The pilgrims were moving too slowly to outrun the brigands approaching them on horseback. Father Dip surveyed their surroundings, looking for someplace for his people to hide. Unfortunately, they were traveling through a section of farmland that Stompy’s rampage had completely devastated. There were no farms or suitable structures for kilometers in either direction.
Imogen was limping less, but still one of the slower members of their group. She knew that if things went bad it would be her and the Monk left behind while the rest fled. “I don’t suppose you have another one of those miracles up your sleeve?” she asked.
“Our god and guide will provide,” replied Father Dip as he spit into the dirt and walked to meet the approaching brigands. Things were about to get nasty, but his faith kept him from running.
The Monk made a show that his hands were empty as the half-dozen riders approached. “Hello friends! Have you heard the good word?”
“No,” replied Sir Kills-A-Lot as he reigned up twenty paces away, “What’s so good about it, dick face?”
Father Dip took the insult in stride. He kept his back straight and proud as he addressed the Knight. “Are you sure I can’t convince you to leave peacefully?”
“Still no,” menaced the Knight, enjoying his power over the Monk before the inevitable slaughter began, “What else have you got?”
The Monk considered his next moves. It was obvious that peace would not be an option moving forward. He decided to respond in a manner befitting his Class and beliefs as a New Franciscan. “Well, ours is a fairly new religion, but it is mighty. To quote our god and guide Francis, the thrice named, blessed is he: Wanna smoke?”
Before the Knight could reply, the Monk used an ability. Once again he was bathed in red, white, and blue light as something long and heavy materialized in his hands.
> Divine Weapon
>
> Prerequisites: Cleric, Celestial Sorcerer, or Monk
>
> Cost: 5 Stress
>
> Duration: 10 Minutes
>
> Wield the power of your god in the form of a weapon. The deity chooses the form and magical properties, if any.
>
> The weapon requires no ammunition and cannot be used by anyone except you.
The weight of it was almost too much, but Father Dip continued to stand upright as a comically large single barreled shotgun appeared in his hands.
> Divine Weapon: Chesty’s Sawn-off Punt Gun
>
> Special Property (Shock and Awe): Utterly destroy whole flocks of waterfowl, or groups of annoying highwaymen. Creatures killed by this holy weapon are blown to pieces, possibly frightening allied creatures within five meters of them.
“Well… shit,” Sir Kills-A-Lot said as he looked down a barrel big enough to put his fist in, “Why don’t you-”
There was a roar like thunder as Father Dip pulled the trigger, vaporizing one of the brigands that had tried to sneak up on him from the side. The recoil pushed Dip a full meter backwards, rocking the Monk in his sandals.
The remaining brigands sat on their mounts, open mouthed as one of their number was converted to red confetti by a half-kilo worth of buckshot. The divine weapon’s special property, Shock and Awe, had already started to take effect.
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“To quote our god and guide,” said Father Dip as he took aim at his next target, “He who fucketh around, findeth out.”
***
A few brief, bloody minutes later, Sir Kills-A-Lot was crawling on his hands and elbows through the underbrush of the Dark Forest. The Knight would rather be running, but that required two working legs. His were missing, and had not seen fit to leave him a forwarding address.
“Bloody Monks with guns!” raged the Knight as he continued to crawl through the forest, “That should be illegal!”
He stopped as his hand touched something warm and furry. A massive Dire Wolf stood up to tower over him. Sir Kills-A-Lot watched helplessly as two more like it circled around to block him in.
“Hello, friend,” called out Also-Not-Wolfie, repeating the greeting he had seen human Clerics perform, “Have you heard the good word?”
Sir Kills-A-Lot began to scream and swing his sword wildly in response. Awakened Dire Wolves were bad enough, but proselytizing ones were too much for him to bear. “I’ll kill you all!” he cried out, “I’ll kill every last one of you flea bags!”
“Apparently he’s not a fan,” observed Not-Wolfie. But before he could go in for the kill, Also-Not-Wolfie stopped him. The Dire Wolf looked at his packmate with disbelief. “Don’t tell me that you want to spare this human.”
“No. Of course not,” said Also-Not-Wolfie as the Knight continued to swing wildly, “I just haven’t gotten the chance to say ‘grace’ yet.”
“Is that important?” asked Wolfie.
“I have no idea,” replied Also-Not-Wolfie.
***
Out past the treeline there was a long howl, followed by silence. Father Dip rested against a rock as he read through his latest System Alert. He had taken five Stress to summon the Divine Weapon and felt bone tired.
> Congratulations! Wolfie, Not-Wolfie, and Also-Not-Wolfie have defeated Sir Kills-A-Lot. You have gained experience towards your next level.
He looked out at the Dark Forest as Imogen sat down next to him. The magical socks and health restoring items had cured her Cursed Wound. The young woman gave him a look. “So, how does one go about becoming a New Franciscan Monk?”
Father Dip closed his eyes, happy to talk about something as calming as religion after their near fatal encounter with the brigands. “Well, the first step would be to see if you’re suited to the order. How do you feel about abstinence, swearing off alcohol, and giving up foul language?”
“I’ll be honest. That sounds pretty terrible,” admitted Imogen.
“Good, because we don’t do any of those things,” said Father Dip as he got up and brushed himself off, “I suppose if you like we could call this your trial by fire. That would let you join directly without any hassle or waiting.”
“Sure, why not?” the young woman paused, “Will I have to change my name? It’s all I have left.”
“It is traditional, as of last month. But no. Not if you don’t want to.” The Monk watched as the pilgrims that had run away made their way back to him. “Generally we pick names to do with coffee, beer, or tobacco. Or fighting. Camel Clutch, our Abbot, is quite keen on wrestling moves.”
“I think I’ll stick with Imogen,” the Initiate said as she accepted her new class, “But I’ll try to keep an open mind for later. What will you do once we’re back in the city?”
“I’ll probably have a bucket of beer,” replied the Monk wistfully, “I’d give someone’s left nut for a bucket of beer.”
***
“Hah!” called out Wolfie triumphantly as he pranced around on the clearing, “I got a class too!”
“Ooooh!” Also-Not-Wolfie looked at him with excitement. “What did you get?”
“Paladin,” the Dire Wolf said smugly, “I’m going to be a bad-ass sword swinging warrior!”
Over by the pile of bloody bits that used to be Sir Kills-A-Lot, Not-Wolfie busted up laughing. “Bwahahah!” the Dire Wolf cackled as he rolled back and forth on the ground, “You fucking idiot!”
Wolfie picked up the dead man’s sword with his teeth and gave it a few swings before spitting it out. “See, it’s not that bad. Paladin is a good class for me.”
Not-Wolfie continued to laugh until he was out of breath. “Aren’t you forgetting one, tiny little detail?” he asked.
The freshly minted Deathmark Paladin shook his head and frowned. “I don’t think so. Am I?”
“Wolfie, buddy. You’re a Paladin now,” explained Not-Wolfie, tears of laughter still streaming from the corners of his eyes, “Where the fuck are you going to get a mount?”