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Before parting ways, Gerard made a point of patting Calaf on the back. Patted a supply pouch too for some odd reason.
“Good luck, we’re all counting on you,” Gerard said.
Jorge nodded. “We’ll be in Firefield for some time. We’ll meet up there.”
All parties stayed in Firefield for a while. The levels there took a noticeable bump up, and it only got worse in every other area. Still, there wouldn’t be any other parties following in their footsteps if Port Town was afflicted by this over-leveling issue. Yes, for the good of the pilgrimage, and tens of thousands of faithful down the route, Calaf would have to help resolve this issue.
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A riverboat arrived at the junction, as scheduled. This issue was already well-known back in Port Town. Dire-gators sunbathed along the northern and southern approaches, rendering the only safe path into town by boat.
Calaf booked passage on a low-bowed river boat. Its cargo of dire-bovines was delayed by the recent leveling issues, but the riverboat captain was still desperate to make some kind of money off this scheduled journey.
Jorge and company left down the inland crossroads. Aside from some over-leveled dire-cows their journey ought to have been relatively safe away from the river. Calaf quickly refocused on his own quest.
Level fifty-plus dire-gators gazed up at the boat as it paddled its way downriver. If any of them wanted to come and have a bite, neither Calaf nor the paltry level thirty-something boat guards would be particularly capable of stopping them.
Nevertheless, the boat continued onward. Past a roadblock of sunbathing gators, and past a glut of marooned level twenty-something travelers at the next junction over.
The boat stopped to pick up refugees and ferry them back to Port Town. This occurred several times along the path, until the boat was carrying as many passengers as it would have held foodstuffs previously. Calaf gave his seat up for a particularly beleaguered-looking swamp peasant.
Some hours passed, and the ferry boat paddled its way through a gap in the Port Town wall. Riverside docks allowed all number of boats to unload their cargo into the warehouse district. The recent disruptions meant that this was the only boat currently here.
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Calaf debarked next to a warehouse, within eyesight of that cistern from before.
The town was not as crowded as Calaf imagined it would be. Not like Granite Pass when it was similarly roadblocked. This meant the dire-gator’s over-leveling was likely occurring to the south as well, trapping people back near the plains.
The church district was similarly desolate. Calaf checked at the cathedral and found nobody seemingly concerned about the problems occurring on the land routes in and out of town.
“May I speak with the bishop?” Calaf asked a guard. “I believe I know what’s happening here.”
But the guards were, just as before, utterly unapproachable. Wouldn’t give him the time of day.
It was probably just the dour mood and the glut of powerful creatures just outside the walls, but Calaf couldn’t help but sense a whiff of corruption coming off the cathedral district in these parts.
Checking the cistern again revealed it to be cordoned off and surrounded with guards.
Well, Calaf thought, perhaps they were doing something about the thieves’ guild after all. Still, there was little he could do here all alone. He was beginning to think that he’d been too hasty to leap to the defense of the innocent. Certainly, nobody seemed to be in mortal danger around town right now. The route was disrupted, but church acolytes would no doubt be able to force the routes open in time for the main wave of peak pilgrimage season, just as they’d done down south. Maybe it would have been better to stick with the party and continue towards the desert, and the next station.
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It was while Calaf was lost in his own mind that he was approached by a trio in robes. Church guards.
“Calaf, of Riverglen?” asked the lead cleric.
“It is I.”
“You’ve been summoned to the cathedral,” the cleric said simply. “Please follow us.”
Finally, someone was listening to him. Calaf dutifully followed.
The clerics were all level 36. Respectable for the region. At long last, Calaf could help cleanse a region from this horrible curse of overleveling and bring a gang of relic thieves to justice!
Just one more act of chivalry on the long road to a proper rematch with Jelena.
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The three clerics escorted Calaf into the cathedral and past a quiet garden meant for pensive recollection. They marched in near-total silence into the cathedral’s monastic cloister. No doubt the bishop required a quiet area for Calaf’s debriefing.
The path came to an end at an austere chamber, scarcely enough room for a meeting, let alone a bedroll. Perhaps the bishop wanted to have this clandestine meeting in secret?
The mid-level clerics left Calaf in there without much fanfare at all. He waited an uncomfortably long time before moving to pry open the door.
Two of the clerics were still there, flanking the door on either side.
“Is the bishop going to hear my testimony?” Calaf asked, a bit of frustration overwhelming his attempt at knightly composure.
“Wait here,” said one of the clerics.
Calaf raised an eyebrow.
“I’m not going to be meeting with the bishop, am I?” he asked. “I’m bound by notions of honor and chivalry to respect your authority as presumed clerics of the church, but I suspect there’s something greater going on here…”
“Oh, you’ve met the bishop.” Came a voice from behind – from within the bare-bones room.
Nowhere to hide. Could’ve been a thief or scout skill. Or maybe there was a hidden passageway somewhere. Ah, it hardly mattered. What did matter was that this figure now in the room with him was Metzger, curator of the thieves’ guild. And he was wearing clerical robes. And his title now was:
Name:
Metzger Cross, Bishop of Port Town
Title:
Cleric, Most Holy Church of the Menu.
The tallest cleric burst into the room. It was a tight fit for three.
“Trade your items and don these robes,” said the cleric.
A trade window appeared. All items, armor, and weapons on the Stalwart’s possession for a single set of minimal-armor rating monk’s robes. Calaf immediately thumbed the ‘reject’ button. He turned back to Metzger.
“What is this? You impersonating a member of the church now?
“What? No. Thieves’ guild is more a night gig.” Again, Metzger had brought his wine with him. “They’re not so different, y’know. Both jobs require administrative skills, relic appraisal, all that.”
“So you had access to the Port Town reliquary this whole time?” Calaf’s scowl deepened. “They were never stolen. But then, why didn’t you take advantage of the level-altering relic long ago?”
“Ah, no sense in leaving you in suspense. Not like you’re getting out of here without the vow of silence added to your brand.” Metzger leaned back in a simple, uncomfortable-looking wooden chair. “You see, the scriptures say the church blessed the beasts of the field to control their levels. But we didn’t know levels were actively regulated in real-time.”
Calaf shielded his branded hand from the cleric and Metzger. Who knew what they were trying to do to it? He received another lopsided trade request and nearly punched the Interface as it appeared to him in midair.
“… mainline church up in the mountains ‘n bones always handle that with their own dedicated Deacons. Purpose of most of these relics was apparently above the pay grade of even a bishop. But now that your quarry let slip what all those dusty old saint’s scarfs are actually used for, figured we could turn a profit with it.”
“You’re not trying to block the pilgrimage route,” Calaf guessed.
Metzger shrugged. “Not really. If you think about the animals that have been buffed, you could probably determine what we’re after. You’ll have plenty of time to puzzle it all out in the monastery.”
A third trade request appeared. Calaf jammed the ‘reject’ button once more.
“Y’see, when people go snooping around where the authorities don’t want them, we make sure to sweep them up and bring them to the cloister. Vow of silence does wonders for keeping people quiet, as I’m sure you can surmise.” Metzger chuckled. “Many or most monks are whistleblowers really, brought in and confined to quarters, they all eventually take the vow of silence and live out their lives, defeated, as quiet friars silently adhering to the dictates of the Interface.”
“You’re corrupt,” Calaf declared. “This whole town is corrupt. The archbishops will hear about this…”
“Not from you. Again, vow of silence.” Metzger looked like he expected Calaf to laugh. “What, did you not have monks in Riverglen? You think they took vows of silence and cloistered themselves up out of an act of faith?”
Calaf scowled. Why, the martyred Pryor Yordan was responsible for organizing the cloister as well as the orphanage. Surely, he would never…
“Well, you’re a hardheaded one.” Metzger turned to the cleric at the door. “These accommodations are too good for him. Take him to the cells until he agrees to, heh, watch his mouth.”
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