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It was a beautiful and unassuming day in Riverglen. The titular river lazily flowed around and through the idyllic city's strong brick walls. A natural moat separated this, First Among Towns, from the gently rolling hills beyond. Within the city limits, streets were narrow but not so much that it blocked the gentle sun's rays from illuminating even the dankest of alleys. And out of the largest portcullis, aligned due north, ran a straight dirt road trampled flat by years of traffic of all sorts.
Twice weekly, every citizen in the town and even those of some surrounding farms gathered in the city's central square, at the Most Holy Cathedral of The Menu. A grand temple with great buttresses gently urging onlooking eyes upwards and stained-glass windows ensuring all were awed by this great and glorious facade.
Today, Pryor Yordan led the flock in the recitation of the Most Sacred Tenants.
"In the beginning, all was darkness," preached the Pryor. "Mankind was alone, with neither clothing against the elements, weapons against the beasts, or light against the darkness."
"All was darkness." Faithful among the pews nodded solemnly.
"But lo! First, there was but darkness. And then, there was the Menu!" Pryor Yordan raised his hands towards the sky.
"Yark! The Menu! Forcing order over the natural world!"
Outside, it was nearly noon. The sermon was precisely timed to match where the sun refracted through the stained-glass windows, bathing the church from choir stands behind the pulpit down to the wide front doors in a kaleidoscope rainbow.
"Indeed, my flock. Not but two miles south from this very holy ground, our blessed forefathers perfected the System, the Holy Interface. And with this Interface and its Blessed Menu, they did rescue this tepid hollow from beast and devilry both."
"The Warrior, Who Did Build Our First Walls," the congregation said in a monotone chant.
"The Battlemage, court magician for hire. Who Did Puzzle Out the Intricacies of The Holy Interface."
"The Scout, Who Did Trailblaze the Great Pilgrimage."
"And the Priestess," concluded Pryor Yordan. "Oh Cleric, Who Did Establish This, Our First Church of The Menu."
The great church bells would sound soon. A team silently worked up in the belfries, preparing to wind and release the massive bells. It was a feat that would be nigh impossible for such a small crew by hand. But through the Menu, all things were possible.
"Together, these great heroes did push back the forces of devilry and heretical doubters both. We are blessed with their Holy Interface forever more." The Pryor clasped his hands in prayer. "My flock, do open your Menus and move over to communion."
Dozens, no, hundreds of unobtrusive menus opened before the faithful. A fluid mirage wafting about a foot and a half in front of each congregant, fully visible only to each individual faithful.
What the throngs of faithful could see, up at the podium, was this:
Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
Name:
Yordan, Son of Yonathan
Rank:
Pryor, Church of the Most Holy Menu
Level:
41
Status:
750/750 (Healthy)
"And so, my flock, if you would follow the example of that ancient hero of yore, our Besainted Priest, and thumb over to Settings, then Food, and filter for 'communion wafers'..."
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Simultaneously, in a thought-to-be empty confessional booth...
"Ahh, they used to have full orchestras for every sermon."
A woman wearing a thick eyepatch covering everything from her cheek to her left temple to the bridge of her nose closed her remaining good eye. Her hair was dark and curly. Her eyes were a ruby red. She mimed a string instrument in her hands, swaying to some old choir no one else could hear.
"At least, that's how I remember it, back at home." The woman hummed along softly to an imaginary tune, audible only to her. "Now it's all just boring sermons and droning choirs."
A gruff, muffled voice came from the priest's confessional booth. Too harsh and guttural to come from some kindly old pastor.
"Missing the orphanage?"
"What? No." The woman's face contorted into a frown. "I mean, not like that."
"You're not going to be able to run in that dress."
"Relax, dear." The woman chuckled to herself. "I've got to blend in with the crowd until the opportune moment."
There was a begrudging grunt of approval from beyond the confessional shade. "Time it for when the bells ring."
"Not my first operation, Kiddo~" the woman said with a singsong voice.
Another less approving grunt.
"Just don't let your guard down, Jelena."
The woman, Jelena, swung up from her perch on the confessional booth. Almost showtime.
"Just keep that back door open for me." Jelena snickered.
Outside, there was a mass of wavy, flickering sounds. The congregation was busy flipping through its myriad menus. The bells would ring right around the time they began eating their weekly communion.
"Ah, bit of a familiar feeling," Jelena said.
Need about six seconds from the moment I walk out of this booth. Columns will mask my approach, and everyone else who could see me will be too buried in their menus to react. Jelena adjusted her eyepatch.
"Hallowed is the Interface," she said glibly. "Just another day in the ol' haberdashery..."
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Up at the altar, Pryor Yordan held his hands aloft.
"As our Great Heroes of Yore did in those ancient days, do we select these communion wafers in your honor, oh Lord. And we do select these wafers, then hover over to 'eat,' as instructed in the holy commandments. And we do consume these wafers as offering to you in prayer, so that our faithful may follow in our heroes' footsteps down the road of the Grand Pilgrimage."
A woman in an austere dress, indistinguishable from any other worshiper, rounded an interior buttress. If anyone in the pews wasn't distracted by their menu for whatever reason, they may have simply assumed she was a late adherent attempting to sneak in through a side door.
The great bells sounded high above. Noon had struck.
A woman in a thick eyepatch covering about half her face scurried up dead center into the cathedral's central aisle, standing before the altar, at the steps at Pryor Yordan's feet.
The Pryor opened his mouth to speak. What he meant to say was a mystery to all and wouldn't have been audible under the din of the bells. A squat, cylindrical object was pulled out of this mystery woman's dress. Smoke and a shrill flash rang out.
What the congregation saw, in the blink of their eyes, was this:
Name:
Yordan, Son of Yonathan
Rank:
Pryor, Most Holy Church of the Menu
Level:
41
Status:
0/750 (Dead)
Dead.
No warning. No turns at death's door, where the faithful could summon healers or apply a salve. Dead, permanently, his most dishonorable foe not even allowing her victim the church-sanctioned rite of turn-based combat.
This murderer looked upon the now frightened congregation with her good eye. She put a finger to her lips.
"Simply business."
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