-off, where the armored, walking-tank aspects of Paladin began to solidify themselves.
For completion’s sake, and the curious, the remaining paths were thus:
Path of the Battlemage:
Class
Level Range
Fighter/Stalwart/Soothsayer
~3 - ~18
Dualpath
~18 - 40
Magician/Crimson Mage
40 - ~65
Battlemage
~65+
Trading off some major leveling milestones for the opportunity to sling a wider array of spells earlier.
And for Clerics, like dear Charlotte, or at one time, Jelena.
Path of the Cleric:
Class
Level Range
Healer
~3 - ~15
Soothsayer
~15 - 40
Cleric
40 - ~75
Archpope
~75
The holy Cleric had been in the Cleric class for most of her quest to dispose of the Old Demon King. She died an Archpope some decades later, but the name stuck. The Church had many such traditions like that, where a name would continue long past its relevancy.
Path of the Scout (Or Perhaps Thief):
Class
Level Range
Trailblazer
~3 - ~14
Defthands
~14 - 40
Vanguard
40 - ~65
Scout
~65
Of course, there were other niche paths and builds. Bard, for one, split off somewhere along the Cleric and Battlemage paths. But these were the four paths blazed by those Ancient Heroes of Yore: Tank, Buffer and Magic-based Damage Dealer, Straight-Healer, and sneaky sub-DPS.
Level 40 was a milestone for all. Hence why Calaf so desired to reach this lofty plateau. A whole new world awaited. Better armor. Basic healing. Greater combat potential. The path to Autumn’s Redoubt would not be insurmountable. And the end of the road, at Paladin, while not obtainable yet, was at least visible from here.
Calaf left the secluded shrines a little stronger than when he went in. The sounds of Deacon’s sermon were still audible from within the church. But Calaf was already late for his appointment. He needed to find a mercenary outfit or Riverglen-affiliated adventurer’s party who would still take a recruit at this late hour.
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Before returning to the Riverglen camp beyond the walls to look and/or beg for a spot on the Crusaders’ march, Calaf went looking for some stores. He bought up a Scroll of Basic Heal and other low-level defense-oriented spells, aiming to master them on the long march back into the deep woods.
While out and about, he spied a minor altercation. A group of ruffians in the market had taken to heckling at the outskirts of the cathedral district. Devout Crusaders, mostly Stalwarts and Squires in fact, formed a wall by which to block them.
“You can’t stop us! Higher level magecraft is now open to everyone!”
A ruffian downed three Considerable Honeydew Level Up Baubles of Intelligence, leveling up twice to a paltry level twenty-two in the process. He then belted out a Great Fireball, a spell requiring at least fifty Intelligence – far more than the average low-twenty something would ever have access to.
Fire streaked along the narrow streets of Port Town, dangerously close to the wooden stores and dormitories. The fire jet flew in a long arc, nearly hitting the cathedral itself before meeting its match in a great, redstone shield of some higher-level Squire in the sixties.
“Push them back!” this shield-wielding knight ordered.
Mace-wielding church militants rushed in to disperse the crowd.
Those baubles… Calaf thought. Why, it was almost as if…
But the action was over by the time Calaf could even leave the store.
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