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Calaf was marched through the halls of the Port Town cathedral’s cloistered monastic wing, flanked by no less than five level 30+ clerics. He still had his personal effects, but only because he kept declining that trade request.
The Interface really did limit the ability to fight back in this situation. Fighting off these clerics would be a tall order with the level delta, even without their various cleric-y buffs they’d bust out just as soon as any fighting started. But just having this constant demand to trade crop up in his vision also left him wrestling with the corrupt clerics’ sabotage.
Why, if a dissident or even someone who simply drew the ire of the corrupt Bishop Metzger Cross were isolated from all help or allies, confined to austere quarters, prevented from fleeing with high-level guards and zero opportunity to level up, Calaf could see how lesser common folk would surrender, make the trade, and accept a life in the cloister under a vow of silence.
Surely, not all the monks and nuns in the Church of the Menu were so tragically silenced. Riverglen wasn’t like this at all. It’s Pryor had been a living saint, and the bishop most surely godly.
Calaf was marched, fully armed and armored, into an even smaller and more austere cell than the plain monastic quarters he’d been reintroduced to Metzger in.
“You’ll be confined here until you trade for the robes and agree to have the vow of silence added to your Brand,” said the lead cleric.
“Hmph.” Calaf let out a defiant grumble, chest puffed out. “I refuse. Have at thee!”
Calaf brought out his spear and held his shield high. Immediately, with barely a flick of the wrist, the lead cleric countered:
Brother Nucci Casts: Paralyze!
Effect: 33% Base Chance of Paralyzing Any Enemy Your Level or Below (or equivalent).
All at once, Calaf was sent to his knees as if some sparking electric current had glued him to the floor. It was a clerical magic – used to crowd control monsters while making a hasty retreat, or occasionally to bind monsters while a Brand was administered. That last utility left Calaf with a pang of fear in his heart – it left human victims, too, unable to fight back against a Brand. But no silencing brand addendum was ever brought out. Instead, the two other clerics merely picked the Stalwart up by his shoulders (an impressive feat, two scrawny mages hauling a fully armored knight) and deposited him in the barren cell.
The door was locked tight, the key in the cleric’s possession. The Interface offered nothing usable within the room – the door was an inaccessible red, with no other cubbyholes or even a loose brick highlighted.
Calaf was detained by an apostate bishop, all possible friends or allies none the wiser.
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Several days passed, per the Menu’s timekeeping feature. There was just the thinnest of light through a high slit-like window that made all light that managed to sneak into the sunless cell. This thin ray of light cast the room in a uniform, clouded-over grey. Calaf could subsist off the rations he had in his menu. Maybe that was why his captors hadn’t showed up with daily meals.
The Stalwart paced the room, taking stock of his potential allies.
Gorman? Back in Riverglen, probably in the sewer. Helping pilgrims. No clue that Calaf was in Port Town, certainly not detained within the cathedral itself.
Deacon? Back in Vault, as far as Calaf knew. Way off the pilgrimage route with even less of a chance of being able to get a message out. If he were aware there was no doubt he’d come running. But he was waaaay off the board of reasonable parties to involve.
Likewise, dearest Charlotte, his betrothed, was in Riverglen. If he could somehow get a messenger dire-pigeon to her, or even to that Friar at Plains Junction. Yes, surely any member of the church in good standing would be able to bring this fiendish false Bishop Cross to justice. Now how to get the message out…
Other than that, there was Jorge and the party. It would be several more days still before they got to Firefield, assuming no problems occurred. And it would be several more days or weeks before they realized that Calaf was yet to check in. In a best case scenario, the party would have to double back to Port Town and independently discover Calaf in this cell. And they wouldn’t even head out until Calaf’s food supplies were pretty much run out. And the worst-case scenario, they would make it to Port Town and start snooping around, only to wind up detained by the heretical bishop.
Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
At some late hour, Calaf’s pacing came to an end. There was Jelena, loathed though he was to admit the fact. She had an antagonistic relationship with the church – certainly no scruples against raiding a cathedral. And she also had some kind of less-than-friendly relationship with the thieves’ guild in this part. Alas, she had no clue he was here, and likely wouldn’t care.
Calaf sighed. His rations would last for some time yet. Just needed to wait for an opportunity – to get a message out, or to escape himself.
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There’d been muffled screaming from some other cell in the cloister. It took a day before Calaf realized it was a person screaming out of their own cell’s narrow window, calling for aid. This stranger must have been in this monastery/dungeon awhile. At around day four (by Calaf’s estimate) the cries for assistance turned into a despair-filled whimper.
By the next day, the other cells were quiet. Somewhere within the cathedral, there was likely another silent monk walking around, head down.
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Sometime on day seven, footsteps rang down the hall. They stopped at the locked door. A key was jostled in the lock. Over in a corner, Calaf readied his shield and spear.
The level gap is insurmountable within the Menu, Calaf thought to himself. Gotta try and fight just a little dirty. They’re apostates – smiting those who would profane the Menu is more important than dogmatic adherence to turn-based strictures!
The door swung open. A cleric walked in – level 31 – likely wanting to try and force a trade window again. Hard to solo at Calaf’s level, but he wasn’t trying to stay here and take on the cleric in a straight fight.
Once more, that obnoxious trade menu opened up, wanting Calaf to surrender all his effects for a paltry low-defense monk’s robe. Calaf ignored it, leveled his shield, and charged forward. Not a shield bash, per the Menu, but more of a rush. The banded shield struck the false cleric on the chest and rammed the hapless holy man into the far wall with a thud.
“Aha!” Calaf cried, and rushed forward through the halls.
He was out… for now. But he was still in a monastery surrounded by berobed figures marching along, forlorn, in total silence. And there were others in at-level robes, paralysis spells prepped and at the ready.
Still off Menu, Calaf swung at the nearest figure who looked vaguely antagonistic. He drew blood – a paltry 2HP. And then Calaf was running for the nearest light source.
Three – no, five! – thieves in cleric garb blocked the doorway. There was no choice but to fight, and the fight was one that was stacked against Calaf.
What more could he do now? Why, it would take a miracle to overcome this roadblock now!
The clerics approached with hefty maces (the clerical classes’ preferred melee implement) in hand.
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“Hey, now. What’s all this then?”
A rather twangy accent common to Autumn’s Redoubt appeared from the light-filled courtyard behind the clerics. All at once they were pushed aside by a thin but mighty barrier-type apparatus that appeared as if out of thin air.
A sandy brown-haired fellow in highly modified church robes strutted into the monastery between the newly-parted clerics. He was…
Name:
Baldr
Rank:
Hunter, Church of the Menu
Level:
89
Status:
777/777 HP (Cocky)
“Where’s your boss?” this new church hunter asked the clerics.
But none of them seemed to want to respond. They inched away from this prodigiously leveled hunter.
Baldr laid eyes on Calaf. He didn’t say anything, but there was a glint that indicated he knew of Calaf by reputation.
“Ah, I was looking for you,” said the hunter with no indication if that was true or not.
Baldr walked between his barriers to get to Calaf. Just then, a level forty cleric, one of the higher-level ones, probably a ringleader or at least possessing some pretension of authority, pressed his face to the barrier.
“Sir. We were not expecting a guest from the High Church at Demon Lord’s Fall.”
“Eh, well, if we announce our arrival that gives some of the stations time to clean up the joint, make it look artificially presentable.” Baldr chuckled. “This is to say, ehe, we need to ensure all the stations are in order for the pilgrimage season. There’s a dangerous relic thief running around mucking things up, don’tcha know?”
“Right. Of course, sir. If you’ll just follow me I’ll take you to the meeting room to await Bishop Cross,” said the level 40.
Baldr looked to Calaf, who unsubtly shook his head as if to say, it’s a trap.
“Eh, I’ll reschedule,” Baldr said, then took Calaf by the hand and whisked him out of the monastery - and out of the cathedral entirely.
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Outside, even an overcast sky looked like a beautiful symbol of freedom to the recently liberated Calaf.
“Walter said he ran into some under-leveled gate guard in the dire-worm pits,” Baldr said all at once.
“Oh? Yes. Yes! That was me,” Calaf said. “It’s a… long story.”
“He said he found your complete flailing inability to do anything to the legendary monster kind of funny.” Baldr chuckled once more. “He doesn’t show it, but he thinks most people below level 50 or so are funny. What stood out to me – he mentioned you had a church blessing upon you. One granted purely by Church big shots.”
Deacon’s blessing, ever recharging, to protect against any blow. The only reason they survived that dire-worm’s bile-vomit attack. Of course, Deacon Deacon was just a midlevel wandering church ascetic. Nevertheless, Calaf explained the situation to his unexpected savior.
“Thank you so much for rescuing me,” Calaf said. “I am in your debt.”
“Eh, I was going to have a look-see in the Port Town cloister anyway,” Baldr said. “Would have found you eventually. Good job, making a break for it, though.”
Calaf breathed a sigh of relief – he truly was out of that prison – and with a level 89 escort to ensure no more harm would come to him so long as he was in Port Town.
“Now.” Baldr’s eyes gleamed; he could tell there was an interesting story behind all this. “Why don’t you explain why those clerics seemed to want to force you to take the monk robes.”
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