After the wagon dropped them off near Riverlark, the pilgrims continued down the road on foot. The newest members of their group grumbled, but the Monk in charge kept them moving. Father Dip was a New Franciscan quartered out of a monastery in Brexis, and had little patience for laziness. He was also eager to see how his latest batch of beer was maturing, which might have explained his haste.

His order had chosen brewing beer, cultivating tobacco, and roasting coffee as signs of their devotion to Francis. The deity in question had even come by to sample their offerings, declaring them to be “mighty fine”. Francis had spent the next few days with the monks, helping them nail down the trickier bits of their new belief system.

There had been some debate about whether throat punches were to be classified as holy martial techniques, or merely a good way to stop annoying people from talking. Francis had enlightened them with the true answer. A throat punch was both divine and useful (as were the sacred sack tap, the oil check, and the holy headbutt).

The New Franciscans took Francis’ visitation as a sign that they had done the right thing by coming to Brexis. It was rare in Vahniss for a god to interact with their followers directly, much less offer high praise for simple offerings like beer, coffee, and tobacco. Their previous patron deity had charged a thousand gold for a brief visit, paid in advance. Francis was also, when you got right down to it, a lot more fun to be around.

Father Dip looked back at his charges with a mix of pride and sadness. He knew that many of them were not true believers. Most of his temporary flock were displaced peasants looking for a new life. Swearing temporary fealty to a god in exchange for safe passage to Brexis must have seemed like a good deal to them, beaten down and tired as they were.

Still, he couldn’t help but feel proud of them. They had made the journey. They had chosen to brave the wolves and brigands to find a better life for themselves. Dip thought that had to count for something. Perhaps he might even see a few of them in the coming weeks once they were settled. Dip certainly hoped so.

He wandered to the back of the group where one of the younger pilgrims was struggling. “Imogen, why are you limping?”

The young woman gave him a look he couldn’t decipher. “I’m fine,” she grunted, forcing herself to keep walking.

Father Dip raised his hand and called for the group to stop. His voice rang out across the road. “Pilgrims! We are almost to the border of the Dark Forest! By nightfall we will be in Brexis! Those that wish to take some time to rest or make themselves presentable may do so. We leave in twenty minutes.”

Then, once everyone was either resting or cleaning themselves, he returned to Imogen. The Monk scratched his short cropped silver hair awkwardly. “To quote our god and guide Francis, what the fuck is wrong with your feet?”

Imogen responded by removing her boot to show a bloody white sock. Dip winced as he saw what could only be a Cursed Wound. They were injuries that resisted natural healing and came with nasty debuffs. She gritted her teeth. “It’s fine. I can get healing once we’re in the city.”

Father Dip took a deep breath. “No, it’s not. If you keep walking the wound will get worse. You might even lose your foot. I would fix it myself, if I could. But my gifts are not of the healing variety.”

This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

The young woman looked up at him defiantly from the rock by the side of the road where she was sitting. “Well, I’m not going to let you leave me behind.”

The moment stretched as neither one spoke. Father Dip’s responsibility was to the group, and slowing down or carrying Imogen might mean traveling through the Dark Forest after sunset. That was never a good idea. They had signs posted and everything.

Just as he was about to make a decision he might regret, Dip felt something inside him shift. “I will beseech our god for aid.”

Imogen watched as the Monk extracted the ground tobacco that was his namesake and packed a lip full. She didn’t have much use for faith, or gods for that matter. Her village had been burned to the ground by Lord Laton for a failure to pay taxes. And where had the gods been then?

The man continued to swear and mutter to himself, or possibly his patron deity. Imogen wasn’t entirely clear on how things worked when it came to faith, but she was pretty sure it was all bullshit. That was, until a pillar of light cut through the afternoon sky, illuminating the Monk.

The pilgrims watched in awe as red white and blue light washed over the man, who looked into his outstretched hands with the smug satisfaction of someone who had just won a tricky bar bet. Father Dip knelt beside Imogen as the light faded.

“Now,” he said, “May I interest you in a rip-it, some motrin, and a pair of clean socks?”

***

The brigands watched as the divine light faded. They were simple men, some might even have said they were stupid. But even they had some doubts about attacking pilgrims so close to a holy city.

“Boss, I think we should let them go. I don’t like the look of that light,” said Cludge as he wiped a grubby hand on his leather riding pants.

Sir Stabs-A-Lot was less impressed than his underling. “If they have a Cleric, that was probably a once per day power at best. Most likely they’re feeling the effects of Stress and will be weakened for some time following its use.”

“Oh?” Cludge looked over at the group of pilgrims. “They don’t seem stressed. If anything, they seem happy.”

The Knight in charge of the brigands shook his head. They had a job to do, and he wouldn’t let the quality of the men under his command get in the way of that. The sooner they hit their quota, the quicker he could go home. “Just get the men ready, will you?”

“Yes, sir!” Cludge said, giving what he probably thought was a passable salute.

Sir Stabs-A-Lot rolled his eyes. “Fucking amateurs.”

***

Wolfie, Not-Wolfie, and Also-Not-Wolfie were having a heated discussion. Also-Not-Wolfie had been offered the Cleric: Battle Medic class at his last level up, and they had some concerns.

“You won’t get all preachy, will you?” asked Not-Wolfie, “Also, how did you manage to get a class all of a sudden? Aren’t those only for humans and the like?”

Also-Not-Wolfie shrugged. “It beats me. Maybe when you level up, you’ll get one too.”

There was a moment of silence before Not-Wolfie spoke again. “You already took the class, didn’t you?”

“Yup!” barked the Dire Wolf, his feet doing happy stomps on the ground, “It’s really cool too. I have this skill that lets me know when one of my flock is injured.”

“To pick off the weak ones?” asked Wolfie, trying to wrap his head around the situation. A week ago they had been newly awakened Dire Wolves, now they were getting Classes. He didn’t know what to make of it. “It’s so you can eat the weak ones, right?”

“Maybe? I don’t know.” Also-Not-Wolfie turned around and pointed his nose towards the main road through the Dark Forest. “But it tells me that there is someone injured in that direction.”

“It might be worth a look,” hazarded Not-Wolfie, “The orcs are eating all the game in the forest anyway.”

“Sure, why not?” asked Wolfie, “What’s the worst that can happen?”